First of all , i want to say i am pissed. Someone dm me that they unknowingly reported my account ( mass account ), i think they didn't know what the word double checking means. That stupidity is on the next level. So i made another account. Follow me here from now on.
I won't delete this account but I won't update here anymore either and i also decided to remove MAGIC SHOP here in tumblr, and instead post it on my wattpad. So make sure you follow me on my watty account.
The studio smelled like sweat and burnt coffee—the kind that had been sitting in the pot since 3 AM when Yoongi first stumbled in to lay down tracks. Sin hovered near the door, fingertips brushing the frame like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed inside. His oversized sweater slipped off one shoulder, revealing a sliver of collarbone, pale and unmarked. At least, that’s what Namjoon had always thought.
"Hey," Namjoon called, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. The others were scattered around—Hoseok arguing with Jungkook over a misplaced lyric sheet, Jimin half-asleep on the couch—but Sin’s eyes flicked straight to him. That shy, fleeting glance Namjoon had grown addicted to. "You gonna stand there all day?"
Sin ducked his head, smiling. "Maybe." His voice was soft, barely audible over the hum of the AC. He shuffled forward, tugging his sleeve down over his wrist. Something about the motion was too deliberate.
Namjoon reached out without thinking, catching Sin’s hand before he could retreat. The fabric slid back, just an inch. Enough.
Namjoon’s fingers froze around Sin’s wrist, his breath hitching as the edge of black ink peeked out from beneath the cuff. Sin jerked back instinctively, but Namjoon tightened his grip—not enough to hurt, just enough to keep him there. The studio noise faded into static.
"Wait," Namjoon murmured, voice rougher than he intended. He pushed the sleeve up slowly, revealing the crisp outline of a ‘7’ inked into the delicate skin of Sin’s inner wrist. Identical to the ones the other members had gotten last year, after their tenth anniversary. Except Sin hadn’t been there. Hadn’t been part of that conversation.
Sin’s pulse fluttered under Namjoon’s thumb, rapid as a trapped bird. "Hyung," he whispered, and the way his eyelashes dipped—like he was bracing for anger—made Namjoon’s chest ache.
Namjoon traced the tattoo with his fingertip, the pad of his thumb brushing over the raised skin. "When did you—?"
Sin’s breath hitched as Namjoon’s fingers lingered on his wrist, the warmth of his touch searing against the ink. The studio lights suddenly felt too bright, the air too thick. He could hear Jungkook laughing somewhere behind him, Hoseok’s playful scolding—mundane sounds that now felt miles away. Namjoon’s thumb brushed the ‘7’ again, slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing the shape of it.
"Hyung," Sin whispered again, voice trembling. He hadn’t planned for this. Hadn’t planned for Namjoon to see. The sweater slipped further, the neckline sagging, and Namjoon’s gaze flicked down—just for a second—but it was enough. The black script of his name, nestled just above Sin’s collarbone, stark against his pale skin. Namjoon went utterly still.
Sin yanked his wrist free, scrambling to pull the fabric back up, but it was too late. Namjoon caught his shoulder, fingers gentle but unyielding. "Wait," he said, voice low. Not angry. Not even surprised. Just—soft. Curious. Sin’s heart hammered against his ribs as Namjoon pushed the sweater aside, exposing the delicate curve of his collarbone, the neat Hangul characters spelling out Namjoon.
The others hadn’t noticed yet, too wrapped up in their own chaos, but Sin could feel the weight of Namjoon’s attention like a physical touch. "You—" Namjoon started, then stopped, swallowing hard. His fingertips traced the letters, feather-light, sending shivers down Sin’s spine. "When did you do this?"
Sin’s breath stuttered as Namjoon’s fingers lingered on his collarbone, tracing the letters of his name with a reverence that made his knees weak. The studio’s hum of activity—Hoseok’s playful bickering, the rustle of lyric sheets—faded into a distant buzz. All Sin could focus on was the way Namjoon’s thumb brushed over the ink, slow and deliberate, as if he were reading Braille.
"After the anniversary concert," Sin admitted, voice barely above a whisper. He couldn’t meet Namjoon’s eyes, focusing instead on the way his own fingers twisted in the fabric of his sweater. "I—I wanted to be part of it. Even if no one else knew." The ‘7’ on his wrist had been first, a secret homage to the bond he cherished more than anything. The name on his collarbone had come later, in a moment of reckless, aching devotion.
Namjoon exhaled sharply, like the air had been punched out of him. His grip on Sin’s shoulder tightened, just for a second, before sliding down to cradle his waist—right where the Hangul for BTS was hidden beneath the fabric. Sin gasped as Namjoon’s fingers slipped under the hem of his sweater, warmth searing against the sensitive skin of his hip. "And this?" Namjoon murmured, his voice rough with something Sin couldn’t name.
Sin’s cheeks burned. "Last month," he confessed. "When you—when you said we were forever." It had been a quiet moment, just the two of them tangled in sheets, Namjoon’s lips pressed to his temple as he whispered promises into the dark. Sin had gotten the tattoo the next day, the sting of the needle nothing compared to the weight of those words.
Namjoon’s fingers stilled against Sin’s hip, his breath coming out slow and uneven. The studio’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting sharp shadows across Sin’s face—highlighting the faint pink flush creeping up his neck, the way his bottom lip trembled under the weight of Namjoon’s stare.
"You got my name," Namjoon murmured, his voice thick with something unspoken. His thumb brushed the edge of the Hangul on Sin’s waist, tracing the bold strokes of BTS with a reverence that made Sin’s stomach flip. "Right here. Where no one else sees it."
Sin nodded, swallowing hard. His pulse raced under Namjoon’s touch, wild and erratic, like a rabbit caught in a snare. He hadn’t meant for this to happen—not like this, not with the others just a few feet away, oblivious to the way Namjoon’s hands burned against his skin. "I wanted—" He broke off, biting his lip. How could he explain it? The way his heart had ached every time he watched Namjoon from afar, the way his skin had felt too small for all the love he carried.
Namjoon exhaled sharply, his grip tightening momentarily before sliding up to cradle Sin’s face. His palm was warm against Sin’s cheek, calloused fingers brushing the beauty mark beneath his eye. "You’re ridiculous," he whispered, but there was no bite to it—just a raw, aching fondness that made Sin’s knees weak. "You got my name permanently etched into your skin, and you didn’t even tell me?"
Namjoon’s thumb stilled against Sin’s hipbone, pressing into the hidden ink like he could absorb it through touch alone. The studio’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting jagged shadows across Sin’s face—his pink lips parted, cerulean eyes wide and shimmering with unshed tears. Namjoon’s breath hitched. This boy—this beautiful, reckless boy—had carved his name into his skin like a prayer.
"You’re insane," Namjoon murmured, but his voice cracked halfway, rough with something too raw to name. His fingers trembled as they slid up Sin’s waist, tracing the outline of the sweater where it hid the BTS tattoo. "Permanently. On your body. Do you have any idea—" He broke off, swallowing hard. Sin’s pulse fluttered under his palm, rapid and fragile.
Sin ducked his head, white hair falling into his eyes. "I knew you’d be mad," he whispered, fingers twisting in Namjoon’s shirt.
"Mad?" Namjoon barked out a laugh, too loud—Hoseok glanced over from the mixing board, eyebrows raised. Namjoon lowered his voice, pressing Sin back against the studio wall, shielding him from view with his body. "I’m furious," he breathed, but his hands were gentle as they framed Sin’s face. "You could’ve gotten an infection. Or—or picked some shitty parlor that—" His throat closed. The thought of Sin alone in some dim tattoo shop, flinching under a stranger’s needle for him, made his chest ache.
Namjoon’s fingers traced the edge of Sin’s sweater where it clung to his waist, his touch feather-light but deliberate. The fabric was thin, stretched from years of wear, and when he tugged it up just an inch, Sin didn’t resist. The Hangul for BTS lay there, stark against the pale curve of his hip—fresh enough that the skin around it was still slightly pink. Namjoon’s breath hitched. He pressed his palm flat over the tattoo, as if he could absorb the meaning through touch alone.
"You really did this," Namjoon murmured, more to himself than to Sin. His thumb brushed the edge of the ink, tracing the bold strokes with a reverence that made Sin shiver. "All of it. For us."
Sin nodded, his breath coming too fast. The studio’s air conditioning hummed, sending a chill over his exposed skin, but Namjoon’s hands were warm, grounding. "I wanted—" His voice cracked. He tried again. "I wanted to carry you with me. Even if no one else knew."
Namjoon exhaled sharply, his grip tightening on Sin’s hip. The weight of it—the permanence—settled over him like a physical thing. This boy, this beautiful, reckless boy, had etched his name into his skin like a vow. And he’d done it in secret, without expecting anything in return. The thought made Namjoon’s chest ache.
The silence between them stretched taut, broken only by the distant clatter of Jungkook dropping a lyric sheet somewhere behind them. Namjoon’s fingers lingered on Sin’s hip, his thumb tracing the fresh ink as if trying to rewrite the story it told—one where Sin hadn’t walked into some dim parlor alone, hadn’t bitten his lip through the sting of the needle without Namjoon there to hold his hand. His throat tightened.
"You idiot," Namjoon whispered, but his voice was thick, ruined. He pressed his forehead to Sin’s, their breaths mingling. Sin’s eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks, damp with unshed tears. "You absolute idiot. You could’ve asked me to go with you. You could’ve—" His voice cracked. The thought of Sin curled up in some sterile chair, hiding the fresh ink from him for weeks, made his ribs ache.
Sin’s fingers twisted in the fabric of Namjoon’s shirt, gripping tight like he was afraid Namjoon might vanish. "I didn’t want you to think it was—" He swallowed. "That I was trying to trap you." His voice was so small, so painfully young.
Namjoon made a wounded noise in the back of his throat. He caught Sin’s chin, tilting his face up. Sin’s beauty mark glinted under the studio lights, a single dark fleck beneath his left eye. "You think I’d believe that?" His thumb brushed Sin’s bottom lip, pink and bitten raw. "After everything? After last month?"
Namjoon’s breath shuddered against Sin’s lips, warm and uneven. His fingers trembled where they cradled Sin’s face—a stark contrast to the steady, unshakable leader the world knew. Here, in the dim corner of the studio, with Sin’s heartbeat fluttering against his own chest, he felt anything but composed.
"You think I’d let you go now?" Namjoon whispered, voice rough with emotion. His thumb traced the edge of Sin’s bottom lip, catching on the slight swell where he’d bitten it raw. "After you carved my name into your skin like some—" He broke off, swallowing hard. The words like some lovesick fool died on his tongue because Sin was exactly that, and the realization sent a dizzying rush of heat through Namjoon’s veins.
Sin’s cerulean eyes shimmered with unshed tears, catching the overhead lights like fractured diamonds. "I didn’t do it to trap you," he repeated, softer this time, as if the words were a prayer. His fingers curled tighter in Namjoon’s shirt, wrinkling the fabric between his knuckles. "I just—" A shaky inhale. "I needed to know it was real. Even when you weren’t there."
Namjoon’s chest tightened. He remembered last month—Sin’s back arching under him, the way his breath had hitched when Namjoon murmured forever into the sweat-damp curve of his neck. He hadn’t realized Sin had taken it so literally. The thought should’ve terrified him. Instead, it sent a fierce, possessive warmth curling low in his gut.
KIM SEOKJIN
"Hyung, wait—"
The sleeve of Sin's oversized sweater caught on the edge of the practice room mirror as he scrambled after Seokjin, fabric pulling just enough to reveal a sliver of skin beneath. A flash of black ink peeked out from his wrist, stark against his porcelain complexion. Seokjin, halfway through adjusting his own jacket, froze mid-motion. His gaze zeroed in on Sin's wrist like a hawk spotting prey.
Sin yanked his sleeve down so fast he nearly tore the fabric. His face flushed scarlet, cerulean eyes darting anywhere but Seokjin's face. The room, usually buzzing with the chaotic energy of seven boys post-rehearsal, fell into abrupt silence. Even Jungkook paused mid-sip of his water bottle, eyebrows shooting up.
"…Sin-ah?" Seokjin's voice was dangerously calm.
The silence stretched like a rubber band about to snap. Sin's pulse throbbed in his throat, loud enough he was certain Seokjin could hear it. The older idol took a deliberate step forward, his usual playful demeanor replaced by something unreadable.
"Show me," Seokjin said, voice low. Not a request.
Sin's fingers trembled as he slowly rolled up his left sleeve, revealing the small, elegant '7' inked into his wrist—identical to the tattoos the other members had gotten after their last anniversary. But beneath it, partially obscured by the cuff, was the tail end of another design.
Seokjin's breath hitched. Without speaking, he reached out and gently pushed the fabric higher, exposing the Hangul characters spelling his own name along Sin's collarbone. The black ink stood in stark contrast to Sin's porcelain skin, the strokes precise and intimate.
Seokjin's fingers hovered over the tattoo of his name, the warmth of his touch barely grazing Sin's collarbone before pulling back as if burned. His throat worked silently—no witty remark, no exaggerated reaction—just the uncharacteristic stillness of a man who'd walked into a room and found all the furniture rearranged. The silence grew teeth.
"You…" Seokjin started, then stopped. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Somewhere behind them, Jimin sucked in a breath like he'd forgotten to exhale for a full minute.
Sin's pulse hammered against his ribs. He opened his mouth—to explain, to apologize, to something—but Seokjin's hands were already moving, tugging the hem of Sin's shirt up without ceremony. The Hangul characters for "BTS" curved along the dip of his waist, the ink fresh enough that the skin around it still held a slight pink hue. Seokjin's thumb brushed the edge of the design, his expression doing something complicated.
"Oh my god," Hoseok stage-whispered from the couch.
Seokjin's fingers lingered at the hem of Sin's shirt, his thumb tracing the fresh ink with a reverence that made Sin's breath stutter. The room held its collective breath—even the ever-chatty Jimin stood frozen, lips parted mid-word. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting sharp shadows that made the tattoos seem to pulse under Seokjin's touch.
"You got my name," Seokjin murmured, so quiet it was almost to himself. His voice was rough around the edges, like he'd swallowed something too large. His free hand lifted, fingertips brushing the Hangul characters on Sin's collarbone—his own name etched into skin, permanent. Something flickered behind his eyes, too fast to name. Sin swallowed hard, pulse rabbiting under Seokjin's touch. He hadn't planned for this moment. Hadn't planned for Seokjin to find out like this, in the middle of the practice room with the others gawking like spectators at a car crash.
The silence shattered when Taehyung abruptly snorted. "Well," he drawled, flopping onto the couch beside Hoseok, "that explains why Sin kept wearing turtlenecks in July." The tension cracked like thin ice under laughter—Jimin wheezed into his palm, Jungkook choked on his water, and Namjoon pinched the bridge of his nose like he was calculating the sheer number of NDAs this moment would require.
Seokjin didn't laugh. His hand slid from Sin's waist to cradle the back of his neck, thumb stroking the delicate hairs there. "When?" he asked, voice low. Just for them.
Sin exhaled shakily, fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. The fluorescent lights made the ink on his collarbone gleam—Seokjin’s name in Hangul, bold and undeniable. "After the Osaka concert," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "When you held my hand during the encore." He didn’t mention the way Seokjin’s thumb had brushed his pulse point backstage afterward, or how he’d spent the flight home tracing the shape of those letters onto his skin with a ballpoint pen until the idea became inevitable.
Seokjin’s grip tightened fractionally on the nape of his neck. His other hand lifted, fingertips grazing the tattoo over Sin’s ribs—BTS in elegant strokes, the tail of the 'S' curling like a secret. The skin was still slightly raised; Sin had gone alone to a discreet artist in Hongdae two weeks prior, biting his lip through the sting while replaying their Tokyo Dome duet on his phone screen.
"Jesus Christ," Yoongi muttered from the speakers he was fiddling with, though there was no real heat in it.
Seokjin ignored him. His thumb pressed into the hollow of Sin’s throat, right where the collar of his sweater had slipped. "You realize," he said slowly, "that this means I’ll have to get ‘Sin’ written somewhere equally stupid now." His voice was steady, but the way his eyes darkened gave him away—that particular blend of exasperation and fondness reserved only for Sin’s most impulsive acts.
Seokjin's thumb lingered on the 'S' of his name etched into Sin's collarbone, the pad of his finger catching slightly on the healed ink. His exhale came slow, measured—like he was counting the beats between heartbeats. The practice room's air conditioning hummed to life suddenly, sending a shiver down Sin's spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.
"You're ridiculous," Seokjin murmured, but the way his fingers curled possessively around Sin's hip betrayed him. The fluorescent lights caught the silver rings on his right hand, casting tiny reflections that danced across Sin's waist where 'BTS' curved beneath his thumb.
Sin opened his mouth, but Seokjin pressed a single finger to his lips—warm, faintly mint-scented from the gum he'd been chewing earlier. "Let me," he said, soft enough that the words barely traveled past Sin's lashes. Then, deliberate as a man stepping onto thin ice, Seokjin hooked a finger under the neckline of his own shirt and tugged it sideways, revealing the unmarked skin above his collarbone. "Right here," he said, tapping the spot with a precision that suggested he'd already mapped the exact coordinates.
Behind them, Jungkook made a strangled noise.
Sin's breath hitched as Seokjin's fingertip traced the spot where his own skin remained unmarked—the exact mirror image of where Sin carried his name. The implication hung between them, electric and undeniable. Seokjin's shirt slipped further off his shoulder, exposing the smooth plane where ink would soon settle, and Sin's fingers twitched with the urge to touch.
"You're serious," Sin whispered, not a question. The words tasted foreign on his tongue, too large for the cramped space between their lips. Seokjin's answering smile was slow, devastating—the kind that made Sin's knees weak during encore stages when it was directed at the crowd. Now it was just for him, edged with something private and possessive.
"Deadly," Seokjin murmured, thumb skating back to Sin's collarbone tattoo. His touch lingered over the final stroke of his name, pressing just enough to leave a temporary indent in the skin. "Though I draw the line at getting 'BTS' on my waist. My abs are a national treasure, not a bulletin board."
The tension broke like a snapped rubber band. Jungkook spit his water across the floor, coughing violently while Hoseok cackled and slapped his thigh. Yoongi rolled his eyes so hard it was audible. "For fuck's sake," he muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched when Sin's startled laugh bubbled up—bright and unguarded, the sound Seokjin had spent two years coaxing out of him.
Seokjin’s fingers lingered on the edge of Sin’s sweater, his knuckles brushing the warm skin just above the waistband of his sweatpants. The fluorescent lights caught the fresh ink of the "BTS" tattoo—still slightly swollen, the black strokes standing stark against Sin’s porcelain skin. Seokjin exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, like he was trying to steady himself against the tide of something too big to name. "You really went and did it," he murmured, thumb pressing into the dip of Sin’s hipbone. "All of them. At nineteen." His voice was equal parts exasperation and awe, the way it got when Sin did something reckless and beautiful—like buying concert tickets for strangers or learning the fan chants for every single song in their discography overnight.
Sin’s breath hitched when Seokjin’s palm slid fully over the tattoo, warm and possessive. "You got mine first," Seokjin realized suddenly, tracing the characters of his name on Sin’s collarbone with deliberate precision. The ink there was older, the edges softened by time. His thumb caught on the tail of the ‘Jin’ stroke, pressing just hard enough to make Sin shiver. "How long after Osaka?"
Sin bit his lip, eyes flickering to the mirror behind Seokjin where the others were pretending not to watch. Jimin had his phone out, filming discreetly while Hoseok mouthed oh my god repeatedly behind his hands. "Three days," Sin admitted, voice small. He didn’t mention the way he’d sneaked out of the dorm at dawn, the way the tattoo artist had laughed when he’d shoved a crumpled napkin with Seokjin’s name scribbled in his own handwriting across the counter. Didn’t mention the way he’d bitten through his own fist to stay quiet during the needle’s sting, thinking of Seokjin’s laugh ringing across an encore stage.
Seokjin’s expression did something complicated—his lips parted, then pressed into a thin line, then softened again. He leaned in until his forehead brushed Sin’s, their breaths mingling. "You’re insane," he whispered, but his hands were already moving, tugging Sin’s sweater further up to expose the full span of the BTS tattoo. The fabric caught under Sin’s arms, leaving him half-undressed in the middle of the practice room, but Seokjin didn’t seem to care. His palm spread wide over Sin’s ribs, covering the fresh ink entirely like he could absorb it through touch alone.
Seokjin's fingers paused over the 'BTS' tattoo, his breath hitching audibly. The silence stretched taut between them, the only sound the muffled shuffling of the other members pretending not to eavesdrop from across the room. Then, with sudden, startling clarity, Seokjin laughed—a soft, disbelieving sound that curled around Sin's ribs like a physical touch. "You," he murmured, thumb pressing into the fresh ink with deliberate pressure, "are such a hypocrite." His voice dropped to a whisper only Sin could hear. "Remember how you scolded me for getting the anniversary tattoo without telling you? And now you've gone and branded yourself with my name."
Sin's cheeks burned, but before he could retort, Seokjin's hands were framing his face, tilting it up with a gentleness that belied the intensity in his eyes. The overhead lights caught the silver rings on Seokjin's fingers, casting tiny reflections across Sin's skin like scattered stars. "Look at me," Seokjin said, and Sin did—helpless as always to deny him anything. Seokjin's thumb traced the beauty mark beneath Sin's left eye, his expression softening. "Do you have any idea," he murmured, "what it does to me? Knowing you walked into some stranger's shop and let them carve me into your skin?" His voice cracked on the last word, raw in a way that made Sin's stomach flip.
Behind them, Jungkook coughed pointedly.
MIN YOONGI
The black coffee had gone cold, forgotten on the table next to Yoongi’s abandoned lyric notebook. He hadn’t touched either in twenty minutes, too distracted by the way Sin’s oversized crewneck slipped sideways every time he reached for another sheet of music. It wasn’t intentional—Sin never played those kinds of games—but Yoongi found himself staring anyway, caught between amusement and something warmer.
"Hyung," Sin murmured, blinking up at him with those wide cerulean eyes. He tugged self-consciously at his sleeve, fingers brushing over the edge of his left wrist. "You’re zoning out again."
Yoongi huffed, rubbing his neck. "Just thinking." He reached out, adjusting Sin’s collar absently—then froze. There, just above the jut of his collarbone, stark against pale skin: his own name in delicate Hangul. "Sin-ah," he said slowly. "What’s this?"
Sin went perfectly still, lips parting in silent panic. His sleeve slid further down his arm as he jerked back, revealing the crisp ‘7’ inked into his wrist—identical to the ones Yoongi had seen on Namjoon and Hoseok after late-night drinking sessions.
Yoongi’s fingers hovered in the air between them, his breath catching like static. Sin’s pulse fluttered visibly beneath the ink of Yoongi’s name—his name, etched into skin as if it belonged there. The room tilted. "You—" he started, then swallowed hard. "When did you—"
Sin yanked his sleeve back over his wrist, but the damage was done. The ‘7’ flashed once more before disappearing under fabric, a mirror to the ones Yoongi had traced over drunkenly on the others’ skin after concerts. But this—this was different. Sin’s breath hitched, his doll-like face flushing pink as his fingers trembled against the hem of his shirt. "Hyung," he whispered, voice cracking.
Yoongi moved without thinking. He caught Sin’s wrist, thumb pressing gently over the hidden tattoo. "Show me," he murmured, not a command but a plea. Sin’s cerulean eyes glistened, but he nodded, shaky fingers lifting the edge of his shirt just enough to reveal the Hangul characters curling along his waist: BTS.
A choked sound escaped Yoongi’s throat. He’d seen fans with their lyrics inked into skin, had signed his autograph over fresh tattoos in meet-and-greets, but this—this was Sin, his Sin, who blushed when Yoongi so much as held his hand in private. "You got my name," Yoongi said, voice rough.
Sin’s breath stuttered as Yoongi traced the characters on his waist, fingertips feather-light over the ink. "I—" he started, then swallowed hard, cerulean eyes darting away. "I wanted to carry you with me," he whispered, so quiet Yoongi almost missed it. "All of you. But especially—" His voice cracked, pink lips pressing together as if to trap the confession inside.
Yoongi exhaled sharply, thumb brushing the ‘7’ on Sin’s wrist again. "This isn’t just about the group," he murmured. It wasn’t a question. The tattoo of his name burned brighter in his mind than the others—personal, possessive in a way that made his chest tighten. Sin flinched, but Yoongi caught his chin gently, forcing those glimmering eyes to meet his. "When?"
Sin’s throat bobbed. "Last year," he admitted. "After… after you fell asleep on my shoulder during the Tokyo flight. I—" His fingers twisted in the fabric of Yoongi’s sleeve, clinging. "I woke up and you were still there, and I thought—" A shuddering breath. "I thought, this is where I belong."
The confession punched through Yoongi’s ribs like a physical blow. He remembered that flight—the exhaustion, the way Sin’s shoulder had fit perfectly under his cheek, the uncharacteristic boldness of Sin carding fingers through his hair until he’d drifted off. He’d chalked it up to sleep deprivation. But Sin had gone out and etched the moment into his skin forever.
Yoongi's fingers trembled slightly as they traced the edge of Sin's shirt higher, revealing more of the delicate Hangul characters curling along his waist. The ink was fresh enough that the skin around it still looked slightly pink—recent, then. Sin shivered under his touch, but didn't pull away, his cerulean eyes locked onto Yoongi's face as if searching for something. Approval? Disbelief? Yoongi wasn't sure what showed on his own face—only that his chest felt too tight, too full.
"You got my name," Yoongi repeated, softer this time, thumb brushing the tattoo on Sin's collarbone. The characters were elegant, almost fragile-looking, as if the artist had known how precious this skin was. "Right here." His voice cracked on the last word, and Sin's breath hitched in response, pink lips parting slightly.
"I—" Sin started, then swallowed hard, fingers twisting in the fabric of Yoongi's sleeve. "I wanted it close to my heart," he whispered, so quiet Yoongi had to lean in to catch it. The admission sent a jolt through him, electric and warm, and before he could think, Yoongi was pressing his lips to the tattoo—right over his own name, feeling Sin's pulse jump beneath his mouth.
Sin made a small, broken sound, fingers tangling in Yoongi's hair as if to pull him closer or push him away—Yoongi wasn't sure which, and Sin didn't seem to know either. But when Yoongi lifted his head, Sin's eyes were glistening, his cheeks flushed a deep pink, and Yoongi realized with a start that he was crying. Silent, perfect tears tracking down his face, catching on his beauty mark before dripping off his chin.
Yoongi's lips lingered against Sin's collarbone, tasting salt and ink and something achingly familiar—like the first sip of warm tea after a long day. He could feel Sin trembling beneath him, fingers still tangled in his hair, gripping too tight and not tight enough all at once. When he finally pulled back, Sin's tears had smeared the ink slightly, blurring the edges of Yoongi's name as if it were dissolving into his skin. The sight made something primal and possessive coil in Yoongi's gut.
"Don't cry," Yoongi murmured, swiping his thumb under Sin's left eye, catching a tear before it could ruin the beauty mark there. His voice came out rougher than he intended, throat tight with emotions he couldn't name. "You—" He broke off, exhaling sharply through his nose as his gaze dropped to Sin's waist, where the hem of his shirt had ridden up just enough to show the top curve of the 'BTS' tattoo. Without thinking, Yoongi hooked a finger under the fabric, tugging it higher to reveal the full design—the Hangul characters elegant and bold against Sin's pale skin.
Sin whimpered, his breath hitching as Yoongi traced the tattoo with his fingertips, mapping every stroke like he was memorizing it. "You got us," Yoongi said quietly, more to himself than to Sin. "All of us." But his thumb strayed back to the '7' on Sin's wrist—their shared number, the one that bound them together—before sliding up to press gently over the pulse point beneath his own name. "But this…" His voice cracked. "This is different."
Sin's cerulean eyes flickered with something raw and vulnerable, his pink lips trembling as he whispered, "I needed you with me." The simplicity of it punched through Yoongi's chest. Not 'I wanted'—needed. As essential as air.
Yoongi’s breath stuttered against Sin’s collarbone, lips still pressed to the ink of his own name. The warmth of Sin’s skin seeped into him, the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath Yoongi’s mouth betraying his nerves. Slowly, Yoongi pulled back just enough to meet Sin’s glistening eyes—wide and uncertain, tears clinging to his dark lashes like dew.
"You idiot," Yoongi murmured, voice thick with something tender and aching. His thumb brushed away a stray tear, catching it before it could slip past Sin’s beauty mark. "You got my name permanently carved into your skin and didn’t even tell me."
Sin’s pink lips trembled, fingers tightening in Yoongi’s sleeve. "I was scared," he admitted, so quiet Yoongi had to lean closer. "What if—what if you thought it was too much?" The vulnerability in his voice cracked something open in Yoongi’s chest.
With a slow exhale, Yoongi caught Sin’s wrist again, turning it gently to expose the ‘7’ tattoo once more. He traced the number with deliberate care, watching as Sin shivered under his touch. "You got this with the others?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
Yoongi didn’t realize he was shaking until Sin’s fingers curled around his wrist, steadying him. The ‘7’ on Sin’s skin was identical to the ones the others had—same font, same placement—but the weight of it felt different under Yoongi’s touch. Because this wasn’t just a drunken group bonding moment etched into skin. This was Sin, who blushed at eye contact, who still hesitated before holding Yoongi’s hand in private, who had gone out and let a needle carve permanence into his body while carrying a secret too big for his trembling lips.
"You did," Yoongi breathed, not a question. His thumb lingered over the tattoo, feeling the slight raised texture of healed skin. "With them." The image bloomed in his mind—Sin sitting in some sterile parlor, jaw clenched as the others joked around him, hiding the real reason his fingers kept drifting to his collarbone.
Sin nodded, eyelashes fluttering. "After the Tokyo Dome encore," he whispered. "When—when Namjoon-hyung suggested it." His cerulean eyes flickered up, searching Yoongi’s face. "But mine—" His voice cracked as his fingers brushed the hidden ink of Yoongi’s name. "Mine was different."
The confession hung between them, fragile as the first snowflake of winter. Yoongi’s chest ached. He remembered that night—the adrenaline high, the way Sin had clung to his arm backstage, whispering hyung like a prayer. He’d thought it was just post-concert euphoria.
JUNG HOSEOK
"Sin-ah, your shirt's riding up," Hoseok murmured, reaching over without thinking to tug the hem back into place. His fingers brushed warm skin—just for a second—but it was enough. Sin jerked back like he'd been burned, his cerulean eyes wide and startled. The sudden movement sent the fabric sliding higher anyway, exposing a sliver of ink along the curve of his waist.
Hoseok froze. The dorm's living room, previously filled with the low hum of Jimin's playlist and Taehyung's occasional laughter, seemed to go silent. His gaze locked onto the dark, elegant hangul characters etched into Sin's skin: 방탄소년단. BTS. The letters followed the dip of his hipbone, delicate but undeniable.
Sin clutched at his shirt, his doll-like face flushing pink. "Hyung," he started, voice barely above a whisper, but Hoseok was already reaching for his wrist without thinking. The younger boy's breath hitched as Hoseok turned his arm gently, revealing the small, familiar '7' inked there—just like the ones the members had gotten together last year.
It was the collarbone that undid him. As Sin twisted, the loose neckline of his shirt gaped, and there it was: Hoseok's own name, written in clean, unapologetic strokes. 정호석. His thumb hovered over it, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the heat radiating from Sin's skin.
Hoseok's breath stuttered in his chest, his fingers trembling against Sin's collarbone. The weight of what he was seeing pressed down on him—his name, his name, etched permanently into Sin's skin like a secret devotion. The dorm’s ambient noise faded entirely, replaced by the thunderous pulse in his ears. Sin’s cerulean eyes shimmered with unshed tears, his pink lips parting as if to explain, but no sound came out.
"Sin-ah," Hoseok whispered, voice rough. His thumb finally brushed over the tattoo, tracing the strokes of his name with something between reverence and disbelief. "How long have you—?" He couldn’t even finish the question. The '7' on Sin’s wrist was one thing—a symbol of unity, something all of them shared. But this? This was personal.
Sin’s breath hitched as Hoseok’s touch lingered. "Since… since last winter," he admitted softly, his gaze flickering down. "After our first night together." His fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white. "I—I know it’s impulsive, but I wanted—"
Hoseok didn’t let him finish. He pulled Sin into a crushing embrace, burying his face in the crook of the younger boy’s neck. The scent of Sin’s shampoo—something sweet and faintly floral—filled his senses. "You idiot," he murmured, though there was no bite to it, only a thick, aching warmth. "You beautiful, reckless idiot."
Hoseok's grip tightened around Sin's waist, fingers pressing into the soft fabric of his shirt where he knew the hangul tattoo lay hidden beneath. The weight of Sin's confession—since last winter, after our first night together—settled in his chest like a stone sinking into warm water. He could feel Sin's heartbeat against his own, rapid and uneven, as if the younger boy was afraid Hoseok might pull away. But pulling away was the last thing on his mind. Instead, he pressed his lips to Sin's collarbone, right over the inked letters of his name, and felt Sin shiver.
"You really…" Hoseok trailed off, voice muffled against Sin's skin. He didn't need to finish the sentence. The proof was right there, etched into Sin's body like a promise. When he finally leaned back, Sin's cerulean eyes were glistening, his pink lips slightly parted. Hoseok cupped his face, thumbs brushing away the moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes. "You really love me that much, huh?"
Sin's breath hitched, his lashes fluttering as he nodded. "More," he whispered, so softly Hoseok almost missed it. "More than that."
The admission sent a surge of warmth through Hoseok's veins, something fierce and tender all at once. He'd always known Sin was devoted—sweet and gentle in a way that felt almost too pure for the world they lived in—but this? This was something else entirely. A permanent declaration, hidden under layers of fabric and shyness. He traced the '7' on Sin's wrist again, the same one he had on his own, and wondered how he'd never noticed before.
Hoseok’s fingers lingered on Sin’s wrist, tracing the ‘7’ with a tenderness that made Sin’s breath catch. The dorm around them felt suspended—Jimin’s playlist still hummed faintly from the speakers, Taehyung’s laughter long faded into silence as the others had slipped away unnoticed, giving them space without a word. Hoseok’s throat tightened as he pressed a kiss to the inked number, then dragged his lips up Sin’s arm, following the path of his veins like a map he’d memorized in the dark. "You got this one with us," he murmured against the soft skin of Sin’s inner elbow. "But you never said. Never showed me."
Sin’s pulse jumped under his mouth. "I wanted to," he admitted, voice trembling. "But I thought—" He swallowed hard, his free hand clutching at Hoseok’s sleeve. "I thought you’d think it was too much. That I was… too much."
Hoseok’s chest ached. He remembered the night they’d all gotten the ‘7’ tattoos—how Sin had lingered at the back of the group, quiet as always, until Yoongi had nudged him forward with a gruff, "You’re part of this too, kid." The way Sin’s eyes had shone under the studio lights, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to belong. Hoseok had held his hand during the inking, but he’d never seen the result after. Sin had always worn long sleeves around them, even in summer.
Now, he understood why.
Hoseok exhaled sharply through his nose, pressing his forehead against Sin’s shoulder. The fabric of Sin’s shirt was thin, worn soft from too many washes, and he could feel the heat of the younger boy’s skin beneath it. "Too much?" he repeated, voice rough. His fingers flexed against Sin’s waist, thumb brushing the hidden curve of the BTS tattoo. "Sin-ah, you got my name on your skin. Permanently. And you thought I’d be the one overwhelmed?"
Sin made a small, wounded noise in the back of his throat. His fingers trembled where they clutched at Hoseok’s sleeves, knuckles pale. "You didn’t—" He stopped, swallowed. "You didn’t even know about the wrist one. I didn’t want you to think I was… clinging."
Hoseok leaned back just enough to see Sin’s face—the way his cerulean eyes flickered with something fragile, the beauty mark beneath his left eye standing out stark against his flushed skin. He cupped Sin’s jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his pink lips. "You are clinging," he said softly. "And so am I. That’s the whole point, isn’t it?"
A choked laugh escaped Sin, half-disbelieving. Hoseok didn’t let him reply. He tugged Sin’s shirt up further, exposing the elegant hangul characters along his waist—방탄소년단—inked in delicate, unapologetic strokes. His breath caught. "You got this one when?"
Hoseok exhaled sharply, fingertips hovering just above the hangul tattoo on Sin’s waist. The ink was still fresh enough to catch the light—a deep, glossy black against the porcelain warmth of Sin’s skin. "You got this one when?" he repeated, voice rougher than he’d intended. His thumb traced the curve of the first character, following the dip of Sin’s hipbone like a pilgrim tracing sacred script.
Sin shuddered under his touch. "Three weeks after the wrist one," he murmured, gaze flickering away. "I—I went alone." His voice cracked on the last word, and Hoseok’s stomach twisted. He could picture it too clearly—Sin in some back-alley studio, biting his lip bloody as the needle carved their name into his skin, too scared to tell anyone. Too scared to be seen.
"Alone," Hoseok echoed, fingers tightening on Sin’s hip. The thought of Sin walking into a tattoo parlor by himself—small and doll-like with his cerulean eyes and messy white hair—sent a surge of protectiveness through him. "You should’ve told me. I would’ve gone with you."
Sin’s pink lips parted, then pressed together. "You were busy," he whispered. "And I… I needed to do it myself." His fingers crept up to brush Hoseok’s wrist—hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch. "I wanted to prove I could."
Hoseok's breath hitched as his fingers traced the edge of Sin's shirt, revealing more of the tattoo inch by inch. The hangul characters curved with Sin's waist, the ink still slightly raised—fresh enough that Hoseok could almost feel the ghost of the needle's sting. "Three weeks after," he murmured, thumb pressing into the soft skin just above the tattoo. "You went alone because you thought I was busy?" His voice cracked, not with anger, but with something deeper, something raw.
Sin's eyelashes fluttered, his cerulean eyes glistening under the dorm's dim lighting. "I didn't want to bother you," he admitted, voice so small it nearly dissolved into the hum of Jimin's forgotten playlist. His fingers twitched against Hoseok's wrist, hesitant, as if he were afraid his touch would be unwelcome.
"You're never a bother," Hoseok said fiercely, catching Sin's hand and pressing it against his own chest, right over his heartbeat. "Feel that? That's yours. You—" He swallowed hard, his free hand sliding up to cradle Sin's jaw. "You carved my name into your skin, Sin-ah. You think I wouldn't have dropped everything to hold your hand while you did it?"
Sin's breath shuddered out of him, his pink lips trembling. "I was scared," he whispered. "Scared you'd think it was… too much."
Hoseok’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the full expanse of Sin’s devotion—inked into his skin like a love letter written in permanent ink. The ‘7’ on his wrist, the hangul on his waist, his name on Sin’s collarbone—each one a silent confession Sin had been too afraid to voice aloud. His thumb lingered over the tattoo of his name, tracing the strokes with a reverence that made Sin shiver. "You were scared," Hoseok murmured, voice thick with emotion. "But you did it anyway."
PARK JIMIN
"Hyung, can you—" Sin's voice cut off with a soft gasp as Jimin's fingers accidentally caught the collar of his oversized shirt, tugging it sideways just enough to expose the delicate skin near his collarbone. The practice room's fluorescent lights glinted off something dark and inked, and Jimin froze mid-movement, his playful grin slipping.
Sin scrambled backward like a startled rabbit, nearly tripping over his own feet. His cerulean eyes widened, panicked, as he clutched the fabric back into place with trembling fingers. Jimin could only stare at the spot where the tattoo had been—where his name had been etched permanently into Sin's skin in elegant Hangul. His pulse roared in his ears, loud enough that he barely registered Hoseok's distant laughter from across the room.
"I didn’t—" Sin's voice was barely above a whisper, his cheeks flushing pink. He looked like he wanted to vanish into the floorboards, his doll-like features crumpling under the weight of exposure. Jimin's mouth opened, then closed, words failing him for the first time in years.
Yoongi, who had been half-asleep against the mirrored wall, cracked one eye open. "What’s the crisis?" he drawled, but his gaze sharpened when he caught the tension between them. Sin ducked his head further, his white messy hair falling into his eyes like a shield.
Jimin’s fingers hovered in the air where Sin’s collar had been, his mind scrambling to reconcile the sight of his own name inked so intimately onto Sin’s skin. The practice room’s usual warmth suddenly felt stifling, the mirrors reflecting back his stunned expression a dozen times over. Sin’s breathing was shallow, uneven, as if he’d been caught in something far more scandalous than a tattoo—but then again, maybe he had.
“Jimin-ah,” Yoongi said slowly, pushing himself off the wall with deliberate calm. His voice cut through the thick silence like a blade, though his eyes flicked to Sin with something unreadable. “You two good?”
Sin shook his head violently, his cerulean eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I—I didn’t mean for anyone to see,” he stammered, clutching his shirt tighter. The admission hung between them, fragile as glass.
Jimin’s throat worked. He’d seen tattoos before—hell, he had his own—but this wasn’t just ink. This was his name. On Sin’s collarbone, where it would press against his own skin every time they—
Jimin’s fingers twitched at his sides, still warm from where they’d brushed Sin’s collar. The air between them crackled with something electric, something too much, and Sin’s pink lips trembled like he was holding back words—or maybe a sob. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting sharp shadows across Sin’s porcelain skin, and for a heartbeat, Jimin wondered if he’d imagined it. But no—the curve of his name was still there, pressed into Sin’s collarbone like a secret too tender to say aloud.
“Jimin-ah,” Yoongi repeated, firmer this time, and Jimin blinked hard, dragging his gaze away from Sin’s flushed face. The practice room felt smaller suddenly, the mirrors reflecting too many versions of Sin’s hunched shoulders, too many versions of Jimin’s stunned silence.
Sin’s breath hitched when Jimin finally stepped forward, closing the distance between them in two strides. His cerulean eyes flicked up, wide and wet, and Jimin’s chest ached. Without thinking, he reached out, thumb brushing the beauty mark under Sin’s left eye—a habit, a reassurance. “You got my name,” Jimin murmured, voice rough. It wasn’t a question.
Sin swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I—yes.” His whisper was so quiet Jimin almost missed it. “And—and the others too. Here.” He lifted his left wrist slowly, as if expecting rejection, and pushed back the cuff of his sleeve. The number 7 stared back at them, black ink stark against his pale skin, identical to the ones Jimin had'
Jimin’s fingers hovered over Sin’s wrist, tracing the 7 without touching it—as if the ink might burn him. His mind spun with the implications, the sheer weight of it. A matching tattoo. His name. BTS etched into Sin’s waist like a vow. He’d known Sin was soft for him, had felt it in the way Sin’s hands lingered when they hugged, in the way his laughter pitched higher when Jimin teased him. But this—this was permanence.
Jimin’s breath caught when Sin’s fingers trembled against the hem of his shirt, hesitating before lifting it just enough to reveal the Hangul characters inked along the delicate curve of his waist—방탄소년단. The letters curled like a lover’s sigh against Sin’s skin, dark and undeniable. Jimin’s pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out Hoseok’s muffled chatter from the other side of the room. He’d seen devotion before, but never like this—never etched into someone’s body like a prayer.
Sin’s voice was barely audible. “I—I wanted all of you with me,” he admitted, his cerulean eyes darting away as if ashamed. “Always.” The word hung between them, fragile and weighty, and Jimin’s chest tightened. He’d joked before about Sin’s soft heart, about the way he blushed at the slightest praise, but this—this was beyond words.
Yoongi cleared his throat pointedly, breaking the spell. “We’re gonna need a minute,” Jimin said without looking away from Sin, his voice steadier than he felt. Sin’s pink lips parted in surprise, but Jimin was already curling a protective hand around his wrist, tugging him toward the practice room’s exit. The hallway outside was dimly lit, the distant hum of Seoul’s traffic filtering through the windows. Sin shivered when Jimin backed him against the wall, caging him in with both hands braced on either side of his head.
“You got my name,” Jimin repeated, softer now, thumb brushing the edge of Sin’s collar where the tattoo hid beneath fabric. Sin’s breath hitched, his eyelashes fluttering. “Why?”
Sin’s lower lip trembled as Jimin’s thumb traced the hidden edge of his tattoo through the fabric, his cerulean eyes shimmering with vulnerability. The hallway’s dim lighting carved shadows under his lashes, making him look even more doll-like—breakable. Jimin’s chest tightened at the sight, but he didn’t pull away. “You know why,” Sin whispered, so quiet it was almost lost in the hum of the building’s air conditioning. His fingers twitched at his sides, as if fighting the urge to cover the ink again. “You have to know.”
Jimin exhaled sharply, his breath stirring Sin’s messy white bangs. He did know—had seen it in the way Sin’s gaze lingered on him during late-night rehearsals, in the way his laughter hitched when Jimin slung an arm around his shoulders. But knowing and seeing were different. Seeing his name etched into Sin’s skin, permanent, was like staring directly into the sun. “You could’ve told me,” Jimin murmured, sliding his hand down to cradle Sin’s jaw. His thumb brushed the beauty mark beneath Sin’s eye, a familiar anchor. “Instead of hiding it.”
Sin’s breath stuttered. “I was scared,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “What if—what if you thought it was too much?” His fingers curled into the fabric of Jimin’s sleeve, gripping like he was afraid Jimin might vanish. “What if you laughed?” The last word came out ragged, and Jimin’s stomach twisted. He’d teased Sin before—playfully, always playfully—but the idea that Sin had carried this fear, this devotion, in silence—
Jimin didn’t let him finish. He pressed forward, closing the remaining space between them, and kissed him. Sin made a soft, startled noise against his lips, but then his hands were clutching at Jimin’s waist, pulling him closer. The kiss was messy, urgent—all teeth and desperation, as if they could fuse the unspoken words between them through touch alone. When Jimin finally pulled back, Sin’s lips were redder than before, his pupils blown wide. “I’m not laughing,” Jimin said roughly, thumb swiping over Sin’s bottom lip. “I’m not.”
KIM TAEHYUNG
The first thing Taehyung noticed was the way Sin flinched when the sleeve of his oversized sweater slid up just a little too far. It was a blink-and-you’d-miss-it reaction, the kind Taehyung only caught because he’d spent the last six months memorizing every micro-expression on that face.
"Hyung," Sin said, voice suddenly small as he tugged the fabric back down, but it was too late. Taehyung had already seen it—the delicate black "7" inked into the pale skin of Sin’s left wrist, identical to the ones he and the other members had gotten years ago.
"Since when?" Taehyung asked, fingers curling around Sin’s wrist before he could stop himself. The sweater sleeve fell back again, revealing the tattoo fully. His thumb brushed over it lightly, feeling the slight raised texture of healed skin.
Sin’s cheeks flushed pink, but he didn’t pull away. "A year," he admitted, biting his lower lip. "I got it—after I met all of you."
Taehyung’s grip on Sin’s wrist loosened, but he didn’t let go. His thumb traced the edges of the "7" again, slower this time, as if committing the shape to memory all over. "A year," he repeated, voice low and wondering. His gaze flicked up to meet Sin’s, searching for something—confirmation, maybe, or the answer to a question he hadn’t asked yet. Sin’s cerulean eyes held steady, but there was a flicker of vulnerability there, like he was bracing himself.
Then Taehyung’s fingers drifted higher, brushing against the collar of Sin’s sweater. The fabric was loose, slipping easily to the side when he tugged gently. Sin inhaled sharply but didn’t stop him. And there it was—his own name, in delicate Hangul script, etched just above Sin’s collarbone. Taehyung’s breath caught.
"You—" His voice cracked. He swallowed, tried again. "You got my name?"
Sin’s fingers twisted in the hem of his own sweater, knuckles whitening. "I wanted—" He stopped, exhaled shakily. "I wanted you close, even when you weren’t." The confession came out barely above a whisper, raw and unguarded.
Taehyung’s fingers trembled where they rested against Sin’s collarbone, tracing the lines of his own name like a blind man reading braille. The silence between them stretched thin, taut with something unspoken. Then, without warning, Taehyung hooked a finger under the hem of Sin’s sweater and tugged upward. Sin gasped, scrambling to catch the fabric before it revealed too much, but Taehyung was faster—his other hand splayed across the smooth plane of Sin’s waist, fingers brushing the edge of another tattoo.
Hangul. Three letters. BTS.
Sin went perfectly still.
Taehyung exhaled sharply through his nose, gaze flicking between the tattoos as if assembling a puzzle. The "7" for their bond. His name for—whatever this was between them. And now this, the group’s name inked where only the most intimate would see it. His throat worked around words that wouldn’t come.
Taehyung's fingers lingered on the Hangul letters, the pads of his thumbs pressing lightly into the skin just beneath the ink. Sin hadn’t moved, hadn’t breathed—like a deer caught in headlights, cerulean eyes wide and shimmering with something between panic and surrender. The silence between them was thick enough to choke on, but Taehyung didn’t rush to fill it. Instead, he let his hands speak first, sliding up Sin’s waist slowly, pushing the fabric higher until the full tattoo was exposed. The sweater crumpled in his grip, forgotten.
"You’re ridiculous," Taehyung murmured, but his voice was all fondness, no bite. He ducked his head, pressing his lips to the "BTS" inked into Sin’s skin—a kiss so soft it could’ve been mistaken for a breath. Sin shuddered under him, fingers finally unclenching from the hem of his sweater to tangle in Taehyung’s hair instead. "A year," Taehyung repeated against his skin, lips moving with the words. "You’ve been hiding these from me for a year?"
Sin’s laugh was breathless, shaky. "Would you have let me get them if I’d asked?"
Taehyung pulled back just enough to glare up at him, but the effect was ruined by the way his thumbs were still tracing the edges of the tattoos, reverent. "No," he admitted. "I would’ve told you it was stupid. That you didn’t need to brand yourself for us—for me."
Sin's fingers tightened in Taehyung's hair as he exhaled sharply, the sensation sending a shiver down Taehyung's spine. "But I wanted to," Sin murmured, voice barely audible. "Even if it was stupid. Even if you would've said no." His thumb brushed the shell of Taehyung's ear, hesitant. "I wanted—something permanent. Proof that I belonged to you. To all of you."
Taehyung's breath hitched. He pressed his forehead against Sin's collarbone, right over his own name, and let out a shaky laugh. "You idiot," he whispered, but his voice was thick with affection. "You absolute, ridiculous idiot." His hands slid up Sin's waist, fingers splaying over the tattooed letters as if trying to absorb them through touch alone. "You didn't need ink for that. You've always been ours."
Sin's pulse fluttered under Taehyung's lips when he pressed another kiss to the tattoo, this one firmer, lingering. The sweater was bunched awkwardly around Sin's ribs now, half-forgotten in the tangle of limbs and whispered confessions. Taehyung could feel the heat radiating off Sin's skin, could trace the faint tremor running through him as Taehyung's fingers traced lower, following the curve of his waist.
"You're not mad?" Sin asked, voice small. Taehyung lifted his head just enough to catch the uncertainty in those cerulean eyes, the way Sin's teeth worried at his lower lip.
Taehyung's fingers stilled against Sin's waist, the pads of his thumbs pressing just beneath the last stroke of the Hangul tattoo. He exhaled sharply through his nose—half laugh, half exasperation—before tilting his head up to meet Sin's gaze. "Mad?" he echoed, voice rough. The corner of his mouth twitched. "I should be. You got permanent ink without telling me. My name, Sin. That's—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. His fingers flexed against Sin's skin, warm and familiar. "That's the kind of thing people do when they're in love."
Sin's breath hitched audibly. His fingers, still tangled in Taehyung's hair, trembled slightly.
Taehyung watched the pink bloom across Sin's cheeks, the way his eyelashes fluttered like he wanted to look away but couldn't. "You're blushing," Taehyung pointed out, amused. He leaned in, close enough that his lips brushed Sin's ear. "You got my name tattooed on your skin and now you're shy?"
Sin made a small, wounded noise, his grip tightening in Taehyung's hair. "Hyung," he whined, but Taehyung only grinned, pressing a teasing kiss to the beauty mark beneath Sin's eye before pulling back just enough to see his face properly.
Taehyung's grin softened into something tender as Sin squirmed under his scrutiny, cerulean eyes darting away only to flicker back like he couldn't bear not looking at him either. The sweater was still rucked up around Sin's ribs, exposing the smooth plane of his waist where the Hangul tattoo stood stark against his pale skin. Taehyung dragged his thumb over it again, slower this time, watching the way Sin's breath stuttered in response. "You're really something else," he murmured, voice warm with disbelief. "Getting my name where no one else would see it. That's—" He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "That's almost romantic, you know."
Sin's blush deepened, his fingers loosening in Taehyung's hair to instead press against his own collarbone, right over Taehyung's name. "I didn't—I mean, it wasn't just that," he stammered, eyes dropping to where Taehyung's fingers still traced the letters on his waist. "I wanted—" He swallowed hard, the words sticking in his throat. Taehyung waited, patient, letting the silence stretch until Sin exhaled sharply and looked up, cerulean eyes glinting with sudden determination. "I wanted to carry you with me. All of you. Even when I couldn't be with you."
Taehyung's breath caught. He'd known, of course—known from the moment he'd seen that first tattoo, that delicate "7" inked into Sin's wrist—but hearing it laid bare like this, raw and unfiltered, sent something hot and possessive curling through his chest. His grip on Sin's waist tightened reflexively, pulling him closer until their foreheads bumped together. "You are with us," he said, voice rough. "You have been. You didn't need—" He gestured vaguely at the tattoos, at his own name etched into Sin's skin. "—this for that."
Sin's lips trembled into a smile, small and shy. "I know,"
JEON JUNGKOOK
"Hey, careful—your sleeve's riding up," Jungkook murmured, reaching across the table to adjust Sin's hoodie cuff before it dipped any further. The café was quiet, just the hum of the espresso machine and the occasional scrape of a chair. Sin blinked, startled, and instinctively tugged the fabric back down, but not before Jungkook's fingers had brushed against the edge of something inked into his skin.
Sin's cheeks flushed pink as he curled his wrist inward, but it was too late. Jungkook had already seen it—a small, neat '7' in delicate script, identical to the ones his own bandmates wore. His breath hitched. That wasn't just some random number. That was their number.
"You—" Jungkook started, then stopped, because Sin was staring at him like a deer caught in headlights, lips parted like he was about to explain or maybe bolt. The collar of his oversized shirt had slipped slightly too, revealing the barest edge of another tattoo, something longer, something that looked suspiciously like—
Jungkook's brain short-circuited. He reached out without thinking, thumb hooking gently into the neckline of Sin's shirt to tug it down just enough. There, in clean Hangul, was his own name.
Jungkook's fingers froze against Sin's collarbone, the warmth of his skin suddenly scalding. The café noise faded into static—no more espresso machine, no more murmured conversations—just the hammering of his own pulse in his ears. His name. Inked into Sin’s skin. Permanent.
Sin made a tiny, strangled noise and pressed both hands over the exposed tattoo, as if he could somehow hide it retroactively. His ears were burning red, lashes fluttering like he couldn’t decide whether to meet Jungkook’s gaze or stare at the table. "I—I can explain," he whispered, but his voice was so thin it barely carried.
Jungkook exhaled sharply, dropping his hand. His thoughts were a riot—curiosity, disbelief, a hot, curling something in his chest he didn’t dare name yet. "You got my name tattooed on you," he said slowly, not quite a question.
Sin nodded once, then, after a beat, shook his head frantically. "It’s not—not just yours! Look." He tugged his sleeve up properly this time, revealing the delicate '7' again, then hesitantly lifted the hem of his shirt just enough to expose the Hangul characters for 'BTS' along his waist. His breathing was uneven, fingers trembling where they clutched the fabric. "I got them… after the concert. The one where you pulled me on stage."
Jungkook's fingers hovered in the air between them, trembling slightly, as if he wasn’t sure whether to reach for Sin again or pull back entirely. The café around them might as well have dissolved into smoke—all he could see was the flush creeping down Sin’s neck, the way his teeth worried at his lower lip like he was trying to physically bite back his own confession.
"You got my name tattooed on you," Jungkook repeated, softer this time, and something in his chest cracked open when Sin’s eyes finally flicked up to meet his—wide, cerulean, and wet with unshed tears.
Sin exhaled shakily, fingers tightening around his own sleeve. "I—I know it’s stupid. But when you pulled me up during ‘Euphoria,’ and I—" He broke off, throat working as he swallowed. "You looked at me like I mattered. Like I was part of it. Part of you."
Jungkook’s breath stuttered. He remembered that night—the way Sin’s small frame had practically vibrated under his hands when he’d hoisted him onto the stage, how the stadium lights had caught in his white hair like a halo. How he’d mouthed every lyric to Jungkook’s verse like a prayer.
Jungkook's breath caught in his throat as Sin's confession hung between them, fragile as the steam curling from their abandoned coffees. His fingers twitched—part of him wanted to reach out, to trace the lines of his own name etched into Sin's skin like a claim, but another part was paralyzed by the sheer weight of what it meant. This wasn't just ink. This was devotion, laid bare in a way that left him dizzy.
"You—" Jungkook started, then stopped, because words felt too small for this. Instead, he slid his hand forward slowly, giving Sin every chance to pull away, but the boy only trembled when Jungkook's fingertips grazed the tattoo on his collarbone. The Hangul characters were raised slightly under his touch, the skin there warmer than the rest, as if Sin's body had memorized the shape of Jungkook's name and kept it close.
Sin let out a shaky exhale, his cerulean eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "I thought you'd laugh," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "Or—or think I was some crazy fan who—"
Jungkook didn't let him finish. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against Sin's, their noses brushing. "Crazy," he murmured, "but not a fan." His thumb swept over the tattoo once more, possessive and tender. "You're mine."
Jungkook’s thumb lingered on Sin’s collarbone, tracing the strokes of his name with a reverence that made Sin’s breath hitch. The café’s hum had faded into a distant buzz, the world narrowing to the space between their shared breaths. Sin’s pulse fluttered under Jungkook’s touch, a rapid, fragile thing, like the wings of a moth drawn to flame.
"You really…" Jungkook’s voice was rough, thumb pressing just slightly harder into the ink. "You really put me under your skin."
Sin’s lips parted, but no sound came out—only a soft, shuddering inhale. His fingers twitched where they lay curled against the table, nails digging faint crescents into his palms. The confession was already out, but the weight of it still pressed between them, heavy and sweet.
Jungkook exhaled through his nose, slow, measured, before suddenly shifting his grip. His hand slid up to cradle the back of Sin’s neck, fingers tangling in the soft strands of white hair at his nape. He tugged him forward, just enough to feel the warmth of Sin’s breath against his mouth. "Show me the others," he murmured. "Properly."
Sin’s breath stuttered when Jungkook’s fingers tightened in his hair, the pressure just shy of painful. His hoodie had slipped further down his shoulder, exposing the delicate curve of his collarbone and the stark black ink of Jungkook’s name. The café’s overhead lights caught the edges of the tattoo, making it gleam like a secret finally brought into the light.
"Here?" Sin whispered, voice trembling as Jungkook’s thumb traced the ‘BTS’ tattoo along his waist. The touch was feather-light, but it burned—every brush of Jungkook’s fingertips sent sparks skittering up his spine.
Jungkook exhaled sharply, his other hand still gripping Sin’s nape like he was afraid he’d vanish if he let go. "You got all of us," he murmured, thumb sweeping over the Hangul characters. "But mine—" His voice cracked, gaze flicking back to Sin’s collarbone. "Mine is where everyone can see it."
Sin swallowed hard, his pulse rabbiting under Jungkook’s palm. "I wanted—" He bit his lip, the words tangling in his throat. The truth was too big, too raw: I wanted you to know you’re the one I’d never hide.
Jungkook’s grip on Sin’s nape tightened, his breath ragged against the shell of Sin’s ear. "You wanted," he echoed, voice low and rough, pressing the unspoken words back into Sin’s mouth like a challenge. His fingers trailed down from Sin’s hair to trace the edge of his jaw, tilting his face up until their eyes met—Sin’s wide and glistening, Jungkook’s dark with something feverish. "You wanted me to see. To know."
Sin whimpered, the sound barely audible, but Jungkook caught it—caught the way his pink lips trembled, the way his lashes fluttered shut for a heartbeat too long. His thumb brushed over Sin’s beauty mark, the one beneath his left eye, as if memorizing its placement. "Look at me," Jungkook murmured, and Sin obeyed instantly, cerulean irises swimming with vulnerability.
The café door chimed somewhere distant, but neither of them turned. Jungkook’s free hand slid under the hem of Sin’s shirt, palm flattening against the warm skin of his waist where ‘BTS’ was inked in bold Hangul. He could feel the slight raise of the letters under his fingertips, the way Sin’s stomach tensed at the touch. "You really—" Jungkook’s voice cracked, the weight of it all crashing over him anew. "You marked yourself for us. For me."
Sin’s breath hitched when Jungkook’s fingers curled possessively against his hip, tugging him closer until their knees knocked under the table. "I didn’t—I didn’t think you’d ever see them," he admitted, voice trembling. The admission was raw, unfiltered—a confession wrapped in shyness. "They were just… for me. To carry you with me. Always."
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like sleepy insects as Sin pushed open the glass door of the convenience store, the chime announcing her arrival to absolutely no one. The cashier, an older man with tired eyes buried in a magazine, didn’t even glance up. Her sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as she wandered down the aisle, scanning shelves of neon-bright snacks she couldn’t read the labels of. Jet lag hummed under her skin, but she wasn’t tired—not after the concert. Not after him.
She lingered by the refrigerated drinks, fogged glass obscuring rows of colorful bottles, and hesitated before grabbing a peach tea. The cold seeped into her fingertips. Maybe caffeine wasn’t the best idea, but her heart was still racing from the sheer energy of the arena, the way the crowd had screamed when Min Yoongi stepped into the spotlight—
"Ah, fuck."
The voice came from the next aisle over, low and rough-edged, followed by the clatter of something hitting the floor. Sin froze. She knew that voice. She knew it. Swallowing hard, she peeked around the corner.
There he was—Min Yoongi, crouched on the scuffed linoleum, scooping up a scattered handful of instant ramen cups like he was trying to reassemble some fragile artifact. His black cap was pulled low, but the sharp angle of his jaw was unmistakable, the silver gleam of his earrings catching the fluorescent light when he turned his head slightly. Sin’s fingers tightened around the peach tea bottle, condensation dripping onto her wrist. She didn’t breathe.
He straightened suddenly, shoving the ramen cups back onto the shelf with a frustrated grunt, and then—he saw her. His dark eyes flicked up, widening just a fraction before his expression smoothed into something carefully neutral. But Sin wasn’t stupid; she saw the way his fingers twitched at his side, the subtle shift of his weight like he was debating whether to bolt.
“You,” he said finally, voice low. Not a question.
Sin’s lips parted, but nothing came out. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she was half-convinced he could hear it. The convenience store hummed around them, the refrigerators buzzing, the cashier flipping a page of his magazine with a dry rustle. She should say something. Anything. But all she could think was I screamed your name so loud tonight I lost my voice and your hands look even prettier up close and oh my god I’m wearing socks with your face on them.
Sin's fingers twitched around the peach tea bottle, condensation dripping onto the linoleum between them like a tiny, nervous confession. The silence stretched, taut and fragile, until Yoongi exhaled through his nose and rubbed the back of his neck. "You gonna say something," he muttered, "or just stare?"
The words jolted her into motion. She bowed so fast her hair whipped forward, nearly smacking her own knees. "I—I'm sorry!" The apology came out muffled against her thighs, too loud for the quiet store. "I didn’t mean to—I just—you’re—" Her voice cracked. Perfect, she didn’t say. Everything.
When she dared to straighten, Yoongi was watching her with an unreadable expression, one hand still hovering near the ramen shelf. His fingers—long, pale, the knuckles slightly prominent—tapped once, twice. "You were at the concert," he said finally. Not a guess.
Sin nodded so hard her vision blurred. "Row seven. Seat twenty-two." The numbers tumbled out before she could stop them, as if her brain had decided this was the critical information he needed. "I—I waved. You didn’t see me. Obviously. There were thousands of people, and—"
Yoongi exhaled—a slow, measured thing—and his shoulders dropped slightly, like he'd been holding his breath without realizing. "Yeah," he said, voice softer now, almost amused. "There were a lot of people." His fingers twitched toward the ramen shelf again, then stopped, as if he'd remembered something. "You shouldn't be out this late," he added abruptly, eyebrows knitting together. "It's—what, three in the morning?"
Sin blinked. The absurdity of Min Yoongi lecturing her about being out late after he'd just performed for three hours straight hit her like a delayed punchline. A tiny, incredulous laugh escaped her before she could swallow it. "I—I could say the same to you," she blurted, then immediately wanted to melt into the floor. Her hands flew to her mouth. "Oh my god, I'm sorry, that was so rude—"
But Yoongi snorted. Actually snorted, the sound rough and unexpected, and something in Sin's chest unclenched. "Fair," he admitted, rubbing his temple with two fingers. "But I'm—" He hesitated, like he was debating how much to say. "Used to it. You're…" His eyes flicked over her—not critically, just noticing—the oversized hoodie swallowing her frame, the way she clutched the peach tea like a lifeline. "…Not."
Sin bit her lip. She wanted to argue—I've stayed up waiting for your VLives to start, I pulled all-nighters streaming your album, I——but the words tangled in her throat. Instead, she nodded faintly. "I just… couldn't sleep. After the concert." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "It was too loud in my head."
Yoongi stared at her for a beat longer than necessary, his dark eyes flickering with something she couldn’t name—amusement? Curiosity?—before he exhaled sharply through his nose and reached past her for a bottle of water. His sleeve brushed her elbow, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt up her arm. "Too loud in your head," he repeated, voice low, as if testing the weight of the words. "Yeah. I get that." He unscrewed the cap with a crisp snick and took a long swig, his throat working as he swallowed. When he lowered the bottle, his lips were slightly damp. "You’re not… waiting outside the hotel or anything, are you?"
Sin’s eyes widened. "No! God, no," she blurted, shaking her head so vigorously her white hair whipped against her cheeks. "I wouldn’t—I hate when people do that. It’s creepy." The words tumbled out in a rush, her cheeks heating. "I just… wanted a snack. And to walk. To… process." She gestured vaguely at the store around them, as if the fluorescent-lit aisles held the answers to her inability to articulate why she’d wandered in here at 3 AM, still vibrating with concert adrenaline.
Yoongi studied her for a moment, then nodded once, decisive. "Good." He capped his water and tucked it under his arm. "You want that?" He nodded at the peach tea still clutched in her white-knuckled grip.
Sin blinked down at it, as if she’d forgotten she was holding it. "Oh. Yeah."
The cashier finally glanced up when Yoongi dropped his armful of snacks onto the counter with a dull thud—three bottles of water, a family-sized bag of shrimp chips, and a single, sad-looking banana. Sin hovered half a step behind him, clutching her peach tea like it might float away if she loosened her grip. The cashier’s eyes flicked between them, lingering on Yoongi’s cap-shrouded face just a second too long before ringing them up without comment.
“You gonna pay for that?” Yoongi nodded at Sin’s drink as he pulled out his wallet. His tone was flat, but there was a faint curve to his mouth that made her stomach flip.
“Oh—yes! Of course.” She fumbled for her own wallet, fingers clumsy with nerves, and nearly dropped it when Yoongi waved her off.
“I got it.” He slid a few bills across the counter before she could protest, then grabbed the plastic bag with one hand and pushed the door open with the other. The night air hit them like a damp curtain—thick with humidity and the distant murmur of Tokyo never quite sleeping. Sin hesitated on the threshold, suddenly hyperaware of how surreal this was: Min Yoongi was holding a convenience store door open for her.
Sin hovered in the doorway, the humid night air sticking to her skin as Yoongi adjusted his cap with his free hand. The plastic bag dangled from his fingers, the shrimp chips crinkling softly—an absurdly domestic sound for someone whose face was plastered on her phone case.
"You live nearby?" he asked abruptly, glancing down the empty street. The neon sign of a love hotel flickered pink three blocks away, casting uneven shadows across his sharp cheekbones.
Sin's throat tightened. "A—a few streets over. The Sakura Inn." She pointed vaguely left, then immediately regretted it. Why did I just tell him where I'm staying?
Yoongi hummed, shifting the bag to his other hand. "That's…" He squinted down the dimly lit alley. "Not the best area for a midnight stroll."
Sin's fingers twitched against the peach tea bottle, condensation pooling in the hollow of her palm like spilled secrets. The alley stretched before them, uneven pavement glistening under sporadic streetlights—a tunnel of shadows and neon reflections from distant signs. She'd walked it earlier without thinking, adrenaline still thrumming through her veins after the concert. Now, with Yoongi standing beside her, the darkness felt heavier, the silence between them thick with unasked questions.
Yoongi shifted his weight, the plastic bag rustling as he turned slightly toward her. "You know," he said, voice low, "I could walk you back." The words came out flat, almost practical, but there was something underneath—a hesitation, like he'd debated whether to say it at all. His free hand dipped into his pocket, fingers curling around something unseen. "If you want."
Sin's breath caught. The rational part of her screamed that this was a terrible idea—that idols didn't escort fans home at 3 AM, that security would have a collective aneurysm if they knew—but the rest of her was already nodding. "O-okay," she breathed, then immediately bit her lip. "I mean, only if it's not—if you're not—"
"Annoyed?" Yoongi finished dryly, one eyebrow lifting. "You're asking now?" But there was no real bite to it, just that faint curve at the corner of his mouth again. He jerked his chin toward the alley. "Come on. Before someone recognizes me and we both regret this."
Sin’s socked feet—the ones with Yoongi’s face printed on them—made almost no sound against the pavement as they stepped into the alley. The neon glow from the convenience store faded behind them, replaced by the sporadic pulse of distant streetlights. She clutched the peach tea like a lifeline, the condensation soaking into her sleeve. Beside her, Yoongi walked with his shoulders hunched slightly, as if trying to fold himself into something less recognizable. His sneakers scuffed against the pavement with a quiet rhythm that matched the hammering of Sin’s heart.
"You’re not," Yoongi began, then stopped, rubbing his temple. "You’re not gonna faint or anything, are you?" He glanced sideways at her, his dark eyes catching a sliver of light from a passing car. "Had a fan pass out once. Scared the shit out of me."
Sin shook her head so fast her vision blurred. "No! No, I’m—" Her voice cracked. "I’m fine." She wasn’t fine. She was walking down an alley in Tokyo at 3 AM with Min Yoongi. Her brain short-circuited again, replaying the moment his sleeve had brushed her elbow in the store like a broken record.
Yoongi exhaled through his nose, a sound caught between amusement and exasperation. "You don’t sound fine." He adjusted the plastic bag in his grip, the shrimp chips rustling like a private joke. "Breathe, kid. I’m not gonna bite."
The alley smelled of damp pavement and distant exhaust, the kind of quiet urban musk that only existed in the hours when the city exhaled between its pulse points. Sin kept her gaze fixed on the uneven cobblestones, counting the cracks to stop herself from staring at Yoongi’s profile—the sharp slope of his nose, the way his silver earrings caught stray light when he turned his head.
“Kid,” Yoongi said suddenly, stopping beneath a flickering streetlamp. The plastic bag swung from his fingers as he turned to face her fully. “Look at me.” When she didn’t move, he sighed and tugged his cap lower. “I’m not gonna vanish if you blink.”
Sin forced her chin up, her cerulean eyes wide. Up close, exhaustion clung to him in ways the stage lights had masked—the faint purple smudges under his eyes, the way his shoulders slumped when he thought no one was looking. She swallowed. “You’re taller than I thought.” The words slipped out before she could cage them.
Yoongi blinked. Then—slowly, like sunrise over a cautious horizon—he grinned. It transformed his face entirely, carving dimples into his cheeks. “And you’re braver than most,” he said, nodding at her death grip on the peach tea. “That thing’s gonna explode if you squeeze it any harder.”
The peach tea did, in fact, explode—not from pressure, but from sheer cosmic irony when Sin jerked her hand in surprise at Yoongi’s comment. A sticky arc of peach-flavored liquid splattered across the alley pavement, narrowly missing Yoongi’s sneakers. They both stared at the mess for a beat too long, the silence stretching until Sin’s mortified whimper broke it. “I—I’m so sorry, I’ll—” She floundered for nonexistent napkins in her empty pockets.
Yoongi sighed—long-suffering, theatrical—and crouched to retrieve the half-empty bottle rolling toward a drain. “Relax,” he muttered, twisting the cap back on with a practiced flick of his wrist. “It’s just sugar water.” When he straightened, he held the bottle out to her between two fingers like a peace offering, his other hand still clutching the shrimp chips. The streetlight caught the amusement in his eyes, glinting silver. “You’re lucky it wasn’t the ramen. I would’ve cried.”
Sin’s nervous giggle bubbled up before she could stop it, high-pitched and bordering on hysterical. The sound seemed to startle Yoongi more than the exploding drink; his eyebrows shot up, and for a split second, his carefully constructed idol-in-disguise facade cracked. He looked—younger. Softer. Like the boy who’d once tweeted about missing his mom’s kimchi stew.
The moment shattered when a distant car horn blared. Yoongi’s posture snapped back into guarded lines, his head whipping toward the sound. Sin saw it then—the way his fingers flexed around the plastic bag, the tension in his jaw. He wasn’t just tired. He was paranoid. The realization hit her like a punch to the ribs: Min Yoongi, global superstar, was walking her home at 3 AM like some sleep-deprived guardian angel, and the weight of that risk settled heavy between them.
The alley curved sharply left, revealing a dimly lit shrine wedged between two apartment buildings—a sliver of old Tokyo stubbornly surviving the neon encroachment. Yoongi paused beneath the torii gate’s shadow, his sneakers scuffing against moss-slick stones. "You believe in this stuff?" he asked abruptly, nodding at the weathered fox statues guarding the shrine steps. His voice was softer now, the edges worn down by exhaustion or the late hour.
Sin hesitated, her socked toes curling against cold pavement. "I—I leave coins sometimes," she admitted. The confession felt absurdly intimate—like admitting she still checked under her bed for monsters at nineteen. "For luck. Before exams." She didn’t add that she’d left 500 yen earlier that day, whispering a prayer for Yoongi’s vocal cords.
Yoongi snorted, but it lacked bite. He dug into his hoodie pocket and produced a 100-yen coin, rolling it across his knuckles with practiced ease. "Here." He flipped it toward her. Sin fumbled the catch, the coin clattering to the ground between them. Yoongi didn’t laugh. Just crouched to retrieve it, his silver earrings glinting as he pressed it into her palm—fingers lingering half a second too long. "Make it two-for-one," he muttered. His breath smelled faintly of mint gum and exhaustion.
The shrine’s wind chime tinkled overhead as Sin clutched the coin, its metal edge biting into her palm. Yoongi had already turned away, his hoodie swallowing the dim light as he stepped past the fox statues. She stared at his retreating back—the slope of his shoulders, the way his silver earrings caught stray gleams—and wondered if this was how Persephone felt when Hades offered her pomegranate seeds. A threshold moment.
She scrambled after him, her socked feet nearly slipping on moss-slick stones. “Wait—” The word tumbled out before she could cage it. Yoongi paused mid-step, his silhouette haloed by a flickering streetlight. Sin’s throat tightened. “I didn’t… thank you.” She held up the peach tea’s mangled corpse like a pathetic peace offering. “For the drink. And—and walking me.”
Yoongi turned just enough to eye her over his shoulder. His expression was unreadable in the shadows, but his voice, when it came, was softer than she expected. “Kid, you’re thanking me for spilled sugar water?” A beat. Then, almost grudgingly: “Weirdest fan encounter I’ve had all week.”
Sin’s cheeks burned. She opened her mouth—to apologize? To argue?—but Yoongi was already moving, his sneakers scuffing against pavement as he jerked his chin toward the next alley. “Sakura Inn’s that way, right?” He didn’t wait for confirmation, just adjusted the plastic bag’s weight with a crinkle of shrimp chips.
The Sakura Inn’s faded pink awning came into view like a mirage—too ordinary for the surreal night she’d had. Sin’s socked feet slowed on the cracked pavement, her grip tightening around the dented peach tea bottle. Yoongi stopped half a step behind her, his sneakers scraping against the curb as he surveyed the building with narrowed eyes. The plastic bag dangled from his fingers, the shrimp chips now ominously silent.
“This is it?” he asked, voice roughened by exhaustion. The question wasn’t judgmental, just… assessing. Like he was mentally calculating the fire escape routes.
Sin nodded, her white hair catching the dim glow of the inn’s flickering porch light. “Room 212,” she blurted, then immediately wanted to kick herself. Why did I just tell him my room number?
Yoongi’s lips quirked—not quite a smile, but something adjacent. “Not gonna invite me up, are you?” he deadpanned, shifting the bag to his other hand. The streetlight caught the silver in his earlobe when he turned his head.
Sin’s entire face combusted. “N-no! I mean—that’s not—” Her hands flailed, nearly dropping the ruined peach tea again.
Yoongi chuckled—a low, rasping sound that vibrated in the humid air between them. “Relax. Joke.” He rubbed his temple with two fingers, the motion weary. “Bad one, apparently.”
The silence stretched, thick with the weight of unspoken goodbyes. Sin’s fingers twisted around the coin he’d given her, its edges biting into her palm. “Thank you,” she said again, softer this time. “For… everything.”
Yoongi shrugged, the movement casual, but his eyes flicked over her face like he was memorizing something. “Don’t make it weird.” He adjusted his cap, tugging it lower. “Just… get inside safe.”
Sin nodded, her feet carrying her up the inn’s creaky steps before her brain could conjure another mortifying farewell. The porch light buzzed overhead, casting long shadows as she fumbled for her keycard. Behind her, she could feel Yoongi lingering—not moving, not leaving—just there, a silent sentinel in the alley’s mouth.
The keycard reader blinked green. Sin hesitated, her hand on the door. Turn around, she told herself. Say something clever. Something worthy of ending this surreal night. But when she turned, the alley was empty. Just the distant hum of a vending machine, the flicker of a dying neon sign. Yoongi was gone—vanished like a figment of her sleep-deprived imagination.
Her chest tightened. Of course he'd disappear like that—no fanfare, no lingering goodbye. Just poof, gone between blinks. Sin exhaled through her nose, pressing the dented peach tea bottle to her forehead. The metal door clicked shut behind her with finality, sealing her back into the mundane world where Min Yoongi didn't escort fans home at 3 AM.
Yoongi didn’t go far. Just around the corner, past the flickering vending machine humming its sad electric hymn, where the alley curved into shadow. He leaned against the damp brick wall, the plastic bag of shrimp chips dangling forgotten from his fingers. His pulse thrummed in his throat—not from exertion, but from the sheer absurdity of the last twenty minutes. He’d walked a fan home. Like some kind of sleep-deprived knight-errant. Namjoon would laugh his ass off if he ever found out.
The peach tea girl’s face flickered in his memory—wide cerulean eyes, that nervous stammer, the way she’d clutched that bottle like it was the only thing tethering her to earth. Cute, in a rabbit-startled-by-its-own-shadow way. He rubbed his temple, the exhaustion of the concert settling deep into his bones. Should’ve just bought the damn ramen and left. But then she’d peeked around that aisle like a ghost of fan culture past, and something in him had… hesitated.
A moth battered itself against the streetlight above him, wings frantically tapping out a code he couldn’t decipher. Yoongi watched it, absently rolling the 100-yen coin between his knuckles—the twin to the one he’d given her. Superstition, maybe. Or just habit. He always carried spares.
The coin slipped, clattering to the pavement. Yoongi stared at it, glinting dully in the dim light. Kid probably thinks I’m some kind of cryptid now. Half-idol, half-convenience-store-ghost, materializing to dispense life advice and mediocre drinks. He snorted, bending to retrieve the coin. His knees popped audibly. Fuck, I’m old.
The shrimp chips crinkled accusingly when he shifted the bag. He’d bought too much, again. Old habit from trainee days—stockpiling snacks like winter was coming. He should head back before security sent out a search party. Or worse, before some paparazzi with a telephoto lens caught him loitering in an alley like a lovesick teenager.
But his feet didn’t move. The inn’s light was still visible around the corner, a faint pink glow. Room 212, she’d said. Second floor, probably facing this alley. He could see the silhouette of her window from here—dark, curtained. No sudden flurry of tweets from a starstruck fan. Yet.
His phone buzzed. Jungkook’s name flashed on the screen, followed by a string of eggplant emojis that needed no translation. Yoongi rolled his eyes, thumbing out a reply: Getting snacks. Don’t wait up. He paused, then added: And wash your damn hands.
The moth finally stilled, wings splayed against the bulb. Yoongi exhaled, tipping his head back against the brick. He should go. Really. But the night air was thick with something—not just humidity, but the aftertaste of adrenaline, the unspoken weight of what if hanging between his ribs. It wasn’t every day you met a fan who didn’t scream or cry or ask for a selfie. Who just… stared, like she was trying to memorize the shape of his shadow.
The plastic bag rustled as he pushed off the wall. One last glance at the dark window—then he turned, footsteps echoing too loud in the empty alley.
hii I’d like to request where Sin being on Run BTS (him being the eighth member ofc perhaps the latest recent one if you’ve seen it!) or Run Jin (spending time together, maybe them looking after the child from ep 13 that he did xd)
SUMMARY : Sin in Run BTS
GENRE : Fluff , hint of smut
PAIRING : OT7 X SIN
A/N : So i change it a little , it's RUN BTS but he episode was them taking care of a child ( RUN JIN ). I can't do the latest one which is posted yesterday because it's too simple and i think taking care of a child is more suitable.
"Do you think ants ever get lost?" Sin asked suddenly, crouching on the sidewalk with his knees pressed together, watching a line of tiny black dots march across the pavement. Namjoon nearly tripped over him, catching himself just in time by grabbing the back of Sin's oversized sweater.
"Only you would worry about ant navigation systems," Namjoon laughed, but he crouched down anyway, his knees popping audibly. Up close, he could see the way Sin's white hair caught the sunlight like spun sugar, the beauty mark under his eye smudged slightly from when he'd rubbed his face sleepily earlier that morning. The ants veered around a pebble, their tiny legs moving in perfect unison.
Sin reached out a finger, hesitating just above the trail. "They’re carrying food to their family," he murmured, more to himself than to Namjoon. There was something achingly tender in the way he watched them, his cerulean eyes wide and soft. Namjoon resisted the urge to tug him closer—barely—because they were in public, and also because Sin was technically holding a half-eaten ice cream cone that was starting to drip dangerously over his knuckles.
The child from the Run episode—Soobin, barely six years old with a gap-toothed grin—appeared suddenly between them, shoving his own sticky fingers into Namjoon's face. "Hyung, Sin-hyung, look! I found a beetle!" Soobin proudly displayed a confused ladybug crawling across his palm. Sin gasped like it was the rarest treasure in the world, immediately abandoning the ants.
The ladybug took flight just as Soobin squealed, launching himself forward—right into Namjoon's chest, sticky fingers smearing chocolate across his already wrinkled shirt. Sin made a soft, startled noise, catching Soobin by the back of his overalls before he could faceplant completely. "Careful," Sin chided gently, but his eyes were crinkled with laughter, his pink lips pressed together to hide a smile. Namjoon watched, helplessly endeared, as Sin brushed Soobin's bangs out of his eyes with fingertips still damp from melting ice cream.
"You're both disasters," Namjoon sighed, but his voice came out too warm to sound properly exasperated. He reached out without thinking, thumb swiping at a smear of chocolate on Sin's cheekbone—lingering a second too long, the pad of his finger catching on the soft edge of Sin's beauty mark. Sin went very still, his breath hitching audibly. The moment stretched, fragile as a soap bubble, until Soobin wriggled between them like an overexcited puppy. "Hyungs, look, look, it's flying!"
Namjoon let his hand drop, but not before Sin leaned into the touch—just barely, just enough to make Namjoon's pulse stutter.
Later, when Soobin had been corralled into the backseat of Hoseok's car (still chattering about bugs, now with added sound effects), Namjoon found himself alone with Sin by the trunk, pretending to rearrange their bags. The late afternoon sunlight caught in Sin's white hair, turning it translucent at the edges, like spun sugar about to melt.
The trunk latch clicked shut with finality, but Namjoon didn't move—couldn't, really, with Sin standing so close that the sleeve of his sweater brushed against Namjoon's wrist. Up close, Sin smelled like vanilla and something faintly citrusy, the scent tangled with the late afternoon warmth clinging to his skin. Namjoon's fingers twitched against the car's metal frame, itching to reach out again, to trace the curve of Sin's cheekbone where the chocolate smudge had been.
"Joon-ah," Sin murmured, voice barely above a whisper, like he was afraid of breaking whatever spell had settled between them. His pink lips parted slightly, catching the sunlight—Namjoon's gaze dropped helplessly to the motion, then flicked back up when Sin exhaled a soft, nervous laugh.
Behind them, Soobin's high-pitched giggles spilled from the car window, followed by Hoseok's exaggerated groan about "sticky fingers on my leather seats, yah!" The normalcy of it all should've shattered the moment, but instead, it pressed them closer—Sin stepping into Namjoon's space like gravity itself had shifted, drawn by some invisible pull.
Namjoon's hand found Sin's waist without conscious thought, fingertips pressing lightly against the soft fabric of his sweater. He could feel the warmth of Sin's skin beneath, the faint hitch of his breath. "We should—" Namjoon started, but then Sin tilted his head up, cerulean eyes wide and trusting, and the rest of the sentence evaporated.
Sin's breath hitched again when Namjoon's fingers curled tighter around his waist—hesitant, like he wasn't entirely sure he was allowed to hold on, but unable to let go. The late afternoon light painted Sin's eyelashes gold, casting delicate shadows over his cheeks. "We should what?" Sin whispered, lips barely moving, and Namjoon realized with a jolt that he'd forgotten how to speak. All he could think about was how Sin's sweater had ridden up slightly under his grip, the bare sliver of skin beneath warm and smooth under his thumb.
A car honked three blocks away, startling them both. Namjoon didn't let go. "We should probably," he tried again, voice rough, "get Soobin home before Hoseok actually murders us for the state of his car." Sin laughed, the sound bright and startled, but his fingers crept up to clutch at Namjoon's sleeve anyway, wrinkling the fabric between his knuckles.
Inside the car, Soobin had escalated from giggles to full-blown dinosaur roars, now half-standing on the seat while Jimin attempted to wrestle him back into his seatbelt. Hoseok's exaggerated wails about "interior destruction!" filtered through the cracked window, but neither of them moved. Sin's pink lips were bitten raw, his eyes darting between Namjoon's mouth and the car like he couldn't decide which was more dangerous.
"Or," Namjoon murmured, leaning down just enough to make Sin's breath stutter, "we could stay right here." His thumb traced idle circles over that exposed strip of Sin's waist, savoring the way Sin shivered despite the summer heat.
Sin's sweater slipped further under Namjoon's grip when he leaned in, revealing another inch of smooth skin above his hipbone. The ladybug Soobin had been chasing earlier chose that exact moment to land on Namjoon's wrist—a tiny, bright interruption that made Sin giggle, the sound bubbling up like carbonation in soda. Namjoon watched, utterly charmed, as Sin's laughter softened into something breathless when their eyes met again.
"Or," Sin echoed, voice feather-light, "we could stay." His fingers tightened in Namjoon's sleeve, knuckles pressing against the fabric like he was memorizing the texture. The ladybug took flight again, but neither of them noticed this time—not when Namjoon was tilting Sin's chin up with his free hand, not when Sin's eyelashes fluttered shut like he'd been waiting for this exact moment all afternoon.
The first brush of their lips was interrupted by a sudden, wet splat—Soobin's abandoned ice cream cone, now fully melted, hitting the pavement between their feet with a tragic finality. Sin gasped against Namjoon's mouth, startled into laughter again, his forehead dropping against Namjoon's shoulder as his entire body shook with barely-contained mirth. "Disaster," Namjoon groaned, but he was laughing too, his arms winding around Sin's waist to pull him flush against his chest. Sin fit there perfectly, like he'd been designed to slot into the space between Namjoon's ribs.
From the backseat, Soobin's tiny hands slammed against the window with enough force to rattle the glass. "Hyungs!" His voice pierced through the quiet moment, nasal and insistent. "I forgot my beetle!" Hoseok's answering groan was muffled by the sound of Soobin unbuckling his seatbelt with alarming speed, tiny feet already scrambling toward the car door.
Namjoon didn't move—couldn't, really, not with Sin's laughter still vibrating against his collarbone, not with the way Sin's fingers had twisted into the front of his shirt like he was afraid Namjoon might disappear if he let go. The late afternoon light caught the delicate shell of Sin's ear, turning it translucent pink, and Namjoon's mouth went dry. "We should—" he started, but Sin was already tilting his head up, cerulean eyes wide and liquid, his pink lips parted around an unspoken question.
The car door slammed open. Soobin's sneakers hit the pavement with the subtlety of a grenade, his gap-toothed grin appearing between them like a tiny, chaotic sun. "Found it!" he crowed, holding up what was unmistakably a piece of gravel. Sin's breath hitched—not from surprise, but from the effort of suppressing laughter, his shoulders shaking under Namjoon's palms.
"Wow," Namjoon deadpanned, watching Soobin clutch his "beetle" with reverent intensity. "That's… incredibly rare." His thumb traced idle circles over the strip of Sin's exposed waist, delighting in the way Sin bit his lip to keep from giggling. Soobin beamed, completely oblivious, his sticky fingers leaving smudges on Namjoon's jeans as he clambered between them to inspect his prize.
"Hyung, look—it's shiny," Soobin whispered with the gravitas of a museum curator, pressing the gravel into Namjoon's palm with chocolate-smeared solemnity. Sin's breath hitched—not from surprise this time, but from the way Namjoon's fingers curled instinctively around his waist when Soobin barreled into them, anchoring them together even as the world tilted sideways.
The gravel was, objectively, unremarkable. But Sin's eyes—wide and glimmering like sunlight through sea glass—made it seem priceless as he leaned over Namjoon's shoulder to inspect it. "It's perfect," Sin murmured, lips brushing Namjoon's ear by accident, and the shiver that raced down Namjoon's spine had nothing to do with the summer breeze.
Hoseok's car door creaked ominously. "If I find one more bug in my backseat," Hoseok called, voice pitched high with theatrical despair, "I'm taxidermying it." Jimin's muffled laughter floated through the window, followed by the sound of Soobin scrambling back into the car with his newfound treasure clutched to his chest.
Namjoon barely noticed. Sin had gone still against him, his sweater riding up further under Namjoon's grip, exposing the delicate dip of his waist. The late afternoon light caught the fine hairs there, turning them gold, and Namjoon's thumb stroked absentmindedly over the skin—softer than he'd imagined, warm as sun-warmed silk. Sin made a tiny, punched-out noise, his fingers twisting tighter in Namjoon's shirt.
The gravel slipped from Namjoon's fingers when Sin exhaled against his neck, warm and unsteady, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below Namjoon's jaw. "Joon-ah," Sin whispered, the syllables trembling like a leaf caught in a summer storm, and Namjoon forgot how to breathe. Somewhere beyond the haze of Sin's vanilla-citrus scent and the press of his slender body, Hoseok was still lamenting the state of his car seats, Soobin was singing off-key about beetles, and the world kept spinning—but none of it mattered as much as the way Sin's eyelashes fluttered when Namjoon's thumb traced higher along his waistband.
"Sin-ah," Namjoon murmured back, voice rougher than he intended, and felt the shiver that raced down Sin's spine beneath his fingertips. The car door slammed shut behind them, muffling Soobin's delighted shrieks, but neither of them moved. Sin's sweater had ridden up entirely now, the fabric crumpled in Namjoon's grip, and the newly exposed skin burned against his palm like a brand.
A ladybug landed on Sin's collarbone—perhaps the same one from earlier, perhaps a different one entirely—and Namjoon watched, mesmerized, as it crawled upward toward the flutter of Sin's pulse. Sin held perfectly still, his breath shallow, as if afraid to disturb it. The juxtaposition was almost too much: the delicate insect against Sin's porcelain skin, Namjoon's broad hand splayed possessively over the dip of his waist, the way Sin's pink lips parted on a silent gasp when the ladybug's tiny legs tickled his throat.
Namjoon's free hand came up of its own accord, brushing the ladybug away with infinite care before his fingers curled around the back of Sin's neck, drawing him closer. Sin went willingly, his body pliant, his cerulean eyes darkening to deep ocean blue. The first real press of their lips was tentative—Sin's mouth soft and unsure, Namjoon's thumb stroking soothing circles against his hipbone—until Sin made a tiny, desperate noise and surged forward, his hands fisting in Namjoon's shirt like he was afraid he'd float away otherwise.
The ladybug was long gone by the time Namjoon finally pulled back, but Sin chased his lips anyway—just an inch, just enough to make Namjoon's stomach swoop—before reality crashed back in with the sound of Soobin's tiny palms slapping against the car window again. "Hyungs, look, it's raining!"
It wasn't raining. Soobin had somehow gotten hold of Hoseok's water bottle and was now gleefully splashing it against the glass, creating his own personal storm. Sin laughed into Namjoon's shoulder, the sound muffled but bright, his fingers still tangled in Namjoon's shirt like he'd forgotten how to let go. Namjoon didn't mind. He minded even less when Sin tilted his head up, his cerulean eyes hazy with something warm and unfamiliar, his pink lips kiss-swollen and irresistible.
"Joon-ah," Sin whispered, and the way he said it—like Namjoon's name was a secret, like it belonged to him alone—sent a shiver down Namjoon's spine. Behind them, Hoseok yelped as Soobin's "rainstorm" migrated to his lap, but Namjoon barely heard it. All he could focus on was the way Sin's sweater had ridden up completely now, the hem crumpled in Namjoon's grip, exposing the smooth plane of his stomach. His thumb traced absent circles there, savoring the way Sin's breath hitched each time his fingers dipped lower.
A water droplet hit Namjoon's neck—cold and sudden, startling them both. Sin giggled, breathless, as Soobin's makeshift rainstorm escalated into full-blown splashing against the car roof. "Hyung," Sin murmured, pressing closer like he could shield Namjoon from the chaos, his sweater still rucked up under Namjoon's wandering hands.
Hoseok's indignant squawk cut through the moment. "Yah! My seats—" The car door flew open, and Soobin tumbled out, grinning like a gremlin, Hoseok's empty water bottle clutched triumphantly in his sticky hands. Sin instinctively turned toward the noise, but Namjoon caught his waist, holding him in place. Sin's startled exhale warmed Namjoon's jaw, his fingers tightening around Namjoon's wrists like he was afraid to let go even as his eyes darted toward the commotion.
Soobin skidded to a halt inches from them, waving the empty water bottle like a trophy just as Sin's eyes widened abruptly. His entire body went rigid against Namjoon—not from discomfort, but from sudden, horrified realization. "Joon-ah," Sin gasped, fingers digging into Namjoon's forearms hard enough to leave crescent marks through his sleeves. "We're—" His cerulean eyes flickered past Namjoon's shoulder toward the abandoned camera tripod near the curb, its red recording light blinking mockingly at them. "Run Jin," he finished weakly, the syllables collapsing under the weight of impending doom.
Namjoon's grip on Sin's waist slackened in slow motion, like his brain was buffering. The camera. The live broadcast. The fact that Sin's sweater was currently bunched around his ribs with Namjoon's thumb hooked under the waistband of his jeans. "Fuck," Namjoon breathed, more a punctuation mark than a word. Behind them, Soobin chose that exact moment to upend the water bottle over his own head, shrieking with delight as Hoseok lunged for him with a napkin clutched in his fist like a white flag.
KIM SEOKJIN
"No, no—the sticker goes here," Jin insisted, holding up the glittery star sticker with the gravity of a man negotiating peace treaties. Sin blinked up at him, cerulean eyes wide with the kind of earnest confusion only a nineteen-year-old with doll-like innocence could muster. The toddler in Jin’s lap, meanwhile, was far more interested in trying to eat the sticker sheet.
The living room of the Run BTS set was unusually quiet for once—no staff rushing around, no members bickering over game rules. Just Jin, Sin, and the little girl from episode 13, who had somehow claimed all their attention within minutes of being left in their care. "You’re overthinking it," Sin murmured, reaching over to pluck the sticker from Jin’s fingers. His touch lingered a second too long, warm and deliberate, before he pressed the star onto the toddler’s tiny hand. "See? She likes it better this way."
Jin scoffed, but the way his gaze softened betrayed him. "Since when did you become an expert on sticker placement?"
"Since you started acting like it’s a matter of national security," Sin shot back, lips curling into that small, pink smile Jin had memorized by now. The toddler giggled, slapping her sticky hands against Jin’s knee, and Jin sighed dramatically—though he didn’t bother hiding his grin.
The toddler—now christened "Princess Sticky Fingers" by Jin after her third attempt to paste a glittery moon onto his forehead—let out a delighted squeal as Sin lifted her into the air, her tiny legs kicking wildly. Jin watched, arms crossed, as Sin spun her gently, her giggles bouncing off the studio walls like scattered marbles. "You’re spoiling her," Jin accused, though the warmth in his voice undermined the complaint. Sin’s cerulean eyes flickered to him, alight with mischief, and Jin felt that familiar twist in his chest, the one that had started months ago when Sin had first pressed a shy kiss to his knuckles behind a filming set.
"Someone has to," Sin murmured, lowering the toddler onto the couch before leaning over Jin’s shoulder, his breath tickling Jin’s ear. "Since someone else is too busy pretending he doesn’t want to join in." Jin’s pulse jumped—stupid, really, how after all this time Sin could still unravel him with a whisper. The toddler, sensing weakness, immediately seized Jin’s sleeve with sticky fingers, yanking with the strength of a tiny, determined hurricane. "Up!" she demanded, and Jin groaned, surrendering as he hoisted her onto his hip.
Sin’s laughter was soft, private, just for him. "National security crisis averted," he teased, brushing a stray glitter star from Jin’s collar. His fingers lingered, tracing the line of Jin’s throat, and Jin caught his wrist, squeezing lightly. The toddler, oblivious to the tension, patted Jin’s cheek with a hand that smelled vaguely of grape juice. "Hyung pretty," she announced, and Sin’s grin turned downright smug.
"See? Even she knows."
Jin pretended to stagger under the toddler’s weight, exaggerating a groan as she clung to his neck like a koala. “Yah, are you eating rocks when we’re not looking?” he stage-whispered to her, earning a gummy laugh. Sin watched them from the arm of the couch, one leg drawn up, his cerulean eyes half-lidded with amusement. The studio lights caught the beauty mark under his left eye, making it glint like a stray fleck of stardust. Jin’s fingers itched to touch it—always did—but he settled for shooting Sin a look that said you’re next.
The toddler—Ara, they’d learned after the fifth time a frazzled PA shouted it—wiggled in Jin’s hold, stretching sticky palms toward Sin. “Up-up!” she demanded, and Sin’s lips parted in mock offense. “Now you want me? After he called you heavy?” But he was already reaching, his slender fingers brushing Jin’s as he took her. The contact lingered, Sin’s thumb skating over Jin’s knuckle, a silent missed you even though they’d been inches apart for hours.
Ara promptly shoved her fingers into Sin’s mouth. “Ah—hey,” he spluttered, but Jin’s laughter cut him off. “Karma,” Jin sing-songed, leaning in to pluck a stray glitter star from Sin’s white hair. He let his hand linger, curling a strand around his finger just to watch Sin’s pupils dilate. Ara, delighted by her own chaos, smacked Sin’s cheeks with both hands. “Pretty!” she declared, and Jin couldn’t resist. “See? Even babies think you’re a doll.”
Sin’s retort died when Ara suddenly went still, her tiny face crumpling. “Uh-oh,” Jin muttered, recognizing the prelude to tears. But Sin was already shifting her higher, tucking her against his shoulder with a quiet “shhh,” his palm cradling the back of her head. Jin watched, something warm and aching unfolding in his chest. Sin’s gentleness was a quiet thing, hidden beneath shy smiles and lowered lashes, but here—with Ara’s sniffles muffled against his collarbone—it was undeniable.
The moment Ara's sniffles turned into full-blown wails, Jin's hands were already outstretched—not to take her from Sin, but to brush his fingers against Sin's wrist in silent solidarity. "She's just tired," Jin murmured, though his voice was barely audible over Ara's cries. Sin nodded, his cerulean eyes flickering with quiet determination as he swayed gently, humming a fragmented melody under his breath. Jin recognized the tune—one of their older songs, something soft and half-forgotten. The way Sin's voice curled around the notes made Jin's chest tighten.
Ara's fists clenched in Sin's shirt, her cries muffling into hiccups as Sin's humming grew steadier. Jin reached for the abandoned sticker sheet, plucking a pastel moon and pressing it to Ara's tiny sock. "Look," he coaxed, tapping the sticker. "Magic moon." Ara blinked, tears clinging to her lashes, before her chubby fingers reached for Jin's hand. Sin's breath hitched—just slightly—when Jin's fingers intertwined with Ara's, their hands dwarfing hers.
"Teamwork," Sin whispered, shifting Ara so she could see Jin better. His lips brushed Jin's temple as he leaned in, the gesture so casual it shouldn't have made Jin's pulse stutter. But it did. Always did. Ara babbled something incoherent, her earlier distress dissolving as she smacked Jin's knuckles with her free hand. "Moon," Jin repeated, grinning when she parroted it back in garbled baby talk.
Sin's laugh was a warm puff against Jin's cheek. "She's a fast learner," he murmured, his thumb tracing idle circles on Ara's back. Jin shot him a look—you're biased—but Sin just smiled, pink lips curving in that way that made Jin want to kiss him senseless. Instead, Jin pressed another sticker to Ara's knee, earning a delighted squeal. "Now you're really a princess," he told her, tweaking her socked toe. Ara kicked her legs, nearly clocking Sin in the ribs, but he just chuckled, shifting her higher.
The moment Ara's giggles dissolved into drowsy blinks, Jin knew they'd won—or at least, survived. She slumped against Sin's chest, her sticky fingers finally still, her breath evening out against the curve of his collarbone. Jin reached over, brushing a stray curl from her forehead, his fingertips grazing Sin's throat in the process. Sin's breath hitched, just slightly, and Jin smirked, leaning in to whisper, "Told you we'd tire her out." Sin rolled his eyes, but the way his fingers flexed against Ara's back betrayed his relief.
The studio was quieter now, the only sound the distant hum of equipment and Ara's soft snores. Jin shifted closer on the couch, his knee pressing against Sin's thigh. "You're good at this," he murmured, nodding to Ara. Sin's cheeks flushed pink, his cerulean eyes dropping to the toddler in his arms. "It's not hard," he muttered, but Jin knew better—knew how Sin had spent the last hour patiently redirecting Ara's chaos, how his voice never once sharpened, how his hands were always gentle.
Jin's chest ached with something too big to name. He reached out, tucking a loose strand of Sin's white hair behind his ear, letting his thumb linger on the beauty mark beneath. Sin's breath stuttered, his gaze flickering up to meet Jin's. The air between them crackled, thick with everything unspoken—until Ara stirred, letting out a tiny whimper. Sin's attention snapped back to her instantly, his arms tightening just enough to soothe. Jin watched, mesmerized, as Sin pressed a featherlight kiss to Ara's temple, his lips lingering for a heartbeat too long.
"Yah," Jin whispered, nudging Sin's shoulder. "Save some of that sweetness for me." Sin's answering smile was small, private, just for him. "You get all of it," he murmured, and Jin's heart did a stupid little flip—the kind that should've been embarrassing for a man his age. But here, with Sin's lashes casting delicate shadows on his cheeks and Ara's tiny fingers curled in the fabric of Sin's shirt, Jin couldn't bring himself to care.
Ara stirred again, her socked foot kicking Jin's thigh as she burrowed deeper into Sin's embrace. Jin reached out, smoothing a hand down her back, his fingers brushing Sin's wrist in the process. Sin inhaled sharply—quietly—but Jin caught it, the way he always caught the hitch in Sin's breath when their skin touched. "Think she's out?" Jin murmured, nodding to Ara, whose breathing had evened out into the slow, rhythmic cadence of deep sleep. Sin hummed in agreement, shifting carefully to cradle her better.
The studio lights overhead cast a warm glow on Sin's features, catching the diamond-like glimmer of his cerulean eyes, the soft pink of his lips. Jin's fingers itched to trace the beauty mark beneath Sin's eye, to memorize the curve of his jaw—again, for the hundredth time. Instead, he settled for brushing a stray glitter star from Sin's sleeve. "You're covered in these," he muttered, amused. Sin smirked. "Told you stickers were serious business."
Jin scoffed, but his hand lingered, fingertips ghosting over Sin's forearm. Sin's breath hitched—just slightly—and Jin reveled in it, in the way Sin still reacted to him after all this time. Ara made a soft noise in her sleep, her tiny face scrunching adorably. Sin instinctively tightened his hold, his palm splayed protectively over her back. Jin watched, something warm and impossibly fond swelling in his chest. "You're a natural," he said, voice low.
The door to the studio creaked open, and Hoseok’s head popped in, his grin widening at the sight of them—Sin with Ara curled against his chest, Jin’s fingers still lingering on Sin’s wrist. “Wow,” Hoseok stage-whispered, tiptoeing in with exaggerated care. “Did we miss the adoption papers?” Jin flipped him off lazily, but Sin’s ears turned pink, his grip on Ara tightening just a fraction.
Hoseok plopped onto the couch beside them, peering at Ara’s sleeping face. “Cute,” he murmured, then smirked. “Almost as cute as you two playing house.” Jin kicked his shin, but Hoseok just laughed, dodging easily. Sin ducked his head, his white hair falling into his eyes—a habit Jin knew meant he was flustered. Before Jin could retaliate, Ara stirred, her tiny nose scrunching as she smacked her lips sleepily. Sin’s breath caught, his entire body tensing as if he could will her back to sleep through sheer desperation.
Hoseok, ever the chaos agent, leaned in. “Hey, baby,” he cooed, poking Ara’s socked foot. “Uncle Hobi’s here—” Sin’s glare could’ve melted steel, but it was too late. Ara’s eyes fluttered open, blinking blearily at Hoseok before her face crumpled. “No,” Sin hissed, but Ara was already wailing, her tiny fists balling in his shirt. Hoseok winced. “Oops.”
Jin snatched a nearby plushie—a battered dinosaur from some past episode—and thrust it at Hoseok. “Fix it,” he ordered. Hoseok, to his credit, took the toy without complaint, shaking it gently in front of Ara’s face. “Look, baby, it’s Rawr-y the Dinosaur!” Ara’s cries hiccuped into confused silence, her cerulean eyes (so much like Sin’s, Jin noted absently) focusing on the toy. Then, with the fickleness of toddlers, she reached for it, her tiny fingers grasping Hoseok’s sleeve instead.
Hoseok froze, his grin wavering as Ara tugged at his sleeve with surprising strength. "Uh," he stage-whispered, eyes darting to Jin and Sin like a man facing execution. Sin exhaled through his nose, long-suffering, but it was Jin who leaned in first, plucking the dinosaur from Hoseok's grip and dangling it just out of Ara's reach. "Ah-ah," Jin chided, voice pitched low and playful. "You gotta say 'please.'" Ara blinked up at him, her tear-stained cheeks puffing out in a pout.
Sin snorted. "She's one. She can't even say 'dinosaur.'"
"She can learn," Jin insisted, but the moment Ara's lower lip wobbled, he caved, pressing the plushie into her hands. "Fine, fine. Spoiled rotten, just like someone else I know." His gaze flicked to Sin, who promptly stuck his tongue out. Ara, now happily gnawing on Rawr-y's tail, seemed entirely over her meltdown—toddler moods shifting faster than Bangtan's choreography changes.
Hoseok sagged in relief, slumping against the couch. "I thought I was gonna get murdered by a sleep-deprived Sin," he admitted, rubbing his chest dramatically. Sin rolled his eyes, but the way his fingers absently traced circles on Ara's back betrayed his lingering concern. Jin watched, something fond and exasperated curling in his chest.
The studio door creaked again, and this time Namjoon's tousled head appeared, his dimples flashing as he took in the scene—Sin cradling Ara with Jin's fingers still loosely curled around his wrist, Hoseok sprawled dramatically across the couch cushions like a man who'd narrowly escaped death. "Wow," Namjoon deadpanned, stepping inside. "Did I miss the memo where we switched to a daycare concept?"
Jin flicked a stray glitter star at him. "You're next on diaper duty." Namjoon paled, but before he could retreat, Ara let out a delighted squeal at the sight of him, her tiny arms flailing. Sin's grip tightened instinctively, but the moment Ara's face crumpled again—this time with the unmistakable prelude to tears—Namjoon sighed, stepping forward with the resignation of a man walking to the gallows. "Give her here," he muttered, arms outstretched.
Sin hesitated, his cerulean eyes darting to Jin, who shrugged. "He's the leader. Probably good at crisis management."
Namjoon shot him a withering look, but the moment Ara was transferred into his arms, his entire demeanor shifted—his broad hands impossibly gentle as he adjusted her against his chest. "Hey, little one," he murmured, voice dropping to that soothing timbre he reserved for nervous fans and skittish puppies. Ara blinked up at him, her tears momentarily forgotten, and Jin smirked. "Look at that. Natural talent."
MIN YOONGI
The kid was screaming again. Yoongi sighed, rubbing his temple as the high-pitched wails bounced off the walls of the practice room. "We should've just left him with Jin-hyung," he muttered, but the way his fingers twitched toward the toddler’s direction betrayed him.
Sin was already crouched in front of the child, murmuring soft, nonsensical words, his cerulean eyes wide with concern. "Shh, it's okay," he whispered, brushing a gentle thumb over the toddler’s tear-streaked cheek. The kid hiccuped, fists clenched around the hem of Sin’s oversized sweater.
Yoongi watched, arms crossed. He hadn’t signed up for babysitting duty—especially not when they were supposed to be rehearsing—but Sin had a way of pulling him into things without meaning to. Like now, with the way his pink lips curved into a helpless smile when the toddler finally quieted, clinging to Sin like a koala.
"You’re good at this," Yoongi admitted gruffly, stepping closer. Sin blinked up at him, startled, then flushed prettily under the compliment. "N-No, I just… he’s scared. It’s not his fault."
The toddler’s sniffles had finally subsided into quiet, hiccuping breaths, his tiny fingers still tangled in Sin’s sweater. Yoongi hovered awkwardly, arms crossed, but his gaze kept flickering to Sin’s delicate hands as they brushed the child’s hair back with a tenderness that made something in his chest tighten.
"Hyung," Sin murmured, shifting the drowsy toddler in his lap, "could you—?" He didn’t even finish the sentence before Yoongi was kneeling beside them, gruffly adjusting the kid’s slipping sock with more care than he’d ever admit.
"Practice is ruined," Yoongi muttered, but there was no bite to it. Sin’s answering smile was sunshine-bright, and Yoongi had to look away before his own traitorous lips mirrored it.
The kid—now half-asleep—reached out blindly, grabbing Yoongi’s sleeve. "Ah," Sin whispered, delighted, "he likes you."
Yoongi’s breath hitched when Sin leaned into him, their shoulders brushing as the toddler dozed against Sin’s chest. The practice room was too warm, or maybe it was just the way Sin’s cerulean eyes flickered up at him, half-lidded and trusting. "He’s heavy," Sin whispered, but his arms tightened around the kid like he’d sooner collapse than let go.
Yoongi scoffed, reaching out before he could second-guess himself. "Give him here." His hands grazed Sin’s waist as he lifted the toddler, and the way Sin’s breath stuttered wasn’t lost on him. The kid stirred, tiny fingers curling into Yoongi’s shirt, and for a stupid, fleeting second, Yoongi imagined this was theirs—some domestic daydream he’d never admit to.
Sin’s laugh was soft, honey-sweet. "Look at you," he teased, tucking a loose strand of white hair behind his ear. "Big bad Min Yoongi, melted by a baby."
"Shut up," Yoongi muttered, but his thumb was already tracing the toddler’s cheek, gentler than he’d ever be with words. The kid sighed, nuzzling into his hold, and Sin’s gaze burned against his skin.
The door creaked open just as Yoongi adjusted the toddler’s weight in his arms, and Sin’s breath hitched beside him. Jungkook’s head popped in, eyebrows shooting up at the sight of Yoongi cradling the sleeping child like some sort of reluctant but doting uncle. “Hyung,” Jungkook stage-whispered, grinning, “since when did you—”
“Out,” Yoongi hissed, but the kid in his arms stirred, tiny fingers tightening in his shirt. Sin pressed closer, his warmth seeping into Yoongi’s side as he reached out to smooth the toddler’s rumpled hair. Jungkook’s smirk widened, but he mercifully backed out, pulling the door shut with an exaggerated wink.
Sin exhaled, shoulders relaxing, and Yoongi couldn’t help the way his gaze dropped to the curve of his pink lips. “He’s going to tell everyone,” Sin murmured, but there was no real worry in his voice—just a soft amusement that made Yoongi’s chest ache.
“Let him,” Yoongi muttered, shifting the kid higher. The toddler’s cheek smushed against his collarbone, drool soaking into his shirt, and normally he’d grimace—but Sin was looking at him like he’d hung the moon, cerulean eyes glimmering.
The toddler’s drool had officially become a permanent part of Yoongi’s shirt. He should’ve been disgusted—would’ve been, if it were anyone else’s kid—but Sin’s fingers kept brushing against his wrist as they adjusted the sleeping child between them, and somehow, that was worse. More distracting.
"He’s drooling on your Givenchy," Sin whispered, lips twitching.
"Ruined," Yoongi deadpanned, but his thumb was still tracing absent circles on the kid’s back, slow and rhythmic. Sin watched the motion, lashes fluttering, and Yoongi could’ve sworn he leaned closer—or maybe that was just the way the afternoon light slanted through the blinds, softening everything, even the sharp edges Yoongi liked to keep.
The kid sighed in his sleep, tiny fists clutching at Yoongi’s collar, and Sin’s breath hitched. "You’re—" He stopped, biting his pink lip like the words were too much. Yoongi knew the feeling.
The kid’s sock slipped off again—tiny toes curling against the cold studio floor—and Yoongi caught himself adjusting it for the third time in ten minutes. Sin’s quiet laugh ghosted over his shoulder, warm and knowing, as Yoongi scowled down at the toddler’s foot like it had personally offended him. “Quit wiggling,” he grumbled, but the kid just giggled, kicking his legs until Sin’s slender fingers caught his ankle, stilling him with a whispered, “Be good for Yoongi-hyung, hm?”
Yoongi’s stomach did something stupid. Sin’s voice had dipped into that tone—soft, coaxing, the same one he used when Yoongi was three cups of coffee deep and needed to be pried away from his laptop at 3AM. The toddler blinked up at them with big, drowsy eyes, then promptly shoved his entire fist into his mouth. “Gross,” Yoongi muttered, but Sin was already reaching for the kid’s wrist, gently tugging it free. “You’ll make yourself sick,” he murmured, thumb brushing drool from the toddler’s chin. The kid cooed, leaning into Sin’s touch like a sunflower tilting toward light.
Yoongi watched, throat tight. Sin’s hands were always like this—careful, deliberate, whether he was buttoning Yoongi’s coat in the winter or tucking stray hair behind the toddler’s ear now. It was unbearable. Worse was the way the kid instinctively reached for Sin whenever Yoongi held him, tiny fingers patting at Sin’s jaw until he leaned in close enough to nuzzle. Like they were—
“You’re staring,” Sin whispered, pink dusting his cheeks as he glanced up through his lashes. The kid between them yawned, slumping against Yoongi’s chest, and Sin’s smile softened. “He’s comfortable with you.”
Yoongi had never been good with kids. Too loud, too sticky, too much. But this one—this drooling, sock-losing menace—was curled against his chest like he belonged there, and Yoongi’s hands had apparently forgotten how to let go. Sin’s knee pressed against his thigh, warm and steady, as the toddler’s breath evened out into sleep. “You’re a natural,” Sin murmured, his voice honey-slow, fingers brushing the kid’s sock back into place with a tenderness that made Yoongi’s ribs ache.
The studio door creaked again—this time with Namjoon’s hesitant peek, his dimples appearing the second he took in the scene: Yoongi, stiff-shouldered but cradling the kid like glass, Sin’s fingers lingering on Yoongi’s wrist like a secret. “Ah,” Namjoon breathed, grinning, “so this is where the childcare committee’s hiding.” Yoongi scowled, but the kid in his arms stirred, nuzzling deeper into his hoodie, and his grip instinctively tightened. Sin’s laugh was a quiet thing, tucked against Yoongi’s shoulder. “We’ve been exposed,” he whispered, mock-serious, but his pinky hooked around Yoongi’s, fleeting and warm.
Namjoon crouched beside them, reaching out to smooth the toddler’s wild hair. “He’s out cold,” he observed, amused. The kid sighed, tiny fingers flexing against Yoongi’s shirt, and Sin’s breath hitched—like he’d memorized the way Yoongi’s hands looked holding something fragile. Namjoon noticed. Of course he did. “You two,” he started, then paused, shaking his head with a smile too knowing. “Never mind. Just—keep him out of Jungkook’s ramen this time.”
Sin’s cheeks flushed as Namjoon retreated, leaving the three of them in the golden-hour glow of the studio. The kid’s sock slipped—again—and Yoongi grumbled, shifting him higher to fix it. Sin’s fingers intercepted his, their hands brushing under the pretense of helping. “Let me,” Sin murmured, but he didn’t pull away, their knuckles knocking together as they fumbled with the tiny fabric. Yoongi’s pulse thudded in his throat. Stupid. It was just a sock.
The toddler’s sock slipped off for the fourth time in fifteen minutes—a tiny rebellion against the laws of physics—and Yoongi exhaled through his nose, fingers twitching. “This kid,” he muttered, but Sin was already reaching down, his cerulean eyes crinkling at the corners as his pinky brushed Yoongi’s wrist. “Let me,” Sin murmured, but his hands lingered, warm and deliberate, as he tugged the sock back over tiny toes. The toddler giggled, kicking his legs, and Sin’s laughter spilled like sunlight between them, bright enough to make Yoongi’s ribs ache.
Yoongi adjusted the kid in his lap—heavier now, drowsy with post-tantrum exhaustion—and Sin leaned into him, his white hair tickling Yoongi’s jaw. “He likes you,” Sin whispered again, as if it were a secret, as if Yoongi hadn’t noticed the way the toddler had latched onto him like a barnacle. The kid’s fingers curled into Yoongi’s hoodie, his cheek smushed against Yoongi’s chest, and Sin’s gaze flickered up, half-lidded and soft. Something in Yoongi’s stomach twisted.
The studio was too quiet, the only sounds the toddler’s slow breaths and the distant hum of the building’s AC. Sin’s knee pressed against Yoongi’s thigh, steady and warm, and Yoongi found himself cataloging the way Sin’s lashes cast shadows on his cheeks—how his beauty mark disappeared when he smiled. “You’re staring,” Sin murmured, but he didn’t look away, his pink lips curving into something shy and knowing.
The kid stirred, mumbling nonsense into Yoongi’s shirt, and Sin’s fingers brushed the toddler’s hair back, his touch feather-light. “He’s dreaming,” Sin observed, his voice honey-slow. Yoongi hummed, his thumb tracing absent circles on the kid’s back. It was stupid, how natural this felt—Sin tucked against his side, the weight of the child in his arms, the way their hands kept finding each other under the pretense of adjusting blankets or socks.
Yoongi’s fingers twitched against the toddler’s back, the rhythm of his breathing syncing with the slow rise and fall of the kid’s chest. Sin’s warmth pressed into his side was a distraction—a pleasant one, the kind that made his pulse stutter when Sin shifted just slightly, his pinky brushing Yoongi’s thigh like an accident that wasn’t. The kid sighed in his sleep, drooling another damp spot onto Yoongi’s hoodie, and Sin’s laugh was a quiet puff of air against his shoulder. “Ruined,” Sin echoed, his voice teasing but soft, like he was savoring the word.
The studio door creaked again—this time with Jimin’s unmistakable giggle—but Yoongi didn’t look up. Jimin’s socked feet padded closer, his shadow stretching across the floor as he crouched beside them. “Wow,” Jimin stage-whispered, grinning, “Hyung, you’re—”
“Finish that sentence and die,” Yoongi muttered, but his arms tightened around the toddler anyway, his thumb rubbing slow circles over the kid’s spine. Jimin’s smirk widened, but his eyes softened when Sin leaned forward, tucking the kid’s stray hair behind his ear with a tenderness that made Yoongi’s throat tight.
Jimin’s fingers hovered over the toddler’s sock—already slipping again—but Sin intercepted him with a quiet, “I’ve got it,” his hands brushing Jimin’s away. Yoongi watched, something possessive curling in his chest as Sin’s slender fingers fixed the sock with practiced ease, his knuckles grazing Yoongi’s wrist in the process. Jimin noticed. Of course he did.
The studio door clicked shut behind Jimin, leaving them in a silence that felt too heavy, too warm—like sunlight pooling between them, sticky-sweet and impossible to ignore. Yoongi exhaled, slow, his fingers flexing against the toddler’s back where Sin’s hand had just been. The kid was a dead weight now, drool soaking through Yoongi’s hoodie, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when Sin was looking at him like that—like Yoongi had handed him the moon instead of a half-asleep toddler with a penchant for losing socks.
“Hyung,” Sin murmured, shifting closer until their knees knocked together. His pinky brushed Yoongi’s thigh, tentative, and Yoongi’s breath hitched. The kid between them sighed, nuzzling deeper into Yoongi’s chest, tiny fingers fisting in his shirt like he knew—like he knew—Yoongi wouldn’t dare move. Sin’s smile was a quiet thing, tucked into the corner of his lips. “You’re good with him,” he whispered, and Yoongi wanted to scoff, wanted to deflect, but Sin’s thumb was tracing the toddler’s ankle, slow and deliberate, and the words died in his throat.
JUNG HOSEOK
The dance studio smelled like sweat and lemon-scented floor cleaner—a familiar combination Hoseok usually found comforting. Today, though, his eyes kept drifting to the doorway, waiting. When Sin finally appeared, breathless and clutching a stuffed rabbit in one hand, Hoseok's grin broke wide open before he could stop it.
"Sorry," Sin mumbled, cheeks pink. "The little one wouldn’t let go of Mr. Flops." He held up the battered toy sheepishly, and Hoseok reached out without thinking, brushing his fingers against Sin’s wrist just to feel the warmth there.
"You’re fine," Hoseok said, softer than he meant to. Behind Sin, the child from Episode 13—Soomin, her name was Soomin—peeked out with wide eyes, gripping the hem of Sin’s oversized sweater. "Hey, princess," Hoseok added, crouching down. "Ready to learn some moves?"
Soomin blinked, then hid her face against Sin’s leg. Sin laughed, gentle, crouching beside her. "She’s shy," he murmured, and Hoseok watched the way his white hair fell into his eyes, the beauty mark under the left one catching the light.
Hoseok's fingers lingered against Sin's wrist a second longer than necessary, the warmth of his skin seeping into his own. Soomin peeked up at him again, her tiny fingers still tangled in Sin's sweater, and Hoseok felt something in his chest tighten—not in a bad way, but like the first sip of hot chocolate on a winter day. "Okay," he said, clapping his hands together softly. "No pressure, yeah? We'll just… see what happens."
Sin nodded, his cerulean eyes flickering with something unreadable before he gently pried Soomin's fingers free and crouched beside her. "Watch this," he whispered, and then—with a sudden, exaggerated wobble—he tipped sideways, landing on the floor with a soft thump. Soomin gasped, then giggled, high-pitched and startled. Hoseok's breath caught. Sin's laughter was quiet, honey-sweet, and when he rolled onto his back, his white hair splayed out like a halo against the polished wood.
Hoseok couldn't help it—he dropped to the ground beside them, close enough that his shoulder brushed Sin's. "You're cheating," he murmured, grinning. "Using cuteness as a weapon." Sin's cheeks pinked, but he didn't pull away.
Soomin, emboldened, crawled over Sin's legs and plopped herself onto Hoseok's lap with all the grace of a baby deer. Hoseok froze for a split second—kids weren't exactly his forte—but then Sin's hand settled lightly on his knee, steadying him. "See?" Sin said to Soomin, voice warm. "Hobi's not scary."
Soomin's tiny fingers pressed into Hoseok's thighs like curious starfish, her weight warm and unfamiliar against him. He swallowed hard, acutely aware of Sin's hand still resting on his knee—steady, reassuring. "Hobi's not scary," Sin had said, and Hoseok wanted to believe it. He glanced down at Soomin, who was now staring up at him with the unblinking intensity only a child could muster. "Uh," he managed, voice cracking slightly. "You wanna—um. Dance?"
Sin snorted softly beside him, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Hoseok shot him a look—traitor—but the effect was ruined by the way his own lips twitched. Soomin tilted her head, then, without warning, clambered up Hoseok's chest like a determined kitten, her socked feet slipping against his hoodie. "Whoa—!" Hoseok instinctively wrapped an arm around her back, holding her steady as she perched triumphantly on his shoulders, her giggles ringing bright above him.
Sin's laughter spilled out then, unrestrained, his head tipping back against the mirrored wall. The studio lights caught the curve of his throat, the beauty mark under his eye, the way his pink lips parted around his joy. Hoseok's breath hitched. "You're good at this," Sin murmured, wiping at his eyes. His voice was fond, teasing, but underneath it ran something softer—something that made Hoseok's chest ache.
Soomin tugged at Hoseok's hair, her tiny fists insistent. "Up!" she demanded. "Up, up!" Hoseok groaned playfully, shifting her weight carefully. "Yah, you're gonna give me a complex," he muttered, but his hands were gentle as he lowered her back to the floor. Sin watched them, his expression unreadable for a moment before he pushed himself up, offering a hand to Hoseok.
Hoseok’s fingers curled around Sin’s offered hand, warmth blooming where their palms met—a quiet electricity that had become as familiar as his own heartbeat. He let Sin pull him up, their bodies swaying closer for a breathless second before Hoseok stepped back, clearing his throat. Soomin, oblivious to the tension, immediately latched onto Sin’s leg again, her tiny fingers gripping the fabric of his sweatpants.
"You’re heavy," Sin teased her, poking her nose. Soomin squealed, hiding her face against his thigh, and Hoseok watched, helplessly endeared, as Sin scooped her up with effortless grace, settling her on his hip. The sight of Sin—his white hair tousled, his cerulean eyes crinkled at the corners—holding a child like it was the most natural thing in the world sent a pang through Hoseok’s chest.
"Show-off," Hoseok muttered, bumping his shoulder against Sin’s. Sin grinned, unrepentant, and adjusted Soomin’s weight with practiced ease. "Jealous?" he whispered, close enough that his breath tickled Hoseok’s ear. Hoseok’s pulse stuttered.
Before he could retort, Soomin reached out suddenly, patting Hoseok’s cheek with her sticky little hand. "Hobi," she declared, solemn as a judge. Sin burst into laughter, his forehead dropping against Hoseok’s shoulder. "See?" he said, voice muffled. "She’s got you figured out."
Hoseok's pulse thrummed in his throat as Sin leaned into him, the warmth of his laughter still vibrating against Hoseok's shoulder. Soomin, now perched on Sin's hip, smacked a sticky palm against Hoseok's cheek again with toddler insistence. "Hobi," she repeated, as if testing the weight of his name on her tongue. Sin's cerulean eyes flicked up to meet Hoseok's—bright with amusement, but something quieter, heavier lingered beneath.
"Guess you're stuck with us," Sin murmured, shifting Soomin's weight. The child immediately buried her face in the crook of Sin's neck, her tiny fists clutching at the collar of his oversized sweater. Hoseok's fingers twitched at his sides. He wanted—stupidly, desperately—to reach out and brush the stray strands of white hair stuck to Sin's sweat-damp temple.
Instead, he clapped his hands together, the sound echoing sharply in the studio. "Alright, tiny dictator," he declared, bending slightly to meet Soomin's wary gaze. "Let's see if you've got rhythm." He wiggled his fingers at her, and to his surprise, she giggled, squirming in Sin's arms until he set her down.
Sin crouched beside her, his knees popping audibly. "Watch this," he whispered conspiratorially to Soomin before rolling his shoulders in an exaggerated shimmy. The movement was ridiculous, his limbs loose and uncoordinated—nothing like the precision Hoseok had seen in his solo dances—but Soomin's eyes widened like he'd performed magic.
Hoseok snorted, kicking off his shoes to join them barefoot on the polished wood. "That's not dancing, that's a seizure." He demonstrated with a quick pop-lock, his body snapping into clean lines before dissolving into fluid motion.
Sin stuck his tongue out. "She likes mine better."
Soomin proved him right immediately, wobbling to her feet and attempting to mimic Sin's ridiculous wiggle. Her socked feet slid sideways, and Hoseok lunged forward just as Sin did—their hands colliding mid-air above Soomin's shoulders, fingers tangling. Hoseok's breath caught at the sudden contact, Sin's palm warm and slightly damp against his own.
Hoseok's fingers tightened instinctively around Sin's, their palms pressed together above Soomin's bobbing head. The child giggled, oblivious, her tiny hands flailing as she attempted Sin's ridiculous shoulder shimmy again. Sin's thumb brushed Hoseok's knuckle—barely there, accidental maybe—but Hoseok's stomach swooped like he'd missed a step on the stairs.
"See?" Sin murmured, his voice low and warm. He didn't pull his hand away. "She's a natural." Soomin beamed up at them, her cheeks flushed pink with effort, and Hoseok felt something unravel in his chest.
"Only because she's copying you," Hoseok muttered, but his grip on Sin's hand softened, his thumb tracing the delicate ridge of Sin's wristbone. Sin's breath hitched—just a quick, quiet stutter—and Hoseok caught the way his eyelashes fluttered, the cerulean of his eyes darkening beneath the studio lights.
Soomin, impatient with their stillness, grabbed Hoseok's free hand and yanked. Hard. "Dance!" she demanded, and Hoseok stumbled forward, laughing, his shoulder knocking against Sin's. The three of them swayed together, off-balance and breathless, and for a dizzying second Hoseok thought—this is it, this is everything—before Soomin lost her footing entirely and toppled sideways into Sin's chest.
Hoseok caught Soomin just before her forehead could collide with Sin's chin, his palm cradling the back of her head as she tumbled into them. The impact sent all three of them sprawling onto the dance floor in a tangle of limbs—Sin's white hair fanning across Hoseok's collarbone, Soomin's delighted squeal muffled against Hoseok's ribcage. Hoseok's pulse hammered where Sin's knee pressed against his thigh, their bodies aligned in accidental intimacy.
"You okay?" Sin breathed, his lips brushing Hoseok's ear as he shifted to check on Soomin. The child wriggled between them, her socked feet kicking Hoseok's hip as she righted herself, completely unfazed. Hoseok swallowed hard, his hand still resting on the nape of Sin's neck where he'd reached to steady him.
Soomin clambered onto Hoseok's chest like he was a jungle gym, her tiny hands framing his face with startling seriousness. "Hobi," she announced, then turned to Sin with the gravity of a scientist presenting findings. "Sin." Sin's laughter was a warm puff against Hoseok's jaw.
"Genius observation," Hoseok deadpanned, but his fingers curled tighter in Sin's sweater when Soomin suddenly lunged forward to press their foreheads together. Her nose squished against his, her breath smelling faintly of banana. Hoseok froze.
Soomin's sticky fingers pressed against Hoseok's cheeks, her forehead still pressed to his, her breath warm and banana-sweet. He blinked up at her—this tiny, fearless creature who had bulldozed her way into his space—and felt something in his chest crack open. Behind her, Sin was laughing, the sound muffled against Hoseok's shoulder where he'd collapsed half on top of him.
"Yah," Hoseok muttered, but there was no heat in it. Soomin giggled, her tiny nose scrunching, and then—without warning—she twisted in his arms and flung herself at Sin, knocking him flat onto his back again. Sin let out a soft oof, his arms wrapping around her automatically, his cerulean eyes wide with startled affection. Hoseok propped himself up on one elbow, watching them. Sin's white hair was a mess against the polished wood, his sweater riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of pale skin above his waistband. Hoseok's throat went dry.
"You're both menaces," Hoseok said, reaching out to poke Soomin's side. She shrieked, squirming in Sin's hold, and Sin's laughter spilled out again—bright, unguarded. His pink lips parted around the sound, his beauty mark catching the light as he tipped his head back. Hoseok wanted to kiss him.
Hoseok exhaled sharply through his nose, watching Sin roll onto his side—Soomin still clinging to his torso like a koala—with the effortless grace of someone who’d spent half his life avoiding paparazzi. The studio lights haloed the messy crown of Sin’s white hair, casting shadows that made his cerulean eyes glint like shattered glass when he glanced up at Hoseok. "Help," Sin mouthed dramatically, but his hands were gentle as they smoothed over Soomin’s tangled curls. Hoseok’s chest ached.
"You dug this grave," Hoseok muttered, crawling closer. His knee bumped Sin’s thigh, sending a jolt up his spine. Soomin, sensing movement, immediately twisted toward him with grabby hands. "No—" Hoseok protested half-heartedly, but she was already clambering over Sin’s ribs to flop onto Hoseok’s lap, her socked feet kicking Sin’s stomach in the process.
Sin wheezed. "Tiny terrorist," he gasped, curling onto his side. Hoseok bit his lip to keep from laughing—or maybe to keep from leaning down and pressing his mouth to the beauty mark beneath Sin’s eye. Soomin, now settled cross-legged on Hoseok’s thighs, patted his cheeks with both hands. "Hobi," she announced, as if introducing him to an invisible audience.
Sin propped himself up on one elbow, his sweater slipping off his shoulder. "She’s obsessed with you," he murmured, and Hoseok caught the way his pink lips curved around the words—fond, teasing, possessive. The realization sent heat crawling up Hoseok’s neck.
PARK JIMIN
The air smelled like melted crayons and strawberry milk. Jimin crouched low, hands on his knees, watching as Sin carefully balanced a bright blue block atop the wobbling tower between them. The child—cheeks still sticky from the candy Jin had given them earlier—clapped with delight when the tower didn’t topple.
Sin’s fingers hovered protectively near the blocks, his pink lips parted in concentration. His cerulean eyes flickered up to Jimin’s, and the moment their gazes met, Sin ducked his head, hiding a shy smile behind his sleeve. Jimin grinned, nudging Sin’s shoulder lightly with his own. “You’re better at this than me,” he teased, voice warm.
The child, oblivious to the quiet current between them, grabbed another block and thrust it toward Sin. “Again!” she demanded, tiny fists clutching the wooden piece like a treasure. Sin took it with exaggerated solemnity, nodding as if accepting a sacred mission. Jimin bit back a laugh, watching the way Sin’s white hair flopped into his eyes as he leaned forward to place the block.
A sudden crash echoed from the kitchen—followed by Jin’s dramatic yelp and Hoseok’s cackling. Sin startled, nearly knocking the tower over, but Jimin’s hand shot out instinctively, steadying both the blocks and Sin’s wrist. His fingers lingered just a second too long before he pulled away, pretending to adjust his sleeve. Sin’s ears turned pink.
The tower wobbled dangerously again, but Sin's slender fingers darted out—pressing gently against the leaning structure—steadying it with the same effortless grace he seemed to carry everywhere. Jimin watched, elbow propped on his knee, chin resting in his palm. He wasn't even pretending to help anymore; Sin had this under control, and honestly, Jimin was content just watching the way Sin's eyebrows furrowed slightly, the way his pink tongue peeked out between his lips when he concentrated.
The child—now thoroughly sticky from both candy and the juice box Hoseok had smuggled in—giggled when Sin added another block, this one shaped like a tiny red star. "Higher!" she demanded, bouncing on her knees. Sin glanced at Jimin, a silent plea for backup in his cerulean eyes, but Jimin just grinned and shrugged. "You're the architect here," he murmured, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of Sin's white hair behind his ear, letting his fingers linger just a heartbeat too long. Sin's breath hitched, but the child, blissfully unaware, shoved another block into Sin's hands.
From the kitchen, another crash—this time accompanied by Jungkook's loud, startled curse—sent the tower tumbling. The child gasped, but before she could burst into tears, Jimin swooped in, scooping her up and spinning her in a quick circle. "Disaster!" he declared dramatically, laughing when she squealed, tiny hands gripping his shoulders. Sin watched them, eyes soft, and for a moment, Jimin forgot about the blocks, the noise, everything—just the warmth of the child in his arms and the way Sin looked at him like he'd hung the stars himself.
Then Taehyung barreled into the room, a mixing bowl clutched in his hands, batter splattered across his shirt. "We need reinforcements," he announced gravely, "Jin-hyung's attempting pancakes." Sin stood immediately—always eager to help—but Jimin caught his wrist, tugging him back down. "Let them burn a few," he whispered, grinning when Sin's cheeks flushed. The child, now perched on Jimin's hip, reached out and patted Sin's face with her sticky fingers. "Pretty," she declared solemnly. Sin blinked, then ducked his head, but Jimin saw the smile tugging at his lips.
The pancake batter smelled like burning sugar and regret. Jimin pressed his forehead against Sin’s shoulder, muffling his laughter as another plume of smoke drifted from the kitchen. Sin’s fingers curled instinctively around Jimin’s wrist—his grip warm, grounding—as the child in Jimin’s arms reached out, tiny fingers splayed toward the disaster unfolding beyond the doorway. “Boom?” she whispered, wide-eyed, and Sin’s breath hitched with suppressed amusement.
“Not yet,” Jimin murmured, lips brushing Sin’s ear just to feel him shiver. He shifted the child higher on his hip, letting her nestle against his chest. Her sticky fingers found the collar of his shirt, clinging like a koala, and Sin’s gaze softened—that look he reserved only for moments like this, when the world narrowed to the three of them. Jimin knew that look. Knew the way Sin’s lashes fluttered when he tried to hide how much it unraveled him.
The child yawned, nuzzling into Jimin’s neck, her breath warm against his skin. Sin reached out, tucking a stray curl behind her ear with the same reverence he’d given the tower of blocks earlier. His thumb brushed her cheek—just once—and Jimin’s chest tightened. This, he thought. This is what love looks like. Not grand gestures, but Sin’s quiet hands, steady and sure.
“She’s falling asleep,” Sin whispered, voice low enough that only Jimin could hear. His cerulean eyes flickered up, meeting Jimin’s, and there it was again—that unspoken us, threaded through every glance. Jimin hummed, swaying slightly, rocking the child as her grip slackened. Sin stepped closer, his shoulder pressing into Jimin’s, their bodies slotting together like they were made to fit.
The child's weight grew heavier against Jimin's chest, her breaths evening out into the slow rhythm of sleep. Sin's fingers hovered near her back, as if afraid to disturb her, but Jimin caught his wrist and guided it gently to rest against the curve of her tiny shoulder. "She won't break," he murmured, lips quirking when Sin's eyes widened. "You're allowed to hold her, you know." Sin hesitated, then let his palm settle—light as a fallen leaf—against the child's spine. Jimin watched the way his throat moved when he swallowed, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks in the late afternoon light filtering through the curtains.
From the kitchen, the clatter of pans and Jungkook's hushed swearing faded into background noise. Jimin shifted slightly, adjusting his grip on the sleeping child, and Sin moved with him—always mirroring, always there. The child sighed, nuzzling deeper into Jimin's collarbone, and Sin's breath caught. "She trusts you," he whispered, voice thick with something unnameable. Jimin's heart clenched. He knew what Sin meant—knew the weight of that trust, how precious it was.
Jimin leaned in, close enough that his nose brushed Sin's temple. "She trusts us," he corrected softly, and felt Sin shiver against him. The child's fingers twitched in her sleep, her tiny fist curling into Jimin's shirt like an anchor. Sin's hand slid from her back to Jimin's waist, tentative at first, then firm—claiming his place in this fragile, perfect moment.
The kitchen door creaked open, and Jin's flour-dusted face peered out. "Are we—" he began, then froze at the sight of them. His eyes softened. "Ah," he mouthed, retreating silently and pulling the door shut with exaggerated care. Jimin bit back a laugh, pressing his forehead to Sin's shoulder again. The child stirred slightly, murmuring nonsense into his skin, and Sin's thumb traced idle circles against Jimin's hipbone—a silent conversation.
Jimin’s fingers traced idle patterns on the child’s back as she slept, her weight warm and solid against his chest. Sin’s breath was steady beside him, his presence like a quiet counterpoint to the chaos still faintly audible from the kitchen. The child sighed, her tiny fingers flexing against Jimin’s collarbone, and Sin’s hand tightened imperceptibly on his waist—I’m here, it said. We’re here together. Jimin tilted his head, pressing a kiss to Sin’s temple, just because he could.
The child stirred, her nose scrunching adorably, and Sin’s free hand lifted instinctively, hovering near her face as if to catch her dreams if they fell. Jimin watched the way Sin’s eyelashes fluttered—how his lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but didn’t trust his voice. Jimin knew that look. Knew the way Sin’s heart wore its tenderness on the outside, fragile and brave all at once. “She’s dreaming,” Jimin murmured, shifting her weight slightly. Sin’s fingers brushed her cheek, feather-light, and the child sighed again, her lips curling into the faintest smile.
Jimin couldn’t help it—he leaned in, kissing Sin properly this time, slow and sweet, their lips meeting in the space between the child’s sleep-soft breaths and the distant clatter of pans. Sin made a quiet, helpless noise against his mouth, his fingers tightening in Jimin’s shirt. When they pulled apart, Sin’s cheeks were pink, his cerulean eyes wide and shining. “You’re—” he started, then stopped, biting his lip. Jimin grinned, nudging their noses together. “I’m what?” he teased, voice low. Sin huffed, but his thumb stroked Jimin’s hipbone in answer.
The child chose that moment to yawn, her face pressing into Jimin’s neck, her warm breath tickling his skin. Sin’s gaze softened, his attention shifting entirely to her—the way he looked at her, like she was something precious and irreplaceable, made Jimin’s chest ache. “We should put her down,” Sin whispered, his voice barely audible. Jimin hummed in agreement, but neither of them moved. The moment felt too fragile, too theirs, to break just yet.
The child's sock slipped off as Jimin adjusted her in his arms, her tiny toes curling against his forearm. Sin reached out instinctively, catching the stray sock before it hit the floor, his fingers brushing Jimin’s skin in the process—a fleeting touch that sent warmth prickling up Jimin’s spine. Sin’s cheeks flushed as he carefully rolled the sock back onto the child’s foot, his movements deliberate, like he was handling something infinitely precious. Jimin watched, transfixed, as Sin’s white hair fell into his eyes, the late afternoon light catching the strands like spun sugar.
"You’re good at this," Jimin murmured, shifting the child higher on his hip. She sighed in her sleep, her sticky fingers loosening their grip on his collar. Sin ducked his head, but not before Jimin caught the way his lips curved—shy, pleased. "It’s not hard," Sin whispered back, his voice barely audible over the distant sizzle of something burning in the kitchen. Jimin grinned, leaning in until their shoulders pressed together. "Liar," he breathed into Sin’s ear, delighting in the way Sin shivered. "You’re just naturally good with her. Admit it."
Sin’s protest died on his lips when the child stirred, her face scrunching adorably before settling again, her breath evening out against Jimin’s neck. Sin’s gaze softened, his hand lifting to hover near her back, uncertain. Jimin nudged him with his elbow. "Go on," he encouraged, nodding toward the child. "She won’t wake up." Sin hesitated, then let his palm settle between her shoulder blades, his touch so light it was barely there. Jimin watched the way Sin’s throat moved as he swallowed, the way his cerulean eyes flickered with something unreadable. "See?" Jimin whispered, shifting closer until their sides were flush. "Natural."
From the kitchen, a sudden clatter—followed by Jin’s dramatic groan—made them both jump. The child whimpered, her tiny fists clenching, and Sin’s hand moved instantly, smoothing down her back in slow, soothing circles. Jimin held his breath, watching as the child relaxed again, her face nuzzling into the curve of his shoulder. Sin’s fingers stilled, but he didn’t pull away—his palm remained, warm and steady, a silent promise. I’ve got you, that touch said. Both of you.
The kitchen door cracked open again—just wide enough for Hoseok to peek through, his hair dusted with what looked like powdered sugar. His eyes darted from the sleeping child to Jimin’s arm wrapped protectively around her, to Sin’s hand still resting on her back. Hoseok’s grin softened into something unbearably fond. “Yah,” he mouthed, pointing exaggeratedly at his own eyes and then at them, as if to say I see you. Jimin rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at his lips. Sin, however, went rigid, his fingers twitching against the child’s spine like he’d been caught stealing stars.
KIM TAEHYUNG
The child’s laughter bubbled up like a sudden spring, bright and uncontainable, as Taehyung pretended to trip over his own feet, landing with exaggerated clumsiness on the plush carpet. Sin clutched the little girl’s hand, his cerulean eyes crinkling at the edges as he watched Taehyung roll onto his back, arms flopping outward like a starfish. “Again!” the child demanded, bouncing on her toes, her tiny fingers tightening around Sin’s.
Taehyung groaned playfully, stretching his limbs as if weighed down by invisible anchors. “Ah, Sin-ah, help me,” he whined, turning his head to blink up at his lover with exaggerated helplessness. Sin bit his lip to stifle a giggle, the beauty mark under his eye catching the warm afternoon light. Without a word, he leaned down—slowly, deliberately—and pressed a featherlight kiss to Taehyung’s forehead before pulling back, cheeks dusted pink. The little girl gasped, delighted, and promptly threw herself onto Taehyung’s chest.
The chaos that followed was predictable: Taehyung sat up with the child clinging to him like a koala, her giggles muffled against his shoulder, while Sin hovered close, hands fluttering as if unsure whether to intervene or join in. His shyness melted a little when Taehyung grinned at him, nodding toward the pile of art supplies abandoned on the coffee table. “Sin-ah, didn’t you promise her a drawing?” Taehyung prompted, nudging the child gently. Her head snapped up, eyes wide and pleading.
Sin hesitated—always so careful, so tender—before sinking onto the floor beside them, pulling a sketchbook into his lap. The child wriggled free from Taehyung’s hold to peer over Sin’s arm, her breath hitching as his pencil began to glide across the paper. Taehyung watched them both, chin propped on his palm, his smile softening. Sin’s fingers moved with quiet precision, sketching the curve of the child’s cheek, the wild flyaways of her hair, the way her entire being seemed to vibrate with joy.
The child's sticky fingers left smudges on the edge of Sin's sketchbook as she leaned in closer, her breath hot and excited against his ear. "Draw me a dragon!" she demanded, then reconsidered instantly, "No! A unicorn! No—" Taehyung interrupted with a snort, plucking a blue crayon from the scattered pile and rolling it between his fingers. "Why not both?" he suggested, wiggling his eyebrows at Sin, who blinked up at him with those wide cerulean eyes before a slow, understanding smile curled his pink lips.
Sin's pencil hesitated only for a second before transforming the child's round face in the sketch into something whimsical—her nose elongating into a tiny horn, her wild hair morphing into a mane that sparkled with invisible glitter. Taehyung watched, fascinated, as Sin's shyness evaporated line by line, replaced by the quiet confidence of an artist lost in creation. The child squealed when she saw it, clapping her hands so hard the crayons rattled, and Taehyung couldn't resist ruffling Sin's messy white hair, his fingers lingering just a heartbeat too long.
"Now me!" Taehyung announced, flopping onto his stomach beside Sin and propping his chin on his hands, batting his eyelashes exaggeratedly. The child giggled, kicking her feet against the carpet, and Sin's pencil faltered—not from uncertainty, but from the way Taehyung's gaze pinned him, warm and knowing. "Make me handsome," Taehyung added with a wink, and Sin huffed a laugh, the sound so soft it was nearly swallowed by the child's noisy enthusiasm.
The sketch that emerged was nothing like Taehyung expected—not a caricature or a fantasy, but Taehyung himself, rendered in tender, aching detail: the way his sweater slipped off one shoulder, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the lazy curl of his fingers against his cheek. It was so intimate that Taehyung's breath caught, and the child, oblivious, snatched the sketchbook to inspect it with a critical hum. "Needs more glitter," she declared solemnly, and Sin's laughter this time was bright, unfiltered, bouncing off the walls like sunlight.
The child—now christened "Princess Glitterbeast" by Taehyung after her insistence on bedazzling every inch of Sin’s sketch—had conked out midway through her crusade to stick sequins on Taehyung’s sleeves. She lay sprawled across Sin’s lap, one sticky hand still clutching a half-crushed tube of glue, her breath slow and even. Sin hadn’t moved an inch, frozen in place like a statue, his fingers hovering above her back as if afraid she might dissolve if he touched her. Taehyung watched, amused, from where he was sprawled on his stomach, chin propped on his arms. “You know she won’t break, right?” he whispered, reaching out to poke Sin’s knee.
Sin’s eyelashes fluttered—nervous, always so nervous—but his hand finally settled gently on the child’s shoulder, his thumb tracing the seam of her tiny unicorn-print shirt. “She’s so small,” he murmured, and Taehyung’s chest did something complicated at the way Sin said it, like it was a marvel, like he’d never seen anything so fragile in his life.
Taehyung rolled onto his side, careful not to jostle the makeshift nest of throw pillows they’d assembled, and stretched out a leg to nudge Sin’s ankle with his toes. “You’re small too,” he pointed out, grinning when Sin’s nose scrunched in protest. The child shifted in her sleep, smacking her lips, and Sin immediately froze again, wide-eyed, until her breathing evened out. Taehyung bit back a laugh. “Relax,” he mouthed, crawling closer until he could press his forehead against Sin’s shoulder. “You’re good at this.”
Sin’s exhale was shaky, but his fingers curled tighter around the child’s shoulder, protective. “What if I’m not?” he whispered back, so quiet Taehyung almost missed it.
Taehyung shifted until his body was curled around Sin’s side, his breath warm against Sin’s neck. “Look at her,” he murmured, nodding toward the child’s slack mouth, the way her tiny fingers twitched in sleep. “She trusts you completely. That’s how you know you’re doing it right.” Sin’s throat moved as he swallowed, his gaze flickering down to the child’s face, then back to Taehyung—unsure, always so unsure. Taehyung bumped their noses together, grinning. “And if you mess up, I’ll be here. We’ll mess up together.”
A muffled snore erupted from the child, startling Sin so badly he nearly toppled backward. Taehyung caught him by the elbow, laughing silently, his shoulders shaking. Sin’s flustered glare only made it worse—Taehyung buried his face in Sin’s shoulder to smother his giggles, his fingers tangling in the fabric of Sin’s sweater. The child, undisturbed, flopped an arm over Sin’s thigh like a sleepy octopus claiming its territory.
Sin’s hand hovered uncertainly above her head before he finally let his fingers sink into her wild hair, brushing it back from her forehead with infinite care. Taehyung watched, his laughter fading into something softer, something aching. Sin touched her like she was something precious, like he was afraid his hands might be too rough, too clumsy. Taehyung knew that feeling. He’d seen it in the mirror enough times.
“sin-ah,” Taehyung whispered, nudging Sin’s knee again. “Tell me what you’re thinking.” Sin’s fingers stilled in the child’s hair, his lips parting—then closing, then parting again. Taehyung waited, patient, tracing idle circles on Sin’s elbow until the words tumbled out, soft and hesitant.
“What if she wakes up and—and doesn’t like me anymore?” Sin’s voice was so small it cracked. Taehyung’s chest ached. He’d seen that look before—Sin’s cerulean eyes wide with fear, his pink lips bitten raw. It was the same look he’d worn the first time Taehyung kissed him, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Taehyung hooked his chin over Sin’s shoulder, pressing his lips to the beauty mark beneath Sin’s eye. “Impossible,” he murmured. “She’s already decided you’re her favorite. Look.”
The child—Princess Glitterbeast, as Taehyung had dubbed her—had somehow managed to wriggle closer in her sleep, her sticky fingers now fisted in Sin’s sweater. A trail of dried glue glimmered on her cheek, and Sin’s thumb hovered over it, uncertain. “She’ll be mad if we wipe it off,” Taehyung warned, grinning. “That’s her war paint.”
Sin huffed a laugh, but his fingers trembled as he tucked a stray curl behind the child’s ear. Taehyung watched, his own breath catching—Sin was always like this, so careful with everything he touched, like the world might shatter if he held it too tightly. Taehyung wanted to kiss that look off his face. Instead, he plucked a stray sequin from Sin’s sleeve and stuck it to the tip of his own nose. “See? Now we match.”
The child stirred in Sin’s lap, her nose scrunching as she let out a tiny, disgruntled whine—like a disheveled kitten protesting a nap. Sin’s breath hitched, his fingers freezing mid-stroke through her hair, as if his stillness alone could lull her back to sleep. Taehyung, still draped over Sin’s shoulder like a human blanket, muffled a snort against the fabric of his sweater. “She’s like a wind-up toy,” he whispered, his lips brushing Sin’s earlobe. “Just wait.” Sure enough, the child’s eyelids fluttered open, her pupils blown wide with sleep, and she blinked up at Sin with the solemn gravity of a judge about to deliver a verdict.
“…You’re still here,” she announced, her voice raspy with sleep, and Sin’s shoulders slumped in visible relief—as if he’d expected her to wake up screaming. Taehyung bit his lip to keep from laughing. The child, now fully awake, squirmed upright, her tiny hands braced on Sin’s thighs as she assessed him with alarming intensity. Then, without warning, she lunged forward, wrapping her arms around Sin’s neck with enough force to nearly topple him backward. “I dreamed you turned into a marshmallow,” she informed him, her words muffled against his collarbone.
Sin’s hands hovered uncertainly over her back before he finally hugged her back, his touch featherlight. “Did I taste good?” he asked, deadpan, and Taehyung choked on nothing, his shoulders shaking. The child pulled back, her brow furrowed in thought. “Dunno. I was a dragon.” She nodded decisively, as if this explained everything, then scrambled off Sin’s lap to inspect the carnage of glitter and crayons strewn across the carpet. Taehyung took advantage of the sudden space to curl closer to Sin, his nose bumping against the beauty mark under Sin’s eye. “See?” he murmured. “Still likes you.”
Sin exhaled shakily, his fingers tangling with Taehyung’s under the cover of the child’s distraction. “She’s… unpredictable,” he admitted, and Taehyung grinned, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “So are you,” he countered, just as the child whirled around, brandishing a half-melted purple crayon like a sword. “Draw me riding the dragon!” she commanded, thrusting the crayon at Sin with the authority of a monarch. Sin blinked, then accepted it with the solemnity of a knight receiving a sacred quest. Taehyung watched, utterly smitten, as Sin’s tongue peeked out between his lips in concentration, his fingers moving swiftly across a fresh page.
The child’s crayon snapped in half under the force of her enthusiasm, and Sin flinched like he’d personally failed her. Taehyung, sprawled across the carpet with his chin propped on one hand, snatched up the broken pieces before Sin could spiral. “Perfect,” he declared, rolling onto his back and holding the crayon halves aloft like a victorious gladiator. “Now we have two swords for the dragon battle.” The child gasped, scrambling over Sin’s legs to claim her new weapon, her earlier command forgotten in the face of Taehyung’s chaos.
Sin watched, wide-eyed, as Taehyung let the child clamber onto his chest, brandishing her crayon swords with a battle cry that sounded suspiciously like Jimin’s high notes. “Defend the castle!” she shrieked, whacking Taehyung’s shoulder with a purple streak. Taehyung groaned like a dying knight, clutching his chest dramatically. “Sin-ah—save me—” he gasped, reaching one trembling hand toward his lover. Sin hesitated, his sketchbook forgotten in his lap, then tentatively picked up a pink crayon. “I—I don’t know how to fight dragons,” he admitted, but the child whirled on him, her eyes blazing. “You’re the princess!” she informed him, as if this were obvious.
Taehyung’s resulting cackle was cut short when the child planted a knee in his stomach. Sin’s cheeks flushed pink, but he set his jaw with unexpected determination, gripping the crayon like a scepter. “Then I’ll—I’ll use my magic,” he stammered, swiping the pink crayon in a shaky arc toward Taehyung’s forehead. The child nodded approvingly. “Now you’re cursed,” she announced. Taehyung went limp instantly, tongue lolling out. Sin’s lips twitched—then curled into a real smile, bright and sudden, like the sun breaking through clouds.
JEON JUNGKOOK
"Wait, no—that's not how you hold him!" Jungkook laughed, lunging forward just as Sin nearly fumbled the wriggling toddler in his arms. The baby giggled, oblivious to the near-disaster, tiny fingers clutching at Sin's messy white hair like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
Sin's cheeks flushed pink, his cerulean eyes widening in panic. "I—I thought I had him!" he stammered, adjusting his grip awkwardly while the child—a cheerful little boy named Minho, borrowed from the show's crew for the day—let out a delighted squeal. Jungkook reached out, steadying Sin's hands with his own, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. "Like this," he murmured, guiding Sin's arms into a more secure cradle. "You've got to support his head, yeah?"
Sin nodded, swallowing hard. He was usually so graceful—delicate, almost doll-like—but babies? Babies were an entirely different challenge. Meanwhile, Jungkook looked effortlessly natural, bouncing Minho on his hip like he’d been doing it his whole life. The contrast made Sin’s stomach flutter in a way that had nothing to do with nerves.
Across the room, Jin and Namjoon were busy debating whether to order fried chicken or sushi for lunch, their voices rising in playful bickering. Taehyung had already given up on them and was crouched by the toy chest, digging out a stuffed dinosaur to distract Minho if things got too chaotic. Jimin, ever the mediator, was filming the whole thing on his phone, grinning behind the camera.
"Hyung," Sin whispered, leaning into Jungkook's shoulder as Minho finally settled against his chest, his tiny fists curled into the fabric of Sin's oversized sweater. The warmth of Jungkook's breath brushed against Sin's temple—close, too close for anyone else to notice, but just enough to send a shiver down his spine. "I think he likes you more," Sin added with a pout, watching as Minho cooed up at Jungkook with adoring eyes.
Jungkook chuckled, his fingers tracing idle circles on Sin's lower back where the cameras couldn't see. "Nah, he's just impressed by your hair. Kid's got taste." He grinned when Sin huffed, but the way Minho immediately reached for Jungkook's fingers, tiny and trusting, betrayed the truth. Sin wasn't jealous, not really—just endlessly endeared by how effortlessly Jungkook fit into moments like this.
The moment shattered when Minho suddenly lurched forward, his chubby hands grabbing for Jungkook's nose with surprising accuracy. Jungkook yelped, feigning exaggerated pain as he pried the toddler's fingers away. "Yah, you little menace!" he gasped, but his scolding was ruined by the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. Sin couldn't help but laugh, the sound bright and startled, and Jungkook's gaze flicked to him like he'd been waiting for it.
A crash from the kitchen startled them both—Jin's triumphant crowing about "winning" the lunch debate echoed down the hall, followed by Namjoon's long-suffering sigh. Minho's head whipped toward the noise, his tiny body tensing like he might wriggle free to investigate. Sin panicked, arms tightening instinctively, but Jungkook was already there, his hands sliding over Sin's to steady the squirming bundle between them. "Easy," he murmured, and Sin wasn't sure if he was talking to Minho or to him.
The chaos in the kitchen escalated—pans clattering, Jin’s victorious laughter ringing over Namjoon’s muttered protests—but Jungkook’s attention never wavered from Sin’s flustered expression. Minho, now thoroughly distracted by the commotion, squirmed harder, his little feet kicking against Sin’s ribs. “Hyung,” Sin breathed, panic edging his voice as the toddler arched backward, his grip on Jungkook’s nose forgotten in favor of whatever mischief Jin was causing. Jungkook reacted before Sin could stumble, one arm sliding around Sin’s waist to anchor him while the other scooped Minho effortlessly into his own hold. “Switch,” he said, simple and firm, and just like that, the weight in Sin’s arms vanished, replaced by the warmth of Jungkook’s hand pressing against the small of his back.
Minho, now perched on Jungkook’s hip, blinked up at him with wide, curious eyes. “You,” Jungkook informed the child solemnly, tapping his tiny nose, “are a hazard.” Minho responded by grabbing Jungkook’s finger and attempting to shove it into his own mouth. Sin giggled, the sound muffled behind his hand, and Jungkook shot him a look that was equal parts fond and exasperated. “This is your fault,” he accused, though the way his thumb brushed against Sin’s side betrayed his tone. “Your hair’s too shiny. Distracting.”
Before Sin could retort, Minho let out a sudden, determined grunt and lunged—not for Jungkook’s hair this time, but for the loose neckline of Sin’s sweater. Tiny fingers caught fabric, yanking hard enough to reveal a sliver of pale collarbone. Sin yelped, scrambling to adjust his collar while Jungkook snorted, shifting Minho higher to prevent further wardrobe sabotage. “Yah,” Jungkook scolded, bouncing the boy lightly. “No stripping people.” His gaze, though, lingered on the patch of exposed skin a heartbeat too long, and Sin’s flush deepened.
Across the room, Taehyung finally abandoned the toy chest, waving the stuffed dinosaur like a victory flag. “Hyung,” he called, sidling up to them, “you’re supposed to be the responsible ones.” He plucked Minho from Jungkook’s arms with practiced ease, earning a betrayed squawk from the toddler. “Watch and learn,” Taehyung declared, hoisting Minho onto his shoulders. The boy’s squeals of delight drowned out Jungkook’s indignant “Hey!” while Sin bit his lip to keep from laughing.
Minho’s giggles filled the room as Taehyung spun him around, the toddler clinging to his dark curls like reins. Sin watched, still catching his breath from the near-disaster moments earlier, when Jungkook’s fingers brushed his wrist—light, deliberate. "Hyung," Jungkook murmured under the chaos, "you good?" His thumb traced the delicate bones of Sin’s wrist, grounding him. Sin nodded, but the way Jungkook’s eyes lingered told him he wasn’t fooling anyone.
The cameras caught it all, of course—the way Sin’s eyelashes fluttered when Jungkook leaned in to whisper something only he could hear, the way Jungkook’s grin softened when Sin laughed. The crew had long since stopped pretending this was just another variety show bit. Even Minho seemed to sense it, pausing mid-spin to blink at them with the uncanny focus of a child who’d just uncovered a secret. "Koo," he announced, pointing at Jungkook with one sticky finger, then at Sin. "Sin." Then, with the gravity of a judge delivering a verdict, he clapped his hands together.
Jungkook choked on air. Sin’s face burned.
Taehyung, bless him, pretended not to notice. "Ah, our genius baby," he cooed, bouncing Minho higher. "Naming your favorite hyungs, huh?" But the smirk he shot them over Minho’s head was anything but innocent. Jungkook retaliated by snatching the stuffed dinosaur from Taehyung’s grip and lobbing it at his shoulder.
The stuffed dinosaur bounced harmlessly off Taehyung's shoulder, but Minho took it as an invitation to declare war. With a shriek of delight, he wriggled free of Taehyung's grip and launched himself toward Jungkook, tiny hands outstretched like a miniature supervillain. Jungkook barely had time to brace himself before twenty pounds of toddler collided with his thighs, small fingers immediately tangling in the ripped knees of his jeans. "Yah—!" Jungkook yelped, but it was half-laugh, his hands automatically coming up to steady Minho's wobbly stance. Sin barely suppressed a giggle behind his palm, watching as Jungkook—usually so composed during performances—floundered under the assault of sticky fingers and incoherent babbling.
Minho, victorious, patted Jungkook's cheek with one damp hand before twisting to peer up at Sin with sudden solemnity. "Sin," he announced again, then pointed imperiously at the floor. Jungkook blinked. "Uh. Think he's ordering you to sit," he muttered, just as Minho's other hand fisted in Sin's sweater, tugging with surprising strength. Sin yelped, knees buckling, and suddenly he was on the floor with Jungkook, their shoulders pressed together while Minho clambered happily into Sin's lap like he'd orchestrated the whole thing.
Jungkook's hand found Sin's knee under the cover of Minho's squirming, his thumb rubbing idle circles that made Sin's breath hitch. The cameras were still rolling, but Jungkook's touch was hidden beneath the toddler's flailing limbs—intimate in a way that felt stolen. Sin ducked his head, letting his messy white hair curtain his burning cheeks as Minho babbled nonsense and patted his face with both hands.
"Think he's trying to tell you something," Jungkook murmured, leaning in so close his breath tickled Sin's ear. His free hand reached out to gently untangle Minho's fingers from Sin's hair, but the toddler immediately latched onto Jungkook's wrist instead, gnawing on his bracelet like a teething toy. Jungkook didn't even flinch. "Yah, that's not food," he chided softly, prying his jewelry free with practiced ease—like he'd done this a hundred times before. The thought sent an unexpected pang through Sin's chest. Jungkook would be good at this. Really good.
Minho's tiny fingers were sticky with whatever snack Taehyung had sneak-fed him earlier, and now they were smearing across Sin's sweater in enthusiastic pats. Jungkook watched, lips twitching, as Sin bit his lip—not in frustration, but in that painfully endearing way he did when he was trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all. The sweater was probably ruined, but Sin didn’t seem to care, his cerulean eyes soft as he let Minho poke at his beauty mark like it was a button.
"Hyung," Jungkook murmured, nudging Sin’s knee with his own. "You're letting him win."
Sin blinked up at him, pink lips parting in mock offense. "He's nineteen months old, Jungkook-ah. There’s no winning."
Jungkook grinned, reaching over to pluck Minho’s wandering hand from where it was attempting to stuff a fistful of Sin’s hair into his mouth. "Nah, you’re just soft," he teased, but his fingers lingered where they brushed Sin’s wrist, warmth seeping through skin like sunlight.
Minho's sticky fingers found Sin's beauty mark again, pressing insistently like he expected it to chime or light up. Sin winced slightly but didn't pull away, letting the toddler explore with the solemn focus only babies could muster. Jungkook watched them—Sin's patient smile, the way his long lashes cast shadows on his cheeks whenever he blinked—and felt something warm and heavy settle in his chest. He reached over without thinking, brushing a smear of what might've been banana from Sin's jawline. Sin startled, cerulean eyes flicking to him, and Jungkook realized too late that his thumb had lingered.
Minho chose that moment to faceplant into Sin's chest with a dramatic sigh, his tiny body going boneless. "Uh-oh," Jungkook muttered, eyeing the way Sin froze like a statue, arms hovering awkwardly around the suddenly limp child. "Think we broke him."
Sin's panicked whisper was barely audible. "Is—is he supposed to do that?"
Jungkook bit back a laugh at the sheer terror in Sin's expression. "Yeah, hyung. Kids are like phones. They just… shut down sometimes." He demonstrated by scooping Minho up, expertly cradling him against his shoulder. The toddler nuzzled into Jungkook's neck instantly, sighing like he'd found home.
Jungkook’s shoulder was warm where Minho’s cheek pressed against it, the toddler’s breaths evening out into the slow rhythm of a nap. Sin watched, transfixed, as Jungkook swayed slightly on his knees—a subconscious rocking motion that made his biceps flex under his rolled-up sleeves. There was something unbearably tender about it, the way Jungkook’s free hand came up to cradle the back of Minho’s head without being asked, his fingers splayed protectively over the baby’s soft hair. Sin’s chest ached.
“He’s out,” Jungkook whispered, tilting his head to peer at Minho’s slack face. A strand of his own dark hair fell across his forehead, and Sin fought the absurd urge to tuck it behind his ear. “Told you he’d crash after all that sugar Taehyung fed him.” His voice was low, threaded with amusement, but his eyes—when they met Sin’s—were soft in a way that had nothing to do with the sleeping child between them.
"Hyung," Jungkook whispered, leaning over the bed with his brows furrowed. The morning light slanted through the half-open curtains, painting stripes across Yoongi’s face and the mess of white hair pressed against his shoulder. "Why is he—"
Yoongi cracked one eye open, then immediately squeezed it shut again, like even that much movement was too much for whatever hour of the morning this was. "Because he’s Sin," he muttered, voice rough with sleep. As if that explained everything.
And honestly, it kind of did. Sin clung to Yoongi like a koala—limbs wrapped tight, face smushed against his collarbone, breath warm and even. The pine-shaped earring Yoongi had given him yesterday caught the light, dangling precariously close to Yoongi’s chin. Jungkook reached out, hesitated, then flicked it gently.
Sin didn’t stir.
Jungkook hovered at the edge of the bed, torn between waking them and letting them sleep. The early morning light painted everything in soft gold—Sin's white hair looked almost translucent where it fanned across Yoongi's chest, and the elder's usual sharp features had softened into something disarmingly peaceful. Sin’s fingers were curled loosely into Yoongi’s shirt, as if even in sleep, he needed the reassurance of touch.
A floorboard creaked behind him, and Jungkook whipped around to see Hoseok leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Admiring the view?" he teased, voice hushed. Jungkook rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it. There was something unnervingly intimate about the scene, like stumbling upon a secret he wasn’t meant to see.
Yoongi shifted suddenly, a low grumble escaping him as Sin unconsciously nuzzled closer. The movement sent the pine earring swaying, and Jungkook caught himself staring at it again—the way it caught the light, the way it suited Sin perfectly. Like it had been made for him.
Hoseok padded into the room with the quiet grace of someone who’d spent years sneaking into dorm rooms past curfew. He nudged Jungkook’s shoulder with his own, nodding toward the tangled pair on the bed. “Cute, right?” he murmured, lips quirking. “Like a kitten and a grumpy old man.”
Jungkook huffed a laugh, but his chest tightened inexplicably. He’d seen Sin curled up with all of them at some point—clinging to Jimin during movie nights, dozing against Taehyung’s shoulder on the couch—but there was something different about the way he latched onto Yoongi. Something that made Jungkook’s fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and—what? Adjust the blanket? Brush Sin’s hair back? He wasn’t sure.
A sudden rustle of fabric made them both freeze. Yoongi’s eyes fluttered open, bleary and unfocused, before landing on them. His expression cycled through confusion, irritation, and resignation in the span of a second. “…Why are you hovering,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep. Sin made a soft noise against his collarbone, and Yoongi’s arm tightened around him instinctively, like he was shielding him from the morning itself.
Hoseok grinned, unrepentant, and plopped down on the edge of the bed with all the subtlety of a firecracker. "We were just checking if you were alive," he stage-whispered, reaching over to poke Sin's cheek. "Or maybe abducted. You two looked like a scene from Snow White and the Grumpy Dwarf."
Sin stirred at the touch, eyelashes fluttering before he blinked up at Hoseok with the dazed confusion of someone who hadn’t quite remembered how mornings worked yet. His cerulean eyes were sleep-soft, unfocused, and he let out a tiny, disoriented noise that made Jungkook’s chest do something inconveniently fond.
Yoongi groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Get out," he grumbled, but there was no heat in it—just the resigned tolerance of a man who had long since accepted that his personal space was public domain. Sin, blissfully oblivious, tucked his head back against Yoongi’s shoulder with a contented sigh, fingers curling tighter into his shirt like he was claiming territory.
Jungkook couldn’t help it—he snorted. "Hyung, you’re basically a human teddy bear now."
Yoongi’s glare could have melted steel, but Jungkook only grinned wider, unrepentant, as Sin shifted against him with another sleepy murmur. The elder sighed, long-suffering, and—in a move that surprised even Hoseok—lifted a hand to gently card through Sin’s messy white strands. “You’re all nightmares,” he muttered, but his fingers were careful, almost tender, as they smoothed down a particularly stubborn cowlick near Sin’s temple.
Hoseok’s smirk softened into something unbearably fond. “Look at you,” he cooed, leaning in to pinch Yoongi’s cheek. “All soft and paternal.”
Yoongi swatted at him halfheartedly, but Sin chose that moment to stir properly, blinking up at them with those wide, gem-bright eyes. “…Hobi-hyung?” His voice was raspy with sleep, the syllables clumsy, and Jungkook felt something in his ribcage twinge at the sight. Sin rubbed his cheek against Yoongi’s shoulder like a cat, then froze—as if suddenly realizing he’d been caught in flagrante delicto. “Oh. Did I—?”
“Yes,” Yoongi deadpanned, but his arm stayed firmly around Sin’s waist. “You stole my personal space. Again.”
Sin blinked up at Yoongi, his cheeks flushing pink as he slowly extracted himself from the elder's grip. "S-sorry," he mumbled, voice still thick with sleep, fingers fidgeting with the hem of Yoongi's shirt like he wasn't quite ready to let go entirely. The pine earring swung with the movement, catching the light in a way that made Jungkook's gaze linger again.
Hoseok laughed, reaching over to ruffle Sin's already disastrous bedhead. "Don't apologize," he said, grinning. "Yoongi-hyung secretly loves it. Look at him—he’s basically a glorified body pillow at this point."
Yoongi scowled, but the effect was ruined by the way his hand still hovered near Sin’s back, as if ready to catch him if he tipped over. "I hate all of you," he grumbled, but the way his fingers twitched toward Sin’s sleeve betrayed him.
The steam from the shower curled around Sin’s bare shoulders as he toweled off his hair, droplets clinging to his eyelashes like tiny diamonds. He’d grabbed Yoongi’s shirt without thinking—again—the fabric swallowing his slight frame, the sleeves pooling over his wrists. The scent of pine and something faintly metallic clung to it, unmistakably Yoongi, and Sin pressed his nose into the collar for a half-second before catching himself. He tugged on the black sweatpants next, the waistband loose enough that he had to knot the drawstring twice to keep them from sliding down his hips.
Jin’s room smelled like garlic butter and coffee when Sin padded in, his bare feet silent against the hardwood. The table was already crowded—Taehyung half-sprawled across Jimin’s lap, Jungkook stealing bacon from Hoseok’s plate with the audacity of a man who knew he’d get away with it. Yoongi sat at the far end, nursing a cup of coffee like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to earth, his eyes flicking up as Sin hovered in the doorway.
“You’re wearing my clothes,” Yoongi said flatly, though the way his fingers tightened around his mug betrayed the lack of real irritation. Sin blinked down at himself, then back up at Yoongi with the wide-eyed innocence of a thief who’d been caught red-handed but hoped charm might save him.
“…They’re comfy,” Sin offered weakly, fingers plucking at the oversized sleeve.
Sin’s fingers trembled slightly as he reached for a piece of toast, the oversized sleeve of Yoongi’s shirt sliding down his wrist again. He’d rolled it up twice already, but the fabric stubbornly refused to stay put, like it was determined to remind everyone at the table exactly whose clothes he was swimming in. The scent of coffee and sizzling bacon filled Jin’s room, mingling with the faint, lingering traces of Yoongi’s cologne that clung to Sin’s borrowed shirt.
Across the table, Jungkook watched as Sin struggled to butter his toast without dragging the sleeve through the jam, his lips quirking into an amused smirk. “You look like a kid playing dress-up,” he teased, reaching over to flip the sleeve back for him. Sin’s cheeks pinked, but he didn’t protest, just mumbled a quiet “thanks” before nibbling at the corner of the toast.
Yoongi, who had been silently sipping his coffee like a man plotting murder, finally spoke up. “If you’re gonna keep stealing my clothes, at least fold the sleeves properly,” he grumbled, though the effect was ruined by the way his eyes flicked to Sin’s exposed collarbone—where the shirt gaped just enough to reveal a sliver of pale skin—before he pointedly looked away.
The toast crumbled between Sin’s fingers as Jimin suddenly leaned across the table, his grin mischievous. "Hyung’s just mad because you look better in his clothes than he does," he sing-songed, dodging the napkin Yoongi threw at his face with practiced ease. Sin’s eyes widened, his gaze darting between them like a startled rabbit, but the tension dissolved when Hoseok cackled, nearly knocking over his juice.
"True," Hoseok agreed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sin could wear a potato sack and make it look like haute couture." He reached over to poke Sin’s cheek, laughing when Sin instinctively leaned into the touch, his cerulean eyes blinking slowly, still hazy with sleep. "Meanwhile, Yoongi-hyung—"
Yoongi’s glare could have curdled milk. "Finish that sentence and I’m throwing you out the window."
Jungkook, mouth full of bacon, snorted. "He’s not wrong though."
Sin ducked his head to hide his smile in another bite of toast, but the tips of his ears burned pink—visible even beneath the fall of his messy white hair. The sleeve of Yoongi’s shirt slipped again, dragging through the butter dish this time, and Taehyung burst into laughter so sudden that Jimin nearly choked on his coffee. "Look at him," Taehyung wheezed, clutching Jimin’s shoulder for balance. "Like a baby deer wearing a wedding dress."
"Yah," Yoongi snapped, but it was too late—Sin had already frozen mid-chew, eyes wide and mortified, a crumb clinging to his bottom lip. Jungkook reached over without thinking, thumb brushing it away before he caught himself and pulled back, clearing his throat. The silence that followed was deafening, punctuated only by Hoseok’s poorly suppressed giggle.
Sin swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around the toast. "I—I can change," he stammered, already half-rising from his chair, but Yoongi’s hand shot out, catching his wrist before he could bolt. The elder’s grip was firm, his fingers warm against Sin’s pulse point, but his voice was surprisingly calm when he spoke. "Sit down," he muttered, nudging Sin back into his seat with a sigh. "You’ll just steal another one later."
Jimin wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, mouthing stolen clothes kink to Hoseok, who dissolved into another fit of laughter—right until Yoongi flicked a sugar packet at his forehead with lethal precision. "Ow," Hoseok whined, rubbing the spot dramatically. "Domestic violence."
The moment breakfast dissolved into chaos—Jimin tipping Taehyung’s juice into his own lap with a squawk, Yoongi threatening to strangle Hoseok with his own shoelaces—Sin slipped away unnoticed, fingers worrying the too-long cuff of Yoongi’s sleeve as he padded down the hallway. The hotel carpet muffled his footsteps, but the creak of a door opening behind him made him freeze mid-step.
"Going somewhere?" Namjoon’s voice was warm, laced with amusement, as he fell into step beside Sin. His hands were tucked into the pockets of his oversized hoodie, the hem riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin when he moved. Sin’s gaze flickered to it—a habit he couldn’t seem to break—before darting away, cheeks heating.
"Just—" Sin gestured vaguely toward their shared room, the pine earring swinging with the motion. "Forgot something."
Namjoon hummed, nodding like this was the most fascinating confession he’d ever heard. "Ah, the elusive something," he teased, bumping Sin’s shoulder lightly. "Must be important if you’re fleeing the breakfast warzone for it."
The hotel room door swung open with a soft click, revealing a figure perched on the edge of Sin’s unmade bed—legs crossed, phone in hand, a too-bright smile stretching across her face the moment she spotted him. "Oppa!" she chirped, scrambling to her feet so fast the polaroid photos scattered across the comforter fluttered like startled birds. Sin’s breath hitched; he recognized the photos instantly—him asleep on the tour bus, him laughing with Jungkook in the hotel lobby, him leaning against Yoongi’s shoulder in the elevator. All moments that had never been meant for her.
Namjoon’s hand landed firmly between Sin’s shoulder blades before he could stagger back, warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of Yoongi’s borrowed shirt. "Whoa," Namjoon murmured, stepping forward just enough to angle himself slightly in front of Sin—casual, protective. His voice stayed light, though. "This is… new."
The girl—no older than Sin himself, her nails painted the same cerulean as his eyes—clutched her phone tighter, her gaze flicking between them. "I’m Mina," she announced, as if that explained everything. The lanyard around her neck swung when she moved, the laminated pass inside clearly fake, the hotel logo pixelated at the edges. "Sin’s wife."
Sin’s fingers twitched toward his earring on reflex, the pine shape sharp against his fingertips. "I—" His voice cracked. He’d heard of sasaengs, of course, but never like this—never in his room, never with his stolen moments spread out like some kind of shrine. "You can’t be here."
Mina’s smile didn’t waver. She tapped her phone screen, and Sin’s own voice spilled out—recorded from god knows where, probably the hallway yesterday when he’d been laughing with Taehyung about pancake art. "You see?" she said brightly. "We’re perfect for each other."
Namjoon exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. "Okay," he said, easy as if discussing the weather, but his grip on Sin’s elbow tightened just enough to anchor him. "Here’s the thing—hotel security’s gonna be real interested in how you got in here. And the police? They love trespassing charges."
Mina blinked, her bravado faltering for the first time. "But I—"
"Also," Namjoon continued, gently herding Sin backward toward the door without breaking eye contact with her, "stealing photos? That’s a lawsuit. Publishing them? Bigger lawsuit." He paused, then added, almost kindly, "You don’t want that, do you?"
Sin’s pulse hammered against his ribs, the pine earring digging into his palm where he’d clenched his fist around it. The scent of Yoongi’s shirt—pine and sleep-warm cotton—flooded his senses when he inhaled sharply, grounding him.
Mina’s expression twisted, desperation cracking through her performative cheer. "You don’t understand," she insisted, scrambling forward, but Namjoon shifted fluidly, blocking her path. "Sin-oppa, we’re—"
"No." Sin’s voice surprised even himself—clear and firm, no trace of a stammer. The word hung between them like a guillotine blade.
Something shattered behind Mina’s eyes. She lunged—not toward Sin, but for the scattered polaroids—but Namjoon was faster, snagging her wrist mid-reach. "Ah-ah," he chided, gentle but immovable. "Evidence."
Her breath hitched. "Please," she whispered. "
The silence stretched taut between them, Mina's wrist trembling in Namjoon's grasp, her fingers still twitching toward the stolen polaroids. Sin felt the pine earring bite into his palm—a grounding pain, sharp enough to pull him back from the edge of panic. Namjoon's thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle against his elbow, a silent breathe.
Then the door creaked open behind them.
"Hyung," Jungkook's voice cut through the tension, sharp with alarm. His eyes flicked from Mina to the scattered photos, then to Sin's ashen face. Something dark flashed across his expression before he stepped fully into the room, shoulders squaring like a shield. "Security's on their way," he said, too calm. "Manager-nim's handling it."
Mina jerked backward, her bravado crumbling. "You—you can't—" Her voice cracked, high and desperate, but Jungkook didn't flinch. He just reached past Namjoon, plucking one of the polaroids off the bed—Sin half-asleep against Yoongi's shoulder, his white hair a mess against the elder's black hoodie. Jungkook's jaw tightened. "This isn't love," he said quietly, turning the photo so Mina could see her own reflection in the glossy surface. "This is stalking."
The sound came first—a sharp gasp, Sin's voice cracking on something that wasn't quite a word. Then the scuffle: fabric tearing, Mina's shrill "I just want—", and the sickening thud of a body hitting the dresser. By the time Yoongi barreled into the room, phone still clutched in one hand from whatever frantic call Jungkook had made, Sin was pressed against the wall clutching his forearm, his borrowed sleeve already darkening with blood where Mina's nails had raked too deep. The polaroids fluttered to the floor between them like fallen leaves.
Yoongi moved before he thought—three strides, a hand on Sin's shoulder spinning him gently away from Mina, his other arm coming up to block her next lunge. She recoiled at the sight of him, her bravado fracturing into something wild and unhinged. "You ruined him!" she spat, but Yoongi wasn't listening. His thumb brushed the inside of Sin's wrist, feeling the rabbit-quick pulse there, the warm seep of blood against his fingertips.
Behind him, the doorway filled with bodies—Jin's broad shoulders blocking the exit, Hoseok's hands already reaching for Mina's flailing arms. Taehyung slipped past them all, silent as a shadow, pressing a wad of tissues into Sin's shaking fingers. The white stood out starkly against the red.
"Look at me," Yoongi murmured, ducking his head to catch Sin's downcast gaze. The boy's cerulean eyes were too bright, pupils blown wide with adrenaline, his breath coming in shallow hitches. Up close, Yoongi could see the jagged tear in his sleeve where Mina's bracelet had caught, the way his whole frame trembled like a plucked guitar string. "Breathe," he ordered, softer now, squeezing Sin's uninjured wrist in time with his own exhale.
Sin's breath stuttered, then evened out—just slightly. His fingers curled around Yoongi's sleeve, knuckles whitening, the pine earring swinging wildly where it had come loose in the scuffle.
The room erupted into overlapping voices—Hoseok herding Mina toward security with surprising gentleness, Jin murmuring into his phone with the grim efficiency of someone who'd done this too many times before. Jungkook hovered at Sin's other side, his fingers twitching like he wanted to touch but didn't dare, his gaze locked on the bloodstained tissues.
"Let me see," Yoongi said, nudging Taehyung aside to peel back the makeshift bandage. The scratches weren't deep—three angry red lines across the pale skin of Sin's forearm, beading with fresh blood where the skin had broken. Still, something hot and ugly coiled in Yoongi's chest at the sight.
Sin flinched when Yoongi pressed a fresh tissue to the wound, his breath catching. "S-sorry," he mumbled, gaze darting to the scattered polaroids still littering the floor—him asleep on the tour bus, him laughing with Hoseok in the hotel gym, him leaning against Namjoon in the elevator. All moments stolen.
Sin cried—quietly, the way someone does when they’ve been taught their tears are an inconvenience. His shoulders hunched inward, the oversized sleeve of Yoongi’s shirt slipping down to pool at his elbow, the fabric already stained pink where the blood had seeped through. He pressed the heel of his palm against his mouth, as if he could physically shove the sobs back down his throat, but his breath hitched anyway, loud in the sudden hush of the room.
Yoongi’s hands tightened around Sin’s wrists—not restraining, just there, solid and warm—as if he could physically tether him to the present. "Look at me," he repeated, quieter this time, ducking his head to catch Sin’s downcast gaze. Up close, Sin’s tears glittered like shattered glass in his lashes, his pupils blown wide with leftover adrenaline.
Jungkook hovered at their periphery, fingers flexing like he wanted to reach out but didn’t know where to put his hands. "Hyung," he started, voice uncharacteristically small, but Yoongi shook his head minutely, his thumb brushing the inside of Sin’s wrist where his pulse fluttered like a trapped bird.
"It’s okay," Yoongi murmured, though the words tasted like a lie even as he said them. None of this was okay—not the polaroids scattered across the floor, not the ragged scratches on Sin’s arm, not the way his breath kept catching like he’d forgotten how lungs worked. But Yoongi said it anyway, because someone had to, and because Sin’s fingers were trembling where they clutched his sleeve like a lifeline.
Sin’s tears caught the morning light like prisms—each droplet clinging to his lashes, refracting the gold into cerulean where they trembled before falling. His breath hitched again, damp against Yoongi’s palm where he still pressed it to his mouth, as if he could swallow the sound back down. The silence stretched too long, too fragile, until—
"Sin-ah." Jin’s voice was warm honey, steady as he knelt beside them, his broad hands carefully cupping Sin’s face. His thumbs brushed away the tears with infinite gentleness, his touch lingering just a second too long at the beauty mark beneath Sin’s left eye. "You’re safe," he murmured, as if the words alone could stitch the cracks in Sin’s composure back together. "Look at me, hm? You’re safe."
Sin blinked up at him, his lips parting around a shuddering inhale, and Jungkook’s breath caught. Even like this—cheeks flushed, lashes spiked with tears, the pine earring swinging wildly where it had come half-undone—he looked ethereal. Unreal. Like something carved from moonlight and spun sugar, too delicate for the ugly hands of the world to touch.
"Hyung’s right," Hoseok chimed in, softer than usual, his fingers threading through Sin’s messy white strands. "No one’s getting near you again." His smile was all teeth, but his touch stayed featherlight, carefully detangling the knots at the nape of Sin’s neck. "We’ll guard you like dragons hoarding treasure."
Sin’s breath hitched—half a laugh, half a sob—and Yoongi felt the vibration of it where his hands still bracketed Sin’s wrists. The elder exhaled through his nose, long and slow, before nudging Sin’s chin up with his knuckle. "Stop that," he grumbled, but his thumb brushed away a fresh tear before it could fall. "You look ridiculous."
Taehyung materialized at Sin’s other side, pressing a chilled water bottle against the back of his neck without a word. Sin gasped at the sudden cold, his cerulean eyes widening—then, miraculously, he laughed, the sound wobbly but unmistakable. "T-Tae—"
"Shh," Taehyung murmured, grinning as he tilted the bottle just enough to let a single drop trail down Sin’s spine. "Hydration is key for pretty crybabies."
Jimin, who had been hovering at the periphery like a nervous sparrow, finally darted forward to press his forehead against Sin’s shoulder. "Yah," he scolded, though his voice wobbled. "Don’t scare us like that." His fingers found Sin’s uninjured hand, squeezing tight enough to bruise. "Next time, bite her."
Sin’s breath hitched again, but this time it dissolved into something dangerously close to giggles—wet and hiccuping, but real. The sound seemed to loosen something in the room; Namjoon exhaled sharply through his nose, Jin’s shoulders slumped, and Yoongi—Yoongi finally let go of Sin’s wrists, only to slide his palm up to cradle the back of his neck instead, his thumb brushing the delicate hairline there.
"You’re okay," Yoongi muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His gaze flicked to the scratches on Sin’s arm—already clotting, thank god—then back up to his face. "You’re okay."
Sin blinked up at him, his tears slowing, lashes clumping into star points. The morning light caught the tracks on his cheeks, turning them to liquid silver, and for a surreal moment, Jungkook thought he might actually stop breathing—because how could anyone look like that? Like some celestial being caught mid-fall?
Then Sin sniffled wetly, rubbing his nose against Yoongi’s sleeve like a child, and the spell broke.
"Disgusting," Yoongi grumbled, but he didn’t pull away, just tugged Sin closer until his forehead thumped against his shoulder. The elder’s fingers lingered at the nape of Sin’s neck, thumb tracing idle circles that made Sin shiver. Across the room, Jimin mouthed soft at Hoseok, who promptly choked on his own spit trying not to laugh.
Jin clapped his hands together, the sound sharp enough to make Sin flinch. "Right!" he announced, faux-cheerful, already herding them toward the door. "Breakfast Part Two: Electric Boogaloo. And by breakfast, I mean actual food, not"—he gestured vaguely at the scattered polaroids—"whatever this horror show was."
Sin's fingers trembled around the mug of tea Jimin pressed into his hands—chamomile with too much honey, the way he liked it—but the warmth seeped into his palms slowly, grounding him. Across the hotel suite's couch, Taehyung draped himself dramatically over Sin's legs like a human weighted blanket, humming an off-key rendition of their latest title track while Jimin carded careful fingers through Sin's hair, detangling the knots with surgical precision.
"Yah," Yoongi muttered from the armchair, watching Sin's death grip on the mug. "You're gonna crack the porcelain, kid." His tone was gruff, but the way he nudged Sin's ankle with his socked foot was anything but.
Jungkook plopped down beside Sin with a bowl of strawberries, plucking the largest one and holding it up to Sin's lips with exaggerated reverence. "For the prettiest crybaby in the land," he intoned, grinning when Sin huffed but obediently took a bite. Juice dribbled down his chin—pink as his bitten lips—and Hoseok lunged forward with a napkin before Yoongi could, dabbing at Sin's face with ridiculous flourish.
The tension broke—just a little—as Sin swatted weakly at Hoseok's hands, his cheeks flushing that perfect shade of peony pink. Taehyung seized the moment, rolling onto his back across Sin's lap to poke at his stomach. "Group cuddle pile," he announced, yanking Jin down by the sleeve before the eldest could protest. Jin landed with an "oof," his elbow jabbing Jimin's ribs, and suddenly they were a tangle of limbs and laughter, Sin trapped safely at the center.
Sin's breath hitched—not from fear this time, but from the sheer warmth of six bodies pressing close, Jin's broad hand splayed between his shoulder blades, Jungkook's chin hooked over his head. Even Yoongi, who'd pretended to resist, ended up with Sin's cold feet tucked under his thighs, grumbling about "human icicles" while rubbing heat back into them.
Jimin twisted to grab his phone from the coffee table, nearly kneeing Namjoon in the process. "Group selfie," he declared, angling the camera just as Hoseok planted a sloppy kiss on Sin's temple. The flash caught Sin mid-giggle, his eyes crinkled into crescent moons, strawberry juice still glistening at the corner of his mouth.
Yoongi, who'd been scrolling through his own phone with feigned disinterest, glanced at the screen—then silently set it as his lock screen. Sin didn't notice, too busy swatting at Taehyung's fingers tickling his sides, but Jungkook did. The maknae's grin turned smug, and he mouthed soft just to watch Yoongi flip him off.
Sin's laughter turned breathless when Hoseok suddenly hoisted him onto his lap, the elder's arms banding around his waist like a safety harness. "Watch this," Hoseok whispered in his ear before tipping backward dramatically, sending them both tumbling into the nest of pillows they'd piled on the floor. Sin yelped—high and startled—but the sound dissolved into giggles when Jungkook piled on top, his nose pressing into Sin's shoulder.
"You're crushing me," Sin wheezed, though his fingers curled into Jungkook's shirt like he never wanted him to move. Taehyung, ever the opportunist, sprawled across their legs with theatrical flair, while Jimin draped himself over Sin's torso like a particularly clingy blanket.
Namjoon—who'd been observing the chaos with the air of a long-suffering parent—finally sighed and joined the fray, his weight tipping the whole pile sideways. Sin shrieked when they toppled, the sound muffled against Jin's chest where the eldest had caught him instinctively.
"Yah," Yoongi grumbled from the periphery, though he made no move to extract himself from where Taehyung had tangled their legs together. "You'll smother him to death."
Hoseok's grin was downright devilish as he wedged his fingers beneath Sin's ribs. "Nah," he chirped, digging in mercilessly. "Look—still breathing!" Sin thrashed, his laughter bordering on hysterical as he tried to squirm away, only for Jungkook to pin his wrists with terrifying ease.
"Traitors," Sin gasped between giggles, his hair fanning across Jin's thigh like spilled milk. He kicked weakly, but Taehyung caught his ankle, pressing a dramatic kiss to his bare foot that made Sin squeak. "Stop—stop—"
Jimin chose that moment to nose at Sin's temple, his breath warm against the shell of Sin's ear. "Make us," he whispered, just as Hoseok found that one spot beneath Sin's ribs that always made him convulse with laughter. Sin arched like a bowstring, his cerulean eyes squeezed shut, tears of mirth replacing the earlier ones of panic. The sound that escaped him was half-gasp, half-giggle, his borrowed shirt riding up to expose a sliver of pale stomach where Jungkook's fingers dug in mercilessly.
Jin's palm pressed flat against Sin's heaving chest, steadying him as the pile of bodies shifted—not away, but closer, until Sin could feel the drumbeat of six hearts syncing with his own rabbiting pulse. "Breathe," Jin murmured, thumb brushing the hollow of Sin's throat where his laughter had lodged. Sin gulped air obediently, his lashes fluttering open to find Yoongi watching him from the edge of the chaos, his expression unreadable. Then—just for a heartbeat—Yoongi's lips quirked. Sin's breath caught all over again.
Taehyung seized the momentary stillness to pounce, rolling atop Sin with all the grace of an overexcited golden retriever. His nose bumped Sin's cheekbone, his grin inches away. "Say it," he demanded, shaking Sin by the shoulders. "Say we're your favorite hyungs!"
"Yah," Hoseok protested, pinching Taehyung's side. "No coercion!" But his eyes sparkled with mischief as he leaned in. "Unless it works."
Sin's giggle burst free—bright and startled—as Jungkook's fingers found his ribs again. "N-no fair!" he gasped, writhing beneath them. The pine earring swung wildly, catching the lamplight. Jimin plucked it gently from the tangle of Sin's hair, holding it up like a trophy.
"Confiscated," Jimin declared, tucking it into his own pocket with a wink. "Until you admit Hoseok-hyung smells the best."
The resulting squabble—Hoseok's indignant squawk, Yoongi's deadpan "objectively false," Jin's long-suffering sigh—drowned out the last of Sin's tremors. Namjoon took advantage of the distraction to press a fresh mug into Sin's hands, this time hot chocolate piled high with whipped cream. "Drink," he ordered, gentle but firm. "Before Jungkook steals it."
Sin cradled the mug like a lifeline, the warmth seeping into his palms. The whipped cream clung to his upper lip when he took a sip, and Jungkook—ever the opportunist—darted in to lick it off. Sin yelped, nearly upending the drink, but Jin caught his wrist just in time. The eldest's chuckle vibrated through Sin's back where they were pressed together. "Maknaes," Jin sighed, as if the word explained everything.
The whipped cream incident should’ve been warning enough, really.
Sin blinked at the towering glass facade of SM City Baguio, the afternoon sun fracturing across its surface like a shattered kaleidoscope. His fingers twitched toward his left earlobe—bare now, Jimin still hadn’t returned the pine earring—just as Taehyung barreled into his back with the grace of an over-caffeinated elephant. "Shopping spree!" he hollered directly into Sin’s ear, already dragging him toward the entrance by his hoodie strings.
Jungkook lunged to intercept, catching Sin’s wrist with one hand and Taehyung’s collar with the other. "Hyung," he groaned, but Taehyung just grinned wider, pivoting to sling an arm around Sin’s shoulders instead.
"Look at this face," Taehyung announced to no one in particular, squishing Sin’s cheeks between his palms until his lips puckered. "Doesn’t he deserve nice things?"
Jin snorted, adjusting his cap lower over his eyes as a group of teenagers whispered nearby. "You just want an excuse to buy matching outfits again."
Taehyung gasped, clutching Sin tighter. "Betrayal." He turned wide, wounded eyes to Sin. "Don’t you want to twin with me?"
Sin’s lips quirked despite himself, his gaze darting to Yoongi—who was already striding ahead with his hands in his pockets, pretending he wasn’t part of this circus. Jimin snickered, bumping Sin’s hip. "Race you to the menswear section," he whispered, then bolted before Sin could process the words.
What followed was chaos incarnate: Taehyung draping a sequined bomber jacket over Sin’s shoulders with dramatic flourish ("For when you want to blind haters with your radiance"), Jungkook insisting he try on leather pants ("Hyung, look at his legs"), and Hoseok nearly crying from laughter when Sin emerged from the dressing room in head-to-toe neon athleisure.
"Yah," Yoongi grumbled from his perch on a display bench, scrolling through his phone. "We’re not buying out the whole store." But when Sin turned in a soft charcoal sweater that matched Yoongi’s usual palette, the elder’s fingers paused mid-scroll. His gaze flicked up—just once—before he muttered something about "needing coffee" and disappeared toward the food court.
Jin caught the moment, his smirk knowing as he plucked the sweater from Sin’s hands. "This one," he declared, adding it to the growing pile in Namjoon’s arms. The leader groaned under the weight, but didn’t protest—not when Sin’s cheeks pinkened under the attention, not when his cerulean eyes sparkled brighter with each new garment pressed against his frame.
By the time they hit Session Road, Sin was bundled in Taehyung’s newly purchased oversized cardigan, the sleeves swallowing his hands whole. The crisp mountain air carried the scent of pine and street food as they meandered past colonial-era buildings, their laughter echoing off the cobblestones. Jungkook kept bumping their shoulders together—subtly at first, then with increasing insistence until Sin stumbled into Hoseok.
"Yah!" Hoseok caught him easily, spinning Sin in a half-circle that sent the cardigan fluttering like wings. "You good?"
Sin’s answering nod was interrupted by Jimin shoving a steaming cup into his hands. "Bibingka," he explained, pressing close as Sin took a tentative bite. The warm rice cake melted on his tongue, coconut-sweet and butter-rich. Jimin watched him with rapt attention, his fingers brushing crumbs from Sin’s chin. "Good?"
Too good. Sin’s hum of pleasure drew all six pairs of eyes—Yoongi’s included—and suddenly they were crowding closer, each demanding a taste. Taehyung stole the cup outright, dodging Sin’s half-hearted swipe with a cackle. "Finders keepers!"
The ensuing chase—Taehyung zigzagging through startled tourists, Sin’s laughter ringing like wind chimes—ended when Namjoon plucked the treat from Taehyung’s grasp with effortless height advantage. "Leader privileges," he deadpanned, handing it back to Sin just as Yoongi materialized with a second serving.
"Eat," Yoongi grunted, pressing the fresh bibingka into Sin’s free hand. His fingers lingered a beat too long against Sin’s wrist—warm, calloused—before he retreated to the safety of Jin’s side.
Sin’s grin turned gummy. He took an exaggerated bite, moaning around the mouthful like a drama heroine. Hoseok collapsed against Jimin in mock-swoon. "Look at him," he wailed. "A menace!"
Jungkook wasn’t laughing. He watched Sin lick butter from his thumb with unsettling intensity, then abruptly shoved his own untouched bibingka into Sin’s hands. "Here," he muttered. His ears burned scarlet when Sin blinked up at him. "You—you looked hungry."
Yoongi’s scoff was drowned by Jimin’s coos. "Our Jungkookie," he singsonged, draping himself over the maknae’s shoulders. "So generous."
They spilled into a tiny ukay-ukay shop next, the air thick with cedar and mothballs. Sin’s nose wrinkled at the musty scent—until Taehyung unearthed a vintage bomber jacket, its lining embroidered with riotous sunflowers. "Perfect," he declared, whipping it around Sin’s shoulders before he could protest.
The sleeves swallowed Sin whole. He flapped them experimentally, the fabric catching air like sails. Hoseok snapped a photo just as Jimin tackled Sin into a rack of flannel shirts, their laughter muffled by falling fabric.
"Yah!" The shop owner’s voice cracked like a whip. Seven heads swiveled in unison—just in time to see Sin’s elbow connect with a porcelain figurine. It teetered, then shattered against the linoleum in slow-motion silence.
Sin froze. His breath hitched audibly.
Then—movement. Yoongi stepped forward, already pulling out his wallet, while Jin smoothly positioned himself between Sin and the scowling owner. "We’ll pay for that," Jin said, smile sharp as a scalpel.
But Taehyung was already sweeping the fragments into his palm with exaggerated solemnity. "Modern art," he declared, holding up a jagged piece. "Very avant-garde." His grin widened when Sin snorted—then immediately clapped a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking.
The owner looked apoplectic. Hoseok swooped in, pressing folded bills into their palm while Jimin herded Sin toward the exit, stage-whispering, "Crime spree successful."
Outside, Sin finally exhaled, his breath misting in the crisp Baguio air. Jungkook bumped their shoulders together. "Nice elbow technique," he deadpanned. "Very subtle."
Sin’s answering giggle dissolved into a yelp when Taehyung pounced from behind, wrapping the bomber jacket’s oversized sleeves around his throat in a mock-stranglehold. "My sunflower thief!" he wailed, shaking Sin gently. "Arrest him!"
Yoongi watched the scuffle from beneath his cap, his lips twitching when Sin flailed loose, only to trip over the jacket’s hem—directly into Namjoon’s waiting arms. The leader steadied him with one hand while confiscating the offending garment with the other. "Evidence," he intoned solemnly, though his eyes crinkled at the corners.
Sin blinked up at him, his cerulean eyes still bright with adrenaline, the cerulean sky behind him almost matching his irises. Then—slowly, deliberately—he reached for Namjoon’s cap, tugging it over his own messy white strands. "Witness protection," he whispered, as if sharing a state secret.
The resulting uproar—Hoseok’s exaggerated gasp, Jin’s muttered "bold," Jungkook’s choked laugh—drew stares from passing tourists. Yoongi finally stepped in, plucking the cap from Sin’s head with one hand while steering him toward Session Road with the other. "Menace," he grumbled, but the corner of his mouth curled when Sin ducked under his arm like a fugitive.
Sin blinked awake to the sound of rain pattering against the windowpane—gentle at first, then insistent, like fingertips drumming against glass. The hotel room was dim, lit only by the golden glow of Taehyung's phone screen as he sprawled across the foot of Sin's bed, his socked feet nudging Sin's shin.
"Morning," Taehyung sing-songed, though the digital clock on the nightstand read 3:47 AM in bold red. He rolled onto his stomach, propping his chin on Sin's knee. "Namjoon-hyung says we're leaving at dawn."
Sin's fingers tightened around the edge of the comforter, the fabric bunching under his grip. Outside, the rain intensified, sluicing down the glass in rivulets that fractured the city lights into liquid gold.
The hotel room hummed with pre-dawn energy, muted but electric—Jin folding shirts with military precision by the window, Jungkook stretching his calves against the doorframe, Hoseok’s muffled laughter from the bathroom where Jimin was undoubtedly stealing his hair products again. Sin hovered near the doorway, Yoongi’s pine earring warm between his fingers where he’d finally reclaimed it, watching Namjoon’s broad back as the leader double-checked their itinerary.
Then Taehyung’s phone chirped—a sound like a digital bird—and suddenly he was shoving the screen under Sin’s nose. "Look," he breathed, eyes sparkling. The photo was slightly blurred, caught mid-motion: Sin laughing in the ukay-ukay shop, jacket sleeves swallowing his hands, Jimin mid-pounce behind him with a flannel shirt draped over his head like a makeshift veil. Sin’s own cerulean eyes sparkled back at him, brighter than the Baguio sunlight fracturing through the shop window behind him.
"Send that to me," Sin whispered. His thumb brushed the screen—just once—before Taehyung snatched the phone back with a cackle.
"Nuh-uh." Taehyung waggled his eyebrows. "Trade secret." He leaned in, close enough that his breath tickled Sin’s ear. "Unless you admit my jacket looked best on you."
The rain had turned into a fine mist by the time they piled into the waiting van, the kind that clung to eyelashes and turned the world into a watercolor smear. Sin stumbled on the wet pavement—too busy staring at the small cluster of fans huddled under umbrellas across the street—and would’ve face-planted if Jungkook hadn’t caught him by the back of his hoodie like a scruffed kitten.
"Eyes forward, dummy," Jungkook muttered, but his grip lingered just a second too long, fingers brushing the nape of Sin’s neck before shoving him gently into the vehicle.
The fans’ squeals cut through the drizzle like laser beams. Someone shouted "Oppa!"—high-pitched enough to crack glass—and Sin flinched so hard his knee connected with the van’s doorframe. Yoongi’s hand appeared out of nowhere, pressing flat between Sin’s shoulder blades to steer him inside without breaking stride. The elder’s expression stayed neutral, but his thumb dug into Sin’s spine just once—sharp, grounding—before retreating.
Inside the van, Hoseok was already performing a dramatic reenactment of Sin’s near-fall for Jimin’s benefit. "And then—wham!—our baby deer almost became roadkill," he crowed, miming a slow-motion collapse across two seats.
"Yah," Yoongi cut in, sliding into the row behind them. His knee bumped Sin’s as he settled in. "Don’t encourage him to be clumsier."
The bodyguard slammed the sliding door shut with finality, muffling the fans’ noise to a dull roar. Sin exhaled—long and slow—only for his breath to hitch when Taehyung suddenly plastered himself against the tinted window, blowing exaggerated kisses at the crowd. The glass fogged instantly under his breath.
"Tae," Namjoon groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"What?" Taehyung grinned, drawing a heart in the condensation with his fingertip. "They came all this way in the rain." His expression softened as he caught sight of a soaked ARMY banner—BTS & SIN: OUR MOONCHILDS—held by shivering hands. "Look at that. We match." He tugged at Sin’s sleeve, pointing to the earring dangling from his own lobe—a twin to Sin’s pine design, purchased yesterday in a fit of sentimentality.
The van lurched forward just as Jin clapped his hands—a sharp, decisive sound that cut through the murmur of rain against metal. "Next stop," he declared, twisting in his seat to face them with a grin that bordered on predatory. "Hundred Islands. Alaminos."
This is where stories breathe—where soft moments blur into obsession, where love can feel gentle… or dangerously consuming. I write fanfiction, scenarios, and everything in between, usually tangled with emotion, intensity, and characters who don’t know how to love halfway.
Expect:
• slow burns (sometimes)
• unhinged devotion ? (Obsession)
• quiet intimacy and loud longing (Yandere)
• characters who ruin each other in the best way
• smut (a lot of those)
• dark themes (Violence, non-con, cheating, kidnapping, murder, manipulation, explicit and not holy other themes.)
Some stories are soft enough to hold. Others bite.
If you’re here, you probably understand that kind of feeling already.
So stay, read, get attached… and maybe don’t trust anyone too easily.
You can always request anything. My request box is open.
[ WARNING ] : EVERYTHING i wrote are purely fictional, it's all in my head and yes it's just in my head. I don't plan to wish,or do it in real time nor i hope it would happen to someone in real life. If you are triggered and not a fan of my fanfic (scenarios) you can scroll down. I will have fanfic or maybe a scenario that has the concept of Drugs, incest, mental health and rape. It's not my intention to make you uncomfortable. So please scroll down.
이제 이런 일 정말 못 참겠어요. 또 BTS 관련 논란이네요. 이번에는 남준의 흡연 문제라니. 네, 금연 구역에서 담배를 피운 건 사실이고, 그건 분명 실수고 본인 잘못이에요. 그래도 남준이면 다시는 그런 행동 안 할 만큼 충분히 현명한 사람이라고 생각해요.
근데 이해가 안 되는 건, 일부 기사에서 남준이 흡연 ‘중독’이라고 말하는 거예요. 그건 너무 과장된 거 아닌가요? 요즘 BTS가 불필요하고 억지스러운 논란과 비난으로 계속 주목받고 있는 느낌이에요. 왜죠? 아무리 시간이 지나도 ARMY들이 여전히 그들을 지지하는 걸 받아들이기 힘든 건가요? 세계적인 보이그룹이니까 당연히 관심을 받을 수밖에 없죠.
사람은 담배도 피우고, 술도 마시고, 실수도 합니다. 완벽한 사람은 없잖아요. 그들은 아이돌이기도 하지만, 동시에 한 사람의 인간이에요. 그러니까 그만 좀 했으면 좋겠어요.
_______
I just can’t deal with this shit anymore. Here we go again, another issue involving BTS. This time it’s about Namjoon and smoking. Yeah, he smoked in a non-smoking area. It was a mistake, his fault, and I think he’s smart enough not to do it again.
But what I don’t get is why some headlines are saying Namjoon is addicted to smoking. That’s just ridiculous. I feel like BTS has been in the spotlight a lot these days for unnecessary, forced hate and issues. Why? Is it because people can’t accept that no matter how long they’re gone, ARMYs are still supporting them? I mean, they’re the biggest boy band in the world. Of course people are watching.
People smoke, people drink, people make mistakes. Don’t act like anyone is perfect. They’re idols, yes, but they’re also human. So just fuck off.
SPRING DAY (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/story/410452263-spring-day?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_myworks&wp_uname=SevenVersesin
Sin Castrid, a lonely 19-year-old university student, finds companionship through an online relationship that lasts a year without ever seeing her partner on video. Trusting his quiet, distant nature, she assumes he is simply shy. When he suddenly invites her to South Korea to finally meet in person, she travels across the world, unaware that the truth waiting for her may not match the person she has fallen in love with.
"Mm—stop… please, I can't—" Sin's voice cracked as her fingers twitched against crisp hospital-grade sheets. Her eyelids fluttered open to the sting of fluorescent lights overhead, the world swimming in and out of focus like ink bleeding through wet paper. There was something cold clamped around her wrist—not handcuffs, but the bite of a medical restraint, the kind with soft padding that didn’t bruise.
The ceiling tilted when she turned her head. A IV line snaked from her arm to a clear bag of fluids hanging beside the bed, the liquid inside too colorless to guess what they’d pumped into her this time. Her tongue felt thick, cotton-dry, and when she tried to sit up, her muscles melted like wax under a flame.
A chair scraped against the floor to her right. "You’re awake." The voice was low, deliberate. Familiar. Yoongi leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled under his chin. His expression was calm—too calm, the way a lake is calm before something stirs beneath the surface. "Don’t try to move yet. The drugs need to wear off."
Sin’s breath hitched. Drugs. The word slithered down her spine. She remembered walking—no getting dragged—out of that bar, the neon sign flickering like a dying pulse. Then hands. Too many hands. The scent of expensive cologne and something sharper underneath, chemical and wrong.
Sin's eyelids fluttered again, heavier this time, as if someone had threaded lead through her lashes. The fluorescent lights above pulsed like a slow, mocking heartbeat—bright, then dim, then bright again. Her thoughts moved through syrup, words dissolving before they could fully form. Anesthesia, she grasped at the term, but it slipped away like a fish through fingers.
Namjoon’s silhouette blurred at the edge of her vision, his broad shoulders blocking part of the light as he adjusted the IV bag with clinical precision. His fingers brushed the tubing, tapping it once, twice, as if checking for air bubbles. "Just a little more," he murmured, more to himself than to her. His voice was honey-smooth, the kind that made you forget the sting underneath. "You’ll feel better soon."
Better. The word curdled in her stomach. She tried to lift her hand—to claw at the restraint, to reach for him, to do something—but her arm was a dead thing, numb and distant. A whimper escaped her throat, thin and broken.
Yoongi’s sigh came from somewhere near the door. "You overdid it," he said, not accusing, just stating a fact. "She’s not a doll, Namjoon."
Sin's eyelids fluttered open to the taste of antiseptic thick on her tongue, her vision swimming in and out of focus like ink dropped into water. The ceiling above her was unfamiliar—smooth, white, pristine in a way that felt sterile and cold. Her wrists twitched against the padded restraints, the soft fabric biting into her skin just enough to remind her she wasn’t supposed to move.
Morning light seeped through the curtains in thin, hesitant stripes, painting the unfamiliar walls in watery gold. Sin blinked at the ceiling, her thoughts slow and syrupy, her body refusing to obey the simplest commands. The mattress beneath her was too soft, the sheets too crisp—nothing like the stiff cot she'd slept on in her dorm back in Seoul. A whisper of movement came from the doorway, and Yoongi stepped in with a tray balanced carefully in his hands. "You slept late," he said, voice warm like melted caramel. He perched on the edge of the bed, his free hand brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. "Eat something. You'll feel better."
Sin's fingers trembled as she reached for the spoon, but Yoongi tutted gently and guided her wrist back down. "Let me," he murmured, scooping up a bite of porridge and lifting it to her lips. The taste was bland, almost medicinal, but she swallowed obediently. His smile softened, pleased. "Good girl." The praise should have warmed her; instead, something cold skittered down her spine.
By afternoon, the fog in her head had thinned just enough for her to notice the details—the way the room smelled faintly of sandalwood and something sharper beneath, the framed photos on the dresser (her face, always her face, nestled between theirs), the lock on the door that clicked softly whenever Yoongi left. She tried to stand once, when she thought no one was watching, but her legs buckled like wet paper. The carpet burned her knees as she collapsed, and before she could even gasp, Yoongi was there, lifting her effortlessly back into bed. "Shh," he soothed, tucking the blanket around her with practiced hands. "You're still recovering. Don't push yourself."
Sin's lips parted to ask where she was, what was wrong with her, why her body felt like a foreign thing—but the words dissolved on her tongue. Yoongi's thumb traced the beauty mark beneath her eye, his touch feather-light. "You're safe here," he said, and the certainty in his voice made her stomach twist. Safe. The word echoed hollowly in her chest.
The door creaked open long past midnight, hinges protesting softly—too softly, like someone had oiled them deliberately. Sin stirred at the sound, her eyelids leaden from whatever sedative still swam in her veins. The darkness beyond the bed was thick, unbroken except for the thin sliver of light slicing across the floor from the hallway. A shadow paused there, hesitating on the threshold, before stepping inside with the cautious grace of someone who knew how to move without being heard.
Jungkook.
She recognized him by the slope of his shoulders, the way he hovered near the foot of the bed like a child caught sneaking cookies. Moonlight caught the edge of his profile—the sharp line of his jaw, the nervous flicker of his throat as he swallowed. He didn’t reach for her. Didn’t even breathe too loudly. Just stood there, watching, as if the rise and fall of her chest was a miracle he needed to witness.
Sin’s fingers twitched against the sheets. She should have been afraid. Should have screamed or scrambled back or done something. But the drugs had hollowed her out, left her limp and pliant, and the fear was a distant thing, muffled under layers of cotton-soft haze. “…Jungkook?” Her voice was a threadbare whisper.
He startled like she’d shot him. For a wild second, she thought he might bolt—his muscles coiled tight, his sneakers squeaking against the polished floor. But then he exhaled, slow and shaky, and crept closer. “You’re supposed to be asleep,” he murmured. His fingers hovered above her wrist, not touching, just tracing the air above her pulse point. “Hyung said—the sedatives should’ve lasted till morning.”
There was something raw in his voice, something that didn’t match the careful way he held himself. Sin blinked up at him, her thoughts slow as syrup. The Jungkook she remembered from magazines didn’t have shadows under his eyes like this. Didn’t pick at his own sleeves until the fabric frayed. “Why…?” The question dissolved before she could finish it.
Jungkook’s breath hitched. He sank onto the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle her, his weight barely denting the surface. His hands—she noticed then how they trembled, how the knuckles were scraped raw. “I just—” He stopped. Started again. “I needed to see you.” His thumb brushed the inside of her wrist, so light it might have been an accident. “To know you were… okay.”
Okay. The word tasted wrong. Sin’s eyelids fluttered shut for a moment, the room tilting gently. She remembered flashes—the bar’s neon sign sputtering like a dying thing, the press of bodies too close, Jungkook’s face looming above hers in the alley , his expression twisted into something she couldn’t name. Guilt? Hunger? Both?
Jungkook's breath hitched as he stared down at Sin, her cerulean eyes glazed over with a drug-induced haze, her pink lips parted just slightly—like she was waiting for something, or maybe like she'd forgotten how to close them. The moonlight painted her skin in silver, making her look ethereal, doll-like in the way her limbs sprawled bonelessly across the mattress. His fingers twitched at his sides before he gave in, brushing a strand of white hair from her cheek. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t even seem to notice.
That was worse, somehow.
His touch trailed lower, skimming the curve of her throat, the dip of her collarbone, the beauty mark beneath her eye like a punctuation mark to her perfection. She whimpered when his thumb grazed her bottom lip, and the sound went straight to his gut. "You're so beautiful," he murmured, more to himself than to her, his voice rough. "Too beautiful."
Sin's fingers twitched against the sheets, her body pliant under his wandering hands. She tried to speak—tried to form words—but all that came out was a soft, broken noise when Jungkook's palm slid beneath the thin fabric of her nightgown, cupping the swell of her breast. Her back arched instinctively, a weak protest dying on her lips as his fingers pinched her nipple, rolling it between his fingertips until she gasped.
Jungkook's breath hitched. She was warm, so warm, and the way her body responded to him—even drugged, even half-conscious—made his pulse stutter. He'd told himself he just wanted to see her. Just wanted to check on her. But the sight of her like this, spread out before him like a feast, was too much. "You're doing this to me," he muttered, his grip tightening as he leaned down to nip at her throat. "Look at you—so fucking sweet."
Sin's whimper was muffled against his shoulder as he pushed the fabric higher, exposing the soft plane of her stomach, the delicate curve of her hips. He hooked his fingers in the waistband of her panties, tugging them down just enough to reveal the dampness between her thighs. Jungkook groaned, pressing his forehead against her hipbone. "Fuck, you're—" His fingers slid through her slick folds, testing, teasing, before pushing inside with a single, brutal thrust.
Her cry was muffled, her thighs trembling around his wrist as he curled his fingers, stroking that spot inside her that made her writhe. Tears welled in her cerulean eyes, spilling over as she choked on another broken moan. Jungkook watched, mesmerized, as her body betrayed her—arching into his touch, clenching around his fingers, her pink lips parted in silent pleading.
He couldn't stop. Couldn't think. His own need throbbed between his legs, painful in its urgency. With a growl, he yanked his sweatpants down just enough to free himself, his cock hard and leaking against her thigh. "You want this," he murmured, lining himself up with her entrance, his grip bruising on her hips. "Don't you?"
Sin's head lolled to the side, her breath coming in shallow pants as he pushed inside, inch by torturous inch. Her body resisted at first—tight, unyielding—but then she melted around him with a sob, her inner muscles fluttering weakly. Jungkook cursed under his breath, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her thighs as he bottomed out, his hips flush against hers.
He didn't move at first. Just stayed there, buried deep inside her, watching the way her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks, the way her throat worked around silent gasps. Then, with a shuddering exhale, he pulled out—almost completely—before thrusting back in with a snap of his hips. Sin whimpered, her fingers twisting in the sheets, her body jolting with each sharp stroke.
Jungkook groaned, his rhythm erratic, his breath ragged. She was so warm, so tight, her body molding to his perfectly, as if she was made for him. The thought sent a surge of possessiveness through him, his thrusts growing rougher, deeper, chasing his own pleasure with single-minded intensity. Sin's cries grew louder, her tears streaking down her cheeks, her body responding despite the haze of drugs clouding her mind.
He reached between them, his thumb finding her clit with practiced ease, rubbing tight circles until she wailed, her back arching off the bed as she came around him with a shuddering gasp. Jungkook followed moments later, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside her with a low groan, his forehead pressed against hers.
For a long moment, he just breathed her in, his body still trembling with the aftershocks. Then, with a gentleness that belied the brutality of what he'd just done, he brushed the tears from her cheeks and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. "Beautiful," he murmured against her mouth, his fingers carding through her white hair. "So fucking beautiful."
Sin's eyelids drooped, exhaustion and the remnants of the sedatives pulling her under. Jungkook watched her for a moment longer before pulling away, tucking the blankets around her with trembling hands. He barely had time to adjust his own clothes before the door creaked open again—slow, deliberate. Namjoon stood in the doorway, his broad frame blocking the light from the hall, his expression unreadable.
Jungkook froze, his breath catching in his throat. Namjoon's gaze flickered from Sin's flushed cheeks to Jungkook's disheveled state—his sweatpants hanging low on his hips, his shirt rumpled, his lips swollen from biting back moans. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until Namjoon stepped inside and closed the door behind him with a soft click.
"You were told not to touch her," Namjoon said, his voice calm, measured. Too calm. Like the eye of a storm. Jungkook swallowed hard, his fingers twitching at his sides. He opened his mouth to speak, but Namjoon held up a hand, cutting him off. "Not yet. Not like this."
Jungkook's jaw clenched. "Hyung—"
Namjoon ignored him, moving to the bedside with deliberate steps. His fingers brushed Sin's damp forehead, tucking a stray lock of white hair behind her ear. She stirred weakly, her eyelids fluttering, but didn't wake. Namjoon's expression softened for a fleeting second before he reached for the IV line, his movements precise as he adjusted the drip. "She doesn't deserve this," he murmured, more to himself than to Jungkook. "Not from you."
Jungkook flinched. His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. "I—I didn't mean to—"
"Didn't you?" Namjoon's voice was quiet, almost gentle, but the words hit like a slap. He pressed a syringe into the IV port, the plunger depressing with a soft hiss. Sin's breathing deepened almost immediately, her body going slack against the pillows. "Or did you just think you could take what you wanted?"
Jungkook's throat tightened. He watched as Sin's lashes fluttered one last time before settling, her chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of forced sleep. The sight twisted something inside him—guilt, shame, something darker he couldn't name.
The click of the lock echoed too loudly in the hallway, the sound final, like a judge's gavel. Jungkook flinched at it, his shoulders hunching as Namjoon's grip tightened on his elbow, steering him toward the living room with silent, bruising force. The air between them crackled—not with anger, but with something worse. Disappointment.
"You're an idiot," Namjoon said finally, his voice low enough that the words stayed trapped between them, sharp as broken glass. His fingers dug into Jungkook's arm just above the elbow, where the bruises wouldn't show. "We had rules. You don't get to break them just because you can't control yourself."
Jungkook's jaw worked. He could hear the others in the living room—the murmur of Taehyung's laughter, the clink of glassware, Jin humming under his breath as he stirred something on the stove. Normal sounds. Domestic sounds. They curdled in his ears. "I didn't—"
"Don't." Namjoon stopped abruptly, turning to face him under the dim hallway light. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—dark, calculating—bore into Jungkook's. "You think she won't remember? That she'll just wake up and not know what you did?" His thumb brushed over Jungkook's pulse point, a mockery of tenderness. "You left marks."
Namjoon's fingers tightened around Jungkook's wrist, his grip just shy of painful, his eyes dark with something that wasn't quite anger—more like weary resignation. "She's not some toy," he said, his voice low and measured. "But I get it." His thumb brushed over the fresh bite mark on Jungkook's lower lip, the one he'd given himself to keep quiet. "She's… tempting." The word came out ragged, like it had been dragged from him.
Jungkook's breath hitched. He'd expected fury, punishment, anything but this—this quiet understanding that felt like a knife between his ribs. Namjoon's gaze flickered past him, toward the closed bedroom door, his expression unreadable. "Almost lost control myself last night," he admitted, so softly Jungkook almost missed it. "When I was changing her IV. She—" His jaw flexed. "She moved against me. Like she knew."
The confession hung between them, thick and suffocating. Jungkook's pulse roared in his ears. He'd thought he was the only one who saw it—the way Sin's hips arched when she slept, the soft noises she made when someone brushed against her in just the right way. But Namjoon had noticed too. Had felt it.
Namjoon exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip loosening. "Just don't do it again," he muttered, releasing Jungkook's wrist with a finality that left bruises deeper than skin. "Not like that. Not when she can't even—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "We're not animals."
The scent of kimchi stew curled through the hallway before Jungkook saw the dining table, rich and pungent enough to make his stomach twist. Jin stood by the stove, ladle in hand, his apron crisp and unstained—too perfect, like everything else about him. His smile didn’t reach his eyes when he glanced up. "Ah, finally," he said, voice smooth as butter. "I was about to send a search party."
Jungkook’s fingers dug into his palms. The others were already seated—Taehyung picking at his nails, Jimin stirring his soup absently, Yoongi with his arms crossed, gaze fixed on the empty chair where Sin should’ve been. Namjoon nudged Jungkook toward the table with a hand between his shoulder blades, firm enough to be a warning.
"She needs to eat," Yoongi said abruptly, pushing his bowl away. The porcelain scraped against wood. "We can’t keep her sedated forever."
Taehyung’s head snapped up. "So what, we just—let her walk around?" His laugh was too sharp, too loud. "She’ll run. Or scream. Or remember."
Jin set down his chopsticks with deliberate calm. "She already remembers," he murmured. The others went still. "Bits and pieces. Enough to know something’s wrong." His gaze flicked to Jungkook, heavy with meaning. "Enough to be afraid."
Yoongi’s fingers tapped the tabletop—once, twice. "Then we make her un-afraid." His voice was quiet, deliberate. "We don’t need drugs for that. Just time."
Namjoon exhaled through his nose. "And if she does remember?" His thumb traced the rim of his glass. "All of it?"
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Jimin's spoon hovered halfway to his lips, broth dripping unnoticed onto the tablecloth. Taehyung's fingers stilled over his phone screen. Even the hum of the refrigerator seemed to pause. Then—movement. Hoseok pushed back from the table with a scrape of chair legs, his smile too bright for the shadows under his eyes. "We'll give her benzos," he said, like he was suggesting extra chili flakes for the stew. "The kind they use for trauma patients. Makes the bad memories… fuzzy."
Yoongi's head snapped up. His fingers twitched toward his own wrist—the one with the faint scar from a long-ago panic attack. "You can't just—"
"Already done." Namjoon's voice cut through the tension like a scalpel. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small orange bottle, the label crisp with a doctor's looping signature. The pills inside rattled like bones when he set it on the table. "Management connections," he added by way of explanation, though no one asked.
Jin picked up the bottle, tilting it toward the light. The pills tumbled in a slow, hypnotic cascade. "How many?"
"Enough." Namjoon's thumb tapped the tabletop—once, twice—before he stilled it deliberately. "She'll wake confused at first. Then… pliant." His gaze flicked to Jungkook, then away. "No more resistance."
Jin's fingers traced the rim of his teacup with an idle precision that belied the tension in his shoulders. "Once she adjusts," he said, the words measured like a pharmacist counting pills, "we can let her walk around the dorm." The steam curled between his lips as he took a sip, the bitter scent of medicinal herbs threading through the kitchen. "But going out?" His gaze flicked to the barred window, where afternoon light strained through the slats. "Certainly not an option."
Yoongi made a noise low in his throat—not quite disagreement, more like the sound a dog makes when it hears a distant siren. His fingers twitched toward the cigarette pack in his pocket before remembering Sin hated the smell. "She'll panic," he muttered. "First time she sees the locks."
Taehyung's grin was sharp enough to cut glass. "Then we'll make sure she doesn't." He leaned forward, elbows propped on the table, his phone screen reflecting in his pupils. "Camera in every room. Trackers in her shoes. The new Apple Watch—it has fall detection." His thumb swiped across the display, pulling up a shopping cart already loaded with accessories. "We'll know if she so much as stubs a toe."
Namjoon's spoon clinked against his bowl. The sound was too deliberate, too loud. "She's not a dog," he said, voice flat. Jimin blinked, his chopsticks frozen mid-air. Across the table, Taehyung snorted into his soup.
Jin's smile was razor-thin as he reached for the kimchi. "No," he agreed, picking up a single scarlet slice with surgical precision. "Dogs get walked." The cabbage crunched between his teeth like bone.
Jimin's fingers twitched toward his phone—half reflex, half nervous tic. His lockscreen glowed briefly: Sin's face, sleep-soft and unaware, taken from the security feed last night. "I just mean—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Schedules overlap. Someone should… coordinate." The last word came out too careful, like he'd practiced it in the mirror.
Yoongi's chopsticks tapped his plate—once, twice—before he set them down with exaggerated control. "Spreadsheet," he muttered. His gaze slid toward Jungkook, who hadn't touched his food. "Color-coded."
Namjoon exhaled sharply through his nose, the spreadsheet glare from his laptop casting blue shadows under his eyes. The numbers blurred—dosage timings, bathroom breaks, meal intervals—all meticulously logged in cold, clinical columns. Sin's name repeated down the left side like a prayer. Or a prisoner manifest. He rubbed his temple where a headache pulsed in time with the grandfather clock ticking in the hall.
Jin's fingers brushed his shoulder, feather-light. "She'll adapt," he murmured, pressing a mug of something herbal into Namjoon's hand. The scent of valerian root curled between them, thick as guilt. "They always do."
Always. The word sat wrong in Namjoon's throat. He sipped the tea to wash it down.
The confession spilled out in a single breath—too fast, too raw, like Jungkook had been holding it in until his ribs cracked. "I fucked her." The words hung in the air, ugly and final. His knuckles whitened around the edge of the dining table, the wood groaning under his grip. "She was—" A muscle twitched in his jaw. "Drugged. Half-asleep. Couldn't even lift her arms."
Silence. The kind that settles in the split second before a car crashes. Then—
Yoongi's chair screeched backward as he stood, his chopsticks clattering to the floor. His pupils were pinpricks, his breath coming in sharp bursts through his nose. For a wild, suspended moment, Jungkook thought he might lunge—might wrap his hands around his throat and squeeze until his vision went black. But then Yoongi exhaled, slow and deliberate, and reached for his cigarettes instead. "Fuck," he muttered, the word curling around the filter between his teeth. "Fuck."
Jin's fingers tightened around his teacup. The porcelain trembled—not much, just enough for the liquid inside to ripple. His smile was gone, replaced by something flat and dangerous. "You couldn't wait," he said softly. It wasn't a question.
Jungkook's throat worked. He could still feel her—the warmth of her thighs, the flutter of her pulse beneath his lips, the way her body had yielded to him even as tears streaked her cheeks. "She—" His voice cracked. "She moved against me. Like she wanted—"
Jimin's fist hit the table with a crack that made the dishes jump. "Don't," he snarled. His pretty face twisted into something unrecognizable—lips peeled back from his teeth, eyes burning. "Don't you fucking say that."
Taehyung's laugh was a jagged thing, scraping against the tension in the room. He spun his phone between his fingers, the screen lighting up with a notification—a motion alert from Sin's room. "At least you didn't leave marks," he mused, voice dripping with false levity. His thumb swiped the alert away. "This time."
Namjoon was eerily still. He'd set down his chopsticks with surgical precision, aligning them parallel to the edge of his bowl. When he spoke, his voice was low, measured—the kind of calm that comes before a storm. "She won't remember," he said. The others froze. "The new dosage—it causes retrograde amnesia. Short-term memory loss." His gaze flicked to Jungkook. "If we're lucky."
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed three times, the sound muffled through the thick walls. Sin stirred beneath the blankets, her fingers twitching against the sheets as the last remnants of Jungkook's touch still lingered on her skin like a phantom brand. The IV in her arm pulsed faintly, delivering its chemical peace in measured drips.
Down the hall, the argument had dissolved into something quieter—more dangerous. Yoongi exhaled a slow stream of smoke toward the ceiling, his cigarette trembling between his fingers. "We agreed," he said, voice low and rough. "No one touches her until she's—" He stopped himself, jaw working. "Until she knows us."
Jungkook's laugh was hollow. "She'll never know us." His fingers traced the edge of the dining table, following the grain of the wood like a map to somewhere better. "Not really."
Namjoon's phone buzzed against the tabletop—a notification from the surveillance app. Sin's heart rate had spiked two minutes ago, then settled. He swiped it away without looking up. "She will," he said, calm as a surgeon making an incision. "Given time."
The grandfather clock chimed four times before Sin's eyelids fluttered open again, her cerulean eyes hazy with the chemical fog still clinging to her synapses. The bedroom door stood ajar—just enough to let a sliver of golden afternoon light stripe across the foot of the bed. Her fingers twitched against the sheets, the restraints gone now, replaced by the lingering numbness in her limbs that made movement feel like wading through honey.
The first time Sin didn't flinch when Jin's fingers brushed her wrist while passing her a teacup, the entire dorm seemed to hold its breath. Her hands—pale as porcelain against the dark wood of the dining table—merely trembled slightly before stilling around the warm cup. Jin's smile didn't change, but his shoulders relaxed a fraction as he murmured, "Careful, it's hot," like this was any normal morning and not the thirty-seventh day of her captivity.
Across the table, Yoongi exhaled smoke through his nose, watching the steam curl between Sin's lips as she sipped. The drugs made her movements languid, her reactions delayed by half-seconds, but the absence of outright panic was progress. His cigarette burned untouched between his fingers as Sin's cerulean eyes flickered to the window—to the sliver of sky visible between the bars—before dropping obediently back to her bowl. No pleading. No questions. Just quiet acceptance.
That night, Taehyung dared to sit beside her on the couch during movie night, close enough that his thigh pressed against hers through the thin fabric of her dress. Sin stiffened immediately, her fingers digging into the couch cushions, but she didn't pull away. Onscreen, some romantic comedy played at low volume, the actors' laughter tinny and distant. Taehyung's palm settled casually over her knee—a test. Her breath hitched, her ribs expanding sharply beneath the modest neckline of her dress, but she remained still.
"You're doing so well," Taehyung murmured, his thumb tracing idle circles on her kneecap. The praise dripped from his lips like honey, sweet and sticky. Sin's eyelashes fluttered—whether at the touch or the words, it was impossible to tell. The credits rolled unnoticed as Taehyung's fingers crept higher, skimming the hem of her skirt. A soft whimper escaped her throat when he hooked a finger beneath the lace trim of her underwear, but she didn't resist. Couldn't, really, with the sedatives softening her limbs and blurring the line between discomfort and violation.
Sin didn't scream when Jimin's fingers slipped under the back of her sweater that evening—just froze like a rabbit spotting headlights, her teacup trembling in midair. The living room's warm lamplight caught the fine spray of tea droplets arcing from the rim as her hands locked up, knuckles bleaching white against the floral porcelain. Jimin's touch stilled against the small of her back, his palm radiating heat through the thin cotton. "Shh," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of her ear as he gently pried the cup from her grip. His other hand remained pressed flat between her shoulder blades, counting the erratic stutter of her breath through fabric. "Just me. Only me."
Three weeks ago, she would've shattered the cup against his temple. Two weeks ago, she might've gone catatonic for hours. Now—now her exhale came shaky but measured, her spine arching slightly into his touch before catching herself, muscles twitching with the phantom memory of restraint. Jimin's smile curled against her hair as he felt it—that fractional yielding. Progress measured in millimeters.
Across the room, Yoongi watched from the armchair with hooded eyes, the glow of his phone screen painting his cheekbones blue. The surveillance app showed Sin's vitals spiking then stabilizing—162 bpm down to 114 in thirty seconds. Manageable. The numbers mirrored what he'd observed yesterday when Jungkook had "accidentally" brushed against her in the hallway, and the day before when Taehyung fed her strawberries by hand. Each encounter left her less reactive, more pliant, as if her body was learning to overwrite terror with something softer. Duller.
Sin's fingers flexed against her thighs when Jimin's thumb found the knobs of her spine through the sweater, tracing each vertebra with deliberate slowness. "Good girl," he whispered, and the praise pooled hot in her stomach despite herself. Somewhere beneath the chemical haze, shame flickered—but it was distant now, muted by the sedatives and the relentless conditioning of soft voices and softer hands. Her eyelids fluttered as Jimin's fingers crept higher, skimming the nape of her neck where the hair curled damp from nervous sweat.
The grandfather clock chimed midnight—a hollow, resonant sound that seeped through the walls like cold water. Sin stirred beneath the weight of Jungkook’s arm slung across her waist, his fingers twitching against her hipbone even in sleep. The bedroom was dark except for the dim glow of a nightlight shaped like a moon, casting long shadows that licked at the edges of the locked door. Her throat felt raw, though she couldn’t remember screaming.
A floorboard creaked outside. Sin’s breath hitched, her pulse fluttering beneath her skin like a trapped bird. The doorknob turned with deliberate slowness—no rush, no urgency, as if the intruder knew she couldn’t run even if she tried. The door swung open to reveal Namjoon silhouetted in the hallway light, his broad shoulders blocking most of the glow. He didn’t speak. Just stood there, watching her with that same unnerving calm, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the doorframe.
Sin’s fingers curled into the sheets. She should’ve been used to this by now—the nighttime visits, the hands that always found their way beneath her nightgown, the murmured praises that tasted like lies on her tongue. But the drugs never quite dulled the instinct to shrink away when Namjoon’s weight dipped the mattress beside her, his knee pressing against her thigh through the blanket.
“You’re awake,” he observed, voice low. It wasn’t a question. His fingers brushed her cheek, tracing the damp tracks of tears she hadn’t realized she’d shed. Jungkook snorted in his sleep behind her, his arm tightening possessively around her waist. Namjoon’s gaze flicked to him, then back to Sin, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. “He hurt you.”
Sin's breath stuttered against Namjoon's palm when his thumb brushed the bruise blooming beneath her collarbone—a perfect match for Jungkook's knuckles. The moonlight caught the wetness on her lashes as she blinked up at him, her cerulean eyes glassy with sedation and something else Namjoon couldn't name. Resignation? Betrayal? Both?
"You should've screamed," he murmured, his fingers trailing lower to where the sheet had slipped down, revealing the crescent marks on her hips. Jungkook's grip, always too tight when he got carried away. Namjoon pressed his palm flat against the bruises, measuring their heat. Sin whimpered, her spine arching away instinctively, but Jungkook's arm yanked her back against his chest with a sleep-heavy grunt.
The mattress shifted as Namjoon leaned closer, his lips grazing the shell of her ear. "I would've stopped him," he whispered. The lie tasted bitter. He knew—had heard the choked sounds through the door last night, had stood in the hallway with his fists clenched until his nails drew blood. Had done nothing.
Sin turned her face into the pillow, the white strands of her hair sticking to her damp cheeks. Her voice, when it came, was shredded at the edges. "You never do."
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed five times—a sound Sin had come to dread, marking another hour of borrowed time. Namjoon exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers still pressed against the bruises on her hip. For a moment, his grip tightened—not painfully, but possessively—as if he could overwrite Jungkook's marks with his own. Then he pulled away abruptly, his expression shuttering closed like a slammed door.
Sin didn't watch him leave. Instead, she focused on the pattern of the wallpaper—pale blue flowers twisting up toward the ceiling in an endless, suffocating spiral. Somewhere beyond the locked door, footsteps retreated down the hall, followed by the muffled creak of the study door closing. A hushed argument began, punctuated by the occasional sharp rise of Yoongi's voice. She caught only fragments—"…too far" and "management won't…"—before the voices dropped back into inaudibility.
Jungkook stirred behind her, his breath warm against the nape of her neck. His arm slid higher, fingers splaying across her ribs in sleepy possessiveness. Sin held herself perfectly still, her lungs burning with the need to gasp for air. The drugs made it hard to tell where the sedatives ended and the fear began—her limbs felt leaden, her thoughts syrupy slow, but her pulse rabbited beneath her skin.
Moonlight bled through the barred window, casting jagged shadows across the rumpled sheets. Sin counted them—eleven dark lines striping the bed like a prison cell's shadow. The twelfth was Jungkook's arm draped across her waist, his thumb rubbing absent circles against her hipbone as he slept. A mockery of tenderness.
The passport slid from Sin's trembling fingers for the third time, fluttering to the carpet like a wounded bird. Seokjin sighed through his nose but said nothing, just folded the passport neatly and tucked it into the front pocket of Sin's half-packed duffel bag where it wouldn’t escape again.
"You don’t have to be scared," Seokjin murmured, pressing a rolled-up pair of socks into Sin’s hands. His voice was warm, like honey melting over toast—patient in a way that made Sin’s chest tighten with guilt. Sin nodded mutely, clutching the socks like they might unravel if he loosened his grip even slightly.
The dorm was too quiet. Usually, the others would’ve been clattering around by now—Jungkook’s laughter bouncing off the walls, Jimin humming under his breath while raiding the fridge. But today, it was just the rustle of fabric and the soft tap of Seokjin’s fingers against zippers. Sin swallowed hard, staring at the open suitcase on his bed like it might swallow him whole. "I’ve never—" he started, then bit his lip.
Seokjin paused, a sweater dangling from his hands. "Never flown before?"
Sin shook his head, fingers twisting into the socks Seokjin had handed him. "Never left Korea before," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. The admission felt like pulling a splinter from his skin—sharp, then hollow. Outside, the distant hum of Seoul traffic buzzed against the windowpanes, a reminder of how small his world had been before seven tornadoes in human form had spun into it.
Seokjin’s chuckle was soft, almost private. He draped the sweater over Sin’s shoulders with exaggerated care, like he was knighting him with fabric instead of steel. "Then you’ll love the in-flight meals," he said, deadpan. "Tiny bread rolls that taste like regret and plastic-wrapped butter that defies physics." Sin blinked up at him, and Seokjin’s grin widened. "Ah, there’s the face. Thought I’d lost you to existential dread for a second."
A giggle escaped Sin before he could stop it—bright and startled, like a sunbeam breaking through storm clouds. Seokjin’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and for a moment, the dorm didn’t feel like a gilded cage. Just a room. Just two people.
Then the door slammed open.
The door slammed open with enough force to make Sin flinch—not violently, but enough for Seokjin to notice, his fingers pausing mid-fold over a pair of jeans. Jungkook stood in the doorway, hair still damp from the shower, cheeks flushed like he’d sprinted the entire way here. His eyes flicked between Sin’s half-packed duffel and Seokjin’s hands still hovering protectively near Sin’s shoulder. "Hobi-hyung says the car’s coming early," he announced, breathless. "Like, now early."
Sin’s stomach dropped. "Now?" The word came out thin, frayed at the edges. He’d been counting down the hours—three left, two and a half, two—like they were lifelines. Seokjin shot Jungkook a look Sin couldn’t decipher before turning back to him with that practiced calm.
"Breathe," Seokjin murmured, pressing a folded shirt into Sin’s hands. The fabric was warm from his grip. "We’ll just pack faster."
Jungkook hovered in the doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I can—" He gestured vaguely at the chaos of clothes strewn across Sin’s bed. "Help? If you want."
Sin's fingers fumbled with the zipper of the duffel bag, the metallic teeth clicking mockingly as they refused to catch. He could feel Seokjin's gaze on him—steady, assessing—but he couldn't bring himself to meet those dark eyes. Instead, he focused on the stray thread unraveling from the hem of his sleeve, twisting it around his fingertip until the skin turned white.
"You're folding that wrong," Jungkook said suddenly, plucking the sweater from Sin's hands before he could protest. His fingers moved with practiced efficiency, flipping the fabric inside out and smoothing the sleeves flat in one fluid motion. "Like this. Otherwise it'll get wrinkled." He held it out, and Sin took it gingerly, their fingertips brushing for half a second—just long enough for Sin to notice how warm Jungkook's hands were.
Seokjin made a noise in the back of his throat—something between amusement and exasperation—as Jungkook snatched another crumpled shirt from the pile. "Careful," he warned, though his lips twitched. "That one’s silk. It’ll hold a grudge if you manhandle it." Jungkook rolled his eyes but adjusted his grip, folding the fabric with exaggerated delicacy that made Sin bite back another laugh. The sound died in his throat when Jungkook’s gaze flicked up to meet his, dark and intent, like he’d been waiting to catch that flicker of lightness.
Outside, a car horn blared—too close, too sudden—and Sin jumped, the half-folded sweater slipping from his fingers. Jungkook’s hand shot out, catching it before it hit the floor. "Easy," he murmured, pressing the sweater back into Sin’s palms. His fingers lingered, just for a heartbeat, thumb brushing over Sin’s knuckles in a touch so fleeting it might’ve been an accident.
The first time Sin laughed without immediately covering his mouth—full and bright, head thrown back—Jimin dropped his spoon into his soup. It landed with a splash that speckled Jungkook’s shirt, but neither of them reacted. They were too busy staring at Sin like he’d just performed a magic trick.
A week ago, Sin would have frozen under that kind of attention, hands fluttering to his chest like startled birds. Now, he just blinked at them, lips still curved around the fading echo of his laughter. "What?" he asked, tilting his head. The overhead lights caught in his cerulean eyes, fracturing them into liquid sapphire. Jimin made a strangled noise and promptly shoved half a roll into his mouth to avoid answering.
It was Jungkook who recovered first. "Nothing," he said, voice suspiciously even. He nudged the fallen spoon toward Jimin with his foot under the table. "Just… nice to hear." His fingers tapped against his thigh—once, twice—before he reached for his water glass with studied nonchalance.
Sin didn’t notice the way Taehyung’s gaze lingered on the column of his throat, or how Yoongi’s chopsticks had stilled mid-bite. He was too busy marveling at the warmth pooling in his own chest, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. For the first time since they’d swept him into their orbit, the weight of seven pairs of eyes didn’t feel like shackles. Just… attention.
By Wednesday, Sin had learned three things: Namjoon’s socks never matched on purpose ("Chaos theory," he’d explained solemnly while Hoseok wheezed into a cushion), Jimin could recite every line from The Little Mermaid in flawless English ("It’s art," he’d sniffed when Jungkook teased him), and Yoongi’s studio smelled like vanilla coffee and burnt circuits. The last one he’d discovered when Yoongi dragged him there at 3AM, muttering something about "fixing the damn sound levels" and pressing headphones over Sin’s ears without preamble. Sin had expected annoyance—maybe even anger—but Yoongi had just sighed when he caught Sin nodding off against the mixing board, draping a jacket over his shoulders instead of shaking him awake.
On Friday, Hoseok taught him the chorus to "Dynamite" in the kitchen while breakfast burned. Sin’s pronunciation was atrocious, his hips swaying off-beat, but Hoseok whooped like he’d just witnessed a Grammy-winning performance. "Again!" he demanded, spinning Sin by the wrists until the tile blurred underfoot. Later, Jungkook would press a cold compress to Sin’s spinning head with a muttered "Hyung’s an idiot," but his fingers lingered at Sin’s temples, tracing the shell of his ear when he thought Sin wouldn’t notice.
By Sunday, Sin realized he hadn’t checked the clock in thirty-two hours. The revelation came to him abruptly, mid-laugh, as Taehyung attempted to balance a spoon on his nose while Namjoon recited Shakespearean insults ("Thou cream-faced loon!" he declaimed, pointing at Jungkook, who promptly choked on his rice). Time had become something fluid—measured in shared glances instead of minutes, in the way Jimin’s fingers absentmindedly tapped against Sin’s wrist to the rhythm of whatever song was stuck in his head.
He still startled sometimes—when a camera flash went off unexpectedly, or when Jungkook burst into his room without knocking—but the flinch was smaller now, less like a recoil and more like the twitch of a cat’s ear. Progress, Jimin had called it, squeezing Sin’s shoulder before sliding into the seat beside him on the plane. Sin hadn’t realized how much he’d come to rely on those touches until Jimin’s thigh pressed against his own, warm and solid through the thin fabric of their sweatpants.
The overhead lights flickered to life with a clinical hum as Sin's fingers dug into the plush fur of the stuffed bunny in his lap. Its floppy ears bent under his grip—Jungkook had thrust it into his hands at the airport gate with a muttered "Don't look at me like that" before stomping off—and now the toy's black bead eyes stared up at him with cartoonish innocence. Business class seats sprawled around them like oversized leather cocoons, each one wide enough to swallow Sin whole.
Yoongi glanced up from his laptop when Sin’s knee bounced against the armrest for the seventh time in as many minutes. "You’re gonna vibrate us into an early landing," he deadpanned, nudging Sin’s ankle with his socked foot. The contact was brief—barely there—but Sin stilled instantly, as if Yoongi had flipped a switch.
"Sorry," Sin whispered, curling tighter around the bunny. Its stuffing squeaked in protest. Outside the window, rain streaked across the tarmac in diagonal slashes, distorting the runway lights into smears of gold. The attendant’s voice crackled over the intercom, announcing final boarding in cheerful, rehearsed Korean. Sin’s stomach lurched.
Yoongi sighed, snapping his laptop shut with a decisive click. "Kid." He waited until Sin peeked up through his messy fringe. "You ever seen Up?"
Sin blinked. "The—the flying house movie?"
"Yeah." Yoongi plucked the stuffed rabbit from Sin’s death grip, flipping it upside down to inspect its stitched paws with exaggerated seriousness. "This guy’s your Dug. Emotional support animal. Airlines legally can’t crash if you’ve got one." He dropped the bunny back into Sin’s lap with a smirk. "Science."
A startled laugh punched out of Sin’s throat—soft, but real. Yoongi’s lips quirked in victory before he reached over Sin to yank the window shade down with finality. "There. Now it’s just us and…" He gestured vaguely at the muted cabin lights. "Corporate limbo. Close your eyes."
Sin hesitated, fingers twisting in the bunny’s fur. "What if—"
"Helmeoni’s three rows back with Sejin," Yoongi interrupted, already reclining his seat with one hand. "They’ve got enough melatonin between them to tranquilize a horse. And Jungkook?" He nodded toward the aisle, where Sin could just make out the back of Jungkook’s head two seats ahead, his shoulders rigid even at rest. "Kid’s been pretending not to stare at you since takeoff. Relax."
The plane gave a sudden lurch as the engines roared to life, and Sin’s nails bit into the plush. Yoongi didn’t comment, just flipped open his laptop one-handed and nudged a pair of wireless earbuds into Sin’s palm. "Here. Listen to this."
Sin fumbled them in, half-expecting Agust D’s aggressive bass—but what flooded his ears was gentle piano, something slow and instrumental that curled around his panic like a hand smoothing crumpled paper. He blinked at Yoongi, who kept his eyes fixed on his screen, jaw working around a piece of gum.
"Yoongi-hyung makes lullabies when he’s stressed," came Jimin’s whisper from across the aisle. He’d twisted in his seat to grin at them, phone flashlight illuminating his face like a conspirator’s. "Secret hobby. Last time—"
Yoongi’s foot shot out to kick Jimin’s ankle with practiced precision. "Shut up or I’ll tell them about your Disney—"
Jimin yelped and vanished behind his seatback. The earbuds muffled their bickering, turning it into distant static as Sin exhaled, shoulders dropping an inch. The bunny in his lap was warm now, fur matted from his grip. He traced the embroidered "B21" on its foot—Jungkook’s jersey number stitched in clumsy thread, uneven where the needle had slipped. Sin wondered how long it’d taken him to sew.
The milk arrived in a small plastic cup, condensation beading along its rim like dew on grass. Sin stared at it, transfixed, as the flight attendant’s perfume—something floral and expensive—lingered in the air between them. He hadn’t expected them to have milk. He’d asked for it on impulse, the word slipping out before he could stop it, childish in a way that made his cheeks burn. But here it was, real and cold against his fingertips when he lifted the cup.
Across the aisle, Jimin snorted into his own drink—something fizzy and neon-orange that smelled like synthetic citrus. "Milk," he stage-whispered to Jungkook, who was peering over the headrest with narrowed eyes. "That’s your influence." Jungkook’s ears turned pink, but he didn’t deny it, just sank back into his seat with a grunt that might’ve been approval. Sin took a cautious sip, the sweetness blooming on his tongue, and missed the way Yoongi’s fingers paused over his keyboard at the sight.
The piano in Sin’s earbuds swelled—a crescendo Yoongi had composed between midnight and exhaustion—and for a moment, the hum of the plane’s engines faded into the background. He didn’t notice the attendant returning until she was leaning over him again, this time with a napkin discreetly offered for the milk mustache he didn’t realize he’d acquired. Jimin’s resulting giggle was muffled behind both hands, shoulders shaking.
Sin wiped his mouth, mortified, but before he could overthink it, Yoongi’s elbow nudged his ribs. "Kid," he said, not looking up from his screen, "you’re allowed to like things." His tone was flat, but his thumb hovered over the trackpad, hesitating before he added, "Even if they’re embarrassing." The music shifted in Sin’s ears—softer now, almost tentative—and he realized with a start that Yoongi was editing the composition live, tweaking the melody to match the rhythm of Sin’
Sin blinked awake to the clatter of meal trays, his cheek sticky where it had been pressed against Yoongi’s shoulder. The cabin lights had dimmed to a honeyed glow, casting long shadows across the tray table where a plastic-wrapped meal sat untouched. He must’ve dozed off to the lull of Yoongi’s piano track—the melody still hummed softly in his earbuds, now tangled in his hair.
"Here," murmured a voice too close, and Sin startled as fingers brushed his wrist, nudging a napkin into his limp grip. The flight attendant—a woman with glossy lips and a perfume that clawed at his throat—leaned further into his space than necessary, her acrylic nail catching on the bunny’s ear as she "accidentally" grazed his thigh. "You’ll want this for the—oh!" Her gasp was theatrical as Sin recoiled, knocking his elbow against the tray. The plastic lid popped off, revealing sad-looking pasta that smelled vaguely of regret.
Yoongi’s laptop snapped shut so fast the sound cracked through the cabin like a gunshot.
"Problem?" he asked, voice deceptively light. His fingers, though, curled white-knuckled around the edge of his keyboard. The attendant straightened abruptly, smile faltering under Yoongi’s glacial stare.
The attendant's smile wavered like a faulty neon sign. "No problem at all," she chirped, though her fingers twitched against the empty drink tray she clutched to her chest. She took a deliberate step back—too calculated to be natural—and Sin could almost see the recalculations flickering behind her overly lined eyes. "Just checking if the young gentleman needed anything else." Her gaze darted to Sin's milk mustache, still half-visible despite the napkin, and something predatory glinted in her pupils before she smoothed it over with professional blandness.
Sin pressed deeper into his seat, the bunny's ears crumpling in his grip. He didn't realize he'd stopped breathing until Yoongi's elbow dug into his ribs again—not gently this time. "Breathe, kid," Yoongi muttered under his breath, never breaking eye contact with the attendant. His voice was low enough that only Sin could hear the razor edge beneath the casual tone. "And stop looking like a startled fawn. She's not a fucking tiger."
But Sin couldn't help it. The woman's perfume clung to the air between them, thick as syrup, and suddenly all he could think about was the way strangers' hands always seemed to find excuses to linger—on his wrist, his shoulder, the small of his back—like he was public property just because his face happened to be symmetrical. The pasta on his tray congealed into an unappetizing beige lump.
Yoongi’s fingers twitched toward his phone before he consciously decided to move, thumb hovering over Namjoon’s contact with lethal precision. The attendant—Kim Soojin, her nametag declared in cheerful pink script—flinched almost imperceptibly when his screen illuminated, casting sharp shadows across his stony expression. He didn’t dial. Not yet. But the message was clear in the way his jaw tightened as he tapped out a single line: Flight attendant 32A. Hands.
Sin’s milk cup trembled faintly against the tray when the attendant finally retreated, her heels clicking a staccato retreat down the aisle. Yoongi waited until her figure disappeared behind the curtain separating business from first class before exhaling through his nose—a slow, controlled release of air that did nothing to dissipate the tension coiling in his shoulders.
"Look at me," he ordered, voice low enough that the words barely carried past Sin’s tangled earbuds. When Sin didn’t immediately comply—too busy staring at his own white-knuckled grip on the bunny—Yoongi reached over and flicked his forehead. Not hard. Just enough to startle his gaze upward. "She’s gone. Breathe."
Sin’s inhale shuddered like a faulty engine turning over. The bunny’s left ear had acquired permanent creases from his death grip.
Yoongi’s thumb hovered over his phone screen where Namjoon’s contact photo—a ridiculous candid of him mid-sneeze—grinned up at him. He typed one-handed, his other palm pressed flat against Sin’s knee beneath the tray table, grounding. The message was succinct: Flight attendant 32A. Hands. Three dots appeared immediately. Then: Hands where?
Yoongi’s jaw flexed. Wrist. Then thigh when he flinched. The dots pulsed. Yoongi added, Sin’s still shaking.
The response came faster than expected: Already on it. Followed by, Is he eating?
Yoongi glanced at the untouched pasta congealing on Sin’s tray. "Namjoon-ah wants to know if you’ve eaten," he said, deliberately casual, as if discussing the weather instead of the fact that their leader was currently siccing HYBE’s legal team on an overeager flight attendant three rows back.
Yoongi wasn’t new to flirty strangers—fans who “accidentally” brushed his arm at meet-and-greets, stylists who lingered too long zipping his jacket, the occasional bold intern who slid their number into his coffee order. He’d perfected the art of the polite-but-firm sidestep years ago. But this? This was different. The attendant’s fingers hadn’t just brushed Sin’s wrist—they’d pressed, deliberate and lingering, acrylic nails digging into the soft skin above his pulse point like she was marking territory. And Sin—god, Sin had frozen like a rabbit in headlights, cerulean eyes going wide and glassy, his breath hitching so faintly Yoongi wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been watching.
Yoongi’s phone buzzed again. Sejin’s handling it. She’s being reassigned to cargo. A beat. Then: Tell Sin to eat something. Yoongi scoffed under his breath. As if Sin would eat now, with the scent of that woman’s cloying perfume still clinging to the air around them. He could see the way Sin’s fingers trembled around the bunny’s ears, the way his throat worked every time he swallowed—like he was trying not to gag.
Yoongi's fork scraped against his untouched steak with deliberate nonchalance. Without a word, he slid his entire tray across the narrow gap between their seats, swapping it for Sin's cold pasta before the younger could protest. The steak—still steaming slightly, edges perfectly seared—gleamed under the cabin lights like some sort of sacrificial offering.
Sin stared at the plate, then at Yoongi's profile as the older man stabbed a limp noodle with visible disdain. "But—" Sin's voice cracked, fingers hovering over the tray like he expected it to vanish. "That's yours."
Yoongi snorted, chewing the sad pasta with the enthusiasm of someone swallowing medicine. "And now it's not." He nudged the steak closer with his elbow, refusing to meet Sin's wide-eyed gaze. "Eat. Before I change my mind."
Sin's "thank you" was so soft it barely cleared the hum of the plane's engines, his pinky brushing the edge of the tray as if testing its reality. The first bite of steak—juicy and seasoned just right—made his eyes flutter shut in involuntary relief. When he opened them, Yoongi was watching him over a forkful of congealed pasta, something unreadable flickering in his dark eyes before he pointedly looked away.
Across the aisle, Jimin made an exaggerated gagging noise. "Kook, that's basically a love confession in Yoongi-language," he stage-whispered to Jungkook, who'd twisted around to glare at them both. "He once bit Jin-hyung for stealing a single fry."
Yoongi flipped them off without looking up from his phone, where he was now texting Sejin with single-minded intensity. The screen illuminated the sharp planes of his face in the dim cabin light, casting shadows that made his expression even more unreadable. Sin watched, mesmerized, as Yoongi’s thumb hovered over the keyboard—hesitating—before typing something decisive and hitting send with a final tap.
The bunny’s fur was damp under Sin’s fingers now, matted from his nervous grip. He smoothed its ears absently, tracing the wonky stitching of Jungkook’s jersey number again. Outside, the plane shuddered through a patch of turbulence, and Sin’s stomach lurched in tandem. He didn’t realize he’d grabbed Yoongi’s sleeve until the older man went very still beside him, fork halfway to his mouth.
"You good?" Yoongi asked, voice deliberately flat. His eyes, though, flicked down to where Sin’s fingers twisted in his sweater—white-knuckled and trembling.
Sin opened his mouth to apologize, but the words dissolved when the plane dipped again, sharper this time. His grip tightened instinctively, and Yoongi’s breath hitched—just once—before he carefully pried Sin’s fingers loose. "Okay," he muttered, more to himself than Sin, as if resigning himself to some inevitable fate. Then, with a long-suffering sigh, he draped his arm over Sin’s shoulders and yanked him sideways until Sin’s head thumped against his collarbone. "There. Now stop vibrating."
The overhead lights flickered as the plane banked sharply, and Sin's fingers dug into Yoongi's sweater like he was the only solid thing in a world tilting off-axis. Somewhere behind them, a meal tray clattered to the floor, followed by Hoseok's dramatic wail about his spilled orange juice. Yoongi ignored it all, his grip tightening around Sin's shoulder in a silent command: Stay put.
Sin could feel Yoongi's heartbeat through the thin fabric of his hoodie—steady and slightly too fast, like a metronome set just a fraction off rhythm. The scent of vanilla coffee and something uniquely Yoongi—clean and sharp, like winter air—filled his lungs with each shaky inhale. It was nothing like the attendant's cloying perfume. This smell didn't claw at his throat; it anchored him.
"Stop thinking so loud," Yoongi grumbled, flicking Sin's forehead with his free hand. The gesture was rough, but his thumb lingered to smooth the crease between Sin's brows. "We've got six hours left. Sleep."
Sin's lashes fluttered against Yoongi's collarbone. "But the—"
Sin’s protests dissolved into a yawn halfway through, his eyelids drooping like weighted curtains despite the plane’s occasional shudder. The last thing he registered was Yoongi’s sigh—exasperated but fond—and the warmth of fingers carding briefly through his hair before darkness swallowed him whole.
Yoongi waited until Sin’s breathing evened out against his shoulder before extracting his phone with surgical precision, careful not to jostle the sleeping figure curled against him. The screen illuminated instantly with a flood of unread messages:
[Bangtan Fam 💜]
Seokjin: Why is Sejin interrogating a flight attendant in the galley?
Namjoon: Not now.
Jimin: HYBE’s legal team just emailed me????
Yoongi’s thumbs moved silently over the keyboard, typing one-handed: Hands on Sin. Not accidental. The response was instantaneous—a synchronized vibration from six different pockets across the cabin.
Behind them, Taehyung’s tray table slammed down with enough force to make the overhead bins rattle. Yoongi didn’t need to turn around to know the younger man’s playful demeanor had evaporated; he could feel the shift in the air like static before lightning.
Taehyung: Where?
Yoongi: Wrist first. Then thigh when he flinched.
A plastic cup crunched audibly two rows ahead. Jungkook’s profile was rigid against the dim cabin lights, his fist clenched around the remains of his soda. When his phone buzzed with Yoongi’s message, his shoulders tensed further—the line of his jaw sharp enough to cut glass.
Hoseok: I’ll handle it.
Seokjin: You’ll do no such thing.
The overhead bin rattled as Hoseok stood abruptly, his usual sunshine smile replaced by something colder. Three flight attendants materialized instantly—too fast, too attentive—but Hoseok merely handed his crushed cup to the nearest one with a sweetness that didn’t reach his eyes. “Accident,” he chirped, stepping sideways to block their view of Sin’s sleeping form. His fingers tapped a rapid staccato against his thigh—Morse code or pent-up fury, Yoongi couldn’t tell.
Namjoon: Sejin’s rerouting her to cargo. Permanently.
Jimin: Too nice.
Jungkook: Not nice enough.
Yoongi’s thumb hovered over the keyboard, Sin’s weight warm against his side. The kid had curled into him like a comma, one hand still fisted in Yoongi’s sweater even in sleep. Up close, Yoongi could see the way his eyelashes cast spidery shadows on cheeks still round with youth. Too young for the way that attendant’s nails had dug into his skin like she was claiming territory.
Yoongi: He’s asleep.
Six phones buzzed in unison. Across the aisle, Jimin twisted in his seat to peer over the headrest, lips pressed into a thin line. His gaze dropped to Sin’s fingers tangled in Yoongi’s sleeve, then flicked to the abandoned steak congealing on the tray. Without a word, he reached over and carefully extracted the fork from Sin’s limp grip before it could clatter to the floor.
Jimin: Did he eat?
Yoongi: Half the steak.
Seokjin: Good enough.
Jungkook’s seatbelt clicked open with a violence that made the elderly couple across the aisle startle. He was halfway to standing when Taehyung’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist with enough force to leave marks. “Don’t,” Taehyung murmured, voice pitched low beneath the engine’s drone. His smile stayed fixed—pleasant, vacant—but his eyes were black holes. “Not here.”
The overhead lights flickered as the plane hit another patch of turbulence, casting jagged shadows across Jungkook’s face. His free hand curled into a fist, knuckles pressing white against his thigh. “She touched him,” he hissed, the words barely audible over the intercom’s cheerful safety reminder. “Like he was—”
Jungkook’s voice fractured mid-sentence, swallowed by the plane’s sudden descent. The attendant’s cart rattled past them, wheels squeaking, but her steps faltered when she caught sight of Jungkook’s expression—something feral lurking beneath the forced neutrality. She veered sharply toward first class without a word.
Sin stirred against Yoongi’s shoulder, his fingers twitching in sleep. Yoongi tightened his grip instinctively, his free hand still typing one-handed: Cool it. He’s waking up.
Six phones darkened in unison. Across the aisle, Jimin’s fingers flexed around the armrests—once, twice—before he forced them to relax. His smile, when he turned it on the elderly woman peering at them curiously, was all dimples and practiced charm. “Turbulence,” he explained with a sheepish shrug, as if that explained the tension vibrating through the cabin like a plucked string.
Yoongi’s phone buzzed again. [Bangtan Fam 💜] Jungkook: She looked at him like— The message cut off abruptly. Yoongi didn’t need to turn around to know Taehyung had confiscated Jungkook’s phone; the younger man’s silence was more telling than any outburst.
Sin blinked awake to the taste of something rich and sweet dissolving on his tongue—chocolate, dark and slightly bitter, melting against the roof of his mouth. The cabin lights had been dimmed to a drowsy glow, casting Yoongi’s sharp features in soft gold as he leaned over Sin with a foil wrapper pinched between his fingers.
"You were sleep-mumbling about cake," Yoongi muttered by way of explanation, pressing another square into Sin’s palm before he could fully process the waking world. His thumb brushed Sin’s lifeline—just once—quick enough to be written off as accidental. "Eat. Landing soon."
The chocolate was cool against Sin’s sleep-warm fingers, the foil crinkling softly as he unfolded it. Outside the window, dawn bled across the horizon in streaks of pink and orange, painting the clouds in watercolor hues. Sin marveled at the way the light refracted through his half-empty milk cup—still perched precariously on his tray table—casting prismatic shadows over Yoongi’s knuckles.
A rustle came from the row behind them. "Hyung never shares his fancy chocolates," Jimin stage-whispered, his breath tickling Sin’s ear as he appeared suddenly over the seatback, upside-down and grinning. "Those are from Paris. He bit Tae for trying to steal one last—"
Sin blinked at the chocolate square in his palm, its surface gleaming under the cabin lights like polished obsidian. The sweetness lingered on his tongue, unfamiliar and decadent—nothing like the cheap convenience store candies he used to ration under his pillow.
The plane lurched sharply, sending Sin’s knee crashing into the tray table with a metallic clang. His gasp was muffled by Yoongi’s sweater as the older man yanked him closer with a muttered curse, one arm bracing across Sin’s chest like a seatbelt made of flesh and bone. Across the aisle, Jimin’s phone slid off his lap, illuminating Jungkook’s outstretched hand—palm up, fingers splayed—as he caught it midair without looking. His eyes remained fixed on Sin, pupils swallowing the cabin’s dim light whole.
“Landing gear,” Yoongi grunted, his breath stirring Sin’s messy bangs. His grip loosened fractionally when the turbulence eased, but his fingers stayed curled around Sin’s wrist, thumb pressed to the pulse point where the attendant’s nails had left phantom marks. “Quit vibrating.”
Sin's oversized hoodie swallowed him whole—black fabric pooling around his wrists, the hem brushing mid-thigh where it had ridden up during the flight. The mask hid his pink lips and beauty mark, the cap shadowed his cerulean eyes, but none of it mattered. If anything, the anonymity only accentuated the delicate slope of his nose, the way his lashes caught the fluorescent airport lights like spiderwebs jeweled with dew.
Manila's humidity hit them like a wet towel to the face the second they stepped off the jet bridge. Sin gasped audibly behind his mask, fingers twitching toward his hoodie zipper before aborting the motion—too self-conscious to strip layers in front of the swarm of ground staff and security personnel.
Namjoon, three steps ahead, glanced back just in time to see Yoongi wordlessly pluck at Sin's hoodie strings. "Breathe, kid," Yoongi muttered, tugging the fabric loose with a precision that suggested he'd been counting every stifled inhale since touchdown. The hood fell back, revealing Sin's mussed white hair—flattened on one side from where he'd slept against Yoongi's shoulder—and the red imprint of seat fabric on his cheek.
Jungkook materialized on Sin's other side like a shadow given form, his fingers brushing Sin's elbow with deliberate casualness—close enough to steady, far enough to feign innocence. The contact lingered a beat too long, his thumb tracing the dip of Sin's inner wrist where the attendant's nails had left ghost-marks. A silent question. Sin nodded once, barely perceptible, and Jungkook's exhale ruffled the hair peeking from under his cap.
Security personnel swarmed around them in practiced chaos, badges flashing, walkie-talkies crackling with static. One officer—broad-shouldered, with a nametag that read DELA CRUZ—did a double-take at Sin, his gaze snagging on the way Sin's oversized sleeves swallowed his hands whole. Yoongi's shoulder bumped Sin's, nudging him half a step behind Namjoon's bulk just as Hoseok swooped in with a dazzling smile, blocking the officer's line of sight with a theatrical stretch. "Ah, these long flights!" he sighed, arms raised high enough to eclipse Sin entirely.
The arrivals hall buzzed with the electric hum of too many bodies in too-small space. Sin's sneakers squeaked against polished linoleum as he sidestepped a luggage cart, his shoulder blades prickling under the weight of stares—some curious, some calculating. A group of girls in school uniforms clutched each other by the duty-free, their whispers sharp as knives: "Ang ganda niya—" cut off abruptly when Taehyung "tripped" into their path, sending a tower of perfume samples clattering to the floor.
Jimin materialized at Sin's back, his breath warm against Sin's nape. "Don't look," he murmured, fingers skating down Sin's spine—too quick to be accidental—as a camera flash went off somewhere to their left. The press of bodies thickened around them, airport security struggling to contain the sudden surge of onlookers drawn by the commotion.
Sin's pulse fluttered against Jungkook's lingering grip, his cerulean eyes darting to the exit signs like a trapped animal calculating escape routes. He didn't notice Yoongi's arm sliding behind him until it was too late—the older man's palm splayed across the small of his back, steering him effortlessly through the crowd as if he weighed nothing.
"Eyes forward," Yoongi ordered, low enough that only Sin could hear. His thumb pressed into the dip of Sin's spine through the hoodie, a brand of warmth that cut through the airport's overzealous air conditioning. "They'll eat you alive if you flinch."
The words proved prophetic. A woman in a press lanyard lunged forward, her phone extended like a weapon. "Kim Namjoon-ssi! Is this your new—"
The woman's phone grazed Sin's shoulder before Seokjin's arm shot out—not fast, but deliberate—his sleeve cuff catching the edge of the device with just enough force to send it clattering to the floor. "Ah, so clumsy today," he sighed, not bothering to look at the journalist as he stepped neatly between her and Sin, his broad back blocking all sightlines. His smile remained serene, but the hand he pressed to Sin's lower back pushed with uncharacteristic insistence. "Walk, darling."
Sin stumbled forward into the vacuum created by Hoseok and Yoongi moving in synchronized formation—two walls of muscle bracketing him as they cut through the terminal’s chaos. The journalist’s protests faded behind them, swallowed by Seokjin’s diplomatic murmurs and the squeal of luggage carts.
The VIP lounge smelled like money—or at least, that's what Sin imagined money would smell like if it had a scent. Something sterile and expensive, like leather seats that had never been sat in and marble floors polished to a dangerous sheen. He perched on the edge of an armchair that probably cost more than his entire wardrobe, fingers worrying the bunny's tattered ear as Sejin and Helmeoni stood framed by floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the tarmac, their silhouettes backlit by the harsh Philippine sun.
"—already arranged everything," Helmeoni was saying, her voice lowered to a frequency that made Sin's skin prickle. She tapped her tablet with a manicured nail, the sound like a metronome counting down to something inevitable. "The penthouse is fully stocked. Security's been notified. There's no reason for concern."
Sejin's responding hum vibrated through the air-conditioned chill. Sin watched, transfixed, as the man's shadow stretched long across the marble—a black stain inching toward Namjoon's polished shoes. "And the incident?" Sejin asked, too casual.
Helmeoni's smile didn't reach her eyes. "Handled."
Sin's fingers spasmed around the bunny's ears. The word slithered down his spine—handled—with too many teeth. Across the lounge, Yoongi's jaw flexed once before he schooled his expression back into neutrality, but not before Sin caught the flicker of something dark in his eyes.
Namjoon shifted beside him, the warmth of his arm pressing against Sin's from shoulder to elbow—a silent barricade between him and whatever handled entailed. "And our schedule?" Namjoon asked, voice pitched to carry just enough to drown out Helmeoni's next words.
Sejin's gaze flicked to Sin for half a heartbeat too long. "Flexible."
The silence that followed was a living thing. Jin broke it with a clap that made Sin jump, his rings glinting under the recessed lighting. "Well!" Jin beamed, all perfect teeth and crinkled eyes, but his grip on Sin's wrist as he stood was firm enough to leave marks. "Who's starving? I vote we raid that minibar before—"
The penthouse smelled like dust and abandonment—the kind of place purchased on a whim and forgotten halfway through unpacking. Sin hovered in the foyer, fingers twisting in his hoodie strings as the others fanned out through the cavernous space, their footsteps echoing off bare marble floors. The walls stood barren except for a single crooked photograph—Sin at fifteen, grinning on some European bridge with a melting gelato in hand—left behind like a time capsule of the person he'd been before the world noticed him.
"Christ," Yoongi muttered, toeing open a cardboard box labeled Kitchen?? in smudged Sharpie. A single frying pan gleamed back at him, still wrapped in protective plastic. "You ever actually live here?"
Sin's shrug was swallowed by the oversized hoodie. "I meant to." The admission came out small, drowned by the thunk of Jungkook dropping his duffel bag on the quartz countertop with enough force to send dust motes swirling. They caught in the late afternoon light slanting through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the fine layer of neglect coating every surface.
Jimin whistled low as he disappeared down the hallway, his voice bouncing back to them from what sounded like a cavernous bedroom. "Sin-ah, there's a fucking grand piano in here."
The piano keys were cold under Sin’s fingertips—not the crisp, polished ivory he expected, but a layer of dust so fine it clung to his skin like powdered sugar. His pinky hovered over middle C, hesitating, as if pressing it might wake something better left sleeping. Behind him, Jungkook’s sneakers scuffed against the marble floor, his presence a silent question in the doorway.
“You said you stayed here,” Jungkook murmured, closer now. His breath stirred the hair at Sin’s nape—warm against the penthouse’s stale chill. “But these sheets…” His fingers brushed the piano bench’s velvet cover, pristine and untouched. “They’ve never been lifted.”
Sin exhaled through his nose, his breath disturbing the dust on the keys. Two days. That’s what he’d told them. Two days in this cavernous tomb of marble and glass, listening to the echo of his own footsteps like a ghost haunting himself. The reality? He’d lasted six hours—just long enough to watch the sunset bleed across Manila Bay from the terrace before panic clawed up his throat at the silence. He’d fled to a hostel with bunk beds so close he could hear strangers breathing.
Yoongi’s reflection appeared in the piano’s glossy surface, his arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed the room. His gaze landed on the single framed photo—Sin’s younger self frozen mid-laugh, Rome’s Ponte Sant’Angelo arching behind him. “You didn’t unpack,” he observed, nodding toward the stacked boxes labeled Clothes and Books in shaky handwriting.
The confession spilled out like a tipped-over inkwell—dark, spreading, impossible to contain once it breached the edges. Sin's fingers curled around the piano bench's dust-covered velvet, his voice barely clearing the hum of the air conditioning. "I lied about staying here." The admission hovered between them, fragile as the dust motes suspended in the late afternoon light. "I couldn't—" His throat clicked on the swallow. "The silence kept—"
Jungkook's knee bumped the bench as he crouched beside him, close enough that Sin could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. His fingers brushed the untouched sheet music still sealed in its plastic sleeve—Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, purchased on a whim and never opened. "You don't have to finish that sentence," he murmured, thumb skating over Sin's knuckles where they whitened on the bench.
But Sin did. He had to. The words piled up behind his teeth like floodwaters against a dam. "I slept at a hostel. The kind with—" His laugh came out jagged, scratching at his throat. "—bunk beds so close you can hear strangers snoring." The memory of it pressed against his ribs—the warmth of other bodies, the rustle of shared blankets, the way the night air smelled like salt and too many lives tangled together. Anything to escape the echoing emptiness of this marble tomb.
Yoongi's reflection shifted in the piano's glossy surface. He reached past Sin's shoulder, dragging one finger through the dust on the keys. It left a clean streak—a single note waiting to be played. "We've all got places like this,"
The penthouse’s living room smelled faintly of takeout containers and the lemon-scented cleaner the staff had used on the glass coffee table—too harsh, too chemical. Sin curled into the corner of the oversized sectional, knees drawn to his chest, as Seokjin spread a map of Manila across the table with a dramatic flourish. The paper crinkled under his palms, dotted with coffee rings from some previous, forgotten planning session.
"Intramuros first," Namjoon declared, tapping the historic walled city with his chopstick. A grain of rice tumbled onto the map, landing squarely on Fort Santiago. "It’s the most—"
"—touristy," Yoongi finished dryly, sprawled at the opposite end of the couch with his feet propped on Sin’s abandoned seat cushion. His toes flexed, brushing Sin’s thigh through the thin fabric of his borrowed sweatpants—casual, thoughtless contact that made Sin’s breath hitch.
Jimin, upside-down on the floor with his head pillowed on Jungkook’s shins, made a noise of protest. "Sin-ah should see the sunset at Manila Bay," he insisted, kicking his legs in the air. The motion sent his socked foot skimming Taehyung’s shoulder, who caught Jimin’s ankle without looking and pressed a thumb into the arch hard enough to make him yelp. "The colors are—"
Sin traced the edge of the map with his pinky finger, watching as Manila Bay's blue ink smudged beneath his touch. "Have you all been here before?" The question slipped out before he could stop it, soft as the dust still clinging to his borrowed sweatpants.
Jungkook's chopsticks froze mid-air, a bite of pancit canton dangling precariously. The sudden stillness made Sin's pulse skitter—had he asked something wrong?
Taehyung was the first to break the silence, twisting to press his socked feet against Sin's thigh where Yoongi's toes had been moments before. "Twice for concerts," he said, grinning when Sin instinctively caught his ankles. "Once we got lost in Divisoria for three hours buying knockoff perfumes that made Hobi-hyung sneeze rainbows."
The tension dissolved into laughter—Hoseok's dramatic reenactment of the allergic fit, complete with flailing limbs that nearly upended the coffee table. But Sin noticed how Yoongi's fingers tightened around his beer bottle at the memory, how Namjoon's gaze flicked to the balcony doors like he was calculating escape routes.
Jimin rolled onto his stomach, chin propped on Jungkook's knee. "You know what we never did?" His fingers crept toward Sin's abandoned soda can like a spider. "The underground tunnels at Fort Santiago. They say—"
Sin's fingers curled into the hem of his borrowed sweater—too large, smelling faintly of Jungkook's laundry detergent—before he spoke. "I want to go to Baguio first." The words came out soft, but they cut through Jimin's ghost story like a knife through mist. Six heads swiveled toward him, chopsticks suspended mid-bite.
Yoongi was the first to recover, his toes flexing against Sin's thigh where they'd migrated back during Jimin's storytelling. "Baguio," he repeated, not a question but a statement—as if testing the weight of the word in his mouth.
"It's eight hours north by car," Sin blurted, tracing the map's creases with his pinky until his finger bumped Yoongi's bare ankle. He jerked back as if burned. "There's—the roads curve like ribbon. And the pines smell like…" His voice trailed off when he noticed Jungkook's chopsticks hovering millimeters from his lips, forgotten.
Jimin rolled onto his back, dislodging Jungkook's knee with a thump. "You've been?" His socked foot nudged Sin's shin—a silent continue.
Sin's throat worked around the lie before it came out. "No." The single syllable hung between them, fragile as the condensation sliding down his abandoned soda can. "But I bought a postcard once. From a flea market in—" His fingers twitched toward his left beauty mark, a nervous tic. "The colors were all wrong. Too blue. The real pines are…"
Taehyung's feet slid from Sin's lap as he sat up abruptly, knees popping. "You've never been," he said slowly, eyes tracking the way Sin's fingers pleated the hem of Jungkook's borrowed sweater, "but you know how the pines smell?"
The air conditioner hummed. Somewhere in the penthouse, a faucet dripped. Sin's pulse throbbed visibly at his throat.
Namjoon's chopsticks clicked against his takeout box—once, twice—before he set them down with deliberate care. "Sin-ah," he murmured, leaning forward until the coffee table's edge dug into his thighs. "What's in Baguio?"
Sin's lower lip jutted out in a pout so exaggerated it looked almost comical—like a child denied dessert rather than a grown man caught in a lie. His fingers twisted in the hem of Jungkook's borrowed sweater, the fabric stretching taut under his nervous grip. "Fine," he muttered, cheeks flushing pink under their collective stares. "The last time I was in Baguio, I was… maybe nine?"
The admission hung in the air, suspended like the dust motes caught in the late afternoon sunlight. Yoongi's toes, still pressed against Sin's thigh, flexed involuntarily—as if his body reacted before his brain could process the confession.
"Elementary school?" Jimin blurted, rolling onto his knees so fast his elbow knocked over Sin's soda can. The fizzy liquid spread across the coffee table, bubbling over Namjoon's carefully marked map, but no one moved to stop it.
Sin shrunk further into the couch cushions, his cerulean eyes darting between their faces like a cornered animal. "We went for my aunt's birthday," he mumbled, picking at a loose thread on the sweater sleeve. "She… liked the cold." His voice hitched on the past tense, fingers stilling mid-pick.
The penthouse's air conditioning hummed louder, as if sensing the shift in atmosphere. Sin's fingers trembled around the loose thread—tiny, almost imperceptible vibrations that Taehyung noticed first, his sharp eyes tracking the movement from across the coffee table. Without a word, Taehyung reached over and plucked the thread free with a quick tug, snapping it cleanly between his fingers before Sin could spiral further.
"Baguio it is," Seokjin announced, clapping his hands together with finality. The sound echoed off the marble floors like a gunshot. He rolled up the ruined Manila map without glancing at the soda stains, the paper crinkling ominously in his grip. "We'll leave at dawn. The roads are—"
The backstage lights buzzed faintly, casting long shadows across the cramped dressing room where Namjoon sat slumped in a chair, one leg bouncing absently. His manager had just left after another lecture about punctuality, but his thoughts were elsewhere—specifically, on the small figure darting between racks of costumes with arms full of garment bags.
Sin moved like water, silent and effortless, his white hair catching the fluorescents as he ducked under a rolling rack. There was something almost hypnotic about the way he worked—fingers smoothing fabric, lips pressed together in concentration. Namjoon had seen staff scramble before, but never with this kind of quiet precision.
"Hyung," Sin murmured suddenly, startling him. He hadn’t even noticed the boy approach. Up close, his lashes were unfairly long, casting feathery shadows over the beauty mark beneath his eye. "Your jacket’s hem is loose. I can fix it before the shoot if you—if you want." He held out a tiny sewing kit like an offering, gaze flickering away almost shyly.
Namjoon blinked. It wasn’t the first time Sin had caught details no one else did—last week, he’d quietly handed Jungkook a spare guitar pick mid-rehearsal without being asked—but the warmth in his chest at the gesture was new. "You carry that around?" he asked, taking the kit just to watch Sin’s fingers twitch at the brush of contact.
The sewing kit sat heavy in Namjoon’s palm, its weight disproportionate to its size. Sin’s fingers had lingered just a second too long when he handed it over—or maybe Namjoon had imagined that. But the way the boy’s breath hitched when their skin brushed wasn’t imagined. Neither was the way his cerulean eyes darted to Namjoon’s lips before flicking away, pink mouth parting like he wanted to say something more.
Namjoon should’ve handed the kit back. Should’ve laughed it off with a thanks, kid and let him scurry away. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and watched Sin’s pulse jump under that delicate skin. "You’re always fixing things for us," he murmured. The words came out rougher than intended. "Even things we don’t realize are broken."
Sin’s breath stuttered. He looked caught—like a moth realizing too late it had flown into a web. "I—I like being useful," he whispered, fingers twisting the hem of his oversized staff shirt. The fabric slid off one shoulder, exposing a collarbone so sharp it could cut glass. Namjoon’s throat went dry.
Behind them, a door slammed. Sin flinched, scrambling back as Hoseok’s voice echoed down the hall. The moment shattered, but Namjoon’s chest burned with something new. Something possessive.
The realization hit Namjoon like a stage light dropping from the rafters—sudden, blinding, and with the weight of something that couldn't be undone. He'd been watching Sin for weeks now, ever since that first stolen moment with the sewing kit, but tonight was different. Tonight, Sin knelt in the greenroom fixing Jin's in-ear monitors, his doll-like face scrunched in concentration as his fingers—those quick, delicate fingers—brushed the shell of Jin's ear. Something hot and jagged twisted in Namjoon's gut, and he knew.
He wanted to ruin him.
Not in the way one ruins a shirt by spilling coffee, but in the way a storm ruins a coastline—inevitably, beautifully, leaving something unrecognizably transformed in its wake. The thought should have scared him. Instead, it settled into his bones with the certainty of a chord resolving.
"Hyung?" Sin's voice was barely audible over the chatter of the crew prepping for the encore. He'd materialized at Namjoon's elbow, holding out a water bottle with condensation already beading down its sides. "You looked… thirsty." His cerulean eyes flicked up through pale lashes, and Namjoon could see the exact moment Sin registered the intensity of his gaze—the way his pink lips parted slightly, the beauty mark under his left eye twitching as his breath hitched.
The water bottle slipped from Namjoon’s grip, hitting the floor with a dull thud. He didn’t react—couldn’t, not when Sin was looking at him like that, pupils blown wide under the stage lights bleeding through the cracked door. The crew’s voices blurred into white noise, distant as radio static. All he could hear was the hitch in Sin’s breathing when he stepped closer, close enough to smell the faint citrus of his shampoo beneath the sweat-slicked stage air.
"You’re always," Namjoon began, then stopped. His voice came out wrong—low, frayed at the edges like overstretched guitar strings. He watched Sin’s throat bob as he swallowed, watched the way his collarbones peeked from beneath the crooked neckline of his staff shirt. The fabric clung to his shoulders, damp from hauling equipment, and Namjoon’s fingers twitched with the urge to peel it away. "Always right where I need you."
Sin made a sound—small, wounded, like he’d been holding it in for years. His fingers fluttered toward Namjoon’s wrist, then retreated, curling into his palm like he was physically stopping himself. The restraint was unbearable. Namjoon caught his wrist mid-retreat, thumb pressing into the fluttery pulse beneath translucent skin. "Hyung," Sin whispered, and it wasn’t a protest. It was surrender.
Backstage, someone dropped a mic stand with a clatter. Sin jerked like he’d been shocked, but Namjoon didn’t let go. Couldn’t. Not when the boy’s lashes were trembling, not when his pink lips were bitten raw from nerves. The beauty mark under his eye looked darker now, a smudge of ink against porcelain. Namjoon wanted to lick it.
The backstage air hummed with the aftershocks of performance—adrenaline, sweat, the electric thrum of bodies still vibrating from the stage. Namjoon’s fingers tightened around Sin’s wrist, feeling the rabbit-quick pulse beneath his thumb. The boy’s skin was fever-warm, his breath shallow as if he’d forgotten how to inhale properly. Around them, the crew moved in chaotic orbits, shouting over the rumble of rolling equipment carts, but none of them glanced twice at the two figures pressed close by the shadowed wing curtain.
Namjoon leaned in, close enough that his breath stirred the white strands clinging to Sin’s damp temple. "You’re trembling," he murmured, not unkindly. His free hand came up to brush the beauty mark under Sin’s eye—a deliberate, possessive stroke. The boy shuddered, lashes fluttering shut for a heartbeat too long. When they opened again, his cerulean eyes were glassy with something raw and unguarded. It made Namjoon’s chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the encore.
"I—" Sin’s voice cracked. He wet his lips, and Namjoon tracked the movement with predatory focus. The pink swell of his lower lip glistened faintly where his tongue had touched it. "I should go help with—with the mic packs." The lie was transparent, his gaze darting toward the crew but his body swaying infinitesimally closer to Namjoon’s heat.
A chuckle rumbled low in Namjoon’s throat. He stepped forward, crowding Sin back against the heavy stage curtain until the velvet swallowed the sound of their breathing. "Liar," he breathed, watching Sin’s pupils dilate further. The boy’s chest rose and fell rapidly beneath his oversized shirt, the fabric sliding to reveal the sharp dip of a collarbone. Namjoon wanted to bite it. Wanted to leave a mark so deep even the stage lights couldn’t erase it.
The curtain muffled the distant thud of mic stands being packed away, reducing the backstage chaos to a dull roar. Sin’s pulse jumped beneath Namjoon’s fingers like a trapped bird, his cerulean eyes wide and unblinking. Up close, his lashes cast shadows so pronounced they looked painted on. Namjoon wondered if they’d feel as delicate as they appeared against his lips. The thought alone made his grip tighten—not enough to hurt, but enough that Sin gasped, his pink mouth forming a perfect ‘o’ of surprise.
"You’re not going anywhere," Namjoon murmured. His thumb slid up the delicate underside of Sin’s wrist, tracing the blue veins there. The boy shuddered, his breath hitching when Namjoon’s knuckles brushed the sensitive skin of his inner elbow. "Not until you tell me why you’ve been watching me during soundchecks." Sin’s eyes flew open wider—caught—and Namjoon grinned, slow and predatory. "Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Those quick little glances when you think no one’s looking?"
A whimper escaped Sin’s throat, high and desperate. His free hand clutched at Namjoon’s sleeve, fingers twisting the fabric like he couldn’t decide whether to push or pull. The beauty mark under his eye darkened as blood rushed to his cheeks, his entire face flushing the same delicate pink as his bitten lips. Namjoon wanted to swallow the sound straight from his mouth.
The curtain shifted behind them as someone passed too close, sending a ripple through the heavy fabric. Sin flinched, his body pressing instinctively into Namjoon’s chest like he could burrow there. The heat of him was intoxicating—a living, trembling thing slotting perfectly against Namjoon’s frame. For a breathless moment, neither of them moved. Then Sin tilted his head up, his lips brushing the stubble along Namjoon’s jaw in what might have been an accident.
The accidental touch burned hotter than stage lights. Namjoon went utterly still, his breath catching as Sin’s lips lingered—hesitant, questioning—against his jaw. The boy’s exhale trembled, warm and damp against Namjoon’s skin, and he could feel the exact moment Sin realized what he’d done. The sharp intake of breath. The way his fingers spasmed against Namjoon’s sleeve.
Before Sin could bolt, Namjoon turned his head—just enough that their lips brushed in a graze so light it might’ve been imagined. Sin made a broken noise, his body arching into the contact like a plant toward sunlight. The curtain behind them swallowed the sound, heavy velvet muffling the outside world until all that existed was the space between their mouths: humid, charged, trembling on the precipice of something irreversible.
"Tell me to stop," Namjoon murmured against Sin’s lips. His thumb dug into the hinge of the boy’s jaw, tilting his face up. Sin’s eyelashes fluttered, his cerulean eyes glassy with want. His pink tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, and Namjoon tracked the movement with a hunger that bordered on violence. "Say the word, and I walk away."
Sin’s throat worked. For one agonizing second, Namjoon thought he might actually speak—might summon whatever shred of self-preservation still clung to that delicate frame. But then Sin surged forward, crushing their mouths together with a desperation that stole Namjoon’s breath. His lips were softer than imagined, parting effortlessly under Namjoon’s with a gasp that vibrated through both of them.
The kiss tasted like stolen sugar—cloying and too sweet, Sin’s lips yielding under Namjoon’s with a helpless little noise that went straight to his gut. He could feel the exact moment Sin’s knees buckled, the boy’s body folding into him as if his bones had turned to liquid. Namjoon caught him effortlessly, one hand splayed across the small of Sin’s back, the other tangled in that impossibly soft white hair. The strands slipped through his fingers like silk, and when he tugged—just enough to tilt Sin’s head back—the boy whimpered, his throat bobbing under Namjoon’s mouth as he kissed down the pale column of skin.
“H-hyung—” Sin’s voice cracked, his fingers scrabbling at Namjoon’s shoulders like he was drowning. The stage curtain swallowed the sound, its heavy folds trapping the humid press of their breathing, the slick slide of lips parting again and again. Namjoon bit down on the beauty mark under Sin’s eye, and the boy jerked against him with a gasp, his hips stuttering forward in an involuntary thrust that had them both freezing.
The realization hit like a drumbeat—Sin was hard, his arousal pressing shamelessly against Namjoon’s thigh through the thin fabric of his staff pants. Namjoon’s own breath came ragged at the discovery, his grip tightening possessively around Sin’s waist. “Fuck,” he growled against the boy’s ear, delighting in the full-body shudder it elicited. “You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?” His thumb brushed the damp hollow beneath Sin’s ear, feeling the frantic flutter of his pulse. “Tell me.”
Sin’s lashes fluttered, his cerulean eyes glassy with want. His lips—swollen now, glistening pink—parted on a shaky exhale. “Y-yes,” he admitted, so softly Namjoon had to strain to hear it. “In the—the storage room. When you took your shirt off after rehearsals.” The confession spilled out in a rush, his cheeks flushing darker with every word. “I watched the sweat—the way it dripped down your—”
Namjoon’s breath hitched—caught between a growl and a laugh. The storage room. That had been months ago. Which meant Sin had been watching, wanting, for far longer than Namjoon had realized. The thought sent a vicious thrill down his spine. His grip on Sin’s hair tightened, just enough to pull another whimper from the boy’s kiss-swollen lips. "You little stalker," he murmured, but there was no heat in it—only a dark, possessive amusement. "All this time, and you never said a word."
Sin’s eyelashes fluttered, his gaze dropping to Namjoon’s mouth like he was already starving for another taste. "You’re—" He swallowed hard, his fingers flexing against Namjoon’s biceps. "You’re you. And I’m just…" The rest of the sentence died in his throat, but Namjoon heard it anyway. Just staff. Just Sin. As if the boy hadn’t carved himself into Namjoon’s ribs with every stolen glance, every hesitant touch.
Namjoon crowded him harder against the curtain, his thigh pressing deliberately between Sin’s legs. The boy gasped, his hips jerking forward on instinct, and Namjoon watched with rapt fascination as pleasure—sharp and unguarded—flashed across his doll-like features. "Look at you," he breathed, dragging his thumb across Sin’s lower lip. "Falling apart just from this." He ground his thigh up, slow and deliberate, and Sin’s entire body shuddered, his nails biting into Namjoon’s shoulders through the fabric of his shirt.
The noise Sin made was obscene—a high, broken sound that Namjoon felt vibrate through his own chest. His lips parted, his tongue darting out to chase the taste of Sin’s gasp, when a sharp clang echoed from the other side of the curtain. Sin froze, his cerulean eyes widening in panic, but Namjoon didn’t let him pull away. "Easy," he murmured against the shell of Sin’s ear, his voice low enough that only the boy could hear it. "They can’t see us." His hand slid down Sin’s back, palming the curve of his ass through the thin fabric of his pants. "But they’ll hear you if you don’t keep quiet."
Sin's fingers dug into Namjoon's shoulders like he was clinging to a cliff edge. The crew's voices swelled nearer—some assistant cursing over tangled mic cables—but all Namjoon could focus on was the way Sin's body arched against his thigh, the damp heat seeping through fabric. The boy's eyelashes fluttered wildly, his breath coming in shallow hitches as Namjoon rolled his hips in a slow, tortuous grind. "H-hyung—" Sin's whisper cracked, his teeth sinking into his lower lip to muffle a moan when Namjoon's hand slid lower, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin behind his knee.
"Tell me what you imagined," Namjoon murmured against the shell of Sin's ear, relishing the way the boy trembled at the vibration. His free hand tugged Sin's shirt collar wider, exposing the sharp dip of his collarbone to the humid backstage air. "In the storage room. When you watched me." He punctuated the question with a nip to Sin's earlobe, and the boy jerked like he'd been electrocuted, his hips stuttering forward in an aborted thrust.
Sin's voice was barely audible, his lips brushing Namjoon's jaw as he gasped out the words. "Y-you—pinning me against the—the prop shelves." His breath hitched when Namjoon's teeth grazed his throat. "Your hands—rougher than they look—" The sentence dissolved into a whine as Namjoon's palm pressed firmly over the tented fabric of his pants, the pressure just shy of cruel.
Namjoon's laugh was a dark, pleased thing. "You like that?" he breathed, dragging his thumb along the straining outline of Sin's cock. The boy nodded desperately, his cerulean eyes blown black with want. "Use your words, sweet thing."
Sin's throat worked soundlessly, his lips forming silent syllables before the words finally tumbled out. "I—I like it," he gasped, his voice cracking on the admission. His fingers twisted in Namjoon's shirt, knuckles whitening as Namjoon's palm pressed harder against him through the fabric. "Please, hyung—"
The plea hung between them, trembling and raw. Namjoon watched Sin's eyelids flutter—watched the way his beauty mark disappeared briefly as his face contorted with pleasure—before he finally relented. His fingers hooked into the waistband of Sin's pants, yanking them down just enough to free his cock. The boy's breath hitched, his entire body going taut as Namjoon's hand wrapped around him, skin against burning skin.
"You're so pretty like this," Namjoon murmured, his thumb swiping over the head of Sin's cock, smearing the bead of precome that had gathered there. Sin whimpered, his hips jerking up into the touch like he couldn't help himself. His cock was flushed pink, the same shade as his bitten lips, and Namjoon couldn't resist leaning down to lick a stripe up the length of him.
Sin's cry was muffled by his own hand clapped over his mouth, his back arching off the curtain as Namjoon's tongue flicked over the sensitive underside of his cock. The taste of him was intoxicating—salt and heat and something uniquely Sin—and Namjoon groaned against his skin, the vibration wringing another broken sound from the boy above him.
Sin’s fingers tangled in Namjoon’s hair, tugging with a desperation that bordered on pain. His hips jerked forward instinctively, driving his cock deeper into the wet heat of Namjoon’s mouth, and the noise he made—half sob, half whimper—vibrated through the hollow of Namjoon’s throat. The curtain behind them muffled the sound, but nothing could hide the way Sin’s knees buckled when Namjoon swallowed him down to the root.
Namjoon pulled back just enough to let Sin’s cock slip from his lips with a wet pop, his breath ghosting over the flushed skin. “Quiet,” he reminded him, though his own voice was rough with want. Sin nodded frantically, his cerulean eyes glazed, his lower lip caught between his teeth hard enough to leave marks. Namjoon wanted to kiss the sting away. Instead, he wrapped his hand around the base of Sin’s cock and stroked slowly, watching the boy’s face twist with pleasure.
“H-hyung—” Sin’s voice cracked, his hips stuttering forward into Namjoon’s grip. His thighs trembled, his entire body taut as a bowstring, and Namjoon could feel the exact moment he teetered on the edge—the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers clenched in Namjoon’s hair.
Namjoon stilled his hand abruptly, squeezing just enough to stall Sin’s orgasm. The boy whined, high and desperate, his hips jerking futilely against the restraint. “Not yet,” Namjoon murmured, his thumb brushing over the head of Sin’s cock, smearing precome down the length of him. “You’ll come when I say you can.”
Sin’s breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as Namjoon’s grip tightened just shy of pain. The boy’s fingers trembled where they clutched at Namjoon’s shoulders, his nails biting through fabric. “Please,” he whispered, the word cracking mid-syllable. His cock twitched in Namjoon’s hand, leaking against his knuckles. “I—I can’t—”
Namjoon tsked, dragging his thumb over the slick head of Sin’s cock in a slow, torturous circle. The boy’s hips jerked, a full-body shudder wracking his frame. “You can,” Namjoon murmured, leaning close enough that his breath ghosted over Sin’s parted lips. “You will.” He punctuated the command with a twist of his wrist, and Sin’s knees nearly gave out, his moan muffled against Namjoon’s collarbone.
Behind them, the crew’s chatter swelled—someone barking orders about mic stands—but the heavy curtain absorbed the sound, leaving only the wet slide of Namjoon’s hand and Sin’s choked whimpers. The boy’s lashes fluttered wildly, his cerulean eyes glassy with unshed tears. Namjoon wanted to lick them away. Wanted to taste the salt on his skin. Instead, he dragged his free hand down Sin’s chest, fingers dipping beneath the rumpled hem of his shirt to trace the sharp ridges of his ribs.
Sin’s breath hitched when Namjoon’s fingertips brushed his nipple—a featherlight touch that had him arching off the curtain with a silent gasp. Namjoon grinned, dark and pleased, and did it again, rolling the bud between his fingers until Sin’s cock throbbed in his grip. “Sensitive here too?” he murmured, watching Sin’s throat work soundlessly. The boy nodded frantically, his lips forming Namjoon’s name without sound.
Sin’s hips jerked forward involuntarily, his cock sliding slick and hot against Namjoon’s palm. The friction drew a ragged gasp from his throat, his fingers scrabbling at Namjoon’s shoulders like he was drowning. Namjoon watched, fascinated, as Sin’s beauty mark disappeared under the flush creeping across his cheeks—the same violent pink as his bitten lips.
"Look at you," Namjoon murmured, tightening his grip just enough to make Sin’s breath stutter. His thumb swiped over the head of Sin’s cock, smearing precome in slow, deliberate circles. "So desperate for it. How long have you been like this?" He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of Sin’s ear as the boy shuddered. "Since the storage room? Or was it earlier?"
Sin’s throat worked soundlessly. His eyelashes fluttered, wet with unshed tears, and when he finally spoke, his voice was wrecked. "S-since—" He broke off with a whimper as Namjoon twisted his wrist, his hips bucking forward. "Since you—ah—since you handed me your jacket after the—the rain."
Namjoon stilled. That had been months ago—a throwaway gesture when Sin had been shivering in a soaked staff shirt. The realization sent a possessive thrill down his spine. His free hand came up to grip Sin’s chin, tilting his face up until their eyes met. "You’ve been thinking about me that long?" he asked, his voice rough with something darker than amusement. Sin’s gaze flickered away, but Namjoon tightened his hold, forcing the boy to meet his eyes. "Tell me."
Sin’s lips trembled, his breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps as Namjoon’s thumb pressed insistently against his jaw. The beauty mark under his eye stood out starkly against his flushed skin, a smudge of ink on parchment. "Y-yes," he admitted, the word barely more than a whisper. His cerulean eyes flickered down to Namjoon’s mouth, then away, as if the sight alone was too much to bear. "I—I kept the jacket. In my closet. Sometimes I—" His voice cracked, his cheeks burning impossibly darker.
Namjoon’s pulse roared in his ears. The mental image of Sin—sweet, shy Sin—pressing his face into that jacket, fingers skimming over the fabric like it was something sacred, sent a possessive heat curling low in his gut. His grip on Sin’s cock tightened reflexively, and the boy moaned, his hips jerking forward into the contact. "Fuck," Namjoon breathed, his voice rough as gravel. "You kept it?"
Sin nodded frantically, his lashes fluttering as Namjoon’s thumb circled the head of his cock in slow, torturous strokes. "I—I couldn’t help it," he gasped, his fingers twisting in Namjoon’s shirt. "It smelled like you." The confession spilled from his lips like a secret too heavy to carry, his voice cracking under the weight of it.
Namjoon’s breath hitched. He’d never been one for sentimentality, but the thought of Sin clinging to some discarded piece of him, hiding it away like a stolen treasure—it unraveled something primal in his chest. His free hand slid up Sin’s throat, his thumb pressing against the fluttery pulse there. "You’re mine," he growled, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Sin’s eyes widened, his lips parting on a silent gasp. For a heartbeat, the backstage noise faded to a dull hum, the world narrowing to the space between their bodies. Then Sin’s hips stuttered forward, his cock sliding hot and slick through Namjoon’s fist. "Yours," he echoed, his voice breaking on the word like a prayer.
KIM SEOKJIN
The coffee machine gurgled its last pathetic drops into the stained carafe. Seokjin stared at it, bleary-eyed, as if sheer willpower could refill it. "We're out of beans," Sin murmured from behind him, voice so soft it barely registered.
Seokjin turned, blinking. Sin wasn't even supposed to be here this early—none of them were, not after last night’s marathon shoot—but there he was, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, fingers nervously twisting the hem of his oversized hoodie. His hair was a mess, like he'd rolled straight out of bed and into the building, and the beauty mark under his left eye stood out starkly against his sleep-pale skin.
"You look terrible," Seokjin said, because he always said exactly what he thought. Sin just ducked his head, lips quirking into something that wasn’t quite a smile. "So do you, hyung."
The thing was, Sin wasn’t wrong. Seokjin had barely slept, his thoughts circling like vultures over something he couldn’t name. It wasn’t just exhaustion, though. It was the way Sin’s cerulean eyes caught the fluorescent lights, glimmering like fractured glass. It was the way he moved—quiet, efficient, like he was afraid to take up space.
The fluorescent lights hummed louder than Sin's voice ever did, and Seokjin found himself leaning in just to hear the way his breath hitched when their sleeves brushed. Sin smelled like vanilla—not the cheap kind, but the rich, almost edible scent that clung to bakery air. It was wrong, Seokjin decided, how someone so quiet could fill a room so completely without trying.
"Hyung?" Sin's fingers twitched toward the empty coffee pot, then away, like he couldn't decide if touching it would be crossing some invisible line. Seokjin wanted to pin that wrist to the countertop just to see what sound he'd make.
Instead, he reached past him for a sugar packet, deliberately letting his chest graze Sin's shoulder. The boy froze, lips parting around an unspoken word. Up close, his beauty mark looked like an inkblot test—what did it say about Seokjin that all he could think was mine?
"You're trembling," Seokjin murmured, catching Sin's pinky finger with his own. The contact lasted less than a second, but Sin's pupils blew wide, dark swallowing cerulean whole. Somewhere in the building, a door slammed. Neither of them flinched.
The overhead lights flickered—once, twice—as if sensing the static thickening between them. Seokjin didn’t move away. Instead, he let his thumb trace the edge of the counter where Sin’s hand had just been, the ghost of warmth lingering like a promise. "You’re always here before everyone else," he said, voice low enough that it could’ve been mistaken for the hum of the dying coffee machine. "Why?"
Sin’s throat worked as he swallowed, the movement delicate beneath his sleep-rumpled collar. "Someone has to make sure the schedules are ready," he murmured, but his gaze skittered away, landing on the empty pot like it held the answers. Seokjin knew that look—the one Sin wore when he was lying by omission. The boy was terrible at it, his tells written in the flutter of his lashes, the way his fingers curled into his palms as if to physically hold back the truth.
Seokjin leaned in, close enough to count the faint freckles dusting Sin’s nose. "Liar," he breathed, and watched, fascinated, as a flush crept up Sin’s neck, pink as the inside of a seashell. The boy didn’t deny it.
Somewhere down the hall, footsteps echoed—probably a cleaner or an overeager intern—but neither of them moved to put distance between themselves. Sin’s breath hitched when Seokjin’s knee brushed his under the counter, a silent dare. The air between them crackled with something unsaid, something wrong, and Seokjin found himself addicted to the way Sin’s pupils dilated, how his lips parted just slightly, like he was waiting for permission to speak. Or to be kissed.
The footsteps grew louder—three sharp clicks of dress shoes against linoleum—then faded down another hallway. Sin exhaled shakily, his shoulders relaxing a fraction, but Seokjin didn’t move away. He couldn’t. Not when Sin’s pulse fluttered visibly beneath the delicate skin of his throat, not when his pink lips parted around unsteady breaths. "Hyung," Sin whispered, and the honorific sounded less like respect and more like a plea, ragged at the edges.
Seokjin’s fingers twitched at his sides. He wanted to map the heat blooming across Sin’s cheeks with his thumbs, wanted to press into the softness of his waist until the boy gasped. Instead, he tilted his head, studying the way Sin’s eyelashes cast shadows like ink blots against his cheeks. "You didn’t answer my question," he murmured, voice dripping with false nonchalance. "Why are you really here, Sin-ah?"
Sin’s breath stuttered. His fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, knuckles whitening. "I—" He stopped, swallowed, tried again. "The coffee. I thought—"
"Liar," Seokjin repeated, softer this time, almost fond. He reached out, slow enough that Sin could pull away if he wanted to, and tucked a stray lock of white hair behind the boy’s ear. His fingers lingered, tracing the shell of Sin’s ear, reveling in the way his breath hitched. "You don’t even drink coffee."
Sin’s breath caught when Seokjin’s fingers lingered at his ear—a touch too deliberate to be accidental, too intimate to be professional. The overhead lights buzzed louder, drowning out the frantic rabbit-thump of his pulse. "Hyung," he whispered again, but the word dissolved into nothing as Seokjin’s thumb brushed the sensitive spot just below his earlobe.
Seokjin watched, rapt, as Sin’s eyelashes fluttered shut—not in rejection, but in surrender. The boy’s lips parted on a shaky exhale, pink and slightly chapped from biting them raw all night. Mine, the thought surged again, primal and unbidden. Seokjin had never considered himself possessive, but the way Sin trembled under his touch, like a leaf caught in a storm, lit something feral in his chest.
The silence between them stretched, taut as a bowstring, until Sin finally dared to lift his gaze. His cerulean eyes were glassy with something Seokjin couldn’t name—fear? Want? Both?—and the beauty mark under his left eye seemed to taunt him. Look what you’re doing to him, it whispered. Seokjin’s fingers twitched with the urge to press his mouth to it, to taste the salt of Sin’s skin.
"You know," Seokjin murmured, leaning in until his breath ghosted over Sin’s parted lips, "staff aren’t supposed to lie to their superiors." His voice was velvet-wrapped steel, the kind of tone that sent interns scrambling. But Sin didn’t scramble. He stayed—rooted in place, his hoodie sleeve slipping down to reveal the delicate bones of his wrist.
The moment stretched like caramel between them—sticky, sweet, unbearable. Sin’s lips trembled, still parted around that unspoken confession, and Seokjin thought, This is how saints fall. Not in some grand, dramatic renunciation, but in the quiet hum of a fluorescent-lit kitchen at dawn, with a boy who smelled like vanilla and looked at him like he held the sky in his hands.
"Tell me," Seokjin murmured, thumb tracing the hinge of Sin’s jaw. The boy shuddered, his breath hitching as Seokjin’s fingers dipped lower, skimming the flutter of his pulse. "Or should I guess?" His voice dropped to a whisper, lips brushing the shell of Sin’s ear. "Did you come early to set up the schedules? Or to see me?"
Sin’s breath hitched, his fingers twisting tighter into his hoodie. The fabric stretched taut over his knuckles, white as bone. "Hyung," he whispered, and this time it cracked down the middle, raw as a fresh wound.
Seokjin’s grin was all teeth. "There it is." He pressed closer, caging Sin against the counter, relishing the way the boy’s hips jerked instinctively toward his. "You wanted this." It wasn’t a question. The proof was in the way Sin’s pupils swallowed his irises whole, in the damp press of his palms against Seokjin’s chest when he finally—finally—stopped pretending he didn’t want to touch.
Sin’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Just a wet, ragged gasp as Seokjin’s knee slid between his thighs, pressing just enough to make his breath stutter. "N-no," Sin managed, but his fingers curled into Seokjin’s shirt, clinging like he’d drown otherwise. The hypocrisy of it—his body arching into the contact while his voice denied it—sent a thrill down Seokjin’s spine.
"Liar," Seokjin purred for the third time, nipping at Sin’s earlobe. The boy whimpered, his knees buckling. Seokjin caught him effortlessly, one hand splayed across the small of his back, pressing him flush against his chest. Sin’s heartbeat thrummed against him, frantic as a hummingbird’s wings. "You’re shaking," Seokjin murmured, lips skimming the beauty mark beneath Sin’s eye. "Scared?"
Sin shook his head violently, his white hair catching the light like spun sugar. "N-not scared," he breathed, but his voice wavered. Seokjin could feel the way his pulse jumped when his fingers traced the delicate line of his throat, thumb pressing gently against his Adam’s apple.
Sin's denial hung between them, thin as the steam curling from the abandoned coffee pot. Seokjin's thumb pressed harder—not enough to hurt, just enough to feel the frantic flutter beneath Sin's skin. The boy gasped, his hips jerking forward, and oh, that was interesting. Seokjin's lips curled into a smirk as he dragged his knee higher, slow and deliberate, until Sin's breath stuttered into something desperate.
"You're terrible at lying," Seokjin murmured, mouth brushing the shell of Sin's ear. His free hand slid down to grip Sin's hip, fingers digging into the softness there. "Your body betrays you." Sin whined, high and reedy, as Seokjin's teeth grazed his earlobe. The sound went straight to Seokjin's gut, hot and insistent.
The overhead lights flickered again, casting Sin's face in fractured shadows—his parted lips, the way his lashes stuck to his cheeks in damp clumps. Seokjin wanted to ruin him. Wanted to press him into the counter until the laminate left marks on his thighs, wanted to lick the salt from his trembling collarbones.
Sin's fingers finally uncurled from his hoodie, shaking as they hovered over Seokjin's waistband. "Hyung, I—" His voice cracked, raw.
Sin’s sentence died as Seokjin’s phone buzzed violently against the countertop—once, twice, three times—the screen flashing with a manager’s name. The sound was obscenely loud in the humming silence between them. Sin flinched like he’d been struck, his fingers jerking away from Seokjin’s waist as if burned.
Seokjin didn’t move. Didn’t even glance at the phone. He kept his knee pressed firmly between Sin’s thighs, his thumb still resting against the boy’s jumping pulse. "Ignore it," he murmured, lips brushing the damp curve of Sin’s temple. The boy whimpered, his hips twitching forward involuntarily. The counter dug into his lower back, surely leaving marks, but he didn’t pull away. Couldn’t.
The phone buzzed again. Sin’s breath hitched, his cerulean eyes darting to the screen like a trapped animal seeking escape. "Hyung, they’ll—"
"Let them come." Seokjin’s voice was a dark promise as he crowded Sin harder against the counter, his free hand sliding up to tangle in that messy white hair. He tugged—just enough to make Sin’s head tilt back, baring the long line of his throat. "Let them see how pretty you are when you fall apart."
The phone buzzed a fifth time before falling silent. Sin’s exhale shuddered through him, his body tensing under Seokjin’s hands like a bowstring pulled too tight. His lips parted—whether to protest or plead, Seokjin couldn’t tell—but the words never came. Instead, Sin’s teeth sank into his lower lip, the pink flesh whitening under the pressure. A challenge. A surrender.
Seokjin’s grip tightened in Sin’s hair, tilting his head back further until the boy’s throat stretched taut beneath his gaze. He could see the frantic flutter of Sin’s pulse, could taste the salt-sweet panic on his skin when he leaned in to drag his tongue along the exposed column of his neck. Sin gasped, his hips jerking forward, and the friction of Seokjin’s knee between his thighs drew a broken sound from his lips.
"Quiet," Seokjin murmured against his skin, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark. Sin’s breath hitched, his fingers scrabbling at the counter’s edge for purchase. The boy was unraveling beneath him, his usual shyness burned away by something hotter, hungrier. Seokjin could feel it—the way Sin’s body arched into his touch, the way his thighs trembled when Seokjin’s hand slid lower, skimming the waistband of his sweatpants.
Somewhere beyond the kitchen, footsteps echoed—sharp, purposeful—but Seokjin didn’t pull away. If anything, he pressed closer, his mouth finding the beauty mark beneath Sin’s eye. "Tell me to stop," he whispered, lips brushing the damp skin. Sin shook his head violently, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His fingers curled into Seokjin’s shirt, clinging like he’d drown otherwise.
The footsteps grew louder—sharp, measured, unmistakably headed toward them. Sin tensed, his breath catching in his throat, but Seokjin only smirked against his skin, dragging his teeth over the beauty mark until Sin whimpered. "Hyung," Sin gasped, his voice cracking, "they’ll—"
"Let them." Seokjin’s grip tightened in Sin’s hair, tilting his head back further until the boy’s throat arched like a bow. He traced the frantic pulse with his tongue, savoring the way Sin shuddered, his hips jerking forward helplessly. The counter dug into his lower back, the edge surely leaving bruises, but Sin didn’t pull away. Couldn’t.
The footsteps paused just outside the kitchen door. Sin’s breath hitched, his fingers scrabbling against Seokjin’s chest—not pushing him away, but clinging, as if torn between fear and want. Seokjin nipped at his collarbone, grinning when Sin’s thighs tightened around his knee. "You’re so loud," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of Sin’s ear. "What if they hear you?"
Sin’s cheeks burned. His lips parted around a silent plea, but before he could speak, the door creaked open. Seokjin didn’t move—didn’t even glance up—just pressed Sin harder against the counter, his knee shifting deliberately between the boy’s thighs. Sin’s breath stuttered into a wet gasp, his hips jerking forward instinctively.
The door swung open fully, revealing their manager—sharp-eyed, perpetually exhausted, and holding a clipboard like a weapon. Sin froze, his breath trapped in his throat, fingers digging into Seokjin’s shoulders hard enough to leave crescent moons in the fabric. But Seokjin—Seokjin didn’t even flinch. He just tightened his grip on Sin’s hip, pressing him harder against the counter, and turned his head just enough to meet their manager’s gaze over Sin’s shoulder. His smirk was slow, deliberate, a dare wrapped in silk.
A beat of silence. The manager’s gaze flickered between them—Sin’s flushed cheeks, the way Seokjin’s knee was wedged between his thighs, the possessive curl of his fingers in Sin’s hair. Then, with a sigh that sounded more resigned than surprised, he tapped his clipboard against the doorframe. "Five minutes," he said flatly, "then we start soundcheck." The door clicked shut behind him, his footsteps retreating down the hall.
Sin exhaled sharply, his entire body trembling. "Hyung," he gasped, voice cracking, "he saw—"
"And?" Seokjin nipped at his jaw, relishing the way Sin’s pulse jumped beneath his lips. "You think he doesn’t know?" His thumb brushed the beauty mark under Sin’s eye, smearing the dampness there. "You think anyone doesn’t know?"
Sin’s breath hitched—sharp, audible—as Seokjin’s fingers traced the delicate line of his throat, thumb pressing just enough to feel the frantic flutter beneath his skin. The boy’s pulse was a wild thing, trapped and desperate, and Seokjin wanted to chase it with his teeth. "Know what?" Sin whispered, but his voice wavered, betraying him. His fingers twisted tighter into Seokjin’s shirt, knuckles white against the fabric.
Seokjin laughed—low, dark—and leaned in until his lips brushed the shell of Sin’s ear. "That you’re mine," he murmured, the words dripping like honey, thick and sweet. Sin shuddered, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, and the friction of Seokjin’s knee between his thighs drew a broken gasp from his lips. The sound went straight to Seokjin’s gut, hot and insistent.
The overhead lights buzzed, casting Sin’s face in fractured shadows—his parted lips, the damp clumps of his lashes, the beauty mark beneath his eye like a brand. Seokjin wanted to ruin him. Wanted to press him into the counter until the laminate left marks on his thighs, wanted to lick the salt from his trembling collarbones.
Sin’s fingers finally uncurled from Seokjin’s shirt, shaking as they hovered over his waistband. "Hyung, I—" His voice cracked, raw.
Seokjin caught Sin’s wrist mid-air, fingers encircling the delicate bones with practiced ease. "Say it," he murmured, pressing Sin’s palm flat against his own chest. Beneath the fabric, his heartbeat thundered—a traitorous rhythm that betrayed the calm in his voice. "Tell me what you want."
Sin’s lips trembled, his breath coming in shallow bursts. The kitchen air hummed with the scent of stale coffee and something sweeter—fear, want, the electric tang of sweat drying on skin. His fingers flexed against Seokjin’s sternum, nails scraping lightly through the fabric. "Y-you," he stammered, then choked on the rest, his cerulean eyes darting away as if the confession might burn him.
Seokjin’s grip tightened. He guided Sin’s hand lower, over the taut plane of his abdomen, until his fingertips brushed the waistband of his jeans. "Here?" he prompted, voice rough as gravel. Sin made a sound like a wounded animal, his thighs clamping around Seokjin’s knee. The friction was delicious, deliberate, and Seokjin rewarded him with a slow roll of his hips that dragged a whimper from Sin’s throat.
The door creaked again—this time without the courtesy of a knock—but neither of them turned. Seokjin knew that gait: the measured, impatient steps of their head manager. "Two minutes," the man barked, then paused. The silence that followed was thick with unspoken judgment. Seokjin smirked against Sin’s temple, biting down just hard enough to make the boy gasp.
Sin's breath hitched audibly as the manager's footsteps retreated again. His fingers twitched against Seokjin's waistband—half-terrified, half-desperate—before curling into fists. "Hyung," he whispered, voice cracking like thin ice, "we can't—"
Seokjin silenced him with a thumb pressed to his lower lip, dragging it down to expose the pink dampness beneath. "We can," he murmured, and the certainty in his voice made Sin shudder. The overhead lights flickered again, casting Seokjin's smirk in jagged shadows. "Unless you're saying you don't want this?"
Sin's denial died in his throat as Seokjin's knee shifted higher, the pressure deliberate. A sound escaped him—raw, unbidden—and his hips jerked forward of their own accord. The proof was undeniable; the way his body arched into Seokjin's touch betrayed him more thoroughly than words ever could.
Somewhere beyond the kitchen, a muffled announcement crackled over the PA system. Soundcheck in ninety seconds. Seokjin didn't move. Instead, he traced the beauty mark beneath Sin's eye with his tongue, savoring the way the boy's breath stuttered. "You taste like salt," he murmured, lips skating down to nip at Sin's jaw. "Like you've been running from this all morning."
The PA system crackled again—another muffled warning—but Seokjin’s fingers were already sliding beneath Sin’s hoodie, tracing the dip of his waist. The boy arched into the touch, his breath hitching when Seokjin’s nails scraped over the delicate skin above his hipbone. "Hyung," Sin gasped, but his thighs clenched tighter around Seokjin’s knee, his body betraying him in a dozen tiny, trembling ways.
Seokjin hummed against his throat, lips dragging over the mark he’d left earlier. "Tell me," he murmured, thumb pressing into the hollow beneath Sin’s ribs. "When you woke up this morning—" His teeth grazed the boy’s pulse point, drawing a whimper. "—were you thinking about me?"
Sin’s fingers twisted in Seokjin’s shirt, knuckles white. His cerulean eyes were glassy with want, pupils blown wide enough to swallow the color whole. "Y-yes," he admitted, voice fraying at the edges. The confession seemed to unravel him further; his hips jerked forward, seeking friction, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts.
Seokjin’s grin was sharp, victorious. He pressed closer, crowding Sin against the counter until the edge dug into the backs of his thighs. "Knew it," he breathed, nipping at Sin’s earlobe. The boy whimpered, his hips stuttering forward helplessly. "Knew you’d be like this." His hand slid lower, fingers skimming the waistband of Sin’s sweatpants. "Sweet for me. Desperate."
The PA system buzzed again—final call for soundcheck—but Seokjin barely registered it over the sound of Sin’s ragged breathing. The boy’s fingers trembled where they clutched at his shirt, his hips rolling forward in tiny, aborted movements like he couldn’t help himself. Seokjin smirked against his throat, dragging his teeth over the mark he’d left earlier just to feel Sin shudder. "You’re a mess," he murmured, not unkindly, as his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of Sin’s sweatpants. The boy gasped, his thighs clamping around Seokjin’s wrist like a vice.
Sin’s breath hitched when Seokjin’s fingers traced the sensitive skin just below his navel, his entire body tensing like a live wire. "H-hyung," he stammered, voice cracking, "we—they’re waiting—" The words dissolved into a moan as Seokjin’s thumb pressed into the divot of his hipbone, rough and deliberate.
"Let them wait," Seokjin growled, nipping at Sin’s jaw. His fingers dipped lower, brushing the wiry curls at the base of Sin’s stomach, and the boy whimpered, his back arching off the counter. Seokjin could feel the heat radiating off him, could smell the salt-sweet tang of his skin mingling with the faded vanilla of his hoodie. It was intoxicating—the way Sin came apart beneath him, all trembling limbs and bitten-red lips, like some delicate thing being unwrapped.
Sin’s breath stuttered when Seokjin’s fingers finally, finally wrapped around him, his hips jerking forward into the contact. "Fuck," he gasped, his cerulean eyes fluttering shut, lashes casting shadows like ink blots against his cheeks. Seokjin watched, rapt, as Sin’s lips parted around silent pleas, his throat working as he swallowed back moans.
The PA system screeched again—a final, staticky warning—but Seokjin barely heard it over the wet hitch of Sin’s breath as his fingers tightened. Sin’s hips jerked forward, his thighs trembling where they bracketed Seokjin’s wrist, and the counter dug into the small of his back hard enough to leave bruises. Seokjin could already picture them—purple blossoms blooming beneath his hoodie, hidden but there, proof of this moment.
Sin’s fingers scrabbled at Seokjin’s shoulders, blunt nails digging through fabric. "Hyung, please—" His voice shattered into a moan as Seokjin’s thumb swiped over the slick head of his cock, slow and deliberate. The sound was filthy, raw, perfect. Seokjin wanted to bottle it, wanted to press play on repeat until it rewired his brain.
Somewhere beyond the kitchen, footsteps pounded down the hall—frantic, impatient. Seokjin didn’t care. He dragged his lips up Sin’s throat, tasting salt and the faint tang of his citrus shampoo. "Come for me," he murmured against the hinge of Sin’s jaw, fingers twisting just so. Sin whimpered, his entire body tensing like a bowstring pulled too tight. His cerulean eyes were glassy, unfocused, his lips bitten raw and parted around ragged gasps.
The door burst open—their manager, red-faced and furious—but Seokjin didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not when Sin was trembling apart beneath him, his hips stuttering forward in desperate little jerks. "Now," Seokjin growled, and Sin’s back arched off the counter with a choked-off cry, his release hot and slick over Seokjin’s fingers.
The manager's shout was lost beneath the sharp gasp Sin couldn't swallow back—raw and fractured, the sound of something delicate snapping. Seokjin kept his grip firm, working Sin through it with slow, deliberate strokes even as their manager's clipboard hit the floor with a clatter. "What the fuck—"
Sin's thighs trembled violently around Seokjin's wrist, his hoodie sleeve slipping down to reveal the crescent moons his own nails had left in his palm. His cerulean eyes were glazed, pupils blown so wide they nearly swallowed the color whole. A bead of sweat traced the curve of his jaw, catching on the beauty mark beneath his eye before Seokjin licked it away, savoring the salt.
Their manager took a step forward, face purpling. "Soundcheck was ten minutes ago—"
"Then you should've knocked," Seokjin said mildly, finally withdrawing his hand. Sin whimpered at the loss, his hips jerking forward instinctively, but Seokjin just smirked and wiped his fingers on the boy's hoodie. The fabric was already damp with sweat, clinging to Sin's collarbones in transparent patches.
MIN YOONGI
The practice room smelled like sweat and spilled energy drinks. Yoongi lounged on the couch, arms crossed, watching the new staff member—Sin—fumble with a tangled mess of microphone wires. The kid was painfully earnest, fingers trembling as he tried to coil them properly, cheeks flushed pink under the harsh studio lights.
"Hyung," Jin called from across the room, tossing a water bottle his way. "Stop staring like a creep."
Yoongi caught it without looking. "Not staring," he muttered. But he was. There was something about the way Sin bit his lip when he concentrated, the way his white hair stuck up in soft, sleep-mussed tufts despite it being well past noon. He looked like he’d rolled straight out of bed and into the chaos of their world.
Sin finally managed to wrangle the cables into submission, his shoulders relaxing as he exhaled. Then he caught Yoongi’s gaze—and froze. His cerulean eyes widened, lips parting just slightly, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to speak or bolt.
The moment stretched too long—Sin’s lips still parted, Yoongi’s stare unbroken—until Jungkook’s sneaker squeaked against the floor, breaking the tension like a snapped guitar string. Sin flinched, dropping the coiled wires with a clatter, and Yoongi watched the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. "S-sorry," Sin murmured, scrambling to pick them up, his fingers clumsy again. The beauty mark under his left eye caught the light when he bent down, a tiny ink blot on porcelain skin.
Yoongi uncrossed his arms and slid off the couch. He didn’t know why he did it—maybe the way Sin’s eyelashes fluttered when he was nervous, or how his oversized sweater slipped off one sharp shoulder—but he crouched beside him, their knees almost brushing. "You’re doing it wrong," he said, voice low. He reached for the wires, his fingers deliberately grazing Sin’s. The kid’s breath hitched.
Behind them, Jimin wolf-whistled. "Yoongi-hyung’s being nice? Did hell freeze over?"
Yoongi ignored him, focusing instead on the way Sin’s pulse jumped in his throat. He could smell the faint sweetness of his shampoo—something floral, out of place in the musky practice room. "Like this," Yoongi murmured, guiding Sin’s hands with his own, twisting the cables into a neat loop. His thumb pressed into Sin’s palm, just to feel the heat of his skin. Sin’s fingers twitched, but he didn’t pull away.
The wires coiled perfectly in Yoongi’s hands—tight, efficient, exactly how he liked things—but he let his fingers linger against Sin’s anyway, just to feel the way the kid’s breath stuttered. It was stupid, reckless, the kind of thing that could get him in trouble if anyone noticed. But no one was looking close enough. Not really.
Sin’s eyelashes fluttered when Yoongi finally pulled away, his cheeks flushed pink under the studio lights. "Th-thank you," he mumbled, voice so soft it was nearly swallowed by the hum of the air conditioner.
Yoongi shrugged, leaning back on his heels. "You’ll get it," he said, though he wasn’t sure he wanted him to. There was something addictive about the way Sin needed him, even for something as small as this.
Across the room, Namjoon was scribbling lyrics in a notebook, Hoseok stretching his legs against the mirror. Normal. Routine. But Yoongi’s pulse was anything but. He watched Sin fiddle with the hem of his sweater, the fabric slipping off one shoulder again, exposing the delicate curve of his collarbone.
Sin didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Yoongi’s fingers finally left his, the absence of warmth making his skin prickle. He clutched the neatly coiled wires to his chest like a shield, his pulse thudding in his ears. The studio lights felt too bright suddenly, the air too thick—everyone’s laughter, the squeak of sneakers on polished floors, the distant hum of the air conditioner—all of it pressed against him like a weight.
And then there was Yoongi.
Yoongi, who was still crouched beside him, close enough that Sin could see the faint smudge of eyeliner under his eyes, the way his hoodie hung loose around his sharp collarbones. His gaze was heavy, unreadable, lingering on Sin’s lips for a beat too long before flicking back up to meet his eyes. Sin’s stomach twisted. He didn’t understand why his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
"Hyung," Jungkook called from across the room, tossing a crumpled energy drink can into the trash with a clatter. "Stop scaring the new kid."
The trash can rattled from Jungkook’s throw, the sound sharp enough to make Sin flinch again. His fingers tightened around the wires, knuckles whitening, but Yoongi didn’t move away. Instead, he leaned in, close enough that Sin could see the faint scar above his eyebrow, the way his dark lashes cast shadows over his sharp cheekbones. "You’re not scared of me, are you?" Yoongi murmured, voice low enough that only Sin could hear. It wasn’t a question—it was a challenge, the kind that curled around Sin’s ribs and squeezed.
Sin’s lips parted, but no sound came out. His throat felt too tight, his pulse fluttering like a trapped bird. He wanted to say no, wanted to be brave, but the weight of Yoongi’s stare pinned him in place. The studio lights caught the silver rings on Yoongi’s fingers, the glint of them distracting as he reached out—slow, deliberate—to tug Sin’s slipping sweater back onto his shoulder. His fingertips brushed bare skin, just for a second, and Sin’s breath hitched.
Behind them, Jimin snorted. "Hyung, you’re gonna give him a heart attack."
Yoongi ignored him, his gaze never leaving Sin’s face. He tilted his head, studying the way Sin’s eyelashes trembled, the way his pink lips pressed together like he was afraid of what might slip out. Cute. Fragile. His. The thought came unbidden, sudden and possessive, and Yoongi’s fingers twitched with the urge to trace the beauty mark under Sin’s eye, to see if it felt as soft as it looked.
Yoongi’s fingers lingered at the edge of Sin’s sweater, his thumb brushing the delicate curve of his shoulder before finally pulling away. The air between them was charged, thick with something unsaid—something that coiled low in Yoongi’s stomach, hot and insistent. He’d never been the type to hover, to want like this, but Sin’
Sin’s sweater slipped again the moment Yoongi’s fingers left it, as if mocking his attempt at restraint. A loose thread caught the light, dangling precariously near the dip of Sin’s collarbone. Yoongi exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to lean back before he did something stupid—like bite it.
Jungkook’s voice cut through the haze. “Hyung, you’re being weird.”
“Am I?” Yoongi drawled, eyes still locked on Sin’s trembling hands. The kid had a habit of folding into himself, shoulders hunched like he expected the world to collapse onto him at any second. It made Yoongi want to peel him apart, layer by layer, until he found whatever fragile thing hid beneath all that nervous energy.
Sin finally found his voice, though it cracked halfway through. “I—I should go check the soundboard.” He scrambled to his feet, wires clutched tight, but his knee knocked against Yoongi’s on the way up—a clumsy, electric brush of contact. The gasp that left Sin’s lips was barely audible, but Yoongi caught it, filed it away like a stolen secret.
Sin practically fled to the soundboard, his back hitting the equipment rack with a soft thud. His fingers trembled as he plugged in the cables, the studio’s hum suddenly deafening in his ears. He could still feel the ghost of Yoongi’s fingertips on his shoulder, the way his gaze had burned like a brand. The wires slipped from his grip again, and he bit his lip hard enough to taste copper.
Across the room, Jimin sidled up to Yoongi, hip-checking him with a grin. “You’re gonna break him before he even finishes his first week,” he teased, voice sing-song. “What’s with the sudden interest in the new kid?”
Yoongi shrugged, but his eyes tracked Sin’s every movement—the way his sweater rode up when he stretched to adjust a dial, the sliver of pale skin exposed above his waistband. “He’s useful,” he muttered, though the lie tasted bitter. Sin was all thumbs and stuttered apologies, his incompetence almost endearing.
Jin snorted, tossing a grape into his mouth. “Useful? He dropped three mic stands this morning.”
The overhead fluorescents buzzed like trapped insects, flickering just enough to cast shadows that danced across Sin’s wrists as he fumbled with the soundboard knobs. His reflection in the monitor screen was fractured—pale hair mussed, lips bitten red, eyes wide like he’d been caught mid-theft. Behind him, Yoongi’s voice rumbled something low to Jimin, and Sin’s fingers spasmed, sending a shriek of feedback through the speakers.
Hoseok yelped, clapping hands over his ears. “Yah! Are you trying to kill us?”
Sin’s apology died in his throat as Yoongi stood, chair scraping loud enough to make the room hold its breath. He moved with the lazy precision of a predator who knew his prey couldn’t outrun him—shoulders loose, hands in pockets, gaze fixed. Sin’s back hit the equipment rack again, the cold metal seeping through his sweater as Yoongi stopped just inches away, close enough that Sin could count the silver hoops in his ears.
“You’re shaking,” Yoongi observed, voice pitched low. He reached out, slow as syrup, and plucked a stray cable from Sin’s death-grip. His fingers traced the length of it deliberately, thumb brushing the jack before plugging it in with a click that echoed in Sin’s ribs. “Breathe, kid.”
Sin exhaled sharply, his breath a shuddering thing between them. Yoongi's proximity was suffocating—not because he was crowding him, but because every atom in Sin’s body was acutely aware of the way Yoongi’s hoodie smelled faintly of sandalwood and the sharp tang of energy drinks. The cable slipped from his fingers again, landing with a muted thud against the soundboard.
“S-sorry,” Sin stammered, but Yoongi caught his wrist before he could bend to retrieve it. His grip wasn’t tight—just enough to still Sin’s trembling, his thumb pressed to the flutter of pulse beneath delicate skin. Sin’s mouth went dry.
“Stop apologizing,” Yoongi murmured. His gaze flicked down to Sin’s lips, lingered there a beat too long. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”
Sin’s wrist burned where Yoongi held him, the heat of his grip seeping through skin to bone. The soundboard’s LED lights blinked erratically, casting jagged shadows across Yoongi’s jaw—sharp enough to cut, Sin thought deliriously. His knees wobbled, but Yoongi’s grip tightened fractionally, steadying him without a word.
Jimin’s laughter fizzed through the air like soda bubbles. “Hyung, if you make him cry, HR’s gonna have your head.”
Yoongi didn’t look away from Sin’s face. “He’s not crying,” he said, thumb stroking the inside of Sin’s wrist—slow, proprietary. The callouses on his fingertips caught on Sin’s skin, rough enough to make him shiver. “Are you?”
Sin shook his head so fast his vision blurred. The studio smelled like ozone and Yoongi’s cologne, something dark and expensive that clung to the back of Sin’s throat. His sweater had slipped again, pooling around his elbow, and Yoongi’s gaze dropped to the exposed collarbone like he wanted to sink his teeth into it.
Sin’s pulse stuttered under Yoongi’s thumb, the rhythm frantic as a trapped hummingbird. The soundboard’s LED lights bled into his peripheral vision—red, green, red—like some kind of warning signal he was too dazed to interpret. Yoongi’s grip shifted, fingers sliding down to lace with his, and the sudden intimacy of it punched the air from Sin’s lungs.
“Hyung,” Jimin singsonged, popping a grape into his mouth. “You’re monopolizing the new hire.”
Yoongi didn’t glance back. “He’s helping.” His voice was all lazy indifference, but his fingers tightened around Sin’s, just enough to make the kid’s breath hitch. The contrast was dizzying—the rough pads of Yoongi’s fingertips against the softness of Sin’s palm, the way his rings pressed cold into Sin’s skin while his thumb traced slow, burning circles.
Sin’s knees buckled.
Sin's knees hit the floor with a soft thud, his fingers still tangled in Yoongi's grip. The studio lights blurred at the edges of his vision, the air thick with the scent of sandalwood and something darker, something that coiled low in his stomach. Yoongi didn't let go—if anything, his hold tightened, his fingers pressing into the delicate bones of Sin's wrist like he was mapping the pulse points beneath his skin.
"Careful," Yoongi murmured, voice low enough that only Sin could hear. His breath ghosted over Sin's ear, sending a shiver down his spine. "You'll break something."
Sin's lips parted, but the words evaporated before they could form. Yoongi's gaze was heavy, unreadable, flickering between Sin's eyes and his mouth like he was deciding which part of him to devour first. The beauty mark under Sin's left eye caught the light when he blinked rapidly, and Yoongi's thumb twitched against his wrist, as if resisting the urge to touch it.
Behind them, Jungkook cleared his throat. "Uh. Are we still rehearsing, or…?"
The silence stretched taut between them, Sin’s pulse thundering loud enough that Yoongi could almost hear it over the hum of the soundboard. He could feel the way Sin’s fingers twitched in his grip—like a trapped bird testing its cage—but he didn’t pull away. Instead, Sin’s breath hitched, his cerulean eyes widening as Yoongi leaned in, close enough to count the faint freckles dusting his nose.
"Hyung," Jimin called, his voice dripping with amusement. "You’re blocking the monitor."
Yoongi didn’t move. Sin’s lower lip trembled, pink and bitten raw, and the urge to press his thumb against it, to soothe the sting, coiled hot in Yoongi’s gut. "You’re shaking again," he murmured, his free hand lifting to brush a stray lock of white hair from Sin’s forehead. The kid’s breath stuttered, his eyelashes fluttering like moth wings.
Sin’s voice was a whisper, frayed at the edges. "I—I’m not—"
The studio door slammed open with a bang that made Sin flinch violently, his shoulder blades hitting the soundboard hard enough to send a crackle of static through the speakers. Namjoon stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a single eyebrow arched at the scene before him—Yoongi crouched over Sin like a wolf over fresh kill, fingers still tangled possessively in the boy’s wrist.
“We’re on a schedule,” Namjoon said, voice dry as old parchment. “Unless you’ve suddenly developed a passion for audio engineering, Yoongi-hyung?”
Yoongi’s grip didn’t loosen, but his thumb stroked once over Sin’s pulse point—a silent promise—before finally releasing him. Sin’s arm dropped limply to his side, the skin of his wrist flushed pink where Yoongi’s rings had pressed into it. He looked dazed, lips slightly parted, his sweater slipping off one shoulder again like it had a personal vendetta against modesty.
Jin tossed another grape into the air, catching it with a smirk. “Our Yoongi’s just mentoring the new kid. Very… hands-on approach.”
The studio lights flickered as Sin scrambled to his feet, his knees still weak under Yoongi's lingering gaze. His sweater clung to one shoulder precariously, but he didn't dare adjust it—not with the way Yoongi's eyes darkened every time the fabric slipped. The mic wires lay forgotten on the floor between them, a tangled mess that mirrored Sin’s racing thoughts.
Namjoon cleared his throat pointedly, tapping his watch. "Soundcheck in five. Unless someone’s planning to serenade our new staff member instead?"
Jimin muffled a laugh into his sleeve while Jungkook tossed a crumpled water bottle at Yoongi’s head. It missed—barely—bouncing off the soundboard with a hollow thunk. Sin flinched at the noise, his fingers twitching toward the fallen cables like he could fix the chaos with sheer desperation. Yoongi watched the way his nails dug into his palms, leaving crescent moons in their wake.
"Relax," Yoongi murmured, close enough that his breath ghosted over Sin’s cheek. He plucked a wire from the floor, his fingers brushing Sin’s knuckles deliberately. "You’ll hurt yourself."
Sin’s breath stuttered when Yoongi’s fingers lingered over his, the rough pads of his fingertips tracing the ridges of his knuckles like he was memorizing them. The studio lights buzzed overhead, casting jagged shadows across Yoongi’s face—sharp cheekbones, the stubborn set of his jaw, the way his hoodie slipped just enough to reveal the hollow of his throat. Sin’s gaze flickered down, then up again, only to find Yoongi watching him with a hunger that made his stomach twist.
Behind them, Namjoon sighed. “Soundcheck. Now.”
Yoongi’s lips quirked, but he didn’t move. “You heard the man,” he murmured, voice pitched low enough that only Sin could hear. His thumb pressed into Sin’s palm, slow and deliberate, before finally pulling away. The absence of his touch was a physical ache.
Sin swallowed hard, scrambling to gather the fallen wires. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from something hotter, something that coiled low in his belly every time Yoongi looked at him like that. Like he wanted to unravel him.
The crackle of static filled the studio as Sin fumbled with the mixer, his fingers slipping on the dials. Every knob felt foreign under his touch, every LED glare accusatory. His reflection in the black glass of the monitor showed a boy with mussed white hair and a beauty mark like an inkblot—someone who didn’t belong here, between platinum records and spilled energy drinks. Someone Yoongi shouldn’t be looking at like that.
Namjoon’s voice cut through the haze. “Sin-ssi, levels.”
Sin jumped, his elbow knocking against a fader. The speakers screeched feedback, sharp enough to make Hoseok wince. “S-sorry!” He scrambled to correct it, but his hands shook too badly—until a warm presence materialized behind him, arms caging him against the soundboard. Yoongi’s chin brushed his temple as he reached around him, long fingers sliding over Sin’s to adjust the gain.
“Like this,” Yoongi murmured, his breath hot against Sin’s ear. He twisted the knob with deliberate slowness, pressing Sin’s fingers into the grooves. The dial clicked into place, the static dissolving into clean silence. Sin’s heart hammered against his ribs, loud enough he was sure Yoongi could hear it.
The silence stretched thin, taut as a wire about to snap. Sin could feel Yoongi’s chest against his back, solid and warm, his breath stirring the baby hairs at the nape of Sin’s neck. The soundboard’s LEDs blinked lazily, casting Yoongi’s hands in shifting hues of blue and red as they lingered over Sin’s—larger, rougher, dotted with silver rings that caught the light like scattered stars.
Yoongi didn’t move. His thumb traced the ridge of Sin’s knuckle, slow and deliberate, before finally pulling away. The absence of his touch left Sin’s skin tingling, oversensitive, like he’d been branded.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Yoongi murmured, lips brushing the shell of Sin’s ear. His voice was a low rumble, the kind that vibrated straight through bone. “It’s just sound.”
The overhead fluorescents buzzed like trapped flies, their harsh glare casting sharp shadows across Sin’s trembling fingers. He could feel Yoongi’s stare burning into the nape of his neck—hot, unrelenting—as he fumbled with the soundboard’s EQ settings. The knobs slipped under his damp palms, his reflection in the black monitor glass a mess of white hair and flushed cheeks.
Behind him, Yoongi exhaled through his nose, the sound almost amused. “You’re turning it the wrong way,” he murmured, closer than Sin expected. His breath ghosted over Sin’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine. Before Sin could react, Yoongi’s hands covered his, guiding them with deliberate slowness. His rings pressed cold against Sin’s knuckles, the contrast of metal and warmth making Sin’s breath hitch.
JUNG HOSEOK
The coffee machine whirred loudly, drowning out the hum of conversation in the break room. Sin pressed the button a second time, as if that would make it work faster, his fingers tapping nervously against the counter.
"You're gonna break it if you keep doing that," came a voice from behind him, warm and teasing. Sin turned to see Hoseok leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, his usual bright smile playing at his lips.
"Ah—sorry, Hoseok-ssi," Sin mumbled, immediately stepping back from the machine like it had burned him. His cheeks flushed pink under Hoseok's gaze.
Hoseok chuckled, pushing off the wall to stroll closer. "Relax, I’m joking. Though you do look like you’re about to fight that thing." He reached past Sin, his arm brushing lightly against Sin’s shoulder as he pressed the button himself. The machine obediently sputtered to life.
The scent of coffee filled the air as the machine finally dispensed its contents, steam curling between them in lazy tendrils. Hoseok watched Sin's fingers twitch—small, delicate things, like they belonged to a porcelain doll rather than a boy who hauled equipment backstage. He'd noticed that before, how Sin moved like he was afraid of taking up space, even though his presence was impossible to ignore.
"You always this jumpy?" Hoseok asked, nudging the cup toward him. His voice was softer now, almost curious. Sin's cheeks flushed deeper, and Hoseok found himself staring at the beauty mark beneath his eye, a tiny imperfection that somehow made him more perfect.
Sin hesitated before taking the cup. "I—I don't mean to be." His voice was barely above a whisper, and Hoseok had to lean in to catch it. The proximity sent a strange thrill through him, one he couldn't quite name.
It wasn't until Sin accidentally spilled coffee on Hoseok's sleeve that the realization hit. Sin's panicked apologies, the way his hands fluttered over the stain like he could undo it—Hoseok should've been irritated. Instead, he caught Sin's wrist, feeling the rapid pulse beneath his fingers. "It's just a shirt," he murmured, but his own heartbeat wasn't much steadier.
The break room door clicked shut behind them, sealing off the chatter from the hallway. Hoseok didn’t let go of Sin’s wrist. He should have—it was just a spilled coffee, just a moment—but something about the way Sin’s pulse jumped under his fingertips made him hold on a second longer. Sin’s breath hitched, his cerulean eyes wide, and Hoseok realized, with a slow, creeping certainty, that he liked this. Liked how flustered Sin got, how his lips parted like he was about to say something but thought better of it. Liked the way his own chest tightened when Sin looked at him like that—like he was something fragile and terrifying all at once.
“You’re not in trouble,” Hoseok said, though his voice came out lower than he intended. He thumbed the inside of Sin’s wrist absently, feeling the delicate bones there. “Unless you want to be.” The words slipped out before he could stop them, half-teasing, half-something else entirely. Sin’s eyelashes fluttered, and Hoseok’s stomach did a slow, dangerous flip.
Someone knocked on the door—three sharp raps—and Sin jerked back like he’d been burned. The spell broke. Hoseok let his hand drop, but the ghost of Sin’s skin lingered on his fingertips. “I should—I have to—” Sin stammered, already sidling toward the door, his ears pink. Hoseok let him go, but not without noticing how Sin’s gaze flickered back to him, just once, before he slipped out.
The next few days were a quiet torment. Hoseok caught himself watching Sin more than he should—the way his white hair curled at the nape of his neck when he’d been sweating under stage lights, how he bit his lower lip when concentrating. Once, during a rehearsal, Sin had knelt to adjust a cable, and Hoseok had stared at the curve of his throat for a beat too long. Jimin nudged him with a grin. “Distracted?” he’d asked, and Hoseok had laughed it off, but the heat crawling up his neck betrayed him.
The realization settled into Hoseok’s bones like a fever—slow, insistent, impossible to shake. He’d always been tactile, always quick to sling an arm around someone’s shoulders or ruffle their hair, but now his hands itched with restraint. Every accidental brush against Sin’s wrist, every time their shoulders bumped in the narrow hallways backstage, felt like lighting a match too close to dry kindling. Dangerous. Delicious.
Sin, for his part, had become a study in contradictions. One moment, he’d dart away like a startled rabbit when Hoseok entered the room; the next, he’d linger just a second too long after handing Hoseok a water bottle, their fingers grazing in a way that couldn’t possibly be accidental. It was maddening.
It all came to a head during a late-night recording session. The others had trickled out one by one, leaving Hoseok sprawled on the couch, half-asleep, while Sin quietly tidied up the studio. Hoseok watched through half-lidded eyes as Sin bent to pick up a discarded headphone cable, the fabric of his shirt riding up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin above his waistband. Something hot and reckless coiled in Hoseok’s stomach.
“You’re still here,” Hoseok murmured, voice rough with exhaustion. Sin startled, nearly dropping the cable. “I—yes. Just finishing up.”
Hoseok sat up slowly, the couch creaking under his weight. The studio was bathed in the dim glow of standby lights, casting Sin’s profile in soft shadows—the sharp line of his jaw, the way his lower lip caught between his teeth as he coiled the cable around his fingers. A silence stretched between them, thick enough to taste.
"You don’t have to do that," Hoseok said, nodding toward the mess of equipment. His voice was quieter than he intended, almost intimate in the empty room. Sin’s hands stilled. "It’s my job," he murmured, but there was a hesitance there, a question. Hoseok could see the pulse fluttering at the base of his throat.
Something reckless unfurled in Hoseok’s chest. He stood, closing the distance between them in three slow strides. Sin didn’t move, didn’t even breathe, as Hoseok reached out to pluck the cable from his hands. Their fingers brushed—deliberately this time—and Sin’s breath hitched. "You’re always so… careful," Hoseok murmured, twirling the cable absently before letting it drop to the floor. "Like you’re afraid of breaking something."
Sin’s lashes fluttered, his gaze darting to Hoseok’s mouth and away. "I—" He swallowed. "I don’t know what you mean."
Hoseok exhaled through his nose—a quiet, controlled sound—and stepped closer, crowding Sin against the edge of the mixing console. "Don’t you?" he murmured. His thumb brushed the delicate skin beneath Sin’s beauty mark, tracing the curve of his cheekbone. Sin’s breath stuttered, his fingers curling into the fabric of his own shirt like he needed something to hold onto. The studio’s air conditioning hummed softly, but neither of them noticed the chill.
"You’re shaking," Hoseok observed, though his own hands weren’t entirely steady. He slid his fingers into Sin’s hair, tangling in the soft white strands. It was softer than he’d imagined. Sin made a small, helpless noise in the back of his throat, his eyelashes casting shadows over his flushed cheeks. "Tell me to stop," Hoseok whispered, though his grip tightened slightly, like he already knew Sin wouldn’t.
Sin’s lips parted—not in protest, but in anticipation. Hoseok watched the way his tongue darted out to wet them, pink and nervous, and something hot coiled low in his stomach. He leaned in, close enough that their breaths mingled, close enough to count the faint freckles scattered across Sin’s nose. "Hoseok-ssi," Sin breathed, barely audible, and the honorific sent a jolt through Hoseok’s veins.
The first kiss was tentative—just the ghost of pressure, a question. Sin made another sound, high and fragile, and Hoseok swallowed it, pressing him harder against the console. Sin’s hands finally uncurled from his shirt, fluttering up to clutch at Hoseok’s sleeves like he was afraid he’d float away otherwise. Hoseok deepened the kiss, licking into Sin’s mouth with a hunger that surprised even himself, and Sin melted into it, pliant and eager.
Sin’s fingers trembled against Hoseok’s sleeves, his grip tightening as if he couldn’t decide whether to push him away or pull him closer. The console’s edge dug into the small of Sin’s back, but he barely registered the discomfort—not when Hoseok’s mouth was hot and insistent against his, not when his pulse roared in his ears like a storm. When Hoseok finally pulled back, just enough to let them both breathe, Sin’s lips tingled, swollen and warm.
“You—” Sin started, then stopped, his voice cracking. He swallowed hard, his throat working visibly. Hoseok watched the motion, mesmerized, his fingers still tangled in Sin’s hair. “I—I shouldn’t—” Sin tried again, but the words died when Hoseok thumbed his lower lip, dragging it down slightly to reveal the wet shine beneath.
“Shouldn’t what?” Hoseok murmured, his breath fanning across Sin’s face. He could feel the way Sin’s chest rose and fell rapidly, could see the way his pupils were blown wide, eclipsing the cerulean of his irises. “Tell me.”
Sin’s breath hitched. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, his brow furrowing slightly. Hoseok waited, patient, amused, his other hand sliding down to rest lightly on Sin’s hip. The fabric of Sin’s shirt was thin, and Hoseok could feel the heat of his skin beneath it.
Sin’s fingers twitched against Hoseok’s sleeves, his nails digging in just enough to leave crescent moons in the fabric. “I shouldn’t—” His voice was a whisper, barely audible over the hum of the studio equipment. “—want this.” The admission slipped out like a secret, and Hoseok’s stomach lurched at the rawness of it.
Hoseok’s thumb stilled on Sin’s lip. “Why not?” he murmured, leaning in until their foreheads nearly touched. Sin’s eyelashes fluttered, his breath coming in shallow pants. “Because—” Sin’s voice cracked again, and he swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Because you’re you, and I’m just—”
Hoseok didn’t let him finish. He kissed him again, harder this time, swallowing the rest of Sin’s words before they could take shape. Sin gasped into it, his body arching off the console as Hoseok’s hand slid from his hip to the small of his back, pressing them flush together. The heat between them was almost unbearable, a live wire sparking under skin.
When Hoseok pulled back this time, his lips were slick, his pupils blown black with want. “You’re not just anything,” he breathed, his voice rough. His fingers traced the line of Sin’s jaw, down the column of his throat, stopping just above the collar of his shirt. “You’re Sin.” The way he said it—like a prayer, like a curse—sent a shiver down Sin’s spine.
The studio lights flickered, casting long shadows across the mixing console as Sin’s breath shuddered against Hoseok’s lips. His fingers trembled where they clung to Hoseok’s sleeves, knuckles white with the effort of holding on. The air between them crackled, thick with something neither of them dared name aloud.
Hoseok’s thumb brushed the hollow of Sin’s throat, feeling the frantic pulse there. “You’re thinking too much,” he murmured, voice low and rough. Sin’s lashes fluttered, his lips parting on a shaky exhale. “I—I don’t know how not to,” he admitted, the words barely more than a whisper. Hoseok’s mouth curved into a slow, dangerous smile. “Let me help with that.”
His hand slid up the back of Sin’s shirt, fingers splaying over the delicate arch of his spine. Sin gasped, his back bowing into the touch, and Hoseok took advantage of the movement to press him harder against the console. The edge dug into Sin’s thighs, the discomfort drowned out by the heat of Hoseok’s mouth trailing down his jaw.
A sharp knock at the studio door shattered the moment. Sin jerked back so violently he nearly toppled over, saved only by Hoseok’s quick grip on his waist. The door creaked open before either of them could speak, revealing Namjoon silhouetted in the hallway light. “Hobi? You still—oh.” Namjoon’s eyebrows shot up, taking in Sin’s flushed face, Hoseok’s hand still curled possessively around his hip.
Namjoon froze in the doorway, his gaze flickering between them—Hoseok’s fingers tightening reflexively on Sin’s waist, Sin’s lips pink and swollen, his white hair mussed where Hoseok’s hands had been tangled in it. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until Namjoon cleared his throat and stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. “Uh,” he said, uncharacteristically slow, “am I interrupting something?”
Hoseok didn’t move, didn’t let go. His pulse hammered in his throat, but his voice was steady when he answered, “Depends.” Sin, meanwhile, looked like he wanted to vanish into the floorboards, his entire body rigid with panic. His fingers twitched against Hoseok’s sleeve, a silent plea.
Namjoon’s lips quirked, though his eyes remained unreadable. “Right.” He scratched the back of his neck, gaze darting to Sin’s trembling hands before settling back on Hoseok. “Manager’s looking for you. Last-minute schedule change.”
Hoseok exhaled through his nose, his grip loosening just enough for Sin to slip free. Sin immediately stumbled back, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his cerulean eyes wide and glassy. “I—I should go,” he stammered, already sidling toward the door with the grace of a spooked deer. Hoseok caught his wrist before he could bolt. “Sin.”
Sin froze at the touch, his pulse jumping beneath Hoseok’s fingers like a trapped bird. Namjoon’s gaze lingered on their joined hands for a beat too long before he turned toward the coffee machine with deliberate nonchalance, giving them the illusion of privacy. Hoseok’s thumb traced the delicate bones of Sin’s wrist, his voice dropping to a murmur only Sin could hear. “Look at me.”
Sin’s breath hitched, but he obeyed, lifting his gaze with trembling effort. His pupils were still blown wide, his lips bitten red. Hoseok’s chest tightened at the sight. “Breathe,” he instructed, softer now, squeezing Sin’s wrist once before letting go. Sin swallowed hard, his fingers curling into his palm where Hoseok had touched him, as if trying to preserve the warmth.
Namjoon cleared his throat again, the coffee machine hissing steam into the silence. “So,” he drawled, leaning back against the counter with feigned casualness, “this is new.” His tone was light, but his eyes were sharp—calculating. Hoseok shrugged, though his heartbeat hadn’t settled. “Not really.”
Sin made a small, strangled noise, his cheeks flushing impossibly darker. Namjoon’s lips twitched. “Uh-huh.” He took a slow sip of his coffee, gaze flicking to Sin’s white-knuckled grip on his own sleeves. “Sin-ssi,” he said, gentler now, “you don’t have to—hyung.” The honorific slipped out before Sin could stop it, his voice cracking mid-word. Hoseok’s stomach swooped.
Namjoon set his coffee down with deliberate slowness, the ceramic clinking against the countertop. His gaze lingered on Sin’s trembling fingers before sliding back to Hoseok. "You two," he said, voice carefully neutral, "might want to be more careful." The unspoken where people can see hung in the air like static.
Sin’s breath shuddered out, his shoulders hunching like he could make himself smaller. Hoseok’s jaw tightened. He reached out, fingertips brushing Sin’s wrist—a silent stay—before turning to Namjoon. "We weren’t—"
"Hobi." Namjoon cut him off with a look, one eyebrow arched. "The studio?" His voice dropped, glancing at the door. "Anyone could’ve walked in."
Sin made a tiny, wounded noise, his nails digging into his palms. Hoseok’s chest ached. He stepped closer, shielding Sin from Namjoon’s gaze without thinking. "It won’t happen again," he muttered, though the lie tasted bitter.
The silence in the studio stretched thin enough to snap. Sin’s fingers twisted in his shirt hem, his breath shallow. Namjoon exhaled, rubbing his temple like he could physically push the image of them from his mind. “Just—clean up,” he muttered, gesturing vaguely at the abandoned headphones on the floor. “Before someone else sees.”
Hoseok’s jaw worked, but he nodded, bending to retrieve the coiled cable Sin had dropped earlier. The plastic was still warm from Sin’s hands. When he straightened, Sin was already at the door, his shoulders hunched, his white hair mussed where Hoseok’s fingers had been.
“Sin,” Hoseok called, softer now. Sin hesitated, his hand hovering over the doorknob. His knuckles were white. Namjoon tactfully busied himself with the coffee machine, its steam hissing between them.
Hoseok stepped closer, close enough to see the way Sin’s pulse fluttered at his throat. “Look at me,” he murmured. Sin’s lashes trembled, but he turned, just enough for Hoseok to catch the sheen in his cerulean eyes.
Sin’s breath hitched as Hoseok’s fingers brushed his wrist, feather-light but deliberate. The studio lights flickered again, casting jagged shadows across Hoseok’s sharp cheekbones. “You’re still shaking,” Hoseok murmured, his thumb tracing the delicate veins beneath Sin’s skin. Sin swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “I—I don’t know how to stop.”
Namjoon cleared his throat pointedly from across the room, the coffee machine whirring to life behind him. Hoseok didn’t move, his gaze locked on Sin’s flushed face. “Later,” he promised, so low only Sin could hear it. The word curled between them like smoke, heavy with unspoken meaning. Sin’s fingers twitched, his nails digging half-moons into his palms.
The door clicked shut behind Sin with finality, leaving Hoseok alone with Namjoon and the hum of the studio equipment. Namjoon exhaled through his nose, setting his coffee down with deliberate slowness. “You’re playing with fire,” he said, voice flat. Hoseok rolled the headphone cable between his fingers, the plastic still warm. “I know what I’m doing.”
Namjoon’s eyebrow arched. “Do you?” He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. “Because it looks like you’re about to set yourself on fire.” Hoseok’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer. The silence stretched, thick with tension, until Namjoon sighed. “Just—be careful, Hobi. He’s not—”
The studio door clicked shut behind Sin, the sound sharp and final in the sudden silence. Hoseok stared at the empty space where Sin had been, his fingers twitching with the ghost of warmth from Sin’s wrist. The air still smelled faintly of Sin’s shampoo—something sweet and clean, like fresh linen—and it made Hoseok’s chest ache with something dangerously close to longing.
Namjoon cleared his throat, the sound jarring in the quiet. “You’re gonna get caught,” he said, voice low. Hoseok flexed his fingers, still feeling the ghost of Sin’s pulse beneath them. “I don’t care.”
Namjoon’s expression softened, just slightly. “You should.”
The studio lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows. Hoseok turned away, gathering the abandoned headphones with deliberate slowness. His knuckles brushed the console where Sin had been pressed against him minutes ago—still warm. His stomach twisted.
PARK JIMIN
"You dropped something."
The voice was soft but carried an edge of amusement. Sin froze mid-step, fingers twitching at his sides as he turned to see Park Jimin leaning against the practice room doorway, holding up a crumpled receipt between his fingers.
"Oh—thank you," Sin murmured, stepping forward quickly to take it. His fingers brushed Jimin’s, and he jerked his hand back as if burned. The receipt fluttered to the floor between them, unnoticed.
Jimin chuckled, bending down to pick it up again—slowly, deliberately—before pressing it into Sin’s palm. This time, his grip lingered, warm and firm. "Clumsy," he mused, tilting his head. "You’re always dropping things around me."
The receipt wasn't the only thing Sin had been dropping lately—his composure, his ability to breathe normally, the careful distance he'd maintained between himself and the members. Jimin's touch lingered like a brand, and Sin could still feel the ghost of his fingers against his palm as he hurried down the hallway.
The next morning, Sin arrived early to set up the practice room, arranging water bottles and adjusting the sound system with trembling hands. He didn't notice Jimin leaning in the doorway again until the older man cleared his throat. "You're here before sunrise," Jimin observed, stepping inside. The door clicked shut behind him, too deliberate to be an accident.
Sin's pulse skittered. "I—I like to be prepared," he stammered, fumbling with a bottle cap. Jimin moved closer, his gaze flickering over Sin's flustered movements. "Prepared for what?" he murmured, plucking the water bottle from Sin's grip and taking a slow sip, his eyes never leaving Sin's face.
The others began trickling in, and Sin retreated to the corner, pressing his back against the cool mirror as he watched Jimin dance. There was something predatory in the way Jimin's body moved—graceful, yes, but with a hunger underneath. And then, mid-spin, Jimin's eyes locked onto Sin's. A smirk curled his lips, as if he'd known Sin was staring all along.
The air conditioning hummed too loud in the empty practice room, or maybe it was just the blood rushing in Sin’s ears. He’d stayed late again—always the last one to leave, always the first to arrive—but tonight, the shadows stretched longer, and the silence pressed closer. He knelt by the speaker cables, winding them into neat coils with unsteady fingers, when the door creaked open.
Jimin stood there, backlit by the hallway fluorescents, one hand still on the doorknob. "You’re here late," he said, voice honey-thick. Sin’s throat went dry. Jimin stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind him with a finality that made Sin’s stomach flip. The older man’s socks whispered against the floor as he approached, stopping just close enough for Sin to catch the faint citrus of his cologne. "Do you always work this hard?" Jimin asked, tilting his head. His smile was lazy, but his eyes were sharp—watching, always watching.
Sin’s hands stilled on the cables. "I—it’s my job," he managed, eyes fixed on the floor. A warm finger hooked under his chin, tilting his face up. Jimin’s thumb brushed the beauty mark beneath his eye, slow, deliberate. "Your job," Jimin repeated, as if tasting the word. "Is that the only reason?"
The question hung between them, charged and dangerous. Sin’s pulse hammered against his ribs. Jimin’s thumb traced the curve of his cheekbone, down to the corner of his mouth. "You’re trembling," he murmured. His other hand settled on Sin’s waist, steadying him—or trapping him. Sin couldn’t tell.
Sin’s breath hitched as Jimin’s thumb lingered at the corner of his lips, pressing just enough to part them slightly. The practice room lights hummed above them, casting long shadows that made Jimin’s gaze darker, hungrier. "You know," Jimin murmured, voice dipping into something low and intimate, "I’ve been watching you. Not just today—every day." His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on Sin’s waist, pulling him closer until their chests nearly brushed. "You’re always so careful with everyone else. But with me…" He trailed off, smiling when Sin shivered. "With me, you fall apart."
Sin’s mind scrambled for coherence, but the heat of Jimin’s touch, the proximity, the way his cerulean eyes gleamed like they’d already won—it was too much. "I don’t—" he started, but Jimin’s thumb pressed firmer against his lip, silencing him. "Don’t lie," Jimin whispered. "I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. Like you’re starving." His other hand slid up Sin’s back, fingers threading into the messy strands of his white hair. "What would you do if I let you have a taste?"
The question curled hot and heavy between them, and Sin’s knees threatened to buckle. He’d imagined this—hadn’t dared to, really, but his traitorous mind had supplied the images anyway: Jimin’s mouth on his, Jimin’s hands mapping his skin, Jimin’s voice reduced to wrecked whispers. But fantasy was nothing compared to the reality of Jimin’s breath mingling with his, the way his pupils dilated as Sin’s tongue darted out to wet his own lips—accidentally brushing Jimin’s thumb in the process.
Jimin’s grip tightened instantly, his breath stuttering. "Ah," he breathed, something feral flashing in his eyes. "There it is." Before Sin could process the shift, Jimin yanked him forward, crushing their mouths together in a kiss that was all teeth and desperation. Sin gasped into it, hands flying up to clutch at Jimin’s shoulders as the older man licked into his mouth, possessive and claiming. The speaker cables forgotten at their feet tangled around Sin’s ankles as Jimin backed him against the mirror, the cold surface biting through his thin shirt.
A moan tore from Sin’s throat when Jimin’s knee slid between his thighs, pressing up just enough to make him arch. Jimin laughed against his lips—dark, delighted—and bit down on Sin’s bottom lip hard enough to sting. "You taste even better than I imagined," he murmured, pulling back just enough to watch Sin’s dazed expression, his kiss-swollen lips parting on shaky breaths. His fingers tightened in Sin’s hair, tilting his head back. "Look at you. Falling apart already."
Sin’s pulse rabbited under his skin, his thoughts scattering as Jimin’s free hand slipped under his shirt, calloused fingertips skimming up his ribs. "Hyung—" he choked out, but Jimin shushed him with another bruising kiss, swallowing the whimper that followed when his thumb brushed a nipple. The mirror fogged with their mingled breath, the practice room air thick with the scent of sweat and Jimin’s cologne—citrus turned cloying, intoxicating.
Jimin broke the kiss abruptly, stepping back just far enough to survey Sin’s wrecked state—flushed cheeks, trembling limbs, his shirt rucked up to expose the pale plane of his stomach. A slow smirk curled his lips as he reached for the hem of his own shirt, pulling it off in one smooth motion. Sin’s breath caught at the sight of toned muscle, the sweat-slick skin gleaming under the fluorescent lights. "Your turn," Jimin purred, closing the distance again to nip at Sin’s earlobe. "Unless you want me to do it for you?"
Sin’s fingers fumbled at the hem of his shirt, his mind hazy with the scent of Jimin’s skin, the heat of his breath against his ear. But before he could even gather the coordination to lift it, Jimin’s hands were already there, sliding beneath the fabric, palms skimming up his sides with a possessiveness that made Sin’s knees weak. The shirt was yanked over his head in one swift motion, discarded somewhere near the tangled cables, and suddenly the cool air of the practice room hit his feverish skin—only to be replaced by the searing heat of Jimin’s body pressing flush against him.
Jimin’s lips found the hollow of his throat, teeth scraping just enough to leave a mark, and Sin gasped, his hands flying to Jimin’s shoulders for balance. "Hyung—" he whimpered, but the protest died in his throat when Jimin’s tongue soothed the bite, lapping at the spot as if savoring the taste. The older man hummed against his skin, the vibration sending a shudder down Sin’s spine. "You’re so pretty like this," Jimin murmured, dragging his mouth lower, nipping at the jut of Sin’s collarbone. "All flushed and desperate for me."
The words coiled low in Sin’s stomach, hot and heavy, and he arched into the touch, his fingers tangling in Jimin’s hair. He’d never been touched like this—never been wanted like this—and the intensity of it threatened to unravel him completely. Jimin’s hands slid down to grip his hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, and Sin let out a broken sound when Jimin suddenly dropped to his knees before him, looking up through his lashes with a smirk that was anything but innocent.
"Tell me," Jimin murmured, fingers hooking into the waistband of Sin’s pants, tugging just enough to make his breath hitch. "Have you ever let anyone take care of you?"
Sin's breath stuttered in his chest, his fingers clutching at the air where Jimin's shoulders had been seconds before. The older man's gaze was molten, his lips parted just enough to show the tip of his tongue darting out to wet them. Sin swallowed hard, his throat clicking audibly in the silence of the practice room. "I—no," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. The confession burned hotter than Jimin's hands on his hips, more intimate than the teeth marks blooming on his collarbone.
Jimin's smirk deepened, fingers tightening in the fabric of Sin's pants. "Good," he purred, the word curling around Sin like smoke. "Then I'll be your first." With that, he tugged Sin's pants down in one smooth motion, leaving him bare from the waist down except for the thin fabric of his underwear, already damp with evidence of his arousal. Sin's hands flew to cover himself instinctively, but Jimin caught his wrists, pinning them to the mirror with a strength that belied his delicate frame. "Don't hide from me," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of Sin's thigh that made him jerk. "I want to see you."
The first touch of Jimin's tongue through the fabric had Sin's knees buckling, his breath escaping in a punched-out moan. Jimin chuckled, the vibration sending another shockwave of pleasure through Sin's body. "So sensitive," he mused, nuzzling at the damp spot before finally—finally—hooking his fingers into the waistband and pulling Sin's underwear down, freeing his aching cock. The cool air of the practice room was nothing compared to the heat of Jimin's breath ghosting over him, the anticipation alone enough to make Sin's stomach clench.
Then Jimin's mouth was on him, hot and wet and perfect, and Sin's vision whited out for a second, his back arching off the mirror with a choked cry. Jimin hummed around him, the sound vibrating through Sin's entire body, one hand coming up to stroke what his mouth couldn't take. Sin's fingers scrabbled against the mirror, desperate for purchase, but Jimin had him trapped—between his body and the wall, between pleasure and madness.
Sin’s hips jerked forward involuntarily, a broken whine tearing from his throat as Jimin’s tongue swirled around the head of his cock. The older man’s grip on his wrists tightened, pressing him harder against the mirror, the cold surface biting into his overheated skin. Jimin pulled back just enough to smirk up at him, lips glistening. “You taste even better than I thought you would,” he murmured, before swallowing him down again, deeper this time, until Sin could feel the back of Jimin’s throat.
The sensation was overwhelming—too much and not enough all at once. Sin’s thighs trembled, his toes curling against the floor as Jimin worked him with a practiced ease that sent sparks shooting up his spine. Every flick of Jimin’s tongue, every hollowed cheek, every muffled groan against his skin pushed Sin closer to the edge, until his vision blurred and his breaths came in ragged gasps. “Hyung—I’m—” he choked out, fingers twitching uselessly against the mirror.
Jimin pulled off with a filthy sound, his lips still brushing Sin’s throbbing cock as he spoke. “Look at me,” he ordered, voice rough. Sin forced his eyes open, meeting Jimin’s darkened gaze, the hunger there undeniable. “I want to watch you fall apart,” Jimin breathed before taking him in again, this time with a slow, torturous rhythm that had Sin’s nails scraping against the glass.
The pressure coiled tighter in Sin’s stomach, his entire body tensing as pleasure crashed over him in waves. He came with a strangled cry, back arching off the mirror as Jimin swallowed every drop, his tongue lapping at him until Sin whimpered from oversensitivity. Jimin released him with a final kiss to the inside of his thigh, then rose to his feet, licking his lips with deliberate slowness.
Sin sagged against the mirror, his legs trembling too hard to hold him up, but Jimin caught him before he could slide to the floor. The older man’s arms wrapped around his waist, pulling him flush against his chest, and Sin could feel the hard line of Jimin’s arousal pressing into his hip. The reality of it—that he’d done this to Jimin, that Jimin was still achingly hard for him—sent a fresh wave of heat through his spent body.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” Jimin murmured, lips brushing the shell of Sin’s ear. His hands roamed over Sin’s bare back, tracing the dip of his spine with a possessiveness that made Sin shiver. “All pliant and wrecked because of me.” He punctuated the words with a sharp nip to Sin’s earlobe, then chuckled when Sin whimpered. “But we’re not done yet, sweet thing.”
Before Sin could process the words, Jimin spun him around, pressing his chest against the mirror. The cold surface shocked his overheated skin, and he gasped, his breath fogging the glass in front of him. Jimin’s body molded against his back, his erection pressing insistently between Sin’s thighs. “Hyung—” Sin started, but Jimin cut him off with a hand fisting in his hair, tilting his head back to expose his throat.
“Tell me you want this,” Jimin demanded, his voice rough with need. His free hand slid down Sin’s side, fingers skimming the jut of his hipbone before dipping lower, teasing the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. “Tell me, or I stop right now.”
Sin's breath hitched, his reflection in the mirror blurring as Jimin's teeth grazed his pulse point. The words stuck in his throat—half-formed, trembling—but the ache between his legs spoke louder than any confession ever could. "I—" he managed, voice cracking, before Jimin's fingers tightened in his hair, pulling just enough to sting. "Say it," Jimin murmured against his skin, lips dragging down the column of his throat. His other hand slipped between Sin's thighs, fingertips brushing the sensitive skin there, and Sin's knees nearly gave out.
"I want it," Sin gasped, the admission tearing from him in a rush of heat. "I want you, hyung—please—"
Jimin's answering growl vibrated against his shoulder blade as he reached for the waistband of his own pants, shoving them down just enough to free his cock. The first press of him against Sin's entrance was electric—a slow, burning pressure that had Sin's fingers scrambling against the mirror, his breath fogging the glass in frantic bursts. Jimin paused, his grip on Sin's hipbone bruising. "Relax," he ordered, voice thick with restraint, but Sin was beyond coherence, his body taut with want.
Then Jimin was pushing in—slow, so slow—and the stretch burned in the best way, stealing Sin's breath as he was filled inch by torturous inch. Jimin's groan reverberated through him, hot and ragged against his ear. "Fuck—you're so tight—" His hips snapped forward suddenly, seating himself fully, and Sin's cry echoed off the practice room walls, high and broken.
Sin’s fingers splayed against the mirror, his reflection distorted by the fog of his panting breaths. Jimin’s grip on his hips was ironclad, holding him still as he adjusted to the stretch, the burn melting into a heat that coiled low in his belly. “Hyung—” he whimpered, the name cracking halfway as Jimin rolled his hips experimentally, dragging a moan from Sin’s throat.
Jimin’s laugh was dark against his shoulder. “You take me so well,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of Sin’s ear as his hands slid up his sides, mapping the trembling planes of his body. “Like you were made for this.” His thrusts started slow, deliberate, each one punching a broken sound from Sin’s lips. The mirror rattled faintly with their movements, the cold glass a stark contrast to the feverish heat of Sin’s skin.
Sin’s vision blurred, his knees threatening to buckle as Jimin’s pace quickened, each snap of his hips driving him deeper, harder. The older man’s fingers tangled in his hair again, yanking his head back to expose his throat. Jimin’s teeth sank into the tender skin there, a claiming bite that had Sin crying out, his back arching. “Mine,” Jimin growled against his pulse, the word vibrating through him like a live wire.
The pleasure built like a storm, crackling under Sin’s skin, threatening to tear him apart. Jimin’s hand slid down his chest, fingers pinching a nipple roughly, and Sin’s gasp morphed into a sob as the dual sensations threatened to unravel him. “Close—” he choked out, his voice raw, but Jimin only chuckled, his breath hot against Sin’s neck.
Sin’s body arched against the mirror, his reflection fracturing with every thrust—his lips parted around ragged gasps, his cerulean eyes glassy with pleasure. Jimin’s fingers dug into his hips hard enough to leave crescent-shaped marks, his rhythm relentless as he chased his own release. “Look at yourself,” Jimin rasped, forcing Sin’s head up to meet his own gaze in the mirror. “Look how pretty you are when you’re mine.”
The sight of himself—flushed and wrecked, Jimin’s body moving against his—sent a jolt of heat through Sin’s veins. His cock twitched between his legs, already half-hard again despite the oversensitivity. Jimin noticed, of course, his smirk curling against Sin’s shoulder. “Greedy,” he purred, dragging his teeth over the bite mark he’d left earlier. His hand slid down Sin’s stomach, fingers wrapping around his length with a firmness that made Sin’s thighs tremble. “You want to come again?”
Sin could only nod, his throat too tight to speak. Jimin’s grip tightened, his strokes matching the pace of his thrusts, and Sin’s vision whited out for a second, his entire body tightening like a coiled spring. Jimin’s breath hitched against his ear, his hips stuttering. “Fuck—Sin—” His voice cracked, his fingers tightening almost painfully around Sin’s cock. “Come for me. Now.”
The command snapped the last thread of Sin’s control. He came with a shattered cry, his release streaking the mirror as his body convulsed. Jimin followed moments later, his hips jerking erratically as he buried himself deep, his groan muffled against Sin’s shoulder.
KIM TAEHYUNG
The coffee machine hissed like a displeased cat, spraying lukewarm liquid onto Taehyung’s sleeve. He blinked at the stain, then at the intern scrambling to mop it up with napkins. "S-Sorry, sunbaenim!" the boy stammered, fingers fluttering like startled birds.
Taehyung hadn’t noticed him before—too busy with schedules, with performances, with the weight of being Kim Taehyung. But now, with those wide cerulean eyes fixed on him, lips bitten pink with anxiety, he couldn’t look away. The kid—Sin, his badge read—was pretty in a way that made Taehyung’s throat tighten.
"You’re new," Taehyung said, voice lower than he intended. Sin nodded, ducking his head so a strand of white hair fell over his beauty mark. Up close, he smelled like sugar and fabric softener.
Jin called from the couch, "Stop terrorizing the staff, Tae." But Taehyung wasn’t terrorizing anyone. He was just… watching. Sin’s hands were small. His nails were painted clear, glossy. When he handed Taehyung a fresh coffee, their fingers brushed, and Taehyung’s pulse jumped.
The next morning, Taehyung found himself lingering near the staff break room like a stray cat waiting for scraps. He told himself it was just curiosity—just idle interest in the new intern with the doll-like face and trembling hands. But when Sin emerged, balancing a precarious tower of lyric sheets, Taehyung's body moved before his brain could protest. He intercepted the papers mid-collapse, fingers grazing Sin's wrist in the process. "Careful," Taehyung murmured, watching the pink flush crawl up Sin's neck like sunrise over snow.
Sin's gratitude was a whispered thing, barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning. "T-Thank you, sunbaenim." His eyelashes fluttered—long, pale, catching the fluorescent lights. Taehyung had the sudden, absurd urge to count them. Instead, he leaned closer, close enough to see the faint freckles dusting Sin's nose like cinnamon spilled on milk.
Jungkook caught him at it three days later, cornering Taehyung by the vending machine with a knowing smirk. "You're staring again," he sing-songed, stealing Taehyung's Pocari Sweat. "At the intern." The word dripped with implication. Taehyung scowled, but his pulse betrayed him, hammering against his ribs at the mere mention. He hadn't meant to memorize Sin's schedule—hadn't meant to notice how his laugh sounded like wind chimes, or how he bit his lower lip raw when concentrating.
It was Jimin who spelled it out, blunt as always: "You like him." They were sprawled in the practice room, sweat cooling on their skin. Taehyung opened his mouth to deny it, but the lie curdled on his tongue. Because—yes. He liked the way Sin's hair caught the light like spun sugar. Liked how his voice softened when speaking to the elderly cleaning staff. Liked, most damningly, the possessive ache in his chest whenever someone else made Sin smile.
The realization hit Taehyung like a misplaced stage light—blinding, painful, impossible to ignore. He was sitting in the green room, half-listening to Namjoon’s lecture about tour logistics, when Sin shuffled in with a tray of honey lemon tea. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing wrists so delicate Taehyung could’ve circled them with thumb and forefinger. A drop of sweat trailed down Sin’s neck, disappearing under his collar, and suddenly Taehyung’s mouth went dry. He wanted to lick it off. Wanted to pin those slender wrists against the nearest wall and taste the salt on his skin. The violence of the craving startled him so badly he choked on his own spit.
Jin thumped him on the back, amused. "You okay there, lover boy?" Taehyung didn’t answer. Across the room, Sin was blinking at him with those liquid-crystal eyes, concern knitting his brow. The sight made something primal uncoil in Taehyung’s gut—Mine, his hindbrain insisted. Ours to ruin.
He started leaving gifts in Sin’s locker. At first, it was innocent things—a strawberry milk, a warm scarf when the AC was too high. Then came the handwritten notes, tucked between the pages of Sin’s lyric binders. Your voice sounded pretty today, one read. Another, smudged with Taehyung’s nervous sweat: Don’t let Manager-nim make you stay late again. I’ll wait for you.
Sin never mentioned them. But Taehyung caught him once, pressing one of the notes to his chest when he thought no one was looking. The way his lashes fluttered—like he was committing Taehyung’s words to memory—sent heat licking up Taehyung’s spine.
The third time Taehyung caught Sin humming one of their b-side tracks under his breath—soft and off-key in the supply closet—he snapped. Not loudly. Not violently. But with the quiet finality of a predator realizing its prey had been within reach all along. He pressed his palm flat against the closing door, watching Sin jolt like a startled rabbit. "You know the lyrics," Taehyung murmured, stepping inside. The closet smelled of paper and Sin’s peach-scented shampoo.
Sin’s throat worked soundlessly as Taehyung crowded him against the shelves. "I—I listen to your albums, sunbaenim." The admission was barely a whisper, but it sent electricity crackling down Taehyung’s spine. Their albums. Their music. Sin’s eyelashes cast delicate shadows on his cheeks as he stared at Taehyung’s collarbone instead of his face. The space between them was thick with something Taehyung couldn’t name—something that made his fingers twitch with the urge to claim.
"You shouldn’t," Taehyung said, tilting Sin’s chin up with one finger. The kid’s pulse fluttered against his touch like a trapped bird. "Call me ‘sunbaenim’ when we’re alone." Sin’s breath hitched, lips parting around an unspoken question. Taehyung answered it by dragging his thumb across that pink lower lip, smearing the gloss there. The sound Sin made—small, wounded—was sweeter than any encore.
Three floors below, the other members were rehearsing their choreography. Taehyung could hear the faint thump of bass through the vents. But here, in this dim-lit closet, time had slowed to syrup. Sin’s chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, his cerulean eyes gone wide and dark. Taehyung wondered if he’d scream if bitten. If he’d cry if pinned. The thoughts should’ve horrified him. Instead, they pooled hot and heavy in his gut.
The overhead bulb flickered once—a stuttering heartbeat of light—as Taehyung's thumb lingered on Sin's lower lip. He could feel the kid trembling, not with fear but something far more intoxicating: anticipation. Sin's tongue darted out instinctively, catching the pad of Taehyung's thumb in a fleeting, wet brush. The contact sent a jolt through them both, static sharp enough to taste.
"Hyung," Taehyung corrected, voice gone rough as gravel. He watched the word reshape itself behind Sin's teeth, the syllables turning molten before they escaped in a breathless exhale. The honorific dripped between them like honey—thick and golden with implication. Sin's lashes fluttered shut for a heartbeat too long, and Taehyung knew then. Knew the kid had practiced this in some quiet corner of his mind, whispering it to the dark like a prayer. The realization punched through him like a fist to the diaphragm.
Taehyung crowded closer, letting the shelf dig into his back just to feel Sin's knees buckle against his thigh. "Say it again," he demanded, sliding his hand up to cradle the delicate hinge of Sin's jaw. He wanted to crack him open, wanted to lick the sweetness from his bones. Sin made a noise like a whimper, fingers twisting in the hem of his own sweater.
"Hyung," Sin repeated, and oh—oh—the way his voice curled around it, shy and yearning, tipped Taehyung over some invisible edge. He didn't remember moving, but suddenly his mouth was on Sin's, swallowing the gasp that followed. Sin tasted like stolen sugar packets and the peppermint gum he always chewed nervously. Taehyung bit down on his plush lower lip just to hear him keen, just to feel those doll-like hands fist in his shirt like he was the only solid thing in a spinning world.
The overhead light buzzed like a dying insect as Taehyung swallowed Sin’s gasp whole, hands bracketing the boy’s hips against the shelves hard enough to bruise. Paper reams toppled around them in a white avalanche, but neither noticed—not when Sin’s fingers were clutching Taehyung’s biceps like lifelines, not when Taehyung could feel the frantic flutter of the kid’s heartbeat through two layers of fabric. He licked into Sin’s mouth with the single-minded focus of a man starving, chasing the peppermint-sharp taste of him until they were both panting.
Sin broke away first, lips glistening and swollen. “Sunbae—hyung, we can’t—” The protest died when Taehyung sucked a bruise into the pale column of his throat, right over his jumping pulse. The mark bloomed violet almost instantly, vivid against Sin’s milk-pale skin. Mine, Taehyung thought savagely, biting down just to hear Sin’s breath stutter. The closet smelled like sweat and Sin’s peach shampoo now, thick enough to drown in.
Outside, footsteps echoed down the hall—Manager-nim’s familiar brisk stride. Taehyung didn’t pull away. Instead, he pressed closer, one hand sliding under Sin’s untucked shirt to trace the delicate dip of his waist. Sin made a noise like a sob, hips jerking forward involuntarily. The friction was electric, even through layers of fabric. “Quiet,” Taehyung murmured against his mouth, thumb rubbing circles over Sin’s hipbone. “Unless you want them to hear.”
Sin went rigid, eyes widening in dawning horror as the footsteps paused outside the supply closet. The doorknob rattled—once, twice—before Manager-nim muttered something about faulty locks and moved on. The second the footsteps faded, Sin sagged against Taehyung like a marionette with cut strings, breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. His lips were parted slightly, pink and swollen from Taehyung’s teeth, and the sight sent another jolt of heat straight to Taehyung’s gut.
“You’re shaking,” Taehyung observed, voice low and rough. He dragged his thumb over the bruise blooming on Sin’s throat, relishing the way the boy shuddered. It wasn’t fear—no, Sin’s pupils were blown wide, his fingers clutching at Taehyung’s sleeves like he was afraid he’d float away otherwise. Taehyung leaned in, close enough to feel Sin’s exhale against his lips. “Do you want me to stop?”
Sin’s breath hitched. For a long moment, he didn’t speak—just stared up at Taehyung with those liquid-crystal eyes, his chest rising and falling too fast. Then, slowly, deliberately, he shook his head. The movement was so slight Taehyung might’ve missed it if he weren’t watching so closely. But he was. He always was.
Taehyung’s grin was slow, predatory. “Use your words, baby.”
Sin’s throat worked soundlessly, his lips forming shapes around words that wouldn’t come. Taehyung watched, fascinated, as a drop of sweat traced the curve of Sin’s collarbone—a slow, meandering path that disappeared beneath the rumpled fabric of his shirt. The air between them crackled with something taut and humming, like the moment before a powerline snaps.
"N-No," Sin finally managed, voice fraying at the edges. His fingers tightened in Taehyung’s sleeves, knuckles blanching white. "Don’t… stop." The admission seemed to cost him, his cheeks flushing that perfect, feverish pink Taehyung wanted to bottle and keep.
Taehyung exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound almost a laugh. "Good boy." The praise rolled off his tongue like honey, thick and deliberate. He felt Sin shiver against him, those doll-like eyelashes fluttering shut for a heartbeat too long.
The supply closet was too small, too hot—the scent of paper and peaches cloying now, suffocating in its sweetness. Taehyung crowded closer, slotting a knee between Sin’s thighs just to hear the punched-out little gasp it earned him. Sin’s hips jerked forward instinctively, seeking friction, and Taehyung’s vision whited out for a second at the contact.
The overhead light buzzed louder as Taehyung pressed Sin harder against the shelves, the metal frame groaning under their combined weight. Sin’s fingers scrabbled at Taehyung’s shoulders, nails biting through fabric, as if he couldn’t decide whether to push or pull. Taehyung made the choice for him—grabbing both wrists in one hand and pinning them above Sin’s head, relishing the way the boy arched into the contact. “Fuck,” Taehyung hissed against his throat, teeth scraping over the bruise he’d left earlier. Sin’s hips stuttered forward again, a silent plea, and Taehyung nearly came undone at the sheer desperation of it.
Somewhere beyond the closet door, a muffled voice called Taehyung’s name—probably Yoongi, probably wondering where he’d vanished during break. Taehyung ignored it, too busy mapping the way Sin’s breath hitched when he rolled his hips just so. The kid was trembling like a plucked string, his normally porcelain skin blotched pink from collarbone to cheeks. Taehyung wanted to ruin him properly, wanted to see how far that blush could spread. “You’re so pretty like this,” he murmured, licking a stripe up Sin’s throat. “All messy for me.”
Sin made a noise halfway between a whimper and a moan, his knees buckling. Taehyung caught him effortlessly, one hand sliding down to grip the back of his thigh, hiking it up around his waist. The new angle had Sin gasping, his free hand flying to Taehyung’s bicep to steady himself. “Hyung, please—” The word cracked midway, and Taehyung swallowed the rest with another searing kiss, his tongue sliding against Sin’s in a rhythm that left no room for misinterpretation.
The doorknob rattled again—more insistent this time—followed by a sharp knock. “Taehyung-ah?” Jin’s voice, laced with amusement. “You in there?”
Taehyung froze, Sin's gasp hot against his lips. The boy's fingers dug into his biceps like claws, his whole body rigid with panic. Taehyung could taste the adrenaline on his tongue—sharp and metallic—as Sin's pulse hammered against his thumb where it still pressed to his throat. The overhead light flickered again, casting shadows that made Sin's dilated pupils look bottomless.
"Taehyung-ah, we need you for soundcheck," Jin called, punctuating the words with another knock. Paper reams shifted under Taehyung's sneakers as he leaned back just enough to see Sin's face properly. The kid looked wrecked—lips swollen, hair mussed, that damned beauty mark half-hidden by a fallen strand of white. A thin sheen of sweat glistened along his collarbone, right above the blooming bruise Taehyung's mouth had left. The sight sent a possessive thrill down his spine.
One second. Two. The doorknob jiggled. Taehyung pressed a finger to Sin's lips—quiet—before turning his head slightly toward the door. "Be right out, hyung," he called, voice miraculously steady.
Jin's pause was audible. "…You better be decent."
Taehyung’s grin was all teeth. “Define decent,” he shot back, watching Sin’s eyes go impossibly wider. The kid’s breath hitched audibly, his fingers tightening around Taehyung’s wrists like he was afraid the ground might drop out from under them. Outside, Jin snorted.
“Five minutes,” Jin said, footsteps retreating with deliberate loudness. The second they faded, Sin sagged against the shelves like a puppet with cut strings, his exhale shaky and uneven. Taehyung didn’t let go—couldn’t, not when Sin’s lower lip was still glistening from his mouth, not when the evidence of his teeth marked that porcelain throat.
“You okay?” Taehyung murmured, though the answer was obvious. Sin’s pupils were blown so wide his cerulean irises were nearly swallowed, his pulse fluttering like a caged bird under Taehyung’s thumb. The kid nodded jerkily, then seemed to think better of it when the movement made his knees buckle. Taehyung caught him effortlessly, hands spanning the delicate dip of Sin’s waist.
The silence between them was thick with unsaid things—with the weight of what had just happened, what could happen if Taehyung didn’t walk away right now. He should. He knew he should. But Sin’s fingers were still twisted in his shirt, his breath coming in shallow little puffs against Taehyung’s collarbone.
JEON JUNGKOOK
“You’re in my way,” Jungkook muttered, not bothering to look up from his phone as he sidestepped the figure frozen in the hallway. The words came out sharper than he meant—less irritation, more exhaustion—but the boy flinched anyway, pressing himself against the wall like he was trying to vanish into it. Jungkook barely registered him, already halfway down the corridor before something made him pause.
He glanced back.
The kid—Sin, right? One of the new staff—stood with his shoulders hunched, head bowed so low his white hair curtained his face. His fingers twisted nervously around the hem of his oversized sweater. Jungkook frowned. He hadn’t even been that harsh. Why did he look like he’d just been scolded by a drill sergeant?
“Hey,” Jungkook called, softer this time. Sin’s head snapped up, cerulean eyes wide. There was something unnervingly delicate about him—like porcelain, like if Jungkook raised his voice again, he might shatter.
The moment Sin's eyes met his—wide, wet, like polished gemstones catching light—Jungkook felt something jagged snag in his chest. It wasn't guilt. Guilt was soft, familiar. This was sharper, hotter, a wire pulled taut behind his ribs. He watched Sin's throat bob as he swallowed, the beauty mark under his left eye twitching with the motion.
"You don't have to—" Jungkook started, then stopped. His fingers flexed at his sides, restless. The kid looked fragile. Not just physically—though the oversized sweater drowning his frame suggested that too—but like his very presence was provisional, like he'd apologize for existing if given half a chance. It made Jungkook want to fix it. Which was absurd. He didn't fix things. He broke them.
Sin shifted, fingers still worrying at his sweater cuff. "S-sorry, sunbaenim," he murmured, voice so quiet Jungkook had to lean in to catch it. The honorific curled oddly in his stomach. Sunbaenim. As if Jungkook had earned it. As if he wasn't just some asshole who'd nearly bowled him over in a hallway.
Jungkook exhaled through his nose. "You didn't do anything wrong." The words came out gruff, but Sin's shoulders relaxed a fraction. His lips—stupidly pink, like he'd bitten them raw—parted slightly. Jungkook's gaze dropped. Lingered.
The realization hit Jungkook like a misplaced dance step—unexpected, throwing his balance off-kilter. Sin was still standing there, frozen under the fluorescent hallway lights, his cerulean eyes flickering between Jungkook’s face and the floor like he couldn’t decide which was safer. There was something about the way his fingers trembled against his sweater cuff, the way his beauty mark seemed to darken when he bit his lip—tiny, insignificant details that shouldn’t have mattered, and yet Jungkook found himself cataloging them anyway. His chest tightened.
“You’re—” Jungkook started, then stopped. What was he supposed to say? You’re too close when Sin was pressed against the wall like a startled animal? You’re staring when Jungkook was the one who couldn’t look away? He exhaled sharply through his nose, frustrated with himself. Sin flinched again, and something hot coiled in Jungkook’s gut—not anger, but something worse, something that made his fingers twitch with the urge to reach. To touch the delicate curve of Sin’s wrist, to see if his skin was as soft as it looked. The thought unsettled him. Since when did he care about touching anyone?
Sin’s voice was barely a whisper. “I-I should go—”
“No.” The word came out sharper than Jungkook intended, and Sin’s eyes widened. Jungkook forced his tone lower, gentler, though it grated against his nerves. “You don’t have to run.” From me, he didn’t add. But the unspoken words hung between them, heavy and suffocating. Sin’s lips parted—stupidly pink, stupidly soft—and Jungkook’s gaze dropped again. He’d never noticed how small Sin’s mouth was. How easily it would fit under his thumb.
Sin’s breath hitched when Jungkook stepped closer—just one step, but it was enough to make the hallway feel suddenly smaller, the air thicker. Jungkook didn’t know why he did it. He just knew that the way Sin’s lashes fluttered, the way his pulse jumped visibly in his throat, sent something electric skittering down his spine. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Staff were background noise, interchangeable faces he barely registered. But Sin? Sin was a distraction wrapped in oversized fabric, a problem Jungkook hadn’t asked for and didn’t want to solve. And yet here he was, crowding him against the wall like he had any right to.
“You’re shaking,” Jungkook murmured, eyes dropping to Sin’s hands. The kid curled his fingers into fists, but not fast enough—Jungkook had already seen the tremble. Something dark and possessive twisted in his chest. Who had made him like this? Who had taught him to fold into himself like a paper crane, to apologize for taking up space? The thought of someone else reducing Sin to this—nervous, fragile—made Jungkook’s jaw clench. He didn’t realize he’d reached out until his fingertips brushed Sin’s wrist. The contact was light, barely there, but Sin gasped like he’d been burned.
Jungkook should have pulled away. Instead, his fingers tightened, circling that delicate bone. Sin’s skin was softer than he’d imagined, warm and slightly damp with sweat. Jungkook’s thumb pressed into the pulse point, feeling the frantic flutter beneath. “Breathe,” he ordered, voice low. Sin’s eyes—god, those eyes—darted to his, wide and liquid. For a second, Jungkook forgot why this was a bad idea. All he could think was mine.
The realization hit him like a kick to the ribs. Mine? Since when did he think in those terms? Since when did he want like this? It wasn’t just curiosity, wasn’t just the novelty of someone who reacted to him like he was something terrifying and magnetic all at once. It was the way Sin’s breath stuttered when Jungkook leaned in, the way his lips parted like he was waiting for something he didn’t even know how to ask for. Jungkook had never been patient, had never cared enough to wait, but right now, he wanted to take Sin apart slowly, to map every tremor and sigh.
Sin's pulse fluttered under Jungkook's fingertips like a trapped bird, and the absurdity of it all hit him like a misplaced high note—since when did he notice things like this? Since when did he care about the hitch in someone's breath, the way their lashes trembled when they were trying not to blink? Sin's wrist was so slight in his grip, the bone prominent beneath skin that felt like warmed silk. Jungkook's thumb pressed harder without permission, as if testing the give of him, and Sin made a sound—barely a whimper, but it seared through Jungkook's veins like liquor.
"Sunbaenim," Sin whispered, and the title curled around Jungkook's spine, possessive and wrong and right in a way that made his teeth ache. He'd been called that a thousand times by staff, by fans, by people who didn't matter—so why did it feel different when Sin said it? Why did it sound like surrender?
Jungkook's free hand lifted before he could stop it, fingers brushing the fringe of white hair from Sin's forehead. The kid flinched, but didn't pull away, his cerulean eyes darting to Jungkook's mouth like he was tracing the shape of something dangerous. "You keep looking at me like that," Jungkook murmured, voice dropping into something rougher than he intended. "Like you're waiting for me to bite."
Sin's breath hitched. His pink tongue darted out to wet his lips—a nervous habit, probably, but Jungkook's gaze zeroed in on the movement with a focus that bordered on predatory. The hallway was too bright, too quiet, the hum of the overhead lights suddenly oppressive. He could hear every shaky inhale Sin took, could see the way his sweater slipped off one narrow shoulder, revealing a collarbone that looked like it was carved from marble. Jungkook's fingers itched to mark it.
Sin’s collarbone gleamed under the harsh fluorescents—pale, unmarked, begging for Jungkook’s teeth. The thought crashed into him like a rogue wave, sudden and violent. He shouldn’t be noticing the way Sin’s throat worked when he swallowed, shouldn’t be cataloging the exact shade of pink his lips turned when he bit them. Staff weren’t supposed to be noticed. They were ghosts in the background, interchangeable shadows who existed to hand him water bottles and adjust microphones. But Sin—Sin was a fucking distraction. Every tremble of his fingers, every flicker of those cerulean eyes, pulled at something low and restless in Jungkook’s gut.
The kid was still pressed against the wall, his sweater slipping further off one shoulder. Jungkook’s grip on his wrist tightened reflexively. Sin whimpered. The sound was small, barely audible, but it sent a jolt through Jungkook’s nerves, sharp and electric. He’d heard that noise before—in the studio, late at night, when he pushed himself too hard and his muscles screamed. This was different. This wasn’t pain. This was fear, raw and sweet, and Jungkook wanted to bottle it. Wanted to peel Sin apart layer by layer until he figured out what other sounds he could wring from him. The realization should have disgusted him. Instead, his pulse kicked harder.
“Sunbaenim,” Sin whispered again, and this time, his voice cracked. Jungkook’s free hand moved without thought, thumb brushing the beauty mark beneath Sin’s eye. The kid froze. His lashes fluttered—dark against his porcelain skin—and Jungkook’s breath caught. He’d touched a hundred people before—dancers, stylists, fans—but none of them had ever felt like this. Sin’s skin was fever-warm, smooth as spun sugar, and when Jungkook dragged his thumb down the curve of his cheekbone, Sin’s breath stuttered like a dying engine.
Jungkook leaned in. Close enough to count the freckles dusting Sin’s nose. Close enough to smell the faint citrus of his shampoo. Close enough that when Sin’s lips parted on a shaky exhale, Jungkook could see the wet glint of his teeth. This is a mistake, some distant part of his brain warned. He ignored it. The air between them was charged, thick with something Jungkook didn’t have a name for—something that made his fingertips burn where they touched Sin’s skin.
Sin’s eyelashes fluttered like moth wings against his cheeks—too fast, too fragile—and Jungkook’s fingers twitched with the urge to pin them in place. The kid’s pulse rabbited under his grip, frantic and alive, and Jungkook wondered absently how hard he’d have to press to leave bruises blooming under that porcelain skin. The thought shouldn’t have thrilled him. But when Sin’s pink tongue darted out to wet his lips again, Jungkook’s vision tunneled to that wet shine, to the way Sin’s teeth caught his bottom lip when he trembled.
“Stop that,” Jungkook growled, tightening his hold on Sin’s wrist. The kid froze, eyes widening further—impossible, when they were already drowning in his face—and Jungkook realized with a jolt that his own breathing had gone ragged. He could feel Sin’s heartbeat in his fingertips, could count each stuttering thump like it was Morse code spelling out danger.
Sin’s sweater slipped another inch, revealing the sharp dip of his collarbone, the pale stretch of skin where his neck met shoulder. Jungkook’s mouth watered. He’d never bitten anyone before—not like this, not with intent—but the urge to sink his teeth into that unmarked flesh was sudden and visceral. To claim. To ruin. To own. The realization should have horrified him. Instead, his free hand lifted, fingertips brushing the exposed hollow of Sin’s throat. The kid gasped, a sound so small it barely existed, but Jungkook felt it vibrate against his fingers like a plucked string.
“Sunbaenim,” Sin whispered again, voice cracking halfway through. Jungkook’s thumb pressed harder against his pulse point, silencing him. The honorific curled hot and wrong in his gut—sunbaenim, like Jungkook had earned his deference, like he wasn’t currently crowding him against a wall with intentions he couldn’t name. Sin’s eyes darted to Jungkook’s mouth, lingered, then skittered away like he’d been burned. The flicker of attention sent heat pooling low in Jungkook’s stomach. He leaned closer, close enough to see the way his pupils dilated when Jungkook’s breath ghosted over his lips.
The overhead lights buzzed like a swarm of wasps, too loud in the sudden hush between them. Sin’s eyelashes cast fragile shadows on his cheeks—Jungkook could see each individual lash, could trace the way they trembled when Sin swallowed. His throat worked under Jungkook’s fingertips, the pulse there erratic, frantic. Jungkook’s thumb pressed harder, just to feel it jump. Sin made another noise, high and thin, and Jungkook’s gut twisted with something hot and possessive.
“You keep calling me that,” Jungkook murmured, voice rough. His free hand slid up Sin’s arm, fingertips skating over the delicate dip of his elbow. The kid shivered violently, his sweater slipping further down his shoulder. “Sunbaenim.” He let the word roll off his tongue, slow and deliberate, testing the weight of it. Sin’s breath hitched. Jungkook’s lips curled. “You say it like you mean it.”
Sin’s eyes—god, those eyes—flickered to his, wide and wet. His lips parted, pink and glistening, but no sound came out. Jungkook’s gaze dropped to his mouth. He’d never wanted to taste someone before. The realization should have startled him. Instead, he leaned in, close enough that their breaths tangled, close enough to count the faint freckles scattered across Sin’s nose. The kid smelled like citrus and something sweet, something Jungkook couldn’t name but wanted to devour.
Sin’s fingers twitched against Jungkook’s wrist, feather-light, hesitant. Jungkook stilled. The touch was barely there—a ghost of pressure, a question mark—but it sent a current skittering up his spine. No one touched him like this. Not unless he allowed it. Not unless he wanted it. And yet Sin’s fingertips lingered, trembling against his skin, like he was afraid Jungkook would vanish if he pressed too hard. The thought sent something sharp and unfamiliar lancing through Jungkook’s chest.
Sin's fingers trembled against Jungkook's wrist—barely touching, barely breathing—and Jungkook's pulse kicked violently under that featherlight contact. No one touched him without permission. No one dared. But Sin's fingertips lingered like he didn't know the rules, like he hadn't been warned, and the absurdity of it burned through Jungkook's veins hotter than any defiance.
"Who told you," Jungkook murmured, leaning in until his lips grazed the shell of Sin's ear, "that you could touch me?" His voice came out rough, low enough that the words vibrated between them. Sin froze—Jungkook felt it in the sudden stillness of his wrist, in the way his breath stuttered to a stop—but he didn't pull away. Cowardice or courage? Jungkook couldn't tell. He only knew that the warmth of Sin's fingers against his skin was maddening, that the tentative press of them made his throat tighten with something dangerously close to want.
Sin's eyelashes fluttered, casting shadows across his cheeks. "S-sorry, sunbaenim," he whispered, but his fingers didn't move. The contradiction—apology and disobedience tangled together—sent a sharp thrill down Jungkook's spine. He'd never been good at resisting challenges.
Jungkook's grip on Sin's wrist tightened. "Liar," he breathed, and watched Sin's lips part on a gasp. The kid was shaking again, fine tremors running through him like live wires, but his fingers stayed curled against Jungkook's wrist. A spark of something bright and reckless flared in Jungkook's chest. He shifted, crowding Sin harder against the wall, close enough that their chests brushed with every ragged inhale. Sin's sweater had slipped further, revealing the sharp line of his collarbone, the pale dip of his throat. Jungkook's teeth ached.
Jungkook's breath hitched when Sin's fingers tightened—just slightly—against his wrist. The pressure was barely there, a tentative question rather than a demand, but it sent a current of electricity skittering up his arm. Sin's thumb brushed the delicate skin of Jungkook's pulse point, mirroring the way Jungkook had touched him moments ago, and the symmetry of it punched the air from Jungkook's lungs.
"You're not sorry," Jungkook murmured, voice rougher than he intended. Sin's eyelashes fluttered—dark against the porcelain of his cheeks—but he didn't deny it. The defiance, silent as it was, coiled hot in Jungkook's gut. He leaned in until his lips grazed the shell of Sin's ear, close enough to feel the shudder that wracked the kid's frame. "You want to touch me."
Sin's breath stuttered, warm against Jungkook's jaw. His fingers twitched, but didn't retreat. The hesitation—the way his touch lingered like he was afraid Jungkook would vanish—sent something sharp and unfamiliar lancing through Jungkook's chest. No one touched him like this. Not unless he allowed it. Not unless he wanted it. And Sin—fragile, trembling Sin—was doing it without permission, without fear.
The realization should have angered him. Instead, Jungkook's grip on Sin's wrist gentled, his thumb brushing the delicate bones there in something that wasn't quite apology, wasn't quite praise. Sin made a sound—soft, startled—and Jungkook's pulse kicked violently in response.
Sin’s fingers curled tighter around Jungkook’s wrist—just for a second—before they went slack again, as if he’d caught himself doing something forbidden. Jungkook exhaled sharply through his nose. The kid’s touch burned like a brand, fleeting but searing, and Jungkook found himself chasing it when Sin tried to pull away, twisting his wrist to trap those trembling fingers against his skin. Sin made a noise—small, startled—and Jungkook’s pulse thundered in his ears.
“You don’t get to—” Jungkook started, then stopped. His throat felt tight, his voice rougher than he intended. What was he even saying? You don’t get to touch me and stop? You don’t get to make me feel this and walk away? The words tangled on his tongue, useless. Sin’s eyelashes fluttered, his cerulean eyes darting between Jungkook’s grip on his wrist and the way their chests nearly brushed with every uneven breath. The kid looked wrecked—lips bitten pink, sweater slipping off one shoulder, collarbone exposed like an offering. Jungkook’s mouth went dry.
The practice room smelled like sweat and determination—pine-scented disinfectant barely masking the musk of seven bodies pushing themselves to exhaustion. Hoseok wiped his brow with the back of his hand, laughing as Namjoon nearly tripped over his own feet mid-choreography. The others groaned good-naturedly, collapsing onto the floor in a heap of sore limbs and breathless complaints.
"One more time," Hoseok said, grinning as he stretched his arms overhead.
Jimin threw a water bottle at him. "Hyung, you're a demon."
The door cracked open then, and a staff member poked her head in, looking apologetic. "Sorry to interrupt, but the new vocal coach is here early. They wanted to introduce themselves."
The door swung open fully, and for a moment, the entire room froze—not out of professionalism, but because the figure stepping inside seemed to have stolen all the oxygen. Sin hovered in the doorway, fingers twisting nervously in the hem of his oversized sweater, his cerulean eyes darting between the members like a startled fawn. The fluorescent lights caught the beauty mark under his left eye, making it gleam like a tiny punctuation mark on his porcelain skin.
Hoseok’s breath hitched. It wasn’t just that Sin was beautiful—though he was, devastatingly so—it was the way his presence seemed to soften the edges of the room, like someone had turned down the volume on reality.
"Hello," Sin murmured, bowing so deeply his white hair flopped forward. His voice was sweet, hesitant, the kind that made you lean in to catch every syllable. "I’m Sin. I’ll be assisting with your vocal training."
Jimin, ever the social butterfly, recovered first. "Wow, you’re adorable," he blurted, then flushed when Yoongi elbowed him.
Hoseok couldn't pinpoint the exact moment it happened—only that one second he was laughing at Namjoon's stumble, and the next, his lungs had forgotten how to inflate. Sin's fingers were still tangled in his sweater sleeves, his pink lips slightly parted as he waited for someone to speak. The room felt airless, charged, like the pause between lightning and thunder.
"Adorable?" Jungkook snorted under his breath, nudging Jimin's shoulder. But Hoseok wasn't listening. He was cataloging—the way Sin's eyelashes cast delicate shadows when he blinked, the nervous flutter of his pulse at his throat, the single droplet of sweat sliding down his temple from the studio lights. It wasn't just attraction; it was the visceral, irrational need to press his thumb against that sweat droplet and taste it.
Sin straightened from his bow, cheeks pink, and Hoseok's fingers twitched at his sides. He wanted to crowd him against the nearest mirror, wanted to lick into that sweet mouth until Sin whimpered—but instead, he smiled, all sunshine and practiced charm. "We'll be in good hands," he said, and his voice didn't waver, even though his pulse was hammering loud enough to drown out the music still playing softly from the speakers.
Later, after Sin had shyly guided them through warm-ups—his small hands fluttering as he demonstrated breathing techniques, his voice soft but precise—Hoseok lingered by the door as the others filed out for lunch. Sin was meticulously stacking sheet music, his white hair falling into his eyes. Hoseok stepped closer, deliberately invading his space, and Sin startled, nearly dropping the papers. "H-Hobi-ssi?"
Hoseok caught the sheet music before it could hit the ground, his fingers brushing Sin's in the process. The contact sent an electric current up his arm—brief, fleeting, but enough to make his breath stutter. Sin's skin was cooler than he'd imagined, smooth as porcelain, and Hoseok had to resist the urge to lace their fingers together right then.
"Careful," Hoseok murmured, voice low, thumb lingering just a second too long against Sin's knuckle before pulling away. He watched, fascinated, as Sin's blush deepened, spreading from his cheeks down to his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his sweater.
"Th-thank you," Sin stammered, clutching the papers to his chest like a shield. His cerulean eyes flickered up to Hoseok's face before darting away again, lashes fluttering like moth wings.
Hoseok leaned in slightly, just enough to catch the faint scent of vanilla and something citrusy—Sin's shampoo, maybe. He wondered what it would smell like tangled in his own sheets.
The moment Sin’s fingers brushed against his, Hoseok’s pulse kicked into a wild, erratic rhythm—not the steady beat of choreography, but something primal, untamed. He had always prided himself on control, on the way he could compartmentalize desire into something manageable, something professional. But this? This was different. Sin wasn’t just beautiful; he was a living paradox—soft-spoken yet devastating, shy yet magnetic, innocent yet unknowingly provocative in the way his pink lips parted when he was nervous. Hoseok wanted to ruin him. Wanted to be the one who taught him how to unravel.
"You’re staying late?" Hoseok asked, tilting his head as Sin fumbled with the sheet music. His voice was light, playful, but beneath the veneer of casual interest, something darker coiled—hungry and impatient.
Sin nodded, not meeting his eyes. "I—I need to review the arrangements for tomorrow." His voice was barely above a whisper, and Hoseok had to resist the urge to crowd him against the piano bench just to hear it better.
"I’ll stay with you," Hoseok declared, already pulling out his phone to text the others not to wait for him. He didn’t give Sin a chance to protest, dropping onto the bench beside him, their thighs brushing. Sin tensed, his breath hitching, and Hoseok smirked. "Unless you’d rather be alone?"
Sin's fingers trembled slightly as he smoothed out the sheet music, the paper crinkling under his touch. "I-I wouldn’t mind the company," he admitted, voice so quiet Hoseok had to lean in closer, catching the faint scent of vanilla clinging to his skin. The overhead lights flickered slightly, casting Sin’s face in alternating shadows—his beauty mark disappearing and reappearing like a shy secret. Hoseok’s throat went dry. He had never believed in love at first sight—had scoffed at the idea, really—but this? This was something worse. This was obsession at first breath.
Hoseok stretched his arms behind his head lazily, letting his knee press more firmly against Sin’s thigh under the pretense of getting comfortable. "Good," he said, grinning when Sin’s breath hitched. "Because I wasn’t really asking." The words came out teasing, but there was an edge to them—a promise, a warning. Sin’s cerulean eyes widened, lips parting around an unspoken protest, and Hoseok’s gut twisted with something viciously possessive. Mine, his brain supplied, unbidden. The realization should have scared him. It didn’t.
The studio was silent except for the distant hum of the air conditioner and the occasional rustle of paper as Sin sorted through the arrangements. Hoseok watched, rapt, as Sin’s pink tongue darted out to wet his lips—a nervous habit, probably, but all Hoseok could think about was how those lips would feel swollen from his kisses. "You’re staring," Sin murmured, cheeks flushing under the weight of Hoseok’s gaze.
"I am," Hoseok agreed easily, unrepentant. He tilted his head, studying the way Sin’s white hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck, damp with sweat from the earlier practice. "You’re interesting." It was an understatement. Sin was a fucking revelation—every flutter of his lashes, every hesitant smile, every unintentional provocation in the way he bit his lower lip when concentrating. Hoseok wanted to devour him whole.
Hoseok had always considered himself perceptive—not just in dance, where every micro-movement mattered, but in people. He could read a room in seconds, knew when to push and when to retreat, understood the unspoken rules of attraction like the back of his hand. But Sin? Sin was a language he couldn’t parse, a melody he couldn’t place. From the moment those cerulean eyes had flickered up at him—shy, startled, alive—Hoseok had felt something shift irreparably in his chest. Not love. Not yet. But the sharp, jagged want of it, the kind that left his fingers twitching with the need to touch, to claim, to ruin.
Sin’s hands trembled slightly as he adjusted the sheet music, his pink lips pressing together in concentration. Hoseok watched, rapt, as the overhead lights caught the sweat-damp strands of white hair sticking to Sin’s forehead. He wanted to lick them away. Wanted to pin Sin’s wrists to the piano bench and watch those doll-like eyes widen with realization. Instead, he leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head, letting his knee press more firmly against Sin’s thigh. "You’re nervous," Hoseok observed, not a question.
Sin’s breath hitched. "I—I’m not used to—" He gestured vaguely at the empty practice room, at Hoseok’s proximity, at the charged silence between them.
"Being alone with someone like me?" Hoseok supplied, grinning when Sin’s blush deepened. He leaned in, close enough to count the freckles dusting Sin’s nose. "Or being wanted like this?"
The overhead lights flickered again, and Sin flinched—just slightly—as if expecting darkness to swallow them whole. Hoseok noticed, of course. He noticed everything about Sin now: the way his cerulean eyes dilated when startled, the faint tremor in his wrists when someone stood too close, the subconscious way he bit the inside of his cheek when lying. Right now, Sin was lying. "I should—I should focus on the arrangements," Sin murmured, fingers tightening around the sheet music. His voice was honey-sweet, but Hoseok heard the strain beneath it, the unspoken please don’t look at me like that.
Hoseok grinned, slow and wolfish, and reached over to pluck the papers from Sin’s grip. "Let me help." His fingers lingered deliberately against Sin’s, savoring the way Sin’s breath stuttered at the contact. The sheet music was meaningless—just scribbled notes and chord progressions—but Hoseok pretended to study it intently, leaning in until his shoulder pressed against Sin’s. "You write these?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. He’d done his research the moment Sin’s name had appeared on the staff roster. Twenty-one, prodigy pianist, scholarship student at Seoul Arts. Orphaned at fourteen. No known lovers. Perfect.
"Y-yes," Sin whispered, shrinking into himself like a flower wilting under too much sun. His sweater slipped off one shoulder, revealing a collarbone so sharp Hoseok wanted to bite it. "Just drafts, though. For your next album."
Hoseok hummed, flipping a page. The music was good—brilliant, actually—but all he could focus on was the way Sin’s pulse fluttered visibly at his throat. He wanted to press his tongue there, taste the salt of his skin. "You’re talented," he said instead, voice dripping with false nonchalance. "Pretty and gifted. Dangerous combination."
The piano bench creaked under their combined weight as Hoseok leaned further into Sin’s space, close enough to count the individual lashes casting shadows over those gemstone eyes. The sheet music trembled in Sin’s grip—or maybe that was his hands—and Hoseok fought the urge to pin his wrists to the piano keys just to feel the frantic flutter of his pulse. "You know," Hoseok murmured, tracing a finger along the edge of the paper, "most people would kill to be this close to me." His voice was honeyed poison, saccharine and lethal.
Sin swallowed hard, the bob of his throat obscenely tempting. "I-I’m honored, Hobi-ssi," he whispered, voice cracking like thin ice. His cerulean eyes darted to the door—calculating escape routes, Hoseok realized with a thrill—but the younger man didn’t move. Didn’t want to, if the pink dusting his cheeks meant anything.
Hoseok’s grin widened. He’d seen this dance before—the hesitation, the fear, the reluctant fascination. But Sin wasn’t like the others. There was no practiced coyness in the way his breath hitched when Hoseok’s knee brushed higher against his thigh, no artifice in the way his lips parted around unspoken pleas. Just raw, trembling realness. It made Hoseok want to ruin him in ways that would leave his sweater in tatters and his voice hoarse from screaming.
"You keep looking at the door," Hoseok observed, tilting his head like a predator studying prey. He plucked the sheet music from Sin’s hands and set it aside, deliberate. "Scared?"
Sin’s breath hitched—a tiny, fractured sound that Hoseok felt more than heard. The air between them thickened, charged with something electric and damning. Hoseok watched, fascinated, as Sin’s cerulean eyes flickered between the door and Hoseok’s face, his pink lips pressing together like he was physically holding back a whimper. "N-no," Sin whispered, but the lie trembled on his tongue, sweet and unconvincing.
Hoseok leaned closer, close enough to count the faint freckles scattered like constellations across Sin’s nose. "Liar," he murmured, voice dripping with false sympathy. His knee pressed harder against Sin’s thigh, pinning him to the piano bench in a way that was subtle enough to be deniable but firm enough to make Sin’s pulse stutter under his skin. "But that’s okay. I like liars." His thumb brushed the edge of Sin’s sweater sleeve, catching on a loose thread. "Especially pretty ones."
Sin’s fingers twitched in his lap, his entire body taut like a bowstring pulled too tight. Hoseok could practically taste the fear radiating off him—sharp and metallic—but beneath it, something else flickered. Curiosity. Fascination. The same magnetic pull that had made Hoseok’s breath catch the moment Sin had stepped into the practice room, doll-like and devastating.
"I’ve never met anyone like you," Hoseok admitted, tilting his head as if studying a rare specimen. His fingers traced idle patterns on the piano bench between them, deliberately close to Sin’s thigh but not touching. Not yet. "You’re like—" He paused, searching for the right word. "Addictive." The admission hung between them, raw and unfiltered. Hoseok had never been one for honesty, but something about Sin made the truth spill from his lips like poison from a wound.
The piano bench creaked dangerously as Hoseok leaned in, close enough that Sin could feel the heat radiating off him—like standing too close to a bonfire on a winter night. Sin’s fingers curled into the fabric of his sweater, knuckles whitening, but he didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. Hoseok’s presence was a gravitational pull, and Sin was helpless against it.
"You’re trembling," Hoseok murmured, his breath ghosting over Sin’s ear. His voice was syrup-sweet, but his eyes—dark and hungry—belied the gentleness. "Cold?"
Sin shook his head, mute. The air between them was thick with something electric, something wrong, but the part of him that should have been screaming to run was curiously silent. Instead, all he could focus on was the way Hoseok’s knee pressed insistently against his thigh, the way his fingers—long and elegant—drummed absently against the piano bench, inching closer with every tap.
Hoseok smiled, slow and knowing, as if he could hear the frantic rhythm of Sin’s thoughts. "Good," he said, dragging the word out like a caress. "Because I’d hate for you to catch a cold." His hand settled over Sin’s, warm and heavy, pinning it to the bench. The contact sent a jolt through Sin’s body, his breath hitching audibly. Hoseok’s thumb stroked over his knuckles, a mockery of comfort. "You’re so small," he mused, voice dripping with false sweetness. "I could break you so easily."
The piano bench groaned as Hoseok shifted closer, deliberately pressing his thigh flush against Sin’s. The sheet music lay forgotten on the floor, crumpled under Hoseok’s shoe—an afterthought now that Sin’s breath was coming in quick, shallow bursts, his cerulean eyes darting between Hoseok’s face and the door like a trapped animal. Hoseok’s grin widened. He loved this part—the moment they realized there was no escape.
"You know," Hoseok murmured, tracing the curve of Sin’s ear with his fingertip, savoring the way he shuddered, "most idols would kill for my attention." His voice was honey-thick, dripping with false warmth. "But you? You’re special." The word curled around them, a noose disguised as a compliment.
Sin’s lips parted—whether to protest or plead, Hoseok would never know—because he chose that moment to slide his hand up the back of Sin’s neck, fingers tangling in that soft white hair. Sin gasped, a tiny, broken sound, and Hoseok’s pulse roared in his ears. Mine. The thought was primal, unbidden, but undeniably true. From the moment Sin had stepped into that practice room—flushed and trembling under the studio lights—Hoseok had known. This wasn’t admiration. This was consumption.
The first time Hoseok saw Sin, really saw him, was three days before the official introduction. He’d been leaving the studio late, sweat-drenched and exhausted, when he caught a glimpse of porcelain skin and cerulean eyes through the cracked door of a rehearsal room. Sin had been alone, bent over a piano, fingers dancing across the keys with a skill that bordered on supernatural. Hoseok had stood there, transfixed, as the melody swelled—beautiful and haunting, like a siren’s call. And then Sin had looked up, met his gaze through the glass, and smiled. Soft. Sweet. Oblivious to the way Hoseok’s world had just tilted on its axis.
The piano keys glimmered under Sin’s fingers like polished teeth, and Hoseok—hidden in the doorway’s shadow—felt his own bite down hard on his lower lip. He hadn’t meant to linger. Hadn’t meant to watch. But three nights ago, when he’d first caught Sin alone in the rehearsal room, something primal had uncoiled in his gut. The way Sin’s lashes fluttered shut when he played, the way his pink lips parted around silent lyrics—it wasn’t just artistry. It was sacrilege.
Hoseok stepped into the room, letting the door click shut behind him. Sin startled, fingers stumbling over a chord, but Hoseok was already moving, circling the piano like a shark scenting blood. "You play like someone who’s never been kissed," he murmured, leaning down until his breath stirred the hairs at Sin’s nape.
Sin’s pulse jumped visibly at his throat. "I—I don’t—"
"Lie to me," Hoseok interrupted, grinning as he dragged a fingertip along the piano’s edge. "Tell me you’ve never imagined this." His hand shot out, catching Sin’s wrist mid-tremble. The contact burned. "Never pictured one of us pinning you against this very piano?"
The piano bench groaned under the sudden shift in weight as Hoseok leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Sin’s ear. "You’ve been watching us," he murmured, not a question but an accusation wrapped in velvet. His fingers tightened around Sin’s wrist, feeling the rabbit-quick pulse beneath porcelain skin. "From the back of the studio, during rehearsals. From the hallway when we’re joking around. Don’t lie—I’ve seen you." Sin’s breath hitched, his free hand fluttering uselessly against the piano keys, hitting a dissonant chord that echoed through the empty room.
Hoseok remembered the first time he’d noticed—three weeks ago, when Sin had lingered too long after dropping off sheet music, cerulean eyes darting to Hoseok’s bare torso as he toweled off sweat. The way Sin had bitten his lower lip, just for a second, before fleeing. It had been a spark in dry tinder. Hoseok had stoked it deliberately since then—leaving his studio door ajar when changing, "accidentally" brushing against Sin in the hallway, catching his gaze across crowded rooms and holding it until Sin flushed and looked away.
Now, with Sin trapped between his body and the piano, Hoseok finally let the fire breathe. "You like watching, don’t you?" His knee pressed harder between Sin’s thighs, eliciting a whimper. The sheet music lay forgotten on the floor, trampled underfoot. "Tell me what you imagine when you see me."
Sin’s voice was shattered glass. "I—I don’t—"
The first time Hoseok truly noticed Sin was three days before the official introduction, in a moment that should have been mundane—just another late-night studio session bleeding into dawn. He'd been leaving, muscles aching and shirt damp with sweat, when a haunting melody slipped through a cracked rehearsal room door. Hoseok had paused, irritation fading into something sharper, hotter. Through the gap, he saw him—Sin, bent over the piano like a devotee at an altar, fingers moving with a grace that bordered on sinful. The music wasn't just beautiful; it was a confession, raw and unguarded in a way Hoseok had never heard from their usual composers.
And then Sin looked up.
Their eyes met through the glass, and Sin smiled—soft, startled, unbearably sweet—before his cheeks pinked and he ducked his head. Hoseok's breath caught. It wasn't just attraction; it was the sudden, visceral understanding that this boy could ruin him if he wanted to.
Hoseok made sure Sin noticed him noticing after that. Lingered in doorways Sin frequented, "accidentally" brushed against him in hallways, let his gaze linger a beat too long whenever Sin brought them water during practice. He cataloged every reaction—the way Sin's fingers trembled when handing him a towel, how his cerulean eyes flickered to Hoseok's lips when he thought no one was looking.
Hoseok didn’t just fall—he plummeted.
It happened the third time Sin stayed late to rearrange sheet music, long after the others had left the studio. Hoseok had pretended to forget his phone, doubling back just to catch Sin alone again. The sight of him—bathed in the blue glow of the computer screen, white hair tousled from hours of running nervous fingers through it—made Hoseok’s pulse stutter. Sin hadn’t noticed him yet, humming under his breath as he scribbled notes in the margins, his pink tongue caught between his teeth in concentration.
Hoseok leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, drinking in the way Sin’s sweater slipped off one shoulder, revealing a collarbone sharp enough to cut glass. He’d never believed in love at first sight. But obsession? That was a language he spoke fluently.
"You’re gonna ruin your eyes," Hoseok said, finally stepping into the room.
The moment Sin looked up—cerulean eyes wide, pink lips parted around a gasp—Hoseok knew he was already lost. The piano's dissonant chord still hung in the air between them, vibrating through Hoseok's bones like a warning. Sin's wrist was fragile in his grip, pulse fluttering like a caged bird. Hoseok could snap it so easily. Could devour him whole right there against the piano keys. Instead, he loosened his fingers just enough to feel Sin's trembling intensify.
"You don't lie very well," Hoseok murmured, thumb stroking the delicate blue veins beneath Sin's skin. The studio lights flickered overhead, casting Sin's face in fractured shadows—his beauty mark disappearing and reappearing with each erratic blink. "I've seen the way you watch me during rehearsals." His knee pressed harder between Sin's thighs, drawing out a whimper that went straight to Hoseok's gut. "Tell me what you're really doing here."
Sin's breath hitched, his free hand splayed against the piano lid for balance. "I—I just work here—"
Hoseok laughed, low and velvet-dark, crowding closer until their chests nearly touched. "Try again." He dragged his nose along Sin's jawline, inhaling sharply—vanilla shampoo, nervous sweat, something indefinably Sin. "Nobody with hands like yours"—he interlaced their fingers abruptly, pressing Sin's palm flat against the piano keys in a jarring cacophony—"takes a job as an assistant."
Hoseok didn't remember walking to the piano—only the sudden pressure of Sin's thigh against his, the way the younger man's breath stuttered when Hoseok's fingers traced the curve of his jaw. The sheet music lay forgotten on the floor, trampled beneath Hoseok's sneakers as he crowded closer, drinking in the way Sin's pupils dilated—black swallowing cerulean like an eclipse.
Summary : How they meet sin for the first time
GENRE : FLUFF
PAIRING : MIN YOONGI X SIN
✧༺♡༻✧ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ✧༺♡༻✧˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 ⋆｡˚ ☽˚｡⋆✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧
"Move," Yoongi muttered under his breath, pushing past the crowd with practiced irritation. The underground club was packed tonight, bodies pressed tight under the pulsing neon lights, the air thick with sweat and bass-heavy music. He wasn’t even supposed to be here—some last-minute favor for Namjoon, something about scouting talent. But talent was the last thing on his mind when he saw him.
There, tucked into the corner of the stage like he was trying to disappear, was a boy with white hair so messy it looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. His fingers fumbled over the synth keys, hesitant at first, then suddenly confident as the melody swelled—something haunting, something Yoongi hadn’t heard before. And those eyes. Cerulean, catching the stage lights like shattered glass.
Yoongi didn’t realize he’d stopped walking until someone bumped into him. He barely registered the annoyed grunt behind him. The boy—Sin, the crumpled flyer in his hand read—bit his lip as he played, pink and soft like he’d never known a day of hardship. A single beauty mark under his left eye made him look almost doll-like, fragile in a way that shouldn’t have been possible in a place like this.
The song ended too soon. Sin glanced up, scanning the crowd as if expecting indifference. Instead, his gaze locked onto Yoongi’s. For a heartbeat, the noise of the club faded. Then Sin looked away, cheeks flushing, fingers curling nervously into his sleeves.
Yoongi hadn’t moved. His feet were rooted to the sticky floor, his pulse thrumming louder than the bass shaking the walls. The boy—Sin—had already turned away, shoulders hunched like he expected to be ignored, but Yoongi couldn’t unsee him. That fragile beauty mark, the way his fingers had trembled before finding the keys, the way his eyes flickered with something between hope and resignation. It twisted something inside Yoongi’s chest, sharp and unfamiliar.
He didn’t wait for the next song. He pushed forward, ignoring the grumbles of the crowd, until he was at the edge of the stage. Up close, Sin looked even more delicate—his sleeves too long, swallowing his hands, his white hair tousled like he’d been running his fingers through it nervously. Yoongi leaned against the stage, close enough that Sin couldn’t pretend not to see him. "Play another one," he said, voice rough, too loud in the sudden lull between songs.
Sin startled, cerulean eyes widening. His lips parted—pink, soft, wrong for a place like this—before he ducked his head. "I-I don’t…" His voice was barely audible over the chatter of the crowd, sweet and hesitant. Yoongi wanted to hear it again.
"Play," Yoongi repeated, softer this time. He didn’t know why it mattered so much. He just knew he couldn’t walk away now.
Sin’s fingers hovered over the synth keys, trembling slightly under Yoongi’s unbroken stare. The club’s neon lights painted his pale skin in streaks of violet and blue, catching the diamond-like glimmer of his eyes—wide, uncertain, beautiful. Yoongi didn’t blink. He couldn’t. Something about the way Sin’s breath hitched, the way his pink lips parted in hesitation, hooked itself under Yoongi’s ribs and pulled.
Then Sin pressed down on the keys, and the room dissolved.
The melody wasn’t like anything Yoongi had heard before—haunting but sweet, like a lullaby twisted into something aching. Sin played with his eyes half-lidded, lashes casting shadows over his cheeks, his earlier nervousness melting into something quiet, intimate. Yoongi’s chest tightened. He’d seen thousands perform, had dissected every flaw and strength in music like a surgeon, but this—this was different. This wasn’t just talent. This was Sin, laid bare in every note, and Yoongi wanted to swallow it whole.
The song ended too soon. Sin’s hands fell into his lap, fingers curling into the fabric of his oversized sleeves. He didn’t look up.
Yoongi didn’t realize he’d reached out until his fingers brushed Sin’s wrist—cold, slender, fragile enough to snap. The boy flinched but didn’t pull away, his pulse fluttering under Yoongi’s thumb like a trapped bird. "Where’d you learn to play like that?" The question came out rougher than he intended, something between curiosity and accusation. Sin’s music wasn’t just good; it was unsettling, the kind of sound that carved itself into bone marrow.
Sin’s lips parted, then pressed into a shy line. "Nowhere," he murmured, and Yoongi almost laughed. Nowhere. As if that hollow, honeyed ache in his melody could be born from nothing. As if those trembling fingers hadn’t been shaped by some quiet, desperate longing. Yoongi’s grip tightened instinctively—not enough to hurt, just enough to feel. Sin’s breath hitched, his cerulean eyes flickering up, wide and wet under the neon haze.
The crowd shifted around them, oblivious. Someone bumped into Yoongi’s shoulder, but he didn’t move, didn’t blink. Sin was staring at him now, really looking, and Yoongi could see the exact moment the boy recognized him—the way his pupils dilated, his pink mouth forming a silent oh. Idols weren’t supposed to linger in places like this. Yoongi shouldn’t be here, leaning over a stranger like a starving man. He didn’t care.
"Come with me," he said. It wasn’t a request.
Sin’s fingers twitched under Yoongi’s grip, his pulse fluttering like a caged thing. The neon lights painted his face in fractured hues—blue, violet, the sharp red of the exit sign bleeding into the hollow of his throat. "I—" he started, voice fraying at the edges, but Yoongi didn’t let him finish. He tugged, just once, and Sin stumbled forward, his sleeve slipping to reveal a wrist so slender Yoongi could circle it with his thumb and forefinger.
The crowd parted around them like water, murmurs rising and dissolving as Yoongi led Sin through the throng, his grip unrelenting. Sin didn’t resist, didn’t ask where they were going—just followed with those wide, wet eyes, his breaths shallow and uneven. Yoongi’s chest burned with something he couldn’t name, something between hunger and fury. Who let him walk into a place like this alone? Who let him look like that, sound like that, and expected him to leave unscathed?
The back alley was dim, the club’s bass vibrating through the cracked pavement. Yoongi pushed Sin against the brick wall, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make him gasp—a soft, startled sound that curled hot in Yoongi’s gut. Up close, Sin smelled like vanilla and something faintly floral, absurdly innocent for a boy who played like a sinner.
"You know who I am," Yoongi said, voice low. It wasn’t a question.
Sin’s throat moved as he swallowed, the beauty mark under his eye catching the dim alley light like a flaw in porcelain. "Y-you're Suga," he whispered, and the way his voice wrapped around the stage name—reverent, uncertain—sent a sharp thrill down Yoongi’s spine. He hadn’t been Suga in months, not like this, not with sweat-damp hair and a scowl that didn’t belong on camera. But Sin recognized him anyway, cerulean eyes flickering over Yoongi’s face like he was memorizing the shadows under his eyes, the unshaved edge of his jaw.
Yoongi crowded closer, close enough to feel the hitch in Sin’s breath against his collarbones. "And you’re nothing," he murmured, thumb pressing into the delicate pulse point of Sin’s wrist. "Just some kid playing in a shitty club." The lie tasted bitter. Sin wasn’t nothing—his music had claws, his fingers knew the shape of longing, and Yoongi wanted to peel him apart to see what else he was hiding.
Sin’s lashes fluttered, pink lips parting on a shaky exhale. "I—I should go back inside," he stammered, but he didn’t pull away, didn’t even try. His sleeve had slipped further, revealing a thin silver bracelet loose around his wrist, the kind that might’ve been a gift from someone who didn’t know how fragile he was. Yoongi’s fingers twitched. He wanted to snap it off.
"Who sent you?" Yoongi growled, bending until his lips brushed the shell of Sin’s ear. The boy shuddered, his whole body trembling like a plucked string. "Who told you to play that song?" It wasn’t an accusation—it was desperation. The melody had hooked under his ribs and pulled, and Yoongi needed to know if someone had planted Sin here like a landmine, waiting for him to step on it.
Sin's breath hitched as Yoongi’s fingers tightened around his wrist—not enough to bruise, but enough to make his pulse stutter under the pressure. The alley smelled of damp asphalt and stale cigarettes, but all Yoongi could focus on was the floral sweetness clinging to Sin’s skin, the way his pink lips trembled as he whispered, "No one sent me." His voice was so soft it barely carried over the distant thrum of the club’s bass, but Yoongi caught every syllable, every fragile inflection.
Yoongi’s thumb traced the ridge of Sin’s wristbone, slow, deliberate. "Bullshit," he murmured, but his grip loosened. The boy wasn’t lying—there was no guile in those cerulean eyes, no calculated flicker of deception. Just wide, wet innocence, the kind that made Yoongi’s stomach twist. Sin’s music had felt like a knife between his ribs, but the boy himself was trembling like a leaf in a storm, his oversized sleeves swallowing his hands whole. Yoongi couldn’t reconcile the two.
The bracelet on Sin’s wrist glinted dully under the alley’s flickering light. Yoongi hooked a finger under it, tilting it to catch the dim glow. "This a gift?" he asked, voice rougher than he intended. Sin’s breath faltered, his lashes casting shadows over his cheeks as he nodded. "From who?"
"My—my grandmother," Sin stammered, and something in Yoongi’s chest cracked open at the admission. A grandmother. Of course. This boy, with his doll-like beauty mark and sleeves that hid his hands, was someone’s grandchild. The thought was absurd, almost laughable, but Yoongi didn’t laugh. He slid the bracelet up Sin’s wrist, exposing the delicate blue veins beneath, and pressed his lips to the pulse point there—just once, fleeting, a silent apology for the bruising grip.
The moment Yoongi’s lips touched Sin’s wrist, the boy gasped—not in fear, but in something quieter, more vulnerable. His pulse jumped beneath Yoongi’s mouth, a frantic flutter like a bird’s wings against glass. Yoongi lingered there, breathing in the scent of vanilla and something faintly like jasmine, before pulling back just enough to see Sin’s face. The boy’s cerulean eyes were wide, his pink lips parted in shaky surprise, his beauty mark stark under the alley’s dim light. Fragile, Yoongi thought again, but this time, the word burned. Fragile things weren’t meant for places like this. Fragile things were meant to be kept.
"You’re coming with me," Yoongi said, voice low, final. It wasn’t a suggestion. Sin’s breath hitched, his fingers twitching in Yoongi’s grip, but he didn’t resist. Didn’t even try. The bracelet on his wrist glinted as Yoongi tugged him forward, away from the wall, away from the club’s thrumming bass and the crowd that didn’t deserve him. Sin stumbled once, his oversized sleeve slipping back to reveal the pale, unmarked skin of his forearm. Yoongi’s throat tightened. Who let him walk around like this? Who didn’t see how easily he could be broken?
The car ride was silent except for Sin’s shallow breathing and the hum of the engine. Yoongi kept one hand on the wheel, the other wrapped around Sin’s wrist like a shackle, his thumb tracing idle circles over the boy’s pulse. Sin didn’t speak, didn’t ask where they were going—just sat with his shoulders hunched, his white hair tousled from the alley’s wind, his eyes fixed on the passing streetlights. Yoongi glanced at him once, twice, his chest tightening at the way the neon glow painted Sin’s profile in streaks of blue and pink. Beautiful, he thought, and the word felt inadequate.
When they arrived at the penthouse—a place Yoongi hadn’t bothered to visit in months—Sin hesitated at the threshold, his fingers twisting in his sleeves. "I—I shouldn’t be here," he whispered, voice so soft Yoongi barely caught it. But Yoongi just tightened his grip, pulling Sin inside with a quiet urgency. The door clicked shut behind them, sealing them in the dim, sterile space. Yoongi didn’t turn on the lights. He didn’t need to. The city’s glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows was enough to illuminate Sin’s face, to catch the diamond-like shimmer of his eyes as they darted around the room.
The penthouse smelled like dust and disuse, the air thick with the absence of life. Sin hovered by the doorway, his oversized sleeves swallowing his hands again, his cerulean eyes flickering over the sparse furniture like he was searching for an exit that didn’t exist. Yoongi watched him from the shadows, his pulse thrumming in his throat. He hadn’t brought anyone here in years—hadn’t wanted to—but Sin wasn’t just anyone. Sin was the boy who played like his fingers knew the shape of heartbreak, who looked at Yoongi like he was something holy instead of hollow.
"You’re trembling," Yoongi murmured, stepping closer. The city lights through the windows painted Sin’s profile in fractured blues and purples, catching the beauty mark under his eye like a flaw in glass. Sin didn’t answer, just bit his pink lip hard enough to blanch the color from it. Yoongi reached out before he could stop himself, thumb brushing the corner of Sin’s mouth to free it from his teeth. The boy gasped at the contact, his breath warm against Yoongi’s skin. "You don’t have to be afraid," Yoongi lied.
Sin’s lashes fluttered, his pulse jumping under Yoongi’s fingers where they still circled his wrist. "I’m not," he whispered, but the lie was sweet, fragile—like everything about him. Yoongi wanted to crush it between his teeth. Instead, he slid his hand up Sin’s arm, pushing the oversized sleeve back to expose the delicate curve of his elbow, the blue veins beneath translucent skin. Sin shivered but didn’t pull away, his breath hitching when Yoongi’s fingers traced the path of his veins like a roadmap to something tender.
"You shouldn’t have been there tonight," Yoongi said, voice low. The club’s bass was a distant memory here, replaced by the hum of the refrigerator, the occasional honk of a car thirty floors below. Sin belonged in daylight, in open spaces where the air didn’t reek of sweat and desperation. Not in the dark, not where hands could grab and mouths could bruise. The thought of someone else touching him—claiming him—made Yoongi’s vision blur at the edges.
The penthouse’s silence was suffocating—not the absence of sound, but the weight of it pressing against Sin’s eardrums like a physical force. He could hear the rustle of his own sleeves as he twisted them between his fingers, the soft exhale of Yoongi’s breath as he stepped closer. The city sprawled beneath them in a tapestry of neon and shadow, but Sin couldn’t look away from Yoongi’s hands—those long, elegant fingers that had dragged him here without explanation, without mercy.
"You play like someone who’s been gutted," Yoongi said suddenly, his voice rough, almost accusing. His thumb brushed the inside of Sin’s elbow, tracing the blue veins there with something between reverence and resentment. "Where’d you learn that?"
Sin’s breath hitched. The question felt like a trap. "I told you," he whispered, "nowhere."
Yoongi’s grip tightened infinitesimally, his fingers pressing into Sin’s skin as if he could peel back the layers and find the truth beneath. "Bullshit," he murmured, but there was no heat in it. Just hunger.
The moment Sin whispered "nowhere" again, Yoongi’s restraint snapped. He crowded Sin against the penthouse window, the city’s neon glow painting his face in fractured hues—blue, violet, the sharp red of distant taillights bleeding into the hollow of his throat. Up close, Sin smelled like vanilla and jasmine, absurdly innocent for someone whose music had claws. Yoongi pressed a hand to the glass beside Sin’s head, caging him in without touching, just close enough to feel the heat of his trembling body. "Try again," Yoongi murmured, lips brushing the shell of Sin’s ear. The boy shuddered, his pulse fluttering visibly beneath the delicate skin of his wrist where Yoongi still held him.
Sin’s lashes fluttered, casting shadows over his beauty mark. "I—I taught myself," he admitted, voice fraying at the edges. "After my grandmother died." The confession hung between them, fragile as the boy himself. Yoongi’s chest tightened. Of course it was grief. That aching melody, those trembling fingers—they weren’t just talent. They were a requiem.
Yoongi’s grip on Sin’s wrist softened without meaning to. His thumb brushed the boy’s pulse point, feeling the erratic flutter beneath his skin. "Play for me," he demanded, low and rough. "Here. Now." The synth in the corner of the penthouse—a forgotten relic from Yoongi’s own sleepless nights—caught Sin’s gaze. The boy hesitated, biting his pink lip hard enough to blanch the color from it.
Sin’s fingers trembled when they touched the keys, just like they had in the club—hesitant at first, then suddenly sure. The melody that spilled forth was different this time, softer, like a lullaby twisted into something raw. Yoongi stood behind him, close enough that Sin’s white hair brushed his jaw when he swayed with the music. The scent of jasmine clung to him, sweet and incongruous in the sterile penthouse. Yoongi’s hands itched to touch, to claim, to keep.
The synth’s notes curled through the penthouse like smoke, wrapping around Yoongi’s ribs until his breath came shallow. Sin played with his eyes closed now, lashes casting delicate shadows over his beauty mark, his pink lips slightly parted as if the music was being pulled from him against his will. Yoongi couldn’t look away. The melody wasn’t just sound—it was Sin’s pulse given form, his grief laid bare in every trembling note. And Yoongi wanted to drown in it.
When the last chord faded, Sin’s hands fell limp onto the keys. The silence that followed was deafening. Yoongi exhaled sharply, as if he’d been holding his breath the entire time. He stepped closer, close enough to see the way Sin’s shoulders trembled beneath his oversized sleeves. Without thinking, Yoongi reached out, his fingers brushing the nape of Sin’s neck—cold, damp with sweat, real. Sin gasped softly but didn’t pull away, his cerulean eyes flickering up to meet Yoongi’s in the dim citylight.
"Again," Yoongi murmured, his voice rough with something he couldn’t name.
Sin’s lips parted, his breath warm against Yoongi’s jaw. "I—I can’t," he whispered, but his fingers were already hovering over the keys again, drawn to them like a moth to flame.
The synth’s keys glowed under Sin’s fingertips as he played the same haunting melody again, this time slower, each note lingering in the air like a whispered confession. Yoongi stood behind him, close enough to feel the tremors running through Sin’s slender frame, close enough to count the individual strands of white hair brushing against the nape of his neck. The boy smelled like vanilla and something faintly floral—jasmine, maybe—an absurdly innocent scent for someone who played like his fingers knew the shape of heartbreak. Yoongi’s hands twitched at his sides. He wanted to tangle them in that messy hair, wanted to pull Sin back against his chest and feel the music vibrating through him.
Sin’s breath hitched when Yoongi’s fingers finally brushed the curve of his jaw, tracing the beauty mark beneath his eye with a touch lighter than air. The boy didn’t stop playing, didn’t even open his eyes, but his pink lips parted on a shaky exhale, his lashes fluttering against his cheeks. Yoongi’s thumb slid lower, brushing the corner of Sin’s mouth, feeling the warmth of his breath against his skin. Fragile. So fucking fragile. And yet—his music was anything but.
The melody twisted, sharpened, like a knife turning in Yoongi’s ribs. He leaned down, lips grazing the shell of Sin’s ear. "Who are you?" he murmured, voice rough with something between wonder and accusation. Sin’s fingers faltered on the keys, the music stuttering for a heartbeat before resuming, softer now, aching. He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The truth was in every note, in every trembling breath.
Yoongi’s hand slid from Sin’s jaw to his throat, fingers circling the delicate column of it without pressure, just holding. Sin’s pulse rabbited beneath his touch, wild and frantic, but he didn’t pull away. Didn’t even try. His cerulean eyes flickered open, glimmering with something Yoongi couldn’t name—fear, fascination, want. The synth’s melody dissolved into discordance as Sin’s hands stilled, his attention fracturing under Yoongi’s stare.
The discordant notes from the synth bled into the penthouse’s silence as Sin’s hands froze mid-melody. Yoongi’s fingers tightened infinitesimally around his throat—not enough to choke, just enough to feel the frantic flutter of Sin’s pulse against his palm. The boy’s cerulean eyes were wide, his pink lips parted around a shaky breath, his white hair tousled from Yoongi’s proximity. Beautiful. Ruinable. His. The thought slammed into Yoongi with the force of a freight train, leaving him dizzy with the weight of it.
Sin’s lashes fluttered when Yoongi’s thumb brushed the beauty mark under his eye, tracing it like a brand. "You don’t belong in places like that," Yoongi murmured, voice rough with something between fury and fascination. The club’s neon lights, the grime-sticky floors, the hands that might’ve touched him—none of it was fit for someone who played like his fingers knew the shape of heaven. Sin’s breath hitched, his pulse jumping beneath Yoongi’s fingers. "You belong here," Yoongi added, softer now, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
Sin’s lips trembled, his voice barely audible. "Why?"
The question hung between them, fragile as the boy himself. Yoongi didn’t answer. Couldn’t. How could he explain that Sin’s music had hooked itself under his ribs and pulled? That the boy’s cerulean eyes, his pink lips, his trembling fingers, had carved themselves into Yoongi’s skull like a melody he couldn’t shake? Instead, he leaned closer, until his breath ghosted over Sin’s parted lips. "Play for me again," he demanded, low and rough. "Only for me."
The club bathroom was too bright. Seokjin blinked against the glare of the neon lights humming above the row of sinks, his reflection warping slightly in the smudged mirror. He’d slipped away from the after-party—too many bodies, too much noise—but now he just felt out of place, like he’d wandered into the wrong scene entirely. The door creaked open behind him, and for a second, he didn’t turn, assuming it was just another drunk stumbling in.
Then he saw him.
White hair like spun sugar, mussed from the crowd, and eyes so blue they made Seokjin’s breath hitch. The boy—because he was a boy, all delicate angles and hesitant movements—froze in the doorway, clutching a crumpled handkerchief to his lip where a tiny beauty mark sat just beneath his eye. He looked like he’d been plucked straight out of some vintage doll shop, too soft for the bass thumping through the walls.
"Sorry," the boy murmured, voice honey-sweet and barely audible over the distant music. "I didn’t mean to—"
Seokjin's fingers twitched against the cold porcelain sink. The boy—Sin, his manager had mumbled earlier when introducing the new intern—was staring at him like a startled fawn, lips parted around that whispered apology. The handkerchief pressed to his mouth was dotted with a faint smear of red. Up close, his cerulean eyes weren't just blue; they were the kind of color that made you think of glaciers fracturing under sunlight, all sharp brilliance and hidden depth.
"Did someone hit you?" The words tumbled out before Seokjin could stop them, too rough, too loud in the cramped space.
Sin flinched, then shook his head so fast his white hair fluttered. "No! No, I just—" He lowered the handkerchief, revealing a split lip. "Bumped into a door. Too many people." His laugh was airy, embarrassed, and Seokjin's chest tightened inexplicably.
Behind them, the bass from the club pulsed like a second heartbeat, but here, in this too-bright bathroom, the world had narrowed to the space between them. Seokjin reached out without thinking, thumb brushing the corner of Sin's mouth where the skin was split. The boy went utterly still, breath hitching.
Sin's breath hitched under Seokjin’s touch, his lips parting slightly—not in fear, but something softer, more curious. The neon lights buzzed overhead, casting shifting hues across his doll-like features, and for a heartbeat, Seokjin forgot they were in a club bathroom, forgot he was an idol, forgot everything except the way Sin’s eyelashes fluttered when his thumb grazed the cut on his lip.
"You shouldn’t be careless," Seokjin murmured, voice lower than he intended. His fingers lingered, tracing the curve of Sin’s jaw before he caught himself and pulled back. The boy’s skin was warm, too warm, and the thought of leaving a mark there—something darker than the split lip—flashed through his mind before he could stifle it.
Sin blinked up at him, cerulean eyes wide. "I—I wasn’t trying to be," he whispered, clutching the handkerchief to his chest like a shield. The music from the club thudded distantly, but the air between them was thick with something else entirely: the sharp tang of copper, the faint sweetness of Sin’s cologne, the way his pulse fluttered visibly at his throat.
Seokjin had met hundreds of people in his career—fans, staff, other idols—but none of them had ever made his ribs ache like this. None of them had looked at him with eyes that seemed to see him, not the persona, not the idol, just him. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating.
The air between them crackled—not with the static of the club’s speakers, but with something far more dangerous. Seokjin had spent years crafting his persona, the effortless charm, the easy smiles, but here, in this too-bright bathroom with Sin’s breath hitching under his touch, he felt like a stranger to himself. The boy’s cerulean eyes were fixed on him, unblinking, and Seokjin realized with a jolt that he wanted to be seen, truly seen, for the first time in years.
Sin shifted slightly, his shoulder brushing against the tiled wall behind him. "You’re staring," he whispered, and the pink flush creeping up his neck made Seokjin’s fingers twitch with the urge to trace it.
"I am," Seokjin admitted, uncharacteristically honest. The words tasted raw, unfiltered, and he watched as Sin’s lips parted around a shaky exhale. The split on his lower lip had stopped bleeding, but the sight of it—small, vulnerable—sent a possessive heat curling low in Seokjin’s gut. He shouldn’t be thinking like this. Not about an intern. Not about anyone.
But Sin wasn’t just anyone.
Seokjin’s pulse roared in his ears louder than the club’s bassline. Sin’s gaze flickered down to where Seokjin’s hand still hovered near his jaw, then back up—slow, deliberate—as if he were trying to memorize the shape of Seokjin’s hesitation. The neon lights buzzed overhead, painting Sin’s porcelain skin in fractured hues of pink and blue, and for the first time in years, Seokjin felt the terrifying urge to ruin something beautiful. Not violently, not cruelly, but thoroughly, until every tremble of Sin’s lips belonged to him alone.
"You’re not supposed to look at me like that," Sin whispered, but he didn’t pull away. His fingers tightened around the bloodied handkerchief, knuckles blanching, yet his body leaned imperceptibly closer—a moth drawn to the very flame that might scorch him. Seokjin’s breath stuttered. He’d spent a lifetime being adored from afar, but this? This was different. This was hunger.
The door to the bathroom banged open suddenly, laughter spilling in from the hallway, and the spell shattered. Sin flinched back, eyes widening as two drunk staff members stumbled inside, oblivious to the tension crackling between them. Seokjin’s hand dropped to his side, fingers curling into a fist. He should leave. He should. But then Sin’s pinky finger brushed against his wrist—just once, fleeting—and Seokjin’s resolve dissolved like sugar in hot tea.
Later, he wouldn’t remember how they slipped out of the bathroom, or when Sin’s hesitant touches turned into something bolder, fingers tangling with his own in the shadowed alcove near the emergency exit. All he knew was the way Sin’s breath hitched when Seokjin crowded him against the wall, one hand braced beside his head, close enough to count the silver flecks in those cerulean eyes. "You’re dangerous," Seokjin murmured, but it was himself he didn’t trust.
The emergency exit was colder than Seokjin expected, the industrial metal door pressing into his back as Sin’s fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt. The boy’s breath came in shallow gasps, his cerulean eyes wide and unblinking beneath the flickering fluorescent light of the stairwell. Somewhere below them, the club’s bass still pulsed, but here—trapped between the wall and Seokjin’s body—Sin looked like something out of a dream, his white hair catching the dim light like spun silk.
"You shouldn’t let me this close," Seokjin murmured, but his hands betrayed him, sliding up Sin’s sides until his thumbs brushed the sharp jut of his ribs. The boy shuddered, his lips parting around a soundless exhale, and Seokjin’s pulse stuttered. He’d spent years perfecting the art of distance, of calculated charm, but Sin made him want—wildly, recklessly—in a way that burned through every carefully constructed boundary.
Sin’s fingers tightened in his shirt, not pushing him away but holding on, as if he were afraid Seokjin might vanish. "I know," he whispered, but his body arched into the touch, his pinky hooking around Seokjin’s belt loop in a gesture so small it shouldn’t have wrecked him. It did.
Seokjin had never believed in love at first sight—not until Sin’s split lip, not until the way his eyelashes fluttered when Seokjin’s thumb traced his jaw. It wasn’t love, not yet, but it was something more, something that clawed at his chest until he couldn’t breathe. The boy was an intern, barely nineteen, with a voice like honey and eyes that saw too much. Seokjin should have walked away. Instead, he leaned in, close enough to taste the copper on Sin’s breath.
The emergency exit stairwell smelled of stale cigarettes and industrial cleaner, but Seokjin only registered the way Sin’s exhales hitched against his collarbone, warm and uneven. The boy’s fingers trembled where they clutched his shirt, but his eyes—those impossible cerulean eyes—never wavered. "You’re staring again," Sin whispered, and this time, his voice held a thread of something Seokjin couldn’t name. Not fear. Not hesitation. Anticipation.
Seokjin’s laugh came out rougher than he intended, his thumb brushing the hinge of Sin’s jaw where his pulse fluttered like a trapped bird. "Can you blame me?" The words were barely audible over the distant thrum of bass, but Sin heard them. His breath stuttered, lips parting around a shaky inhale, and Seokjin realized with dizzying clarity that he wanted to ruin him. Not with violence, not with cruelty, but with attention, until every shiver, every gasp, was his doing alone.
Sin’s pinky finger still hooked around his belt loop, a tether so small it shouldn’t have felt like a shackle. It did. Seokjin had spent years building walls—between himself and fans, between himself and desire—but this boy with his doll-like features and glacier-sharp eyes had dismantled them in minutes. "You should run," Seokjin murmured, but his hands slid up to cradle Sin’s face, fingers threading through that impossibly soft white hair. "I’m not a good man."
Sin’s eyelashes fluttered, his hips pressing forward until the space between them vanished. "I don’t want good," he breathed, and the honesty in it seared through Seokjin like a brand. The boy’s lips were still slightly swollen from the split, still faintly coppery, and when Seokjin finally—finally—closed the distance between them, it tasted like surrender.
Sin's gasp was swallowed by Seokjin's mouth, the taste of copper and mint blooming between them like a secret. The boy's hands fluttered against his chest—not pushing, not pulling—just trembling, as if he couldn't decide whether to cling or flee. Seokjin didn't give him the choice. He pinned Sin's wrist above his head against the cold metal door, swallowing the soft whimper that escaped when their hips slotted together. The emergency exit sign flickered above them, painting Sin's throat in intermittent red, and Seokjin thought distantly that he'd never seen anything more beautiful than the way this boy came apart under his hands.
Somewhere beneath the haze of want, Seokjin registered the absurdity of it all. He was Kim Seokjin—meticulous, controlled—yet here he was, unraveling an intern against a stairwell door like a starving man. Sin's eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he blinked up, lips still parted from the kiss, and Seokjin realized with terrifying clarity that he'd trade every stadium encore for this: the way Sin's breath hitched when he thumbed the delicate skin beneath his jaw.
"You don't know what you're doing," Seokjin murmured against the shell of Sin's ear, but the boy only arched closer, his body pliant and warm. The music from the club below had faded to a dull throb, replaced by the ragged symphony of their breathing. Sin's pinky finger—still hooked stubbornly around his belt loop—twitched, and Seokjin nearly came undone at the sheer trust in that tiny gesture.
Sin's voice was barely audible when he spoke, his lips brushing Seokjin's collarbone. "I know exactly what I'm doing." The words sent a current down Seokjin's spine, hot and undeniable. He'd expected hesitation, maybe fear, but Sin met his gaze with those cerulean eyes—clear and unflinching—and Seokjin understood with dizzying certainty that this boy would be his ruin.
The emergency exit door rattled against Seokjin’s back as Sin’s fingers curled tighter into his shirt, the boy’s breath coming in shallow, uneven hitches. Seokjin could feel the rapid flutter of Sin’s pulse beneath his fingertips where they traced the delicate line of his throat, each beat a silent plea. The fluorescent light above them flickered, casting jagged shadows across Sin’s face—his porcelain skin, his parted lips, the way his cerulean eyes darkened with something Seokjin couldn’t name but ached to possess.
"You don’t understand," Seokjin murmured, his voice rough with the weight of things unsaid. His thumb brushed the curve of Sin’s lower lip, lingering over the split skin. "I don’t do this." This—the way his chest tightened when Sin blinked up at him, the way his fingers itched to mark that flawless skin, the way he wanted to devour every trembling breath the boy took. Sin’s pinky, still hooked around his belt loop, tugged him closer, and Seokjin exhaled sharply. "You’re going to ruin me."
Sin’s laugh was breathless, sweet, and entirely too trusting. "Too late," he whispered, and Seokjin felt it—the way the words unraveled something inside him, something he’d spent years locking away. The boy’s lips were still swollen from the kiss, still faintly coppery, and Seokjin couldn’t resist leaning in again, this time slower, savoring the way Sin melted against him.
The club’s bassline thudded distantly, a reminder of the world outside this stairwell, but Seokjin didn’t care. He’d never cared less about anything in his life. Sin’s hands slid up his chest, hesitant at first, then bolder, fingers tangling in the fabric of his jacket as if he were afraid Seokjin might vanish. The thought of being wanted like this—needed like this—sent a shiver down Seokjin’s spine. He’d spent years being adored by millions, but none of them had ever looked at him the way Sin did now: like he was the only thing that mattered.
The emergency exit stairwell smelled like cheap disinfectant and desperation, but Seokjin only cared about the way Sin’s pulse jumped under his fingertips when he traced the delicate line of his throat. The boy’s breath hitched—warm, uneven—against Seokjin’s collarbone, and something primal twisted in his gut. He’d kissed fans before, had been kissed by them too, but this wasn’t admiration. This was possession. Sin’s fingers trembled where they clutched his jacket, not pushing him away but holding on, as if Seokjin were the only solid thing in a spinning world.
"You taste like blood," Seokjin murmured against Sin’s lips, thumb brushing the split skin there. The copper tang should’ve repelled him—he hated the sight of blood—but with Sin, it only made him hungrier. The boy shuddered, eyelashes fluttering, and Seokjin realized with dizzying clarity that he wanted to own every tremor, every gasp.
Sin’s laugh was breathless, sweet. "You’re the one who bit me," he whispered, and the accusation sent heat pooling low in Seokjin’s stomach. He hadn’t meant to. Or maybe he had. The line between restraint and ruin had blurred the moment Sin’s pinky hooked around his belt loop, tugging him closer like a siren’s call.
The studio smelled like sweat and lavender fabric softener—Hoseok’s hoodie tossed over a chair, the one he’d draped over Sin’s shoulders earlier when he’d noticed the boy shivering under the air conditioning. Sin hadn’t said thank you. He didn’t say much at all, really, just blinked those wide cerulean eyes and let Hoseok adjust the sleeves for him, fingers brushing the back of his neck by accident.
"Again," Hoseok said, not unkindly, nodding toward the mirror as the track reset. Sin’s reflection flickered in the glass, ghost-pale and doll-like, his white hair sticking to his temples with sweat. He moved before Hoseok even finished speaking, falling into position with a fluidity that shouldn’t have been possible for someone who’d only learned the choreography an hour ago.
Jin paused mid-stretch, whistling low. "Kid’s a natural," he muttered, and Jungkook—leaned against the wall with a water bottle dangling from his fingers—just hummed, watching Sin’s hips snap precisely to the beat.
Sin didn’t react to the praise. He never did. It was like he existed in a bubble, one where sound muffled and time slowed, where Hoseok’s corrections were the only thing that ever really reached him.
The speakers crackled with the opening notes of their collab track—a pulsing bassline that made the floor vibrate under Sin’s bare feet. He curled his toes against the polished wood, eyes fixed on Hoseok’s reflection in the mirror. The older man wasn’t looking at him, too busy adjusting his headset mic, but Sin still straightened his spine instinctively, like a marionette sensing its strings tighten.
"One last run-through," Namjoon announced, thumb hovering over the playback remote. His voice was calm, but Sin caught the edge beneath it—the unspoken we can’t afford mistakes where we’re going. Jungkook cracked his knuckles and grinned, sharp as a blade. "Better make it count, pretty boy," he said, though his tone lacked its usual bite. Sin just blinked, his lashes casting spiderweb shadows over his cheeks.
Then the music surged, and Sin’s body moved before his mind could catch up. He’d memorized the choreography down to the microsecond—the exact tilt of Hoseok’s wrist at the pre-chorus, the way Jimin’s shoulders rolled like liquid during the bridge. Sin mirrored them perfectly, his limbs carving through the air with eerie precision. But halfway through the second verse, Taehyung misstepped, his elbow jutting out too wide. Sin reacted without thinking, twisting mid-spin to avoid the collision. His shoulder grazed the wall instead, a dull thud lost under the synth beats.
Hoseok’s hand caught his wrist before he could rebound. "You okay?" he murmured, thumb brushing the delicate bones. Sin’s pulse fluttered under his touch, a trapped bird. He nodded, but Hoseok didn’t let go, his grip just shy of painful. "Don’t adjust for us," he said, low enough that the others wouldn’t hear. "Even if we fuck up. You stick to the formation." His eyes were dark, intense—nothing like the sunshine smile he showed the cameras. Sin felt his breath hitch.
The music cut abruptly, leaving Sin’s ears ringing in the sudden silence. He could still feel the ghost of Hoseok’s grip around his wrist—warm and firm, like a brand. Jungkook’s water bottle hit the floor with a hollow clatter, rolling toward Sin’s feet. He didn’t pick it up.
"You’re thinking too much," Jimin said, appearing at Sin’s shoulder like a shadow. His voice was light, but his fingers traced the edge of Sin’s collarbone through the borrowed hoodie, lingering just a second too long. "Your body knows the moves. Stop trying to predict us."
Sin exhaled, slow and shaky. The studio lights buzzed overhead, casting sharp angles across Jimin’s face—his smile didn’t reach his eyes. Behind them, Namjoon was murmuring something to Taehyung, one hand resting on the younger man’s shoulder in a gesture that might’ve been comforting if Taehyung’s jaw hadn’t been clenched tight.
"Break time," Jin announced, clapping his hands once. The sound cracked through the tension like a whip. "Ten minutes. Hydrate. Stretch. Breathe." His gaze flicked to Sin, lingering on the pink flush creeping up his neck. Sin ducked his head, letting his hair fall forward like a curtain.
Sin's fingers trembled against the hem of Hoseok’s hoodie as he slipped out of the studio, the door clicking shut behind him with a softness that didn’t match the thunder of his pulse. The hallway was empty—too empty, the kind of quiet that made the back of his neck prickle. He pressed his spine against the cool wall and exhaled, watching his breath fog the air in front of him. Ten minutes. Just ten minutes to remember how to be human again.
The vending machine at the end of the hall flickered, its fluorescent light buzzing like a dying insect. Sin stared at the rows of drinks—vibrant colors trapped behind glass—and wondered absently if this was how they saw him: something pretty and purchasable, waiting to be consumed. He jumped when a hand settled on his shoulder, warm and familiar.
"Didn’t mean to scare you," Jin murmured, leaning down to catch Sin’s gaze. His smile was softer here, away from the others, his thumb rubbing circles against the jut of Sin’s collarbone. "You looked like you were about to bolt." Sin swallowed, his throat dry. Jin’s fingers tightened imperceptibly, just enough to still him. "You always run this tense, or is it just us?"
The question hung between them, weighted. Sin’s lips parted, but before he could answer, the stairwell door banged open, echoing down the corridor. Jungkook strode toward them, his sweatshirt sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms still gleaming with sweat. He didn’t slow as he approached, didn’t hesitate before crowding into Sin’s space, his chest brushing Sin’s shoulder.
The vending machine hummed, its fluorescent glow flickering across Sin’s fingertips as he pressed the button—once for root beer, once for Pocari Sweat. The cans clattered into the tray with a hollow metallic sound, too loud in the empty hallway. Sin hesitated before reaching for them, his fingers curling around the chilled aluminum like it might bite. The condensation clung to his skin, cold and slick, and he wondered distantly if this was how they saw him too—something to be gripped tight before he slipped away.
Jungkook’s breath warmed the back of his neck before he spoke. "Root beer?" A chuckle, low and rough, as he plucked the can from Sin’s hand without asking. "Cute." His thumb dragged over the tab, popping it open with a sharp hiss. He didn’t drink, just held it out toward Sin’s lips, the carbonation fizzing against the rim. "Try it."
Sin blinked, his lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks. He could feel Jin’s fingers still pressed against his collarbone, a counterweight to Jungkook’s proximity. The root beer smelled like vanilla and winter, sharp and sweet. He parted his lips obediently, letting Jungkook tip the can forward—too fast, too much. The liquid spilled over his chin, dripping down his throat in cold rivulets. Jungkook’s free hand caught a drop before it could disappear beneath Hoseok’s hoodie, his thumb smearing the stickiness across Sin’s pulse point. "Messy," he murmured, but his eyes were dark, pleased.
Sin’s breath hitched as Jungkook’s thumb lingered, pressing just a fraction harder against his throat—testing, teasing. The root beer’s sweetness clung to his skin, sticky and cold, but Jungkook’s touch burned hotter, like a brand. Jin’s grip on his collarbone shifted subtly, fingers splaying wider as if marking territory. The hallway air thickened, charged with something Sin couldn’t name.
"You’re shaking," Jin observed, his voice deceptively mild. His other hand lifted, brushing a lock of Sin’s white hair behind his ear, slow and deliberate. "Cold?"
Sin shook his head, but the movement was jerky, uncoordinated. Jungkook smirked, tilting the root beer can again, letting another drop splash onto Sin’s bottom lip. "Then why’re your teeth chattering, pretty?"
The stairwell door creaked open a second time, and Hoseok’s voice cut through the tension like a knife. "Break’s over." He stood silhouetted in the doorway, his usual smile absent, gaze fixed on where Jungkook’s hand still hovered near Sin’s mouth. "We’re on in twenty. Move."
The root beer can clattered to the floor, rolling away in a slow arc as Jungkook stepped back—too quickly, like he'd been caught with a hand in the cookie jar. Sin's tongue darted out instinctively, catching the sticky sweetness still clinging to his lip, and Hoseok's eyes tracked the movement with an intensity that made the air between them hum.
"Sin," Hoseok said, and it wasn't a request. His fingers twitched at his sides, restless, like he was fighting the urge to reach out and wipe the spill away himself. "You're with me."
Jungkook scoffed, but Jin's hand tightened briefly on Sin's shoulder—a silent warning—before sliding away. The loss of contact left Sin unmoored, swaying slightly on his feet as Hoseok turned on his heel and strode back toward the studio without checking if he'd follow.
Sin did, of course. He always did.
The studio door clicked shut behind them, sealing Sin in with Hoseok’s silence—thick and suffocating, like honey poured down his throat. Hoseok didn’t look at him, just stalked toward the mirrored wall, his reflection a blur of sharp angles and coiled tension. Sin hovered near the door, fingers twisting in the hem of Hoseok’s hoodie, the fabric damp with root beer and sweat.
"You smell like him," Hoseok said finally, his voice low enough to vibrate through Sin’s ribs. He tilted his head, catching Sin’s gaze in the mirror. "Jungkook. All over you." His fingers flexed, then curled into fists. "You let him touch you."
Sin blinked, his pulse fluttering like a trapped moth. "He—"
"Didn’t say you could talk." Hoseok turned then, slow, deliberate, closing the distance between them with measured steps. Sin’s back hit the door, the cold metal seeping through Hoseok’s hoodie. Hoseok’s hand came up, not touching, just hovering near Sin’s throat where Jungkook’s thumb had pressed. "You’re ours," he murmured, his breath warm against Sin’s cheek. "Not his. Not anyone’s."
The overhead lights buzzed like hornets trapped in glass, their fluorescence catching the gold in Hoseok’s eyes as he leaned in closer—close enough that Sin could count the faint scars along his hairline from years of dance practice gone wrong. "You understand?" Hoseok whispered, his thumb brushing the root beer smear still glistening on Sin’s collarbone. The touch was light, but Sin felt it like a brand.
Sin nodded, his white hair catching in Hoseok’s necklace as the older man tilted his chin up. The metal was warm from Hoseok’s skin, pressing into Sin’s cheekbone like a promise. Or a threat.
The studio door rattled abruptly, followed by Jimin’s muffled laugh—bright and false, the one he used for managers and cameras. Hoseok didn’t pull away. He exhaled, slow, his breath ghosting over Sin’s parted lips. "Good," he murmured, just as the door swung open.
Jimin froze mid-step, his smile slipping. His gaze flicked from Hoseok’s hand curled around Sin’s throat to the flush blooming across Sin’s chest, visible even under the oversized hoodie. "Ah," he said, dragging the syllable out like taffy. "Am I interrupting?"
The digital clock on the studio wall blinked 8:03 PM when Sin finally collapsed against the mirrored wall, his chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow bursts. The others were already packing up—Jin rolling his shoulders with a groan, Taehyung tossing his sweat-soaked towel into the hamper with a tired flourish. Only Hoseok remained where he was, eyes locked on Sin’s reflection in the glass, his expression unreadable.
Namjoon’s phone buzzed loudly against the wooden bench, the screen lighting up with a message notification. He picked it up, thumb swiping across the screen before his lips quirked into a wry smile. "Helmeoni’s bailing," he announced, tossing the phone onto the bench with a clatter. "She says she’s stuck in a meeting and wants us to"—he air-quoted—"take care of Sin tonight."
Jungkook snorted, kicking his duffel bag shut with more force than necessary. "Like we weren’t already going to." His gaze flicked to Sin, lingering on the way the boy’s fingers trembled against the wall for balance. "He’d probably wander into traffic if we left him alone."
Sin didn’t react to the jab, too busy counting the tiles on the ceiling—twenty-seven, twenty-eight—anything to distract himself from the way Hoseok’s shadow stretched across the floor toward him, long and possessive. He only blinked when Jimin materialized in front of him, pressing a cold water bottle into his hands.
"Drink," Jimin ordered, his voice soft but firm. "You look like you’re about to pass out." His fingers lingered against Sin’s wrist, thumb pressing lightly against the pulse point. "And don’t think we didn’t notice you skipping lunch again."
Sin’s lips parted, but before he could form a reply, Taehyung slung an arm around his shoulders, pulling him away from Jimin’s grasp with an easy grin. "C’mon, little ghost," he murmured, his breath warm against Sin’s temple. "I’ll feed you. You like japchae, right?"
Sin nodded hesitantly, letting Taehyung steer him toward the door. Behind them, Hoseok’s sneakers squeaked against the floor—a sharp, sudden sound that made Sin’s shoulders tense. Taehyung’s grip tightened imperceptibly. "Ignore him," he whispered, lips brushing the shell of Sin’s ear. "He’s just pissed Jungkook got to you first."
The hallway outside the studio was dimly lit, the fluorescent bulbs flickering like dying fireflies. Sin stumbled slightly as Taehyung guided him forward, his legs numb from hours of relentless practice. The japchae smelled rich and savory from the takeout bag dangling from Taehyung’s other hand, but Sin’s stomach twisted at the thought of eating.
"You’re too light," Taehyung murmured, his fingers pressing into Sin’s waist through the hoodie as if testing the truth of his words. "Like a doll made of glass." His tone was playful, but his grip didn’t loosen—if anything, it tightened, pulling Sin closer until their hips brushed with every step.
Sin kept his eyes on the floor, counting the scuff marks on the tiles. Twenty-nine, thirty. He didn’t notice Jungkook leaning against the wall ahead until it was too late, until Taehyung steered him straight into the younger man’s waiting arms. Jungkook caught him effortlessly, one hand splayed across the small of Sin’s back, the other tipping his chin up with a single finger.
"Missed me already?" Jungkook teased, his thumb tracing the line of Sin’s jaw. The root beer stickiness was gone, but the ghost of his touch lingered, branding Sin’s skin. Taehyung chuckled, relinquishing his hold just enough to let Jungkook slot himself between them, his body warm and solid against Sin’s side.
The underground parking lot hummed with the low growl of engines and the distant drip of water pipes. Sin hovered near Namjoon’s shoulder, his fingers twisting in the sleeves of Hoseok’s hoodie—still damp with sweat, still smelling like Jungkook’s root beer and Jimin’s cologne. The car door clicked open with a smooth hydraulic hiss, and Namjoon gestured for him to climb in first, his expression unreadable behind his sunglasses despite the dim lighting.
Sin hesitated, his cerulean eyes flicking toward the concrete pillar where Jin had cornered Taehyung and Jungkook. Jin’s voice carried just enough—sharp with warning beneath its usual honeyed tone. "Ya, if you two don’t stop pawing at him like he’s a stray kitten, he’s going to bolt before we even hit the highway." A beat of silence, then Jungkook’s scoff, muffled but defiant. Jin’s sigh was audible even from across the lot. "You think I didn’t see the way you handled him earlier? Aish, you’re lucky Hoseok didn’t break your fingers."
Sin flinched when Namjoon’s hand settled lightly between his shoulder blades, urging him into the car. The leather seats were cool against his thighs, the scent of pine air freshener cloying in the enclosed space. Namjoon slid in beside him, close enough that their knees brushed, his phone already lighting up with a flood of notifications. Sin curled his fingers into his palms, the half-moon indents of his nails stinging faintly.
Outside, Jin’s shadow stretched long under the flickering fluorescents as he leaned in, his grip tight on Taehyung’s wrist. "Listen. You want to keep him? Then act like it." His voice dropped lower, venomous in its sweetness. "Or do I need to remind you what happened to the last one who scared him?"
The car engine purred to life, vibrating through Sin’s spine as Jin slid into the driver’s seat with practiced ease. The overhead light flickered off, plunging them into darkness save for the dashboard’s neon glow. Sin counted the seconds between Taehyung’s fingers drumming against the window—one-two-three, one-two-three—until Jungkook’s knee pressed against his, deliberate and unyielding.
"Buckle up," Namjoon murmured, his breath warm against Sin’s temple as he reached across him for the seatbelt. The strap grazed Sin’s throat, clicking into place with a sound like a lock turning. Jin’s eyes caught Sin’s in the rearview mirror, dark and unreadable. "Comfortable?" he asked, though his tone suggested it wasn’t a question.
Sin nodded, his white hair brushing the headrest. Outside, rain began to patter against the windshield, distorting the parking lot lights into liquid gold smears. Taehyung twisted in the passenger seat, offering Sin a stick of pocky like a peace offering. "Eat," he urged, his smile too bright. "You’ll need your strength."
The chocolate coating tasted like ash on Sin’s tongue. He chewed mechanically, aware of four pairs of eyes tracking the bob of his throat. Hoseok’s hoodie sleeves slipped over his wrists as he reached for another, the fabric still faintly citrusy from Jungkook’s grip earlier.
The car’s heater kicked in with a quiet whir, blowing stale air across Sin’s cheeks. Taehyung’s pocky stick snapped between his teeth, the sound sharp in the silence. Jin’s fingers tapped the steering wheel—not to the rhythm of the rain, but to some internal metronome only he could hear. Sin counted the beats. One-two-three. One-two-three.
Jungkook’s knee pressed harder against his, a silent demand for attention. "You’re spacing out again," he murmured, his breath warm against Sin’s ear. His hand found Sin’s wrist under the hoodie sleeve, fingers circling the delicate bones like a shackle. "What’s in that pretty head of yours?"
Sin’s pulse fluttered, a trapped sparrow. "Nothing," he whispered. The lie tasted bitter.
Jimin’s laugh floated from the front seat, light and airy. "Liar." He twisted around, his elbow propped on the headrest, his fingers toying with a loose thread on Sin’s hoodie. "You’re always thinking. Always watching. Like you’re trying to memorize our tells." His smile was a blade. "Who’s the predator here, little ghost?"
The pocky stick snapped between Sin’s teeth, the sound too loud in the car’s stifling silence. Chocolate crumbs dusted his lower lip, and Jungkook’s thumb swiped them away before Sin could react—slow, deliberate, his nail scraping just hard enough to sting. "Wasteful," Jungkook murmured, licking the chocolate from his own skin without breaking eye contact. Sin’s breath hitched.
Rain blurred the city lights into streaks of neon as Jin merged onto the highway, the car’s tires humming against wet asphalt. Hoseok’s hoodie sleeve slipped down Sin’s wrist again, revealing the faint red imprint of Jungkook’s fingers. Jimin made a soft, interested noise, reaching across Namjoon to trace the mark with his index finger. "Bruises already," he mused, his voice dripping with false sympathy. "And we haven’t even started yet."
Sin pressed his knees together, his thighs trembling under the weight of four gazes. Taehyung’s pocky box crinkled as he tossed it onto the dashboard, half-empty. "Hyung," he said, too casual, "didn’t you say the dorm was being sprayed for pests tonight?"
Jin’s knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. "Changed the reservation," he said smoothly. "Private hanok in Bukchon. More… intimate." His reflection in the rearview mirror smiled, all teeth. "Helmeoni’s treat."
Sin's fingers twitched against the seatbelt strap still pressed too-tight across his chest. The rain-streaked windows distorted the neon city lights into watery smears, but when he turned his head slightly—just enough to catch Namjoon's gaze—the older man's reflection was watching him already, dark eyes unreadable behind his sunglasses even in the dim car interior.
"Bukchon," Namjoon said before Sin could even form the question, his voice low enough that the others wouldn't overhear over the rain's rhythmic patter. His thumb swiped across his phone screen absently, pulling up a map dotted with traditional hanok silhouettes. "Historic district. Wood beams, paper doors." A pause, then quieter: "No cameras."
Sin blinked, his lashes casting spiderweb shadows over his cheeks. Trust Helmeoni to know where the lenses couldn't reach. He let his shoulder lean imperceptibly closer to Namjoon's, drawn to the steadiness of him—the way his long fingers didn't dig into Sin's skin like the others', the way his explanations came crisp and clean without hidden barbs.
Jungkook's knee pressed harder against Sin's, a silent reprimand for the slight shift in proximity. But Namjoon merely tilted his phone screen away, his free hand settling briefly over Sin's where it clutched the seatbelt. Warm. Dry. Nothing like Hoseok's branding grip or Jimin's lingering traces. "You'll like it," he murmured, and it almost sounded like the truth.
The car hit a puddle, sending a spray of rainwater against the windows. Jin's reflection in the rearview mirror smiled—slow, satisfied—as Taehyung twisted around in the passenger seat to drape an arm over the headrest. "Old neighborhood," he said, his voice dripping false nostalgia. "Narrow alleys, high walls." His fingers drummed against the leather. "No one hears anything."
Sin's pulse fluttered against Namjoon's palm. The older man didn't react, just traced a single circle over Sin's knuckles—once, twice—before withdrawing his touch as if it had never happened. Outside, the neon smear of Gangnam faded into the softer glow of traditional lanterns, their light diffused through the rain like candleflame behind rice paper.
Jimin's laugh cut through the quiet, sharp as shattered glass. "Look at him," he crooned, reaching back to tuck a lock of Sin's white hair behind his ear. His fingers lingered, thumb brushing the delicate shell. "Trembling like a leaf. Do we scare you that much?"
Hoseok's voice sliced through the car's thick air like a blade through honey—sharp, sudden, and impossible to ignore. "Enough." His fingers dug into Jimin's wrist where it still hovered near Sin's ear, pulling it back with a force that made the older man hiss. "You're scaring him." The words were quiet, but the weight behind them pressed against Sin's ribs like a fist.
Jimin's smile didn't waver, but his eyes darkened as he twisted to face Hoseok. "Who said he's scared?" He flicked his gaze to Sin, lingering on the way his breath hitched—too quick, too shallow. "Maybe he likes it." His tongue darted out to wet his lips, slow and deliberate. "Maybe he wants to be—"
"Cut the shit." Hoseok's grip tightened, his knuckles whitening around Jimin's wrist. The car hit a pothole, jostling them together, and Sin flinched when their shoulders brushed—Hoseok's warm and solid, Jimin's lean and tense. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Hoseok exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, and released Jimin with a shove that sent the older man back into his seat. "You're not helping."
Jin's fingers tightened around the steering wheel, his reflection in the rearview mirror watching the exchange with narrowed eyes. The rain outside had slowed to a drizzle, the windshield wipers dragging lazily across the glass. Sin counted the swipes—one, two—before Jungkook's knee pressed against his again, insistent. "Hobi-hyung's right," he murmured, though his tone lacked conviction. His thumb traced circles on Sin's thigh, the touch light enough to be accidental. "We don't want to break him before we get there."
The car hit another puddle, sending rainwater sluicing across the windows like liquid mercury. Sin flinched at the sound—too loud, too sudden—and Yoongi’s headphones slid down his neck with the motion, the music inside leaking out in a tinny, distant hiss. He hadn’t spoken since they’d left the studio, content to observe from the corner with half-lidded eyes, but now his fingers paused over the volume dial, his gaze sharpening on the way Sin’s breath hitched.
"Enough." Yoongi’s voice cut through the tension like a scalpel—cold, precise, utterly devoid of Hoseok’s simmering anger or Jimin’s honeyed venom. He didn’t raise his volume, didn’t need to; the weight of his silence until now made the word land like a hammer. "If you want Helmeoni to trust us with him, stop acting like starved dogs." His eyes flicked to Jungkook’s hand still gripping Sin’s thigh, to Jimin’s fingers twitching toward Sin’s hair. "You’re scaring him. And scared things run."
Namjoon exhaled through his nose, adjusting his sunglasses though the car was dark. "Yoongi-hyung’s right." His thumb tapped once against his knee—a nervous tic Sin had counted thirteen times since they’d left. "Helmeoni’s already suspicious after the last time. If she thinks we’re—"
"—manhandling her precious doll?" Jimin finished, sweet as poisoned candy. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. "But we’re not, are we?" He leaned forward, close enough that Sin could smell the mint gum on his breath. "Sin-ah, do you feel manhandled?"
Sin’s fingers spasmed against the seatbelt. The word lodged in his throat, sticky as the root beer still drying on Hoseok’s hoodie. Before he could force it out, Yoongi’s headphone cord snaked between them, the jack clattering against the center console like a dropped coin. "Don’t answer that," Yoongi said, his voice flat. "They don’t actually want to know." His gaze pinned Sin in place, dark and unreadable. "They just want to hear you say it."
Jungkook scoffed, but his grip loosened minutely. "Dramatic." His thumb resumed its circling on Sin’s thigh, slower now, almost apologetic. "We’re just playing."
Yoongi’s laugh was a dry, humorless thing. "Play nicer." He reached over, his fingers brushing Sin’s wrist—light, fleeting, nothing like the others’ grasping touches. "You want to keep him? Then act like it." The words echoed Jin’s earlier warning, but where Jin’s had been a threat, Yoongi’s were a plea wrapped in barbed wire. "Or do I need to remind you what happened when we got too greedy last time?"
The car hit a speed bump, jolting them all. Jin’s knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. Hoseok’s jaw clenched. Even Taehyung, usually the picture of nonchalance, went rigid in the passenger seat. Sin counted the seconds of silence—one, two, three—before Jimin slumped back with a theatrical sigh. "Fine, fine." He waved a hand, the motion exaggerated. "We’ll be good." His smile was all teeth. "For now."
The hanok's wooden gate groaned as Jin shouldered it open, the ancient hinges protesting under his weight. Rainwater dripped from the tiled roof onto Sin's upturned face—one drop, then another—like cold fingers tracing his cheekbones. He blinked against the sensation, only to find Jungkook already crowding close, his breath warm against Sin's ear as he murmured, "Pretty." The word slithered down Sin's spine, possessive and pleased.
Inside, the main hall smelled of aged pine and the faint metallic tang of the rain seeping through the paper doors. Hoseok's hoodie clung damply to Sin's shoulders as Jimin guided him forward with a hand at the small of his back—light enough to seem casual, firm enough to steer. "Look," Jimin whispered, pointing to the far wall where antique masks leered down from their mounts. Their painted lips curled in frozen smiles, hollow-eyed and knowing. "They'll watch over us tonight."
Sin shivered. Taehyung laughed, low and rich, as he draped himself over Sin from behind, chin resting on the crown of Sin's white hair. "Don't scare him, Jimin-ah." His arms circled Sin's waist, loose but inescapable. "Our ghost needs to eat before he fades away completely."
The dining room floor was heated, the ondol warmth seeping through Sin's socks as Jin pressed him down onto a cushion at the head of the low table. Dishes appeared—japchae glistening with sesame oil, steaming bowls of galbi-tang, banchan arranged like colorful jewels—but Sin's hands remained limp in his lap. Jungkook clicked his tongue, nudging a spoon against Sin's lower lip. "Open," he ordered, his free hand splayed across Sin's thigh beneath the table.
The spoon clattered onto the table as Sin jerked back, silver clinking against porcelain. Jungkook’s fingers tightened on his thigh—just enough to bruise—but before he could react, Namjoon’s chopsticks intercepted another bite of japchae mid-air. “Try this,” he said, his voice steady, the noodles glistening under the paper lantern light. His fingers didn’t tremble as they hovered near Sin’s lips, didn’t dig into his skin like the others’. A ceasefire in edible form.
Sin parted his lips obediently, the noodles salty-sweet on his tongue. Across the table, Yoongi watched over the rim of his soju glass, his gaze flickering between Namjoon’s careful fingers and Jungkook’s whitening knuckles. “Slow,” Yoongi murmured, though whether to Sin or the others, it wasn’t clear.
Jimin’s laughter dripped like honey as he twirled a strand of japchae around his own chopsticks. “Hyung’s so gentle,” he crooned, leaning across the table to brush his knee against Sin’s. “Like feeding a stray cat.” His teeth flashed when he smiled. “But strays scratch, don’t they?”
The lantern light flickered as Hoseok stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the wooden floor. He rounded the table in three strides, his shadow swallowing Sin whole as he loomed over him. "Enough games." His fingers tangled in the back of Sin's hoodie, hauling him upright with a rough jerk. "You're eating properly or I'm feeding you myself."
Jin's chopsticks paused mid-air, his smile tightening at the edges. "Hoseok-ah—"
"No." Hoseok's voice was raw, his grip shifting to cradle the base of Sin's skull instead—a mockery of tenderness. "Look at him." His thumb brushed the hollow under Sin's ear where his pulse fluttered like a dying bird. "Skin and bones. Like we've been starving him."
Sin's breath hitched as Hoseok's fingers flexed, his nails biting crescents into the soft skin behind his ears. The japchae turned to ash in his mouth, the flavors blurring into nothingness. Across the table, Jungkook's eyes darkened, his chopsticks snapping between his fingers with a sharp crack.
The spoon clattered to the floor, a silver flash against dark wood. Sin didn’t remember standing—only the sudden rush of air against his face as he tore free from Hoseok’s grip, the hoodie slipping halfway off one shoulder like a broken wing. His breath came in jagged bursts, each inhale scraping his throat raw. The hallway stretched endlessly before him, the hanok’s paper doors blurring into a tunnel of pale gold and shadow. Behind him, someone shouted—Hoseok, maybe, or Jungkook, the words dissolving into static as Sin’s pulse roared in his ears.
His socked feet slid on the polished floor as he careened around a corner, fingers scrambling for purchase on the wall. The guest room door loomed ahead, its old-fashioned latch glinting under the dim hallway sconces. Sin crashed into it shoulder-first, the impact shuddering through his bones as he fumbled with the lock. Metal clicked. The door groaned shut behind him.
Silence.
Then—
A sob tore free from his chest, raw and ugly, as Sin collapsed against the door. His knees hit the tatami mat with a dull thud, fingers twisting in the hem of Hoseok’s hoodie—still damp with rain and sweat and Jungkook’s root beer. He tried to breathe. Couldn’t. The air turned to glass in his lungs, each inhale shattering into jagged shards.
Somewhere beyond the door, footsteps pounded closer. Voices overlapped—Hoseok’s sharp bark, Jimin’s honeyed murmur, Yoongi’s low growl—but the words blurred into white noise. Sin pressed his forehead to the cool wood, counting the whorls in the grain. Thirty-seven. Thirty-eight. The numbers unraveled as the door handle jiggled, then rattled with increasing violence.
"Sin-ah." Jin’s voice, smooth as poisoned silk, seeped through the cracks. "Open the door, sweetheart." A pause. The knob twisted again, harder. "You’re being dramatic."
Sin squeezed his eyes shut. The tatami prickled against his bare calves where Hoseok’s hoodie had ridden up. He counted the fibers poking into his skin—one, two—until Jungkook’s fist slammed against the doorframe hard enough to make the paper walls tremble.
"Enough." Hoseok’s command cut through the chaos. A scuffle. Then silence.
Sin exhaled shakily, his breath stirring the dust motes swirling in the lantern light. The silence stretched—too long, too complete—until a single, deliberate knock echoed through the wood. Not the frantic pounding from before. Precise. Controlled.
"Sin." Namjoon’s voice, steady as always. "Breathe." Another knock, softer. "In for four. Hold for seven. Out for eight."
The rhythm was familiar. Sin’s chest hitched as he tried to follow it, his fingers unclenching from the hoodie fabric. One shaky inhale. Two. The third caught in his throat when the door creaked—not from force, but from the subtle slide of a key turning in the lock.
Sin scrambled backward, his socks slipping on the tatami. The door swung open to reveal Namjoon’s silhouette, backlit by the hallway lanterns. Alone. His sunglasses were gone, his eyes dark and unreadable as he stepped inside, locking the door behind him with a soft click.
"They’re arguing," Namjoon said, as if commenting on the weather. He knelt a careful distance away, his hands loose on his knees. No sudden moves. "Hoseok thinks Jungkook provoked you. Jungkook thinks Hoseok’s being hypocritical." A pause. "Yoongi called them both idiots."
Sin’s laugh came out broken, more sob than sound. Namjoon didn’t react, just reached into his pocket and produced a single pocky stick—unbroken, pristine. "You didn’t finish yours earlier." He offered it like a peace treaty. "Strawberry this time."
The sweetness burst across Sin’s tongue, artificial and comforting. Namjoon watched him chew, his gaze lingering on the way Sin’s fingers trembled around the biscuit. "You’re safe here," he murmured, though the words felt heavy with unspoken conditions. "For now."
Sin's fingers curled into the tatami mat, the rough fibers pricking his palms. The strawberry pocky tasted cloying now, sticking to the roof of his mouth like paste. "Hyung," he whispered, his voice cracking on the single syllable. The cerulean of his eyes had gone dull under the flickering lantern light. "I want to go back."
Namjoon didn't react at first, his gaze fixed on the way Sin's pulse fluttered at the base of his throat—visible now that Hoseok's hoodie had slipped off one shoulder. Outside, rain pattered against the hanok's tiled roof, the sound muffled but insistent. "Back where?" Namjoon asked, though they both knew.
"The hotel." Sin's breath hitched when a floorboard creaked somewhere down the hall—too heavy to be Jin, too deliberate to be Taehyung. His fingers spasmed against the tatami. "My room. With the—" He swallowed hard. "—the deadbolt."
Namjoon's exhale was almost inaudible. He reached forward slowly, giving Sin ample time to flinch away, and plucked a stray pocky crumb from the corner of Sin's mouth. His thumb lingered for half a heartbeat too long. "You know we can't do that," he murmured, as if discussing the weather. "Helmeoni would notice."
The rain picked up outside, drumming against the roof like impatient fingers. Sin watched Namjoon's thumb swipe across his own bottom lip—absent, methodical—wiping away the ghost of their shared strawberry sugar. The silence between them thickened, punctured only by the distant rise and fall of voices down the hall. Arguing. Always arguing.
Sin's knees ached from kneeling, but he didn't dare shift. Movement attracted attention. Attention meant hands on his wrists, breath against his neck, teeth in the soft space beneath his ear. He'd learned that much.
Namjoon's phone buzzed in his pocket, the vibration muffled. He didn't check it. "They're deciding," he said instead, gaze fixed on the paper door's shadow play—elongated silhouettes of Hoseok's sharp gestures, Jungkook's splayed fingers. "Whether to give you space or drag you back by your hair." A pause. "Hobi-hyung's winning. For now."
Sin's fingers found the hem of Hoseok's hoodie again, twisting the damp fabric. The citrus scent had soured with sweat and fear. "You're not… with them?" The question slipped out before he could bite it back, naive as a child asking a wolf if it's tamed.
Namjoon’s fingers paused mid-air, the strawberry pocky dust still clinging to his thumb. Outside, the argument crescendoed—Hoseok’s voice sharp as shattered glass, Jungkook’s a low snarl—but the room itself seemed to hold its breath. Sin watched the lantern light warp Namjoon’s shadow across the tatami, stretching it into something monstrous and lean.
"With them?" Namjoon repeated, so softly Sin almost missed it. His lips twitched, not quite a smile. "I’m where I need to be." He brushed his thumb over Sin’s lower lip again, this time lingering long enough to feel the tremor there. "And so are you."
A floorboard groaned outside the door. Sin’s breath hitched, his fingers knotting tighter in the hoodie fabric. The footsteps paused—listening—before retreating with deliberate lightness. Jimin, then. Always light on his feet.
Namjoon’s phone buzzed again. This time, he glanced at the screen, his expression flattening. "Hoseok’s coming," he murmured, tucking the device away. His hands settled on Sin’s shoulders, not gripping but framing—a mockery of gentleness. "Be good for him. Or he’ll let Jungkook have you."
The door slid open with a whisper of wood against wood, revealing Hoseok’s silhouette haloed by the hallway’s amber light. His hair was mussed, his lips pressed into a thin line—the picture of controlled fury. The hoodie Sin still wore had been Hoseok’s first, and the older man’s gaze dropped to where Sin’s fingers clutched the fabric like a lifeline.
"Out," Hoseok said, not to Sin, but to Namjoon. His voice was low, rough at the edges. Namjoon didn’t move immediately, his hands lingering on Sin’s shoulders a heartbeat too long before he rose with fluid grace. As he passed Hoseok, their shoulders brushed—a silent exchange Sin couldn’t decipher. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving only the sound of Sin’s too-quick breaths and the rain’s relentless patter.
Hoseok exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders as if shedding tension. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, though no less commanding. "Stand up." Sin obeyed on trembling legs, the tatami fibers sticking to his socks. Hoseok closed the distance between them in two strides, his fingers finding the hoodie’s drawstrings. He tugged gently, pulling Sin forward until their foreheads nearly touched. "You ran from me," he murmured, more statement than accusation. His breath smelled of mint and something darker, sharper.
Sin’s pulse fluttered under Hoseok’s thumb where it pressed against his jugular. "I—"
Hoseok’s fingers tightened around the drawstrings, the fabric biting into the back of Sin’s neck. “No excuses,” he murmured, his voice honey-thick with false patience. His other hand slid up Sin’s ribcage, counting each bone through the damp hoodie like beads on a rosary. “You know what happens when you run.”
Sin’s breath hitched as Hoseok’s thumb found the hollow beneath his collarbone—the same spot Jungkook had bruised yesterday with his root beer can. A whimper escaped before he could bite it back, small and wounded. Hoseok’s lips curled at the sound, his grip shifting to cradle Sin’s jaw instead, forcing their eyes to meet.
Outside, rain lashed against the hanok’s paper windows, distorting the silhouettes of the others pacing the hallway into monstrous shapes. Someone—Jimin, probably—laughed, the sound muffled but unmistakably bright. Hoseok’s thumb pressed harder against Sin’s pulse point. “They’re waiting,” he said, as if Sin didn’t know. As if the weight of six gazes wasn’t already searing through the rice paper walls.
The hoodie’s drawstring looped around Hoseok’s wrist like a leash when he stepped back, his grip unyielding. “On your knees,” he ordered, soft as a benediction. Sin obeyed without thinking, his body conditioned to comply. The tatami prickled through his sweat-damp socks, the fibers catching on his skin as Hoseok circled him.
Hoseok's socked foot nudged between Sin's knees, spreading them wider on the tatami with deliberate pressure. The hoodie's drawstring tightened around Sin's throat as Hoseok stepped closer, the fabric whispering against his Adam's apple with each shallow breath. "Count," Hoseok commanded, his free hand slipping into Sin's hair—not yanking, not yet, just resting there like a king with his fingers curled around a scepter.
Sin's lips parted. "O-one—"
"No." Hoseok's thumb brushed the hinge of Sin's jaw, tracing the flutter of panic beneath his skin. "Not out loud. Here." He tapped Sin's temple once, the impact featherlight. "Where only I can hear."
Behind the paper door, a floorboard groaned under shifting weight. Sin's lashes fluttered as he imagined them lined up out there—Jin's calculated stillness, Jungkook's restless energy, Jimin's predatory patience—each waiting their turn to carve another piece of him away. The numbers formed silently in his mind, trembling as they climbed. Seven. Eight. Nine.
The scent of rain and aged wood thickened as Hoseok’s fingers tightened in Sin’s hair—not pulling, just holding, the way one might grip the leash of a skittish animal. Sin’s silent count stuttered at twenty-three when Hoseok’s thumb traced the shell of his ear, the touch deceptively gentle. "Good," Hoseok murmured, though Sin hadn’t spoken. The praise slithered under his skin like warm oil.
Outside, the pacing stopped. A shadow darkened the rice paper door—broad-shouldered, motionless—before retreating with deliberate quiet. Jungkook, then. Always the worst at waiting.
Hoseok exhaled through his nose, his grip shifting to cradle the base of Sin’s skull instead. "They think I’m being too soft with you," he confided, as if sharing a secret. His knee pressed between Sin’s thighs, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind him of the space he was allowed. "But they don’t understand." His fingers flexed. "You need the leash before you run. Not after."
Sin’s breath hitched as Hoseok’s free hand slipped under the hoodie’s hem, fingers skating up his spine. The touch burned through the thin fabric of his undershirt, mapping each vertebra like a cartographer claiming territory. "Thirty-four," Sin mouthed soundlessly, the numbers crumbling when Hoseok’s nails scraped the nape of his neck.
Outside, Yoongi leaned against the hallway’s wooden beam, the cigarette between his fingers burning down to the filter untouched. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, dripping from the hanok’s eaves onto the moss-covered stones below. One drop. Two. He counted them like Sin counted breaths—methodical, desperate.
The door beside him trembled with the force of Jungkook’s pacing, the younger man’s shadow distorting across the rice paper like a caged animal. "This is bullshit," Jungkook muttered, his voice low enough that only Yoongi could hear. His sneakers squeaked against the floorboards as he pivoted sharply. "Hobi-hyung doesn’t get to hog him every time—"
"Quiet." Yoongi didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t need to. The ember of his cigarette flared as he inhaled, the smoke curling around his words. "You think this is about hogging?" He flicked ash onto the dampened stones outside, watching it dissolve. "Helmeoni’s already got eyes on us. One more incident like last time, and she’ll yank him so far out of reach, not even Namjoon’s connections will find him."
Jungkook’s jaw clenched, his fingers flexing at his sides. Inside the room, a muffled whimper slipped through the cracks in the doorframe. Yoongi’s cigarette crumbled between his fingers.
Jimin materialized from the shadows, his smile saccharine. "Yoongi-hyung’s right," he singsonged, though his fingers dug into Jungkook’s shoulder hard enough to bruise. "We have to share." His gaze flicked to the door. "Even when Hobi-hyung forgets how."
The hanok’s wooden beams groaned underfoot as Jin approached, his footsteps deliberate. "Enough." His voice carried the weight of finality. "Yoongi-ah." A pause. "Fix this."
Yoongi exhaled through his nose, grinding the cigarette butt into the stone with his heel. He didn’t speak as he turned, didn’t knock as he slid the door open. The scene inside unfolded like a tableau—Hoseok’s fingers tangled in Sin’s hair, Sin’s lips parted around silent numbers, the hoodie’s drawstring looped around Hoseok’s wrist like a noose.
"Out," Yoongi said.
Hoseok didn’t move. "You don’t give orders here, hyung."
Yoongi’s gaze flicked to Sin’s trembling knees. "Helmeoni’s calling." He pulled his phone from his pocket, screen bright with an unanswered notification. "She wants him video-ready in twenty." A lie. Maybe. The screen darkened before Hoseok could verify.
Hoseok’s grip loosened minutely. Sin gasped—soft, wounded—as air flooded his lungs.
"Now," Yoongi added, softer this time. "Unless you want to explain why her doll’s throat is bruising."
Hoseok’s fingers uncurled from Sin’s hair like retreating vines. The hoodie’s drawstring slithered free from his wrist as he stepped back, his jaw working. "You’re bluffing."
Yoongi tossed the phone. Hoseok caught it against his chest, the screen lighting up with Helmeoni’s contact photo—her stern face immortalized mid-scowl. Three missed calls. The latest timestamp: 2:17 AM.
Sin’s breath hitched. Yoongi didn’t blink. "You think she sleeps?" he murmured. "When her investments misbehave?"
The hanok’s ancient floorboards creaked as Jungkook shouldered past Yoongi, his sneakers squeaking on the tatami. "Bullshit." He snatched the phone, thumb jamming the callback button. "She doesn’t—"
The line connected on the first ring.
Silence.
Then—"Jungkook-ah." Helmeoni’s voice crackled through the speaker, tinny and taut. "Put my baby on."
Sin flinched so hard the hoodie’s drawstring snapped taut around his throat. Yoongi moved first, plucking the phone from Jungkook’s frozen fingers. "He’s sleeping," he lied smoothly. Outside, rain dripped from the eaves onto the stones below—one drop, two. "We followed protocol."
A beat. The hanok’s wooden beams groaned under the weight of their collective breath held too long. Helmeoni’s exhale crackled through the line. "Liar." The word dripped with something darker than disappointment. "His tracker’s spiking. Heart rate. Adrenaline." A pause. The sound of fingers tapping a keyboard. "Which one of you touched him?"
Hoseok’s hand twitched where it hovered near Sin’s shoulder. Jungkook’s sneaker squeaked against the tatami. Yoongi’s thumb hovered over the mute button—too late. Helmeoni’s voice crackled through the speaker, each syllable razor-sharp. "You swore." The keyboard taps accelerated. "Seven signatures. Seven witnesses. And now his vitals look like—" A choked noise, almost maternal. "Who. Touched. Him?"
The silence curdled. Sin’s pulse hammered against the hoodie’s drawstring, the fabric whispering with each shallow breath. Jin stepped forward first, his smile smooth as poured honey. "Helmeoni-ssi, it was just rehearsals—"
"Liar." The keyboard clattered. Onscreen, Helmeoni’s manicured nails glinted like talons. "His cortisol levels spiked at 1:48 AM. Adrenaline peak at 2:03. And now—" A screenshot flashed on Yoongi’s phone: Sin’s biometrics chart, jagged red lines screaming panic. "Explain."
Jungkook’s fingers flexed. Hoseok’s jaw ticked. Sin’s knees ached against the tatami, the fibers imprinting diamond patterns into his skin.
Jimin laughed—soft, melodic, all wrong for the tension. "Ah, poor Sin-ah got scared during horror movie night!" He draped himself over Sin’s shoulders, fingers skimming the bruises Jungkook had left earlier. "Our baby’s so sensitive, isn’t he?"
Helmeoni’s silence was volcanic. The call idled for three agonizing seconds before she spoke. "Sin-ah." Her voice gentled, syrupy with fake concern. "Look at the camera."
Yoongi’s phone screen tilted. Sin flinched from the lens, his cerulean eyes glassy with unshed tears. The hoodie slipped off one shoulder, revealing the blossoming fingerprints on his wrist. Jungkook’s root beer stain streaked across the fabric like old blood.
Helmeoni inhaled sharply. "Who," she enunciated, "marked him?"
Jin’s polished facade cracked. His hand twitched toward Sin—whether to comfort or conceal, he didn’t seem to know himself. "An accident during practice—"
"Collaborators don’t have accidents." Helmeoni’s nails clicked against her desk. The camera jostled as she leaned closer, her face distorting onscreen. "Sin-ah. Show me your neck."
Sin trembled. Jimin’s fingers dug into his shoulders, steering him toward the screen like a doll. The drawstring noose swayed with each ragged breath.
Helmeoni’s breath hitched. "Hoseok." She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t need to. "Explain the leash."
Hoseok’s fingers twitched where they hovered near Sin’s hair. "It’s—"
"Not yours." Her manicure tapped the screen—once, twice. "Seven signatures, seven witnesses. No ownership clauses." The camera tilted, revealing Sin’s tracker bracelet glinting on her own wrist. "Unless you’ve rewritten contracts in your spare time?"
Jungkook’s sneaker squeaked. Jin’s smile froze. Yoongi exhaled through his nose, watching Sin’s pulse flutter against the hoodie’s fabric like a dying thing.
Helmeoni’s keyboard clattered. "I’ll be there in twenty minutes." A pause. The sound of a car engine roaring to life. "If his vitals spike again, I’m pulling him permanently." The call ended with a click that echoed like a gunshot.
The phone screen went dark, plunging the room into a silence so thick Sin could hear the blood rushing in his ears. Yoongi’s fingers clenched around the device, knuckles bleaching white, before he spun on his heel and hurled it against the far wall. The plastic cracked against the wooden beam, shattering into fragments that skittered across the tatami like brittle insects.
"Fuck," Yoongi hissed, low and venomous. He didn’t look at Sin—didn’t look at any of them—just dragged a hand down his face hard enough to leave red streaks on his skin. His gaze snapped to Namjoon, who stood framed by the hallway’s lantern light, arms crossed and expression unreadable. "Plan," Yoongi bit out. "Now. Before Helmeoni skins us alive."
Namjoon didn’t blink. "She already doesn’t trust us." His voice was calm, but his fingers tapped an uneven rhythm against his bicep—three beats, pause, two beats—like Morse code for disaster. "That was never the issue."
Jungkook scoffed, kicking a pocky wrapper across the floor. "Then what is?" His sneakers left damp streaks on the tatami as he paced. "We followed the rules. We didn’t—" His gaze flicked to Sin’s throat, where the hoodie’s drawstring had left a faint red line. "—break him."
Jimin’s laugh was razor-thin. "Tell that to his cortisol levels." He twirled Sin’s tracker bracelet around his own finger, the metal glinting under the lantern light. "Helmeoni doesn’t care about rules. She cares about control." His smile widened when Sin flinched. "And right now, we’re losing it."
Jin sighed, rubbing his temples. "Drama queens, all of you." He stepped forward, hands raised in mock surrender. "We clean him up. We calm him down. We hand him back with a bow and a ‘sorry, no harm done.’" His fingers twitched toward Sin’s hair—hovering, not touching—before retreating. "Easy."
Hoseok barked a laugh. "Easy?" He yanked the hoodie’s drawstring taut between his fists, the fabric snapping audibly. "You saw her face. She’s not here for apologies." His gaze dropped to Sin’s trembling knees. "She’s here for blood."
Sin’s breath hitched, the sound strangled. Yoongi’s jaw clenched. "Enough." He turned to Namjoon, voice dropping to a whisper. "We can’t spin this. Not with the biometrics. So what’s the play?"
The silence curdled like spoiled milk after Helmeoni’s call ended. Jin was the first to move, his polished facade cracking as he knelt beside Sin—close enough to feign concern, far enough to avoid touching. "Sin-ah," he murmured, his voice honey-thick with false gentleness. His fingers twitched toward the tracker bracelet glinting on Sin’s wrist. "Why does Helmeoni have these on you?"
Sin’s breath hitched, his fingers curling into the tatami. The fibers pricked his palms, grounding him in the present. "Ssaengs," he whispered, so soft the word barely left his lips. His cerulean eyes flickered to the hallway where shadows still loomed—waiting, watching. "Some… get too touchy."
Jungkook scoffed, kicking a stray pocky wrapper across the floor. "And?" His sneakers squeaked as he prowled closer, his shadow swallowing Sin’s trembling form. "You’re ours now. Who cares about some rabid fans?"
Sin flinched, his pulse rabbiting against the hoodie’s drawstring. Jin shot Jungkook a warning glare before turning back to Sin, his smile straining at the edges. "Blacklist," he prompted, as if piecing together a puzzle. "Helmeoni puts them on a list, yes?"
A nod—small, jerky. Sin’s fingers found the tracker bracelet, tracing its smooth metal surface like a talisman. "She—" His breath stuttered. "She checks the biometrics. If someone… if they grab me too hard, the tracker spikes. She pulls the footage. Blocks them from events." His lashes fluttered, damp with unshed tears. "Permanent ban."
Jimin’s laugh curled through the room like poisoned honey. "Cute." He twirled Sin’s hair around his finger, yanking just enough to make Sin gasp. "But we’re not ssaengs, are we?" His breath ghosted over Sin’s ear, mock-conspiratorial. "We’re collaborators. Signed contracts and everything."
The word contracts hung heavy in the air, thick with unspoken clauses. Hoseok’s fingers twitched toward the hoodie’s drawstring—still looped around his wrist like a trophy. "So Helmeoni’s watching us now?" His voice dripped with something darker than amusement. "Tracking how we touch her doll?"
Sin shrank back, his shoulders bumping against Namjoon’s legs. The rapper didn’t move, didn’t speak—just let his fingers brush Sin’s nape, light as a spider’s thread. A warning or a comfort, Sin couldn’t tell.
The cigarette between Yoongi’s fingers had burned down to the filter untouched, ash crumbling onto the tatami like dead skin. He watched it fall, then lifted his gaze to the others—really looked at them for the first time since Helmeoni’s call. Jin’s perfect smile stretched too tight. Hoseok’s fingers flexing around phantom drawstrings. Jungkook’s restless pacing, back and forth like a caged animal. And Sin, trembling between them all like a leaf in a storm.
Yoongi flicked the dead cigarette away. "Why?" The word landed like a stone in still water.
Jin blinked. "Why what, Yoongi-ah?"
"You know damn well what." Yoongi stepped forward, his socked feet silent on the tatami. He grabbed Jungkook’s wrist mid-pace, yanking him to a stop. The younger man’s skin was fever-hot under his grip, pulse rabbiting against Yoongi’s thumb. "Look at him." He jerked his chin toward Sin, who flinched at the sudden movement. "Really look."
Sin’s knees had gone white from kneeling too long, the tatami’s diamond pattern imprinted on his skin. The hoodie hung off one shoulder, revealing the fingerprint bruises Jungkook had left earlier. His lips were bitten raw, his cerulean eyes glassy with unshed tears.
Hoseok made a wounded noise in his throat. "We’re not—"
"You are." Yoongi released Jungkook’s wrist with a shove. "Every fucking time. You can’t keep your hands to yourselves for five minutes." His gaze swept over them—Jin’s twitching fingers, Jimin’s possessive grip on Sin’s hair, Hoseok’s drawstring noose. "Helmeoni’s not the problem. We are."
Jungkook scoffed. "Bullshit. He likes it—"
"Does he?" Yoongi snatched Sin’s wrist—gently, for once—turning it to expose the mottled bruises circling the delicate bones. "This look like liking to you?" His thumb brushed the darkest mark, watching Sin’s breath hitch. "You think he wants to shake like this? To count numbers in his head like a fucking trauma response?"
The silence curdled. Jimin’s fingers loosened in Sin’s hair. Jin’s polished smile wavered.
Namjoon spoke from the doorway, his voice low and measured. "Yoongi-hyung’s right." He stepped inside, his shadow stretching long across the tatami. "We swore." His gaze dropped to Sin’s trembling form. "No ownership. No marks. No leashes."
Hoseok’s fingers twitched around the drawstring. "But—"
"No." Yoongi’s voice cracked like a whip. "You don’t get to but this." He grabbed Sin’s chin—gentler than the others ever were—tilting his face toward the lantern light. The bruises on his throat stood out stark against his doll-like skin. "Look what we’ve done to him."
Jungkook kicked the wall, the hanok’s ancient wood groaning in protest. "He’s ours—"
"He’s not." Yoongi’s grip tightened minutely. Sin whimpered—soft, wounded—but didn’t pull away. "He’s Helmeoni’s investment. A collaborator." His thumb brushed the beauty mark beneath Sin’s eye, the touch fleeting. "Not a toy."
Jimin’s laugh was razor-thin. "Since when do you care?" He prowled closer, his shadow swallowing Sin’s trembling form. His fingers twirled a strand of Sin’s white hair around his finger, yanking just enough to make Sin gasp. "Yoongi-hyung’s gotten soft."
Yoongi didn’t blink. "Since now." His voice was low, dangerous. He grabbed Jimin’s wrist, twisting until his grip loosened on Sin’s hair. "Or do you want Helmeoni pulling him permanently?"
Namjoon finally cut through the tension, stepping between them with a sigh that carried the weight of too many sleepless nights. "We’re professionals. Idols." His gaze swept over them—Jungkook’s restless pacing, Hoseok’s twitching fingers, Jimin’s bruising grip. "Act like it."
Jungkook scoffed, kicking the tatami mat hard enough to send dust motes swirling. "Professionals don’t share." His sneaker squeaked as he pivoted toward Sin, his shadow looming. "Professionals own."
Yoongi’s laugh was razor-thin. "Own?" He flicked Sin’s tracker bracelet with a fingernail, the metal ringing softly. "If we keep manhandling him like this, his fans will notice." His thumb brushed the bruise on Sin’s wrist—deliberate, pointed. "And trust me, his fans are worse than Helmeoni."
Sin flinched at the mention of fans, his fingers tightening around the hoodie’s hem. Jin sighed, rubbing his temples like a man fighting off a migraine. "Yoongi’s right." His voice was softer now, edged with something resembling guilt. "We can’t afford another scandal. Not after—"
"Not after what?" Jimin’s smile was saccharine, his fingers tracing the bruises on Sin’s throat. "Not after last time?" He leaned in close, his breath warm against Sin’s ear. "Tell me, Sin-ah—do you want us to stop?"
Sin’s breath hitched, his cerulean eyes darting to Yoongi—pleading, terrified. Before he could answer, Namjoon’s hand landed on Jimin’s shoulder, squeezing just shy of painful. "Enough." His voice brooked no argument. "Clean him up. Now."
Namjoon’s fingers twitched toward Sin’s shoulder—hesitant for once—before curling back into a loose fist. "Taehyung-ah," he said, voice pitched low enough that Sin flinched at the sudden address. The command hung unfinished between them, heavy with implication.
Taehyung uncoiled from the shadows near the shoji screen, his movements liquid-slow. He’d been so still, so silent, Sin had almost forgotten he was there. Almost. The hanok’s lantern light caught the silver hoops in his ears as he tilted his head, gaze skating over Sin’s disheveled form—the hoodie slipping off one shoulder, the mottled fingerprints circling his wrists. His lips parted around a silent ah before he smiled, wide and disarming. "Come on, little rabbit," he murmured, extending a hand. "Let’s get you clean."
Sin recoiled instinctively, shoulders bumping against Namjoon’s legs. Taehyung’s smile didn’t waver, but his fingers flexed—a tell Sin had learned too well. The others shifted, a ripple of tension cracking through the room like thin ice.
Yoongi exhaled sharply through his nose. "Taehyung-ah." A warning.
Taehyung blinked, slow as a cat. "What?" His voice dripped with faux innocence. "I’m just helping." He crouched until he was eye-level with Sin, his knees cracking theatrically. Up close, his scent was overwhelming—vanilla fabric softener layered over something darker, muskier. The scent clung to Sin’s nostrils like a physical touch. "Unless…" Taehyung’s thumb brushed the hoodie drawstring still looped around Sin’s throat. His voice dropped to a whisper. "You want to stay like this?"
Sin’s breath hitched. The drawstring tightened minutely—not pulling, just there, a constant reminder of the noose Hoseok had left behind. Taehyung’s fingers traced the red line it had left on Sin’s throat, his touch featherlight. "See?" He leaned closer, his breath warm against Sin’s ear. "All marked up. Like a bad puppy." His teeth flashed in a grin. "Helmeoni won’t like that."
Namjoon’s hand landed heavy on Taehyung’s shoulder. "Enough." His grip tightened—just shy of painful—before releasing. "Bath. Now. No theatrics."
Taehyung sighed, exaggerated, but stood in one fluid motion. He offered his hand again, this time palm-up—a mockery of chivalry. Sin hesitated, gaze darting to Yoongi. The rapper gave a barely-there nod, his jaw clenched tight.
Sin took Taehyung’s hand. His skin was fever-warm.
The bathroom was all dark wood and steamed mirrors, the scent of cedar thick in the air. Taehyung hummed as he turned the faucet, testing the water with his fingers before dumping in a capful of something floral. Bubbles foamed instantly, obscuring the water’s surface. Sin stood frozen by the door, fingers twisting in the hoodie’s hem.
"Strip," Taehyung said, not looking up.
Sin flinched. The word landed like a stone in still water. Taehyung glanced over his shoulder, eyebrow arched. "Problem?" His tone was light, but his gaze dropped to Sin’s throat—to the bruises, the drawstring’s imprint. "Or do you want Helmeoni seeing that?"
Sin’s fingers trembled as they found the hoodie’s zipper. The metal teeth parted reluctantly, fabric peeling away from his skin like a second layer. Taehyung watched, gaze tracking the slow reveal of bruises—Jungkook’s fingerprints circling his wrists, Jimin’s grip marks on his shoulders. His breath hitched when Sin’s ribs came into view, the delicate cage of them shadowed by Hoseok’s earlier attentions.
Taehyung’s fingers twitched toward the worst of them—a mottled purple bloom over Sin’s left hip—before curling into a fist. "In," he said, jerking his chin toward the tub. The water sloshed as Sin stepped in, bubbles parting around his thighs. Taehyung’s reflection grinned at him from the fogged mirror. "See? Not so hard."
Sin sank into the water until it lapped at his collarbones. The heat stung his bruises, but he didn’t complain—just stared at the bubbles clotting around his arms. Taehyung perched on the tub’s edge, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His fingers dipped into the water, stirring the suds idly. "You scared?" he asked, casual as asking about the weather.
Sin’s breath fogged the surface. A bubble popped between them. Taehyung’s smile widened. "Good." His fingers skimmed Sin’s shoulder, featherlight. "Fear keeps you alive."
The water sloshed violently as Sin recoiled from Taehyung’s touch, bubbles clinging to his collarbones like froth on a drowning man. Taehyung’s grin didn’t waver—if anything, it widened at the reaction, canines flashing as he leaned closer. His reflection warped in the steam-fogged mirror behind them, elongated and grotesque. "Ah, little rabbit," he cooed, fingers trailing through the water to trace the bruises circling Sin’s wrist. "Who taught you to flinch like that?"
Sin’s breath hitched when Taehyung’s thumb found the darkest mark—Jungkook’s teeth had left crescent moons in the tender skin. The bathwater turned murky where it lapped at his ribs, swirling with flecks of dried root beer and something darker. Taehyung made a soft noise in his throat, dragging a washcloth over the stain with mock tenderness. "Shame," he murmured, though his eyes glittered with something closer to hunger. "Our baby’s all dirty."
A knock shattered the moment. Three sharp raps—Yoongi’s signature. The door slid open before Taehyung could respond, revealing the rapper silhouetted against the hallway’s amber light. His gaze skipped over Taehyung’s hovering hands, Sin’s wet shoulders, the bruises peeking through the suds. "Helmeoni’s ten minutes out," he said, voice stripped of inflection. He tossed a bundle of fabric at Taehyung—a fresh hoodie, black this time. "Make him presentable."
Taehyung caught it one-handed, his grin turning sly. "Presentable?" He shook out the garment, letting the sleeves unfurl like wings. "Or pretty?"
The hoodie’s fabric whispered against itself as Taehyung shook it out—black as a starless sky, sleeves limp like empty nooses. Sin’s fingers twitched beneath the water’s surface, bubbles clinging to his knuckles like foam on a drowning man. Taehyung’s grin sharpened. "Pretty it is," he murmured, draping the hoodie over the towel rack with exaggerated care. Steam curled around the garment, softening its edges.
Yoongi lingered in the doorway, fingers drumming a silent rhythm against the frame. His gaze flicked to the bruises mottling Sin’s ribs—Hoseok’s fingerprints bloomed purple beneath the soapy water—before settling on Taehyung’s hovering hands. "Ten minutes," he repeated, low and warning. The door slid shut with a click that echoed like a trap springing.
Taehyung exhaled through his nose, the sound more laugh than sigh. He snatched the washcloth from the water, wringing it hard enough to send droplets spattering across the tiles. "Up," he ordered, flicking the damp cloth at Sin’s cheek. The fabric stung where it hit—not quite a slap, but close enough to make Sin flinch. Water sloshed over the tub’s edge as he scrambled upright, suds sliding down his chest in slow, glistening rivulets.
Taehyung’s gaze tracked their progress, lingering where the bubbles caught in the hollow of Sin’s throat. His fingers twitched toward the spot—then veered abruptly, snatching the towel instead. "Turn," he commanded, shaking it open with a snap that sent steam swirling.
Sin turned—slow, mechanical—his spine protruding like knotted rope beneath skin too pale to belong to anything living. Taehyung’s exhale ghosted hot over the jut of his shoulder blade as the towel descended, rough fabric scraping over bruise-mottled skin. "Pretty," Taehyung murmured, fingers pressing just shy of painful into the divots above Sin’s hips. The word curled like smoke between them, acrid and sweet.
Water dripped from Sin’s lashes onto the tiles between his toes. He counted them—one, two—as Taehyung’s hands wandered higher, dragging the towel up the ladder of his ribs. The third droplet shattered when Taehyung’s thumb found the beauty mark beneath his left shoulder blade, pressing down with deliberate intent. Sin’s breath stuttered.
"Stay still," Taehyung chided, though his grip tightened as if willing Sin to struggle. The hoodie whispered off the rack, its shadow swallowing Sin whole as Taehyung guided his arms through the sleeves with mock gentleness. Fabric whispered over damp skin, clinging where the water hadn’t been properly blotted. Taehyung’s fingers lingered at the drawstrings, looping them once—twice—around his own wrist before tugging Sin back against his chest.
Sin’s reflection stared back at him from the fogged mirror—pupils blown wide, lips bitten raw. Taehyung’s chin hooked over his shoulder, smile sharp as a scalpel. "There," he murmured, adjusting the hood to frame Sin’s face like a portrait. His fingers brushed the tracker bracelet, metal still warm from the bath. "Now you look…" His teeth grazed Sin’s earlobe. "…presentable."
Helmeoni’s stilettoes clicked against the hanok’s wooden floorboards like a countdown timer. She didn’t need to see the footage—didn’t need the biometric alerts screaming across her tablet. The moment Sin shuffled into view, shoulders hunched under the oversized black hoodie, she knew. Again.
His cerulean eyes darted to her face, then skittered away like dropped marbles. The hoodie’s drawstrings swayed with each shallow breath, the ends frayed where someone had tugged too hard. Again.
She’d seen this before—the tremble in his fingers as he adjusted the cuffs, the way his throat worked around silent apologies. Last time it had been a rookie actor who couldn’t keep his hands off Sin’s waist during filming. Before that, a producer who thought "collaboration" meant leaving bruises between takes. Every time, Sin returned to her with that same doll-like docility, as if his body were merely a borrowed costume he’d failed to keep pristine.
Helmeoni’s manicure tapped against her tablet case—once, twice. The screen lit up with timestamped vitals: heart rate spiking at 19:03 when Hoseok’s drawstring leash first tightened. Adrenaline levels peaking when Jimin twisted his hair. Cortisol still elevated twenty minutes later, despite Yoongi’s intervention.
"Manager-nim," Jin began, his bow so deep his forehead nearly brushed his knees. The rehearsed humility rang hollow when his fingers twitched toward Sin’s sleeve. "If you’ll allow me to expla—"
"Quiet." She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t need to. The hanok’s antique clock ticked three times before she lifted Sin’s chin with two fingers under his jaw. The motion forced his gaze upward, where lantern light caught the fading red line around his throat. Her thumb brushed it—once—and Sin’s pulse jumped against her touch like a trapped bird.
Jungkook shifted behind them, sneakers squeaking on the tatami. Helmeoni didn’t turn. "Jeon-ssi." Her voice could frost glass. "Sit."
He sat.
Sin’s eyelashes fluttered when she traced the bruise peeking above his hoodie collar, her nail scraping lightly over Jimin’s teeth marks. The biometric tracker on his wrist beeped once—soft, but in the silence, it might as well have been a gunshot. Helmeoni’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. "Fourth time this month," she murmured, tapping the tablet screen to life. The security footage played silently: Hoseok’s drawstring taut between his fists, Sin’s knees hitting the tatami, Yoongi’s shattered phone skittering across the floor.
Namjoon cleared his throat. "Manager-nim, if we could—"
"Contracts." She cut him off without looking away from Sin. "Section 4.2: No unauthorized physical contact." Her finger swiped left, pulling up Jungkook’s root beer ambush from earlier. "Section 7.8: No consumables forced on collaborators." Another swipe—Jimin’s fingers twisted in Sin’s hair, his smile saccharine as he whispered something that made Sin’s vitals spike. "And my personal favorite—Section 9.3: No marks visible on camera."
The tablet snapped shut. Sin flinched.
Sin had been seventeen when Helmeoni first found him—a trembling intern curled in the company stairwell, clutching a half-eaten convenience store kimbap like a lifeline. She remembered the exact shade of blue his eyes had been under the flickering fluorescent lights—not the polished cerulean of diamonds under spotlights, but the watery blue of a child’s forgotten marble, rolling alone across pavement. That night, she’d draped her own coat over his too-thin shoulders and driven him to a 24-hour jjajangmyeon place, watching in silent horror as he devoured three bowls without pausing to breathe.
She learned his story between bites: parents gone before he could remember, passed between relatives who saw his doll-like face and dollar signs. By the time he’d crawled his way into the entertainment industry, he’d perfected the art of making himself small—of folding his limbs into whatever space others allowed him. That night, as she’d tucked him into her guest bedroom with extra blankets, Helmeoni made a silent vow against his forehead—still fever-warm from malnutrition—that no one would make him fold himself smaller ever again.
Now, standing in the hanok’s oppressive silence with Sin’s pulse rabbiting under her fingertips, that vow curdled in her throat. The boy who’d once fallen asleep mid-sentence in her passenger seat now stood trembling under a hoodie three sizes too big, its collar gaping to reveal Hoseok’s fingerprints purpling along his collarbones.
"Look at me," she commanded, voice softer than the room deserved. Sin’s lashes fluttered upward, revealing eyes gone glassy with unshed tears. The beauty mark beneath his left eye—the one she’d teasingly called his "lucky charm" during his first magazine shoot—was nearly obscured by the shadow of exhaustion.
A muscle jumped in Jungkook’s jaw as Helmeoni traced the tracker bracelet circling Sin’s wrist. The screen lit up at her touch, displaying vitals still elevated twenty-three minutes post-incident. She didn’t need to check the footage to know whose grip had spiked his cortisol levels this time—the mottled bruises ringing his biceps matched Jimin’s handspan perfectly.
"You." She didn’t turn toward the others, but the word landed like a guillotine blade. "Out."
Jin opened his mouth—some polished excuse already forming—but Yoongi grabbed his elbow with a grip that turned knuckles white. They filed out in silence, the shoji screen rattling shut behind Hoseok’s retreating back. Only then did Helmeoni allow herself to exhale, fingers loosening around Sin’s chin.
The moment her grip slackened, Sin’s knees buckled. She caught him by the elbows, lowering them both to the tatami with a grace honed from years of catching falling stars. His breath came in ragged hitches against her shoulder, fingers clutching at her blazer sleeves like he was still that starved intern afraid she might vanish.
"Sin-ah." Her thumb brushed his cheekbone—the left one, where a fan had once thrown a water bottle that left a scar now hidden under careful makeup. "Look at me."
He did, and god, she wished he hadn’t. His eyes had always been too transparent—windows to a soul that never learned to lie. Tonight they reflected every broken promise she’d ever made him: the dorm with better locks that never materialized, the self-defense classes he’d begged for after the first "incident," the therapist she’d sworn would help him say no.
His breath hitched when she thumbed away a tear tracking down his cheek. It left a damp trail on her glove, the leather gone tacky with salt and the floral-scented bathwater Taehyung had doused him in. The hoodie’s drawstring swayed between them, frayed at the ends where someone had twisted it too tight.
"You’re shaking," she murmured, though the words were redundant. The tracker on his wrist beeped softly, its screen flashing a steady 132 bpm. She’d seen lower readings during his panic attacks back in trainee days.
Sin’s fingers twisted in the hoodie’s hem, knuckles brushing the mottled bruise Hoseok had left on his hip. "S-sorry," he whispered, the apology automatic, ingrained. Like flinching.
The shoji screen rattled again before Helmeoni could respond—three sharp taps, deliberate as a sniper adjusting their scope. Sin flinched so hard his knee knocked against hers, the impact sending a sharp pain radiating up her thigh.
"We're not done," she called, voice slicing through the paper-thin walls. The tapping stopped. A shadow lingered—broad-shouldered, tense—before retreating with deliberate slowness. Jin, probably. Always the diplomat when violence wouldn’t serve him.
Sin’s breathing hitched when she turned back to him, his fingers spasming around the hoodie’s drawstrings. The fabric had left angry red lines across his palms where he’d gripped too tight. Helmeoni pried them loose one finger at a time, her gloves catching on the raw skin of his cuticles.
"Look at me," she ordered, softer this time. His eyelashes stuck together when he blinked up at her, clumped with moisture. The beauty mark beneath his eye stood out starkly against skin gone pale as rice paper. "Who started it?"
Sin's lips parted, then closed again—a fish gasping on dry land. The truth curled like smoke in his lungs: Hoseok's fingers knotted in his hoodie, Jimin's teeth at his ear, Jungkook's grip leaving fingerprints in his skin. But naming names meant consequences, and consequences meant the cold silence afterward, the way they'd find him later in some shadowed corner, all soft words and softer hands that never quite hid the threat beneath.
Helmeoni's glove creaked as she tightened her grip on his wrist. The tracker bracelet pulsed red—145 bpm and climbing. "Sin-ah," she said, slow and deliberate, like speaking to a spooked animal. "Who. Started. It."
The shoji screen trembled with the weight of someone leaning against it. Sin's gaze flicked toward the distorted shadow—broad shoulders, hands in pockets. Yoongi, probably. Always hovering at the edges, a silent observer until the moment his intervention cut deepest.
"J-Jimin-ssi," Sin whispered, so soft the words barely stirred the air. His fingers plucked at the hoodie's drawstring, twisting it round and round his index finger until the tip turned white. "But he didn't mean—it was just—"
Helmeoni's glove pressed against Sin's lips, silencing the excuses. The leather smelled faintly of disinfectant and the bergamot hand cream she always used—familiar scents that somehow made the tears pooling in his lashes burn hotter. Behind them, the shoji screen creaked under unseen pressure.
"Didn't mean?" Her thumb brushed the bruise blooming beneath his left ear—Jimin's teeth had left perfect crescents in the shape of his smile. The tracker on Sin's wrist beeped twice in quick succession, flashing a warning shade of orange. "Tell me, did he apologize when you bled?"
Sin's breath hitched. The memory unfurled like a poisoned flower: Jimin's laughter as he'd licked the blood from Sin's earlobe, the way his grip had gentled only when Yoongi's shadow fell across them. His fingers twisted tighter in the drawstring until the fabric bit into his skin.
The shoji screen rattled violently—three sharp impacts that sent Sin's pulse skyrocketing. Helmeoni didn't turn, but her grip on Sin's chin tightened minutely. "Kim Taehyung," she called, voice slicing through the paper-thin wall. "If you break that screen, you're paying for it with your next seven CF earnings."
The bathwater had long gone cold when Helmeoni finally coaxed Sin’s fingers loose from the hoodie drawstrings. His hands trembled like abandoned puppets in her grip, the skin beneath his nails blanched white from pressure. She pressed a warmed towel to his collarbones—the exact spot where Jimin’s teeth had broken skin—and watched the steam rise between them like a silent confession.
"Breathe," she murmured, thumbing away a tear that clung stubbornly to his lashes. The hanok’s antique clock ticked three times before Sin’s shoulders sagged, his exhale ruffling the damp strands of hair stuck to his forehead. His beauty mark winked at her from beneath a stray lock of white hair, the same one fans adored in his magazine spreads. Up close, it looked less like a charm and more like a target.
Helmeoni’s gloves made soft shushing sounds as she rubbed circles between his shoulder blades—the same motion she’d used when he’d hyperventilated after his first live performance. Back then, his panic had been sweet, almost endearing in its naivety. Now, his tremors carried the weight of something fouler, something learned. His breathing hitched when she brushed a particularly dark bruise along his ribs, the mottled purple clashing violently with his alabaster skin.
"Sleep," she ordered, smoothing the hoodie’s sleeves down over his wrists. The fabric swallowed him whole, the cuffs draping past his fingertips like a child playing dress-up. Sin blinked up at her, his cerulean eyes gone glassy with exhaustion, before his head lolled against the folded futon. His fingers twitched once—reaching, perhaps, for something that wasn’t there—before going still.
The shoji screen rattled softly as she slid it shut behind her, the paper trembling under her grip. The moment the latch clicked, her spine straightened, shoulders squaring like a general surveying a battlefield. The hallway smelled of cedar and something sharper—the acrid tang of male sweat and adrenaline still hanging thick in the air.
Seven shadows peeled themselves from the walls, seven pairs of eyes tracking her every movement. Namjoon stood at the forefront, hands clasped behind his back in a facsimile of professionalism. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, exposing forearms still flushed from whatever violence they’d enacted before her arrival. Behind him, Hoseok leaned against a support beam, idly twisting a frayed hoodie drawstring between his fingers. The very same one that had left angry red lines around Sin’s throat.
Helmeoni’s stilettoes clicked against the wooden floorboards as she advanced, the sound punctuating the silence like a countdown. The hanok’s lantern light caught the silver hoops in Taehyung’s ears as he tilted his head, his grin wide and disarmingly innocent. She stopped just shy of arm’s reach, close enough to see the sweat beading along Jin’s hairline despite the evening chill.
"You," she said, voice low enough that it wouldn’t carry to the sleeping boy behind the screen, "are not the men I signed."
Jungkook scoffed, kicking at the floor with the toe of his sneaker. The motion was deliberately loud, deliberately defiant. Helmeoni didn’t spare him a glance. Her focus remained fixed on Namjoon, whose Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.
"Manager-nim," he began, the honorific stiff on his tongue, "if you’ll allow me to explain—"
"Explain?" She arched a brow, the movement sharp enough to draw blood. Her glove creaked as she flexed her fingers. "Explain to me why my artist has fingerprint bruises in the shape of Jungkook’s grip?" Her gaze flicked to Hoseok, whose fingers stilled around the drawstring. "Explain why his throat looks like he’s been hanged?" Another glance, this time to Jimin, who leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, the picture of nonchalance. "Explain the bite marks."
A muscle jumped in Yoongi’s jaw. The only one who hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken. The only one whose hands were clean—if only by technicality.
Helmeoni stepped closer, close enough to see the pulse in Namjoon’s throat jump. "You signed contracts," she said, voice low. "Section 4.2. Section 7.8. Section 9.3." Each number landed like a slap. "You know the rules. You know the consequences."
Behind her, the shoji screen trembled—not from impact, but from the soft, uneven breaths of the boy sleeping just beyond it. The sound seemed to echo in the sudden silence, a reminder of what they’d done. What they’d taken.
Helmeoni’s smile was ice. "You’re lucky I don’t rip those contracts to shreds right now." She tilted her head, considering. "But then, what would your fans say? What would they think, if they knew what their beloved idols were really like?"
Jimin pushed off the wall, his smile saccharine. "Manager-nim," he crooned, "you wouldn’t."
Helmeoni's glove creaked as she curled her fingers into a fist—slow, deliberate, like she was physically restraining herself from tearing the contract in half right there in the cedar-scented hallway. The paper would rip easily beneath her manicured nails, she knew. But the fallout wouldn't be so simple. Sin's fans had trended #SinxBTS_Collab for three weeks straight when the project was announced, their excitement bleeding into donation drives and streaming goals. She could already see the headlines: Protégé Pulled From Landmark Project—Creative Differences or Hidden Abuse?
The hanok's antique clock ticked seventeen times before Helmeoni spoke again—each second stretching taut like the drawstring still coiled around Hoseok’s fingers. "Effective immediately," she said, snapping her tablet case shut with a click that made Jungkook flinch, "Sin moves out."
"Tonight." She didn’t raise her voice. Didn’t need to. The weight of seven pairs of widening eyes pressed against her like hands around a throat. "I’ve already arranged an apartment. Keycard access only. No visitors without my approval." Her glove tapped twice against the tablet. "Especially not you seven."
Taehyung’s laugh splintered the silence—sharp as broken glass. "Ah, but Helmeoni-ssi," he crooned, fingers playing with the silver hoops in his ears, "who’ll make sure our precious collaborator eats? Who’ll—"
"Nutritionists. Chaperones. Security." Her stiletto turned on the floorboards, grinding an invisible cigarette beneath her heel. "Everything his contract guarantees but your company conveniently forgot to provide." The shoji screen trembled behind her—not from impact, but from Sin’s restless shifting in sleep. The sound was barely audible, yet seven heads turned toward it like hounds catching a scent.
Namjoon stepped forward, his shadow stretching long across the tatami. "With all due respect, separating Sin now would—"
"Save his career?" Helmeoni’s smile was a scalpel. "His sanity?" She adjusted her glove, leather creaking. "His life?"
Silence. The kind that settles in the split second before a guillotine drops. Jungkook’s sneaker squeaked against the floor—one aborted step forward before Yoongi’s hand locked around his wrist. The tracker bracelet on Sin’s wrist pulsed red through the paper screen, casting faint shadows like bloodstains on the floor. 158 bpm. Dreaming, or trapped in memory.
Helmeoni’s manicured nail tapped the tablet once. The screen lit up with a floor plan—penthouse apartment, three exits, biometric locks. "His new address won’t be in your phones. His schedule won’t be in your emails." Her gaze swept over them, lingering on Jimin’s too-casual lean against the wall. "If I catch one of you within 500 meters of him, your next comeback gets postponed indefinitely."
Jin’s laugh was honey poured over broken glass. "You can’t—"
Helmeoni exhaled through her nose—a slow, measured sound like steam escaping a pressure cooker. The silence stretched three ticks longer than necessary before she turned on her heel, her stiletto scraping against the floorboards in a deliberate pivot toward Yoongi. Out of all of them, he alone hadn't reached for Sin. Hadn't left marks. Hadn't laughed when the tracker beeped warnings.
"One week," she said, the words dropping like stones into still water. Yoongi's eyelids lowered a fraction—the only sign he'd heard her at all. Behind him, Jimin's fingers twitched toward his own throat, as if mirroring the bruises they couldn't see through the shoji screen.
Helmeoni's glove creaked as she flexed her fingers. "Prove you can behave like human beings instead of starved dogs." Her gaze cut to Hoseok, still twisting that damned drawstring around his index finger. "Earn his forgiveness. Not his fear. Not his silence. His actual, voluntary forgiveness." The emphasis landed like a slap.
Jungkook made a wounded noise in the back of his throat, half-protest, half-whine. Helmeoni didn't spare him a glance. She was too busy watching the way Yoongi's shoulders stiffened beneath his black sweater—the only one dressed appropriately for a meeting that should have been an execution.
"Yoongi-ssi," she continued, softer now, "you'll supervise."
The first thing Jin registered was the taste—copper and stale soju clinging to his tongue like a bad memory. He groaned, rolling onto his side, and immediately regretted it when sunlight speared through the half-open blinds directly into his skull. Beside him, Yoongi’s bed was neatly made, the bastard already up and probably smug about it.
How much did I even drink? His fingers dug into his temples as he tried to piece together last night. Dinner with the guys, laughter thick between them after weeks of nonstop schedules, glasses clinking—then… nothing. A black hole where his memories should’ve been.
Jin blinked at the clock again, as if staring at the numbers hard enough would rearrange them into a more reasonable hour. Eleven in the morning. The curtains were drawn just enough to let in thin, accusing stripes of sunlight, and he could already hear the distant hum of the city outside—too loud, too alive for the sluggish weight pressing behind his eyes. He swallowed, wincing at the sourness in his throat, and reached for the glass of water on the nightstand. Empty. Typical.
Yoongi lay curled under his blanket, face half-buried in the pillow, looking eerily peaceful for someone who’d matched Jin shot for shot last night. Or had he? Jin frowned, rubbing his temple. The memories slipped through his fingers like smoke—laughter in a dimly lit booth, Jungkook attempting (and failing) to balance a shot glass on his nose, Taehyung’s voice rising in some drunken, impassioned argument about… pineapples on pizza? Maybe. The rest was static.
Jin’s fingers twitched against the empty glass as his gaze snagged on the fabric tangled in Yoongi’s sheets—a blouse sleeve, ripped clean at the shoulder seam, the delicate fabric crumpled like discarded tissue. His pulse spiked when he nudged it with his knuckle, revealing the crescent of lace beneath, pale as bone against the dark duvet. His mouth went dry. "Oh my God," he breathed, the words sticking to his tongue like syrup. "I can’t believe how drunk we were last night—"
The blouse wasn’t just any fabric. Seoul National University’s crest peeked from the collar, the embroidered threads catching the light. Jin’s stomach lurched. That uniform belonged to someone from SNU—someone small, judging by the narrow cut of the waistline. His fingers trembled as he lifted the lace-edged underwear, the satin cool against his skin. This wasn’t some random hookup’s. This was—
Yoongi shifted with a groan, burying his face deeper into the pillow, and Jin’s grip tightened. "Who the hell did you bring back?" he hissed, shaking Yoongi’s shoulder hard enough to rattle teeth. The younger man blinked up at him, pupils blown wide, lips chapped. His usual sharpness was dulled by the haze of last night, his gaze drifting past Jin to the blouse in his hand.
Yoongi’s brow furrowed. "What…?"
Jin’s fingers tightened around the crumpled lace, the fabric whispering secrets he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear. The blouse sleeve slipped from his grip, pooling on the sheets like a ghost. Yoongi groaned again, rubbing his face with the heel of his palm, his usual sharpness dissolved into the fog of last night’s liquor. "What the hell are you—" His voice cracked, eyes narrowing at Jin’s expression before flicking to the blouse. Then his entire body went rigid.
The silence was thicker than the hangover pressing against Jin’s skull.
Yoongi sat up so fast the sheets hissed against his skin, his fingers twitching toward the torn fabric before freezing mid-air. "That’s not—" His throat worked, Adam’s apple bobbing like he was swallowing glass. "I didn’t—"
Jin’s pulse hammered against his ribs. "Who the hell did you bring back?" he repeated, slower this time, each syllable sharp as a blade. The SNU crest gleamed under the bedside lamp, mocking them both.
The uniform crumpled in Jin’s grip felt too small, too fragile—like holding the ghost of a girl who shouldn’t exist in their apartment. The SNU crest taunted him, pristine threads stitched with precision. Too young, his mind supplied, and his stomach twisted. Slim wrists, delicate collarbones, the kind of waistline that would fit snugly under his palm—no. He shut his eyes, exhaling through his nose. Not the time for that thought.
Yoongi’s fingers twitched toward the fabric again, his knuckles whitening before he snatched his hand back like it burned. "This isn’t mine," he rasped, voice still thick with sleep and whatever the hell they’d drunk last night. "I didn’t—"
Jin’s jaw clenched. "Then who did?" The words came out sharper than intended, and Yoongi flinched. The agency would skin them alive if this got out. Namjoon would actually murder them, lecture voice dialed up to eleven, and Bang PD’s disappointment would be a physical weight crushing their shoulders.
The door burst open before Jin could even process the full horror of what was happening—because of course it did. Jungkook stumbled in first, his hair sticking up in every direction like he'd been electrocuted mid-dream. "Hyung, why are you yelling so early in the—" His complaint died halfway when he caught sight of Jin's expression, the torn fabric clutched in his grip. Behind him, the others piled in like dominoes tipping into disaster: Namjoon slumped against Taehyung's shoulder, eyelids heavy; Jimin blinking like a disoriented cat; Hobi's brow already furrowed in irritation.
"What now, guys?" Hobi groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. When neither Jin nor Yoongi answered, the room's attention zeroed in on the evidence—the SNU blouse dangling from Jin's fingers, the lace-edged underwear Yoongi was gripping like a confession. Taehyung's gasp was audible, sharp enough to snap Namjoon fully awake. "Oh my God," Jimin whispered, voice pitching high. "Did you two—"
Jungkook's eyes widened comically. "No fucking way."
Jin's grip tightened on the blouse. "It's not—"
Yoongi cut him off with a strangled noise, flinging the underwear onto the bed like it had bitten him. "This isn't mine!" His voice cracked, panic threading through each syllable. The others exchanged glances—Taehyung's lips twitching, Namjoon's brow furrowing—but Jin wasn't laughing. The uniform's embroidery prickled against his palm, the crest's threads too deliberate, too familiar.
"Hyung, wake up! Wake up! Emergency!" Taehyung's voice tore through the room like a siren, his hands gripping Namjoon's shoulders hard enough to leave crescent-moon imprints in the sleep-warm skin. Namjoon groaned, eyelids fluttering open just in time to see Taehyung's wild-eyed expression—mouth half-open, pupils blown wide—before the younger man practically shoved him upright, pointing at Yoongi with a trembling finger.
Namjoon blinked, vision swimming, then froze.
Yoongi sat rigid on the bed, sheets pooled around his waist like a guilty confession, his fingers twitching around the scrap of lace still tangled in his grip. Across from him, Jin clutched the SNU blouse like it might dissolve into smoke if he loosened his hold. The crest gleamed under the overhead light, pristine embroidery mocking them all.
"Jesus Christ," Namjoon breathed, scrambling upright so fast his head spun. His gaze darted between the fabric and Yoongi's ashen face. "What the fuck did you two do last night?"
The silence stretched taut between them, thick enough to slice with a butterknife. All six pairs of eyes—some bleary, some sharp—locked onto Yoongi, who sat frozen like a deer in headlights, the lace still tangled between his fingers. His throat bobbed once, twice, but no sound came out. Jin’s grip on the blouse tightened, the fabric whispering against his palm like a secret begging to be spilled.
Jungkook was the first to break. “Hyung,” he said, voice hushed. “Did you… kidnap someone?” The word hung in the air, absurd and terrifying all at once.
Yoongi’s head snapped up, eyes flashing. “What? No—” He cut himself off, fingers twitching as if realizing how guilty he looked clutching that scrap of satin. He dropped it like it burned, the fabric fluttering onto the sheets like a fallen petal. “I didn’t—we didn’t—fuck.” He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply through his nose.
Namjoon stepped forward, his usual calm unraveling at the edges. “Then explain why there’s a missing SNU uniform in your bed,” he said, voice low but razor-edged. The unspoken and whose underwear is that lingered in the air, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
Yoongi opened his mouth, closed it. His gaze flicked to Jin, who stood rigid, the blouse sleeve crumpled in his fist like a damning piece of evidence. Jin’s knuckles were white. “I don’t remember,” Yoongi finally gritted out. “Last night—it’s all hazy. We were drinking, and then—” He stopped, brow furrowing. “Wait.”
Yoongi's fingers twitched around the lace, the delicate fabric suddenly feeling like a live wire in his grip. "What are you guys looking at me for?" he muttered, throat dry as he glanced up to find six pairs of eyes burning into him—some wide with horror, others narrowing in accusation. His own gaze dropped back to the underwear tangled around his fingers, the satin cool and impossibly small against his skin. Too small. The thought slithered through his hazy mind like ink in water: Did I—?
He swallowed hard, the taste of last night’s soju sour on his tongue. Yeah, he was rough in bed—when he remembered to be—but tearing fabric? That wasn’t just rough. That was violent. And SNU students weren’t exactly known for their wild nights out with idols. His stomach churned. Please don’t be a minor. Please don’t be a fucking kid. The lace in his fingers felt suddenly heavier, like the weight of a crime scene.
Namjoon's fingers curled into fists at his sides, his usually warm eyes sharpening into something cold and unyielding. The dorm’s overhead light flickered, casting jagged shadows across his face. "Hyung," he repeated, slower this time, each syllable measured like a judge delivering a verdict. "Who. Is. This?"
Yoongi’s throat clicked when he swallowed. He could feel the weight of the others’ stares pressing into him—Jungkook’s wide-eyed horror, Jimin’s bitten lip, Taehyung’s uncharacteristic silence. Even Hobi wasn’t smiling. The lace still dangled from Yoongi’s fingers, absurdly delicate against his calloused skin. He dropped it like it had scalded him.
"I don’t know," Yoongi rasped, pressing the heels of his palms against his temples like he could physically squeeze the memories back into place. "We were at the bar, right? And then—" He faltered. Flashes surfaced in his mind—laughter, the clink of glasses, the way Jin had leaned in too close at one point, breath hot against his ear. But nothing after. Just static.
Jin’s grip on the blouse tightened, the fabric crumpling audibly. "You’re telling me," he began, voice dangerously calm, "that you somehow ended up with a girl’s torn uniform in your bed, and you have zero recollection of how it got there?"
Yoongi’s stomach twisted. "Yes."
Namjoon exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers flexing at his sides. "This is bad," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "This is so bad." His gaze flicked to the blouse again, the SNU crest gleaming under the overhead light like an accusation. "If this gets out—"
"It won’t," Jin cut in, sharp enough to make Yoongi flinch. "Because we’re going to figure out what the hell happened before it does." His knuckles whitened around the fabric. "Starting with where the girl is."
A beat of silence. Then—
"Oh my God," Jimin whispered, clapping a hand over his mouth. His eyes darted to the closet—still closed—then to the bathroom door, cracked just enough to reveal darkness beyond. "You don’t think—"
Jungkook lunged for the closet before anyone could stop him, yanking it open with enough force to rattle the hangers inside. Empty. Just rows of neatly hung shirts and a stack of hoodies on the shelf. The bathroom door creaked when Taehyung nudged it wider, flicking the light switch with a trembling hand. Nothing but tiles and steam from Yoongi’s morning shower.
"No one’s here," Jungkook breathed, shoulders slumping—whether in relief or disappointment, Yoongi couldn’t tell.
"But that’s worse," Hobi muttered, rubbing his temple. "Because if she’s not here, then where—" He froze mid-sentence, eyes widening. "Hyung. Your phone."
Yoongi exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for something—a cigarette, a drink, anything to steady the tremor in his hands. His gaze flicked to Namjoon, who stood motionless by the foot of the bed, jaw clenched tight enough to grind stone. The silence between them was thick, syrupy with dread, punctuated only by the distant hum of Seoul traffic bleeding through the dorm walls.
“Okay,” Namjoon finally said, voice low and measured, like he was threading a needle in the dark. “There’s no point in asking you—” His gaze cut to Yoongi, then Jin, then the rest of them, lingering on each face like he was memorizing their guilt. “—or anyone else about what happened here.”
A beat. The others shifted, exchanged glances—Taehyung’s fingers digging into his own arms, Jimin’s teeth worrying his lower lip raw—but no one spoke. Namjoon was right. Pinpointing blame was useless when the evidence was right there, crumpled in Jin’s grip like a confession. The SNU crest gleamed under the overhead light, pristine threads mocking them all.
Namjoon rubbed his temple, eyes squeezing shut like he could physically push the headache brewing behind them away. “We’re all at fault,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His throat worked, Adam’s apple bobbing once before he forced the next words out: “No one should’ve drank that much last night. If we hadn’t—”
“But we did,” Jin cut in, sharp enough to make Jungkook flinch. The blouse sleeve creased under his grip, the fabric whispering secrets none of them wanted to hear. “And now we’ve got a missing girl’s clothes in our dorm and zero memory of how they got here.” His jaw clenched. “So let’s skip the self-flagellation and figure out what the hell we’re going to do.”
Yoongi’s fingers twitched at his sides, his usual sharpness dulled by the fog of last night’s liquor—and something darker, something that slithered in the back of his mind like oil on water. Did I—? He swallowed hard, forcing the thought down. “Phone,” he rasped, the word scraping his throat raw. “Hobi’s right. Check our phones.”
Taehyung lunged for the nightstand before anyone else could move, snatching up Yoongi’s phone with trembling fingers. The screen lit up under his touch, casting jagged shadows across his face. “Passcode,” he muttered, glancing at Yoongi, who rattled it off without thinking. The lockscreen dissolved into the home screen—neat rows of apps, a missed call from the manager, a few unread Kakao messages. Nothing unusual. Taehyung’s thumb swiped to the gallery, then froze.
“Oh,” he breathed, voice small.
The screen flickered in Taehyung’s shaking hands—a timestamp from last night, 3:47 AM, the thumbnail a blur of shadows and motion. His thumb hovered over the play button, pulse hammering so hard he could feel it in his fingertips. "Hyung," he whispered, voice cracking. "There's—"
Namjoon snatched the phone before Taehyung could finish, his grip white-knuckled. The moment his thumb hit play, the sound erupted—moans, wet and ragged, punctuated by choked whimpers. Not pleasure. Pain.
Jin recoiled like he'd been slapped.
The video was dark, shaky, filmed with drunken hands, but the details seared into them anyway: the glint of a streetlamp catching tear-streaked cheeks, the flash of an SNU crest dangling from a torn blouse. A girl—Sin, the name gasped between sobs—pinned against the alley wall, her wrists bracketed by Yoongi’s fingers while Jin rutted into her from behind. Her legs trembled, bare thighs slick with more than sweat, and when the camera panned to her face—
Jimin made a noise like he'd been gutted.
Sin's cerulean eyes were wide, unblinking, her pink lips bitten raw. The beauty mark beneath her left eye caught the light when she flinched—just a doll, the thought slithered through Yoongi’s liquor-hazed mind, just a pretty little doll—as Jin’s hips snapped forward again. Money fluttered to the ground beside her, bills sticking to her thighs where they were wet.
The video ended abruptly, cutting to black, but the silence that followed was worse. Taehyung’s breath came in shallow hitches; Jungkook had backed into the wall like he wanted to melt through it.
Namjoon’s voice was hollow. "We left her there."
Jin’s fingers twitched around the blouse sleeve still clutched in his hand. The fabric was damp now—with sweat, with something else. "She was alive," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "We didn’t—" Kill her, his mind supplied, but the thought curdled before he could finish it. Alive didn’t mean unharmed. Alive didn’t erase the way her knees had scraped concrete when they’d shoved her down.
Jimin made a small, wounded noise. "Hyung," he whispered, "she was crying."
The words hung between them like a noose.
Yoongi stared at the others, the silence between them thick enough to carve with a knife. Their eyes—wide, horrified, flickering with fragments of memory—told him everything. The video had ripped the veil from their drunken amnesia, and now the truth coiled in the air like a live wire. Jungkook’s face was the worst: pale, lips trembling, his fingers clenched into fists so tight his knuckles stood out white.
He was first. The realization slithered into Yoongi’s gut like ice. Jungkook, their maknae, the one who still blushed at fan service—his hands had been the first to tear at Sin’s uniform, his mouth the first to swallow her sobs.
Seokjin’s voice cracked the silence like a whip. “She can’t still be there.” His hands shook where they gripped the blouse, the SNU crest wrinkled beyond recognition. “We—we left hours ago. Someone would’ve found her by now.”
Namjoon’s laugh was hollow, humorless. “Found her how, hyung? Half-naked in an alley with—” His throat worked. “—with evidence all over her?”
Jungkook made a noise like a wounded animal, his fingers twisting in his own shirt. “I didn’t—I wouldn’t—” His breath hitched. “I don’t remember—”
“Bullshit.” Taehyung’s voice was low, dangerous. He stepped forward, crowding Jungkook against the wall. “You remember. You just don’t want to.” His fingers dug into Jungkook’s shoulders. “What did she say when you pinned her down, huh? Did she beg?”
Hoseok's voice cut through the tension like a switchblade, sharp and sudden. "Yah! Taehyung. Jungkook. Not the time." His fingers dug into Taehyung's shoulder, yanking him back with enough force to make him stumble. The overhead light flickered again, casting jagged shadows across Hoseok's face—his usual sunshine smile twisted into something darker, something desperate. "We all raped her. Fucked her." The words landed like a grenade, shattering whatever fragile silence remained. His gaze swung to Namjoon, pupils blown wide. "What should we do?"
Namjoon's throat clicked when he swallowed. His fingers twitched toward his phone, the screen still frozen on that last frame—Sin's tear-streaked face, her lips parted around a silent scream. The timestamp glared up at him: 3:47 AM. Six hours ago. Six hours. His stomach lurched. "She could be—" His voice cracked. "Anyone could've found her by now. Cops. Reporters. Fans."
Jin's grip on the blouse tightened, the fabric whispering secrets none of them wanted to hear. "Then we find her first." His voice was low, dangerous. "Before anyone else does."
Yoongi's laugh was hollow, humorless. "And then what, hyung? Apologize?" His fingers twitched toward the lace still tangled in the sheets—her lace, Sin's lace—before snatching his hand back like it burned. "You saw the video. She's not gonna forgive us."
Taehyung's breath hitched. "Fuck forgiveness. We need to disappear her." The words hung in the air like smoke, thick and toxic. His fingers dug into his own arms hard enough to leave crescent-moon indents in his skin. "Permanently."
Jungkook made a noise like a wounded animal. "Hyung—"
"No." Jimin's voice was razor-sharp, cutting through the room like shattered glass. He stepped forward, crowding Taehyung back with a glare. "We don't—" His throat worked. "Fuck. We don't kill her." His gaze flicked to Namjoon, desperate. "Right?"
Namjoon's hands shook. The phone screen dimmed, then went black, plunging the room into sudden silence. His reflection stared back at him from the darkened glass—wide-eyed, lips parted, guilty. "We… we bring her here." The words tasted like ash. "Alive."
Seokjin’s fingers dug into the blouse sleeve, the fabric straining under his grip like it might tear again. "You don’t plan on locking her with us, right?" His voice was low, fraying at the edges. "Yah, Joon." It wasn’t a question—it was a warning, teeth bared beneath the words. Rape was one thing. Kidnapping after? That was a different kind of monster.
Namjoon clicked his tongue, sharp and dismissive. "What? You have a better idea?" His gaze swept over them, cold and calculating. "We have two choices. We take her under our watch, or we kill her." The words landed like a guillotine blade. "Unless you want everything we’ve worked for to vanish overnight."
A beat of silence. Then—
Yoongi’s voice, quiet but razor-edged. "She won’t report it." He didn’t look up from his hands, fingers flexing like he was still feeling the ghost of her lace between them. "No one would believe her. They’d think she was delusional—another fan spinning fantasies." His lips curled, bitter. "And second… she’s too innocent. Too naive." Of course he’d noticed. Yoongi always noticed.
Jin recoiled like he’d been slapped. "Yah—"
"Hyung’s right." Jungkook’s voice was small, but it cut through the tension like a scalpel. His fingers twisted in his own shirt, knuckles white. "I—I remember now. She kept saying…" His throat worked. "‘Please, I won’t tell.’ Like she thought we’d stop if she promised." A hollow laugh. "She didn’t even scream."
Jimin made a wounded noise, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. "Jesus Christ."
Taehyung’s fingers dug into his own arms hard enough to leave marks. "So we don’t kill her," he muttered, like he was convincing himself. "We just… take her. Keep her quiet." His gaze flicked to Namjoon. "How?"
Namjoon exhaled sharply through his nose. The overhead light flickered again, casting jagged shadows across his face. "We find her. Fast. Before she wakes up somewhere with—" His jaw clenched. "Evidence still on her." His thumb swiped the phone screen back to life, the video thumbnail taunting them all. "This alley. It’s near Hongdae. We were drunk, not stupid—we wouldn’t have dragged her far."
Jin’s grip on the blouse tightened. The fabric whispered against his palm like a ghost. "And when we find her?" His voice was too calm, too measured. "What then, Namjoon? You planning to toss her over your shoulder like a fucking sack?"
Yoongi’s fingers twitched toward his jacket slung over the chair. "Sedatives." The word landed like a stone. "From the Japan tour. The strong ones." His gaze flicked to Jin. "You kept them, right? For your insomnia."
A beat. Jin’s lips parted, then pressed into a thin line. "You’re disgusting," he breathed—but he was already moving toward his dresser, yanking the bottom drawer open with too much force. The pill bottle rattled in his grip. Restoril. Enough to knock out a grown man for hours.
Hoseok’s voice sliced through the silence, sharp as shattered glass. “What if she’s not there anymore?” His fingers twitched at his sides, restless, like he was already calculating the fallout. The question hung in the air—thick, suffocating—until Namjoon exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate.
“Then we find her.” Namjoon’s voice was calm, methodical, the way it got when he was dissecting a problem in the studio. His gaze slid to Jungkook, who stood rigid by the door, his fingers clenched around the hem of his shirt like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “Kook.” The nickname landed like a slap. “You’ll go to SNU. Ask admin for her dorm info.” A beat. His lips curled, just slightly. “Tell them she’s your younger cousin.”
Jungkook’s breath hitched. His reflection in the dorm’s floor-length mirror was pale, wide-eyed, the dark circles under his eyes stark against his skin. “Hyung,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I can’t just—”
“You can.” Namjoon’s fingers dug into Jungkook’s shoulder, hard enough to bruise. “You will.” His thumb pressed into the hollow of Jungkook’s collarbone, a silent reminder: You were first. This is your penance.
A muscle twitched in Jungkook’s jaw. He swallowed, hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. The blouse sleeve—her blouse sleeve—still dangled from Jin’s grip, the crest crumpled beyond recognition. Jungkook’s gaze flicked to it, then away, like it burned. “What if—what if they ask for ID? Proof?”
Yoongi snorted, sharp and humorless. He was already shrugging into his jacket, fingers fumbling with the zipper. “You’re Jeon Jungkook.” His voice was rough, frayed at the edges. “Since when do people ask us for proof?” The unspoken especially pretty girls hung in the air, bitter as the aftertaste of last night’s soju.
Jungkook’s fingers trembled. He curled them into fists, pressing his knuckles against his thighs until the shaking stopped. “And if she’s not at her dorm?” His voice was small, childlike. The maknae again, seeking guidance. “If she’s—”
“Then we check hospitals.” Jimin’s voice cut through the room, startling in its clarity. He stood by the window, backlit by the midday sun, his silhouette sharp-edged and brittle. His fingers tapped a restless rhythm against his thigh—tap tap tap—like a countdown. “Starting with the ones near Hongdae.” His gaze met Namjoon’s. “Divide and conquer, right?”
Namjoon exhaled sharply through his nose. His fingers twitched toward his phone again, the screen still dark—but the memory of Sin’s tear-streaked face burned behind his eyelids. “Fine. Jungkook goes to SNU. Jimin and I hit the hospitals.” His gaze slid to Jin, who stood rigid by the dresser, the pill bottle clutched in his fist like a lifeline. “Hyung. You and Yoongi scope out the alley—bring the sedatives.” His jaw clenched. “Just in case.”
Jin’s fingers tightened around the bottle. The pills rattled inside, a quiet accusation. “And what if—” His throat worked. “What if she’s already told someone?” The words hung in the air, ugly and inevitable.
Hoseok barked a laugh, sudden and jarring. His usual sunshine grin was twisted into something jagged, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wanted to punch something—or someone. “Then we’re fucked, hyung.” His voice dripped with venom. “But I’d rather be fucked with her here than out there with a cop’s phone number.” His gaze locked onto Jungkook’s, sharp enough to draw blood. “So move.”
Jungkook flinched like he’d been struck. His reflection in the mirror was pale, hollow-cheeked—a ghost of himself. The blouse sleeve crumpled in Jin’s grip was white as bone, the SNU crest gleaming like an accusation. Taehyung’s hand landed on his shoulder, fingers pressing just shy of painful. “Yah,” he murmured, lips curving into something that wasn’t a smile. “Stop looking like a kicked puppy.” His thumb rubbed circles into Jungkook’s collarbone, slow and deliberate. “Don’t you get it? She’ll be under our watch now.” The words dripped like honey—sweet, cloying, wrong.
Jungkook swallowed hard. Under their watch. Not safe. Not free. Theirs. The implication slithered under his skin, cold and slick. Taehyung’s fingers tightened, his breath warm against Jungkook’s ear. “No more worrying, yeah?” A pause. The overhead light flickered, casting jagged shadows across Taehyung’s face. “Unless…” His voice dropped to a whisper, velvet-wrapped steel. “You want to remember what you did to her?”
The room held its breath. Jungkook’s pulse thundered in his ears, each beat a hammer-strike of guilt. I didn’t— But he had. The video proved it. His hands had been the first to tear, his mouth the first to taste her tears. The memory surged—Sin’s whimper, high and broken, her cerulean eyes wide with betrayal when she recognized him. Jeon Jungkook. Golden maknae. Monster.
Namjoon’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. “Enough.” His gaze locked onto Taehyung’s, dark and unreadable. “We’re not debating this.” The unspoken anymore hung heavy in the air. His fingers twitched toward his phone, the screen still dark—but they all knew what was on it. What they’d done. “Jungkook-ah.” The nickname was a command. “Go. Now.”
Jungkook’s legs moved before his mind caught up, the dorm door swinging shut behind him with a click that sounded like a gunshot. The hallway stretched before him, sterile and endless, the walls lined with framed platinum albums that suddenly felt like tombstones. His reflection in the elevator mirror was a stranger—pale lips, hollow eyes, fingers clenched around the blouse button he’d pocketed without thinking. Hers.
Back in the dorm, the silence curdled. Jin’s knuckles whitened around the pill bottle. “This is insane,” he muttered, but the words lacked heat. Insane would’ve been walking away. Insane would’ve been letting her go. Yoongi’s laugh was a dry rasp, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against his thigh. “Yeah, well.” His gaze flicked to the lace still tangled in the sheets. “We passed sane the second we dragged her into that alley.”
Jimin exhaled sharply, his fingers twisting in the hem of his shirt. “What if—” His voice cracked. “What if she hates us?” The question was so small, so human, that Hoseok actually laughed—a jagged, broken sound. “Oh, she will.” He leaned forward, palms flat on the table, his usual sunshine grin twisted into something feral. “But hate won’t matter when she’s ours.”
Jimin’s gaze snapped to Hoseok, his fingers tightening around the hem of his shirt until the fabric stretched taut. Hoseok’s brow arched, slow and deliberate, his usual sunshine smile replaced by something darker—something hungry. “What?” Hoseok’s voice dripped with amusement, sharp as a blade. “Don’t tell me you’re still lying to yourselves.” He stepped forward, the overhead light casting jagged shadows across his face. “You remember her, right? Vividly.”
A beat of silence. Then—
Yes.
Vividly.
Jimin’s fingers twitched at his sides, phantom warmth lingering on his skin—the memory of Sin’s thighs bracketing his hips, trembling under his grip as he’d pushed into her. Her cunt had been so tight, clenching around him like she was trying to keep him out even as her body betrayed her, sucking him deeper with every thrust. The way she’d sobbed his name, voice cracking around the syllables like a prayer gone wrong—
Hoseok’s grin widened, sharp as a knife. “See?” His fingers tapped against his thigh, restless. “You remember.”
A shiver ran down Jimin’s spine. He did. The salt of her tears when he’d licked them off her cheeks, the way her beauty mark had glistened under the alley’s flickering light as she’d choked on Jin’s cock. The noise she’d made when Jungkook bit her—high and broken, like a doll’s porcelain cracking.
Namjoon’s voice cut through the silence, low and rough. “We’re monsters.”
Taehyung bit his lip hard enough to taste copper, the metallic tang grounding him. It was true—the half-confession writhing in his gut like a live wire. He hadn’t protested because some rotten, hungry part of him had wanted this too. Wanted her. Sin’s face flickered behind his eyelids—not the tear-streaked horror from the video, but the way she’d looked at him before, in that breathless moment when he’d crowded her against the alley wall, her cerulean eyes wide with dawning terror. The way her beauty mark had caught the light when she’d flinched.
Seokjin’s face was a mask, but his fingers betrayed him—white-knuckled around the pill bottle, tendons standing out like cables. He looked like he’d swallowed a lemon, sour and sick. Wrong, his conscience screamed. But louder than that was the memory of Sin’s hips jerking under his grip, the way her back had arched when he’d—
Jin exhaled sharply through his nose, crushing the thought like a cigarette. There was no right answer now. Only damage control.
Yoongi’s voice sliced through the silence, rough as gravel. “We’re wasting time.” He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, fingers brushing the crumpled lace he’d pocketed without thinking. Hers. The fabric was still damp.
Namjoon’s phone buzzed—a Kakao notification—and the room froze. The screen lit up: Jungkook-ah: Got her dorm number. 3rd floor, west wing. Followed by another message, the letters cramped like he’d typed too fast: She didn’t come back last night.
Jimin’s breath hitched. His fingers twitched toward his own phone, thumb hovering over the gallery app where the video still lived. “Hyung,” he whispered, voice fraying at the edges. “What if—”
“Enough.” Namjoon’s voice was a whip-crack. He pocketed his phone, jaw clenched so tight his molars ached. “Alley first. Then her dorm. Move.”
The dorm door clicked shut behind them, the sound final as a guillotine.
The hospital bed was too white, the sheets tucked with clinical precision around Sin’s motionless body. Her cerulean eyes were closed, lashes casting delicate shadows on her cheeks, the beauty mark beneath her left eye stark against her pallor. If not for the IV snaking into her arm, she could’ve been sleeping—peaceful, untouched.
Yoongi’s breath hitched when he saw her. The alley’s flickering light had painted her in bruises and tears, but here, under the sterile glow of fluorescents, she looked like a doll again. Perfect. Unbroken. His fingers twitched toward the door handle, then stilled. She called an ambulance. The thought slithered through him, cold and slick. She could’ve screamed for cops. But she didn’t.
Namjoon’s phone buzzed—Jungkook, again—but he ignored it, his gaze locked on Sin’s chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. No police tape. No officers posted outside her room. Just the steady beep of a heart monitor counting down the seconds until she woke up and shattered their lives.
Yoongi stepped closer, his shoes silent on the linoleum. Up close, he could see the faintest trace of yellow fading at her temple—the last evidence of what they’d done. His throat tightened. She’ll remember. The certainty of it coiled in his gut like a fist. And when she does—
Namjoon’s fingers closed around his wrist, yanking him back. “Don’t touch her,” he hissed, voice low and sharp. His grip tightened, knuckles white. “Not here.” The unspoken not yet hung between them, heavy as a noose.
Sin’s fingers twitched against the sheets—small, unconscious movements that made Yoongi’s pulse spike. Her lips parted slightly, a breath escaping like a sigh. For a wild, dizzying second, he imagined her waking up right then, cerulean eyes blinking up at him with dawning horror. You, she’d whisper, voice cracking. I remember you.
The heart monitor stuttered.
Namjoon went rigid. “Fuck,” he breathed, fingers tightening around Yoongi’s wrist hard enough to bruise. “She’s—”
But Sin didn’t wake. Her lashes fluttered once, twice, then stilled. The monitor settled back into its steady rhythm. Yoongi exhaled sharply through his nose, his free hand flexing at his side. The lace in his pocket felt like it was burning through the fabric.
Namjoon’s grip loosened, but he didn’t let go. His thumb pressed into Yoongi’s pulse point, a silent warning. Don’t move. His gaze flicked to the door, then back to Sin’s face. No footsteps in the hall. No nurses checking in. Just the hum of the AC and the quiet beep of machinery counting down the seconds until—
“We can’t stay,” Namjoon murmured, voice low enough that the words barely carried. His reflection in the window was hollow-eyed, lips pressed into a thin line. The guilt was there, simmering beneath the surface, but it was smothered by something sharper—something desperate. Control.
Yoongi’s jaw clenched. He could see it too: the way Sin’s hospital gown slipped off one shoulder, revealing unmarked skin. No bruises. No fingerprints. Like they’d never touched her at all. The lie of it curdled in his gut.
A rustle of fabric. Sin’s fingers twitched again, her brow furrowing slightly. Not waking—not yet—but close. Too close. Namjoon’s breath hitched. “Fuck,” he hissed, dragging Yoongi back another step. The IV line swayed, the bag of fluids catching the light like a grotesque chandelier. She’s hydrated. Medicated. The clinical details stuck in Yoongi’s throat. They’d left her broken in an alley, and now she was here, pristine as a doll in a display case.
Namjoon’s phone vibrated again—Jungkook, no doubt—but he ignored it, his focus locked on Sin’s face. Her lips were slightly parted, the pink of them softer than he remembered. Did she taste like cherry chapstick when you fucked her mouth? The thought came unbidden, vicious and unwelcome. He crushed it.
“We need to go,” Namjoon repeated, but his feet stayed rooted to the spot. Sin’s chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm. The heart monitor beeped. Once. Twice. A metronome counting down to disaster.
Yoongi’s fingers brushed the lace in his pocket. Damp. Stolen. Hers. The fabric was cold against his fingertips, but the memory of it—warm from her skin, tangled around his knuckles as he’d pushed her thighs apart—burned.
Yoongi hummed but didn’t move, his fingers twitching against the lace hidden in his pocket. The texture was worn soft from how often he’d rubbed it between his fingers like a talisman. "I thought we were taking her with us?" His voice was low, barely more than a breath, but it carried the weight of something jagged—half-question, half-accusation. His gaze flicked to Sin’s wrist where the IV disappeared under medical tape. The skin there was pale, almost translucent, like porcelain under the fluorescent lights. Breakable.
Namjoon clicked his tongue, sharp and impatient. "I already told the nurse we’re transferring her." He kept his voice hushed, eyes darting to the hallway where the occasional squeak of shoes against linoleum betrayed passing staff. "The papers are signed. We take her now." The last word was a blade, clean and final. His thumb brushed against his phone screen—a reflex—where Jungkook’s latest message glowed: Doctor’s on standby. Hyung says play nice.
Sin’s chest rose in a slow, even rhythm, the hospital gown shifting with each breath. The neckline had slipped again, revealing the delicate curve of her collarbone—unmarked now, thanks to whatever fluids they’d pumped into her. Namjoon’s jaw tightened. No bruises. No evidence. The thought should have been a relief. Instead, it sat like a stone in his gut. The Sin in that alley had been raw, trembling, theirs. This version—cleaned up, sanitized—felt like a forgery.
Yoongi’s fingers curled into fists. "And when she wakes up?" The question hung between them, heavy with unspoken dread. The heart monitor beeped, steady as a metronome. Too steady. Too normal. Like none of it had ever happened.
Namjoon exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. "We’ll handle it." His gaze flicked to the IV bag, half-empty, the tube snaking down to Sin’s wrist. The needle was taped securely in place, her skin pale where the adhesive pulled taut. "Management’s doctor will check her. We’ll say—" His throat worked. "—she’s Jungkook’s cousin. Hit by a car." The lie tasted bitter, but it slid out smoothly. They’d rehearsed worse for press conferences.
A rustle of fabric. Yoongi shifted, his jacket whispering as he reached into his pocket. The lace was still there, damp with sweat—his or hers, he couldn’t tell. "She won’t believe that," he muttered. His thumb traced the edge of the fabric, the memory of her thighs clenching around his hips flashing behind his eyelids. She’d fought. Not much, not enough, but enough to leave marks. Enough to remember.
Namjoon’s phone buzzed—another message—but he ignored it, his focus locked on Sin’s face. Her eyelashes fluttered, just once, like she was dreaming. Or trapped in a nightmare. His fingers twitched toward the call button, then stilled. No nurses. No witnesses. "She doesn’t have to believe it," he said at last, voice low. "She just has to stay quiet."
The door creaked open.
The clock ticked past 4 AM when they finally got Sin into the dorm's guest room—thirty-seven minutes of hushed curses, Yoongi's fingers digging into her waist as he carried her limp form through the service elevator, Jin's knuckles white around the IV bag they'd smuggled out like thieves. She didn't stir when Taehyung smoothed the sheets beneath her, didn't flinch when Jungkook's trembling fingers brushed the beauty mark under her eye. Only the slow rise and fall of her chest proved she was alive at all.
"Sedatives," the management doctor muttered, pressing two fingers to the pulse at Sin's wrist. His latex gloves squeaked against her skin. "Strong ones." His gaze flicked to the faint yellowing bruise at her temple—the one they hadn't managed to erase. "She won't wake for hours." The unspoken good lingered in the air like the scent of antiseptic.
Jimin hovered by the door, his reflection fractured in the mirror as he watched the doctor pack his kit. The guest room was too small suddenly, the walls pressing in with every breath Sin took. Her hair fanned across the pillow like spilled milk, so white it glowed under the dim bedside lamp. Jungkook's breath hitched when the doctor lifted her wrist to check the IV site—her fingers were limp, palm upturned like she was waiting for someone to take her hand.
"Hyung." Hoseok's whisper was jagged at the edges. He nodded to the IV bag dangling from the bedpost, half-empty. "We can't leave that in her forever."
Yoongi's fingers twitched toward the lace still tucked in his pocket. The fabric had gone stiff where it dried. "Then take it out." His voice was too flat, too calm. Like he wasn't staring at the way Sin's hospital gown gaped at the collar, revealing the hollow of her throat where Jungkook's teeth had left crescent marks that were now—miraculously—gone.
The doctor peeled back the tape with clinical precision. Sin's wrist was pale where the needle had been, the skin unbroken. No evidence. Jin exhaled sharply through his nose when the IV came free, his fingers tightening around the empty pill bottle in his pocket. Restoril. Enough to keep her under until they figured out what came next.
Namjoon's phone buzzed—another message from management—but he ignored it, his focus locked on Sin's face. The overhead light caught her beauty mark just so, making it gleam like a drop of ink. She looked peaceful. Untouched. The lie of it curdled in his gut.
Taehyung's fingers brushed the IV tubing before it hit the floor, his touch feather-light. "She's so quiet," he murmured, more to himself than anyone. The Sin in his memory had been anything but—whimpering into his palm when he'd shoved her face into the alley wall, her thighs shaking under his grip. Now, she lay still as a doll, her cerulean eyes hidden behind closed lids.
Jungkook hovered near the foot of the bed, his reflection fractured in the mirror above the dresser. His hands trembled at his sides, fingers twitching like he wanted to reach out—to smooth her hair back, to trace the line of her jaw, to apologize. His throat worked. "Hyung," he whispered, voice cracking. "What if she—"
"She won't." Namjoon's interruption was sharp, final. His thumb pressed into the bridge of his nose, hard enough to leave crescent marks. The doctor had assured them the sedatives would last at least twelve hours. Twelve hours to erase the evidence, twelve hours to spin the lie. Twelve hours before Sin woke up and looked at them with recognition in those ocean-bright eyes.
Yoongi's fingers twitched toward his pocket again, the lace rough against his fingertips. He'd washed it—three times, with scalding water and soap that smelled like lemons—but he could still smell her on it. Vanilla and salt. Tears and fear. His jaw clenched. She'll remember.
Jimin's phone buzzed, the screen lighting up with a Kakao notification. Manager-nim: Press conference at 10. His fingers tightened around the device, the edges digging into his palm. Press conference. Like nothing had happened. Like they hadn't spent the last six hours committing felonies. His gaze flicked to Sin's chest rising and falling beneath the sheets. The guest room smelled like antiseptic and the floral detergent Jin insisted on using—lavender, something falsely soothing.
The dorm smelled like kimchi jjigae—Seokjin’s specialty, the scent rich and pungent enough to almost drown out the lingering antiseptic sharpness clinging to their clothes. Almost. Jungkook’s chopsticks hovered over his bowl, untouched, his gaze darting every thirty seconds to the closed guest room door. Jimin pretended not to notice, focusing instead on the way the steam curled from his own bowl, twisting into shapes that looked too much like pleading hands.
Sin woke in increments. First, her fingers twitched against the sheets—slow, uncoordinated movements, like a marionette testing its strings. Then her lashes fluttered, heavy with sedation, the cerulean beneath them glazed and unfocused. The ceiling swam into view, unfamiliar and too white, and for a disorienting moment, she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten here. Or where here was.
A voice—soft, honeyed—cut through the fog. “You’re awake.”
Sin turned her head, wincing at the ache radiating from her temple. Jimin sat perched on the edge of the bed, his smile gentle, his fingers laced together like he was praying. Or restraining himself. Behind him, Jungkook hovered near the dresser, his knuckles white around a glass of water.
“Wh—” Her throat burned. The word came out cracked, brittle.
Jimin shushed her, his hand hovering near her shoulder—close, but not touching. Not yet. “Don’t try to talk.” His thumb brushed a lock of hair from her forehead, the touch feather-light. “You hit your head pretty bad.”
Sin blinked. The motion made the room tilt. Hit her head? She reached up, fingers brushing the tender spot at her temple, and—yes, there it was. A dull throb beneath her fingertips. But how? The last thing she remembered was…
Nothing.
Her breath hitched. No, that wasn’t right. She must remember something. Walking home from the library? The shortcut through the alley? The scent of rain on pavement? But her mind was a chalkboard wiped clean, the fragments slipping like smoke through her fingers.
Jungkook stepped forward, the glass of water trembling in his grip. His lips parted—hyung said not to speak—but Jimin shot him a look sharp enough to make his jaw snap shut.
“Here,” Jimin murmured, guiding Sin’s hands around the glass. His fingers lingered against hers, warm and steady. “Small sips.”
The water was cool against her parched throat, the sensation startlingly vivid compared to the haze clouding everything else. She drank greedily, rivulets escaping the corners of her mouth, dripping onto the borrowed shirt she wore—whose shirt?—before Jimin gently pulled the glass away.
“Slow,” he chided, soft as a lullaby. His thumb brushed a stray droplet from her chin. “You’ll choke.”
Sin blinked up at him, cerulean eyes glassy with confusion. Jimin’s face was all soft angles under the lamplight, his smile tender enough to make her chest ache. Familiar. Safe. So why did her pulse stutter when his fingers grazed her cheek?
Behind him, Jungkook shifted, his shadow stretching across the bedspread. His usual golden glow was muted tonight, shoulders hunched like he was carrying something too heavy. When their eyes met, his flinched away—guilt?—but that didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.
The door creaked open. Seokjin stood silhouetted against the hallway light, an apron tied neatly over his sweater. The smell of kimchi jjigae curled into the room, rich and comforting. “Ah, you’re awake!” His voice was warm honey, his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Normal. Too normal. “Just in time for dinner.”
Sin’s fingers twisted in the sheets. This was their dorm. She knew that—recognized the mint-green walls, the framed photos on the dresser. But how had she gotten here? Her last clear memory was leaving the library, her backpack heavy with textbooks. Then—nothing. Just fragments: rain-slick pavement, the tang of copper in her mouth, someone’s fingers in her hair—
“Hey.” Jimin’s hand settled over hers, squeezing gently. His palm was damp. “Don’t push yourself, yeah?” His thumb brushed her knuckles, slow circles that should’ve soothed. Instead, her skin prickled. “The doctor said you might be confused for a while.”
Doctor? She glanced down at herself—loose sweats, an oversized hoodie she didn’t recognize. Beneath the cuff, her wrist was bare. No hospital bracelet. No IV marks. Just smooth, unmarked skin. “What… happened to me?” Her voice sounded alien, raspy with disuse.
Sin blinked at Jimin, her cerulean eyes glassy with something between confusion and dawning horror. "I don't… remember." The words tasted like a lie even as she said them—her body remembered something, her pulse rabbiting under her skin where his thumb stroked her wrist. The doctor's words floated back to her in disjointed fragments: retrograde amnesia… traumatic head injury… memory consolidation disrupted. Clinical terms that explained nothing about the way her stomach clenched when Jungkook stepped too close, or why Jin's apron strings looked like restraints in her peripheral vision.
Jimin exhaled—slow, controlled—his fingers tightening imperceptibly around her wrist. "That's okay," he murmured, so soft it could've been a prayer. His thumb pressed into her pulse point, a silent I've got you that felt more like a brand. "The doctor said it might take time."
Behind him, Jungkook's reflection in the dresser mirror was a study in fractured guilt, his fingers twisting the hem of his shirt. Sin's gaze caught on the movement, her breath hitching for no reason she could name. Why does that scare me? The thought slithered through her mind, unwanted. Jin's shadow loomed in the doorway, his smile never reaching his eyes as he stepped forward with a bowl of steaming jjigae.
"Eat something," he urged, perching on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, tilting her toward him. Sin recoiled instinctively, her shoulder blades hitting the headboard with a dull thud. Jin froze, the bowl hovering between them like a peace offering—or a test.
Jimin's hand slid from her wrist to her back, his palm warm through the fabric of the hoodie. His hoodie. The realization sent a shiver down her spine. "Shhh," he soothed, fingers splaying against her spine. "You're safe here." The words tasted like ash in the air.
Sin's fingers trembled around the spoon Jin pressed into her hand. The metal was too cold, the weight foreign. Why does this feel wrong? The first bite of jjigae hit her tongue—spicy, rich, exactly how Jin always made it—but her stomach lurched violently. She gagged, clapping a hand over her mouth as the flavors twisted into something acrid. Copper. Salt. Him.
"Whoa—" Jungkook lunged forward, snatching the bowl just as she shoved it away. The broth sloshed over the rim, staining the sheets crimson. Like blood in the alley, his mind supplied unbidden, and he nearly dropped the bowl.
Jimin shot him a warning look before turning back to Sin, his hands framing her face. "Breathe," he instructed, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones. Her skin was clammy under his touch, her pupils dilated with panic. She remembers. The thought sent a jolt of terror through him—but no, her gaze was unfocused, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. This was pure instinct, her body recoiling from a threat her mind couldn't name.
Sin froze when Jin’s arms wrapped around her—his chest warm against her cheek, his heartbeat steady beneath the soft fabric of his sweater. The embrace was too tight, too familiar, his citrus cologne flooding her senses like a tidal wave. Her fingers hovered awkwardly in the air before she forced them to settle against his back, patting twice like she was comforting a stranger. Why does this feel like drowning?
“There you go,” Jin murmured into her hair, his lips brushing the crown of her head. His palm rubbed slow circles between her shoulder blades, the motion practiced. Too practiced. “Just breathe with me, yeah?” His voice was honey-smooth, but his grip was iron—not letting her pull away, not letting her think. Behind him, Jimin’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, his fingers drumming a silent rhythm against his thigh. Tap-tap-tap. Like a countdown.
Sin’s pulse thundered in her ears. Her body remembered before her mind did—the way her lungs seized when Jin’s fingers tangled in her hair, how her ribs ached where Jungkook had pressed her into the ground. The memories were shadows, slipping through her fingers like smoke, but her skin burned where they’d touched her. Why? She blinked up at Jin, her cerulean eyes glassy with unshed tears. His smile was kind. So why do I want to scream?
Jungkook edged closer, his sneakers squeaking on the hardwood. “Hyung,” he whispered, voice fraying at the edges. His fingers twitched toward Sin’s wrist—to comfort or claim, even he didn’t know—but Jin shot him a warning glare over her shoulder. Not now.
Sin stiffened at the movement, her breath hitching. Jin’s arms tightened around her, pressing her face into the hollow of his throat. His cologne—bergamot and cedar—filled her nostrils, cloying as a funeral bouquet. “Shhh,” he soothed, rocking her slightly. The motion made her stomach lurch. “You’re okay. You’re safe.” The lie tasted bitter on his tongue.
The lock clicked shut with a finality that made Jungkook flinch. He stared at the closed door, his fingers twitching at his sides—half-reaching back, half-clenching into fists. Jin’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, steering him away with a grip that brooked no argument. "Living room. Now." His whisper was a blade wrapped in silk.
Jimin trailed behind them, his socked feet silent on the hardwood. The dorm felt too large suddenly, the hallway stretching like a funhouse mirror. Shadows pooled in the corners where the overhead lights didn’t reach, and for a dizzying moment, Jungkook imagined Sin’s white hair spilling across the floorboards like spilled milk. She’s sleeping, he reminded himself. Sedated. Safe. The words rang hollow.
The living room was a minefield of half-empty coffee cups and discarded hoodies. Namjoon stood by the window, his silhouette sharp against the Seoul skyline, while Yoongi slouched in the armchair, his fingers worrying the lace in his pocket—her lace, stolen and sweaty and wrong. Hoseok and Taehyung occupied the couch, their knees brushing in a parody of casual intimacy. The air smelled of burnt coffee and unspoken dread.
Jin didn’t sit. He planted himself in the center of the room, his arms crossed tight over his chest. "She doesn’t remember." The words landed like a grenade. "Not the alley. Not us." His gaze flicked to Jungkook, then away just as fast. "Doctor called it dissociative amnesia. Trauma response."
Taehyung’s fingers stilled on his phone screen. "Bullshit." The word was quiet, almost conversational. He didn’t look up. "She flinched when you touched her." His thumb scrolled through something—photos, maybe, or messages—but his jaw was set tight. "Her body remembers."
Yoongi’s fingers twitched toward his pocket again. The lace was warm now, body heat bleeding through the fabric. She’d whimpered when he’d ripped it off her. "Doesn’t matter," he muttered. "If her brain’s blocking it out, we can—" Control the narrative, he almost said, but the phrase tasted like a press release. "—help her."
Jungkook’s laugh was a brittle thing, sharp enough to cut. "Help her?" His reflection in the dark window was hollow-eyed, lips twisted into something ugly. "We’re past help, hyung." His palms were sweating. He wiped them on his jeans. "She wakes up for real, and we’re—"
"Enough." Namjoon’s voice cut through the room like a blade. He didn’t raise it—didn’t need to. The command was in the slant of his shoulders, the way his fingers curled around his phone like it was a weapon. "We have twelve hours before the sedatives wear off. We use them." His gaze swept the room, lingering on each of them in turn. "Hoseok—get the doctor back here. Increase the dosage. Jimin—" His breath hitched, just for a second. "—you stay with her. Monitor her vitals. If she stirs, you call me."
Jin shook his head, his fingers digging into his own biceps hard enough to leave crescent marks through his sweater. "Her memories are already fucked up, and you want to keep pumping her full of drugs?" His voice cracked on the last word, raw at the edges. The overhead light caught the sweat beading along his hairline. "Do you have any idea how fast she could get addicted? How much worse withdrawal will make this?"
Yoongi's fingers stilled in his pocket, the lace suddenly heavy against his thigh. He'd seen addiction up close—his cousin wasting away in a Busan clinic, wrists rattling against restraints during detox. The memory soured in his mouth. "Better addicted than coherent," he muttered, but the words lacked conviction.
Namjoon's phone buzzed against the coffee table, the screen lighting up with a Kakao notification from their manager. He ignored it, his focus locked on Jin's face. "Hyung," he said, slow and deliberate, like he was explaining to a child. "If she remembers anything, we're done. Not just us—the group. The company. Everything." His thumb tapped a staccato rhythm against his knee. Tap. Tap. Tap. "A few pills won't kill her."
Jungkook made a wounded noise in the back of his throat, his fingers twisting the hem of his shirt. The fabric stretched taut between his fists. "They could, though." His voice was small, younger than his years. "My—my aunt took sleeping pills after my uncle died. She…" He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "She didn't wake up."
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Jimin's fingers twitched toward Jungkook, then stilled—hovering inches from his shoulder like he couldn't decide between comfort and restraint. The overhead light caught the sweat beading along Jin's temple, the way his chest rose and fell too fast beneath his sweater.
Hoseok cleared his throat, shifting on the couch. "There's another option." All eyes snapped to him. His knee bounced nervously, sneaker squeaking against the hardwood. "We could… tell her. Part of it." The words hung in the air, dangerous and shimmering. "Say we found her hurt in the alley. That we brought her here to protect her."
Yoongi stood abruptly, the armchair creaking under his sudden movement. His fingers twitched toward his pocket again—still there, still hers—before he forced his hands into his hoodie pouch instead. "If she asks more questions, it's easy," he said, voice low and steady in a way that didn't match the fever-bright glint in his eyes. "We found her. No one was around." He ticked off the points on his fingers, each word measured like he'd rehearsed them in the mirror. "We tell her the exact time and location—alley behind SNU library, 11:37 PM—but that's it." His jaw tightened. "We don't know her. She doesn't know us."
The room held its breath. Jimin's fingers dug into the couch cushions, his knuckles bleaching white. Lie, his mind supplied. But isn't it kinder? The alternative—Sin's cerulean eyes widening in horror as the memories crashed back—made his stomach twist.
"I'll tell her." Yoongi's voice cracked on the last word, the bravado crumbling for just a second. He didn't wait for approval, stalking toward the hallway with the gait of a man walking to the gallows. The lace in his pocket burned like a brand.
Jungkook lunged halfway out of his seat. "Hyung, wait—"
Yoongi didn't knock. The door groaned open on its hinges, revealing Sin propped against a mountain of pillows—her doll-like face half-buried in Jimin's abandoned hoodie, cerulean eyes glassy with sedatives and confusion. The guest room smelled like antiseptic and the lavender detergent Jin insisted on using, the scent cloying in his throat.
"We found you," he said. No preamble. The words tasted like ash. His fingers twitched toward the lace in his pocket—her lace—before he forced them still. "Alley behind SNU library. 11:37 PM." The details fell like stones between them, precise enough to sound true.
Sin blinked up at Yoongi, her cerulean eyes wide and trusting despite the sedative haze. A soft smile curved her lips—pink and chapped from dehydration—as she murmured, "Thank you." The words were barely audible, slurred at the edges like melted sugar. Yoongi's pulse thundered in his ears. Too easy.
He moved before he could second-guess himself, perching on the edge of the bed with a creak of mattress springs. "It's normal," he blurted, voice cracking under the weight of the lie. His fingers twitched toward her wrist before he caught himself, redirecting to tuck a strand of white hair behind her ear. "After all, you're my girlfriend." The title tasted like poison, but Sin's smile only widened, her lashes fluttering as she leaned into his touch.
Yoongi bent down, his lips brushing hers in a chaste kiss—testing, tentative. Sin didn't pull away. Didn't stiffen. Her breath hitched, but her hands settled lightly on his shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie like she'd done it a thousand times before. The familiarity of it stole his breath. She believes me. The realization sent a jolt of something hot and sickening through his veins.
Behind him, the door creaked open. Yoongi didn't turn, but the scent of bergamot and cedar announced Jin's presence as surely as his sharp intake of breath. Sin pulled back first, her cheeks flushing pink as she noticed their audience. Jin stood frozen in the doorway, a tray of kimbap gripped white-knuckled in his hands. His smile was a brittle thing, stretched too tight across his face.
"You—" Sin's voice was still hoarse, but the sweetness in it made Yoongi's stomach twist. She blinked up at Jin with those ocean-bright eyes, guileless as a child. "You must be Yoongi's hyung." The words landed like a grenade in the silent room.
Jin's fingers spasmed around the tray. For one terrible second, Yoongi thought he might drop it—might shatter the fragile performance with the truth. But then Jin exhaled through his nose, stepping forward with a performer's grace. "Ah, you remember me?" The lilt in his voice was practiced, effortless. He set the tray on the bedside table with exaggerated care, his sleeve brushing Yoongi's shoulder in silent warning.
Sin shook her head, the motion sending her hair cascading over one shoulder. "No, but…" Her fingertips brushed Yoongi's wrist—light as a butterfly's wing—before retreating. "You feel familiar." The admission hung in the air, loaded and dangerous.
Jin's gaze flicked to Yoongi's face, searching. What did you tell her? his eyes screamed. Yoongi gave the barest shake of his head, his throat too tight to speak. The lace in his pocket burned against his thigh, a guilty talisman.
Jin's smile softened into something almost genuine. "Of course I do." He reached out, tucking the same strand of hair Yoongi had touched behind her ear—his fingers lingering a heartbeat too long. "I'm your favorite hyung, after all." The joke landed flat, but Sin giggled anyway, the sound muffled by sedation.
Yoongi watched her fingers twist in the sheets—not resisting, not recoiling, just… adjusting. Like her body was relearning how to inhabit space around them. The wrongness of it prickled under his skin. She should be screaming. The thought came unbidden, vicious in its clarity. She should be clawing our eyes out.
Instead, Sin tilted her head toward Jin, her cerulean eyes hazy with trust. "Did you make this?" She gestured weakly at the kimbap, her sleeve slipping to reveal unmarked skin where Yoongi knew—knew—Jungkook's teeth had left crescent bruises just hours ago.
Jin's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Yeah." The word scraped his throat raw. "Your favorite. Tuna with extra—"
"—gochujang mayo," Sin finished, her smile blooming like nothing was amiss. Like her body wasn't a crime scene they'd scrubbed clean. She reached for the kimbap with trembling fingers, the motion sending a lock of white hair tumbling into her eyes. Yoongi moved to brush it aside—instinctive, possessive—but Jin caught his wrist mid-air, his grip tight enough to bruise.
Don't, Jin's eyes warned. Yoongi wrenched free with a sharp twist, his fingers finding Sin's hair anyway. She leaned into the touch like a cat seeking sunlight, her cheek pressing against his palm. The warmth of her skin sent a jolt of something electric and nauseating through his veins.
The door clicked shut behind them with a sound like a gun cocking. Jin's fingers dug into Yoongi's bicep hard enough to leave crescent moons through the fabric of his hoodie, dragging him down the hallway with the kind of controlled violence that wouldn't leave bruises—not where the cameras could see. The overhead lights buzzed like angry hornets, casting jagged shadows across Jin's face as he backed Yoongi against the wall beside the fire extinguisher.
"What the fuck did you say to her?" Jin's whisper was serrated steel wrapped in silk, his breath hot against Yoongi's cheek. Up close, his pores were invisible under foundation, his jawline sharp enough to draw blood. The perfect idol. The perfect liar.
Yoongi didn't flinch. He tilted his head back against the wall, exposing the column of his throat in a challenge. "I told her." His fingers twitched toward his pocket—her lace, her scent—before he forced them still. "I'm her boyfriend."
The words hung between them, suspended in the thick air like smoke. Jin's grip slackened for half a second before tightening again, his thumb pressing into the tender spot where Yoongi's pulse jumped. "Boyfriend?" The word came out strangled, halfway between a laugh and a snarl. Behind them, the refrigerator hummed to life with a shuddering groan.
Yoongi watched Jin's pupils dilate—black swallowing brown—and felt something vicious uncoil in his chest. "She believed it," he murmured, lips curving around the words like they were something sweet. "Kissed me back and everything." His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip, slow and deliberate. "Tasted like gochujang."
Jin's fist connected with the drywall beside Yoongi's head with a dull thud. Plaster dust rained onto their shoulders like snow. "Fuck you." His voice cracked down the middle, raw as an open wound. The overhead light caught the sweat beading along his hairline, the way his chest heaved like he'd run a marathon.
Yoongi didn't blink. He studied Jin's trembling fingers, the veins standing out like rivers on a map. "Problem, hyung?" The honorific dripped with venom. "You wanted her docile. Now she is." He pushed off the wall, forcing Jin to stagger back a step. "She looks at me like I hung the fucking moon."
The fridge shuddered off. In the sudden silence, Jin's breathing was ragged, his exhales fogging the air between them. His reflection in the microwave door was fractured—a dozen miniature Jins with identical clenched jaws. "You don't get to—" He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "—to rewrite her."
Yoongi's laugh was a bullet casing hitting tile. "Too late." His fingers finally dipped into his pocket, emerging with the scrap of lace. It glowed bone-white under the fluorescents. "She likes the story." He pressed the fabric to his nose, inhaling deeply. Sin's scent lingered beneath the hospital antiseptic—vanilla and salt. "Kissed me like she meant it."
Jin's hand shot out, snatching the lace. The delicate fabric tore between them with a sound like skin splitting. Yoongi's snarl was instantaneous, feral. He lunged, pinning Jin against the opposite wall with a crash that sent a framed photo clattering to the floor. Glass shattered. Their breathing synced—ragged, furious.
"You touched her first." Yoongi's whisper was a blade between Jin's ribs. His forearm pressed into Jin's windpipe, not quite cutting off air. "In the alley. Your hands on her waist." The memory burned behind his eyelids—Jin's fingers splayed possessive over Sin's hipbones, the way she'd whimpered. "Don't fucking moralize now."
The bathroom door creaked open. Jungkook stood frozen in the threshold, toothpaste foaming at the corners of his mouth. His gaze darted between them—Yoongi's grip on Jin's throat, the torn lace dangling from Jin's fist. A droplet of minty spit slid down his chin.
Jin exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled. His free hand came up to pat Yoongi's bicep—calm down—the gesture deceptively casual. "Kookie," he crooned, voice sandpaper-rough. "Go finish brushing."
Jungkook didn't move. His fingers flexed around his toothbrush, plastic creaking. "Hyungs…" The word was muffled by foam. His eyes—wide, liquid—flicked toward Sin's door. "She's… safe?" The question hung between them, fragile as a soap bubble.
Yoongi released Jin abruptly, stepping back with a hollow laugh. "Safer than us." He straightened his hoodie with sharp tugs, his gaze locked on the lace still clutched in Jin's fist. The sight of it—wrinkled, sullied—sent something primal coiling in his gut.
Jungkook's reflection in the hallway mirror was a study in fractured guilt, his free hand hovering near his pocket. "I just…" The toothpaste dripped onto his shirt, a bright white splotch against black cotton. "I heard yelling."
Jin exhaled through his nose—slow, controlled—before turning toward Jungkook with a performer's smile. "Just a misunderstanding, Kookie." His fingers flexed around the torn lace. "Go rinse." The command was velvet over steel.
The bathroom door clicked shut. Jin rounded on Yoongi, his chest heaving. "You don't get to rewrite history," he hissed, shoving the lace against Yoongi's chest. "That lie will unravel the second she remembers—"
Yoongi just laughed. "Why? You have better ideas?" He leaned in, close enough for Jin to smell the mint on his breath. "I bet you wanted to be the one to say those words to her." His lips curled into something sharp. "Too slow, hyung." He turned on his heel, walking away with the torn lace dangling from his fist like a victory flag.
Jin's reflection in the hallway mirror was a stranger—pupils blown wide, lips peeled back from his teeth. His fingers twitched toward the knife block on the kitchen counter before curling into fists. The overhead light buzzed, flickering like a dying heartbeat. Control, he reminded himself. Always control. But the image of Sin pressing into Yoongi's touch burned behind his eyelids—her lips parted, trusting, his.
In the guest room, Sin stirred against the pillows. The sedatives were wearing off—she could feel it in the way her fingertips tingled, the way her eyelids no longer felt weighted with stones. The kimbap tray sat untouched on the bedside table, the gochujang mayo congealing at the edges.
The man in the back of the taxi was already late. Not fashionably late, not artist’s prerogative late—just late, in the way that made his manager’s texts progressively more clipped with each passing minute. Kim Namjoon tapped his fingers against his knee, watching Seoul blur past the window in streaks of neon and shadow. The driver hadn’t spoken since the airport, and Namjoon was fine with that. He had a speech to rehearse, a meeting to mentally prepare for, and exactly zero patience for small talk.
Then the taxi hit something.
Not something—someone. A yelp cut through the hum of the engine, followed by a thud against the hood. Namjoon’s stomach dropped before the car even lurched to a stop. The driver swore, flinging his door open, but Namjoon was faster, already halfway onto the pavement before his brain caught up.
A boy. White hair splayed across the asphalt like spilled milk, one knee scraped raw, cerulean eyes wide and stunned. He couldn’t have been older than twenty, clutching a battered grocery bag to his chest like a shield. Tomatoes rolled into the gutter.
Namjoon’s breath caught in his throat. The boy’s beauty mark, a tiny crescent moon beneath his left eye, seemed to glow under the streetlight. His lips—soft pink, slightly parted—trembled as he tried to push himself up, but his hands slipped on the wet pavement. Without thinking, Namjoon dropped to his knees beside him, fingers hovering over the boy’s shoulder. "Are you okay? Can you stand?" His voice came out rougher than he intended, laced with something he couldn’t name.
The boy blinked up at him, cerulean eyes flickering with recognition, then fear. "You’re—" He swallowed, voice feather-light. "You’re Kim Namjoon." The way he said it wasn’t the usual fanfare, not the squealing adoration Namjoon was used to. It was quieter, like a secret whispered between them. The grocery bag split open between them, scattering rice and a single, bruised apple.
Namjoon’s chest tightened. He should call his manager. He should flag down a medic. Instead, he found himself brushing a strand of white hair from the boy’s forehead, fingertips lingering a second too long. "What’s your name?"
"Sin," the boy murmured, as if embarrassed by the weight of it. His knee was bleeding, a thin trail of red tracing down his calf. Namjoon’s pulse thrummed in his ears. He’d seen hundreds of beautiful people—worked with them, performed for them—but none of them had looked at him like this. Like him, not RM, not the leader of BTS. Just Namjoon, clumsy and late and now kneeling in a puddle.
The driver was shouting now, something about insurance and police reports, but Namjoon barely registered the words. All he could see was the way Sin’s lashes fluttered when he blinked, like moth wings against glass. A single raindrop slid down the boy’s cheek, tracing the curve of his beauty mark before vanishing into the collar of his oversized sweater. Namjoon’s fingers twitched with the urge to catch it.
"I’m fine," Sin lied, pushing himself up on shaky arms. His voice was sweet, gentle—the kind of tone that made you lean in to hear it better. Namjoon caught him by the elbow before he could stumble again, and the contact sent a jolt through him, electric and unbidden. Sin’s skin was colder than he expected.
The manager’s call came through Namjoon’s phone then, the screen flashing with urgency. He silenced it with his thumb, never breaking eye contact. "Let me take you to a clinic," he said, and it wasn’t a question. The words came out too firm, too possessive, and he cleared his throat to soften them. "Please. I’d never forgive myself if—" If what? If this boy with diamond-bright eyes vanished into the Seoul night, leaving nothing but a memory of spilled groceries and a skipped heartbeat?
Sin hesitated, fingers curling around the torn edges of his grocery bag. "You’re… very busy," he murmured, glancing at Namjoon’s designer watch, the tailored coat draped over his frame. A fan would’ve seized the opportunity, begged for a photo, a signature. But Sin only shrank back, as if he were the one who’d inconvenienced him.
Namjoon’s fingers tightened around Sin’s elbow, not enough to bruise, but enough to feel the delicate bones beneath his skin. "Busy doesn’t matter," he said, and the roughness in his voice surprised even him. The manager’s call vibrated again in his pocket, insistent as a heartbeat, but he ignored it. The taxi driver was still ranting, waving his arms like a man drowning in bureaucracy, but Namjoon only had eyes for the boy in front of him—the way his sweater sleeve slid down his wrist, the tremble in his lower lip.
Sin’s breath hitched when Namjoon pulled him closer, close enough to catch the scent of rain and something sweet—vanilla, maybe, or the ghost of a childhood soap. "You’re hurt," Namjoon murmured, thumb brushing the inside of Sin’s elbow. A lie. The scrape on his knee was superficial, barely more than a scratch. But the thought of letting him walk away, of this moment ending like some fleeting accident, made Namjoon’s chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain.
"I—I really shouldn’t," Sin stammered, but his protest was weak, his cerulean eyes darting from Namjoon’s face to the ground, then back again. A strand of white hair clung to his cheekbone, damp from the rain. Namjoon wanted to tuck it behind his ear. Wanted to trace the beauty mark beneath his eye with his fingertip. Wanted—
"Get in the car," Namjoon said, and it wasn’t a request.
The car door clicked shut behind them with a sound like a lock turning. Sin perched on the edge of the leather seat, hands folded tightly in his lap, as if trying to make himself smaller. Namjoon couldn’t stop staring at the way his fingers twisted together—pale, delicate, the knuckles faintly pink from the cold. The taxi lurched forward, and Sin flinched, his shoulder brushing against Namjoon’s arm. The contact burned through the fabric of his coat, and Namjoon had to clench his fists to keep from reaching out again.
"You don’t have to be afraid," Namjoon said, voice low. He meant it to be reassuring, but it came out like a command. Sin’s cerulean eyes flicked up to his, wide and uncertain, and Namjoon felt something primal coil in his chest. Mine, the thought came unbidden, shocking in its clarity. He’d never been possessive—not like this, not over a stranger. But Sin wasn’t a stranger. Not when the curve of his cheekbone felt familiar under Namjoon’s gaze, not when the hitch in his breath sounded like a song Namjoon had been trying to write for years.
The clinic was a blur of sterile white and fluorescent lights, but Namjoon only saw Sin—the way he winced when the nurse dabbed antiseptic on his knee, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he looked down. "You’re really kind," Sin murmured, so softly Namjoon almost missed it. The words landed like a punch. Kind? No. If he were kind, he wouldn’t be cataloging the exact shade of pink in Sin’s lips, wouldn’t be memorizing the way his sweater slipped off one shoulder when he shifted.
Namjoon’s phone buzzed again—his manager, then Yoongi, then the company’s emergency line. He silenced them all with a swipe of his thumb. "Where do you live?" he asked, stepping closer as the nurse finished bandaging Sin’s knee. Too close. Sin’s breath hitched, and Namjoon caught the faint scent of his shampoo—something floral, innocent. It made his throat ache.
The clinic’s overhead lights hummed like a distant beehive, casting Sin’s skin in a porcelain glow. Namjoon watched the nurse’s hands—efficient, impersonal—as they taped gauze over the scrape, and something hot and irrational clawed up his throat. Those fingers had no right to touch him. Not like that. Not without trembling.
Sin’s knee jerked when the antiseptic stung, and Namjoon’s own muscles tensed in response, as if wired to the boy’s nervous system. "Almost done," the nurse said, but Namjoon wasn’t listening. He was counting the faint freckles scattered across Sin’s collarbones, mapping constellations only he could see.
"Thank you," Sin whispered to the nurse, voice so soft it barely disturbed the air. Namjoon’s fingers twitched at his sides. He wanted to bottle that sound, keep it in his pocket where no one else could hear it. The nurse left with a polite nod, and suddenly they were alone in the examination room, the silence between them thick enough to choke on.
Namjoon took a step forward. Then another. Sin’s cerulean eyes tracked his movement like a prey animal caught in headlights, but he didn’t retreat. Couldn’t, really—his back was already pressed against the paper-covered exam table. "You didn’t answer me earlier," Namjoon murmured, crowding into Sin’s space. The scent of rain still clung to his sweater, mingling with that floral shampoo. "Where do you live?"
Sin's fingers tightened around the edge of the exam table, the paper crinkling under his grip. He could feel the heat of Namjoon's body this close, could see the way the clinic's harsh lighting caught the gold flecks in his brown eyes. "I—just near Hongdae," he stammered, the lie tasting bitter on his tongue. His dorm was in the opposite direction, but the thought of Namjoon knowing exactly where to find him sent a shiver down his spine that wasn't entirely fear. "You don't have to—"
"I do," Namjoon interrupted, voice dipping into something darker, richer. His hand came up, slow as syrup, to brush a stray lock of white hair from Sin's forehead. The touch lingered, thumb tracing the curve of his brow in a way that made Sin's breath stutter. "You don't understand. I need to know you're safe." The words vibrated with an intensity that bordered on absurd—they'd known each other for less than an hour—but Sin found himself nodding anyway, caught in the gravity of that gaze.
Outside, rain pattered against the clinic's windows, the sound muffled and rhythmic. Namjoon's phone buzzed again, skittering across the counter where he'd tossed it, but neither of them looked away. Sin's pulse hammered in his throat as Namjoon's fingers trailed down to cup his jaw, calloused fingertips mapping the delicate line of his bone structure like a blind man memorizing scripture. "Tell me," Namjoon murmured, and it wasn't a request—it was a plea wrapped in velvet, a demand dressed as devotion.
Sin's lips parted, the truth balancing on the tip of his tongue, when the door swung open with a squeak of hinges. A nurse bustled in, clutching a discharge form, and the spell shattered. Namjoon didn't step back—not fully—but his hand fell away, leaving Sin's skin cold where his touch had been. "All set," the nurse chirped, oblivious to the tension thickening the air between them. "Keep it dry for twenty-four hours." She pressed the form into Sin's limp hands, her smile professional and bright.
The discharge form crumpled in Sin’s grip as Namjoon’s shadow loomed over him, blocking out the fluorescent lights. The nurse’s cheerful "take care!" faded into the hum of the clinic’s ventilation, leaving only the sound of Sin’s shallow breaths and the relentless drumming of rain against glass. Namjoon’s phone had gone silent—whether he’d finally answered his manager or simply turned it off, Sin couldn’t tell. All he knew was the weight of that gaze, heavy as a hand around his throat.
"You lied," Namjoon said, voice low. Not accusing. Not angry. Just certain, like he could taste the falsehood on Sin’s tongue. His thumb brushed the edge of the bandage on Sin’s knee, a touch too intimate for strangers. "Hongdae’s the other direction from where we found you." Sin’s pulse jumped. He hadn’t expected Namjoon to remember—hadn’t expected any of this. The scrape on his knee stung, but it was nothing compared to the heat crawling up his neck as Namjoon leaned in, close enough that Sin could count the faint scars on his knuckles. "Tell me the truth this time," he murmured, and his breath ghosted over Sin’s cheek, warm and faintly minty.
The truth? That Sin lived in a cramped dorm with three other trainees from a no-name company, that his white hair was dyed for a debut that kept getting postponed, that he’d recognized Namjoon instantly because he’d fallen asleep to BTS music videos more times than he could count? His fingers trembled against the exam table’s paper cover. "I’m—" A lie died in his throat as Namjoon’s fingers slid between his, prying them loose from the crumpled form. His grip wasn’t tight, but Sin couldn’t have pulled away if he tried.
"Let me take you home," Namjoon said, and it wasn’t kindness—it was hunger dressed in courtesy. The taxi outside was still running, the driver scrolling on his phone, oblivious to the way Namjoon’s free hand came up to cradle the back of Sin’s neck, possessive and tender all at once. Sin should’ve protested. Should’ve bolted. Instead, he let Namjoon steer him toward the door, his body moving on some instinct older than fear. The rain had softened to a drizzle, but Namjoon shrugged off his coat anyway, draping it over Sin’s shoulders like a claim. The fabric smelled like cedar and something darker, musky and warm. Sin clutched the lapels, dizzy with the proximity of it.
The taxi smelled like rain and leather and something else—something faintly sweet that clung to the back of Namjoon’s throat. Sin sat pressed against the far door, his fingers curled around the edge of Namjoon’s coat like it was a lifeline. The streetlights flickered past in amber streaks, painting his cheekbones in fleeting gold. Namjoon couldn’t stop staring. Every blink felt like a waste—what if he missed the way Sin’s lashes caught the light? What if he missed the exact moment his lips parted to breathe?
"You never told me where you really live," Namjoon murmured. The words came out rougher than he intended, laced with something between curiosity and possession. The driver’s eyes flicked to them in the rearview mirror, then quickly away. Good. Let him look. Let him see.
Sin’s grip on the coat tightened. "It’s—just a trainee dorm. Near Mapo-gu." His voice was so quiet Namjoon had to lean in to catch it, close enough to see the way his pulse fluttered in the delicate hollow of his throat. A trainee. Of course. That explained the dyed hair, the doll-like perfection of his features, the way he moved—like every step was choreographed. Namjoon’s stomach tightened. Some faceless company had its claws in this boy, molding him into something disposable. The thought made his teeth ache.
The taxi turned onto a quieter street, the buildings shrinking from glossy high-rises to weathered brick. Namjoon watched Sin’s face in profile, memorizing the slope of his nose, the way his beauty mark disappeared when he frowned. "Which company?" he asked, though he already knew he’d burn it to the ground if they’d so much as raised their voice at him.
The dorm was exactly as Namjoon had pictured—narrow, dimly lit, smelling of instant noodles and too many bodies crammed into too little space. Sin hesitated at the entrance, fingers twisting in the sleeves of Namjoon’s coat, as if debating whether to invite him in or bolt. The choice was stolen from him when Namjoon stepped forward, one hand splayed against the small of Sin’s back, guiding him through the doorway like he owned the space already. The door clicked shut behind them with finality.
Inside, three pairs of eyes snapped up from a shared laptop. Trainees—boys younger than Sin, their faces still soft with adolescence—froze mid-mouthful of ramen. One of them choked. Namjoon didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. The weight of his presence filled the room like thunder before lightning, his gaze sweeping over the bunk beds and peeling wallpaper before settling back on Sin. "Which bed is yours?" he asked, though his nose had already caught that floral shampoo drifting from the top bunk in the corner.
Sin’s ears burned pink. "I—you shouldn’t—"
Namjoon didn’t wait for permission. He crossed the room in three strides, his fingers brushing the frayed edge of Sin’s duvet. A stuffed rabbit—threadbare and ancient—peeked out from under the pillow. Namjoon’s chest ached. He wanted to bury his face in that pillow, drown in the scent of Sin’s sleep. Instead, he plucked a single white hair from the fabric and tucked it into his pocket like a sacrament. Behind him, one of the trainees gasped.
The silence in the dorm room thickened like syrup, broken only by the tinny sound of a forgotten K-pop music video still playing on the laptop. Namjoon didn’t glance at the other trainees—didn’t have to. He could feel their shock like a physical pressure against his skin, but it barely registered. All his focus narrowed to the way Sin’s breath hitched when he turned, the way his cerulean eyes darted from Namjoon to his bunkmates and back again, wide with something between panic and fascination.
"You shouldn’t be here," Sin whispered, but his fingers still clung to the hem of Namjoon’s coat draped over his shoulders, knuckles white with tension. The other trainees hadn’t moved—one still held his chopsticks suspended mid-air, a noodle dangling limply. Namjoon ignored them all, stepping closer until Sin’s back met the wall, until the scent of his shampoo—honeysuckle and innocence—filled Namjoon’s lungs like an intoxicant.
"I know," Namjoon murmured, thumb brushing the beauty mark beneath Sin’s eye. The touch lingered, possessive in its gentleness. "But I couldn’t let you go." The admission vibrated between them, raw and unpolished. He’d written love songs before, performed them to stadiums full of screaming fans, but none of them had ever felt like this—like his ribs were cracking open to make room for something too vast to name.
Sin’s lips parted, pink and trembling, but before he could speak, one of the trainees—brave or foolish—cleared his throat. "Uh. Hyung?" The honorific cracked in the middle, equal parts awe and terror. Namjoon didn’t turn.
The overhead light in the dorm flickered once—just long enough for Sin to see the exact moment Namjoon’s pupils dilated, swallowing the brown of his irises into something darker, hungrier. Sin’s breath caught in his throat. He knew that look. Not from experience, but from the cautionary tales whispered between trainees in hushed tones after curfew: Never meet your idols. Not like this.
Namjoon’s fingers traced the edge of Sin’s jaw, pausing at the delicate hinge where bone met tendon. His thumb pressed just hard enough to feel Sin’s pulse rabbiting beneath the skin. "You’re scared," he murmured, but it wasn’t a question. The observation curled in the air between them, intimate as a confession. Behind them, one of the trainees dropped a chopstick. The sound clattered against the linoleum, sharp as a gunshot, but Namjoon didn’t so much as blink. His entire world had narrowed to the boy pinned beneath his gaze, the way Sin’s sweater slipped off one shoulder to reveal a collarbone so sharply defined it looked carved from marble.
Sin swallowed. "I—you’re Kim Namjoon," he breathed, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did. The name carried weight, power, an entire empire built on charm and intellect—none of which mattered when Namjoon’s free hand came up to cradle the back of Sin’s neck, fingers tangling in the downy hair at his nape. The touch burned.
"And you’re Sin," Namjoon countered, voice dropping into a register that vibrated through Sin’s ribcage. His name had never sounded like that before—like a prayer and a threat woven together. "Say it again."
Sin's breath hitched as Namjoon's thumb traced the beauty mark beneath his eye—slow, deliberate, like he was committing its exact shade of brown to memory. The dorm room seemed to shrink around them, the other trainees frozen in place, their chopsticks suspended mid-air. "Say it again," Namjoon murmured, his voice rough with something Sin couldn't name. The command hung between them, thick as honey, and Sin felt his lips part obediently.
"Sin," he whispered, the syllable trembling on his tongue. It sounded different in Namjoon's presence—smaller, sweeter, like a secret shared between them. Namjoon's fingers tightened imperceptibly at the nape of his neck, and Sin shivered. He'd imagined meeting his idol a hundred times, but never like this—never with Namjoon's coat draped over his shoulders like a claim, never with the heat of his gaze stripping Sin bare in front of his bunkmates.
Namjoon leaned in, close enough that Sin could count the faint scars on his knuckles, the ones he'd gotten from years of gripping microphones too tightly. "You have no idea," he murmured, his breath warm against Sin's cheek, "how long I've been waiting for you." The words curled around Sin's ribs, squeezing until his lungs ached. It was absurd—they'd only just met—but the intensity in Namjoon's eyes made Sin believe it.
Behind them, one of the trainees dropped a water bottle. The plastic hit the floor with a dull thud, but Namjoon didn't flinch. His attention never wavered from Sin's face, from the way his cerulean eyes flickered with something between fear and fascination. "You're shaking," Namjoon observed, his thumb brushing the pulse point beneath Sin's jaw. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a jolt through Sin's body, electric and unbidden.
Sin’s dormmates were statues now—wide-eyed, ramen-forgotten, their collective breath held as Namjoon’s fingers slid from Sin’s jaw to his collarbone, tracing the ridge like a cartographer mapping uncharted territory. The touch lingered just long enough to be deliberate, just light enough to be deniable. Sin’s pulse fluttered beneath Namjoon’s fingertips, a trapped bird against his skin. "You’re cold," Namjoon murmured, though Sin wasn’t—not really. His skin burned where Namjoon touched him, feverish and alive.
The overhead light flickered again, casting jagged shadows across Namjoon’s face. In the intermittent darkness, Sin caught glimpses of something raw beneath the idol’s polished exterior—the set of his jaw, the hunger in his eyes when he thought no one was looking. It made Sin’s stomach twist in a way that wasn’t entirely fear. Behind them, one of the trainees coughed, the sound brittle in the thick air. Namjoon didn’t so much as blink.
"You should go," Sin whispered, but his fingers curled into the fabric of Namjoon’s coat still draped over his shoulders, knuckles white. The contradiction wasn’t lost on Namjoon—the way Sin’s body leaned into his space even as his words pushed him away. It sent a thrill down Namjoon’s spine, sharp as a knife. He’d spent years perfecting the art of restraint, of measured charm, but this boy with diamond-bright eyes unraveled him with a single tremor of his lower lip.
Namjoon’s phone buzzed again—a muted vibration in his pocket, ignored for the twentieth time that night. He cupped Sin’s face instead, thumb brushing the beauty mark beneath his eye. "Give me your number," he said, and it wasn’t a request. The words came out too rough, too desperate, but Namjoon couldn’t bring himself to care. Sin’s breath hitched, his cerulean eyes flickering to his frozen dormmates and back.
Sin's fingers trembled as he typed his number into Namjoon's phone—eleven digits that felt like handing over a piece of his soul. The screen glowed between them, casting jagged shadows across Namjoon's face as he saved the contact with deliberate slowness. Sin, he typed, then paused. His thumb hovered over the keyboard before adding a star emoji—tiny, insignificant, but it made Sin's stomach flip.
The dorm room air thickened with unspoken tension, the other trainees still frozen in place like mannequins. One of them—the brave one—cleared his throat again. "Hyung, maybe you should—"
Namjoon's head snapped up, gaze sharp enough to cut glass. The trainee's mouth clicked shut. Sin had seen that look before—in fancams, in concert footage—but never directed at him. Never for him. It made his skin prickle, hot and cold all at once.
"I'll call you," Namjoon said, tucking his phone away with finality. His fingers lingered near Sin's wrist, brushing the delicate bones there. "Tonight." Not a promise—a fact, as immutable as gravity. Sin nodded dumbly, his throat too tight to speak. Namjoon's coat still draped over his shoulders suddenly felt like a cage, the scent of cedar and something darker clinging to his skin.
Sin’s dorm mates didn’t exhale until the door clicked shut behind Namjoon—five full seconds after his shadow had vanished from the threshold. The silence that followed was brittle, suffocating. One of the trainees dropped his chopsticks into his ramen cup with a wet plop. "What the fuck was that?" he whispered, voice cracking.
Sin couldn’t answer. His fingers were still curled around the hem of Namjoon’s coat, the fabric warm from his body heat. The scent of cedar clung to the lining, mingling with something darker—sandalwood, maybe, or the faint metallic tang of stage sweat. Sin brought the collar to his nose without thinking, inhaling sharply. The action felt obscene. His cheeks burned, but he couldn’t stop. It was like pressing his face against Namjoon’s throat, like tasting the salt of his skin.
Across the room, his bunkmate—Jae, the one who’d choked on his noodles—made a strangled noise. "Dude. Dude. You cannot be serious."
Sin didn’t look up. His phone buzzed in his pocket—once, twice—and his stomach dropped. He knew without looking. Knew the way prey animals know when a predator is circling. The screen lit up when he pulled it out, illuminating his trembling fingers.
The first message flashed on Sin’s screen before the door had even finished clicking shut behind Namjoon: You forgot my coat. Sin’s fingers shook as he stared at the words, the punctuation stark and final. He hadn’t forgotten—he’d been too afraid to take it off, as if removing the fabric would sever whatever fragile thread had spun between them tonight. The second message came thirty-seven seconds later, vibrating against his palm like a live wire: Keep it. I like seeing you in my things.
Sin’s breath caught. Around him, the dorm erupted into chaos—voices overlapping, hands grabbing at his sleeves, a dozen questions fired like bullets—but all he could hear was the phantom rasp of Namjoon’s voice curling around that single word: things. Plural. As if Sin himself were now counted among Namjoon’s possessions.
His phone buzzed a third time. This time, a photo: Namjoon’s own wrist, the sleeve of his shirt pushed back to reveal the faint red marks where Sin’s fingers had clung to him in the taxi. The caption read: You left souvenirs. The image was intimate, violating in its sweetness. Sin’s throat went dry. He shouldn’t answer. Shouldn’t feed whatever this was. But his thumb moved on its own, typing I’m sorry before he could think better of it.
The reply was instantaneous: Don’t be. I’ll collect more tomorrow.
The rain had turned to mist by the time Sin's phone buzzed again—a vibration that seemed to crawl up his arm and settle between his ribs. He stared at the screen, the glow painting his face blue in the dim dorm room. Tomorrow, Namjoon had said. Not see you or let's meet. Just tomorrow, as if their fates were already knotted together.
Sin's thumb hovered over the keyboard. He should type something polite, something distant. Thank you for your concern. Please don't trouble yourself. Instead, his fingers betrayed him: What time? The send button burned beneath his fingertip.
Across the room, Jae was still gaping, half-eaten noodles dangling from his chopsticks. "You're texting him? After—after that?" His voice cracked on the last word, gesturing wildly at Sin still wrapped in Namjoon's coat like some tragic romance novel heroine.
Sin didn't answer. His phone lit up again—this time with a voice note. His pulse stuttered. He pressed play before he could chicken out, lifting the phone to his ear. Namjoon's voice filled his skull, deep and rough with something that hadn't been there in the clinic: Midnight. Wear my coat. The message ended with the faintest sound—a sharp inhale, as if Namjoon had been about to say more before cutting himself off.
The rain had stopped by midnight, leaving Seoul’s streets slick and shimmering under the streetlights. Sin stood at the dorm’s back exit, Namjoon’s coat swallowing his frame, the sleeves pooling over his wrists. He’d rolled them three times and they still slipped past his fingertips. The fabric smelled like cedar and something darker—stage sweat, maybe, or the faint metallic tang of microphone stands. Sin pressed his nose to the collar and inhaled like a sinner at confession.
Headlights cut through the alleyway. A black SUV idled at the curb, windows tinted opaque. Sin’s phone buzzed: Get in. No please. No preamble. Just two words that sent his pulse skittering. The door clicked open before he could reach for the handle.
Namjoon sat in the shadowed interior, one hand draped over the steering wheel, the other holding a takeout cup. Steam curled from the lid. "You’re late," he said, though Sin wasn’t—the dashboard clock read 11:59. His voice was rougher than earlier, frayed at the edges. Sin hesitated, one foot on the running board. Namjoon’s free hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Sin’s wrist. The grip wasn’t tight, but Sin felt the promise of pressure in the way Namjoon’s thumb pressed into his pulse point. "I said get in."
The SUV smelled like leather and the sharp citrus of Namjoon’s cologne. Sin clutched the takeout cup handed to him—hot chocolate, whipped cream melting into swirls. His favorite. He’d never told Namjoon that. "How did you—"
The steam from the hot chocolate curled between them like a confession. Namjoon watched Sin’s lips part around the rim of the cup—pink, slightly chapped from biting—and felt something primal twist in his chest. He’d known. Known Sin would like this particular café’s blend, known he’d prefer extra whipped cream, known the exact way his fingers would tremble around the paper sleeve. The knowledge sat heavy in his gut, sour and sweet all at once. He shouldn’t know these things about a stranger. But Sin wasn’t a stranger. Not when Namjoon could trace the constellations of his freckles from memory, not when the curve of his shoulder felt familiar under his palm.
"You’re staring," Sin murmured into his cup. The words were barely audible over the hum of the SUV’s heater, but Namjoon caught them anyway—caught the way Sin’s throat moved when he swallowed, caught the flush creeping up his neck. He wanted to press his mouth there, where the pulse jumped beneath translucent skin. Wanted to mark him. Claim him. The thought should have startled him. It didn’t.
Namjoon shifted the gearstick into drive with more force than necessary. "Where should I take you?" he asked, though the question was a formality. He already had the route mapped in his head—a quiet park overlooking the Han River, deserted at this hour. Somewhere he could watch the streetlights paint Sin’s profile in gold without interruption.
Sin hesitated. His fingers tightened around the cup. "You—you really don’t have to—"
The hot chocolate scalded Sin’s tongue when he took too quick a sip, but the pain barely registered—not with Namjoon’s knuckles gone white around the steering wheel, not with the way his gaze kept flicking to Sin’s throat like he wanted to press his teeth there. The SUV purred through empty streets, the headlights catching on rain-slicked pavement. Sin counted the streetlamps to steady his breathing—one, two, three—but his pulse stuttered when Namjoon abruptly turned down an unmarked alley, tires hissing against wet asphalt.
"You’re not taking me home," Sin said softly. It wasn’t a question. The realization should have terrified him. Instead, warmth pooled low in his belly, thick as the whipped cream dissolving on his tongue.
Namjoon’s thumb tapped a restless rhythm against the leather wheel. "No." The single syllable hung between them, weighted. The dashboard lights painted his profile in harsh angles, the gold hoops in his ears glinting when he turned to stare at Sin—really stare, the way he had in the clinic, like Sin was something precious and fragile and his. "I told you. I’m collecting souvenirs."
Sin’s fingers tightened around the cup. The first time Namjoon had said that—in a text, hours ago—it had felt like a joke. Now, with the SUV idling in the shadow of a shuttered convenience store, with Namjoon’s scent enveloping him from all sides, it felt like a vow. The air between them crackled with something Sin had no name for, something that made his skin prickle when Namjoon reached over suddenly, his palm skimming Sin’s knee—right over the bandage from earlier.
The alleyway was too narrow for the SUV’s bulk, but Namjoon parked it anyway, half up on the curb, the bumper kissing the brick wall with a soft crunch. The engine died with a sigh. For a moment, the only sound was Sin’s shallow breathing and the distant drip of rainwater from a fire escape. Then Namjoon turned—slow, deliberate—his hand still resting on Sin’s knee, fingers splayed like he was measuring the span of bone beneath denim. "You lied about your age too," he murmured. His thumb pressed into the bandage, just shy of painful. "Nineteen, but your trainee contract says eighteen. Which is it?"
Sin’s cup slipped from his fingers, hot chocolate splattering the floor mats. The scent of cocoa and cream filled the cab, cloying and sweet. He didn’t remember telling Namjoon about his contract. Didn’t remember having a contract on him when Namjoon bundled him into the taxi earlier. His pulse hammered against Namjoon’s palm. "H-how did you—"
Namjoon’s phone lit up between them, screen casting his face in eerie blue. A scanned document flashed—Sin’s trainee agreement, complete with his real birthdate and a blurry ID photo. "You left your bag in my car," Namjoon said, like that explained everything. Like it was normal to rifle through a near-stranger’s belongings. Like it was natural to memorize the clauses in section 4.2 about dating bans and penalty fees. His fingers tightened imperceptibly. "Which is it, Sin?"
The truth lodged in Sin’s throat. He was eighteen—just barely, his birthday a scant three weeks past—but the company had insisted he add a year for debut. "Fans like hyungs," his manager had said, tweaking Sin’s cheek like he was a doll. Now, under Namjoon’s gaze, the lie tasted like ash. "Eighteen," he whispered.
The confession hung between them like a noose. Namjoon didn't react at first—just stared at Sin with those dark, unreadable eyes, the neon sign from the convenience store flickering across his face in pink and blue pulses. Then, horrifyingly, his lips curled. Not a smile. Something sharper. "Good," he murmured, thumb pressing harder into Sin's bandaged knee until the boy gasped. "I like them young."
Sin's stomach dropped. The words slithered down his spine, hot and shameful. He should recoil. Should wrench the door open and run. Instead, his traitorous body leaned into Namjoon's touch, thighs tensing beneath that heavy palm. The SUV's heater roared suddenly, blasting hot air that smelled like Namjoon's cologne—citrus turning cloying in the enclosed space.
Namjoon's phone buzzed against the dashboard. A notification flashed: 12:17 AM - Manager-nim (17 missed calls). He flipped it facedown without looking. "They'll debut you next spring," he said conversationally, as if discussing the weather. His fingers crept higher up Sin's thigh, slow as rising tide. "Short hair. Black. They think the white makes you look too fragile."
Sin shuddered. How did Namjoon know these things? The styling plans hadn't even been shared with the trainees yet. His fingers dug into the leather seat, nails scraping against grain. "You—you went through my phone too," he realized aloud, voice cracking.
Namjoon's fingers stilled on Sin's thigh, the leather creaking under his grip. The admission hung between them—ugly, undeniable. Outside, a stray cat yowled, the sound slicing through the humid air. Sin's pulse rabbited beneath his skin where Namjoon touched him, rapid and fragile as a bird's.
"Not your phone," Namjoon murmured at last. His thumb stroked the inseam of Sin's jeans, a mockery of gentleness. "Your manager's."
Sin's breath hitched. His manager's phone—locked with a fingerprint only higher-ups could bypass. The implications slithered through him, cold and oily. Namjoon hadn't just rummaged through his bag. He'd hunted, peeling back layers of Sin's life like prying open a music box to study its gears.
The neon sign flickered again, painting Namjoon's face in garish pinks. Up close, Sin could see what fancams never captured, the way his canines caught the light when he spoke. "You looked me up," Sin whispered. Not an accusation. A revelation.
The first time Namjoon saw Sin, it wasn’t in a crowded music show hallway or some company’s trainee evaluation—it was through a rain-streaked taxi window, watching a white-haired boy with doll-like features nearly get hit by a scooter. The boy—Sin—had stumbled back onto the curb, cerulean eyes wide as saucers, pink lips parted in a soundless gasp. Namjoon’s breath caught. He’d ordered the driver to stop before realizing he’d spoken.
Sin hadn’t recognized him at first. That was the first spark—the way those diamond-bright eyes flicked over Namjoon’s face without a trace of idol worship, only wary curiosity as Namjoon fussed over his scraped knee. "It’s nothing," Sin had murmured, trying to pull away, but Namjoon’s fingers tightened instinctively around his wrist. The contact sent a jolt up his spine. Sin’s pulse fluttered against his fingertips like a trapped hummingbird.
The second spark came when Sin finally realized who he was. Not with screams or tears, but with a slow, dawning horror—the kind that made his breath hitch and his fingers tremble around the hem of his sweater. Namjoon had smiled then, all teeth. "You know me," he’d murmured, thumb brushing the delicate bones of Sin’s wrist. It wasn’t a question. Sin’s reaction was too raw, too intimate for casual recognition. This boy had watched him. Studied him. Maybe even—
"Hyung," Sin had whispered, the honorific slipping out unbidden, and Namjoon’s stomach twisted with something hot and possessive. He’d lied about needing to escort Sin to the clinic. Lied about the taxi being his last appointment. The truth was simpler: he couldn’t let go. Not when Sin’s sweater slipped off one shoulder as the nurse cleaned his knee. Not when his breath hitched every time Namjoon leaned too close.
The alley behind the trainee dorms smelled of wet concrete and the ghost of last week’s garbage, but Namjoon inhaled like it was spring blossoms. His fingers flexed around the steering wheel, knuckles pale under the streetlight’s jaundiced glow. Sin’s scent still clung to the SUV’s upholstery—honeysuckle shampoo and something indefinably young, like pencil shavings and the inside of a new notebook. Namjoon’s throat tightened. He should leave. His manager’s seventeenth missed call pulsed against his thigh like a second heartbeat. Instead, he killed the engine.
Sin’s dorm window flickered with the blue glow of a laptop screen. Third floor, far right. Namjoon knew the layout from the company file he’d…acquired. Knew which bunk was Sin’s, knew the threadbare stuffed rabbit hidden under his pillow. His phone buzzed—another manager alert. He silenced it without looking. The alley cat from earlier slunk past his bumper, eyes reflecting yellow in the dark. Namjoon wondered idly if it had ever tasted Sin’s fingertips when he fed it scraps. The thought made his molars ache.
Inside the dorm, Sin stood frozen between his bunk beds, Namjoon’s coat still swallowing his narrow frame. His bunkmate—Jae, the loud one—was mid-rant when Sin’s phone lit up again. Not a text this time. A call. The screen flashed Unknown Number but Sin’s ribs knew. His fingers trembled when he swiped accept.
"Look up." Namjoon’s voice came through the line rough, like he’d been swallowing glass. Sin’s head jerked toward the window. The silhouette in the SUV waved, slow and deliberate. Even from three stories up, Sin could see the exact moment Namjoon’s free hand lifted to press against the glass—palm flat, fingers splayed—as if he could reach through concrete and steel to touch him.
Sin's breath fogged the dorm window as he pressed his forehead against the cold glass, watching Namjoon's silhouette in the SUV below. The call hadn't disconnected—he could still hear the idol's steady breathing through the phone, synchronized with the faint rumble of the car's engine drifting up through the alley. Three stories shouldn't feel this close.
"Hyung," Sin whispered before he could stop himself, the honorific slipping out like a prayer. His fingers curled around the phone so tight the edges dug into his palm. The SUV's interior light flicked on suddenly, illuminating Namjoon's face in gold—the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his bottom lip caught between his teeth when he smiled. Not the polished stage smile. Something hungrier.
