Coco

[shinegud92]

CHASING SEOUL, FINDING YOU

Chapter Thirty-Five — Tea Amongst Friends

I lingered in the living room, unable to shake Ye-Jin’s question. It hung between us in the dark, a challenge I couldn’t step around.

“So…” She sipped her tea. “…was that smile from Namjoon… or was it someone else?”

I met her gaze. “How do you always know?”

She smiled into her mug. “I don’t.”

“Liar.”

“I observe.”

I shrugged off the oversized leather jacket and tossed it on the couch.

“That sounds like something Yoongi would say.”

Ye-Jin raised an eyebrow. “So it was Yoongi.”

I closed my eyes. “Damn it.”

She laughed softly and patted the cushion beside her. “Sit.”

I hesitated.

“There,” she said.

“What?”

“You almost ran.”

“I was standing.”

“You were ready to escape.”

With a dramatic sigh, I dropped onto the couch. “I need less intelligent friends.”

“No,” she said. “You need friends who don’t love you enough to notice.”

Her words shut me up. For a moment, only the kettle on the stove spoke. Then Ye-Jin studied my face. “You’re smiling.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I’m tired.”

“No. Your left dimple is showing.”

My hand flew to my cheek. Ye-Jin grinned. “That one.”

I groaned. “I hate this dimple.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s a tell. I can’t hide it.”

“Maybe some things aren’t supposed to be hidden.”

I rolled my eyes—but my face warmed anyway.

Ye-Jin leaned back. “So. Yoongi made the dimple appear.”

I covered my face. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Just then, the soft padding of footsteps announced Sofía and Latoya, drawn by our hushed tones. Sofía, wrapped in a cream robe, rubbed one eye. “What’s happening? You’re whispering like aunties.”

Ye-Jin answered calmly, “Maniya came back smiling.”

Latoya grinned, suddenly wide awake. “Oh, she likes somebody.”

“I like sleep,” I snapped.

Ye-Jin sipped her tea. “She went out with Yoongi.”

Latoya blinked. “I thought Namjoon was the one asking all the questions.”

“He is,” I said.

“And Yoongi?”

I looked down. “He doesn’t ask.”

Sofía frowned. “What does that mean?”

“He just… says things.”

Ye-Jin smiled knowingly. “Observations.”

I nodded. “Namjoon asks questions because he wants me to explain myself.”

“And Yoongi?” Latoya prompted.

“He acts like he already trusts what he sees.”

The room fell silent. Hearing my own thoughts spoken aloud made them feel heavier. Sofía hugged a pillow to her chest. “One sounds exhausting.” Latoya looked at me, her expression serious. “And the other one sounds dangerous.” I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Ye-Jin just nodded slowly. “There’s your answer, then.”

Four women, four mugs, the kind of quiet where nobody reached for their phone or thought to apologize for the silence.

Sofía tucked her legs beneath her. “So… we’re really doing this?”

Latoya smiled. “I think we already started.”

Sofía laughed a little, then looked down at her hands. “Okay. Okay.” She glanced up. “I’ll go first before I talk myself out of it.”

“You usually do,” Ye-Jin teased.

Sofía threw a pillow at her. “I don’t know what happened. I was just supposed to have fun.”

“You still are,” Latoya said.

Sofía shook her head. “I thought I was. But every time Taehyung texts me, I find myself answering before I even realize I’ve picked up my phone.”

No one interrupted. “He doesn’t text all day. He’ll send one random picture.”

“One minute it’s a tree, the next a record player or a dog wearing a sweater.”

“And somehow we end up talking for three hours.”

Latoya smiled. “About what?”

“Everything.” Sofía shrugged. “Nothing.”

“He asks what I see. I ask what he sees. Then we’re deep into childhood memories.”

She laughed softly. “I don’t even know how he gets me there.”

“And Jimin?” Ye-Jin asked gently.

Sofía exhaled. “I have fun with him. We laugh, we flirt—he turns every night into an adventure. But when I leave Jimin, I leave thinking.”

The room stayed quiet, letting her words hang in the air.

Latoya watched Sofía, a thoughtful smile on her face. “It’s funny how a quiet one can make the most noise in your head.” She took a sip of her tea. “I think I know what you mean.” Sofía’s grin was immediate. “Oh, do you now?”

Latoya leaned back. “You know what’s funny? I’ve spent so much time with Jin, I almost forget he’s famous.”

We all laughed. She continued: “The other day we were walking past a flower market, and he stopped to buy a single flower for an elderly woman sitting alone. Not for me, not for show. Just because he thought she looked like she needed a smile.”

Ye-Jin laughed. “He’s passionate about everything.”

Latoya nodded. “A sunrise, a flower market, a new camera lens, a baseball game—he notices old couples holding hands, waves at kids, pets every dog that walks by.”

A small smile touched her lips, soft and unconscious. “I’ve never met someone who finds so much joy in ordinary life.”

“And J-Hope?” I asked.

Latoya’s smile grew. “He reminds me to laugh. He took me to this tiny neighborhood dance studio—no cameras, no celebrities, just music. He tried to teach me this ridiculous move, and we spent twenty minutes just dying with laughter because I couldn’t get it right. He never got frustrated—just kept pulling me back in.”

Sofía smiled. “That’s sweet.”

“It was.” Latoya looked down into her mug. “With Jin, I feel… settled. Like I can finally breathe out. But with J-Hope, I feel like I’m breathing in for the first time.”

Ye-Jin set her mug on the coffee table. Three pairs of eyes settled on her. She sighed. “I knew this was coming.”

“It is,” Sofía replied.

Ye-Jin smiled. “Jungkook surprised me.”

“How?” I asked.

“He’s so disciplined. He has this whole routine—boxing at dawn, language lessons, then studio time. All before lunch.” She shook her head. “But then he’ll see an arcade, and that entire schedule disappears. He spent an hour trying to beat my score on a racing game, claimed the controller was broken, and then tried to win me a stuffed animal for the next thirty minutes to make up for it.”

Sofía burst into laughter. “That’s so him.”

Ye-Jin nodded. “He makes everything fun. And that’s why I’m scared.”

The room quieted. “He deserves someone in the same season of life—someone closer to his age, who won’t overthink every step.”

Latoya reached across the couch. “You don’t get to decide what someone else deserves.”

Ye-Jin smiled sadly. “I know. But it’s hard not to.”

After a moment, Ye-Jin’s quiet voice cut through the silence. “You haven’t said a word.” All eyes turned to me. I leaned back, trying for a casual shrug. “Just listening. I don’t have anything interesting to add.”

They stared. I sighed. “Fine.” I looked down at my hands. “I just… I don’t know what this is. They’re good people, and this trip has been incredible. But we’re living in a fantasy—no jobs, no responsibilities. How am I supposed to tell what’s real from what’s just… Seoul?”

No one answered. I looked from face to face, and saw my own uncertainty reflected at me. It was one thing to feel a connection over late-night jokes, another to believe it could survive outside this bubble.

Sofía sighed. “So… what happens now?”

Ye-Jin tucked one leg beneath her. “We keep living.”

Sofía laughed. “I was hoping for something more profound.”

“Sometimes the obvious answer is the profound one,” Ye-Jin said.

Latoya nodded slowly. “I’ve been the same person my whole life. But there are people who made me not be self-conscious about it.”

I leaned against the window, looking at the lights below. “It’s more than the city feeling temporary. This version of me who smiles at strangers and stays out all night—what if she only exists here? We have ninety days before real life. What happens when she has to go back?”

Silence.

“What happens then?” I repeated softly.

Finally, Ye-Jin spoke. “I don’t think any of us know.”

Latoya nodded. “And maybe we don’t have to.”

Sofía smiled. “We’re only one month in. Nobody’s talking forever. We’re talking about tomorrow.”

Her words landed. I hadn’t said love. I didn’t think any of us had. We were just people who kept showing up—for the next conversation, the next laugh, the next plan we hadn’t made yet.

Ye-Jin stood. “Let’s make a promise.”

We all looked up.

“No matter where any of this goes, we don’t lose ourselves trying to hold onto someone else.”

Latoya extended her hand. “I’m in.”

Sofía lifted her mug. “Me too.”

I hesitated only a second before raising mine. “I’m in.”

Ye-Jin smiled and touched her mug to ours, one at a time. “Then we enjoy the next sixty days. No pressure, no expectations.” She looked around the circle.

We all nodded. A silent agreement passed between us, sealed in the quiet warmth of the penthouse as the sky began to lighten.

Outside, morning sunlight broke through the clouds. A new day. I picked up my phone, my thumb hovering over the screen. A few notifications were waiting—messages that had arrived while we were lost in conversation.

The first was from Namjoon: Hey, the contemporary art exhibit opens in two days. They have an interactive installation I think you’d love. If you’re free, I’d like to show it to you.

A minute later: Yoongi: Studio Friday. I finished something, but I don’t trust my own opinion anymore. I could use someone honest.

Before I could process either message, a third notification appeared: Our Group Chat: Bonfire this Saturday? No schedules. No cameras. Just food, games, and everyone hanging out.

Three invitations. A low whistle escaped my lips before I could stop it.

All eyes turned to me. “What happened?” Latoya asked.

I handed her my phone. She read the messages, then smiled.

“So…” She glanced up, a playful glimmer in her eye. “What are you going to do?”

I blinked. “What?”

Latoya gestured to the phone. Her smile was knowing. “Sixty days,” she said. “Good luck keeping your hands to yourself.”

=== THE END OF BOOK I: Arrival ===

Book II: Becoming - Will be coming soon!

[shinegud92]

CHASING SEOUL, FINDING YOU

Chapter Thirty-Four — The Ride Back Home

My shoulder blades pressed flat against the SUV’s door as Yoongi’s chest, broad and unyielding in his white tee, pressed the cool plum satin of my slip into his ribs. His hip—a rigid plank of muscle—jammed into mine, anchoring me in place.

He closed his fingers around my wrists with the implacable grip of iron talons, twisting them until the bones ground together, and the skin pulled tight and hot. One second stretched into two, then three—each beat an eternity beneath his hostile stare as he measured the exact moment my composure would crack.

Instead of unleashing the terrorism his shadowed eyes had promised, he leaned in close. His breath, scented with cedar and something darker, fanned over my neck in a low, guttural growl. When his forehead slammed calm into my chest, the impact rattled my ribcage. Every muscle in his body had gone rigid, trembling with the effort of holding itself still.

Then, as methodically as he’d seized me, he released me. Pinkish fingers adorned with silver rings slid down to the passenger-door handle, catching stray flashing reflections as he yanked it open.

“Get in,” he rasped, voice thick as wet gravel. “Before I actually do it.”

My knees threatened to fold beneath me. My core burned with a hollow ache as I scrambled onto the cold leather seat, dragging my oversized jacket down over my thighs like improvised armor. He slammed the door shut, the metallic echo reverberating off brick walls, then stormed around the hood and slid into the driver’s seat. The cabin filled with cedar cologne and the crisp mist of midnight.

The silence that fell was so absolute I could hear my own blood pounding in my ears. The only sound was the low rumble of the engine, a vibration I felt in my teeth. I stared straight ahead, every muscle tight, waiting for him to speak, for something to break.

Outside, Seoul slumbered in the charged limbo between late night and early dawn. Illumines halos smeared across the slick pavement; distant street sweepers scoured away yesterday’s sins, while lone taxis prowled for fares—ghostly predators prowling the urban shadows.

“You’ve been here before,” I croaked, my voice raw as sandpaper.

Yoongi’s beanie-shrouded eyes flicked to me. “The canal?”

I shook my head. “The corner store. The old bridge. You knew every crack where shadow swallowed cement.”

His fingers loosened on the wheel. “I go when the noise in my head turns to static.”

A ghost of a smile teased my lips. “So it’s your refuge.”

He exhaled, eyes still on the road ahead, where distant streetlights bobbed in the drizzle. “Refuge implies fear of discovery. I don’t mind if someone finds me.”

The blunt admission cut deeper than any threat. My fingers clenched the hem of my jacket. “Do you always go alone?”

“Always.” At the red light, he tilted his head, pupils blown out and obsidian in the glow of the brake lamp, pinning me with a feral intensity. “Tonight, I wanted company. I wanted you.”

My stomach lurched. I forced a jittery laugh. “You’ve got a whole city at your fingertips, Yoongi. Midnight texts from you—confidence or arrogance?”

He shoved the green light into motion, the SUV surging forward as his thigh brushed the console. “Observation, not vanity. You messaged Namjoon out of curiosity. You answered me because you were drowning, and you knew I’d haul you back to the now.”

His words ignited something fierce inside me. Namjoon’s gentle patience had been a mirror, but Yoongi’s magnetic pull felt like wildfire racing through arteries I’d buried six years ago.

His playlist, a chaotic bleed of warped hip-hop into sludgy metal, filled the car as we rolled past shuttered storefronts. At the next junction, I caught his slender fingers tapping an erratic Morse on the steering wheel—a rhythm that had nothing to do with the music.

“Are you writing?” I blurted, desperate to cut the tension.

He dipped his head, fringe brushing his brow, lips curved in dangerous amusement. “Trying not to.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Probably accurate.” Unfazed, he guided us toward a looming high-rise.

Instead of the underground garage, he parked a block away under a lone lamp whose bulb flickered weakly. He cut the engine—silence rose again, heavy and expectant. Neither of us reached for the doors.

“I thought tonight would be different,” I whispered, voice trembling in the hush.

“How so?” he asked, low and even.

“I thought we’d talk… about the kitchen floor.”

His shoulders, broad and shadowed, blocked the lamp’s glow as he leaned in, bringing his heat close enough to set my skin alight. “We already did.” I frowned. “We never said a word.”

He studied the neckline of my slip as if it held confessions, then met my eyes. “You revealed more by shutting up than you would have under interrogation. I don’t need questions to map your secrets—your face gives them away.”

My fingers curled around the door handle, but his next word stopped me cold.

“Maniya.”

Soft and unfamiliar on his tongue, it carried a keening ache. His dark eyes softened, though a fierce, possessive light still burned in their depths. A rare smile traced his dusky cheekbones. “I’m glad you didn’t change before you came down.”

I stared at my bare legs, the scuffed canvas of my white sneakers, and felt absurd—like I’d run out in my pajamas.

He leaned closer, voice a gravelly whisper. “You look real. I like meeting people before they decide who they’re supposed to be.”

As I slipped out his car, he called after me, “Sleep, if you can.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t trust my voice, so I just kept walking.

I climbed the marble steps into the lobby, each footfall echoing under the harsh lights. The elevator ride felt endless, mirrored walls reflecting a fractured, wild-eyed version of myself. My skin still burned where his fingers had pressed into mine.

When the doors finally slid open, a single amber lamp glowed in the living room, pooling warmth on the charcoal sectional. A knot of relief and dread tightened in my chest. I knew Ye-Jin would be waiting up.

I padded toward the hallway, craving the emptiness of my bed, when a smooth, neutral voice broke the quiet. “I was wondering when you’d finally get back.”

My body went very still. Ye-Jin sat curled on the edge of the sofa, a heavy-knit blanket draped over her elegant legs, a steaming ceramic mug cradled in her hands. Her catlike eyes, sharp and unblinking, followed my every step. She didn’t look angry, and she didn’t smile—she simply waited.

Her gaze drifted downward, tracing the oversized jacket on my shoulders, the hem of my satin slip, the white sneakers at my feet. Finally, she lifted her mug and, after a slow sip, asked as casually as pouring cream into coffee—

“So…was tonight Namjoon again?”

[shinegud92]

CHASING SEOUL, FINDING YOU

Chapter Thirty-Three — Hot Moonlit Streets

His thumb finds the curve of my cheek and stays there in a playful way, unhurried. I go very still. His eyes move over my face the way they always do—like he’s already decided something and is simply waiting for me to catch up. Warmth spreads down the side of my neck. I become suddenly, acutely aware of the thin fabric of my slip, the closeness of him, the way the night air has gone dense and slow between us. His fingers shift, just barely, and my throat makes a small, involuntary sound.

I press my thumbnail into the seam of my sleeve and work it back and forth. “There’s nobody’s name in my head, Yoongi.”

“Liar.” His voice rumbles low—rough as gravel tumbling over steel—and something in my chest goes very still.

“He releases my face, but his fingers drag down the column of my throat as he steps back, and my pulse jumps under each one like it’s trying to follow them. Neon light glints off his silver rings as he sets his empty coffee bottle in the recycling bin, its metallic clang sharp in the alley. “Come on.”

My skin goes hot, a flush spreading somewhere I’m not ready to think about. I shift in my scuffed sneakers. “We’re walking now?”

A single nod, dark beanie slung low. He melts into the alley’s shadows. “I told you I’d take you somewhere.”

My breath stutters. We drift forward in tandem, our strides echoing on the rain-slick asphalt. Rain-streaked graffiti runs in tie-dye tears down concrete walls, painting the deserted street in bleeding color. The quiet between us is a current of its own, pulling me deeper into the night with him.

A tap of his shoulder against mine jerks my focus. “You hug the walls.”

I press closer to the bricks. “Huh?”

“You’ve stayed closest to the brick buildings since we left the store.” He watches me walk.

I glance down at our parallel footsteps. He’s right. “I never noticed.” “You don’t,” he says flatly, his profile cutting a sharp silhouette under the amber streetlamp. “So now you’re analyzing me too?” I asked, a sudden defensive sting sharpening my tone.

“No questions,” he says, voice clipped. “I observe.”

I scoff. “Sounds like analyzing.”

He skims his gaze over me, dark and precise. “Statements are faster. And true.”

The laugh comes out wrong—too sharp, too loud. My satin slip brushes my thighs, reminding me how exposed I feel in his stare. “You really don’t plan.”

He lets a grin curve his lips—just barely. “I plan. I just don't announce it.”

We go quiet again until we step onto a stone footbridge over a canal that mirrors the neon skyline. The water’s restless ripples send shards of magenta and gold racing beneath us.

The quiet gets into me. I stare into the black swirl below, and my thoughts go loose, unspooling without my permission.

He leans on the railing beside me, broad shoulders filling my periphery. “You don’t have to fill the quiet, Maniya.”

I twist toward him, breath ragged. “I know.”

“Most people do.”

I rest my elbows on the railing, the world reduced to the scent of rain and cedar cologne. “I’ve never been most people.”

“I know.” Two words, and there’s nothing left to say.

I turn my torso toward him, the leather of my jacket grazing his flannel. “How do you know that?”

He studies my face under the lamplight. “You scan before you sit. You always pick the wall behind you, like you’re bracing for attack.” His lip curls. “Every single time.”

A genuine laugh bubbles up. He watches the tiny dimple crease my cheek, and his focus narrows, his eyes darkening as they trace the small indentation as if seeing it for the first time.

“I do?”

He steps closer, blockading me against the railing. “I remember everything.”

His confession lands somewhere between my throat and my chest, and stays there.

I try to mask my unsteadiness, my voice tight. “What game are you playing?”

Yoongi’s hand hovers inches from my hip. “No game. I just want to see what happens when someone doesn’t let you hide.”

Something in his words lodges behind my sternum. I clench my fists against the railing. He leans in, breath warm on my temple. “If I asked why you’re quiet, you’d rehearse an answer. If I just say you’re quiet? You’ll think about it all night.”

I can’t look away. I can’t speak. A hot flush creeps up my neck, something in my chest pulling tight, like a word I can’t swallow back down.

A low chuckle rumbles from his throat. “There.” He tilts his head to inspect the frustration in my eyes. “That expression.”

“Stop,” I hiss, voice small.

He laughs fully this time, deep and rich. Each one moves through me like a current finding its way home. “You believed me.”

“I—” My voice dies under his focus. “I hope you choke on your own hypocrisy.”

“Do you.” His gaze drops to the lace at my neckline and stays there a beat too long. “You hate that I’m paying attention.”

He doesn’t press me further. We move again, the silence between us charged as we wander through alleys that finally open to the Han River’s banks. The city’s lights fracture across the water, blazing like fallen stars, but all I can feel is the phantom heat of his gaze.

Yoongi perches on a low stone wall, and the tension seems to leave his shoulders in the open air. I join him, my thigh brushing his denim. He stares at the shifting current for a long moment. “I write best at night.”

“Lyrics?”

He nods. “Tracks.”

I tilted my head, studying the sharp, pale line of his jaw. My mind began to drift again, the quiet of the river drawing me back under like it had before He watches me slip away. “You did it again.”

I blink into focus. “Did what?”

“Drift.” He arches a brow. “It shows.”

“I was just thinking.” “I know.” He smiles to himself, his gaze locked on my lips. “It shows all over your face.”

My phone vibrates. I fish it out—our group chat lighting up: Latoya: Where are you? Sofía: Stop sneaking off.

A tight laugh escapes me—more reflex than relief. Of course, he’s still watching, cataloging this reaction, too.

“My friends,” I explain, nodding at the screen. “They think I vanish.”

“You do.” He doesn’t look at my phone, just at me. He shifts closer, his knee brushing mine, and I forget, for a second, what I was about to say. “I just hope when you disappear, it’s because you want to. Not because you’re running.”

His words land like truth, a cold fear coiling in my chest. The quiet sincerity in his voice is more unsettling than any of his earlier provocations.

I stand, the river breeze biting. I press my arms across my chest, each hand gripping the opposite elbow.

He doesn’t ask if I’m cold. He matches my stride until his shoulder presses into mine. His large, warm hand slipping out of his pocket to firmly grip my wrist through the leather, anchoring me right to his side. It’s a heavy, commanding warmth, and a low ache builds in my abdomen with every step we take toward the parked SUV.

His touch says: here, this, yes.

We finally reach the parked SUV, hidden in the alley’s shadow. He doesn’t open my door—with a quick sweep he pins me against the car, wrists caged above my head against the cool metal. His body crushes against me, the full weight of his want to pin my hip to the door until my breath abandons me. His mouth hovers at my ear. “I let you slip away in the kitchen,” he growls, voice thick with hunger. “Wear something like this again, Maniya, and I’ll take you right here.” His fingers trace a path up my thigh, slipping under the hem of my dress to press against the bare skin of my waist.

His words bypass thought entirely, landing deep in my bones. My head falls back against the cool metal of the door, and my eyes flutter shut. For the first time, I don’t want to run.

[shinegud92]

CHASING SEOUL, FINDING YOU

Chapter Thirty-Two — No Destination

I stared at the phone screen, a breathless, exasperated chuckle escaping me. Before I could stop it, my left cheek twitched into that stupid dimple—the one I’d spent years training myself out of, the one my mother always said gave me away. I caught my reflection in the mirror and scolded myself. “Maniya, knock it off. Don’t let him do this to you.”

I hadn’t even planned to go anywhere. I was still in my low-cut, midnight-plum satin slip trimmed with black lace, the loose silk skimming my waist with every breath. Bare-legged and half-awake, I was definitely not in the mood to drop everything at a two-word summons from the man who specialized in unraveling me.

Still, I marched to the closet intending to pull on sweatpants. I grabbed a hanger, hesitated, then slammed it back. No. Fuck it—he didn’t get to dictate my entire wardrobe at midnight.

I crossed to the front door and grabbed my heaviest piece: an oversized, distressed black leather jacket. It fell low enough to almost swallow my slip. I shoved my feet into unlaced white sneakers, clipped on thin gold hoops, and grabbed my keys.

Earlier in the evening I’d pinned up my curls, but now soft, dense tendrils framed my jaw, the rest piled into a messy pineapple on top of my head. Unpolished. Unplanned. But tonight that would have to be enough.

The elevator barked its way down faster than I expected, and when the lobby doors slid open, the cool, damp Seoul air hit me like a splash of cold water.

Yoongi was leaning against a blacked-out SUV beneath an amber streetlamp, vintage denim and an open olive flannel replacing his sweats. A dark beanie shadowed his eyes, his hands shoved into his pockets. He looked casually dangerous, effortlessly expensive.

He lifted his head as the doors clicked behind me. His gaze traveled slowly from my sneakers up the length of my legs to the leather’s edge, settling on the sliver of plum satin peeking out. A low, raspy chuckle rumbled from him. “You really came out like that.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, the leather creaking. “You sent me two words, Yoongi. No warning, no plan, no ‘Hey, are you awake?’”

“I knew you were awake.” He pushed off the hood and stepped into my space, his cologne mixing with damp asphalt. “You always leave the small lamp on in the living room before heading down the hall. You did it ten minutes ago.”

I narrowed my eyes. “That’s creepy.”

“It’s observation.” His voice dropped into that slow, rhythmic cadence that always made my skin feel too aware of itself. “I notice a lot of things when it comes to you.”

He reached past me, opened the SUV’s passenger door with a solid click, silver rings gleaming against the black paint. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere that’s still open.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be.”

I rolled my eyes as I climbed into the high leather seat, the slip riding up my thighs.

Twenty minutes later we stood on the curb of a narrow Mapo alley, not in some lounge or private club but in front of a tiny, neon-lit convenience store. Yoongi emerged with a plastic tray—two steaming cups of instant ramen, two sweet black coffees, and a crinkled bag of honey-butter chips.

I stared at the spread. “This is your grand idea of a midnight outing?”

He handed me chopsticks and a cup, his fingers brushing mine like a live wire. “My idea of perfect.”

I laughed, my left cheek dimpling deeply under the neon glare. “You could’ve just texted that you were hungry.”

“I wasn’t hungry.” He cracked his own chopsticks.

“Then why are we on a curb eating noodles at one in the morning?”

He sipped his coffee, eyes locked on mine over the rim. “Because you eat better when your brain isn’t running a marathon.”

I froze, a strand of ramen halfway to my mouth. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve been distracted for two days.” He didn’t ask. He stated it like fact. “You’ve gone silent in the group chat. You stopped sending random city photos. You looked drained the last time we all had dinner.”

My mouth went dry. “Have you been keeping score?”

“No.” He shrugged, leaning against the brick wall as his flannel slipped off one shoulder. “I’ve just been paying attention.”

It hit me harder than Namjoon’s intellectual probing. Namjoon would’ve dissected my thoughts layer by layer. Yoongi simply looked at me and accepted every messy piece. A terrifyingly physical kind of understanding.

He nudged the chips toward me with his boot. “Eat. You always go for the salty stuff first when you’re stressed.”

I laughed again, both embarrassed and grateful, feeling my thighs tighten under his denim-clad leg. “That’s oddly specific. And wrong.”

He leaned closer, voice dropping to a rough, intimate whisper. “You did it three times since we landed.

“Why do you remember things that don’t matter?” I murmured, staring at the steam rising from my cup.

He didn’t look away. His gaze drifted to my collarbone, exposed where the jacket gaped open. “They matter if they’re yours.”

The words hung between us, thick with unspoken promise. We sat side by side beneath the flickering neon, his thigh pressing warmth into the bare skin of mine where the dress had hiked up. For the first time in days, my mind stilled—no racing thoughts of Namjoon, no past regrets.

But as I watched the sharp line of his jaw and the possessive hunger in his eyes, a different kind of panic set in. Was my calm from the midnight air... or because the man next to me was dismantling every boundary I’d ever built?

He set his coffee down and lifted his hand to cup my jaw, thumb tracing my dimple with a dangerous caress. His pupils were wide in the dim light. “Now,” he rasped, “tell me whose name you were running through your head before I called you out here.”

[shinegud92]

CHASING SEOUL, FINDING YOU

Chapter Thirty-One — Come Outside

The penthouse had that particular kind of noise only lifelong friends can make—everyone talking at once, no one really listening, all of it somehow comfortable. Cabinet doors slammed, voices echoed—“My charger!” “I never touched it!”—and laughter floated over it all. I slipped into my bedroom, the soft click of the door a welcome silence against the noise. Outside, Seoul was doing the opposite, winking to life as lavender skies deepened into navy. Movie night. Our first. The thought was a quiet joy all my own.

I unzipped my suitcase and drew out my favorite sleep set—silky plum fabric trimmed with black lace so fine it left little shadow on the skin, with a side split. The camisole dress draped just over my hip curves, the fabric cool and weightless against my skin, while the matching panties hugged my waist. It was delicate but not fragile: the girls always teased me for saving it for “special occasions,” but tonight felt too real to be merely special. It felt like home.

I wound a lightweight black satin robe around me, let my curls bounce free over my shoulders, and decided my face would rest tonight—no foundation, no line of mascara. Vacation had taught me my skin did better on its own. In the mirror, I saw someone simple, someone comfortable. My grandmother would’ve said I looked “presentable enough to answer the door.” I laughed softly and headed back downstairs.

As I neared the kitchen, the scent of warm butter and heady garlic wrapped around me. Rosemary and thyme from freshly chopped herbs mingled with an undernoted of sweetness I couldn’t yet place, all of it sparked by a subtle hint of chili. Latoya stood at the stove, stirring a gleaming skillet, wearing an oversized burnt-orange sleep shirt that fell to mid-thigh—and beneath it, black cotton shorts hidden from view. Her satin bonnet had been replaced by a deep burgundy silk scarf, neatly tied around her braids. In one hand she held a wooden spoon; in the other, unmistakable authority.

“No tasting.”

“I wasn’t—”

“She jabbed the spoon in my direction. “You absolutely were.”

“I just got here,” I defended, inhaling the scent of sizzling onions.

“You looked hungry.”

“I am hungry.”

“Then wait.”

Sofía drifted in from the living room, three fluffy throws draped over her arms like she was delivering something ceremonial. She wore ivory satin pajamas edged in black piping—the shirt half-tucked, sleeves rolled to the elbows—and her golden curls were piled in a loose “pineapple” ponytail that somehow read effortlessly chic. “I’ve made the couch cozy,” she announced.

Latoya eyed the pile. “You stole the decorative blankets.”

“They were decorative,” Sofía corrected, unfurling one with a snap. “Now they have a purpose.”

Ye-Jin glided in next, wearing a forest-green cotton pajamas with cream piping, her hair braided over one shoulder in a soft cascade. Even in PJs, she looked pulled-together in a way that felt reassuring.

I leaned against the marble island. “So… what’s for dinner?”

Latoya’s smile went wide and easy. “Half homemade, half takeout.” She gestured toward a pair of deliver bags. “I cooked rice. The rest arrived thirty minutes ago.”

I laughed. “So you supervised.”

“I elevated,” she corrected, crowning her words with another swirl of the spoon.

Moments later, the island had disappeared under bowls and containers: glossy soy-garlic fried chicken, plump pieces spiced with gochugaru, glistening japchae noodles tangled with vegetables, kimchi-studded fried rice, neatly sliced fruit, seaweed-wrapped rice rolls, neon-red tteokbokki—and, because Sofía insisted that “movie night requires balance,” a giant pepperoni pizza.

“I still don’t understand why pizza is balance,” Ye-Jin murmured, folding a blanket around her legs.

“Because…” Sofía grabbed a slice. “…it listens without judgment.”

We abandoned the dining table and folded ourselves into the sectional—blankets dragged from the armrests, pillows stacked against the back, snacks redistributed across the coffee table with the seriousness of a buffet setup. The television woke at a gesture from Ye-Jin’s phone, its interface blooming open to a grid of thumbnails.

Latoya settled cross-legged into her corner. “No horror.”

I pressed a hand to my chest. “I hadn’t even said anything.”

“You were about to.”

Sofía pointed at her. “Correct.”

Ye-Jin was already navigating, her thumb moving through the app with quiet authority. She stopped on something. “This one.”

Sofía leaned over to look. “What’s it about?”

“A woman who—”

“Does she cry?”

“Probably.”

“I don’t want to cry.”

“You cried at a furniture commercial.”

“That was different. The couch was symbolic.”

Latoya glanced at me. “Horror or cry-couch?”

“Horror.”

Three groans, overlapping and immediate.

“Overruled,” I said. “Shocking.”

Compromise landed us on a romantic comedy from the late nineties, surfaced by the algorithm like a gift. We started with commentary—sharp, performative, proud of ourselves—but somewhere in the second act our jokes went quiet and fond, and we started finishing the lines before the characters could.

About twenty minutes in, Latoya reached over and tapped mute. She didn’t say anything. Just looked at us, one at a time, something unreadable and warm moving behind her eyes.

Sofía caught it first. “Why are you looking at us like that?”

“I was just thinking,” Latoya said softly. “Look at us. A month ago, would we have been able to just… sit like this?”

The question settled between us, and the easy quiet of moments before suddenly felt heavier.

Ye-Jin tucked one leg under her. “I think that’s true.”

Sofía spoke quietly. “I smile more.”

“You do,” I agreed.

She glanced at me, surprised. “You noticed?”

“You laugh louder now.” Latoya nodded. “You also stop taking pictures sometimes.”

Sofía’s smile was soft. “I think I’m finally living moments instead of trying to capture them all.”

Ye-Jin added, “I’ve stopped translating everything in my head. I used to worry everyone would feel lost. Now I trust you to ask questions.”

I met her gaze. “You’ve relaxed.”

She laughed. “I didn’t realize until now.”

Latoya reached for another chicken wing. “I’ve learned restraint.”

Maniya watched the surprise move across their faces, each one a beat behind the last.

“Okay,” she laughed. “A little restraint. I haven’t tried to cook every single recipe I’ve bookmarked this month.”

Their eyes turned to me. “Oh no,” I said.

Latoya’s grin was mischievous. “Oh yes. Your turn. What have you learned?”

I opened my mouth, but Sofía cut in. “You forgot your phone upstairs this morning.”

“And you weren’t checking the time all day,” Latoya added. “You’d never do that at home.”

Their words landed, simple and true. I looked out at the city lights, the realization settling. “I guess I’m learning how to actually be here,” I said, the words feeling new on my tongue.

Latoya beamed. “You laughed today. You forgot your phone. You didn’t check the time once.”

I blinked, the simple truths landing with surprising weight. “… I did.”

Ye-Jin’s knowing smile warmed me. “You’d never have done that at home.”

Probably not.

The conversation drifted to our funniest misadventures. While scrolling through photos on her phone for evidence of a disastrous dessert, Sofía paused on an image, a small, private smile touching her lips before she quickly swiped away. The moment was fleeting, but I saw Latoya’s eyes narrow, catching it too.

Latoya nudged me with her foot. “So. If—hypothetically—someone invited you somewhere tomorrow, would you go?”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Very specific.”

“Hypothetically,” she teased.

I thought, then smiled. “I’d decide tomorrow.”

Sofía laughed. “The most Maniya answer ever.”

“Why?”

“Because you genuinely don’t know until it’s time.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” Ye-Jin said softly. “Actually, that’s one of the things I admire most about you.”

I blinked. “What?”

“You never force yourself into decisions just because someone expects one.”

The room hushed again. I looked at my hands. “I’d rather give an honest answer late than a dishonest one quickly.”

Latoya’s eyes shone. “I like that.”

“So do I,” Sofía agreed. Ye-Jin simply nodded.

Outside, Seoul pulsed on without them, indifferent and enormous. Inside, four friends sat wrapped in blankets, surrounded by food, laughter, and the quiet certainty of belonging. The movie played unnoticed for several thoughtful minutes, and none of us minded.

Movie night held until almost midnight.

By then, the sprawling penthouse was silent. Latoya’s room was dark, but a sliver of light from her phone still glowed from under the door. Ye-Jin’s room was dark, and from Sofía’s, the faint bass of an alt-R&B playlist whispered down the corridor.

I stood in my marble bathroom, halfway through brushing my teeth, when my phone buzzed so hard it rattled against the counter. My body went very still, the toothbrush still in my mouth. I swiped toothpaste from my lips and grabbed the device.

One message. The name on the screen was saved, but I’d have known him from the sheer bluntness of the command anyway.

Yoongi: Come outside.

No greeting. No explanation. No glowing pin dropped on a map like Namjoon. Just a blunt command, the words stark against the screen in the midnight hush.

I stared at the screen and let out a breathless, exasperated chuckle. “… Seriously?”

[shinegud92]

CHASING SEOUL, FINDING YOU

Chapter Thirty — Movie Night

For two days, I’d almost convinced myself that the rainy afternoon in Insadong with Namjoon hadn’t unsettled me. I’d lost myself in Seoul with the girls—in crowded markets and missed subway stops, in Sofía’s hunt for the perfect flowering tree. But even then, I was still mentally answering the question he’d asked as we parted, still wondering what book he’d picked after I left. And for two days, he’d been silent.

Which was perfectly normal. We’d spent one afternoon together. He had a life. I had a vacation. Normal people didn’t text every day just because they’d shared coffee, rain, and one surprisingly deep conversation. So why did his silence feel so noticeable?

I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. That was Namjoon’s talent: asking innocuous-sounding questions that, when you were alone later, kept turning over in your mind until something you’d filed away as settled suddenly wasn’t. Do you think people choose who they become—or slowly discover who they’ve always been?

At the café, I’d laughed it off. Called it unfair. Said I needed time to think. He’d smiled as though he’d expected exactly that. Now it had been two days—and I still had no answer. Worse, I’d begun asking myself questions he hadn’t even voiced: Why did I feel different here? Why had I spent so long treating rest like a reward? Why had a near-stranger made it so easy to drop the sarcasm and speak honestly? And most maddening of all—why had he asked me instead of Ye-Jin?

Ye-Jin made sense: polished, composed, fluent in Korean, at home in the quiet spaces he seemed to prefer. She looked like she belonged beside him in a museum or bookstore without effort. Me? I showed up to gallery openings in leather jackets and spent Saturday mornings arguing about anime endings with strangers online. I kept color-coded spreadsheets and could not, for the life of me, explain why I found obscure historical footnotes genuinely thrilling. I laughed too loudly in quiet restaurants and then went home and didn’t answer my phone for three days.

Maybe he was simply curious. That felt safer. I decided to stick with it.

“Maniya!” Latoya’s voice drifted up from downstairs. “Help with these bags, or I’m eating all the snacks myself.”

I didn’t move. “I’ll survive.”

“You say that now!”

I forced a smile and sat up. Through my bedroom window, the late-afternoon sun cast gold across the Han River. Seoul looked softer at this hour—warm glass, long shadows, the city settling into evening without slowing down.

In two days, something had shifted. We were no longer visitors timing the fastest elevator or hunting for the strongest coffee. Now, Sofía had a running joke with the florist, conducted entirely in gestures. Latoya was known at the market as “the woman who buys too much garlic.” Ye-Jin navigated the side streets without a map. And me? I’d gone an entire day without thinking about work. It felt like an achievement, and it shouldn’t have.

“Maniya!”

“I’m coming!” I slipped my phone into my pocket and headed downstairs.

The kitchen looked like a grocery store had exploded. Bags of produce, boxes of snacks, bottled drinks, sauces, and enough instant noodles to survive a minor disaster covered the marble island. Latoya stood amid it all in a deep-teal tank and cream linen pants, gold hoops catching the light each time she moved. Without greeting me, she pointed to three bags. “You—produce.”

“I just got here.”

“You haven’t even taken your shoes off.”

“You can remove shoes after vegetables,” said Ye-Jin, arranging bottles in the fridge by height without turning around.

I looked from Latoya to Ye-Jin. “Traitor.”

“You put the drinks on the wrong shelf last time.”

“There are correct shelves?”

“There are now.”

Latoya rolled her eyes. “She’s been waiting her whole life for that refrigerator.”

“She’ll thank me when she can find things,” Ye-Jin replied.

“I appreciate chaos,” I said.

“No,” Ye-Jin said calmly. “You tolerate chaos because you’re good at fixing it.”

I stared at her. Latoya jabbed a finger at the veg. “No personal breakthroughs until everything is put away.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Sofía swept in, camera in one hand, a bright-pink shopping bag in the other. Blonde curls tumbled from a messy bun, framing her face. “I documented the whole trip.”

“You took pictures of us buying groceries.”

“I documented our domestic lives.”

“Twenty-nine photos of me choosing onions.”

“Thirty-one.”

“Why?”

“The lighting was beautiful.”

“It was an onion.”

“It had character.”

I picked up a bundle of green onions. “Did these have character too?”

Sofía lifted her camera. “They do now.”

I held them like a bouquet. “Make me look expensive.”

Click click click. Latoya snatched the onions. “No playing with ingredients.”

“You sound like somebody’s mother.”

“And yet none of you listen.”

“We’re adults.”

“That makes it worse.”

I found three kinds of mushrooms. “Why three?”

Latoya was offended. “Because they taste different.”

“They’re all mushrooms.”

“They are completely different,” Ye-Jin insisted.

I held up one package. “This one looks anxious.”

“That one does look anxious,” Sofía agreed.

Latoya confiscated it. “Both of you, leave the mushrooms alone.”

I turned to Ye-Jin. “I’ve been abandoned.”

“You were wrong.”

“Facts don’t determine loyalty.”

“They should,” she said.

As old soul music drifted from the living room, I rinsed strawberries, watching the others move around me in a familiar rhythm. Latoya seasoned chicken while critiquing our organizing skills; Ye-Jin quietly re-aligned everything we put away. Sofía danced between them, ignoring Latoya’s scolding.

The penthouse, once too big and breathtaking, now felt like ours. My leather jacket was draped over a chair, Ye-Jin’s books colonized the coffee table, and Sofía’s chargers were by the TV. Home wasn’t a place—it was the evidence we left behind.

I slid the last container of strawberries into the fridge and leaned against the counter, watching my friends: Latoya humming, Sofía sneaking fruit and yelping when Latoya slapped her hand away, Ye-Jin smiling as though she’d always known this was exactly how it would be. A warm glow settled in my chest.

We’d talked about this trip for years—in fragments, “one day,” “eventually,” when schedules aligned, when life gave permission. Life never did. We took it anyway.

My phone vibrated against my hip. For one ridiculous second, I wondered if it was Namjoon. I pulled it out: a hotel notification confirming tonight’s dessert order. I locked the screen and set it face-down.

“Who was it?” Sofía’s voice was much too close.

“No one,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed. “You checked quickly.”

“My phone vibrated.”

“Phones do that.”

“That’s how notifications work.”

Latoya looked between us. “What’s happening?”

“Maniya thought someone texted her.”

“I did not.”

“It sounded defensive,” Sofía said.

“It sounded accurate.” Ye-Jin closed a cabinet. “Who did you think it was?”

“I didn’t think anyone.”

Three pairs of eyes stared at me. I shrugged. “This kitchen has become hostile.”

Latoya rested her palms on the island. “So…?”

“I said no.”

She smiled. “You were about to ask if we’d heard from them, weren’t you?”

Sofía laughed. “She knows us too well.”

“I know all of your tells,” I corrected. Latoya’s expression brightened with understanding. “Oh.”

“No,” I said, cutting off that train of thought. “Not them. It was about the book café guy.”

Sofía leaned forward. “How was mysterious book man?”

“He’s not mysterious.”

“You didn’t know his last name until last week.”

“I did.”

“Because Ye-Jin told you.”

“That still counts.”

“It doesn’t.”

I turned toward the sink. “We had coffee.” Latoya waited. “We talked.”

“And?”

“We looked at books.”

Sofía blinked. “That sounds painfully on-brand for him.”

“It was a book café.”

“Did he ask another question that made you stare at a wall afterward?”

I looked at her. She grinned. “So he did.”

“I don’t stare at walls.”

“You absolutely do.”

“I think.”

“While staring at walls.”

Ye-Jin stepped closer. “What did he ask?”

I hesitated. They leaned in. “It wasn’t important.”

Latoya’s eyebrows shot up. “Then it was very important.”

“It was just something about whether people choose who they become or discover who they’ve always been.”

Silence.

Sofía lowered her candy bag. Ye-Jin studied me. Latoya nodded slowly. “That’s actually a good question.”

“I know,” I said. The answer came too fast, and their expressions shifted. I sighed. “Which is why it’s annoying.”

Sofía laughed. “You’ve been thinking about it.”

“I think about many things.”

“For two days?”

I turned to her. “Why are you counting?”

“Because you get a little line between your eyebrows when you’re stuck.”

I rubbed the space above my nose. She laughed. “There.”

“I hate all of you.”

“No, you don’t,” Latoya said.

“I’m considering it.”

Ye-Jin rested her hip on the counter. “So—do you want to see him again?”

The kitchen fell quiet. I looked toward the windows. The light had shifted to pale gold. “I don’t know,” I admitted. I didn’t know what another afternoon with Namjoon would mean. I didn’t know if I wanted another question. I didn’t know why his silence felt so heavy when I’d spent years loving people who knew how to leave me alone. And I definitely didn’t know what to do with how I felt under that umbrella when his rings brushed my hand.

Sofía watched me. “You don’t know if you want to see him again?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Latoya smiled. “You kind of did.”

“No. I said I don’t know.”

“What’s the difference?”

“A lot.”

Ye-Jin understood first. “She doesn’t know what seeing him again would mean.”

I glanced at her. She shrugged. “Am I wrong?”

“No.”

The word slipped out before I could hide it. For once, nobody teased me. Latoya returned to seasoning the chicken. Sofía opened the candy. Ye-Jin resumed organizing. The conversation moved on without forcing me to explain something I couldn’t. That was what I loved about them. They pushed. They noticed. They asked questions I sometimes resented. But they always knew when to stop.

Latoya cranked up the music. “Important question!”

Sofía raised her hand. “Rom-com.”

“No.”

“You haven’t heard the choices.”

“I know you.”

Ye-Jin grabbed the takeout menus. “Mystery.”

“Absolutely not,” Latoya said. “You’ll spend the whole movie debating police logic.”

“They usually do.”

I headed for the pantry. “Horror.”

Three heads turned.

Sofía pointed. “No.”

“You didn’t even think about it.”

“I’m trying to sleep tonight.”

“It’s just a movie.”

“You said that last time and laughed at my screams.”

“It was funny.”

“It was traumatic.”

Latoya shook her head. “Something everyone can enjoy.”

“That doesn’t exist,” Ye-Jin said.

“Exactly,” I said. “So horror.”

Sofía threw a bag of marshmallows at me. I caught it against my chest.

“Violence already?”

“Self-defense.”

I laughed, and my left cheek dimpled—the one I’d spent years thinking looked odd because the other side wouldn’t match. Sofía smiled.

“That’s a real one.”

I narrowed my eyes. “What?”

“Nothing.”

She turned away too fast. Suspicious.

Latoya clapped her hands. “Everyone go change.”

“We’re cooking first,” I said.

“I’m cooking.”

“We’re helping.”

She looked at all three of us. “No.”

“That was rude.”

“That was experience.”

Ye-Jin grabbed two empty bags. “I’ll clean.”

Sofía lifted her camera. “I’ll document.”

Latoya pointed to the stairs. “You’ll change.”

Sofía pouted. “Art is never appreciated in its own time.”

I grabbed the marshmallows and sprinted toward the living room, their laughter chasing me. For the first time in two days, there were no questions echoing in my head, no weight of a silent phone. There was just the ridiculous, stupid joy of running from my friends in a city that had stopped feeling like an escape and started feeling like life.

At least—for now. Downstairs, my phone lay face-down on the kitchen counter, screen against the marble, the way I’d set it before coming up to change.

[shinegud92]

CHASING SEOUL, FINDING YOU

Chapter Twenty-Nine — The Walk Home

Neither of us noticed how quickly the last daylight faded until the café owner, catlike in her movements, quietly clicked a switch, igniting the low amber lamps that cast a honeyed glow over the windowpanes. Outside, the once-torrential downpour had softened into a milky‐silver mist, weaving filaments of moisture that clung to the dark brick facades and narrow alleyways of Insadong. Inside, the gentle hum of conversation and the clink of porcelain had morphed twice: new patrons drifted in like moths to a lantern, sipped steaming lattes, then drifted back into the city’s pulse. Yet here we remained, ensnared in each other’s words, the narrow wooden table between us thrumming with a latent, electric tension.

Namjoon’s dark fringe fell over his brow, droplets of mist clinging to his lashes. He glanced at the rain‐streaked window, its glass rippling with pale rivulets, then pivoted back to me, his gaze steady, almost gravitational. “I think we closed the place.”

I scanned the room. The bookstore café had emptied completely; only a lone barista lingered behind the counter, her white apron crisp, her expression a gentle, knowing smile as she polished the gleaming steam wand. My cheeks went hot and tight, the kind of warmth that sits just under the skin and doesn’t fade quickly. “Oh… I didn’t realize.”

His low, velvet chuckle vibrated through his broad chest, the cream of his mock‐neck sweater hugging firm muscle. “Don’t worry about it.”

“What?” My voice fell an octave as I uncrossed my legs, feeling the olive‐green ribbed fabric of my dress slip like liquid silk down my thighs.

“They’ve probably just been trying to figure out why two people ordered one pot of jasmine tea and lingered for nearly four hours,” he murmured, the pull at the corner of his mouth so unhurried and certain that I felt it somewhere low and inconvenient.

I exhaled a soft laugh, drawing my cropped cocoa‐suede jacket tighter, as if I could barricade my breathlessness. “I guess we should leave.”

“I guess we should.”

The first breath of Seoul’s evening air was cool, damp, and instantly bracing, a stark contrast to the suffocating warmth we’d left behind. Mist swirled around our ankles as we stepped onto the slick sidewalk. Namjoon flicked open a wide, black umbrella with a sharp snap, its canopy unfurling like a protective membrane. Without hesitation, I slipped into his orbit, seeking refuge beneath the broad arc of canvas.

The alley narrowed until the brick walls were close enough to touch on either side, the amber lamplight barely reaching us, our footsteps loud and private on the wet stone. A gust tore down the corridor without warning and the umbrella wrenched sideways, and we both seized the handle at once—my fingers first, then his closing over them, the silver of his rings cold against my knuckles for only a second before his skin warmed them. I forgot the wind entirely. I forgot the rain. There was only the exact weight of his hand on mine, and the fact that the gust had long since passed and neither of us had moved.

He tilted the umbrella a fraction higher, letting a halo of diffused lamplight skim across his sharp jawline. “You’re shorter than I expected.”

I looked up; the wet cobblestones glistened under the streetlamps, my boots tapping soft echoes. “That’s your grand observation after four hours of talking?”

The smile deepened at one corner, unhurried. His eyes dropped for just a moment—not to my face—before returning. “It wasn’t. It was just the only thing I could say without getting myself into trouble.”

An electric thrill rippled in my veins, turning my blood to fire. “Now I’m curious about the others.”

“I know you are.”

“...And you’re not going to tell me?”

He shook his head, dark eyes locked on mine, intensity burning bright like lantern flame. “No.”

“Why?” I whispered.

“Because, Maniya,” his voice dropped low, each syllable deliberate and unhurried, landing somewhere just below my ribs, “I don’t think you’re ready for the rest.”

His words hung in the air between us, thick as mist. We strolled down Insadong’s historic streets, the silence charged with everything left unsaid. Neon signs flickered, their reflections pooling on the wet asphalt like questions I was afraid to ask. We passed a shop window filled with pressed flowers, and I saw his reflection next to mine, his expression unreadable. An elderly couple moved past us as one under a single umbrella, their silent accord a stark contrast to the thrumming uncertainty between us.

Namjoon watched them long after they’d gone, profile stoic, throat pale against cream sweater. “Do you know what I like most about rainy days?”

I tilted my head, my hair damp at the nape. “What?”

He exhaled, his breath misting faintly. “People stop pretending they’re in a hurry.”

A genuine smile softened my features, the first crack in my defenses. “I’ve never thought about that.”

“I don’t think most people do.” He turned his head, surveying the slick pavement lit by neon and gaslight. His gaze returned to me, unvarnished. It wasn’t a polished line; it was just an observation. He was simply noticing.

Halfway to the penthouse, a sudden gust whipped down the alley, chilling me through the thin knit of my dress. I wrapped my arms around myself, the ribbed fabric offering scant defense.

Namjoon halted without a word. With fluid fingers, he freed a charcoal‐gray wool scarf from around his neck, its fibers thick and fragrant with cedar and clean linen. “You’ll get cold,” he murmured.

“I’m fine,” I lied, attempting a shrug.

“I know you are.” He draped the scarf around my shoulders, the wool settling against my skin like a warm shroud. His calloused fingers brushed my collarbone—just a whisper of contact—yet the warmth seared straight to my core. I could feel the taut planes of his chest inches from my own as he tucked the ends neatly.

“Are you always like this? Taking care of everyone else?” My voice trembled on the edge of vulnerability.

He paused, fingers lingering for a timeless moment. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t?”

“No.” His voice softened, intimate. “I just can’t stand watching someone suffer if I can do anything to help.” Each word fell like a stone into my chest, creating ripples of longing and caution.

My pulse thundered. A memory of Yoongi’s touch—urgent, raw, a promise made on the kitchen floor—flashed through me, a stark contrast to the quiet intensity radiating from the man in front of me. This was different. This was a measured, intellectual hunger that was stripping me bare in a way I hadn’t known was possible.

At the glass vestibule, rainy reflections shimmered on the panels. Namjoon paused, gazing outward at the panorama of Seoul’s glittering skyline, blurred by rain. Then he turned back, full attention like a spotlight.

“Why did you invite me tonight? Out of everyone.”

He stayed silent, silhouette framed by the lobby’s warm glow. “Do you want the polite answer… or the honest one?”

My heart stuttered. “The honest one.”

He took a step closer, rainwater dripping from his hair onto my coat. “I’ve spent my life surrounded by people who tell me what I want to hear… who play the game.” His voice was low, urgent. He closed the distance. “You don’t.”

“I don’t?”

“Sometimes I think you respond before you’ve even decided if the answer is smart,” he murmured, lips curving as a dimple bloomed. “You’re unpredictable.”

I swallowed, the word “unpredictable” tasting like a dare on my tongue. “And that’s a good thing?”

“It makes me ravenous.” The words settled somewhere behind my chest, heavy and warm.

Before I could absorb it, his phone buzzed—a rigid, jarring note that cracked our bubble. He retrieved it with reluctant fingers, eyes flicking to the screen, and exhaled in frustration. “Duty calls,” he muttered, slipping the device away. “I should let you go.”

Inside the lobby, marble floors gleamed under recessed lights. Rainwater dripped from the umbrella onto the mat, forming tiny puddles. Neither of us moved to call the elevator.

“Thank you,” I said quietly, looking up at him.

“For what?”

“For the tea, the conversation… for listening.”

A small dimple flickered in his cheek, but his eyes remained dark and possessive. “You gave me more than you know.”

I glanced down, heat creeping up my neck. “I didn’t tell you much.”

“No,” he murmured, his tone deepening. “But you showed me how you think. That’s more interesting.”

The elevator chimed open. I slipped inside, the metal walls cool against my back. As the doors began to close, he lifted a hand in a slow, deliberate gesture—no grand farewell, no hollow promise—just a silent claim left pulsing in the air between us.

Back in the penthouse, life roared to full volume. Latoya stalked the marble kitchen island, phone clamped to her ear, her waist length braids whipping with each emphatic nod. Her laughter was warm and rolling. “No, Jin, honey does not go in a spicy marinade—you’ll ruin it.”

J-Hope lounged against the counter in a black hoodie, arms crossed, mock-anguished. “Maniya, thank god you’re back. I’ve been banished from taste-testing.”

Latoya didn’t pause, her voice rising in playful argument.

Across the open living area, Ye-Jin sat poised at the dining table. Her gaze flicked to me, taking in my flushed cheeks and slightly parted lips. “You had fun?” she asked, her voice clear and direct.

My fingers brushed the wool at my neck—I still wore Namjoon’s charcoal scarf. “It was… nice. Quiet.”

Ye-Jin’s lips curved in a slow, knowing smile. “Good.” She didn’t press further.

Late that night, in the hush of my bedroom, the city lights glimmered through sheer curtains. I removed the scarf, inhaling one last note of cedar, rain-damp linen, and a whisper of musk. I draped it over my chair, promising myself I’d return it next time. Beneath the cool sheets, a restless blaze coiled in me. Yoongi’s carnal heat warred with Namjoon’s intellectual fire, each memory sending tremors down my spine.

Elsewhere, in a studio flooded with fluorescent light, Namjoon sat hunched over his phone, our message thread open. The blue light illuminated the tension in his jaw as he typed three words: I want more. He paused, thumb hovering over send. He replayed the evening, analyzing it: her guarded laugh, the way she pulled her jacket tight as if to hold herself together, the brief, unguarded smile that had revealed a single dimple. For a man who lived by rules, sending that text felt impulsive, an act of defiance against his own nature. He reread the words. They were too simple, too easily misunderstood. With slow deliberation, he erased the message. He wasn’t retreating—he was recalibrating. Some things required more than words on a screen.

[shinegud92]

CHASING SEOUL, FINDING YOU

Chapter Twenty-Eight — Somewhere Quiet

For ten minutes, my palm was glued to the phone, its faint buzz a nervous pulse against my skin. Then his first message appeared. A moment later, another: a map pin in Insadong. I told myself it was nothing—a polite offer of sanctuary. I nearly rolled over, ready to sink back into the champagne-satin sheets and ignore him. But the image of the map pin lingered—a silent invitation to a place he wanted to show me. That thought, quiet and insistent, was what finally had me throwing back the covers and striding toward my closet to find something to wear.

I leaned close to the glass, but my reflection felt like a stranger. Gold hoops gleamed against dark skin, but all I saw was the faint tremor in my hand as I traced my jaw. It was easier to imagine him with Ye-Jin—immaculate, composed, a perfect match for his quiet intensity. But Ye-Jin wasn’t the one walking into the rain for him.

I carried my prickling defensiveness down Insadong’s narrow stone alley to the bookstore café. Pushing open the heavy oak door, I was swallowed by the scent of aged paper, vanilla-laced tobacco, and fresh espresso. Warm amber lights hung over towering mahogany shelves stacked with old tomes. Rain-streaked windows blurred the world outside into watercolor memories.

He sat in the back, tucked into a leather booth beneath a shelf of poetry. His long legs crossed at the ankle—tailored black slacks highlighting every muscle—and a cream mock-neck sweater fit him like a second skin. A dark trench coat draped over the seat back; silver rings winked on his fingers. His damp hair was swept back, revealing the sharp lines of his forehead and jaw. He looked dangerously beautiful.

The bell over the door tinkled. Namjoon’s head lifted without a blink, his gaze following me as I threaded through the narrow aisles. He let his eyes drift from the flare of my dress to my face, holding me in that measured stare that made my pulse hitch.

“You came,” he rumbled, voice low against the leather banquette.

“I almost didn’t.” I shrugged off my suede jacket and settled opposite him. Our knees brushed beneath the table; warmth from his trousers skinned against mine and my breath caught somewhere in my chest, not quite reaching my throat.

A slow, knowing smirk curved his lips. “I guessed you would.”

I raised an eyebrow, leaning back. “You always guess.”

His dark eyes danced. “You hem and haw for nearly fifteen minutes before answering. Familiar pattern.”

I opened my mouth, then sighed. “You’re insufferable.”

He chuckled—gravelly, enticing. A waiter set a steaming jasmine teapot between us; fragrant tendrils of steam curled into the lamplight, weaving through the charged hush.

Our conversation drifted from obscure artists to the delicious chaos of unfamiliar streets. “You like the rain,” he noted, his gaze on a drop tracing a path down the window. “Most people complain.”

“It’s honest,” I said. “Doesn’t pretend to be anything else.”

He paused then, chin cradled in his palm, rings flashing. “Is that what you value?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Do people become who they're meant to be… or discover who they've always been?”

I looked down at my bowl, then back up at him, the question still settling. He’d gone from the weather to that in one breath. “I… I don’t know.”

His lips curved, not cruelly, but with gentle insistence. “You do. You just don’t want to tell.”

I set the spoon down, cheeks warm. My defenses rose. “Is this interview your hobby now?”

“He shook his head, his gaze unwavering. “Just you.”

His answer—simple, loaded—felt like both invitation and warning.

Before I could retract the question from my lips, I blurted, “Then why aren’t you with Ye-Jin?”

Surprise flickered in his eyes, then a low laugh. “Why would I be?”

“Because you two fit. She’s steady, precise—speaks your language.” My voice tightened as I leaned forward. “Wouldn’t you want that?”

His laughter died. Stillness settled between us. He leaned so close I smelled cedar mixed with damp rain. His gaze pinned mine.

“Do we?” he whispered, voice vibrating against my ribs. His gaze dipped to my lips, hovered, then snapped back to my eyes.

My throat tightened. It wasn’t the expected answer—it was a claim. He wasn’t thinking of Ye-Jin at all.

“You think you’re easy to read, Maniya,” he murmured, fingers tracing lazy patterns on the tabletop inches from my knee. “You think walls and distance will keep people away.”

My stomach clenched. “Maybe I’m exactly what you let yourself see.”

He softened, understanding flickering across his features. He edged even closer, our breaths mingling, his voice a raspy whisper that drowned out the clatter of cups around us.

“That’s not true,” he said, eyes burning. “People who work this hard to vanish… they’re running for something.”

The café tightened around us, the air thick with his cedar scent and the weight of his perception. Desire was a simple fire, easy to extinguish. This was different. He wasn’t trying to break down my walls; he was showing me the door I’d locked myself behind, his hand already on the knob.

My phone vibrated again—harder this time. The name on the screen froze us both.

Yoogni

Namjoon went very still. His hand, which had been resting flat on the table, curled once and then stopped. He didn’t move—but something in the way he held himself changed, like a door that had swung almost shut.

He looked up, and his eyes found mine without any hurry, steady and unreadable.

[shinegud92]

CHASING SEOUL, FINDING YOU

Chapter Twenty-Seven — Breakfast Aftermath

The penthouse smelled like fresh coffee and someone else's cigarettes.

Latoya was already at the griddle, barefoot on the marble, her pale-peach robe catching the morning light as she moved. Her twenty-eight-inch braids were stacked into a loose crown, a few plaits falling along her neck. The pancakes she turned were a perfect even gold, each flip unhurried—nothing like last night.

The spread on the island sat untouched: whipped eggs, bright berries, a bowl of kimchi. Nobody was eating.

From the doorway, Sofía’s voice was thin. “Taehyung—last night, and this morning—it was a mistake.” I watched Taehyung still at the counter, water running down the side of the glass in his hand. He looked up. “You’re right,” he said, his tone flat. “It was a mistake.” Sofía’s shoulders fell in what might have been relief, but his gaze was cold and final, and she wrapped her arms around herself, still swimming in his black graphic tee. From her stool, Ye-Jin watched them with a small, cool smile. Nearby, Jimin leaned against the countertop, his eyes tracking from Sofía’s bare legs to Taehyung’s stony expression. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

The tension snapped when Jin’s voice cut through, his playful jab at J-Hope pulling a laugh from Latoya. He moved to the grill, his affection for her a small, warm pocket in the room’s chill, but not everyone was distracted. While Jungkook remained a slump of exhaustion at the counter, my eyes found Namjoon at the island’s heart. He was watching Sofía and Taehyung, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. The laughter coaxed dimples into his cheeks, but his gaze never left the unfolding drama.

And there, against the exposed brick wall, was Yoongi, silent, mug of black coffee clasped in long pale fingers. In gray sweats and a fitted black shirt, his hood low, he watched me with an expression I couldn’t place—arms crossed, still in a way that felt deliberate, like he was deciding something.

I said nothing, both hands wrapped tight around my mug of green tea, the heat of it almost burning. My chest felt hollow, breathing in guilt and longing. The phantom ache where Yoongi had pressed into me hours ago throbbed relentlessly. Yet every time Namjoon’s voice rumbled through the room, a fresh twist of desire coiled in my core like a sharpened blade.

Breakfast unraveled. An unspoken signal passed between them, and their public faces clicked into place. Hoodies were pulled up, black masks appeared. The quiet efficiency was unnerving—fobs palmed, a few murmured goodbyes, and then they were gone. They drifted one by one toward the garage, ghosts melting back into the city’s dawn.

Silence fell, vast enough to tremble the walls.

Three days later, the sky finally broke open. Rain lashed the floor-to-ceiling windows, blurring Seoul’s neon sprawl into strokes of charcoal and pearl. The storm’s wild urgency matched the restless ache in my veins.

The penthouse was unnervingly quiet. With the girls out, I was alone with the storm and my spinning thoughts. I paced until I collapsed on the velvet couch, the cool satin of my camisole a stark contrast to the heat under my skin. Staring up, I tried to find some logic in the ceiling’s abstract patterns that I couldn’t find in myself.

My mind kept returning to the same two moments: Yoongi’s rough, calloused fingers tracing the line of my jaw like he was memorizing it, his low voice dropping to something almost private behind the kitchen island. Then Namjoon in the game room—the way his large hands had settled on my hips with such easy certainty, like he’d already decided something I hadn’t caught up to yet. I wanted them both, and the wanting sat in my chest with nowhere to go.

A sudden buzz cleaved the quiet. My phone vibrated against the glass coffee table, urgent enough to jar my heart against my ribs. I reached for it, fingertips brushing cold metal.

Namjoon: Come meet me somewhere quiet.

No address. Just a pin and the weight of everything left unsaid. My stomach tightened into a knot.

I stared at the screen longer than I should have. The storm’s gray light caught on the satin folds of my camisole, shadows pooling around me. With a soft breath, I pushed upright, bare feet meeting the cool hardwood. Frustration flared at how deeply—how recklessly—I cared. I glanced at the rain-streaked window as the storm raged on, knowing that to answer his message, I’d have to step right into it.

[shinegud92]

CHASING SEOUL, FINDING YOU

Chapter Twenty-Six — Interception

All at once the corridor seemed to hum with unspoken currents between those two. Taehyung didn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he flexed his forearm, pressing his palm into Sofía’s waist with calm insistence. He tipped his head up and, in a voice low and gravelly, kept his tone casual. “Nothing’s happening, Hyung,” he said, each word rich like aged whiskey. “Just a door mix-up.”

Namjoon’s gaze dropped to Taehyung’s palm curving Sofía’s hip. He didn’t flare with anger, but the sheer weight of his stare was enough to squeeze the air from our lungs—clinical, unblinking. He understood perfectly what “door mix-up” at three in the morning after drinks really meant.

Ye-Jin let out a short exhale, her shoulders sagging as she lifted the water bottle in a mock salute. The plastic squeaked. “A very massive mix-up,” she corrected, voice tight. “They were in my bed, Namjoon.”

Sofía’s cheeks flared red. She stepped back, tugging at her shirt’s stray buttons as though they might spill her secrets. “Ye-Jin, I’m so sorry. I got dizzy and—”

Ye-Jin cut her off, softening. “It’s fine,” she said, glancing at Sofía with protective warmth.

Before Sofía could answer, Namjoon stepped fully into the hallway, the floorboards creaking under him. His voice dropped another register, resonant and even. He nodded toward the door he’d just vacated. “Maniya isn’t in her room. Yoongi’s sleeping there.”

Sofía gaped at the closed door across the hall—the one she’d just fumbled for, the one leading to my room.

Ye-Jin frowned. “Yoongi’s in Maniya’s room? Then where’s Maniya?”

Namjoon folded his massive arms, leaning against the frame with a small, knowing smile. “She’s in your room, Sofía,” he said, amused. “I swept the second floor for a quiet spot. Yoongi claimed the first. Maniya locked herself in yours. That leaves this one”—he nodded at Ye-Jin’s door—“empty.”

And just like that, the madness of hide-and-sleep clicked into place.

Taehyung chuckled low in his throat, tension draining like water off stone. He glanced at Namjoon. “So nobody’s in the right room.”

“Apparently not,” Namjoon murmured, eyes flicking back to Ye-Jin’s flushed face, illuminated by that hallway light.

Sofía rubbed her temples, the alcohol haze in her veins making the bulbs overhead feel surreal. “Fine. I’m going to bed. Taehyung… goodnight.” Without waiting for him, she crossed the hall, unlocked her door, and slipped inside, the latch’s click swallowing her retreat.

Taehyung watched her go, a small, satisfied smile on his lips. He tapped Namjoon on the shoulder, nodded at Ye-Jin, and then descended the staircase in long, easy strides. The corridor felt suddenly too big.

Just the two of us remained. Silence settled again—thick, charged with everything left unsaid. Ye-Jin still clutched her water bottle, beads of moisture clinging to her skin. Namjoon stood solid in the doorway, a dark silhouette against the dim light.

He spoke first, his voice low. “That bed’s empty, Ye-Jin. I doubt either of us will get back to sleep now.”

She swallowed, her eyes flickering over his strong jawline. The shield she usually carried felt paper-thin. “What are you suggesting?” she breathed.

Namjoon’s gaze was steady, his expression unreadable. “I’m suggesting you look like you could use a friend right now,” he said, his voice softening. “And I’m a good listener.”

She leaned into him, her heartbeat thundering in her ears as he closed the door, sealing them in darkness. They settled on the bed, and in the hush, their conversation began to unfold—quiet admissions of fatigue, hidden fears. His voice was a low murmur, a steady presence that unraveled the knot in her chest. For the first time all night, she laughed, a soft chime in the stillness. A moment later, she heard the smile in his voice when he murmured, “Goodnight, Ye-Jin.”

“Goodnight, Namjoon.”

She listened as his breathing evened out beside her, the steady rhythm a comfort in the dark, and finally let her own eyes drift closed.

[shinegud92]

CHASING SEOUL, FINDING YOU

Chapter Twenty-Five — Aftershocks

The silence that followed Ye-Jin’s whispered exclamation was thick, freezing, and absolute.

Taehyung didn’t move. His arm stayed locked around Sofía’s waist beneath the duvet, his chest rising and falling in a slow, heavy rhythm as his dark eyes locked onto the silhouette standing in the doorway.

The chilled bottle of water in Ye-Jin’s hand caught the dim, blue moonlight cutting through the hallway, a stark contrast to the stifling, sweat-soaked heat still hanging over the mattress.

Sofía squeezed her eyes shut against the pillows, her heart instantly leaping from the soft afterglow of her climax right back into a frantic, erratic gallop.

She was entirely bare under the blankets, her skin still tingling, her thighs still trembling from the weight of Taehyung's possession.

“Ye-Jin,” Taehyung said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that carried a quiet warning. He didn't sound panicked; his natural composure returned instantly, though his jaw remained tight. “Give us a second.”

Ye-Jin blinked, her eyes adjusting to the shadows of the room. The reality of what she had just walked into settled heavily in her chest, cutting straight through the dull throb of her hangover.

She looked from Taehyung’s broad, bare shoulders down to the unmistakable tangle of clothes discarded across the floor—Sofía’s white button-down shirt thrown haphazardly near the edge of the rug.

“This is my room,” Ye-Jin whispered, her voice finding a sharp, deadpan edge as she lifted the water bottle slightly.

“I came up here to escape the snoring downstairs, get a drink, and sleep in my own goddamn bed.”

Sofía slowly peeked out from under the duvet, pulling the fabric securely up to her collarbone, her cheeks burning with a fierce, mortified flush. “Ye-Jin, I’m so sorry. We... it was an accident. The rooms look exactly the same in the dark.”

Taehyung let out a low, breathy huff that was almost a laugh, though his arm tightened around Sofía, pulling her closer against his side as if to shield her from the intrusion. “She’s not lying. I brought her in here. I didn’t know whose room it was.”

Ye-Jin stared at them for three long seconds.

The sheer absurdity of the situation—walking in on one of her best friends completely tangled up with a member of the biggest group in the world, right in the middle of her own sheets—made her want to either laugh or scream. But beneath the shock, her sharp cat eyes traced the defensive way Taehyung held Sofía.

This wasn't a casual, reckless mistake. It looked real. It looked heavy.

And immediately, her mind flicked back to the game room downstairs, to the quiet, lingering tension between Sofía and Jimin.

“Right,” Ye-Jin said slowly, her filters locking back into place as she stepped backward into the corridor.

She didn't look angry, but her expression was unreadable, layered with the weight of the secrets starting to fracture their vacation. “You two have five minutes to get your clothes and get out of my bed. I'll be waiting in the hall.”

Before either of them could answer, she pulled the heavy oak door shut with a soft, distinct click, leaving them in the darkness once more.

The spell was completely broken.

Sofía let out a long, ragged exhale, burying her face in Taehyung’s chest as the adrenaline finally began to ebb. “Oh my god. I want to die. I actually want to dissolve into the floorboards.”

Taehyung chuckled softly, the deep vibration rumbling against her cheek as he turned his head to press a warm, reassuring kiss into her messy, wild curls. His hands shifted, sliding up to cup her face, forcing her to look up into his dark, blown-out eyes.

“Hey,” he murmured, his gaze intense, entirely focused on her despite the chaos. “Look at me. It’s just Ye-Jin. She’s not going to say anything to anyone downstairs.”

“It’s not just that,” Sofía whispered, her voice fracturing as she looked into his face. The reality of what they had just shared—the depth of it, the way she had surrendered to him so completely compared to her shallow encounter with Jimin—was staring her right in the face. “This is messy, Taehyung. We’re in the middle of a literal minefield.”

“Let it be messy,” Taehyung said flatly, his thumb tracing her bottom lip, his smirk returning, darker and more confident this time. He wasn't running from it. He wasn't going to let her run either. “I told you what I wanted, Sofía. I didn’t mean it just for tonight.”

Before she could process the weight of his words, he shifted, throwing the duvet back and reaching for his shorts in the dark. The cold air hit her skin, a physical reminder of the transition they had to make back to reality.

Five minutes later, the door creaked open again.

Sofía stepped out into the pale blue light of the hallway first, her ivory shirt buttoned up incorrectly, her hands tucked nervously into the pockets of her sleep shorts.

Taehyung followed right behind her, his dark tee thrown back on, his expression entirely unbothered as his eyes found Ye-Jin leaning against the opposite wall, taking a slow sip of her water.

The silence between the three of them was supercharged.

Ye-Jin lowered her bottle, her sharp gaze sliding from Sofía’s swollen lips to Taehyung’s relaxed posture. She opened her mouth to speak, but before a single word could leave her lips, the door directly down the hall—Maniya's room—slowly swung open.

All three of them froze, turning their heads in unison.

Stepping out into the dim hallway light, his navy sweats hanging low on his hips, his hair a wild mess, was Namjoon.

He stopped dead in his tracks, his heavy, analytical gaze instantly taking in the scene:

Ye-Jin holding a water bottle, Sofía looking utterly undone, and Taehyung standing possessively close behind her.

Namjoon’s eyes narrowed, a deep, dangerous quiet settling over his features as he looked at his friend.

“What’s going on out here?” Namjoon asked, his deep voice vibrating through the quiet corridor like thunder before a storm.

[shinegud92]

CHASING SEOUL, FINDING YOU

Chapter Twenty-Four — Oops Caught!

Taehyung didn't break the kiss. His strong arms slid under her thighs and back, lifting her off the marble counter completely without breaking the heavy rhythm of their mouths.

Sofía kept her legs locked tightly around his hips, her arms wrapped around his neck as he carried her back out into the dark bedroom.

He backed her toward the large mattress, both of them tumbling onto the sheets in a tangled heap of limbs.

The restriction of clothes became unbearable. Buttons were undone in a frantic blur, her oversized white shirt sliding down her arms while his large, warm hands mapped every inch of her skin in the shadows.

Taehyung stopped his movements for a fraction of a second, his head lifting slightly as his thumbs hooked into the waistband of her small sleep shorts.

He pressed his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in the small space between them.

“Are you sure about this?” he rasped, his chest heaving hard against her breasts. “Tell me now, because I'm barely holding on.”

The question shook her to her core. He was burning up, completely desperate for her, yet he was still checking, still respecting her boundaries. It made her want him more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.

“Don't stop,” she breathed.

She slid her hands down to his chest and leaned forward, burying her mouth back into his, kissing him with a deep, consuming fervor that gave him all the answer he needed.

When he slid her shorts down her legs and parted her thighs, Sofía felt a sudden wave of vulnerability hit her.

Her encounter with Jimin had been reckless, built on a heavy foundation of dirty teasing and shallow adrenaline. But this—the way Taehyung looked down at her through his dark, messy fringe, his large palms anchoring her hips with a fierce, grounding weight—felt entirely different. It was consuming.

She found herself exposing parts of herself she usually kept fiercely guarded, letting down her walls completely. She was giving more of herself to Taehyung in a single look than she ever had with Jimin.

“Taehyung,” she whimpered, her fingers burying into the muscles of his back as he aligned himself against her.

He didn't make her wait. He drove deep inside her in one smooth, heavy thrust, a low groan ripping from his chest as her tight walls clamped around him.

Sofía’s head threw back against the pillows, a loud, breathless gasp fracturing the quiet of the room. The heat between them was absolute, a brilliant, friction-heavy rhythm that completely drowned out the rest of the world.

Taehyung moved with a slow, deliberate possession, lifting her legs higher over his shoulders to bury himself deeper, driving her to the very edge of sanity.

As the pace quickened, the raw pleasure began to overwhelm her, a loud cry gathering in the back of her throat. Realizing how easily the sound would carry through the heavy wood of the bedroom door to the rest of the suite, Taehyung slammed his mouth back over hers.

“Quiet, sweetheart,” he murmured against her lips, his voice thick and strained. “Don't wake up the house.”

He swallowed her gasps whole, his tongue tangling with hers in a deep, bruising kiss to keep her quiet.

He rocked against her harder, his thumb finding her center and adding relentless friction to the deep thrusts. Sofía’s hands clawed frantically at his back, her entire body coiling into a tight knot of unbearable tension.

Under the dual assault of his mouth, his hands, and his heavy rhythm, she broke. A muffled, undone sob was captured against his lips as a shattering, violent orgasm ripped through her, her walls pulsing frantically around him.

The intense contraction of her climax instantly pushed Taehyung over the edge. He let out a muffled groan into her mouth, his body locking up as he delivered one final, incredibly deep thrust, spilling himself completely inside her.

Minutes passed in a heavy, sweating daze. Taehyung collapsed against her side, his chest heaving as he pulled the duvet over their bare, tangled bodies, his arm wrapping securely around her waist to pull her back flush against him.

Sofía let herself sink entirely into the comforting weight of his afterglow, her hand resting over his heart as their breathing slowly began to level out.

“Taehyung,” she whispered softly, the reality of what they had just done settling in.

“I've got you,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head. “Just sleep.”

Creak.

The distinct, sharp sound of the bedroom door hinge moving cut through the quiet darkness.

Both of them went entirely rigid under the sheets, the peaceful spell violently shattering. Taehyung’s head snapped toward the doorway, his arm tightening protectively around Sofía as her breath caught flat in her throat.

Standing in the pale blue light of the corridor, having just swung her bedroom door open with a chilled bottle of water in her hand to nurse her pounding hangover, was a completely frozen figure.

Ye-Jin stared at the bed, her eyes wide as the silhouettes under the blanket shifted.

She lowered the bottle of water slowly, her voice a sharp, shocked whisper. “What the hell?

[shinegud92]

CHASING SEOUL, FINDING YOU

Chapter Twenty-Three — Blurred Lines

Downstairs, the clock was hovering just past three in the morning when Sofía violently blinked her eyes open.

Her head was pounding, a dull, liquor-fueled throb behind her temples, and her throat felt like sandpaper. The blue light from the projector screen was still dancing across the living room wall, casting long, distorted shadows over the sleeping figures of the rest of the group.

She groaned softly, pushing her wild, dark curls out of her face as she sat up on the deep cushions of the sectional.

She needed her bed. But more than that, she needed the bathroom. Bad.

Half-asleep, bare legs swinging off the edge of the couch, Sofía stood up on wobbly knees. Her vision was blurry, her mind completely foggy from the remnants of the heavy tequila shots that had defined the midnight hours.

She stumbled past the entrance of the dark game room, her feet dragging against the plush rug as she made her way toward the grand staircase, entirely focused on reaching the second floor where the bedrooms were.

She trudged up the stairs, her hand gripping the wooden railing for balance as the structure of the penthouse seemed to tilt slightly with every step. Reaching the dim hallway of the second level, she blinked at the row of identical oak doors.

Her equilibrium was entirely shot. Trusting her hazy, alcohol-thinned instincts, she shuffled forward, reached for the brass handle of the first room she came to, and pushed it open, fully believing it was her own.

She didn't even look at the bed. She just marched forward into the darkness and collapsed face-first into the heavy mattress, letting out a muffled, exhausted sigh against the pillows.

The sudden, heavy impact jolted Taehyung awake.

He blinked rapidly in the pitch-black space, his heart spiking with a sudden rush of adrenaline before he realized a tangle of wild curls and bare limbs had just crashed directly onto his legs. He sat up slowly, squinting through the shadows as he tried to clear the sleep from his brain. “Sofía?”

Sofía groaned into the pillow, her voice a slurred, barely audible mumble. “Bathroom…”

Taehyung rubbed his face, a low, gravelly chuckle escaping his chest as he fully woke up. He watched her struggle to push herself off the mattress, her movements so clumsy and disoriented she almost tripped over the edge of his duvet. That sobered him up instantly.

Sliding out of bed, he swung his long legs over the side and caught her firmly by the upper arm before she could lose her footing on the hardwood floor. “Whoa, steady. I've got you.”

Sofía blinked up at him, the sharp angles of his jawline and the casual drape of his oversized dark tee finally registering in her hazy mind. She looked around the unfamiliar layout of the room, her brow furrowing. “This... this isn't my room, is it?”

Taehyung rubbed the back of his neck, a lazy, half-asleep smirk forming as he glanced toward the hallway. “To be honest, I'm not entirely sure whose room we're in. Everyone was asleep downstairs, so I just picked one.”

She groaned, mortified, burying her face in her hands. She knew the entire second floor had been empty since everyone crashed downstairs on the couches. “Oh god, I'm sorry. I'm just so dizzy.”

As she turned to make a hasty retreat, her balance betrayed her again, her bare foot catching on the edge of the area rug.

Taehyung’s hands shot out automatically, wrapping securely around her waist to steady her. He pulled her flush against his chest, his bare skin blazingly warm through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice dropping into a deeper, quieter register as he looked down at her, his hands remaining locked on her hips.

“Yeah,” Sofía nodded, a blatant lie as the room spun.

He didn't buy it for a second, his smirk widening slightly in the dark. “Right. Sure you are.”

Sensing how dizzy she still was, Taehyung didn't let go completely. Instead, he kept a supportive, grounding hand on the small of her back, quietly guiding her out of the bedroom and into the adjoining upstairs bathroom.

The bathroom was cool, the bright vanity lights making Sofía wince as she leaned over the marble sink. She turned the tap on, splashing freezing water over her face to shock her system awake before cupping her hands to take a long, desperate drink of water straight from the faucet.

Taehyung didn't leave. He stood right behind her in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes fixed on her reflection in the mirror. The easy, playful banter of the party was entirely gone, replaced by a heavy, magnetic stillness that made the bathroom feel microscopic.

When Sofía finally wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looking up into the glass, she met his unblinking stare. “You kissed Jimin,” he said flatly. It wasn't a question. It was a cold, hard fact that had been sitting heavy in his chest since the gallery meetup.

Sofía let out a tired sigh, turning around slowly to lean her lower back against the edge of the marble sink. “We’re really doing this right now? At three in the morning, Taehyung?”

Taehyung’s jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening slightly as his arms crossed tighter over his chest. “I didn't like it.” The raw, unfiltered honesty of his words made her breath hitch.

Taehyung took a slow, deliberate step forward, crowding into her personal space until she could feel the absolute heat radiating off his body. He loomed over her, his long shadow completely enveloping her against the counter.

“Why him, Sofía?” he murmured, his voice laced with a quiet, intense gravity that demanded an answer.

She swallowed hard, her heart starting to race for an entirely different reason now as his scent—something clean and deeply masculine—wrapped around her. “Why do you care so much?”

His eyes dropped deliberately to her mouth, tracing the wet curve of her lips before snapping back up to lock onto her gaze with an intensity that made her knees weaken. “Because I wanted it to be me.”

The confession hit her harder than anything Jimin had ever said. It was direct, heavy, and completely devoid of games or hidden motives. And before her alcohol-thinned filters could stop her, Sofía reached out, caught the collar of his dark tee, and pulled him down into her.

“Then do something about it,” she whispered.

And she kissed him hard.

[shinegud92]

CHASING SEOUL, FINDING YOU

Chapter Twenty-Two — Run

The kitchen stayed quiet for a long moment, the heavy hum of the refrigerator the only baseline cutting through our ragged, uneven breathing. The lingering heat in the small space behind the island was thick, suffocating, and incredibly sweet.

Yoongi looked down at me, his eyes dark, heavy, and completely dilated in the shadows. He looked as though he didn't want to let go of the breathless spell we’d just cast on the hardwood floor, his gaze tracking the erratic rise and fall of my chest.

But he did. Slowly. Carefully.

His hands slid to my waist, his grip firm, warm, and anchoring as he gently lifted me up, helping me steady myself off the floor. The moment my feet took my full weight, my knees buckled slightly. My legs were completely weak, trembling from the deep, bruising ache his fingers had just left between my thighs.

He noticed immediately. Of course, he did. A quiet, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, his thumb rubbing a slow circle against the bare skin of my hip where my forest-green shirt had ridden up.

“You good?” he murmured, his gravelly voice scraping deliciously against my highly sensitized nerves.

I tried to roll my eyes, but the sheer exhaustion of the late-night alcohol and the overwhelming rush of adrenaline made it impossible. My body felt heavy, unraveled in a way I hadn't experienced in over half a decade. I leaned back against the counter for support, gripping the edge of the marble. “Ask me tomorrow.”

Yoongi let out a low, breathy chuckle, the sound vibrating warm against my skin. “Fair enough.”

Taking my hand, his long fingers intertwined with mine once more, locking our fingers together with a possessive tightness that made my pulse jump. He checked the hallway first, his sharp eyes scanning the darkness, before pulling me out of the kitchen.

We stepped quietly, navigating past the main living area. The penthouse was a graveyard of the night's chaos. In the pale blue light filtering through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, the shapes of the others were tangled across the plush rugs and designer sectionals.

 Jungkook was completely dead to the world near the game room; Latoya was curled up on the theater couch with Jin across from her and J-Hope on the floor. Nobody stirred. The house was dead silent, save for the quiet breathing of eleven people trying to sleep off a mountain of tequila.

Every step we took up the grand staircase felt incredibly loud to my ears, the cool wood smooth beneath my bare feet. Yoongi didn't drop his grip on my hand for a single second. He walked slightly ahead of me, his bare, broad back a wall of solid muscle in the dark, the small 7 tattoo on his shoulder blade serving as a focal point in the shadows. My mind was spinning, trapped in a chaotic loop. I could still taste him on my lips. I could still feel the phantom stretch of his fingers inside me.

When we reached the top landing of the second floor, the air felt cooler, but the tension between us hadn't dissipated at all. He guided me toward my bedroom door, pushing it open smoothly. But instead of letting me step inside alone and bidding me goodnight, Yoongi ushered himself right in after me.

He closed the door halfway, turning his body to face me in the dim space. His dark eyes drifted from my face down to the large, unmade bed, his intentions entirely clear for the remainder of the night. He wanted to stay. He wanted to finish what he started behind the kitchen island.

The sudden realization made that familiar, defensive instinct flare up like a siren in my chest.

The intensity of both him and Namjoon had overwhelmed me all night, breaking through the protective walls I had built so carefully over the last six years. My long-standing habit of running from that kind of raw, exposed vulnerability kicked right back in. If I let Yoongi into this bed tonight, there would be no turning back. I would be completely cornered, completely trapped in my own emotions when morning came and the reality of the love triangle crashed down on us. I needed space. Not only that, but I needed to breathe.

Knowing Sofía’s room across the hall was completely empty since she was passed out downstairs on the sectional, I forced a quick, breathless smile onto my face, trying to mask the sudden panic tightening my throat.

I slid my fingers completely from his grasp, taking a deliberate step backward. “Yoongi, wait.”

His dark brows pulled together, his arms crossing over his bare chest as his eyes narrowed. “Maniya,” he warned softly, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register as he reached out to close the distance between us again.

“Goodnight, Yoongi,” I whispered quickly, my voice shaking just enough to betray my nerves.

Before he could object or use that heavy, intoxicating gravity to pull me back into his arms, I backward-stepped right out of my bedroom door. I turned on my heel, walked across the dim corridor, and ducked into Sofía’s vacant room. I pulled the heavy oak door shut behind me, my heart hammering violently against my ribs as I quickly clicked the lock into place.

Click.

I leaned my back against the wood, closing my eyes and waiting, half-expecting to hear his heavy footsteps follow me across the hall, half-expecting him to test the handle. But the hallway remained entirely quiet. Yoongi didn't chase me. He stayed right where I left him, granting me my boundaries with a silent, knowing patience that somehow made him even more dangerous. He knew he had already won; he had already broken my six-year drought. He could afford to wait.

Exhausted, trembling, and completely undone, I stumbled over to Sofía's bed. I collapsed face-first into the plush, cool sheets, the faint scent of her lavender perfume enveloping me. For the first time in six long years, the protective numbness in my chest was entirely gone, replaced by a thudding, terrifying warmth that radiated all the way down to my thighs.

It was roughly three in the morning. And as I curled onto my side in the dark, my body still tingling from his touch, I finally let the darkness take me.

[qotds7]

This is just too much to handle at one time 🥵

[shinegud92]

CHASING SEOUL, FINDING YOU

Chapter Twenty-One — Unfinished Games

The penthouse hotel suite had finally gone quiet. Completely.

The music had died hours ago, leaving only the silent, erratic flicker of the projector dancing across the far wall of the massive living area. Pale blue light washed over the sprawling space, illuminating the tangled, motionless shapes of the others.

Everyone was fast asleep, passed out cold on the plush designer sectionals from the wreckage of the wild night. Outside, the city glowed through the floor-to-ceiling glass, cold and distant from stories above the streets. But inside, the thick, heavy warmth of the alcohol still burned in my veins, keeping me wired.

I was sitting flat on the hardwood floor in the dim kitchen area of the suite, tucked deeply behind the massive marble kitchen island. Hidden in the shadows, I was completely invisible to anyone looking in from the rest of the penthouse.

I had a glass of ice water gripped tightly in my hand, pressing the cold glass against my throat to force down the memories of Yoongi’s rough hands from earlier.

The way Namjoon’s heavy gaze had stripped me bare across the room. The way I had looked back, completely unraveled.

It was too much. Too dirty. Too messy.

Then—the quiet floorboards creaked.

Yoongi stepped into the kitchen area. Barefoot, his dark hair a wild, tumbled mess, his charcoal shirt left completely unbuttoned down the center, exposing the hard, smooth line of his chest.

He stopped at the edge of the counter, his steady eyes scanning the dark until they dropped down, locking onto me where I hid on the floor.

Without a word, he closed the distance. He sank down onto his knees right in front of me, his large frame completely eclipsing what little light filtered into our hidden corner. Behind the massive marble island, no one could see us. No one would know. We were entirely cut off from the rest of the suite.

He pinned me with his stare. “You ran.” His voice was a low, gravelly rasp that sent a shiver straight down my spine.

I took a slow sip of water, trying to keep my hands from shaking. “I got water.”

He smirked, a dark, wicked look that made my stomach flip. “That what we’re calling it?”

I rolled my eyes, trying to play it cool, but the visible throb of the pulse in my throat completely betrayed me.

He leaned closer, crowding into my personal space until I could smell the intoxicating mix of his skin—expensive soap, bitter whiskey, and that raw, masculine warmth that belonged only to him.

“I don’t fucking like it when you look at him,” he said, his tone dripping with a quiet, dangerous possessiveness. Direct. Raw.

I forced myself to blink, matching his stare. “You don’t get to say that to me.”

Yoongi tilted his head, his eyes darkening. “Why?” “Because you don’t own me, Yoongi.”

His gaze dropped deliberately down to my mouth, lingering on my wet lips before dragging back up to my eyes. “Didn’t say I did.”

The silence that followed was suffocatingly heavy. He shifted his weight, his knees crowding between my thighs, trapping my legs beneath him on the floor. My back hit the base of the kitchen cabinets.

It felt exactly like the beach house. Like before. Only worse—because right now, everyone was dead asleep just hugh spaces away from us, we were both drunk, brutally honest, and utterly hidden in the dark.

His mouth crashed into mine.

It wasn't a soft kiss; it was a slow, punishing bruise, thick with a hunger he’d been suppressing for too long. He tasted like liquor and heat. My fingers instinctively twisted into the fabric of his open shirt, gripping it for dear life as his large, warm hand slid smoothly up my bare thigh.

His palms were calloused, dragging roughly against my sensitive skin, stopping just high enough to make me whimper with an agonizing ache before he moved again.

My breathing hitched, turning into shallow, ragged gasps. Yoongi pulled back a fraction of an inch, his heavy eyes dropping down to watch my face in the shadows, learning every tiny reaction, drinking in how unraveled I looked under his touch.

Slowly, deliberately, his thumb brushed over my bottom lip, forcing it down. His dark, focused stare locked onto mine, completely unyielding. He brought his fingers to my lips—a silent, commanding request.

My chest rose and fell in frantic, uneven pants. My heart pounded so hard it echoed in my ears. Unable to look away from his intense gaze, I parted my lips. His fingers slipped inside.

The slick, wet warmth of my mouth swallowed them. Yoongi’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He watched his fingers disappear inside me, sliding against my tongue, his pupils dilating until his eyes were almost entirely black. The sheer, dirty intimacy of it looked like it was about to break his restraint entirely.

When he violently yanked his hand back, his mouth slammed into mine harder, deeper, and completely unhinged. He used his tongue to wreck me, tasting the residue of himself on my lips.

His hand slid lower, slipping past the waistband of my shorts with a ruthless confidence that made my entire body react instantly.

I arched off the hard floor, my thighs shaking violently against his hips. A broken, helpless sob escaped the back of my throat, but Yoongi caught it, swallowing the sound whole as he devoured me.

He pressed his forehead against mine, both of us breathing in short, desperate gasps. Then, his fingers shifted, sliding heavy and deliberate against my slick, burning skin. He paused, testing my wetness, before slowly driving one single finger deep inside me.

My entire body clamped tight around him, completely overloaded. I was incredibly, blindingly narrow.

Yoongi froze, his breath catching in his throat as my unused walls gripped him like a vice. A sudden, sharp spike of raw excitement flared in his eyes. He stayed perfectly still for a beat, letting me adjust, before he began to move—a slow, agonizingly deep friction that made me whimper directly into his mouth.

He pulled the finger out reluctantly, the slick skin of his hand glistening in the dim light. Without breaking eye contact, Yoongi brought his hand up and slowly slid his tongue over his own fingers, tasting me right in front of my eyes. The sight made my core throb violently, a fresh wave of heat pooling between my thighs.

The taste seemed to drive him completely over the edge. His eyes went entirely black, his jaw locking hard. "God, Maniya," he growled against my lips.

He didn't wait. He slid his hand back down, and this time, he pushed two fingers deep inside my heat.

A sharp gasp ripped from my throat, my hands frantically clawing at his open shirt. It was too much. The sudden fullness stretched me completely open, the friction so intense and overwhelming that my thighs began to tremble violently.

My body locked up under the sheer weight of the pleasure, bordering on pain because of how long it had been. Even though I didn't tell him to stop, my breath came in ragged, panicked hitches, my hips twitching in a desperate attempt to handle the stretch.

Yoongi felt the instant resistance, realizing immediately that two fingers were pushing my boundaries. He stopped his movement, keeping his fingers buried deep inside me, anchoring me against him. He watched every single twitch, every frantic breath, and every involuntary shudder as my body tried to process the friction.

He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his hot mouth biting and sucking at my skin, trying to calm my racing pulse while his own chest heaved against mine.

When I weakly grabbed his wrist—not to push him away, but just to keep myself from collapsing—he felt how violently I was throbbing around him. He pulled back slowly, his breathing rough and ragged. His thumb brushed a tear from my cheek, his dark eyes searching mine.

“When’s the last time someone touched you?” he murmured, his voice dropping into an even darker, rougher register.

I looked away, a flush creeping up my neck. I couldn't answer him. It was too humiliating.

But he already knew. His eyes narrowed, his fingers still buried inside me, feeling the incredible tightness that had made him burn up.

I swallowed hard, my voice a broken whisper. “Almost six years.”

The confession made him go completely still. Dead still. His jaw tightened, his gaze sweeping over my flushed face and trembling lips. He wasn’t judging me. He was intensely surprised, utterly turned on, and completely captivated by the realization that he was the first one to break through my walls in over half a decade—that the sheer tightness of my body was because I had been untouched for so long. It drove him insane.

His hand slid out from my shorts slowly, reluctantly, leaving a trail of burning heat behind. But his eyes never left mine. “Why?”

That single word hit harder than any physical touch. Because the truth was ugly.

I looked down, my weak hands still gripping the edges of his collar. “Because I stopped believing in it.” His dark brows pulled together. “In what?”

“In love,” I said, the word tasting bitter and heavy on my tongue. I swallowed back the lump in my throat.

“Watching my friends get used... cheated on... lied to... completely broken. I watched them give every piece of their bodies and souls to people who didn’t give a shit about them.”

Yoongi didn't move an inch, listening to every word with an intensity that felt heavy.

“And I realized,” I exhaled, a ragged, breathless sound, “maybe it just costs too much to let someone in.”

His eyes softened, a dangerous shift in his demeanor.

I let out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. “So I just stopped letting anyone touch me.”

His thumb stroked my cheek again, much gentler this time, but no less possessive. “You gave up.”

I nodded against his hand. “It’s easier to stay numb.”

Yoongi stared at me like he absolutely hated that answer—and like he understood the darkness of it all too well. He leaned down, his mouth brushing mine once. Softly. Then he did it again, lingering longer, dragging his lips over mine in a slow, intentional swell of heat. It wasn't hungry this time; it was deeply, agonizingly intimate.

“And now?” he whispered against my mouth.

The question shook me to my core. Because right now? I was a trembling, breathless mess on the floor, completely pinned against the cabinets by his heavy body, desperately craving more of his touch. I wanted him to ruin me completely, and I absolutely hated myself for it.

“I don’t know,” I breathed.

Yoongi’s lips curved into a dark, dangerous smile. The answer satisfied him perfectly, because it meant he had gotten entirely under my skin, breaking a six-year drought with just his fingers while everyone else slept across the other side of the suite of us.

He dragged his mouth away from my lips, burying it against the sensitive shell of my ear, his gravelly voice dropping to a filthy whisper. “Good.”

My stomach dropped off a cliff. He pressed one last, deep, bruising kiss to the column of my neck, inhaling my scent before finally pulling his body back. He stood up slowly, still breathing hard, his eyes burning with an unholy fire in the darkness of the kitchen area.

“You should go to sleep.”

I blinked up at him from the floor, my vision still foggy, my body completely wrecked and dripping from what he’d just done to me. “That’s it?”

His grin turned wicked, sharp and full of a promise that made my thighs ache all over again.

“For tonight.”

[shinegud92]

CHASING SEOUL, FINDING YOU

Chapter Twenty — Truth, Dare… or Touch

By midnight, the penthouse had devolved into absolute, beautiful chaos.

Empty bottles littered the marble countertops, half-finished drinks sweated against the wood of the lounge tables, and bodies were draped across the plush rugs of the game room floor. The music had been turned up, the bass vibrating through the soles of our feet, while the anime on the projector screen ran entirely forgotten.

The bottle-spinning game had long since evolved past polite icebreakers. Fueled by high-shelf tequila and dark whiskey, the atmosphere had turned unfiltered, electric, and heavy with raw honesty.

Taehyung was the first to rewrite the boundaries. Sliding down onto his knees in the center of the circle, a wicked grin spread across his face. “Last round before the night completely gets away from us. Truth, dare… or touch.”

Sofía threw her head back, laughing softly as she swirled her glass. “That sounds highly illegal.”

Jimin smirked from the leather sofa, his heavy gaze sliding over the curve of her exposed shoulder. “That’s exactly why it works.”

Taehyung gave the glass bottle a hard spin. It whirled against the hardwood, slowing down until the neck pointed straight at Latoya, while the base rested toward J-Hope.

Sofía leaned forward, her eyes gleaming. “Latoya. Dare.”

Latoya narrowed her eyes, instantly defensive but visibly amused. “What do you have in mind?”

“Thirty-second lap dance,” Sofía declared smoothly. The room erupted. Jungkook threw his hands up, shouting over the music, while J-Hope laughed so hard he leaned entirely back against the cushions. “No way.”

“Oh, absolutely yes,” Jungkook cheered, nudging J-Hope’s shoulder.

Latoya groaned, burying her face in her hands for a brief second. But the tequila had made her brave.

Gathering the hem of her oversized cream knit sweater, she stood up and walked over to where J-Hope sat. He spread his legs dramatically with a theatrical wink. “Come on then, chef.”

She rolled her eyes, stepping into his space and lowering herself onto his lap. It started out entirely playful—nothing too serious. She swayed her hips subtly to the heavy rhythm of the music, a teasing smile on her lips as she kept the mood light.

J-Hope’s hands stayed completely respectful, hovering just above her waist.

But then her hips brushed firmly against his upper thighs.

J-Hope’s easy smile vanished instantly. His jaw tightened, his posture locking up as his gaze darkened, the sheer physical reality of her weight on him hitting him hard.

From across the room, Jin watched the entire exchange. He didn't say a word. He just sat perfectly still, his glass held tight in his hand, a heavy, quiet intensity settling over his features.

Ye-Jin caught the look immediately, nudging me subtly. Jin was deeply envious, and he wasn't hiding it well.

The next spin belonged to Sofía, and the bottle pointed directly at Taehyung. Jimin’s eyes narrowed instantly, his relaxed posture stiffening on the couch.

Ye-Jin smiled, sensing the undercurrents. “Dare.” Taehyung leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on Sofía. “Tell me.”

Sofía’s smirk was pure temptation. “Blindfold.”

Taehyung let out a low, rich chuckle. “Oh? Going all out?”

She unknotted a silky black cloth from her wrist and stepped over him, carefully tying it around his eyes, blocking his vision completely. The room went entirely quiet, everyone leaning in to watch.

Sofía started easily. She reached for the fruit platter on the table, plucking a dark, ripe strawberry and holding it right to his lips.

Taehyung bit down, slow and deliberate, his tongue brushing her fingertips. Next came a square of dark chocolate. This time, her fingers lingered against his bottom lip a second longer than necessary.

Before she could pull away, Taehyung’s hand shot out. He caught her wrist, his grip firm and warm, holding her completely still.

“Cheating,” she whispered, her breath hitching as she tried to pull back.

He smirked beneath the fabric, his thumb rubbing a slow line against her pulse point. “Maybe.”

That look on his face—even with his eyes covered—sent a visible shiver down her spine. Deciding to raise the stakes, Sofía took another strawberry between her own lips. She leaned down, her wild curls draping over his face, and pressed the fruit directly against his mouth.

Taehyung went completely rigid the moment her lips brushed his. It wasn't a full kiss, just a slow, shared bite of the fruit, their breaths mingling in the dark space between them. The guys cheered loudly, but Taehyung didn't move an inch. He just sat there, absorbing the texture of her mouth, her warmth, and her quiet defiance.

When she finally pulled back, breathing a little harder, his hand still held her wrist tight. Jimin watched the entire display from the corner, his jaw clenched, clearly hating how deeply the sight was getting under his skin.

The bottle spun again, landing squarely on Namjoon and Ye-Jin.

Jungkook sat up straighter immediately, his playful demeanor dropping so fast it drew everyone's attention. Sofía shot me a knowing look.

“Dare,” Ye-Jin said, tilting her chin up.

Namjoon lifted a thick brow, entirely unbothered. “What is it?”

Ye-Jin’s cat eyes gleamed. “Tell each other your genuine first impressions. Total honesty.”

It was simple, but under the influence of the late-night air, it felt loaded. Namjoon looked at her first, his deep voice carrying easily over the lowered music. “I thought you were incredibly intimidating.”

Ye-Jin laughed softly. “Good.”

“And beautiful,” he added quietly.

The casual, heavy compliment quieted the entire room. Jungkook’s jaw tightened visibly, his fingers tightening around his solo cup. Ye-Jin blinked, completely caught off guard, a rare flush rising on her neck.

Recovering her composure, she held his gaze. “I thought you were far too smart for your own good.” Namjoon laughed, the sound deep and resonant. “That sounds fairly accurate.”

“And,” she continued, her voice softening into something real, “I thought you looked significantly lonelier than you ever let people see.”

The humor left Namjoon’s face. He went entirely still, the accuracy of her words cutting straight through his usual composed exterior. Suddenly, the game felt entirely too intimate, stripping away the playful facade of the party.

Jungkook looked away, completely displeased by the sudden gravity between them.

But I felt it too—a sharp, unexpected twist low in my stomach. It wasn't jealousy, not exactly, but it sat heavy. Ye-Jin was brilliant, sharp, and layered—exactly the kind of woman Namjoon would naturally gravitate toward. And looking at her, then looking at him, a sudden wave of self-doubt washed over me.

Yoongi noticed. Of course, he did. His dark eyes hadn't left my face since we came back from the balcony.

Before I could spiral into my own thoughts, the bottle spun one last time, clicking to a stop right between Yoongi and me.

Taehyung grinned, glad to break the heavy silence. “Oh, this one is easy.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, tugging at the edge of my forest-green shirt. “Why does that sound like trouble?”

Sofía laughed. “Because with Taehyung, it always is.”

Taehyung leaned back against the sofa cushions. “Dare: you two have to make each other laugh while keeping physical contact.”

I blinked. “That makes absolutely no sense.”

Yoongi smiled, shifting his position on the floor until he was inches away from me. “It makes perfect sense.”

The room cheered, and I rolled my eyes, trying to hide how fast my pulse was suddenly racing. Yoongi held out his large hand. I hesitated for a split second before placing mine inside it.

It was an instant mistake.

Instead of a simple handshake, his long fingers slid slowly between mine, intertwining our hands completely. His skin was blazingly warm. Before I could process the sensation, his free hand came up, his fingers lightly tracing up the inside of my bare arm.

The light, tickling sensation made me jerk backward, a breathless laugh escaping me as I tried to twist out of his reach.

“Stop,” I gasped, fully attempting to pull away from the tingling heat.

“Not a chance,” he murmured, his smirk widening.

As I scrambled to get away, Yoongi was entirely too quick. His arm slid securely around my waist, anchoring me, and with one smooth pull, he guided me directly into his lap to keep the dare going.

The guys erupted into cheers and laughter, but the second my thighs made contact with his sweats, my amusement completely evaporated.

I was breathless, my heart hammering violently against my ribs, but the way his hand remained wrapped around my waist wasn't playful anymore. It was steady, warm, and deeply possessive. His dark eyes looked up into mine, completely unblinking, holding me captive in front of everyone.

The laughter died in my throat, replaced by a thick, suffocating wave of nerves. The sudden proximity was overwhelming. Instinct kicked in—the same familiar urge that always made me want to bolt whenever he or Namjoon got too close.

Forcing a bright, casual smile onto my face to play it off, I quickly untangled my fingers from his and pushed myself up off his lap. “Okay, okay, you win. I can’t handle the tickling,” I laughed, making my voice sound as light as possible as I slid back onto the floor, smoothing down my oversized shirt.

Namjoon noticed the entire shift. His heavy gaze stayed locked on me, tracking my quick escape from Yoongi’s touch. A small, knowing smile touched the corner of Yoongi’s mouth as his empty hand fell back down. He knew exactly what I was doing, and the silent undercurrent of their rivalry flared to life once more.

As the clock bled past two in the morning, the heavy drinking finally took its toll. The playful energy faded into a slow, hazy exhaustion, leaving the room heavy with unspoken thoughts.

The game was over, but looking around the circle, it was blindingly obvious that none of the guys had any intention of leaving tonight.