mjks @somewhereinmymemorysblog - Tumblr Blog

𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭

pairings: doctor min yoongi, yandere yoongi x f!reader genre: dark romance, smut, porn with plot, 90s word count: cca 20K beta read by @chaoticpuff17

summary: You know that glance. The last time you've seen it was a decade ago, before those same dark eyes with a scar across one shut for eternity. Yet, somehow...he's alive.

In oil portraits that hung too high on paneled walls. In black-and-white photographs. In...him. A grandfather whose presence could silence a room without lifting a hand. The resemblance is cruel in its precision and you see it only now when it's too late.

He steps into the hollow spaces of your life like he was always meant to. By the time you realize he's listening, your heartbeat has already begun answering.

warnings: minors dni 18+ | psychological manipulation, murder, angst, domestic abuse, mention of syndicate activities, mention of old traditions, medical jargon, ob-gyn examination, blood samples, difficulties conceiving, implied infertility, IUI (intrauterine insemination), implied cheating, kissing, fingering, oral sex (both) sort of doggy style, breeding kink, pregnancy kink, abuse of power (yoongi as a doctor), sexual assult, manipulation, deception, unreliability, yandere behaviour and more (if i forgot something feel free to say, so i can add it)

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional; it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain strong language, explicit content, obsessive behaviour, alcohol drinking, abuse of medicine, and oppressiveness, which we do not condone. Please take in note I'm no medical professional!

author's note: I have to admit...I’m not entirely satisfied with this one, but it came together slowly, naturally, over the past few months, and I've decided to let it stand as it is. I don't usually do rewrites either way. Also, please take into consideration: anything medical or psychological you see here is based on basic research and personal interpretation, not expert advice. That said… I cannot wait to dive back into writing Anubis and hearsay and more, my fairies! Happy New Year wherever you are 🪄

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | ❝𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟔❞| 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐞𝐚𝐭

1984

Yoongi hated funerals.

The church reeked of damp lilies and cheap incense, that sour mix clinging to the air no matter how many donations his family funnelled into the place. His black suit itched like someone had stitched grief directly into the seams, every thread a reminder that he didn't want to be here, and yet he sat, rigid on the hard wooden pew, surrounded by polished shoes and eyes that glistened too easily to be real.

He tugged at his collar, breath hitching against the starch, and glared at the coffin resting beneath the sweep of stained glass. He left this world too soon. At least that's what everyone kept saying since his grandfather's eyes closed for the last time.

The man who had ruled every corner of Yoongi's life. Whose shadow stretched so wide it swallowed generations. Even now.

“He was a good man,” they whispered. Over and over. Yeah. Sure.

He didn't want to care—God, he hated caring—but the ache lodged beneath his ribs refused to loosen. Softness was a curse he had never outgrown, something inherited from his grandmother if the relatives were to be believed. A kind heart, they'd called it. Their words. Never his.

And as always, it was his grandparents they celebrated—their strength, their love story, their immaculate legacy. His parents hovered somewhere behind all that shine, reduced to faint silhouettes. His father, too quiet and painfully careful; his mother, gentle in a world that devoured gentleness. They existed like wallpaper: present, but ignored.

He'd grown up in his grandparents' house more than his own. Another twist of pain. Another tight breath, he tried to swallow down. He despised the sting rising behind his eyes, the childish pressure in his chest.

Don't cry. Not here. Not where people could see.

Ji-eun hadn't come. Of course, she hadn't. She'd left him last week with a note and a cold kind of finality.

You're too closed off. You'll never let anyone in.

That wasn't true. He would have let you in—fully, completely—if she'd ever given him the chance. If she'd ever looked away from that pathetic athlete she trailed after. A walking sack of hormones and cheap aftershave. Whatever his stupid name was.

Even now, you sat a few rows ahead with him.

Yoongi hated himself for noticing. Hated that the sight of your profile—soft, familiar, heartbreakingly beautiful—still punched a hole through him. An insult. The boy beside you was a fucking insult.

He'd memorized you in ways he'd never admit aloud: the curve of your jaw, the way you bit your lip when you studied, the laugh you tried to hide when you thought no one was watching. And now some over-fed jock got to sit next to you, close enough to feel the warmth he'd spent months pretending he didn't crave.

If grief didn't kill him today, jealousy might.

He slouched lower, eyes pinned to the coffin as though staring hard enough might force the universe to give him something—clarity, forgiveness, the truth he wasn't ready for. Instead he got the muffled drone of yet another eulogy.

Too good. Too kind. Too soon.

The same empty phrases rattled through the church, ringing false in Yoongi's skull.

He pressed his tongue against his teeth, jaw tight.

Lies always sound better in church.

1995

The bathroom mirror was fogged at the corners, a faint ghost of the too-hot shower you'd taken to steady your nerves. Your hair sat twisted in a towel, damp strands slipping free to cling to the back of your neck. Mint still coated your tongue—sharp, clinical—fighting the sour knot lodged in your stomach.

You sat on the closed lid of the toilet, elbows on your knees, the little white stick balanced face-down on the counter like a cruel, silent clock.

Two minutes. Maybe three.

You didn't look. You couldn't. Not after so many disappointments. Instead, you focused on the tiles beneath your feet, following cracks and crooked grout lines as if they could anchor you.

Your husband was somewhere else, wherever he pretended to disappear when he didn't want to be around, through another round of tests. It almost felt like he'd run out of hope. You told him you could manage, and he hadn't argued. He never did anymore. It was easier for him to believe the London doctors were right that your body was the problem. That the blame lived solely with you.

Your thumb rubbed over your wedding band, restless, before your gaze drifted to the test again. One line. Not pregnant. Of fucking course.

You didn't even bother tossing it. Just shoved it into the bottom drawer with the others, a quiet little graveyard of plastic reminders.

A long breath slipped out of you as you reached for the blow dryer. If you stayed in this bathroom any longer, the silence would suffocate you. So you moved. You dried your hair the way your mother always preferred, tapped concealer beneath your eyes to chase the shadows, and applied cherry-sweet gloss that didn't quite mask the bitterness in your mouth.

The car hummed to life. Rain smeared across the windshield in thin, watery threads as the wipers dragged back and forth. You called your mother because you didn't know what else to do and because she always answered.

“Sweetheart?” Her voice crackled through the speakers, warm but cautious. “Are you on your way to the clinic like you promised?”

“Yeah.” Your grip tightened around the steering wheel. “Thought they'd closed patient applications, but when I called this morning, they said they could give me an appointment.”

“Well, they know whose daughter you are, sweetheart.” The closed circle was preferred there, and you were not part of it for a long time.

“Mom… who did you tell I'm back?” A pause. The kind that drops straight into your stomach.

“Only family,” she said too carefully. “You know how word travels—”

“Mom.” Sharper this time. “Who did you tell?”

Another pause. Heavier.

“Yoongi,” she finally admitted, as if the name itself might crack something fragile between you. “He's the family doctor now. The practice is his.”

Your grip slipped. The car drifted half an inch before you straightened it, heart pounding.

“You—what?”

“He took over after Doctor Kim passed. Someone had to.” Her voice softened, apologetic in a way that made everything worse. “He's grown into it. Everyone says he's doing well.”

You couldn't speak. Snow streaked down the windshield, blurring the world into a wash of white color.

“Sweetheart,” she tried again, gentle now. “I didn't want to worry you. He'll take good care of you. That's what matters.”

You pressed harder on the gas—not enough to be reckless, just enough to feel the car obey you. To feel like something was still under your control. But the truth stayed cold and steady:

Nothing about walking into that clinic felt controllable. Not with him waiting behind the door.

Not when everyone had once whispered you should've been his.

You could still hear those whispers now—the same ones Princess and Hoseok endured. Every family gathering, every quiet comment: Yoongi looks at her like she's already his. People never forget things like that.

You pictured him as he was the last time you saw him: twenty or so, all sharp edges and quiet certainty. And you—running off to London with a boy who never fit your family's world. You left without looking back.

Until you had no choice.

“Mom,” you said, voice thin, “I can't just—”

“You can.” Her tone steadied. “He's a doctor. And he's good. That's all you need to remember.”

But that wasn't all you remembered.

Suddenly every memory of your shared youth resurfaced. Him brushing a stray strand behind your ear while you read. Letting you put your cold feet, wrapped in fuzzy pink socks, in his lap. Stealing his grandfather's whiskey collection together. The way he'd stand behind you, fingers warm on your hips, when he asked you to join him for dinner at his grandparents' house.

And the way all of it fractured when you met Luke.

It had been so easy then—slipping your hand into the athlete's, letting him drag you to campus parties, bright lights and loud music and a life that felt fast enough to escape your hometown. You told yourself Yoongi would understand. Told yourself he never wanted things like that.

But the look on his face the day you told him you were thinking of running away—tight-lipped, unreadable, eyes shuttered—you carried it with you for a decade.

Now your wedding band digs into your skin, a reminder of every choice that led you here.

“Sweetheart,” your mother murmured, softer still. “This is what's best. For you. For the family. Just… go. Yoongi will understand.”

But your pulse refused to settle.

All you could see was the way Yoongi used to look at you—careful, quiet, as if one wrong breath might shatter you. There was a time he'd have done anything you asked. But the heartbreak you caused him when you ran away might have been too severe for him to even talk to you after all these years of no contact.

Now you were the one breaking.

And the cruelest part?

He was the one you had to ask for help.

The clinic smells the same. Antiseptic, faint sandalwood and vanilla—like the ghost of Doctor Kim and Min still lingers in the walls. The waiting room hasn't changed much either: several couches along one wall, a table stacked with outdated magazines, and old photographs of the original sanatorium back in Korea.

Except now there's a new nameplate on the reception desk.

Dr Min Yoongi, M.D.

You tug at the sleeve of your jacket, trying to still the jitter in your fingers. The receptionist greets you kindly enough, asks you to fill out a form out of formality of course, and you force your hand to move across the paper, though every line blurs the longer you try to focus. Your throat feels raw, dry, like it doesn't belong to you anymore.

You hand the clipboard back, barely recognizing your own signature, and sink into one of the couches. The leather is stiff and colder than you remember. Your palms press flat against your thighs as though anchoring you to the room, to this moment, to the inevitability of what comes next.

A memory flickers—Doctor Kim once pointed to the wall of black-and-white portraits, telling you the oath is more than medicine. It's legacy.

A door clicks open somewhere down the hall. Slow, measured footsteps follow.

“Dr. Min will see you now,” the nurse says, a polite smile you can't return.

Your body locks. For a second—maybe two—you can't move at all. Then your legs carry you forward on instinct, stiff and unsteady, like you're walking straight into the past.

And then—

Yoongi.

Older now—lines carved deeper around his eyes. The white coat looks like a perfect fit, hugging his shoulders, with the stethoscope slung carelessly around his neck as if it belongs there. He stops when he sees you, just for a second, something flickering across his face and his heartbeat stops. You can tell because you are a perfect mirror for him right now.

“Y/N.” His voice is low, steady, and nothing like the boy you remember. He is a man now.

You look him over without meaning to, his long-ish hair is long gone; instead, they are trimmed short. You wonder whether he cut them after you left, or if it is a recent change. They defined his personality so much back in the day and made him look like the young version of his grandfather—minus the scar.

The folder in his hand with your name on it. Your old life lay open beneath his fingers.

You finally take a slow step forward, the click of your heel against the tile louder than it should be. He doesn't move, doesn't speak again—just watches you with that same quiet intensity that always used to make you lose your train of thought.

“Hey.” It escapes softer than you intend—half greeting, half plea. Please don't hate me. The corner of his mouth twitches. The ghost of something.

“Come in,” he murmurs. “We'll go over your records.”

He turns, and you follow, close enough to breathe the faint trace of his cologne—fresh grapefruit and saltwater. Something clean. Something painfully familiar.

The exam room door closes with a soft click. He moves an armchair aside for you, gestures toward the seat, then circles back to his desk with the old beige folder—the one his grandmother once filled with careful notes.

“So…” He flips through the first pages, yellowed with time. His grandmother's handwriting. Then Doctor Kim's. Then silence where the rest of your life should have been.

“…your records go back to '84,” he murmurs. “Chronic hypoglycemia. Recurrent fainting. You were supposed to keep glucose tabs on you.”

“I did,” you say. “Most of the time.”

He glances up, one brow arched. “Most of the time.” Dry. Familiar. Cutting in a way that pulls at something deep in your chest.

“I got better,” you insist weakly.

“That's not how hypoglycemia works.” He hums, skeptical. “Either you managed it, or you didn't.”

You force a small nod. “I managed.”

He hums again, unconvinced, flipping through the pages.

“The last record I have is from right before you left.” He doesn't say when you left me, but the air bruises anyway. “You missed your follow-up that summer.”

“Didn't think anyone kept track.” You let out a hollow laugh.

He lifts his eyes. And there—beneath the professionalism—something raw gleams through.

“I kept track.”

You break eye contact first. Your heart stutters, but you hide it behind a practiced smile. He leans back in his chair, tapping the pen against the folder.

“So,” he continues, leaning back, pen tapping lightly against the folder, “tell me what's changed. Symptoms? Medication?”

The words knot in your throat. You open your mouth, close it again. The pressure behind your ribs builds until your breath stutters.

You take a deep breath and try to steady yourself. You can do this. Just say it. But your voice catches, a whisper on the verge of breaking. You open your mouth, then close it. Then open it again. The words are stuck, trapped somewhere between your throat and your chest.

“Y/N?” he prompts gently, raising his brows at you.

“I… I didn't know how to—”

“How to what?” His voice goes soft. Patient. Dangerous. You look at him.

The room tilts with the weight of every memory you shouldn't be remembering. The boy who tucked your hair behind your ear. The boy who waited for you outside the library. The boy you ran from.

“It's complicated,” you whisper.

“I—” you start, but the folder feels heavier in your hands than it should, like it's full of every mistake you've ever made. “I just… I didn't know how to—”

“How to what?” He tilts his head slightly, patient, unreadable.

You glance at him, and your stomach twists. Because it's him. The same boy who once wanted to be more than friends, who almost… almost could have been everything, if only you hadn't left. If only you hadn't run. You can't tell him. You should not fucking tell him about it. Not now. Not here. Not with the weight of the years being apart pressing down between you.

“I… it's complicated,” you murmur, voice trembling. “Some things… they're better left to the doctor, I guess.” You close your eyes, replaying the stupidity you just said. His eyes narrow slightly—not in anger, but in that way that always made you feel seen too deeply.

“I am the doctor,” he says gently. “You know that, right?”

You force a laugh, bitter, shaky. “I know.” But it's hollow, echoing in the room. You glance down at your hands, knuckles white. “It's…” You bite down your lip.

“You trust me, don't you? Y/N?” He studies you, silent, and for a heartbeat, you swear he sees right through the façade. The doctor is there, yes—but so is the boy who used to wait for you at the library steps. Your throat burns. Of course I do. Always have. But trust isn't simple. Not with him. Not when the past threatens to bleed into the present. You are fucking married and should never think about him like this anymore, but you cannot help but stare at his barren fingers, no wedding ring in sight, or the way he scanned your hand and saw one with a flicker of disappointment on his face.

Maybe he thought that you came back because you got a divorce. Maybe you just got enough of London. Or maybe he thought you came back to him.

None matters. The wedding ring is still on your finger, while your bed is oddly cold in the mornings when your husband leaves you without saying goodbye and comes back when you've already fallen asleep.

You cannot give your husband a baby, and you desperately want one. To find a purpose in life again.

“I—maybe… maybe we shouldn't—”

“Shouldn't what?” His voice drops, quiet now, almost intimate, carrying the weight of every memory between you. “We're not talking about us. We're talking about your health, Y/N.”

“You never called me that.”

He blinks, the faintest shadow of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Called you what?”

Your throat tightens. “Y/N.” The syllables feel foreign when you say them out loud—too formal, too detached. “You never called me by my name.”

For a moment, the air between you is heavy with the weight of things unsaid.

“Why is it not Lark anymore?”

“Because,” he says quietly, “Lark flew away.”

“You make it sound like she never came back.” He exhales through his nose, slow and steady, and you catch the faintest trace of that same grapefruit scent again.

“Maybe she didn't,” he murmurs. “Maybe this version of her just looks the same.”

You want to say something sharp, something that'll put distance between you—but the warmth in his voice disarms you. He's not accusing. He's remembering. And that makes it worse. That's what breaks you, and the tears start to fall before you realise that.

You didn't think that your first encounter after such a long time would go down like this. You didn't think you missed him as much before he opened the door and looked at you, really looked at you. Not only with his eyes.

He freezes at the first glint of tears, just for a fraction of a second, enough for you to notice the tension in his jaw. Then, carefully, almost hesitantly, he reaches for a tissue from the box on his desk.

“Are you okay?” You shake your head, unable to speak. Your hands clutch the folder in your lap like it's a shield, though it does nothing to stop your shoulders from trembling.

“I… I thought I could handle it,” you whisper finally, voice breaking. “Seeing you here… it's not what I thought it would be. I didn't know it would hurt this much.”

He kneels slightly by your chair, careful not to crowd you, and hands you the tissue without a word.

“Why didn't you call or write, Larkie?”

The nickname hits like a pulse beneath your skin—soft, familiar, and unbearably intimate. You forgot how it sounded in his voice, how it carried a kind of quiet belonging that no one else ever managed to replicate.

You swallow hard, staring down at the white tissue in your lap. “Because I was a coward,” you admit, barely above a whisper. “Because if I heard your voice again, I would've come back.”

“You could've,” he says softly, like it's the simplest truth in the world.

“No, I couldn't. Luke had the contract, and I needed to make a life for myself, outside of the family.” You shake your head.

“But you're back now, aren't you?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, your fingers tightening around the folder in your lap. “I'm back.”

“But this is not why I'm here today…”

“Then why are you here, Larkie?” Yoongi's voice drops, careful, almost hesitant, though his eyes never leave yours.

“I… I,” you whisper finally, voice trembling. “I...we can't… I can't have a baby.”

The words hang in the air, fragile, and your hands clench the tissue like it's the only thing keeping you grounded.

For a heartbeat, he says nothing, just studies you, the way he always did when something mattered more than the surface. Then he exhales slowly, a quiet, steadying sound.

“Who told you that?”

You swallow again, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from spilling over. “The doctors in London… they said it's me. That my hypoglycemia is affecting my hormones…” Your voice catches, and you trail off, unable to finish.

“Well, it sure can suppress ovulation, alter luteinizing hormone pulsatility, and compromise follicular development. But—this is not a deterministic outcome. We need a full endocrine panel: cortisol, thyroid, FSH, LH, estradiol…” Yoongi's hand twitches toward the folder, but he doesn't touch it. Instead, his gaze sharpens, steady and piercing, yet there's no judgment there—only focus, only concern.

You bite your lip, forcing the words out. “I… I just wanted a child. I wanted—something that could be mine…” Your voice trembles, catching on the emotion you've kept buried.

“Did Luke get tested?” He had to ask, and you had to answer.

“They say everything is fine on his end.” Yoongi exhales slowly, hearing your words, leaning back just enough to let the tension settle between you, but his eyes never leave yours.

“I'd like to see his results and re-test that hypothesis.”

The precision in his words, the clinical layering over the personal, makes your chest ache. This is Yoongi—the boy who once waited for you in the library, the man who now speaks with authority and care, and yet somehow… still sees you. You inhale shakily, letting yourself cling to that thread of hope, fragile but real.

“Luke… he's sort of… given up,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “He doesn't think we'll ever be able to have a child. He… he stopped hoping a while ago.” Yoongi's brow furrows slightly, the clinical part of him sharpening instinctively.

“How long have you been trying?” His voice is calm, controlled, but there's an undercurrent of concern you can't miss.

“About three years.” You glance down at your lap, swallowing hard.

He leans back slightly, eyes narrowing just enough to read the weight behind your words. “Three years… and no interventions in that time, aside from whatever was recommended abroad?”

“Just the tests. Medications, cycles, vitamins… but nothing really worked. And Luke… he just stopped trying. He thinks it's me, that it's always been me.” You shake your head.

“We'll reassess everything, just get him down to the clinic.”

“Okay.....uhm. I'll try my best.”

“I need to go. I promised mum I'll come by.” You slide the folder to his desk and stand up. A lie. You just need to get out of here as soon as possible. If he's going to look at you that way any longer, you'll succumb.

“Of course, I'll give you the next appointment as soon as I'm done going through your file.”

You take a few steps toward the door, the weight of the conversation pressing against your chest, making each movement feel heavier than it should. Your throat tightens and your stomach twists as a sudden realisation hits.

You spin back, breath uneven, and before you can stop yourself, you throw your arms around him. His hands freeze for a fraction of a second, then settle firmly on your back, steadying you. You bury your face into the crook of his neck, inhaling that faint scent of grapefruit and ocean that has somehow stayed the same all these years.

Yoongi's lips brush the top of your hair, soft, deliberate. “Larkie…” he murmurs, voice low, almost reverent.

“Thank you.” You say into the crook of his neck and stay for a moment longer. Tears still prickling in your eyes. But for the first time in years, the future doesn't feel quite so impossible.

“I'll give you a baby. I promise.”

You let yourself into the apartment, the key clicking too loudly in the lock. The faint scent of his aftershave hangs in the air—sterile, faintly chemical, not like Yoongi's almost natural scent. You curse yourself for comparing them right now. You didn't think of Yoongi this way for years, and it took one glance at him for your brain to shut off asap.

The sound of the television droning in the living room greets you before he does.

Luke is on the couch, shirtless, shoulders hunched forward, eyes fixed on the sports channel like it holds the meaning of life. The light from the screen paints his face in harsh flashes of blue and white. There's an empty glass on the coffee table, a half-melted ice cube swimming in what's left of his scotch.

“Where have you been?” he mutters without looking up.

“I had an appointment,” you reply, setting your purse down a little too carefully. Your heart is still thudding from earlier — from Yoongi's voice, his steady hands, the promise he didn't mean to make.

“Another doctor?” Luke hums that low, dismissive sound he uses when he's already decided not to care.

“Yeah. Just… a check-up.” You hesitate. Especially with telling him it was Yoongi you went to see.

“Still trying to fix what can't be fixed, Y/N?” His laugh comes dry, sharp around the edges. You freeze. He doesn't see it—or maybe he does and doesn't care. He takes a sip of his drink, eyes never leaving the screen.

“You should stop wasting money on this, Y/N. We've done everything. It's not happening.” Something inside you cracks at his tone. Not the words, but the emptiness behind them. The surrender.

“We haven't done everything, not even nearly” you whisper. “You gave up.”

That gets his attention. He turns his head slowly, eyes narrowing, his once-golden hair now dulled from stress and sleepless nights.

“You think I gave up? You think I wanted this?”

“I don't know what you want anymore, Luke.”

He scoffs and gets up, moving past you toward the bar cart. His back is tense, the faint outlines of muscles twitching as he refills his glass.

“What I want is a wife who doesn't keep dragging me through pity appointments. What I want is peace. You think it's easy for me, living off your father's money? You think I don't hate this?”

“Then why did we come back?” You take a step forward, your voice small but steady.

“Because we didn't have a choice.” He downs the drink in one go and turns, jaw tight.

“I had a job, we could have lived a bit–”

“You wanted a goddamn baby. You can't work and have a baby at the same time. Jesus. Your parents hate me already.” He smacks the glass down on the table and looks you in the eye. You've been together for a decade. It is impossible for you not to recognise this look of I'm right, you're wrong.

“Don't do that,” you whisper. “Don't make it sound like I'm asking for something unreasonable.” He runs a hand through his hair, pacing, restless, as if he's trying to shake off your words

“It's bad enough we are back in this fucking city, with your fucking family. You dragged me back, and now you're running to another fucking doctor!” You blink, the tears stinging now.

“What are you even saying—I didn't drag you anywhere. You said yes. You said we could try again here.”

“I said yes because there was money here,” he bites out, and suddenly it's too quiet. “Your trust fund. Stability.” He scoffs, turning away. “What else was I supposed to do? Sit in London and watch my career die?”

“So that's what this is about?” The words land like a slap, hot and hollow. He exhales sharply.

“It's always about reality, Y/N. You think the world runs on wishes? You think crying in another doctor's office is going to change a goddamn thing?”

“Yoongi doesn't think it's hopeless.” You step closer, voice trembling but certain. You feel the glass fly past you, shattering against the wall behind you with a loud crash. You don't even flinch anymore.

“The fuck?!” Luke's head snaps toward you right away, eyes narrowing. “Yoongi?” He says the name like poison. “That's what this is really about, isn't it?”

“No, Luke—” You freeze, not really sure how you can save this colossal fuck up.

“Don't lie to me.” His laugh is low, humourless. “Of course it's him. It's always him. Min fucking Yoongi. Christ, I should've known the minute you mentioned seeing a doctor here.”

“He's just helping us,” you manage, but your voice comes out thin.

“Helping us?” He takes a step closer, the air between you sharp with tension. “He's wanted to fuck you since you were of age. You think I didn't see it? You think I didn't notice the way you lit up whenever he walked into a room?”

“Stop it. He was my closest friend and that's it.”

“Why stop?” His tone grows colder and crueler. “Because you know I'm right? You never got over him. That's why you ran to him the second we got back. You could've gone anywhere, but no—you go to him.”

“I didn't know he took over as the family's doctor.” Tears sting the back of your throat, but you force yourself to meet his stare.

“You always do this—hide behind innocence when you know exactly what you're doing. You married me, but you never stopped wanting him.” He shakes his head, a bitter smile twisting his lips.

“You're out of line.” Your hands ball into fists. “Luke, listen to me,” you say, voice shaking. “He's just a doctor. That's all. There's nothing between us. There never was.”

“You expect me to believe that?” He lets out a sharp, disbelieving scoff, his shoulders stiffening.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Because it's the truth.” No, it's not.

“Then why does it sound like you're defending him more than you ever defend me?” He stares at you like he's trying to see through you, eyes rimmed red from the drink and the anger.

“Because he's the only one still fighting for us right now. He wants to help, Luke. He thinks we still have a chance—” You close your eyes, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. “You said you wanted a family as much as I did, but now you've just… stopped trying. Please, Luke. Just one last time. Go down to the clinic, get tested. If there's nothing left to fix, I'll stop too. I swear.”

For a long moment, he says nothing. Just breathes, the sound heavy and tired. Then he nods once, curt, like it costs him.

“Fine. I'll fucking go and jerk one off again.” He barks out, tired of arguing.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Just one last time.” You nod, biting your lip hard to keep the sob down.

You stand there in the half-lit kitchen, the smell of whiskey and glass dust in the air, and realize that even his promise feels like a bitter goodbye. You feel it deep in your bones. This is the beginning of the end.

But you're not ready to accept that. You can't. You took a holy matrimonial vow to be his wife. Divorce in this family is not tolerated well or…at all. It is bad enough that you ran off and married the other man.

The bar is exactly the way you imagined it. Very classy, but also up to date. Lots of emerald green decor, must be Hoseok's influence on Princess. Anubis is very quiet in the morning, as all its visitors come very late at night.

You trace the edges of the countertop with your fingers, cool beneath your touch.

Princess leans against the bar, sipping her cup of coffee, her gaze wandering out the tall windows. “It's weird seeing it like this,” she murmurs. “All empty, quiet… nothing like the chaos at night.”

“I never pictured you as a bar owner, though.” You nod, setting your cup down with a soft clink. Princess chuckles softly, the sound warm and easy.

“Neither did I, honestly. I'm so tired of it. But it's mine, and you know how it is in this family when it comes to ladies working.” She glances at you, eyes sharp but gentle.

“How are you and your fella?” You smile faintly, tracing the rim of your coffee cup, changing the topic.

“We're fine. Mark's been helping out with Anubis a lot lately.” Mark? You try to quickly mask the surprise on your face by drinking your coffee, but your irises widen. You have the question on your tongue, but opt not to force the family's expectations on her more than they already are.

You and Princess are like little twins since birth. Your physical similarities run high, too; they used to mistake you two. She is the only one, apart from Yoongi, you trusted to keep a secret. So when you decided it's time to fly, she never told a soul. Nor that you kept in touch. Yoongi didn't tell anybody either. But…he had no one to tell, apart from his grandma at the time. He knows you'd never dare to run for the hills when his grandpa was among the living. The punishment would be too severe.

“It's good to have someone you can rely on, innit?”

“Sounds like you've got a lot on your mind, Y/N. More than just Luke, huh? Everything fine?” Princess studies you for a moment, her gaze softening. You used to wear your hair like hers, but the long, honey-glazed ponytail just feels like you more.

“Yeah… more than I ever expected.” You glance down at your cup, swirling the coffee idly, thinking of Yoongi, the fertility tests you've done this past month, the tension in your marriage that seems to linger. Even your parents sense it now. Sunday tea after service is awkward and you don't remember it being that awkward, ever.

“Well… at least you're here now. Back home. You've got people who care enough to notice.” You nod slowly, letting the silence settle, but there's so much understanding in her eyes. Luke doesn't look at you this way anymore.

“But he doesn't, and it's killing me–” a loud crash from the back room echoes through the empty bar. A set of curse words follows, from a voice you don't really recognise.

You ready yourself to stand up from the bar stool, but loud, quick and heavy footsteps going up the metal stairs stop you. Princess moves behind the bar to see what exactly is going on when Namjoon shows up at the stairs at the end of the bar, rushing to the landline behind the bar. Jacket unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, the usual calm in his expression you remember replaced by the clipped efficiency of a man used to handling messes. He is aged, but like fine wine. He's also jacked up, not the skinny boy you remember anymore.

“What the hell happened?” Princess calls over to him as he rushes past her. Dialling a number.

“Peaches cut herself,” Namjoon throws over his shoulder, voice low but tight. “Badly, by the looks of it. She dropped a wine bottle, and a shard cut her.” Princess curses softly under her breath.

“She needs to go home and sleep, dammit. I told her to take last night off.”

“She won't rest. You know how she gets—always trying to prove she's fine.” The phone clicks as Namjoon pauses, listening to the ring. He exhales sharply. You watch him, stunned for a moment. The room feels both familiar and strange, the faces older, the air heavier.

“I need you to get down to Anubis, ASAP.” He barks into the phone and slams it down again, running back towards the stairs, only to stop himself right in front of the curved railing.

“Y/N?!” His eyes catch yours, widening slightly in disbelief before softening into recognition.

The sound of your name snaps through the room, echoing faintly against the marble and glass. For a heartbeat, you forget how to breathe.

“Hey, Joon.” You manage a small nod and a shy smile. His mouth parts, but no sound comes out. Just a flicker of emotion that crosses his face too fast to name. Relief, maybe. Guilt. Surprise. All tangled together.

“When did you get back?!” Namjoon's voice carries across the empty bar, low but charged.

You blink, startled by how easily the question breaks through the noise in your chest. “A few weeks ago,-” you say softly, your fingers tightening around the edge of your coffee cup.

“Namjoon-oppa?” A small voice carries itself from downstairs, unmistakably said Peaches.

“I gotta go down. But don't you dare leave without saying goodbye again.” Ouch. You nod curtly and move your cup towards Princess, trying to suggest you'll need one more. The sound of Namjoon's expensive shoes fades beneath the low hum of the morning traffic outside, leaving you and Princess in the quiet aftermath.

“Guess the gang's really getting back together, huh?” Princess exhales softly, folding her arms on the bar.

“You hated it when people called us that.”

“Hated it, yes. But somehow it feels right.” Princess smirks, shaking her head. “Having you back, I mean.” You let out a shaky laugh. A piece of you stayed here when you left. A piece that you've returned to now. A piece that is now walking through the front door in a plain flannel shirt and a medical bag in one hand.

His gaze scans the sunlit room briefly before settling on you, and the air around you tightens. The late morning light spills through the tall windows, warm but sharp, highlighting the lines on his face that weren't there when you last saw him.

“Morning,” he says, voice low, calm—like a tether to something steady, but a small smile plays on his lips upon seeing you sitting there.

“Yoongs,” you murmur, almost instinctively. “Morning.”

“Morning, Yoongs!” Princess lets out a soft whistle, amusement in her tone.

He doesn't respond, just studies you for a moment longer than is comfortable, the quiet intensity in his eyes making your stomach twist.

Then, softly, just for you, he says, “Second coffee, and no breakfast at all.”

You stiffen, caught off guard. Somehow, even after all these years, he remembers all your bad habits. Heat creeps up your neck at the sudden callout.

“I—uh…” you mutter, feeling like a small child being scolded.

“It's fine. Just for today. At least I can take blood samples.” You blink, caught between embarrassment and relief.

“Right… the blood samples,” you murmur, your voice almost a whisper. Yoongi moves past you with his usual measured grace.

“I'll see to Peaches and come get you after I'm done, Larkie.”

You watch him go down the stairs until you cannot see a single strand on his hair. You pause, looking back at the bar, glancing back at Princess, who's leaning casually against the counter with her arms crossed, a smirk tugging at her lips.

“Don't look so worried,” she teases, tilting her head. “It's just Yoongi. Not like he's going to bite—well, not literally anyway.”

“You've been here. I haven't.” You let out a nervous laugh, the sound catching a little on your nerves.

“And? It's still the same Yoongi.”

“I—he's… different now,” you murmur.

“He's just older. Still broody. Still annoyingly precise.” She grins, nudging you lightly. “And you're the same too! Just like I remember you.”

“Only entirely different.” You whisper more to yourself than to her.

It's a lifeline before you walk into Yoongi's world again. Or if you two can reconcile your friendship in the first place is so far, questionable.

“You still can't look at it?” Says Yoongi while screwing the cap onto what you guess is a vial of your blood. You glance away quickly again, opting to count the ceiling tiles instead.

“Nope.” No, you can't. That hasn't changed one bit. Looking at the needle while it pierces through your skin and blood was always something you could not withstand.

“You used to cover your face with your sleeve,” he says, a faint smile ghosting across his lips. “Said it helped.”

“And you used to hold my hand.” His hand stills mid-motion, that small smile on his lips faltering just enough to make your chest ache.

“I did,” he says finally, voice low, almost careful. You glance at him then, the morning light catching the edge of his profile—older now, sharper somehow, but still familiar in all the wrong ways. You look into his eyes a bit longer than you anticipated, getting lost in them. Oh just how wrong this is for you to feel. And for a moment—just one—the world feels like it's 1984 again.

“Anyway–” you cough, clearing your throat, “Luke mentioned you might be able to retrieve the samples afterall, so he doesn't have to…you know?” Yoongi lets out a quiet scoff that turns into a soft laugh, shaking his head. He caps the second vial, labelling it neatly before glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

“Ah, yes. Luke,” he says dryly, rolling the name like it's a bitter pill. “Man was thrilled to see me again and again, you know. Practically radiating joy.”

“Crap, I knew I should have gone with him. Was he mean?” You ask with little soul within your body, because you just know Luke would never be nice to Yoongi. Ever.

“Mean?” he repeats, his tone light but edged with irony. “He stood five feet away, arms crossed, looking like he was about to throw a punch if I so much as breathed wrong.”

“He's always been like that with you.” You can't help but laugh. The sound slips out before you can stop it.

“Oh, I noticed,” Yoongi replies, dry amusement flickering across his face. “He gave me this look when I walked in—like he couldn't decide whether to shake my hand or sanitise it.”

“And what did you do?” You snort, covering your mouth with your palm.

“I smiled,” he says simply, as if that's an explanation enough. “Said, 'Good to see you too, champ.'”

“You didn't.” You burst out laughing this time, shaking your head.

“I did, kill 'em with kindness they say…” he insists, mock-offended. “He nearly combusted on the spot.”

The laughter fades slowly, leaving behind a warmth that feels both familiar and dangerous. The corners of his mouth lift just slightly, that old, knowing look softening his features.

“I already retrieved them. They're currently in the freezer labelled… Shelley's legacy, he insisted,” Yoongi leans against the metal cupboard and glances at the ovulation test you took earlier.

“Larkie?” He calls, his voice softer now, almost intimate. “The results came from the lab this morning.” You straighten in your seat at the sudden shift in his tone—no longer teasing, no longer the easy warmth that had filled the room a heartbeat ago.

“And?” you ask, even though your stomach already twists in anticipation. He exhales through his nose, slow and measured, before turning the paper toward you. His thumb rests at the edge of the page, tapping once before he speaks.

“Everything looks… promising,” he says finally, voice low, deliberate. “Your hormone levels are fine enough. You may have hypoglycemia, but it is not severely affecting your ovulation cycle. Not in my expert evaluation.”

“You don't have to make it sound so… scientific.” You blink, trying to process the words, the weight of promising pressing against your chest. Relief fights with disbelief, and your fingers curl tightly in your lap. Yoongi leans a fraction closer, his gaze darkening, almost magnetic.

“In other words,” he murmurs, thumb lingering at the corner of the paper, “you can conceive. Your body just needs a little… attention.”

The room feels smaller somehow, charged with something between reassurance and something else you can't name. That familiar, dangerous warmth settles along your spine. Even as your pulse hammers in your ears, you notice the slight curve of his mouth, the deliberate softness in his tone.

“I… but they kept saying” you start, voice catching, unsure if you're speaking to him or to the paper in your hands.

“Shh,” he interrupts softly, almost tenderly, stepping just close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him. “This is very good news. We're doing great.” Tears well up in your eyes upon hearing his soothing words.

“I'll need to run a few quick checks. Just to be sure everything lines up, and we can try insemination today. If that's the method you guys wish to use.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, the magic begins.”

Yoongi's theatrics start the moment he glances at you in a very ugly medical gown, sitting on the pink chair with spreads, looking like you still can't get over the fact that he will lay his eyes on your most intimate part. The fact that he's pretending this is some mix between surgery and magic show has your mind whirling.

On the other hand, you have no idea what you expected him to do when he said there is no other ob-gyn in today. You cannot tell this to Luke. Ever. Luke would die if he knew. No….you would definitely die if he got to know.

You lie back in the pink chair, your ridiculous medical gown barely covering you, feeling like a star in a low-budget rom-com.

“I cannot believe this,” you mutter.

“Believe it,” he says, snapping gloves on with a flourish that makes a sharp pop. “Now, deep breaths. The speculum appears in the corner of your eye, and you lose it.

“Nope. Yoongi–I can't–you–ugh” you sputter, squirming as the shiny metal instrument gleams like it's mocking you from the tray. If you can't muster the fact that he will have a full view of your vagina, not only from outside but inside too. Suddenly, the thought of Yoongi putting the little swimmers right into your uterus sounds crazy.

Yoongi arches an eyebrow, completely unfazed, and grins. He sits down at the roller chair and moves closer to your now clasped shut legs.

“Ah-ah-ah,” he says, wagging a gloved finger. “We cannot proceed with the doors closed, my dear. Full cooperation—or at least… partial.”

“I said I can't,” you protest, trying to tuck your knees closer, like somehow that will protect your dignity. “Yoongi–”

“Why?” He asks, putting the speculum back on its tray. You swallow hard, trying to find words that won't betray how flustered you are.

“Because… it's you.”

He blinks, caught off guard for the briefest second. “Me?”

“Yes… You,” you continue, voice trembling despite yourself. “We grew up together. I've known you since forever… and now… you're here, looking… at me like this.” You gesture vaguely to the chair, the gown, the speculum. “I… I just can't… not with you looking like that.”

“Like what?” He tilts his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips.

“Like you care a little too much.”

Yoongi's smirk softens slightly, just enough that it stops feeling teasing and starts feeling… deliberate. “Care too much,” he repeats, almost like he's tasting the words. Then his gaze drops to your hands fidgeting with the hem of the gown. “Well, yes I do, you're my person, remember?”

“It's not… I mean… I shouldn't feel this way. It's just all the paranoid crap Luke splurts about. It's ridiculous.” You flush, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole. He leans just a little closer, the chair creaking under him.

“Not ridiculous,” he murmurs. “I never stopped being your person, Larkie. Let me give you the baby you want.” He nods, a faint smile curving his lips. He is doing this for you. You are desperately trying to cling to the thought of this having the outcome you desire. So if this is what it takes….fuck it.

“Okay….Deal.” You swallow hard, feeling your heart still racing, and nod. Yoongi slides slightly closer, lifting the speculum again, but this time with deliberate care, holding it gently like it's a fragile tool rather than a weapon.

You exhale, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly, and realise: somehow, even in this ridiculous, awkward scenario, you trust him enough to let him continue.

Another month passes by. Days go by way too fast.

The faint gleam of his rings catches the light as he drums his fingers against the polished surface. When your mum lured you in for afternoon tea, you did not expect the Kkangpae to be sitting in your father's chair, having “chat” with you.

You've been in this room a hundred times before, but never like this. Never when the silence itself feels like an accusation.

“I know what you did,” he says, quieter now, almost thoughtful, “how you used our grief to make space for yourself.”

“I didn't–” you start.

“You did, because if it weren't for his passing, you'd be married off to who you were supposed to.” He snaps before you manage to speak.

“You saw an opening, and you took it.” His tone turns colder, the words landing with the precision of a blade. "Clever girl."

“You make it sound like—” Your pulse stumbles.

“But it seems to me you've come to change your mind. You've been spending a lot of your time with Yoongi instead of your husband, dearest.” He leans forward, the faint curl of a smirk tugging at his mouth. The words hit harder than you expect — not because they're untrue, but because of how casually he says them.

Like gossip. Like fact.

“Yoongi's helping Luke and me out.” Something in your throat tightens. The sentence feels rehearsed, thinner than you meant it to be.

Kkangpae's smirk doesn't fade. If anything, it deepens. “Helping you,” he repeats softly, as if trying the word on for size. “That's a very generous way to describe it.”

“It's medical. Clinical. That's all.” You meet his gaze, trying to hold your ground. "We have reconciled our friendship but that is it."

“Sure it is, dear. Sure it is.” He laughs, and you are left puzzled. Not because you don't know why he is telling you this, but because you are not sure of Yoongi's intentions yourself, or yours, as a matter of fact.

Joggers pass by in blurred streaks, dogs pull their owners along winding paths, but the bench you and Yoongi occupy feels like its own small planet.

He sits with his arms draped over the backrest, legs long in front of him, head tilted back as he watches a cluster of birds dive across the pale sky. For once, he looks… young. Unburdened. Almost peaceful.

Almost.

“Who's living in the main house?” you ask, biting down on the overly sugared cinnamon bun. The frosting sticks to your lip, and you swipe it away with your thumb before it can drip.

Yoongi watches the motion without really watching it—eyes following, mind somewhere else entirely.

“It's not the main house anymore,” he says after a moment, voice low, steady. “Hoseok's place is. Since his dad took over as kkangpae.”

“Oh.” You swallow, suddenly aware that the sweetness on your tongue does nothing to soften the heaviness settling in your chest. “So… who's in it now?”

“Just my mom.” He says it simply, but the space after the words feels too big. “She won't leave. Says the walls keep her company.”

“That sounds lonely.”

Yoongi huffs a laugh—dry, humorless. “She's always been lonely.”

You let the bun rest in its wrapper, appetite fading. “Have you… talked to your dad since the funeral?” His expression shutters. A breath. A blink. A tightening of his mouth that says don't push this.

“Not really.” Dismissive. Practiced. A clean cut where a wound should be. You look down at your hands, brushing the cinnamon dust off your fingertips.

“Yoongi…” He turns to you so quickly you feel the shift of the bench beneath you. Not angry. Just—present. Intensely present.

“What?” he asks, softer this time.

You open your mouth with something gentle, something meant to comfort him, but the words melt when you see his face. His hair falls across his brow in the wind, a few loose strands trembling against his cheek. He doesn't bother fixing them. He just watches you watching him, and something inside you tilts.

A gust pushes your scarf against his jacket, and the two fabrics catch like they're trying to knot themselves together. You reach to tug it back, but Yoongi's hand moves at the same time.

“Larkie…” he says, your name rupturing from his chest rather than his throat. A warning. A plea. A confession.

You shouldn't look at his mouth. But you look just there, as if it is some instinct.

He notices. Oh, he notices. His gaze dips—slow, agonizing—down to your lips, then up again, dragging heat across your skin like a finger made of fire.

“Why does it feel like this?” you blurt out, nervous.

“Like what?” He whispers, and his voice slips into the space between your ribs.

“Like I haven't been gone at all,” you whisper, and the words break on the way out. Yoongi inhales sharply—barely a sound, but enough to shift the gravity between you. A cyclist passes by, wheels crackling over gravel. A dog barks. Someone laughs. Life moves. But you two stay still.

“Because your heart never left.” You breathe in—and the cold slices straight through you. It feels like stepping into the truth barefoot because you didn't lose your feelings for him.

You see him swallow once, throat working, jaw tight with restraint. “You've been gone from places,” he murmurs, “but not from me.” You blink because if you don't, you might fall into him entirely.

“What are you doing to me?” you whisper, and the words break on the way out.

“I'm not doing anything,” he says quietly. “I'm trying not to.”

You buried them. All your feelings for this male. And he dares to lean in now, a decade later—just a breath— not enough to close the distance, but enough to tell you that he could.

Enough to tell you that he wants to. Enough to prove—without touching you— that you were never gone. Not from him. Not for a second.

Your phone picks the worst possible second to explode with noise. Reality storms back in.

You yank it out, annoyed, breath shaking. The caller ID flashes. Fuck. Luke.

It's mere seconds each time you hang out with Yoongi that you tend to forget you have a husband with whom you're trying to have a baby. What you didn't realize until now is that your time together is not spent in the clinic where he should be examining the progress you are making with conceiving a baby, but anywhere but there.

You go to IUI regularly since you first stepped into Yoongi's life at the beginning of the year and a half of it is almost gone. Luke thinks you and Yoongi are laser-focused on calculations, injections, and hopeful odds.

The phone keeps ringing. Loud. Jarring. Like an alarm you can't silence.

Yoongi watches you, expression unreadable—but you see the moment understanding hits him. A flash of guilt. Of want. Of something dangerous blooming behind his eyes.

“Are you going to answer?” he asks softly.

And suddenly, you can't fucking breathe. What are you doing? Thinking about him this way when you're a married woman for fucks sake. Your fingers twitch around the phone. You should pick up. You should. But your body doesn't move.

Fucking letting yourself want Yoongi, looking at his mouth like you're eighteen again, when you're somebody's wife. A married woman. A woman trying to have a baby with someone else. You keep repeating those words to yourself like they actually are more than words at this point.

The flip-phone keeps ringing in your hand, heart rioting, and realize with nauseating clarity—you don't want to pick up.

He sits in the corner booth, baseball cap pulled low, sleeves rolled down to cover his tattoos. Even like this, unassuming, dressed down, he's still magnetic. People know. They always know and feel the aura around him. You slid into the seat across from him, your smile soft but knowing.

“You look tired,” you said, setting down your black leather prada bag. A courtesy of your husband, back in the day, where everything was at least a little bit normal.

“I am,” he admits, voice low. “Interviews, photos, then more interviews, and then launder it all undercover. You know how it is.” You raised your eyebrows.

“But you love it, don't ya?” Jungkook smirks faintly.

“Sometimes. Sometimes it feels like I'm performing when the cameras aren't on.”

The food arrived - omelette for you, pancakes for him. Of course he remembers your go-to breakfast. For a few moments you eat in silence, just enjoying each other's company. Outside the city moved in reflections across the glass wall of the café. If you'd turn around, you could see the Twin Towers looming over the city.

And then Jungkook's fork paused halfway to his mouth. You followed his gaze slowly.

There, by the door. A girl in a grey blazer, black pencil skirt and designer high heels, the sunlight catching the side of her face. Hair put in an updo, lipstick bright red. She was not anyone you'd ever seen before, but you haven't set foot in this area for a decade and by the looks of Mister Jeon Jungkook, he does see her here often. You can practically hear his hormones booting up.

“And that is?” You smiled knowingly that this woman right there has the undivided attention of this year's notorious heartthrob.

“I don't know yet.” He blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh.

“You look like you'd like to find out.” You leaned back, teasing him. He didn't answer right away, but the little sparkles in his eyes were telling you exactly what you needed to hear. His eyes stayed focused on the young woman, smoothing down her hair while talking to the barista. He ignores you. Man is practically imprinting like a duckling.

To distract him before he embarrasses himself, you ask, “So what's the latest drama?”

He doesn't miss a beat. If anything, Jeon Jungkook loves gossip.

“So you know Princess and Hoseok have been that prodigy power match like since the dawn of civilization?” Jungkook asks, cutting into his pancakes with the resigned air of a man delivering terrible news.

“Mm. The golden duo. Heaven's chosen children. The family's favorite future merger.” You hum in response, knowing these kinds of things from your own experience.

“Exactly,” he nods, leaning back like he's about to get comfortable with the chaos. “Everyone's spent years planning their hypothetical wedding like it's a UN summit.”

“And now…?” you prompt.

“And now Hoseok,” Jungkook says, lowering his voice like a confession, “is planning to propose.”

Your fork stills. “Propose propose?”

“Yeah.” He gestures with his knife for emphasis. “Like—get on one knee, speech memorized, ring that costs more than your apartment, the whole cinematic montage.”

“But she's dating that Mark.” You blink once. Twice. But Jungkook doesn't. It wouldn't be the first time men of this family disobeyed any rules of morality. Except…Yoongi. He didn't do it to you while someone else definitely would.

“There it is. The problem of the century.” Jungkook laughs, sharp and ironic.

“And the family?” you ask even though you already sense the answer.

He tips his head toward you, eyes full of amused disbelief. “They despise him. Every single one. Even the cousins who barely know how to spell their own names can manage an opinion about how Mark is 'not a fit.'”

“Let me guess—wrong pedigree, wrong temperament, wrong everything.” You smirk, flashbacking your mind to a decade ago when everyone was saying those exact words about Luke.

“Wrong universe,” Jungkook corrects. “He thinks Sunday tea after service is actual tea not strategy meetings disguised as goddamn hot liquid.”

“And Princess loves that,” you say.

“Oh, she loves it to an unhinged degree,” Jungkook replies. “She thinks dating Mark is punk rock.”

“I don't know, she looked quite in love when I saw them last time.” You laugh into your coffee.

“You yourself goddamn know there is a difference between loving someone and being in love with them.” He gives you a look—dry, cutting, knowing. The words settle between you, warm and heavy, stirring old truths you didn't ask him to touch.

“Princess doesn't have that with Mark. She likes the idea of him. She likes how easy he is. She loves that he isn't an obligation. That she chose him. But in love?” His head tilts. “She's never looked at him the way she's looked at Hoseok.”

And years later...this all sounds a little bit too familiar.

The truth hangs there—simple, brutal, undeniable. Jungkook has always spoken about other people's relationships like he's diagnosing a disease. Because he simply never had such a thing and now you wonder what he is going to be like – in love with someone.

“But he cannot propose to her when she's dating someone else, can he?”

Your question lands softly, but Jungkook reacts like you placed a match against something flammable. His jaw flexes; he looks away for a second, out toward the café windows where New York moves like a fever dream.

“He can,” Jungkook says finally. “And he will.”

You blink. “You're kidding.”

“Nope,” he murmurs, leaning back in the booth. “Hoseok loves her in a way that makes him blind,” Jungkook continues.

“So what's the family's stance?” you ask instead.

“Oh, they're ready to bulldoze Mark out of the picture,” Jungkook deadpans. “They've already decided Hoseok is the right answer. They're just waiting for Princess to catch up.”

“And if she doesn't?”

“Then they'll make her.” His tone softens into something wry. “You know how it works. You've almost been there.” You swallow once, quietly. He notices, thus he abruptly chooses another member to shit on.

“Alright,” he says, brushing a crumb from his thumb, “if we're gonna talk mess, let's talk Namjoon.”

“Namjoon? The functional one?” You lift your brows.

“Functional,” Jungkook repeats, deadpan. “Sure.”

“Alright then. Hit me.” You chuckle into your coffee.

Jungkook leans forward, forearms on the table, voice dropping into that conspiratorial half-whisper he only uses when he's about to expose someone's emotional crisis.

“Namjoon,” he begins, “is down catastrophic for Peaches.”

“Peaches? As in—” Your mouth falls open.

“Yes,” Jungkook cuts in. “Peaches. Sunshine amongst jackals. Eyes like warm honey. Barely five feet tall and yet somehow capable of bringing six-foot men to their knees.”

“Oh my god.”

“Exactly.” Jungkook leans back with the satisfaction of a man reliving a comedy show. “He's been trying to play it cool, you know? 'I'm just checking on her.' 'She's going through a lot.' 'I like to make sure she eats.'” On that note he digs back to his breakfast.

“What about Mister I'll be bachelor forever?” you ask, tilting your head meaningfully.

Jungkook doesn't even pretend not to know who you mean. He groans. Loudly. Dramatically. Like you've just summoned a demon.

“Oh God. Him.” He drops his fork, leans back, rubs his face. “Kim Taehyung: patron saint of 'relationships are a social experiment' and 'marriage is a scam designed by the Vatican.'”

“Still violently single then?” You choke on a laugh.

“Single?” Jungkook scoffs. “He's in what he calls 'a committed relationship with denial'. And possibly a reluctant Pixie.”

“Pixie? Who is Pixie?” Your eyebrows jump.

“Owns that jewelry store on Fifth. Runs it like she's secretly a mafia accountant. Smart, sharp, doesn't take shit from anyone—except, apparently, from Taehyung.”

“But don't tell on me. Nobody is supposed to know. I promised not to tell anybody until she has a ring on her finger. You know how it goes after a ring.”

“He's doomed, or maybe she is?” You laugh, shaking your head.

“Completely,” Jungkook agrees, smirking like he's savoring the disaster, but his eyes linger on the young mysterious woman.

He doesn't try to hide it this time.

“You're staring,” you say, flat but amused, leaning back in the booth.

“I am not.” He snaps his eyes toward you, mock indignation on his face.

“Uh-huh.” You lift a brow. “The guy who just dropped all the family gossip for fun is suddenly… distracted. By her?”

He freezes, caught mid-denial, and then lets a small smirk slip.

“Right. The girl in grey who's apparently making the heartthrob of New York forget what he ordered for breakfast… nothing to see here. Got it.”

Jungkook huffs, brushing at his hair with one hand, trying to regain composure—but the flicker of interest in his eyes betrays him.

“I'm not—she's… interesting, okay? That's all.”

“Then go and talk to her!” You push his arm across the table, but he's quick to recover.

“You go talk to Yoongi first, Larkie.”

“What?” Your mimic drops into confusion. “I… what are you talking about?”

“You're falling for him again,” Jungkook suddenly states flatly, voice teasing but certain, “and you're trying to convince yourself it's not happening.”

“I—That's ridiculous. I'm not—” Your coffee trembles in your hand.

“I've known you long enough to know exactly when your heart's betrayed your brain.” You blink, searching for a way out, but the café noise feels distant now, as if the world has shrunk to the booth, to him, to this statement hanging heavy in the air. You open your mouth to reply, and he cuts in before you can spin anything.

The words settle between you, teasing, accusing, intimate—and suddenly the café feels smaller, warmer, and impossibly charged.

“I'm married, Jungkook.” you say, trying to inject finality into your words, though your voice wavers just enough to betray you.

Jungkook doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. He leans back in the booth, steeples his fingers, and studies you like he's reading a particularly interesting puzzle.

“You know what, Larkie?” he says, voice calm, almost clinical, but the smirk tugging at his lips tells you he's thoroughly enjoying the fact that he's getting under your skin. “I was fucking bluffing, but the way your hand started to tremble, makes me think I'm right.”

You sip your coffee to stall, but it's pointless. His gaze pins you. Sharp. Knowing. Accurate.

“You're falling for him again,” he says again quietly, almost casually, but every word lands like a challenge. “And you can try to lie to yourself all you want—but I see it. I've seen it before. And I'm seeing it now.”

“Choose right this time, Larkie.” Your breath catches. “You can fix your mistake. You are not the first woman here to make the wrong choice.”

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding, coffee turning sour on your tongue. “Jungkook…” It's half a warning, half a plea.

“Think about it at least.” But what Jungkook doesn't know is that Yoongi has been helping you and Luke to get pregnant. And you don't have the energy to explain to another person that you're a broken doll that needs to be fixed, just like everything in your life right now.

“I'll see you at church on Sunday?”

“Do you remember,” he starts, voice low, almost tentative, “that place in Brooklyn with the terrible pancakes?”

“The ones that tasted like wet cardboard?” Your head lifts before you can stop it.

“Yeah. Those.” His mouth curves.

“I can't believe we kept going back.” You laugh before you can swallow it down, a real one—unfiltered, sudden. And he looks at you like he's hearing a favorite song he forgot existed. Something warm slips down your spine. Jungkook was right. Fuck him.

Yoongi's watching you, elbow on the table, chin in his hand—soft, fond, almost startled by the sound of you.

“Feels like forever since I heard that,” he murmurs, like it wasn't meant to leave his tongue. Maybe it's the morning light catching in his hair. Maybe it's the softness in his eyes that didn't exist when your eyes met for the first time after so long. Maybe it's the stupid way you remembered—so vividly—how steady his voice sounded when he said let me help you.

You fold your napkin, suddenly too aware of the warmth spreading in your chest. You don't feel like you're drowning when it is him sitting across from you. You don't feel scared. Or small.

Or broken.

Luke only gives you an awkward smile when you tell him you're going for another IUI. Not happy. Not even supportive. Just… polite.

The kind of smile that belongs to a stranger who's pretending to recognize you.

“If that's what you want,” he'd said, voice flat, eyes already somewhere else.

And maybe that's what hurts most—the way he doesn't argue anymore. Or it is just a quiet before the storm.

With Yoongi you feel… held. Held together with something you were waiting for years. Even when he's not touching you.

“Yoongi…” you start, not even sure what you're trying to tell him. Luke rarely takes you out or at least cares whether you eat or not. Yesterday you sat down to talk to him, but somehow along the way from the bedroom to the living room full of cigarette smoke and whiskey odour, his messy hair and black circles under his eyes, you realized he is in no state able to become a father. That's when it hit you. You didn't even expect to actually get pregnant.

Months of active IUI, months of negative tests that you suddenly started to look at differently. Almost relieved.

Yoongi's orbiting around you almost every second day. He's...present.

“Luke doesn't…” The name tastes stale the moment it leaves your mouth and you swear you can feel the wedding band burning your ring finger.

You look down at your hands. “He doesn't—he's just—we don't…” another deep breath, you need to get this out. “Half the time he doesn't even notice if I've eaten.”

Yoongi's jaw ticks, just once, before he schools his expression. He's careful not to react, but silence can be louder than shouting.

“And here you are,” you continue, voice thinning. “Orbiting around me every other day. Checking if I'm okay. Making sure I eat. Talking to me like I'm… I don't know. Like I matter.”

He doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just listens.

“You're even helping me have a baby with someone you utterly hate.”

“But I don't hate you.” He replies, turning his head towards you.

“And that's so confusing,” you admit, the confession slipping out like a secret you didn't realize you were holding. “I chose him over you. You should hate the shit out of me.”

Yoongi leans forward—not dramatically, not possessively. Just enough that you feel the air shift between you.

“Larkie,...” he says softly, “doesn't matter if you wouldn't choose me in this or any other life time–” your breath catches. “I'd choose you.”

“Always.” For a moment, you forget how to hold your coffee cup, how to sit, how to exist.

“Yoongi…” You barely get his name out. It slips from your lips like a plea you didn't mean to make.

He doesn't backtrack. Doesn't soften the blow. But there's no heat behind it, no demand—just raw honesty sitting between you, warm and terrifying.

“I'm not asking for anything,” Yoongi continues quietly. “Not a decision. Not an answer. Not some grand confession you're not ready to make.”

“But I'll be waiting for you.” You meet his eyes, the truth crashing into you all at once, molten and quiet, “I'm not going anywhere, never again,” he finishes.

Your morning starts with shouting before the front door even opens. Luke's voice cuts through the echo of the hallway, sharp and trembling with rage. You drop your bag onto the table, chest heaving.

“Luke… please what—”

“Please? Please what? Explain yourself! You said I'm paranoid and now I get this in the mail?” He slams down photographs of you and Yoongi in various restaurants or the central park, or in his expensive Rolls Royce. You freeze upon glancing at the photos that look way too intimate, romantic even, stomach dropping.

“Those… that's not what it looks like—” but it is.

“Not what it looks like?! He is all over you!” he roars, his voice breaking, his hands shaking as he picks up one of the photos and points at it like a weapon. “You think I'm stupid? That I wouldn't see it? You lying to me, sneaking around with him—after everything I've done for you, after everything we've built?”

“No one else in the world could help you, except the man you were betrothed to? That's your excuse? He fucking wants you!” His eyes blaze, and suddenly the room feels smaller, the air heavier, but you breathe through it. Angry.

“I gave you everything, Luke!” you finally scream, the words raw and shattering. “Everything I had! My time, my body, my career, my money—and I can't even pretend to cum anymore, because I just don't!”

He recoils as if struck, but the anger doesn't die—it sharpens.

“Have you fucking slept with him, you selfish whore?”

“I didn't— our issues, it's not about him—it's about—” You feel heat prick at your eyes.

“It's always about him!” Luke snaps, cutting you off. Silence crashes down after his words. You want to speak, to defend yourself, but the weight of the truth, the very real photographs, all the things you can't undo, pins you in place.

His composure cracks, the façade of control slipping. “You don't understand anything!” he blurts, voice dropping low, almost bitter. “You know what, it's fucking fine, you can suck his dick as much as you like, you fucking whore. I've had other women either way.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. Your chest tightens, and you stumble back, gripping the edge of the table to keep yourself upright. You were holding yourself on loose string to be faithful to him, and meanwhile, he was fucking god knows who.

“What?” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “You—what?”

For the first time, the cracks in your marriage aren't just tension—they're gaping chasms. And you realise, with a shiver, that whatever you thought could be fixed between the two of you was gone a long time ago and died today.

You don't remember the drive to the church. Only the way the city bled into streaks of gray through the windshield, how your reflection in the glass looked like someone you didn't recognize—eyes too tired, lips pressed too tightly to speak. Raining season in full stream did not add any value to the painful ache in your chest.

Everything was going perfectly in the little bubble you've created, you went for IUI, was supposed to get pregnant and your marriage to that narcissistic asshole would fix itself. But it didn't and somehow you still feel guilty because you longed to have a family. And even when you realised Luke isn't quite the father material, nor your relationship is healthy enough to even raise a baby, you still fucking want it. Just not with him anymore.

Sitting here, in the soft dim of the church, the echo of your heels still fading across the tiled floor, it doesn't feel like hope. It feels like waiting for a doom, not a miracle.

You lower yourself onto a pew, your hands folding instinctively against your abdomen, as if the gesture could protect what might—might—be growing there. You press your palms together and close your eyes, not to pray, but to steady yourself.

You think about Yoongi again. About the quiet way he speaks when he's explaining something, like every word has already been measured, softened. How he never looks away when you do. And then about Luke—how his voice cracked with anger last night when he told you he cheated. While you were going for IUI's, spending quality friend time with Yoongi and rest of the gang, he was fucking everything that had a hole apparently, paying with your trust fund money.

Seokjin's people confirmed it in less than a day. Everything.

The words Luke said about you being a selfish whore struck harder than you expected, because somewhere beneath the fury was truth—ugly, unspoken truth. You do want that goddamn baby and maybe you cling to Yoongi because he on the contrary was trying to give you what you wanted. You still want it more than reconciliation, more than comfort. You want something to survive this. Something to make all the pain mean something.

Maybe he's right. Maybe he isn't right. Maybe this has become something else entirely.

The stained glass above throws muted colour across your hands—amber, rose, blue—turning you into something almost holy. Almost forgiven.

But you don't feel forgiven. You feel like a woman who's running out of time, sitting in a church where the candles keep burning, and nothing ever really changes.

He slides quietly into the pew beside you, the bench creaking under his weight. He doesn't speak right away—just lets the silence settle between you until it becomes something almost gentle. When he finally does, his voice is soft, careful.

“The service ended half an hour ago.”

You open your eyes slowly, blinking against the fractured light pouring through the stained glass. Something in your chest gives way then—something small and aching. He's here. For you. Yoongi doesn't press. He just waits, eyes on you, steady and patient.

“I should have never left,” you sigh, trying to hold the tears at bay. “I should have listened to you and stayed.” Yoongi's gaze lingers on you for a moment, the faintest trace of concern flickering in his eyes.

“You did what you thought you had to.” He says softly and you shake your head, a small, bitter sound catching in your throat.

“Larkie,” he says, voice low, careful. He leans back slightly, his hands clasped loosely in his lap, his head drops down and you hear him click his tongue.

“I thought London would be different,” you murmur. “I thought if I put an ocean between myself and everything here, I'd finally feel like I could breathe.”

“And did you?” Yoongi turns his head toward you, the faintest crease forming between his brows.

“For a while, maybe. Until I realized this was my oxygen, however fucked up this family is.” You stare down at your hands, at the way they tremble slightly against your skirt.

“He was taking steroids,” you say finally, the words catching on their way out. “Said it was just to get back into shape. But then the team found out. Fired him. He called it politics, said everyone did it—but he was borrowing money to keep it going. Everything we had went into his mess and those stupid fertility treatments.”

Yoongi's jaw tightens, but he says nothing.

“I quit my job,” you continue, almost mechanically. “The stress, the hospital visits—it was too much. I still had student debt, bills, and Luke's anger on top of it all. I thought if I just kept quiet, kept trying, the baby would fix it.”

“Larkie...you..”

“Me, Yoongi, me. I was so fucking delusional. We were in huge debt already, and we both made it greater. Nothing would happen if I haven't left,” you lament, smearing the mascara with your hot tears.

“You weren't wrong to leave, Larkie,” he says, finally meeting your gaze.

“Oh... I sure was, Yoongs. I left because I was scared shitless to be the next Buin.” Yoongi lets out a slow breath, the kind that sounds more like restraint than relief.

“And then mom told me you never even raised from the chair to claim your birthright.” That is the truth. His eyes flicker toward the altar before settling back on you.

“Larkie,” he began, voice low, almost roughened by the sincerity behind it. “It didn't mean anything to me without you by my side.” Your throat tightens and your heart drops to your stomach.

“You don't mean that,” you whisper, even though some part of you already knows he does.

“I do. I've never meant anything more.” His voice drops lower—dangerously low. Your pulse stumbles, your breath catching as his eyes flicker from your mouth back to your eyes. The space between you seems to shrink, charged and fragile all at once. You can smell the faint trace of his cologne—something warm, clean, and familiar.

“Yoongi…” You try to speak, but your voice comes out as a tremor. He tilts his head, close enough now that you can feel the whisper of his breath on your skin.

“You still don't get it, do you?” he murmurs. “You were never just part of this, Larkie. You are it for me.”

The truth hits you so hard you feel it in your teeth. You never stopped loving him.

“You are my entire world.”

You've spent years stacking thoughts on top of that fact like sandbags—marriage, stability, duty, expectations, the quiet hope that love could be built instead of found. But one look at Yoongi now, with his dark hair falling over his brow and that helpless softness in his eyes, knocks every barrier loose. Water pouring through.

“My heart never stopped beating for you.”

You see flashes—tiny, stupid memories you hadn't revisited in years:

Yoongi tying your shoelaces in fifth grade because you didn't know how. Yoongi holding your wrist under the bleachers, thumb brushing just once before he let go. Yoongi being there when fell down and broke the skin of your knee to help you clean the wound. Yoongi sneaking out from family dinners with you. Yoongi stealing the eggnog at Christmas dinner for you.

For a heartbeat, you forget everything else—the church, the arguments, even Luke. All you can see is him, the quiet devotion in his eyes that terrifies you as much as it draws you in. Your hand twitches toward his, fingertips brushing his sleeve. It's enough to make his breath hitch. The tension breaks like a held note about to resolve—he leans in, just barely, and your eyes flutter shut.

Your own lips parted without your permission, a tiny, trembling gasp that seemed to invite him closer. His eyes flickered to your mouth and back, and you realized, almost with shock what is about to happen.

Slowly, impossibly slowly, he leaned in, and your knees almost buckled at the thought. The air between you grew thick, humming with tension. Your breaths mingled, shallow and unsteady. You could feel the heat, the tension, the inevitability.

A feather-light brush—just the most barest touch of his lips against yours. Quick, fleeting, barely a whisper of contact, but enough to make your chest tighten and your stomach coil.

And then—the sharp click of the door swinging open shattered it all.

“Sorry to interrupt!” came a cheerful, completely oblivious voice.

You both jerked apart, your hands falling back to your laps as Yoongi's sharp gaze cut toward the doorway. He exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The spell was broken, leaving your heartbeat pounding in the sudden emptiness.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath.

The clinic is unusually still when you push open the door to enter Yoongi's office. The carpet muffles your steps, the air faintly smelling of antiseptic and eucalyptus. A thin stripe of warm light spills across the floor, reaching all the way to your heels. You expected to find him busy with paperwork at this time of the day, yet it seems he still has some patients.

You hear the tiny giggle before you see the little one. It's a soft, bubbling sound, the kind that doesn't belong in the sterile hush of a medical clinic. You pause, hand still hovering near the doorframe, unsure whether you should turn away or keep going. Curiosity wins, as it always does when it comes to him.

You ease the door open an inch.

And then you see them.

Yoongi is seated on the small rolling stool, turned slightly to the side, his posture loose with a kind of effortless ease you've never seen him wear around adults.

A toddler sits on the examination table, cheeks flushed, tiny sneakers kicking gently at the paper sheet beneath them. The little one squeals—another sunny giggle—and reaches out with chubby hands toward Yoongi's collar. And Yoongi… he lets them.

He leans in, lips curved into a soft, quiet smile you've never been on the receiving end of. “Careful,” he murmurs, his voice gentler than you've heard it in years, maybe ever. “You'll wrinkle my shirt.”

The baby coos at him as if deeply apologetic. And Yoongi laughs. A breathy, impossibly tender sound.

Your pulse stutters.

He holds the syringe in his other hand, hidden from the child, ready and precise. Not rushed. Not clinical. He's slower, softer, moving like he doesn't want to frighten the baby, like he knows exactly how vulnerable little things can be.

The baby pats his cheek, and Yoongi blushes. Actually blushes.

“I know,” he whispers to them, carefully lowering their hand. “I'm sorry too.”

You should look away and give him space. Pretend you didn't just see him be gentle in a way that rattles something buried deep in you.

But you can't move.

When he finally gives the injection, the baby barely flinches. He murmurs something soothing as he places a tiny bandage decorated with a cartoon bear on their arm. Yoongi's thumb brushes the baby's skin in a slow rhythm, comforting them more instinctively than consciously.

Something sinks low in your stomach—heavy, warm. He hands the baby back with a small bow, explaining aftercare in that calm, controlled voice he uses when people rely on him.

And then he turns.

His eyes catch yours.

“Didn't hear you come in,” he says, voice sliding back into composure.

You swallow. “I didn't want to interrupt.”

“You don't,” he answers too quickly, too gently.

The mother leaves, the door clicks shut, and the room suddenly feels smaller. Warmer. Filled with the fading echo of his tenderness. He takes a small step toward you, confusion and concern stitched beneath the dark of his eyes. You also take one small step inside the room, and Yoongi's eyes flick down to your mouth before he catches himself.

The tension is its own patient—alive between you, waiting to be addressed, examined, diagnosed.

Yoongi breaks first.

“You weren't at your appointment earlier,” he murmurs, folding his hands behind him like he's trying to keep them from reaching for you. “I was…worried when you didn't even pick up.”

Worried. He was worried.

“Yeah. I... I needed time to think.” You manage to say. He goes still again—this time with a different kind of tension.

“What happened?” he asks, voice dropping into that soft, dangerous calm he uses when he's preparing for bad news.

You inhale. The words sit heavy on your tongue.

“Luke's gone.”

“How gone is he?” Yoongi's expression doesn't change. Not on the surface. But the silence that follows feels like the floor tilting.

“When I came back from the church, he was already gone,” you continue, twisting your fingers together.

Yoongi's eyes flicker—barely. A shadow of something dark and private passes through them, gone before you can pin it down. He steps forward, just one measured pace, like he can't stop himself.

“There's… more, I didn't tell you everything yesterday,” you say finally, before he manages to get to you.

“I assumed so,” Yoongi's eyes don't leave your face. You hesitate. Then—quietly—

“He somehow…got to know….” Yoongi doesn't interrupt. He waits. Always so patient when it matters.

“About…you pursuing me. That's what our fight was about.”

Yoongi exhales slowly, through his nose, like he's tempering something sharp before it cuts. His expression doesn't fracture—doesn't rush to defend or deny—but his jaw tightens, just enough for you to notice.

“And how do you feel about it?” he asks. Not accusing. Not leading. Just careful.

You swallow, throat tight, the question settling into you heavier than it should.

“I…” Your voice falters. You hate that it does. You clear your throat, try again. “I didn't know what to say to him.”

Yoongi watches you like he's listening for something beneath the words. A tremor. A lie. A truth you're afraid to touch.

“That wasn't the question,” he says gently.

You exhale, shaky. “I told Luke nothing happened. Because it didn't.” A pause. “But I didn't tell him it didn't matter.”

That makes him inhale slowly, chest rising beneath the white coat. He doesn't step closer, but the space between you feels like it's shrinking anyway.

Your heart thuds painfully.

He finally steps closer then.

“I didn't pursue you,” he says quietly. “But I stayed where you could find me if you ever needed me.”

There it is. The line between devotion and obsession—so thin it almost disappears.

“Am I a sinner for this, Yoongi?” Yoongi's eyes soften—not with indulgence, but with something older. He studies you like a man who has already forgiven you for things you haven't confessed yet. Not as your doctor. Not even as the boy you once knew. But as a man who has already made his peace with wanting you.

A faint, rueful curve touches his mouth.

“What for?” he murmurs. His gaze flickers to your lips for just a moment longer than it should, then back to your eyes. Your own pulse thrums in your chest, betraying the careful restraint your mind is trying to hold.

“For wanting this–” You barely have time to register what's happening before his hand sweeps up to the back of your neck, pulling you toward him. Your chest collides against his, the wall behind you pressing cold and unforgiving. His lips find yours with a force that steals your breath, bruising, claiming. You gasp into the kiss, every thought scattering, every muscle tightening with disbelief and want.

One of your hands rests on his chest, instinctively bracing, but he doesn't pause. His other hand slides down, warm and commanding, lifting your leg just enough to anchor you against him. The sharp press of his palm against your hip makes you yelp, a sound that mingles with his low, urgent groan. His tongue slips past your lips before you can protest, exploring, claiming, and somehow, impossibly, still gentle.

Time becomes meaningless. You feel your head spin, your lungs burn, and yet you're helplessly suspended in the heat of him, the urgency of his hands and mouth. You finally manage to push one of his hands back from sliding under your skirt, just as his lips part from yours. Both of you are heaving, skin flushed, hearts hammering in the quiet of his office.

“I'm sorry,” he breathes, thumbs brushing against your cheeks as he cups your face. “I got carried away.” His eyes are fixed on your lips, now swollen, glistening with the memory of his mouth.

You try to speak, but words fail. You've never been this close to him, never felt the collision of need and control that pulses in his every movement.

“I wish…” he murmurs, nibbling at your lower lip, a slow, deliberate tease, “…you would see how much I love you.” His voice is low, reverent, dangerous in its tenderness. You can feel the weight of it, the years of restraint and longing distilled into that single, searing sentence. He leans to kiss your lips again but you raise your hand to stop him, your fingers brushing his swollen lips.

Your voice comes out trembling, barely audible over the pounding of your own heart.

“I… I can't,” you whisper, looking up at him, your eyes searching his. “Not like this—not yet.”

He freezes, dark eyes scanning your face, the intensity in them undiminished, but patient, waiting for you to explain.

“I… I need to do this the right way,” you continue, swallowing hard. “I can't just… give in to this while I'm still married. I need… I need to divorce him.” But you already did.

His jaw tightens for a moment, just the faintest flicker of frustration—or maybe fear—crossing his features. Then he exhales slowly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Are you serious?”

“I am,” you say, voice firmer now, though your chest still trembles. “I want to be with you, Yoongi—crist Yoongi—I need to be with you so badly but I need him gone gone of my life.”

“Larkie,” he murmurs, voice low, steadied with effort. “I'll call Seokjin.”

“We have a good claim. He confessed to you that he cheated.” Seokjin says, fiddling with the gold ink pen with his family crest of a snake as a pattern. You grip the edge of the table as though holding on to it will keep you from collapsing. The anger, the hurt, the relief—they all tumble together, unmanageable, raw.

“Can he ask for half of the trust fund?” You fiddle with your fingers, this whole Luke situation is stressing you out. You have no clue where he is or whether he's coming back at all.

“He could try because you didn't have a prenup,” he says slowly. “But the confession works in our favor. The claim isn't equal—it's weighted. Courts don't look kindly on someone who admits to deceit and breach of trust.”

You exhale shakily, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction. Relief fights with lingering anger. Then there is the stinging feeling of when exactly you stopped loving him and started to despise him. Was it the moment he threw glass after glass at you the first month you got back or even sooner when he blamed everything on you.

“Hey...” he leans over the table to caress your hands. You look into his eyes, hopeful, that he will say only those words you actually need to hear right now. “Let me deal with the divorce for you. Consider it done, Larkie.”

“Seokjin…” Your voice is barely more than a whisper, but it carries everything: gratitude, exhaustion, and a flicker of something you've tried to ignore for far too long.

He gives your hands a gentle squeeze, just enough to anchor you.

“You focus on yourself. The rest… leave it to us. You've been carrying too much.”

You nod, the knot in your chest loosening slightly, though the storm of emotions—anger at Luke, fear about the pregnancy, and the pull toward Yoongi—still churns beneath the surface.

But Kim Seokjin is the best consigliere this family could ever have. How so? Because by the time you get back to your apartment, the divorce papers are neatly stashed on the kitchen counter, waiting for your signature. Luke? Gone for good.

You knock on the door, and it swings open almost immediately, as if he was expecting you. He stands there, his eyes soft with concern, and without a word, he pulls you into a tight embrace. You melt into him, letting his warmth seep into your bones.

“Hey there, you good?” he murmurs into your hair, his breath hot against your skin. You nod, even though you're not, because you know he'll understand. He always does.

You stormed out of the apartment the moment you saw the signed divorce papers. It is quite surprising to you that Luke out of all people would sign them willingly. You were his source of income, without you he has nothing. Not that you should worry about that anymore. Yet, the genetic predisposition of this family that stirs in you ignores the obvious elephant in the room for the greater good of your sanity. So you do ignore the way Yoongi looks disheveled, cold, or how his knuckles are bruised. He did it for you.

He leads you inside, his hand never leaving your back, a comforting presence. You find yourself in his living room, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm light over everything. You sit down on the couch, and he sits next to you, close enough that your thighs touch.

“You sure everything's fine, Larkie?” he asks, his voice gentle. Fuck it. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“No…it wasn't for a while,” you give him a little smile, shaking your head. “But it will be from now on.”

You lean in, your lips brushing against his, soft and tentative at first, but quickly deepening. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, you climb onto his lap, straddling him.

His hands roam over your body, tracing the curves of your hips, your back, your thighs. You moan into his mouth, your body already aching with need. You grind against him, feeling his hardness press against you. He groans, his fingers digging into your flesh.

“You sure?” He asks, trying to catch his breath. Yet, his lips find yours again, deeper this time, and you respond without hesitation. Your hands thread through his hair, gripping lightly as if anchoring yourself to him. You feel him shiver, hear it in the soft catch of his breath, and it sends a jolt straight through you.

Time stretches and bends around the two of you. You're aware of every small movement, every brush of skin, every whispered sound of sweet words of devotion, you hear the soft rustle of fabric as you undress each other.

Yoongi's tongue swirls around your nipple the moment he throws your bra away, sucking it in before letting it go with a little pop. He doesn't just kiss you this time; he consumes you, a hand fisting in your hair to hold you still for his plundering tongue. He cups your tits again, biting the soft flesh.

“Can't wait to see these swell,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with lust. He lifts you up gently, before he lays you on the fur carpet he has in front of the fireplace. You feel the heat of it rushing through your body, while his mouth begins a slow, possessive descent down your body.

He nips at the soft skin of your stomach, his hands gripping your hips, thumbs stroking the hollows. He settles between your thighs, pushing them wide, and just looks at you, glistening and ready for him. The raw worship in his gaze makes your own breath catch.

“Look at this perfect little pussy,” he groans, leaning down to press a wet, open-mouthed kiss to your clit. You bite down your lip hard, trying to not go crazy over how horny you are for him.

“Already so wet for me. So ready to take my seed.” He dips his tongue inside you, a shallow, teasing thrust that has you writhing. “Tastes so sweet, my love.”

He works you with his tongue and fingers, a relentless, skilled assault that pushes you higher and higher. He's not just trying to make you come; he's preparing you to take him. You pant for air each time his finger curls inside to find the little spot take makes you scream his name out loud, all while whispering the filthiest promises.

“Gonna pump you so full,” he growls against your folds. “Again and again until it's dripping down your thighs and there's no doubt you're mine.”

One moment you're on your back, lost to the pleasure of his mouth, the next you're face down on the black plush carpet. Some pillow is shoved unceremoniously under your hips, tilting your ass up, presenting you for him. You have no idea when he grabbed it, only that it's there, forcing you into a position of utter vulnerability, of complete surrender.

A sharp, breathless gasp escapes you. This is primal. This is possession. Possession you need.

“Look at you,” he groans from behind, his voice a low, reverent rasp. He runs a possessive hand over the curve of your ass, his thumb dipping down to brush against your slick, swollen folds. “All ready for me. Perfect angle to get in deep. To make sure it takes.”

He kneels behind you, and you feel the heat of him before you feel the press of his cock against your entrance. He drags the head through your wetness, coating himself, teasing your clit with the tip.

“Please Yoongi,” you beg, the word torn from your throat.

“You know I'd give you anything, love.” He lines himself up, the blunt head pushing insistently at your opening.

With one powerful, relentless thrust, he buries himself to the hilt. The angle is devastating. He's impossibly deep, a thick, heavy pressure that feels like it's touching your very soul. A raw, guttural cry is ripped from your lungs. Yoongi lowers his full weight onto your bare back, a warm, heavy blanket that presses you flat against the plush fur of the carpet. There's no space between you, not even an inch of air.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his hot, ragged breath fanning across your sweat-slicked skin.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing rumble right by your ear, a stark contrast to the guttural commands from moments before. “Just stay with me. Just feel.”

Each roll of his hips presses you deeper into the carpet, the soft fibers a decadent cushion against the overwhelming pressure of his body. You're completely pinned, utterly possessed, unable to do anything but lie there and take it, take the slow, thorough possession, take the full weight of his desire.

“You're all mine now,” he whispers, his lips brushing against the nape of your neck. He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss there, a gesture of pure ownership. “Can you feel it? How deep I am? I'm not leaving anything to chance.”

One of his hands slides up your side, his fingers tracing the curve of your ribs before pushing itself between you and the carpet coming to rest over your womb. He presses it while he thrusts into you.

“Gonna put a baby right here,” he breathes, his voice thick with a primal, satisfied awe. “My baby. Swelling you up, making you round and beautiful. Everyone will know who you belong to just by looking at you.”

The thought, spoken so quietly, so intimately, sends a fresh wave of heat through you. Your body clenches around him, a weak, involuntary flutter, and he groans in response, his hips pressing forward, holding himself impossibly deep for a long moment.

He continues the slow, deep rocking, a hypnotic, relentless rhythm that's building a different kind of pressure inside you. His other hand finds yours, his fingers lacing through yours, pinning it to the floor beside your head.

“Look at us,” he murmurs, his voice husky. “So perfect together. Made for this. Made for each other.”

He shifts his weight just slightly, changing the angle of his grinding, and the new pressure sends a jolt straight to your clit. A soft, helpless moan escapes your lips, muffled by the carpet.

“That's it,” he encourages, his voice a low purr. “Let go for me. Let me feel you. Milk every last drop out of me.” The slow tide crests, and your orgasm washes over you, a deep, all-consuming wave of pleasure that steals your breath and makes your entire body tremble. Your inner walls ripple and contract around him, a rhythmic, milking pull.

With a choked groan against your shoulder, he follows you. He buries his face in your hair, his body going rigid, and then you feel it—a deep, pulsing throb as he spills himself into you. He doesn't move, just lets his release flow, grinding his hips in tiny circles as if to press his essence even deeper.

“I love you so fucking much, Larkie.”

He must feel the subtle tremor that runs through you, the silent shift from raw lust to something infinitely more tender. He lifts his head slightly, just enough to press his lips against the soft skin behind your ear. It's a soft, lingering kiss, full of a reverence that steals what's left of your breath.

“I mean it,” he murmurs, his voice still thick with emotion. “More than anything. Gonna give you everything. My name, my child... my whole fucking life.”

He shifts, a slow, careful movement, as if afraid he might break the spell. He starts to withdraw, but you make a small, protesting sound, a desperate whimper at the thought of losing the connection. He freezes, then understanding dawns. A low, soft chuckle rumbles in his chest.

“Shhh, I'm not going anywhere,” he soothes. “Just turning you over. Wanna see your face.”

With a strength that still takes your breath away, he carefully rolls you both, maneuvering you until you're on your side, facing him, your legs still tangled with his.

His eyes are soft, the dark, possessive fire from before banked into a warm, adoring glow. He looks at you as if you're the most precious thing he's ever seen.

“Hi there,” he whispers, a shy, boyish smile gracing his lips.

You can't speak. You can only stare back at him, your vision blurred with unshed tears, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. You manage a watery smile in return.

He leans in and kisses you, a soft, sweet, gentle kiss that's worlds away from the hungry, demanding kisses from earlier.

You wake up to the sound of his breathing before you really wake up to yourself.

It's slow. Even. Too steady for someone who barely slept. He kept drawing an orgasm after orgasm from you during the entirety of the night. With a short break to get you hydrated and fed before your sugar would have dropped way too low. The sweet persistent ache you feel in between your thighs reminds just how punishingly good the sex was. A dull throb that says you were wanted; you were taken apart slowly, you were kept. And beneath that ache sits a quieter, more dangerous thought— you could have had this a long time ago.

The sheets are tangled around your legs, his arm heavy across your waist like an anchor.

“You're thinking too loud,” Yoongi murmurs, pressing a warm kiss into your ruffled hair.

“You make that up,” you slap his naked torso, eliciting a laugh from him and a smile that you can feel in your hair.

“I don't.” His voice is still rough with sleep, warm against your spine. “Your breathing changes when you start worrying.”

You turn in his hold so you're facing him. His eyes are already open. Watching.

“What's the family going to say?” you ask. You are not sure how anyone outside of your closed circle will react to how quickly you got divorced and jumped to Yoongi's bed. Not that you regret it. But there is little doubt of not being accepted when you've run away to begin with. Ran away from Yoongi and your duty as the next Buin to be precise.

“About… all of this.” The question has been sitting in your chest since before morning found you.

He studies your face, thumb brushing a slow line along your side. “They'll talk. They always do.”

“What if they never accept me back? After I ran. After I chose differently.” His forehead rests against yours.

“But you are back, in the right place this time, with me,” he says quietly.

“I am so sorry, Yoongi.” The words sit heavy between your breaths, you roll to your tummy so you can say it to his face, brave enough to do so. “For leaving. For not trusting you back then. For making you wait while I lived a life that only hollowed me out.”

His expression changes—not wounded, not angry. Something steadier. Something deeper.

“You don't owe me an apology, Larkie,” he says.

“But I hurt you. I didn't even give us a chance and chose Luke because I-.”

“You didn't choose him over me,” he replies calmly. “You chose fear over love. And fear is loud. It convinces people.” His hand slides to the back of your neck, grounding, and warm.

“You always had a choice,” he says. “You just finally made the one that brought you back to me.”

“You shouldn't love me this hard. I don't deserve you after everything.”

His answer is immediate.

“I don't know how to love you any other way,” and then his mouth is on yours. Your lips part on instinct, a quiet sound catching in your throat as he deepens it just enough to make your pulse stumble. His other arm slips fully around your waist, pulling you closer until there's no space left for doubt. You kiss him back harder. Desperate to feel him again. Your fingers slide into his hair, grounding yourself in the reality of him, the now of it, the after of everything.

You break the kiss to move to hover over him, laying warm mouthful kisses down to his toned abdomen and before you slide down under the sheets, you glance up to see his jaw locked tight, fists curling in the sheets. You sure can tease too.

You smile against his skin, knowing exactly what you're doing to him. You start with your hands, stroking him slowly from base to tip, your thumb circling the head to spread the bead of moisture already gathering there. He lets out a low groan, his hips shifting instinctively toward you. Leaning in, you press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to his inner thigh, feeling the muscle jump beneath your lips. You do the same to the other side, your gaze never leaving his.

“Fuck, love, please.” Yoongi groans. You finally lower your head and take him into your mouth, just the tip at first. You swirl your tongue around the ridge, tasting the salt of his skin, and his hand flies to your hair, his fingers tangling in the strands. The grip is tight, a silent command for more.

You oblige, taking him deeper, your lips creating a tight seal as you begin a slow, deliberate rhythm. You hollow your cheeks, increasing the suction, and his head falls back against the pillows, a guttural moan tearing from his throat. You use one hand to stroke what your mouth can't reach, twisting in time with the movements of your head.

You pull back until just the head is resting on your tongue, flicking the sensitive underside with the tip of your tongue before sinking down again, taking him even deeper this time. You relax your throat, letting him hit the back of it, and the sound he makes is pure, unadulterated pleasure. His hips begin to thrust, meeting your movements, a desperate, primal rhythm.

You can feel him getting closer, his entire body tensing, the hand in your hair tightening almost to the point of pain. You don't stop. You speed up, your movements becoming more urgent, more demanding. You look up at him through your lashes, and the sight of his face—contorted in ecstasy, eyes squeezed shut—is what sends you both over the edge. He pulses in your mouth, a hot, salty flood spilling down your throat as he cries out your name

You swallow every drop, milking him gently until he's spent, his body going limp beneath you. You release him slowly, pressing one last soft kiss to his tip.

Pixie's shop is tucked between a designer shoe store and a prestigious boutique you once shopped in yourself.

“He's gonna kill us.” You mutter under your breath, but Princess is sure to catch it.

“Then he should have been more careful when he complained about the wannabe Nancy Drew being after his dick.” She shouts back. You don't know whether it's the hot weather or she is extremely fast today.

Inside, everything glows—warm halogen lights trapped in glass, gold laid out like offerings, diamonds catching the world and breaking it into sharp little stars. Princess slows the second you step inside.

Not you.

Her.

She's standing rigid beside you, eyes locked on the woman behind the counter.

Pixie.

She's bent over a velvet tray, tweezer in hand, dark curly hair falling down under her breasts carelessly, lips pressed in quiet concentration as she resets a crooked diamond. She hasn't noticed you yet.

Princess takes one hesitant step closer. Two.

It's subtle, but you feel it—the shift in her breathing, the way her shoulders draw tight like she's bracing for impact.

“So that's her,” Princess whispers, trying to hide her awe.

“Well of fucking course, she is the only one here,” you angery-whisper back to her, feeling how the heat is trying to climb up your head. Does she not have air conditioning or something? You're sweating your tits off.

“Can we pretend to shop and then go, I am hungry.” You whisper again, begging her to just quickly leave here before Tae will somehow appear and kick you out himself for snooping.

The moment her eyes land on Princess, something… changes. Nothing obvious. Just a pause that lasts half a second too long. Recognition flickers and vanishes behind politeness.

“Can I help you?” Pixie asks, she indeed looks like a fairy.

“We–” Princess starts and immediately stops when she hears your ragged breathing. It starts as heat again—familiar now, wrong, rolling through your chest and down your spine. Your grip tightens on the edge of the glass case without you meaning to.

“Larkie?” Princess turns first. You try to answer but your stomach twists violently instead.

The shop tilts. Light fractures. The diamonds blur.

“Whoa—” Pixie is suddenly moving to circle the counter, “a little help here?!” she shouts to the back. Your nausea hits hard this time. Shit. You definitely forgot to take your glucose pills this morning before you left the townhouse. Yoongi is performing a surgery today, he won't be able to pick up any phone nor attend to you. How could you forget the fucking pills again when all Yoongi did the past month since you two started to live together is remind you to fucking take them so this won't happen, ever.

“Larkie, look at me. Hey. Look at me.” Princess is instantly at your side, voice sharp with fear.

“Yoongi's gonna kill you, Princess,” the male voice is the last thing that echoes in your ears before the curtain shuts.

You've never felt fragile like this. Not after London. Not after Luke. Not after anything. The emergency room swallows you whole. You're not sure what hospital this is, just that they need to change the bulbs in their ceiling light you kept staring at for the last hour you are awake.

You did forget to take your pills, that much the barely paid doctor confirmed. What he told you after though sent you spinning again.

You laugh weakly. It comes out wrong. Broken at the edges.

“That's not possible.” Tears fall down your eyes. A few months back this is all you ever wanted. Now you're not entirely sure. You told Yoongi that you'd like to wait with any major step in your relationship and just enjoy being a couple. This is far too serious. More permanent than if he'd proposed.

The doctor doesn't argue with you. She just turns the chart slightly so you can see it, like proof will soothe you.

“You're eight weeks along.”

Eight.

Weeks.

Your breath leaves your body in one sharp pull.

Eight means two months. Eight means your last IUI was a success. Eight weeks means it is not Yoongi's.

Your chest tightens as the calculation loops in your mind. You don't yet know which part of your past just came back to claim you. Or what to do with this information.

“Doctor Min Yoongi is on his way. He's your partner right?”

The word partner lodges somewhere between disbelief and dread. You nod mutely, unable to speak, staring at the ceiling tiles like they might explain everything.

Your life just started to mean something to you again. With Yoongi and now it's all gone.

You are carrying a baby. A baby that is not part Yoongi. Morals tell you that you should contact the poor excuse of a father that Luke would be, but your heart beats for Yoongi and his understanding of this situation. But to ask him to raise someone else's child? It feels unspeakable, unthinkable, dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with law or logic.

You think of the late Kkangpae and what he'd say about this situation.

You close your eyes, trying to steady your racing thoughts. But there's no quiet, no patience left in your chest. Only the steady, unstoppable thrum of life you carry inside you, and the impossible decision waiting for you on the other side of the door.

“I'll keep an eye on her with those glucose pills, Doctor.” You hear his voice muffled behind the door before they swing open. You open your eyes just in time to see the door swing open, and there he is.

Standing in the doorway, calm, controlled, his presence filling the sterile space with something warmer than the hospital lights could ever provide. His eyes sweep over you, taking in the IV in your arm, the pallor of your skin, the quiet panic you're trying to hide.

“I…” You start, voice caught somewhere between fear and need, but it falters. He steps closer without hesitation, his gaze never leaving yours.

“I'm here, love, all's gonna be fine” he says softly, and just like that, the impossible decision feels slightly less like a wall and more like a path—uncertain, terrifying, but not insurmountable.

“But it won't,” you whisper, the weight of truth breaking past the comfort of his tone. Your eyes meet his, wide, trembling. “It won't be fine… not this time.

The air between you tightens. Yoongi doesn't flinch, doesn't pull away. Instead, his hand finds yours across the hospital bed, strong and warm.

“Hey...hey, what's this nonsense?” he says quietly, deliberately, like the simplest words could bend fate itself. “Of course it's gonna be fine, you just forgot again — that happens—”

“I'm pregnant, Yoongs,” you breathe, the words heavy, raw, impossibly fragile.

You're trembling in the hospital bed, still reeling from the impossible news, when Yoongi's hand tightens around yours—not softly this time, but possessively. His lips curve into a smile that's almost too wide, too sharp, and your chest flutters against fear and something else you don't quite want to name.

“That's such wonderful news, Larkie, why would you—” His eyes shine with something close to joy—pure, unrestrained joy that sends shivers down your spine. You blink, caught off guard by the happiness in his tone.

“I'm eight weeks,” you choke on a sob and he leans closer, until his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm and steady.

“We're gonna have a little baby, Larkie” He whispers before pressing his lips onto yours softly. He exhales through a quiet laugh, low and strange and full, like relief cracking something open in his chest. His thumb brushes slowly along the inside of your wrist, right over your pulse.

“But you know that means the baby is Luke's—” he laughs in a way you've never heard, utterly confusing you.

“Yoongs… it can't be yours. The IUI—Luke's samples—” Your voice comes out thin.

“Never even came close to your uterus,” the sentence lands strongly. Heavy. Kicking the air out of your lungs.

“What?” Your brain shakes with confusion.

“I switched them,” he continues calmly, like he's confessing to rearranging furniture. “The first time. The second. Every time.” His thumb presses more firmly into your skin, perfectly aligned with your racing heartbeat. Half a year of IUIs he was lying to you. “You were always going to carry my child. I made sure of it.”

“I promised. Didn't I?” He says when he is satisfied with how the realisation stretches along your face.

Your world tilts.

I will give you a baby.

“That's… that's not—” You try to pull your hand back, but his grip tightens instantly—not painful, just absolute. Unavoidable.

“Hush,” he whispers, leaning in closer. His nose brushes yours, intimate and terrifying all at once. “Worries aren't good for the baby”

“You lied to me,” you whisper, not believing what he just told you.

“Yes,” he agrees softly. No shame. No hesitation. “Because you would've said no right away. And I couldn't allow that when you were already back, I'd lose you all over again.”

“You used the fact it was hard to conceive for me.”

His jaw tightens at that. Just a fraction. Enough to give him away.

“I used the fact that your husband was unable to give you a baby,” he corrects quietly. “That every month felt like a punishment you didn't deserve. That you were bleeding hope into hospital sheets for a man who wouldn't do the same for you.”

Your chest stutters. His thumb sweeps under your eye, catching a tear before it falls. The gesture is almost gentle.

“You decided my life for me.” Something in your stomach twists that has nothing to do with nausea. He took something that was supposed to be only for you and twisted it in the darkest way possible.

“I protected our future,” he corrects, voice dropping lower. “You were breaking yourself for a man who never deserved you. I just… redirected the miracle.”

“But this is so fucked up,” you spit the words out, and his eyes darken.

“Your poor excuse of an ex-husband couldn't give you a baby because of his slow swimmers,” he says calmly, almost conversational, “and he bribed the doctors to put all the blame on you. That isn't fucked up in your eyes?”

The words land one by one, precise. Surgical.

“That's—that's not possible. They ran tests. I saw the—” Your chest tightens so hard it hurts.

“You saw what they were paid to show you,” Yoongi cuts in gently. Too gently. His thumb resumes its slow, circular motion against your palm, grounding and trapping all at once. “Luke was only fertile with ambition and nothing else. He never loved you like I did Larkie, can't you see it?”

“But that still doesn't give you the right to do this to me.”

“You were drowning with him,” Yoongi continues, voice level, almost tender. “Debt. Lies. Steroids. Doctors paid to humiliate you with charts that made you think your own body had betrayed you. You came apart piece by piece while he played the victim.”

“So your solution was to baby trap me?” Tears blur your vision. He tilts his head. Studies you.

“You wanted the baby! I only tethered you,” he corrects. “There's a difference.”

“You took my consent. My future. My—” Your chest heaves.

“Our child,” he interrupts gently. The word lands like a brand.

“You don't get to rewrite that either,” he adds. “You're carrying Min blood now. Mine.” His gaze drops briefly to your stomach again, reverent and terrifying all at once. “Just like you were always supposed to be.”

“You can't actually think I will—”

He smiles then.

Slow. Knowing. Dangerous.

Your breath vanishes when you really take him in. You know that glance. The last time you've seen it was a decade ago, before those same dark eyes with a scar across one shut for eternity. Yet, somehow...he's alive.

In oil portraits that hung too high on paneled walls. In black-and-white photographs. In...him. A grandfather whose presence could silence a room without lifting a hand.

The resemblance is cruel in its precision. And you see it only now when it's too late.

“Careful,” he murmurs, leaning in until his lips brush the shell of your ear, his voice velvet-soft and razor-edged all at once. “You wouldn't want to be on house arrest now, would you?”

The words are spoken like a joke. Like a tease. A painful inside joke in this family when someone doesn't want to submit. But his hand is still on your stomach. Still claiming. Still anchoring you to the bed, to the room, to him.

“You're overwhelmed,” he continues gently, as if he didn't just slide a knife between your ribs with that sentence. “That's normal. Your hormones are everywhere.”

The realization settles into your bones like ice. The baby you thought would ruin everything has, instead, sealed you to him completely.

You ask yourself whether this is what it takes for you to have a baby. When the circumstances don't unsettle you the more he speaks of your future together, as a family, you embrace the feeling that makes you different from other women—you were born into this syndicate. You were aware of their delusional view of the world, couldn't stop it even if you wanted to, whether you like it or not. And still chose him.

After all, it was undeniably you who put this idea into his head when you bawled your eyes out, at his clinic, that you cannot have a baby. So he promised to give you one. Just not with your ex-husband.

He knows the rhythm of your heartbeat all too well.

You let your head turn into his palm. Let your cheek rest against the warm certainty of his hand. You are tired. He always had you in the corner without you even realizing he pushed you there slowly. Your breath evens out, traitorous and calm, even as your mind understands exactly what kind of cage this is.

Not bars.

Arms. His arms. The Min Yoongi's arms.

“You're safe,” he whispers. “You're pregnant. You're mine. And I will burn the world before I let anyone—including you—sever the heartbeat.”

.

INTERLOGUE

Yoongi closed his eyes for a moment, the rush of the current sounded like a heartbeat that wasn't entirely his. He let the thought sink, what it meant to hold such power, what it cost to let go and do the final step. He needed to hold for just a little bit longer.

The Hudson river was black glass at midnight, only the moon reflection on the water's surface visible. Yoongi stood knees deep inside of the river, not far enough to let the stream take him away.

The cold clung to Yoongi's skin, a reminder of what he'd chosen. It wasn't rage that filled him. His voice still lingered somewhere in the back of his mind. She will find out.

No she won't. He will make sure she won't find out. Or at least, she won't find out he did it.

He didn't look down, not even the moment his body stopped moving frantically, the tight hold he had on his wrists went loose.

The river would keep its silence. So would he.

Don't be a silent reader, let's be friends chummers! Only love please! ♥

until we meet again my fairies, love, p.

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