Thinking about riding hobi while there are people downstairs .⋆♱
Warning: he calls you a slut oop. Hes a bit rough . Voyeurism?/she wanna get caught 🫠 . Lots of dirty talks kinda.
Mdni 18+
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“You’re seriously insane,” Hobi whispered, voice strained as he grabbed your hips to stop you from moving again. “Fuck.. your friends are literally downstairs”
And yet he still couldn’t stop looking at you.
You sat on his lap on your bed, riding his dick like you had no shame at all, oversized shirt slipping off one shoulder while you smiled at him all sweet, like you weren’t slowly driving him crazy with the way you roll your hips on him. Every tiny movement made his jaw tighten harder.
His dick throbbing despite the pleading look he gives you.
“ you need to lower your voice baby.. there’s literally people just down the hall” , and you know that. That what makes your pussy clinch, knowing that anyone could hear the wet skin slapping on skin if they just walk past your door, it thrills you so much that you gush a bit of wetness down his dick he gasps.
“ fuck baby, your pussy is soaking my dick so much. Are you that fucking horny for me? You couldn’t wait until your friends leave… fuck .. baby please be quiet,”
He was nervous — you could feel it in the way his hands kept flexing against your waist, his head struggling to keep up while looking at your tits bounce up and down under the shirt, while he kept glancing toward the bedroom door — but that only made him harder. Looking at you with pleading eyes trying to get you to look at him and maybe listen to him and keep quiet.
“ I can’t stop hoseok ..your dick feels so fucking good. I can’t wait ..i can’t..”
Your hips started picking up pace along with the soft sounds slipping from your mouth.
“Jesus” he muttered, his patience slipping away.
“Keep those pretty sounds down,” he warned, voice strained and low before he finally snapped.
One quick movement and he had you flipped onto your stomach against the mattress, hand on your mouth keeping your shocked gasps down.
“You wanna act needy so bad?” he said breathlessly, sliding his throbbing dick back inside of your tight hole, holding you down harder now.
“Then fucking take it.”
his grip tightened as his thrusts turned rough and desperate, holding you down while you trembled beneath him.
“ fucking slut, shit.. you can’t keep your needy moans down, can you? You wanna get caught this badly?,” he growl so roughly, his hand slipping from your mouth.
the bed kept shaking under the force of his movements, pressing you into the mattress while you clung helplessly to the sheets.
At this point, hobi is so fucking desperate, he doesn’t care if anybody hears. Your pussy so tight and wet on him his eyes roll back while he let out a desperate moan.
“ fffuckkkkk baby… this pussy is fucking divine, makes me wanna take you outside and fuck you in front of everyone… s-shit..that got you excited didn’t it?,” feeling you clinch harder around him after that made him shiver.
he leaned down your ear, one hand holding you down by the waist, the other pulling your hair back, not caring if you let out more noises.
“ you want that, baby? wanna show everybody how slutty you are for me?”
You bucked back instinctively against his cock, moaning so loud, unable to stay still, chasing more of him without thinking, barely coherent now, repeating broken ‘yes’ after ‘yes’ under your breath, eyes fluttering shut as you lost yourself completely against him as you feel his dick perfectly hitting your sweet spot.
“ Holy s-shit im gonna fuckin cum,” you said almost screaming.
“ you wanna cum baby? fucking do it. Come on my dick you fuckin slut.”
his breathing got rougher, focus slipping as everything started to feel too intense to slow down. the little grunts he letting out right by your ear pushed you over the edge as you melt around him.
“ fuck.. you’re so tight .. I can’t hold much longer,”
realizing how desperate you’d made him completely overwhelmed you, and you lost control right there in his arms. Coming so hard he lets out a little whimper, shortly following after as you feel him fill you up with his hot cum. Rolling his hips slowly while breathing so heavily.
for a few seconds, neither of you could even move properly, stuck in that heavy silence where everything still felt too intense to process.
His arms now wrapped loosely but firmly, slow kisses lingering at your nape like he’s grounding himself in you.
the tension is gone now, just warmth and quiet between you.
“you drive me crazy, baby,” he murmurs low, voice softer than before.
You let out a small breathy laugh, turning just enough to catch his his lips in a slow kiss
“i will definitely do that again”
he goes quiet for a moment, then exhales, giving up already not trying to argue with you.
his hold tightens just a little, pulling you closer into him
“just… don’t make me lose it like that every time,” he mutters, thinking there is absolutely no way he can face your friends after how loud you both were ㅤ♡
Genre: Romance, Angst, Co-Parenting, Healing, Slice of Life
Sypnosis: They became parents before they learned how to stay in love. Years later, co parenting keeps them connected while everything else remains unspoken. When jealousy, boundaries, and old wounds resurface, silence finally gives way to truth. This is a quiet story about love that never fully left, timing that almost ruined it, and finding your way back when you’re finally brave enough to be honest.
A/N: Happy birthday to our sunshine, Hobi! As promised, here’s a little one shot birthday special for you all. I actually finished writing this right after watching his birthday live, still emotional, still soft, still smiling at my screen. It felt right to pour all that warmth into this story. I hope this chapter hugs you the way Hobi’s laugh always hugs us.🤍
The pen feels heavier than it should. It is just a pen. Cheap. Plastic. The kind offices buy in bulk and leave everywhere like they are disposable, like what they sign with them never matters. Yet in your hand, it carries the weight of a life you did not plan and a love you never finished mourning. Across the table, Jung Hoseok sits too straight for a man who once slouched beside you on broken couches and studio floors. He wears a simple sweater today, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, a faint scar near his wrist you remember kissing when you were nineteen and fearless. His hair is darker than it used to be. Shorter. More controlled. Like everything else about him now.
The family court office smells faintly of paper and old air conditioning. Outside the frosted windows, the city hums. Cars pass. People live. None of them know that your heart is being folded neatly into boxes labeled Saturday and Sunday. The mediator clears her throat softly.
“So. We’re agreed on weekends with the father. Pickup Friday evening. Drop off Sunday night.”
You nod before your brain catches up, before your chest can protest. Your voice does not trust itself yet. Hoseok glances at you. He looks at the space near your shoulder, the way he always does now, like eye contact might open a door neither of you knows how to close.
“I can adjust my schedule if needed,” he says. His voice is calm. Careful. Professional. “Rehearsals usually end by six on Fridays.”
Rehearsals. The word lands strangely, like an echo from another life. Once, you used to sit on the floor of dance studios with takeout containers, watching him practice until midnight. Once, you were his entire weekend.
“That works,” you say, too quickly. “She’s used to eating early.”
He nods again. Agreement without friction. You used to argue about everything. Music. Dreams. Whether love alone was enough.
The mediator slides the papers closer to you.
“Mother signs here.”
The word mother still feels borrowed. Like a coat that fits but carries someone else’s scent.
Your hand shakes as you write your name. Each letter feels like a goodbye you are not ready to say. When the ink dries, it looks permanent in a way emotions never are. When Hoseok signs next, his hand is steady. You wonder when he learned how to keep it that way.
“She’s yours on weekends,” you say quietly, before you can stop yourself.
Hoseok looks up. His eyes soften, then darken, then soften again, like he is fighting something under the surface. "She’s ours,” he corrects gently. “Always.”
You swallow. “I know. I just… weekdays are easier when I don’t think too far ahead.”
He almost smiles at that. Almost. “You always hated Sundays.”
“That’s not true.”
“You cried every Sunday night in college.”
“I cried because you played the same song on loop for three hours.”
“It was a good song.”
“You said that about every song.”
“And I was right.”
A fragile laugh escapes you before you can catch it. It surprises both of you. For a moment, it feels like slipping on an old jacket that still remembers your shape. Then the mediator stands. The moment ends. “I’ll leave you two to finalize pickup details,” she says kindly, already gathering her things.
The door clicks shut. Silence settles between you, thicker without a third presence. The air hums again. The city continues. Hoseok leans back in his chair, rubbing his palms together like he used to before performances. “She likes the blue blanket, right?”
“Yes. The one with the stars.”
“And the giraffe toy.”
“She chews on the ear. The left one.”
He smiles at that. Fully this time. Soft. Real. “She does that with me too.”
Your chest aches in a way you do not comment on. “Of course she does.”
Another pause. He exhales slowly. “I’ll bring her back before nine on Sundays,” he says. “I don’t want her too tired for daycare.”
“Thank you.”
You stand first. Gather your bag. Put your life back over your shoulder.
At the door, your hand hesitates on the handle. "Hoseok.”
“Yes?”
“Take care of her.”
His answer is immediate. "I will. With everything I have.”
You believe him. That might be the hardest part. Outside, the sunlight feels too bright. You blink against it, pushing down the heaviness pressing behind your ribs. Friday evenings. Sunday nights. A life split down the middle. You tell yourself it is fair. You tell yourself you are fine. Behind you, through the glass, Hoseok watches until you disappear into the crowd, already counting the days until Friday, already missing someone he never truly stopped loving.
Friday arrives without asking if you are ready. It comes quietly, like it always has, slipping into the apartment through the thin curtains and settling on the floor where your daughter is busy stacking soft blocks. She hums to herself, off-key and confident, like the world has never disappointed her before. You watch from the kitchen doorway, coffee cooling in your hands, thinking about how unfair it is that time keeps moving even when you want it to slow down out of courtesy.
Six thirty. You check the clock again, as if the numbers might rearrange themselves. “Daddy’s coming today,” you say, keeping your voice light. Normal. You have practiced this tone all week. Your daughter looks up at the word daddy and grins, wide and gummy, eyes bright with recognition. She claps her hands once, then goes back to her blocks like this is just another plan in her busy little schedule. She adapts faster than you ever could.
You kneel to pack her bag. Blue blanket with stars. Giraffe toy with the chewed ear. Extra onesie. The tiny socks she keeps pulling off no matter how often you put them back on. Each item feels like proof that you are doing the right thing, even as your chest protests every zipper sound. “Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “It’s just a weekend.”
The doorbell rings exactly at seven. Your heart stumbles. Your body reacts before your mind can catch up, moving on muscle memory built from years of opening doors for Jung Hoseok without thinking twice. He stands there with a paper bag in one hand, hair slightly damp like he rushed through a shower. He looks nervous. Excited. Like a boy waiting outside a hospital room, not a man picking up his child. “Hi,” he says.
“Hi.” You step aside. He hesitates before entering, like he is unsure of the rules now. The apartment smells faintly of lavender baby soap and leftover pasta. It is small, but warm. It is yours. “She’s been good,” you say. “Napped a little late.”
“That’s okay. We’ll manage.”
He kneels the moment he sees her, dropping the paper bag on the floor. “There’s my girl.”
Your daughter squeals and crawls toward him, abandoning her blocks without a second glance. She reaches for him with certainty, with no fear of absence or loss. Hoseok lifts her easily, like his arms were made to remember her weight. You look away before your eyes start to burn.
“She ate already,” you say. “Just needs a bottle later.”
He nods, bouncing her gently. “I packed extra formula. And I read that book you recommended.”
“Which one?”
“The one about the moon that won’t sleep.”
You pause. “You actually read it?”
“I wanted to do it right.”
The words linger longer than they should. You hand him the bag you packed. Your fingers brush his. Neither of you comments on it.
“She likes being sung to before bed,” you add.
He smiles at that, real and warm. "Okay.”
You manage a small smile in return. At the door, everything slows. Hoseok shifts his weight, suddenly unsure again. “I’ll text when we get home.”
“Okay.”
“And if you need anything.”
“I know.”
He hesitates, then says softly, “You can call tonight if it’s hard.”
You meet his eyes. “It’ll be harder for her if I cry into the phone.”
He studies your face like he wants to argue, then stops himself. “Then I’ll call you. So she can hear your voice.”
You nod, because that feels safe. He adjusts the strap on the diaper bag, kisses your daughter’s temple, and then, without looking at you again, steps into the hallway. The door closes with a sound that echoes too loudly in the small space.
The apartment changes immediately. The quiet is not peaceful. It is wide. Empty. Like a room that has been holding its breath all day and finally lets go. You stand there longer than you mean to, staring at the door, half expecting it to open again. It doesn’t.
You move through the apartment slowly. Pick up blocks. Fold the blanket she left on the floor. Wash a bottle that does not need washing yet. Every habit you built around her has nowhere to land. You sit on the couch and realize there is nothing you need to do. Nothing.
Your phone buzzes.
Hoseok: We’re home. She’s smiling like she owns the place.
You type back before you can think.
You: She probably does.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
Hoseok: She reached for the stars on the blanket. Like she recognized them.
Your chest tightens in a way you do not name.
You: She does that before she sleeps.
A minute passes.
Hoseok: I’ll sing to her.
You picture it. His voice low and imperfect. Your daughter safe in his arms. Loved. The image hurts and heals at the same time.
You walk into her room. Two bedrooms. One untouched tonight. The crib looks too big without her in it. The mobile still turns, playing a song you forgot to turn off.
You sit on the floor beside the crib and let the quiet wash over you. “She’s okay,” you whisper to the empty room. “You’re okay.”
You are not sure which one of you needs to hear it more.
Your phone rings. You answer without speaking. Hoseok’s voice fills the silence.
“She’s sleepy.”
You smile despite yourself. “Did you sing?”
“Yes.”
“How bad was it?”
“She didn’t complain.”
You hear a soft sound in the background. A yawn. A tiny sigh. “Can she hear me?” you ask.
He lowers his voice. “She can.”
“Hi, baby,” you whisper. “Mama loves you.”
A pause. “She smiled,” he says quietly.
Your throat closes around the feeling you refuse to cry into words. “Goodnight,” you say.
“Goodnight,” he echoes.
When the call ends, the apartment feels even quieter, but softer now. Like the silence has learned how to sit beside you instead of against you. You lie in bed alone, staring at the ceiling, counting the days until Sunday without meaning to. Your daughter is learning how to belong in two places. You are learning how to let her.
Somewhere across the city, Hoseok sits on the edge of his bed, watching his daughter sleep, wondering how love can stretch this far without tearing.
Sunday arrives carrying its own weight. You start cooking before sunset, long before there is any real reason to. The kitchen fills slowly with the warmth of garlic and simmering broth, with the soft hiss of oil meeting heat. It gives your hands something to do, something to focus on that is not the clock. You tell yourself it is practical. Hoseok will be tired. Your daughter will be hungry. It is easier to eat than to talk. Still, you choose the dishes he used to like. The ones that feel familiar without trying too hard.
You wipe the counter twice. Adjust the placemats. Check the door lock even though you checked it minutes ago. The apartment feels fuller today, like it knows it is about to be tested. When the doorbell rings, it is already dark outside.
You open the door to find Hoseok holding your daughter against his chest, her head resting on his shoulder like it belongs there. Her hair smells faintly of baby shampoo you do not use. He looks tired in the gentle way that comes from caring deeply for someone who cannot give anything back yet.
“We’re home,” he says softly, as if the word still applies to both of you.
“Come in,” you reply.
He slips off his shoes automatically. Muscle memory. You notice it and look away “She napped in the car,” he says. “Just a short one.”
“That’s okay. She’ll sleep tonight.” You reach for her, and she goes to you easily, without hesitation, as if she has never had to choose between arms. Your chest aches at how simple she makes it look.
“I cooked,” you say. “If you want to eat.”
He pauses. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
He nods, understanding what you are really saying.
Dinner is quiet at first. Your daughter sits between you in her high chair, happily tapping her spoon against the tray. The sound fills the spaces your voices do not. “She likes peas now,” Hoseok says.
“She hated them last week.”
“She made a face like she was personally offended.”
You smile despite yourself.
“She does that with bananas too.”
“She’s dramatic.”
“She gets that from you.”
He laughs, short and surprised. “Wow. I walk into your house and immediately get attacked.”
“You survived.”
“Barely.”
The food cools as you talk about schedules. Nap times. A rash on her knee that looks worse than it is. A new vaccine coming up next month. You speak like colleagues managing a shared project. Calm. Efficient. Safe. You do not talk about the way he still reaches for the pepper without asking. Or how your knee brushes his under the table and neither of you move.
When your daughter finishes eating, you clean her hands while Hoseok gathers the dishes.
“I can do that,” you say.
“It’s okay.”
“I don’t mind.”
“I know. I just want to help.”
The words land gently, heavier than they should. He washes the plates while you change your daughter into pajamas. The sound of running water fills the apartment, steady and familiar. For a moment, it feels like a life you remember living.
“She fell asleep right away last night,” he says from the kitchen. “Held onto the blanket like it was the most important thing in the world.”
“She does that when she’s happy.”
He turns off the faucet. The silence that follows feels too loud. You rock your daughter near the window, watching the city lights blink on one by one. Hoseok joins you, leaning against the wall, hands tucked into his pockets like he does not know where to put them anymore. “She was good,” he says. “All weekend.”
“I knew she would be.”
“She cried when I left the room.”
You glance at him. “She does that with me too.”
“Good,” he says, quietly. “That means she feels safe.”
You nod, even as something inside you twists.
When you lay her in the crib, she sighs and curls onto her side, utterly unbothered by the transfer of worlds. You stand there longer than necessary, both of you watching her sleep. “She doesn’t know Sundays are endings,” you whisper.
Hoseok’s voice is low. “I wish I didn’t know either.”
The door to her room closes softly. Back in the living room, neither of you sits. “I should go,” he says.
“Yes.”
Neither of you moves.
“She’ll miss you,” you add, because you need him to hear it. “I’ll miss her.”
At the door, he hesitates again, like he always does now. "Thank you for dinner,” he says. “For letting me stay.”
“You’re her father.”
“I know. Still.”
You open the door. The hallway light spills in, pale and impersonal. “Drive safe,” you say.
“I will.”
He pauses, hand on the doorframe. “You’re doing a good job.”
Your voice is quiet. “So are you.”
He nods once, then steps away. When the door closes, the apartment exhales.
You walk into your daughter’s room and sit on the floor beside the crib. The weekend is over. The house belongs to you again. It feels both comforting and unbearably empty. You realize the hardest part is not sharing her.
It is learning how to share the version of Hoseok who shows up as a father. Gentle. Present. Loving. A version you still recognize.
You check on Yeri before you let yourself think too much. Her room is dim, washed in the soft glow of the night light shaped like a moon. The kind you bought because it promised comfort in its description, because it said gentle and safe and you needed to believe those words applied to both of you. She sleeps on her side tonight, fingers curled around the corner of the blue blanket, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. Her lips part slightly when she exhales, a sound so small it almost feels imagined. You brush a thumb over her hair, slow and careful, memorizing the warmth of her. “Goodnight, my love,” you whisper.
You kiss her forehead, lingering just long enough for your heart to ache. She stirs but does not wake. She trusts the world more easily than you ever have.
You close the door halfway, leaving it cracked the way you always do, and walk back into the living room where the quiet waits for you. Sunday night quiet. The kind that presses in once the dishes are washed and the apartment remembers who is missing. It is in this silence that the past finds you.
You were younger then. Not in a nostalgic way. In a reckless way. Young that believes love will figure itself out if you hold onto it hard enough.
The bathroom floor was cold against your thighs. You remember that first, before the fear. The chipped tile. The hum of the old fluorescent light. The plastic stick resting on the sink like it belonged to someone else.
Two lines.
Clear. Certain. Unforgiving.
You didn’t cry. That surprised you later. At the time, you just sat there, staring, counting the seconds between your heartbeats, waiting for your body to react the way it was supposed to “Hoseok,” you called.
Your voice sounded normal. That scared you more than if it had broken. He answered from the living room, music playing softly in the background. Something bright. Something that belonged to a future you hadn’t lost yet “Coming.”
He appeared in the doorway with a towel around his neck, hair damp, smile already forming out of habit. It faded slowly as his eyes followed your gaze. “What’s wrong?”
You held out the test. He laughed once. A quiet, disbelieving sound. “You’re kidding.”
You shook your head. The room seemed to shrink around you both.
He crouched down in front of you, hands on his knees, staring at the stick like it might rearrange itself if he waited long enough. "Oh,” he said. Then softer, “Oh.”
You waited for something dramatic. A reaction. A plan. A promise. Instead, he sat down beside you on the floor, shoulder pressed against the cabinet, eyes unfocused. “This wasn’t… this wasn’t supposed to happen yet,” he said.
“I know.”
“I mean, I love you. You know that, right?”
You nodded.
“I know.”
“I just thought we’d have time.”
The word time sat between you, heavy and cruel.
The days after moved too fast. Appointments. Phone calls. Conversations whispered late at night when both of you were already exhausted from pretending to be okay during the day.
One evening, you lay on your bed staring at the ceiling fan as it turned lazily above you. Hoseok lay beside you, hands folded on his chest like he was bracing for impact. "I’m scared,” he said suddenly.
You turned your head to look at him. “Of what?”
“Of failing you. Of failing her. Of waking up one day and realizing I don’t recognize myself.”
Your voice came out small. “I’m scared of that too.”
He swallowed. “Everyone keeps saying it’ll be fine. That we’ll figure it out.”
“Do you believe them?”
He didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I want to.”
That was when the distance began. Not with a fight. Not with anger. With exhaustion. With the slow realization that love does not protect you from pressure. That wanting something badly does not mean you are ready to carry it.
You stopped dancing in the kitchen together. He stopped playing music late into the night. Conversations became practical. Who would work more. Who would give up what. Who would be strong today.
One night, sitting across from each other at the tiny kitchen table, he said, “Do you ever think about the life we were supposed to have first?”
You traced a crack in the wood with your finger “Yes.”
“Does that make you a bad person?”
You looked up at him. “No. It makes you honest.”
He nodded, eyes shining in a way that scared you. “I don’t want to resent her.”
“You won’t,” you said immediately. “She hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“I know. I just… I don’t want to resent us either.”
That was the night you realized love could survive and still suffer. By the time Yeri was born, you both loved her fiercely. Instinctively. Completely. And yet, something between you had already fractured quietly, like a hairline crack spreading under weight neither of you knew how to redistribute.
You learned how to be careful with each other. How to choose words that didn’t bruise. How to smile for photos. How to pretend the pressure hadn’t changed the shape of your love.
Back in the present, you sit on the couch with your knees pulled to your chest, staring at the dark television screen. Yeri sleeps peacefully in the next room. She has no memory of who you were before her. Only who you became.
You close your eyes and breathe slowly. You do not regret her. You never have.
But sometimes, late on Sunday nights, you grieve the girl you were before responsibility arrived early and love had to grow up overnight.
You realize something is different before he ever says it. It is Sunday again. Another drop off. Another evening where the air feels too full before anything has even happened. You notice it in the way Hoseok stands when you open the door, shoulders relaxed in a way that is unfamiliar now. Like someone who has already laughed today.
Yeri is in his arms, chewing on the corner of her sleeve, perfectly content. She always is. She leans into him like gravity prefers him on Sundays. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey.” You step aside, letting them in. The apartment smells like the soup you reheated too many times, afraid it would be cold by the time they arrived. Outside, the sky is bruised purple and orange, the kind of sunset people photograph and send to someone they miss.
Yeri babbles the moment she sees you. Reaches for you. Hoseok hands her over without hesitation. “She was good,” he says. “Only cried once.”
“In the car?”
He smiles. “Of course.”
You carry her to the couch, settling her beside you while Hoseok takes off his shoes. He sets the diaper bag down carefully, lining it up against the wall like he wants everything to be in the right place.
“She ate already.” he said.
“She’ll be sleepy soon.”
“Good.”
There is a pause. Not awkward. Just… waiting. He sits across from you, elbows resting on his knees. Yeri crawls between you both, tapping the floor with her palms like she is keeping time to music only she can hear. “She’s growing fast,” he says.
“She is.”
“She stood up for a second yesterday.”
Your heart lifts. “She did?”
“Yeah. Holding onto the coffee table. Looked very proud of herself.”
You smile, wide and genuine. “I missed that.”
His expression shifts, just slightly. A flicker of something you cannot place. “I took a video,” he says. “I can send it to you.”
“I’d like that.”
He nods, reaches for his phone, then stops. Puts it back down. There it is again. That hesitation. You wait.
“There’s something I should tell you,” he says.
Your body responds before your mind does. A quiet readiness for disappointment, like you have been practicing for this moment without knowing it. “Okay,” you say.
He rubs his palms together once, then stills them. “I’ve been seeing someone.”
The words are ordinary. Calm. Almost gentle. You stare at him, waiting for the impact you expected. It does not arrive all at once. It comes in waves. “Oh,” you say. You hate that you sound like your younger self in a bathroom all over again.
He nods. “I wanted you to hear it from me.”
“That’s… considerate.”
“She knows about Yeri.”
Your stomach drops a little more at that. “She’s met her?”
“Yes.”
The room feels smaller. “When?”
“Yesterday. We went to the park.”
You picture it without wanting to. The way Hoseok pushes the stroller. The way Yeri laughs at strangers. The way a woman you do not know bends down and smiles at your daughter like she belongs in the scene.
“She’s good with her,” he adds quickly. “Very gentle.”
You keep your face neutral. You have learned how. “That’s good,” you say. “That matters.”
“It does.”
Silence stretches between you. Yeri pulls herself up using the couch, wobbling slightly. You steady her without thinking. Hoseok watches you do it.
“I hope it’s okay with you,” he says quietly.
“Ofcourse.”
But jealousy arrives softly. It sits beside you like an uninvited guest who does not make noise but refuses to leave. It looks like curiosity. Like a question you do not want answered. “What’s her name?” you ask.
He blinks, surprised by the question. “Minji.”
“How did you meet?”
“At a friend’s dinner. She works in design.”
You nod like you are filing information, like this is not a slow unraveling happening inside your chest. “Is she serious?” you ask.
He considers it. “I think it could be.”
The words land harder than anything else he has said tonight.
“I wanted to tell you,” he continues, voice careful. “Because I don’t want you to feel blindsided if she comes up again. Or if Yeri mentions her.”
“She’s a baby,” you say softly. “She won’t.”
“She will one day.”
You look down at your daughter, at the way she grips your finger without effort, trusting you to always be there. “Yeah,” you say. “She will.”
Hoseok stands. Walks toward the kitchen, then stops halfway, like he forgot why he moved at all. “I hope this doesn’t make things harder,” he says.
You look at him then. “It already does,” you reply gently. “But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”
His shoulders sag slightly, relief and guilt mixing together. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“I know.”
“You can tell me if you need space.”
You almost laugh. Almost. “We share a child,” you say. “Space isn’t really an option.”
He smiles faintly at that.
You put Yeri to bed together, the way you still do sometimes. Hoseok sings softly while you tuck the blanket around her. His voice is the same. Warm. Familiar. It does not belong to you anymore.
At the door, he hesitates. “You’re okay?” he asks.
You nod. “I will be.”
He studies your face like he wants to memorize it again, then steps back into the hallway.
When the door closes, the apartment feels different.
You sit on the couch long after, phone in your hand, imagining a woman with an easy smile and kind hands, imagining her holding Yeri like it comes naturally. Jealousy does not scream. It does not break things. It simply settles in, quiet and persistent, asking you to confront the truth you avoided for too long. You never stopped loving him. You just learned how to live beside it.
The photo arrives on a Wednesday afternoon. You are standing in line at the grocery store with Yeri perched on your hip, her small hand tugging at your collar like it belongs there. The cashier is talking too loudly about the weather. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. Everything feels ordinary enough to keep you steady. Your phone vibrates. You almost ignore it. Almost.
You glance down, expecting a message about pickup times or formula or something that fits neatly into the careful world you have built around shared responsibility. Instead, there is an image.
Yeri is sitting on a picnic blanket, sunlight painting her hair gold. She is laughing. Her mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, body tipped forward like joy has weight. A woman’s hand is in the frame, steadying her by the waist. Gentle. Familiar. Like it has done this before.
Minji is not looking at the camera. She is looking at your daughter.
Hoseok must be the one taking the photo. You know his angles. You know the way he frames happiness without trying to. Your chest tightens in a way you have not prepared for.
The cashier says something about bags. You nod, pay, leave. You walk home slowly, as if speed might shatter something inside you that is already cracking quietly.
At home, you set Yeri down with her toys and sit on the couch, phone still in your hand. You stare at the photo like it might change if you give it enough time. She looks good with her. That is the part you hate the most.
The message beneath the image is short.
Hoseok: She wanted to show you. Yeri had a good day.
You type back three different responses. Delete all of them.
Later that night, after Yeri is asleep, your phone rings. You consider letting it go to voicemail. You do not. “Hello.”
“Hey,” Hoseok says. His voice is familiar enough to hurt. “Did you see the photo?”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t trying to… I mean, she asked if she could send it.”
“It’s fine.”
He is quiet for a moment. “You don’t sound fine.”
You look at the dark window across the room, your reflection faint in the glass. “I don’t know what I sound like right now.”
“I just wanted you to know nothing’s changing with us. With Yeri.”
“I know,” you say. “That’s not the part that’s hard.”
He exhales slowly. “She likes you.”
That surprises a small laugh out of you. “She doesn’t know me.”
“She knows you exist. She knows you matter.”
You close your eyes. “That doesn’t make it easier.”
“No,” he admits. “It doesn’t.”
There is a stretch of silence where both of you are thinking the same thing and refusing to say it. “You don’t owe me anything,” you say finally. “You’re allowed to be happy.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t,” he replies, too quickly.
You hear it then. The uncertainty tucked beneath his confidence.
“You look happy,” you say. “In the photo.”
He doesn’t answer right away. “Happiness photographs well.”
The words stay with you long after the call ends.
Days pass. More photos follow. A park bench. A coffee cup next to a tiny sippy cup. Minji’s smile appears more often, always just at the edge of the frame, never demanding attention.
You learn how to smile back at them. You double tap the photos. You comment with hearts. You type things like looks like fun and thank you for sharing. You become very good at sounding supportive. Jealousy learns how to blend in. It wears politeness like armor.
On Sunday, when they arrive for drop off, Minji is with him. He tells you beforehand, texts you an hour early like he is asking permission without saying the words. When the door opens, she smiles first. “Hi,” she says. “I’m Minji.”
You recognize her immediately. Same softness. Same ease. “I’m Yeri’s mom,” you reply.
“I know,” she says quickly. “Hoseok talks about you.”
That lands somewhere between comfort and discomfort.
“She’s wonderful,” Minji adds, glancing down at Yeri. “You’ve done an amazing job.”
You meet her eyes. “Thank you.”
The moment passes without incident. No tension. No sharp edges. Just three adults standing around a child who refuses to notice how complicated love can be.
Later, after they leave, you sit alone and replay the afternoon in your head. Minji did nothing wrong. Hoseok did nothing wrong. Yeri is loved. And still, something aches.
Jealousy is not loud. It does not demand to be seen. It smiles politely and waits for you to admit what it already knows.
You are not jealous of Minji. You are jealous of the life she is allowed to step into without carrying the weight of what came before. You tell yourself it is irrational. You repeat that word like a prayer while folding laundry at midnight, while washing bottles, while standing in the shower letting the water run too hot. Irrational. Childish. Unfair.
You hate yourself for feeling threatened. But you are. And the worst part is that you do not know how to stop.
Sunday afternoon sunlight spills through the living room windows as you sit on the floor with Yeri, stacking soft blocks into a tower that collapses every time she laughs too hard. She claps, delighted with destruction, and crawls into your lap like this is where the world makes the most sense. Your phone buzzes. A video.
You hesitate before opening it. You are getting better at that part, at the pause before you choose whether you are strong enough for what waits on the other side of the screen.
Yeri at the park. Again. Hoseok’s laugh in the background. The sound of leaves crunching beneath tiny shoes. Minji crouched down, arms open. “Come here,” Minji says warmly. “Come on.” Yeri toddles toward her, wobbly but determined. Then it happens. “Minji.”
The name is clumsy on her tongue. Soft. Almost proud of itself. Your stomach drops so suddenly you feel dizzy. The video ends. You stare at the frozen screen, at Minji’s smiling face, at your daughter mid-step toward someone who is not you.
“She didn’t mean anything by it,” you whisper to the empty room.
You know that. You know children repeat sounds without understanding weight or history or consequence. You know this is not betrayal. You know love does not run out simply because it is shared. Knowing does not make it hurt less.
That night, Hoseok calls. “Did you see the video?” he asks.
“Yes.” A pause. He hears it in your voice.
“She’s been copying words lately,” he says gently. “She said the dog’s name three times today like it was the funniest thing in the world.”
“I know,” you reply. “She’s learning.”
“She doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“I know,” you repeat.
Silence stretches between you, thin and uneasy. "You’re quiet,” he says.
“I’m just tired.”
“You don’t have to pretend with me.”
You close your eyes. “I’m not pretending.”
That is a lie, but it is an easy one.
The next weekend, you hear it in person. You are all in the living room. Hoseok is sitting on the floor, Yeri balanced between his knees, Minji nearby folding a blanket she did not need to touch. You are grateful she does not overstep. Grateful she does not pretend to belong in places that are still tender. Yeri crawls away from Hoseok toward the kitchen, spots Minji, and lights up. “Minji,” she says again, clearer this time.
Minji looks up, surprised, then smiles “Hey, sweetheart.”
Your heart does something strange. It tightens and opens all at once, like it cannot decide whether to defend or surrender. You smile too. You have learned how to do that. “She’s been saying names lately,” you say lightly. “She calls the lamp Baba.”
Hoseok laughs. “She does?”
“Very confidently.”
Minji chuckles. “I feel honored to be promoted above furniture.”
You laugh with them. It sounds convincing. Inside, something bends.
Later, while Hoseok is putting Yeri’s shoes on, Minji steps closer to you, lowering her voice. “I hope this isn’t weird,” she says. “I try to follow your lead. I never want to make you uncomfortable.”
You meet her eyes. She looks sincere. Kind. The kind of person you would like under different circumstances. “You’re doing fine,” you tell her. “She’s just… friendly.”
“She’s very loved,” Minji says. “It shows.” The words hit harder than anything else that day.
After they leave, the apartment feels unsettled. Like the walls have shifted slightly and not told you. You sit on the couch with Yeri asleep on your chest, counting the rise and fall of her breathing like it might anchor you.
She stirs, half-awake, mouth brushing your skin. “Mama,” she murmurs.
Relief washes through you, sharp and immediate. “Yes,” you whisper. “Mama’s here.”
The next time it happens, it hurts more because you expect it. Hoseok mentions it casually over text.
Hoseok: She said Minji’s name again today. Just copying sounds.
Your fingers hover over the screen.
You: She’s just learning. It’s fine.
You send it before you can change your mind. It is not fine.
You start noticing the small things. How Yeri reaches for Minji’s hair clips. How she crawls toward her with familiarity. How she does not hesitate. You tell yourself this is good. Healthy. Proof that your daughter is surrounded by care. Still, at night, you lie awake replaying every moment, wondering when love became something that could be shared so easily without asking your permission.
One evening, after Yeri is asleep, Hoseok stays longer than usual. He sits at the kitchen table, scrolling through his phone without looking at it. “She said your name today,” he says quietly.
You look up. “She did?”
“Yeah. Clear as day. ‘Mama.’”
Your chest loosens. “When?”
“This morning. When she woke up.” You smile.
“She always does that.”
He watches you. “You don’t have to compete.”
The words catch you off guard. “I’m not.”
“You are,” he says gently. “And it’s okay.”
You swallow. “I don’t want to be this person.”
“What person?”
“The one who feels replaced before she’s gone.”
He leans back in his chair, eyes softening. “You haven’t been replaced.”
“It feels like I could be.”
“That’s not how this works.”
You meet his gaze. “Then how does it work?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “We’re making it up as we go.”
You laugh quietly. “We always were.”
The conversation ends there, unfinished and heavy, like so many others. Later, alone, you stand in Yeri’s doorway watching her sleep. Her hand is curled around the corner of the blanket, just like always. She looks peaceful. Secure. You remind yourself of what matters. She is loved. She is safe. She knows who you are. Still, a question lingers in the quiet. If love can grow this easily, this fast, what happens when it starts to choose other shapes?
You close the door gently and lean your forehead against it. You are not angry. You are not cruel. You are just afraid of losing something you never thought you would have to share this deeply. And for the first time, you wonder how many invisible lines have already begun to blur.
It happens on a Thursday. You’re at home, working on your laptop, when she texts.
Minji: Hi, this is Minji. I hope it’s okay that I’m messaging you directly.
You stare at the screen longer than necessary. Your first instinct is politeness. Your second is distance. You choose the first because it is easier. You: Hi. Yes, that’s fine.
The typing bubble appears almost immediately. Minji: I just wanted to let you know I signed Yeri up for a toddler music class near Hoseok’s place. It’s Saturdays at ten. She loved the trial session.
Your fingers go cold. You read it again. Slowly. Carefully. As if the words might soften if you give them time. Signed. Up.
You imagine it. Yeri sitting in a circle of children, clapping to songs you won’t hear, laughing at moments you won’t witness. A memory created without you even knowing it was happening. You type. Stop. Delete. Type again.
You: I wasn’t aware there was a trial session.
A pause. Longer this time.
Minji: Oh. Hoseok said weekends were his time, so I thought it would be okay. I hope I didn’t overstep.
There it is. Overstep. Wrapped in courtesy. Softened with hope. Your chest aches in a way that feels old. Familiar. Like the first time you realized people could make decisions about your life without asking.
You: I would’ve liked to know.
Another pause.
Minji: I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.
You stare at the apology and realize it is not enough. It is not cruel. It is not malicious. And still, something inside you fractures. You do not reply. That night, Hoseok arrives early. He knocks instead of using his key, which tells you everything you need to know. He already senses the storm. "Hey,” he says when you open the door.
“Hey.”
Yeri toddles toward him immediately, arms raised. He lifts her, kisses her cheek, murmurs something only meant for her. You watch it all from the doorway, heart tight, hands steady.
“She asleep yet?” he asks.
“Not yet.”
He nods, sets her down with her toys. The apartment hums with tension you have not named out loud yet. He clears his throat.
“Minji told me she messaged you.”
You lean against the counter. "She signed Yeri up for a class.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t think to mention it?”
“I didn’t think it would be an issue.”
There it is. The sentence that lights the fuse.
“You didn’t think,” you repeat softly.
“It’s just a music class,” he says. “She enjoyed it.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
You look at him. At the man who knows you better than anyone else and still manages to miss this. “She’s our child,” you say. “Not a shared project people can add features to.”
“She’s not being taken from you.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You’re acting like it is.”
Your voice lifts before you can stop it.
“You let your girlfriend make choices about my daughter without telling me.”
He stiffens. “She didn’t mean any harm.”
“I don’t care what she meant.”
The words hang between you, sharp and undeniable.
“You’re being unfair,” he says. “She’s trying to be involved.”
“She’s not her parent.”
Neither of you breathe for a moment.
“I am,” you continue. “And you’re her father. That’s it. Those are the only two people who get to decide things.”
“She was just helping.”
“She doesn’t get to help like that.”
Yeri babbles from the floor, blissfully unaware. Hoseok glances at her, then back at you.
“Lower your voice,” he says.
“No,” you reply. “I’ve been quiet for too long.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is,” you snap. “I swallowed every uncomfortable feeling because I didn’t want to be the difficult one. I smiled through things that hurt because I thought that was maturity.”
“Then say what you want to say.”
You laugh once, sharp and humorless. “You don’t want that.”
“I do.”
“Fine,” you say. “I feel like I’m watching someone slowly step into my life and take pieces of it while everyone tells me I should be grateful she’s kind.”
“That’s not what’s happening.”
“It feels like it is.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “You’re projecting.”
“You’re dismissing me.”
“Because this isn’t about a music class.”
“No,” you say. “It’s about you letting someone else stand where I used to stand.”
The silence that follows is heavy. Dangerous.
“That’s not fair,” he says quietly.
“When was fair ever part of this?” you ask.
“You’re the one who wanted space.”
“I wanted survival,” you fire back. “There’s a difference.”
His eyes darken.
“You think I didn’t feel trapped too?”
“There it is,” you say. “You always bring it back to that.”
“Because it matters.”
“You left,” you say. “I stayed.”
“I stayed too.”
“You stayed on weekends.”
The words spill faster now, years of restraint cracking open.
“I carried her,” you continue. “I lost sleep. I put my life on pause while you found ways to fit fatherhood into yours.”
“That’s not fair,” he repeats, louder this time.
“You got to be scared. I didn’t.”
“You think I wasn’t terrified?”
“I think you had the option to leave,” you say. “And I didn’t.”
The accusation lands hard. He stares at you like you have finally said the thing he has been bracing for all along.
“You think I walked away from you?” he asks.
“I think you walked away from us.”
His voice rises. “I was drowning too.”
“Then why was I the only one treading water?”
The room feels too small now. The walls press in. Yeri whines softly, sensing the shift.
Hoseok lowers his voice. “You think this is easy for me?”
“I think you found a way to move on,” you say. “And I never did.”
There it is. The truth you were never supposed to admit. The room goes silent. He looks at you differently now. Like he is seeing past your anger into the ache beneath it.
“You never said that,” he murmurs.
“You never asked.”
“I thought you were okay.”
“I learned how to look okay.”
He steps closer, then stops himself. “Is that what this is? Jealousy?”
“Yes,” you say without hesitation. “And grief. And exhaustion. And loving you in a way that never had anywhere to go.”
His breath shudders. “That’s not fair.”
“I know,” you whisper. “But it’s true.”
Neither of you speak for a long moment. The only sound is Yeri’s soft humming as she chews on her toy. Hoseok finally looks at her, then back at you. “We can’t keep doing this,” he says. “We’re going to hurt her.”
You and Hoseok keep talking long after the words stop making sense. Voices rise, then fall, then rise again, circling the same truths you have both memorized by heart. Love. Fear. Youth lost too early. Promises that never learned how to survive adulthood.
“I never said I didn’t care,” he tells you, hands pressed into his hair like he can hold his thoughts still.
“You didn’t have to,” you answer. “I felt it every time you chose quiet over us.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither was asking me to be brave enough for both of us.”
The room feels smaller the longer you stand in it. Familiar walls watching two people who once knew how to breathe together now struggling to stay in the same air.
“I’m tired,” he says finally. “I’m tired of fighting like this.”
“So am I,” you whisper. “But we keep doing it.”
Nothing is settled. There is no closure. No understanding reached. Just exhaustion and the dull ache of knowing this conversation will repeat itself in different shapes for years. He leaves before dawn, comes back only to pick up Yeri for the weekend. You stand by the door while he buckles her shoes, neither of you looking at each other for too long.
“Call me if she needs anything,” you say.
He nods. “I will.”
And he does. But only then.
After that, his calls are careful and brief. Always with Yeri’s voice in the background. Always practical. Drop off times. Fevers. School forms. He never asks how you are. You never offer. Yeri adapts the way children do. With grace that makes adults ache.
By four, she knows the schedule better than either of you. Fridays mean her small backpack by the door. Sundays mean counting how many sleeps until next weekend. She talks about both houses with the same excitement, like they are chapters in the same story instead of two halves pulled apart. She talks about Minji too.
“Minji makes pancakes like clouds,” she tells you one morning.
You smile. You always smile. You have learned how to make it convincing.
Minji is polite when you see her. Soft voiced. Careful. There is always a slight pause before she speaks to you, like she is checking invisible rules. You endure it. For Yeri. You endure the way Minji brushes crumbs from Yeri’s shirt. The way she tucks hair behind her ear. The way she stands just a little too close to Hoseok. You tell yourself this is adulthood. You tell yourself love is not ownership. You tell yourself a lot of things.
Yeri’s fifth birthday arrives faster than you are ready for. “She wants a park party,” Hoseok says over the phone. “With balloons. Minji found this place with—”
You close your eyes. “We should talk about it together.”
There is a pause. “Can you come to my house tomorrow?”
You arrive at the address Hoseok sent. His house is modern, spacious, and immaculate. Minji is there too, the first to greet you at the door, warm but observant. You follow her inside and settle at the table, a steaming cup of coffee in front of you, a notebook open between you like an unspoken truce. From her room, Yeri hums softly, oblivious to the delicate tension quietly unfolding in the living room. “I was thinking unicorn theme,” Minji says brightly. “Kids love unicorns.”
You glance at Hoseok. He does not meet your eyes. “She likes dinosaurs too,” you say.
Minji nods quickly. “Oh, absolutely. We could combine them. Like magical dinosaurs.”
You wait. You breathe. You let it pass.
“And I found this baker,” Minji continues. “She does custom cakes. I already talked to her about flavors.”
Already. “That’s great,” you say, voice even. “Did you ask Yeri what she wanted?”
“She said pink,” Minji replies. “So I figured—”
“She also said green yesterday,” you cut in. “She changes her mind.”
Minji laughs softly. “That’s kids.”
You smile. It feels tight. “That’s her.”
Hoseok clears his throat. “We’re just trying to make it special.”
“I know,” you say. “So am I.”
Minji flips her notebook around. “I made a list.”
You look at it. Venue. Cake. Games. Guest list. Everything filled in. You blink. “When did this happen?”
“Oh, over the last few weeks,” she says. “I didn’t want to bother you.”
The word lands wrong. “You didn’t want to bother me,” you repeat. “About my daughter’s birthday.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“You planned everything,” you say, still calm, still controlled. “Without me.”
Hoseok finally looks up. “We thought it would be easier.”
Something sharp laughs out of you. “Easier for who?”
Minji’s smile falters. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I didn’t ask for help,” you reply, the edge creeping in despite your effort. “I asked for a conversation.”
“Well, the deposits are paid,” Minji says. “So it’s kind of already decided.”
The room goes quiet.
You nod slowly. “Of course it is.”
Hoseok reaches out. “Hey—”
You stand. “It’s fine.”
“It doesn’t sound fine,” he says.
You grab your bag. “Why would it need to be? You’ve got it handled.”
“That’s not fair.”
You tilt your head. “Funny. I keep hearing that.”
Minji shifts uncomfortably. “I really didn’t mean to overstep.”
You look at her fully for the first time. “You didn’t mean to. You just did.”
Silence stretches thin.
“I’ll leave you to it,” you say, moving toward the door. “Since I’m clearly not needed.”
Hoseok stands too. “Don’t do this.”
“I didn’t,” you answer. “You already did.”
You pause at the doorway, voice softer now. “Just make sure she’s happy. That’s all that matters.”
You leave before anyone can stop you. Outside, the air is cool. Your hands shake as you unlock your car. Inside your chest, something aches in a way that has learned patience.
You arrive at Hoseok’s house carrying Yeri asleep in your arms, her small body warm against yours. The party is here, at his place, and you promised yourself, you promised Yeri—you wouldn’t ruin it. No arguments. No tension from you. This day is hers. That’s all that matters. Hoseok meets you at the door, gently taking Yeri into his arms. “She’s heavy,” he says softly, smiling. “You’ve got strong arms, Mama.” You nod, smile faintly, and step inside, letting him lead the way.
Minji is already moving through the apartment, orchestrating the party like a director on set. She fluffs balloons, checks the cake, adjusts tableware, and gestures for the favors to be aligned just so. Every motion is precise. Every word she speaks is like a command, but she says it with a smile. “Here, let’s put the unicorn cake here, next to the favors, for the photos,” she says brightly. “And the balloons—oh, they’ll look perfect grouped over there. Don’t you think, Hoseok?”
You take a deep breath and step closer. “I thought maybe we could spread the balloons out, so the kids can run around without bumping into them,” you suggest gently.
Minji tilts her head, a faint frown appearing. “But if we do that, the photos won’t look as coordinated. I just want it to look magical.”
You glance at Hoseok, hesitating for a fraction of a second. You could argue. You could push. But this day isn’t about winning. It’s about Yeri. So you swallow the irritation, nod politely, and step back. “Okay,” you say softly. Minji smiles, oblivious to your internal tension. “And I thought we could do the favors first, so all the kids get excited before the cake. That way, it feels like the day is moving perfectly.”
You bite your lip, quietly noticing every way Minji takes control, how she barely listens to anything you suggest. How she speaks as if Yeri belongs to her too. You force a calm expression, reminding yourself this is Yeri’s birthday. You will not ruin it.
Hoseok senses your silence and steps slightly closer to you, his hand brushing lightly against your back. “It’s okay, Y/N,” he murmurs. You nod again, a little tighter this time, your jaw aching. You watch as Minji continues, her movements smooth, confident, precise, as if the world revolves around the perfect execution of her plans. You notice how she corrects little things, how she reorganizes Yeri’s presents, arranges the snacks, even tells Yeri which game to play first. Every suggestion you make is quietly overridden. You don’t argue. You don’t point it out. You remind yourself that this day is not for proving a point. This day is for your daughter.
Yeri wakes and blinks up at the colors, the noise, the bustle. She beams, oblivious to the adult tension around her. She runs to the decorations, laughing as she dodges between balloons and streamers. You watch her, feeling a pang of both pride and quiet resentment, noticing how easily Minji inserts herself as the orchestrator, the one who “knows best.”
“She loves these,” Minji says, adjusting Yeri’s hair. “I figured the balloons should go here first. And the table—oh, this way the unicorn cake is perfect for photos.” You nod faintly, stepping back. “Yes, that’s fine.”
Hoseok watches you, his eyes flicking between the two of you. He notices the subtle irritation curling in your hands, the way your jaw tightens ever so slightly. He sees what you see, the quiet control Minji exerts, the way she positions herself almost like the mother in this room. But he also sees you holding back, restraining your voice, letting it go because this day is Yeri’s, not yours.
The party continues in a blur of laughter and chaos, the children running and squealing, cake eaten in pastel-smeared bites, balloons bouncing. You stand to the side, arms crossed, observing every detail. Minji still adjusts, rearranges, directs. And you notice. You feel it. But you don’t say a word. Not one. Because Yeri’s happiness is louder than your frustration. Hoseok kneels beside Yeri, guiding her hand to the cake, his voice soft. He looks at you, the unspoken question in his eyes clear. You shake your head ever so slightly. Today is hers.
Minji glances at you once, smiling sweetly, unaware that she’s making your chest tighten. You force another polite smile, then turn your attention to Yeri again, smoothing her hair and brushing frosting from her fingers. By the end of the party, Yeri is exhausted, wrapped in your arms again as she drifts off in the car ride home. The balloons have been deflated, the cake eaten, the laughter lingering in the corners of Hoseok’s house like a fragile memory.
You notice Hoseok’s gaze on Minji—subtle, sharp, disapproving. He notices the same thing you did: how she takes control, how she doesn’t hear you, how she doesn’t see that some boundaries cannot be ignored without hurting someone else. But for tonight, nothing is said. For tonight, you let it pass, because Yeri is sleeping, and her birthday was hers, not a stage for adult fights. The car is quiet, the city lights blurring outside the window, and for the first time all day, you exhale. You’ve survived. Yeri has smiled. And sometimes, that is enough.
The house is finally quiet. Hours ago it was filled with shrieks of children, the sugary scent of frosting, bright paper crowns sliding off tiny heads. Now the balloons sag against the ceiling like exhausted lungs. Pink streamers trail down the staircase. A half-eaten slice of cake sits abandoned on a paper plate. Hoseok stands in the living room now, sleeves rolled up, gathering empty cups into a trash bag. Minji is still in her party dress. She hasn’t changed. She hasn’t moved much either. Just pacing. Watching him. Waiting.
“You didn’t say thank you,” she says finally.
Hoseok doesn’t look up. “For what?”
“For today. For everything I did.” Her tone is tight but sugar-coated. “I planned this entire party.”
He ties the trash bag slowly. “It was nice.”
“Nice?” she repeats, incredulous. “Nice?”
He exhales. “Minji, it was Yeri’s birthday. Not a corporate event.”
She laughs sharply. “Excuse me?”
He straightens. His expression is calm, but something underneath is shifting. “You turned it into a production. Every little detail had to be your way.”
Her smile drops. “Because I know what I’m doing.”
He holds her gaze. “Do you?”
She crosses her arms. “If this is about earlier, when she tried to suggest that ugly handmade banner—”
Hoseok’s jaw sets. “That banner,” Minji continues, “would have ruined the aesthetic. I worked hard on the theme. I wasn’t going to let some last-minute craft project—”
“She made that with Yeri.”
The words land heavy. Minji rolls her eyes. “Okay? And? It didn’t match.”
“It didn’t have to match.”
“It’s our house,” Minji shoots back. “If we’re hosting, it should look cohesive.”
Hoseok studies her. Something in his chest tightens. “She’s Yeri’s mother.”
Minji scoffs. “And I’m the one actually here.”
There it is. The line. Hoseok goes still.
“What does that mean?” he asks quietly.
“It means,” Minji says, stepping closer, voice gaining heat, “she gets to swoop in for birthdays and holidays and act sentimental, and I’m the one dealing with the day-to-day adjustments. The schedule. The routines. The planning. So forgive me if I take the lead when it comes to doing things properly.”
Hoseok’s hands clench at his sides. “She didn’t argue with you,” he says.
“She didn’t have to,” Minji replies smoothly. “She knows this is my space.”
He lets out a slow breath. "No,” he says. “She stepped back because she didn’t want to ruin Yeri’s birthday.”
Minji’s eyes flash. “Oh my god. Are you serious right now? You’re defending her?”
“I’m pointing out what happened.”
“You’ve been watching her all day,” Minji snaps. “Every time she looked uncomfortable, you noticed. Every time I made a decision, you looked at her to see how she felt.”
“That’s not—”
“It is.”
Her voice rises. “You hovered around her like she might break. Like I was the villain for trying to organize a children’s party.”
“You dismissed her,” Hoseok says, tone harder now. “Every suggestion. Every idea. You didn’t even listen.”
“I didn’t need to,” Minji says. “They weren’t good ideas.”
Hoseok stares at her. “She is Yeri’s mother,” he repeats, slower this time. “You do not get to override her.”
Minji laughs again, but there’s an edge to it now. “Why are you so pressed about this? It’s a party.”
“It’s respect.”
“She gets respect just for existing?”
“She gets respect because she is Yeri’s mother.”
“And what am I?” Minji demands. “A placeholder?”
Hoseok doesn’t answer fast enough. Her face changes.
“That’s it, isn’t it?”
He shakes his head. “Don’t twist this.”
“I’m not twisting anything,” she says, voice trembling now but still sharp. “You’ve been protecting her all night."
“I’m protecting boundaries.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Minji—”
“No,” she cuts in. “Answer me. Why do you care so much about how she felt today? Why does it bother you that I took control?”
He looks exhausted now. “Because you crossed a line.”
“She’s your ex.”
“She’s the mother of my child.”
“She’s also the woman you couldn’t make it work with,” Minji says, stepping closer. “So why does it look like you’re still choosing her side?”
The room feels smaller. The air thicker. Hoseok’s voice drops. “This isn’t about sides.”
“Then what is it about?” she demands.
He doesn’t respond. Minji studies him. And then her voice changes. Quieter. Sharper.
Do you still love her?”
The question hangs there. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t confirm it either. Minji swallows. “Answer me.”
Hoseok looks at her steadily. “If I say yes, what then?”
Her breath stutters. The mask slips. "So that’s it,” she whispers.
Silence floods the space between them. Her voice shakes now. “All this time. All this effort. And you still… what? Carry her around in your chest like unfinished business?”
He doesn’t look away. “That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair,” she says, tears finally breaking free, “is building something with someone who is still emotionally tethered somewhere else.”
Hoseok’s shoulders drop. “I never disrespected you,” he says quietly.
“No,” she agrees bitterly. “You just never let her go.”
He says nothing. And that is answer enough.
Minji lets out a hollow laugh. “I felt it today. The way you watched her. The way your voice changed when you told me I crossed a line. You’ve never spoken to me like that before.”
“She didn’t deserve that.”
“And neither do I.”
He closes his eyes briefly.
“You’re right.”
The words land softly, but they cut deep. Minji wipes her cheeks angrily. “I can’t compete with history, Hoseok. I can’t compete with shared memories and a child and whatever you two never resolved.”
She steps back toward the door. “I deserve someone who doesn’t hesitate when I ask if he still loves his ex.”
He looks at her. There’s regret there. And truth.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he says.
“But you did.” She opens the door. Pauses.
“If she asked you to come back,” Minji says, voice breaking, “you wouldn’t even think about it.”
Hoseok doesn’t answer. Minji nods slowly, as if confirming something she already knew “Goodbye, Hoseok.” The door shuts behind her. The house is quiet again. Balloons shifting slightly in the air conditioner breeze. Confetti stuck to the floor. He stands there alone, staring at the space she just vacated. And for the first time in years, the truth isn’t buried under convenience or routine. It’s sitting right there in the silence. Unavoidable.
Morning arrives gently, like it knows better than to rush a house that has learned how to survive on quiet. Sunlight slips through the curtains in thin gold lines. Yeri is already awake, sitting cross legged on her bed, humming to herself while lining up her stuffed animals in a crooked row. She looks up when you step into her room, eyes bright, hair sticking up in every direction. "Park day,” she announces proudly.
You smile, brushing her hair back, kissing the top of her head. “Park day.”
She throws her arms around your neck, all warmth and certainty, the kind that reminds you why you keep going even on the days when your heart feels tired. By the time you’re dressed and ready, Yeri is wearing her favorite sneakers and clutching her little backpack. Snacks inside. A juice box sticking out crookedly. You lock the door behind you, adjusting the strap of your bag, already planning the route in your head. That’s when you hear his voice.
“Hey.”
You turn. Hoseok stands at the end of the hallway, holding Yeri’s jacket. The pink one she forgot at his place. He looks like he didn’t sleep much. Hoodie thrown on without care. Hair still slightly damp. His eyes find yours and don’t look away. “I thought you might need this,” he says, lifting the jacket slightly.
“Oh,” you reply, surprised. “Thank you.”
Yeri squeals and runs to him. “Daddy!”
He crouches automatically, catching her, laughing softly as she nearly knocks him over “You forgot this, sunshine,” he says, slipping the jacket over her arms. “It might get cold later.”
She nods seriously. “Mommy says the wind can be sneaky.”
He glances at you then, something unreadable passing across his face. “She’s right.”
There’s a pause. A small one. But it feels heavier than it should. “I was about to take her to the park,” you say, mostly to fill the space.
He straightens slowly. “Which one?”
“The one near Maple Street.”
He hesitates. Just for a second. Then, “I can go with you. If that’s okay.”
You don’t answer right away. This is new. He never stays longer than necessary. Never joins. Never lingers. Yeri looks between you eagerly. “Can Daddy come?”
You look at Hoseok. He’s not pushing. Not smiling. Just waiting. "Okay,” you say quietly. His shoulders relax in a way that feels instinctive. Like his body remembers how to be here.
The walk to the park is slow. Yeri skips ahead, stopping to inspect every crack in the sidewalk, every leaf that looks even slightly interesting. You and Hoseok follow a few steps behind, side by side, not touching. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s careful.
At the park, Yeri runs straight for the swings. Hoseok pushes her first, counting each swing out loud, making her laugh until her voice rings across the playground. You sit on a nearby bench, watching them, the familiar ache rising in your chest. He joins you after a while, sitting close enough that your sleeves almost brush “She’s growing fast,” he says.
“You say that every time.”
“Because it’s true every time.”
You nod, eyes still on Yeri. “She likes routines. Makes her feel safe.”
He swallows. “I know.”
Another pause. This one heavier.
“I should tell you something,” he says.
You turn to him. “What is it?”
“Minji left last night.”
The words land quietly.
You blink. “Oh.”
“I didn’t plan to tell you today,” he adds quickly. “I just didn’t want to lie by omission.”
You look back at the playground. “I didn’t know.”
“I figured.”
You wait for more. It doesn’t come.
“Why are you telling me?” you ask gently.
“Because I’m tired of pretending there aren’t things we need to say.”
Your hands rest in your lap. You don’t move them. He exhales slowly. “Last night made me realize how long I’ve been avoiding the truth. Not just with her. With myself.”
You say nothing. You’ve learned how easily words can bruise.
“I know I don’t get to rewrite the past,” he continues. “I know I hurt you. I know we were young and scared and trying to be adults before we even knew how to be people.”
Your throat tightens.
"But there’s something I owe you,” he says. “Honesty. Not as co parents. As the people we were before everything broke.”
You finally look at him. His eyes are steady. Nervous. Open.
“I never stopped loving you,” he says.
The world doesn’t shatter. It doesn’t explode. It softens.
“I tried,” he continues, voice quiet. “I tried to move forward. I tried to convince myself that what we had belonged to a different version of us. But every time I saw you with Yeri, every time you laughed the same way, or worried the same way… it was still there.”
You breathe in slowly. The air feels thinner. “I was angry at you for a long time,” you admit. “For not choosing us when it got hard.”
He nods. “I know.”
“And I was angry at myself,” you add. “For wanting you even when I told myself I shouldn’t.”
He looks down at his hands. “I don’t expect forgiveness. Or answers. I just couldn’t keep letting silence speak for me.”
You watch Yeri slide down the slide, triumphant “She deserves honesty,” you say. “Even if it’s messy.”
He looks back at you then. “So do you.”
You close your eyes briefly. "I still love you,” you whisper.
He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t reach for you. He just lets the words exist. The silence that follows isn’t empty. Yeri runs back toward you, cheeks flushed, arms wide. You both stand at the same time, instinctively reaching for her, hands brushing. Neither of you pull away.
The future isn’t clear. There are conversations ahead. Apologies. Healing. But as you walk home together, Yeri between you, holding both your hands, the quiet feels different. Like the beginning, not the end.
Love does not return like a storm or a confession shouted across a room. It comes back quietly. In pieces. In moments that don’t announce themselves until later, when you realize your chest doesn’t hurt the way it used to. Three months pass. Then six. There are conversations that stretch late into the night after Yeri falls asleep. About what scared you. About how young you were. About how lonely it felt to love each other while drowning in responsibility. There are apologies that don’t ask for forgiveness. Just understanding. There are boundaries rebuilt. Trust relearned. Space respected.
Hoseok doesn’t move back in right away. He doesn’t assume anything. He shows up when he says he will. Leaves when he should. Lets you set the pace. Sometimes you still argue. Sometimes the past flares up in small ways. A tone. A memory. A fear neither of you fully outran. But now, when it happens, neither of you walks away.
Yeri is the first to notice the change. She notices how Daddy stays for dinner more often. How Mama laughs easier when he’s around. How movie nights slowly become the three of you on the couch, her feet in his lap, your shoulder against his. One night, she looks up at you both and asks, “Are we… a family?"
You and Hoseok exchange a look.
“Yeah,” you tell her softly. “We are.”
She smiles like she knew it all along.
The first time Hoseok stays over, it’s uneventful. He sleeps on the couch. You lie awake in your room anyway, heart restless, listening to the sound of his breathing through the wall.
In the morning, he’s in the kitchen making pancakes. Burnt ones. You laugh, leaning against the doorway. “You still flip too early.”
He grins sheepishly. “Some things don’t change.”
Some things do.
Months later, it’s a quiet afternoon. Rain tapping against the windows. Yeri coloring at the table. Hoseok beside you on the couch, close enough now that it feels natural. He takes your hand without thinking. You let him.
"I don’t know what the future looks like,” he says. “But I know I don’t want to do it without you.”
You squeeze his fingers. “We’ll take it slow.”
“I know.”
“And we’ll mess up.”
He smiles softly. “Probably.”
You rest your head against his shoulder.
But this time, it doesn’t feel like clinging. It feels like choosing.
Outside, the rain eases. Inside, your daughter hums to herself, safe and happy.
And for the first time in a long while, love doesn’t feel like something you’re trying to survive.
It feels like something you’re finally allowed to grow.
"A single misstep in front of fifty thousand people...and the only one who noticed was the man driving you crazy."
Warnings: Sexual tension (that's that), Reader's in denial, Hobi's a tease, Smut (MDNI), Unprotected sex (BE SMART!) Oral sex (f & m receiving), Reader's whiny and pathetic for Hobi (LMAO) Sorta taboo?? (Idol x Backup dancer), Dom! Hobi x Sub! Reader.
🦋 ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ 🦋 *
The stadium was a colossal, breathing organism of light and sound, tens of thousands of glowing purple ARMY bombs pulsing in unison like a sea of distant stars under the night sky. The sheer atmospheric pressure of the Arirang tour was enough to make your chest vibrate, the massive subwoofers beneath the staging sending a continuous, heavy concussive thump straight through the soles of your sneakers.
The stage lights cut through the haze with blinding electric intensity, flashing in sharp, synchronized bursts as the iconic, infectious instrumental beat of "Aliens" dropped over the speakers.
This gon' be the jam of the year (ay)
지루하고 따분해 모든 게 (모든 게)
시간은 참 빨라 tick-tock, stadium으로 집합
도대체 뭘 더 고민해? (고민해)
You were locked into your precise formation on the left wing of the main stage, your body moving with the practiced, razor-sharp muscle memory of months of grueling rehearsals. As part of BTS’s core backup dance crew, you lived in the margins of the spectacle, executing every pop, lock, and isolation with absolute precision while the members commanded the spotlight. But tonight, try as you might, your focus was entirely fractured.
Your eyes kept drifting.
Just a few yards away, moving with that lethal, effortless fluidity that always made your heart skip an irregular beat, was Jung Hoseok.
Under the stadium lights, he looked unreal. He wore the black leather trench coat left half-open over a bare chest draped in delicate, layered silver and pearl chains that caught every glint of light. Dark sunglasses shielded his eyes, and his styled hair was slightly damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead as he executed a series of sharp, blistering footwork patterns that left the crowd screaming. He radiated an intoxicating, untouchable confidence, owning the stage with every breath.
태생부터 다른 seven aliens (ay, ay)
우릴 부러워하네 저 civilians (ay, ay)
굳이 설명하기 입 아파, stadium
You were supposed to be keeping your gaze locked forward, tracking the geometric lines of the choreography, but your peripheral vision was entirely consumed by him. As he transitioned into a sharp body roll, sweeping his arm out and tilting his chin up with that signature, devastating smirk playing on his lips, you stared. You watched the way the leather coat billowed behind him, the way the silver chains shifted against his skin, the absolute mastery with which he moved.
Hello, this your, hello, this your new honey
박수 쳐, 흔들어, 중모리
It was a fraction of a second, a tiny lapse in concentration, but it was all it took.
When the formation shifted and you were supposed to pivot sharply to the right for the next downbeat, your left foot caught awkwardly on a seam of the stage flooring. The momentum of your body carried you forward, completely out of sync. Your ankle buckled under you with a sharp twist, and for one terrifying, heart-stopping moment, you completely lost your step, stumbling hard out of alignment as the crowd roared around you.
Your breath caught in your throat. Panic flared hot and sharp behind your ribs.
Scrambling instantly to correct yourself, you whipped your weight back onto your center, throwing your arm up to snap cleanly into the next movement just as the lyrics hit:
Oh, my God, do I look too funny?
뭐 어쩔래? Just move for me, yeah, move for me
You forced your face into the professional, high-energy performance expression required for the show, but your heart was hammering a frantic, deafening rhythm against your ribs. You risked a quick, terrified glance to your left and right.
Just two paces away, your close friend and fellow backup dancer, Minji, was executing the choreography with flawless, machine-like precision. She hadn't missed a beat. But as she swept past you in the next rotation, her eyes flicked sideways for a fraction of a second, locking onto yours with a knowing, highly expressive deadpan look before she snapped her gaze back to the front. She didn't say a word. She didn't break formation. She just kept moving, leaving you to sweat under the stage lights.
Further down the line, Hana caught the stumble too. A tiny, knowing smirk flashed across her face for half a second before she seamlessly transitioned into the next formation drop.
From the 가나가나 to the 하, 우리 보고 배워 놔, yeah, we aliens
If you wanna hit my house, 신발은 벗어 놔, yeah, we aliens
The music pushed forward with relentless momentum, carrying you along in its wake.
어쩜 그래 shameless? 예의를 차려, we aliens
해는 동쪽에서, risin' aliens, aliens
Across the stage, Hoseok hit a hard, dynamic freeze right on the heavy bass hit, his chest heaving slightly under the glittering chains as he caught the front camera feed. Even from a distance, the sheer magnetic pull of his presence was overwhelming. You swallowed hard, forcing every ounce of your remaining concentration back into your footwork, desperately trying to lock down your focus for the remainder of the track.
Every night, every day (ooh-ooh-ooh)
뭐든 더 빠르게 (ooh-ooh, ooh)
매일 밤새워 대 (ooh-ooh-ooh)
Yeah, we livin' that aliens, aliens
The chorus swelled, the stadium vibrating with the deafening cheers of fifty thousand fans. The choreography grew faster, more demanding, sweeping you up in a blur of motion, lights, and sweat.
Every night, every day (ooh-ooh-ooh)
뭐든 더 빠르게 (ooh-ooh, ooh)
시대가 우릴 원해 (ooh-ooh-ooh)
Yeah, we livin' that aliens, aliens
As the bridge bled into the final outro, the energy reached a fever pitch.
yeah, we land on it
(헛 둘) and stand on it
(헛 둘) 찍어 put that stamp on it
Stamp on it, stamp on it
With a final, synchronized pose that hit the exact millisecond the beat cut out, the entire stage plunged into a dramatic blackout, save for the cool wash of blue spotlights overhead and the roaring ocean of cheers from the audience.
For a second, nobody moved. The physical toll of the performance hung heavy in the air, thick with the scent of heat, adrenaline, and ozone.
"Alright, good job everyone, clear the stage, let's reset for the encore transition!" the stage manager’s voice crackled sharply through the hidden in-ear monitors.
Instantly, the backup dancers broke formation, turning in unison to march quickly off the back of the massive stage toward the shadowy labyrinth of the wings. The moment you crossed behind the heavy black velvet curtains, stepping out of the blinding glare of the stadium lights and into the cool, quiet safety of the backstage corridor, your knees felt remarkably weak.
You let out a long, shaky exhale, leaning your shoulder briefly against a flight case to catch your breath as you untangled the mic pack clipped to your waistband.
"Well," a smooth, teasing voice chimed in right beside you.
You turned your head to see Minji and Hana unzipping their matching tour jackets, walking side-by-side as they headed toward the dressing rooms. Minji offered you a slow, incredibly pointed smile, her dark eyes sparkling with wicked amusement.
"If we're wrong..." Minji started, tilting her head as she adjusted her ponytail.
"...you were definitely staring at J-Hope," Hana finished smoothly, picking right up without missing a beat as a chorus of muffled snickers rippled through the rest of the dance crew walking behind you.
Your face instantly caught fire, a burning, mortified heat rushing up from your collarbones straight to the tips of your ears.
"I was not staring," you snapped back defensively, crossing your arms over your chest as you forced your voice to sound completely steady, though your wildly hammering pulse completely betrayed you. "I missed my step because the stage flooring near the lift is slightly uneven, okay? It had nothing to do with—with anything else."
Minji let out a bright, unbelieving laugh, shaking her head as she patted your shoulder patronizingly. "Right. Uneven flooring. Mmhmm. Sure it was, babe. Come on, let's go change before the stylists murder us for being late."
They walked off down the hallway, giggling amongst themselves, leaving you standing alone in the shadows of the corridor. You squeezed your eyes shut for a brief second, pressing the cool palm of your hand against your burning cheek.
You knew they didn't believe a single word. And worse, deep down, as the memory of Hoseok under those stage lights flashed stubbornly through your mind, you didn't believe it either.
The heavy, sterile air of the backstage dressing room was a stark, jarring contrast to the roaring, sweat-soaked pandemonium of the stadium just beyond the heavy black curtains. Rows of costume racks lined the walls, and the harsh overhead vanity lights cast a clinical brightness over the chaos of quick changes, discarded jackets, and stylists rushing back and forth with clothing bags and makeup touch-up kits.
You dropped heavily onto a metal stool in front of your designated station, letting out a long, ragged exhale that sounded more like a hiss of pure frustration. Your muscles still throbbed with the residual adrenaline of the opening set, and your heart was stubbornly refusing to drop below a frantic, high-speed rhythm.
Minji was standing right behind your chair, unpinning her intricate stage braids with quick, practiced fingers while glaring at your reflection in the lit mirror.
"I'm just saying," Minji pressed, her voice dripping with a mix of amusement and teasing disbelief as she tossed a hair tie onto the counter. "It’s not like you’re plotting a bank heist or asking him to marry you on the spot. You’re literally part of his core dance line. You work with him every single day, hour after hour, sweating in the same studio. Walking up to him and telling him you thought his energy on stage tonight was cool is literally the most normal, casual thing in the world."
"Are you completely, utterly nuts?" you hissed, whipping around on the stool to stare up at her with wide eyes, your voice pitching into a defensive, panicked whisper. "It’s J-Hope. Have you seen him? Have you looked at him under those stadium lights wearing half a leather trench coat and a dozen diamond chains?"
"Yes, we've all seen him," Hana chimed in smoothly, walking past your station with a bottle of water in her hand, a knowing, wicked smirk playing across her lips. "The entire stadium saw him. And the entire crew saw you trip over your own feet during the third chorus because you were too busy eye-fucking him during Aliens."
"I did not eye-fuck him!" you groaned, burying your face hot with mortification in both hands as a fresh wave of heat rushed up your neck. "I tripped because the stage lift seam was raised by half an inch! It was a mechanical hazard!"
"Right, a mechanical hazard," Minji laughed, leaning down to rest her hands on your shoulders, giving them a playful, affectionate shake. "Look, babe, you're driving yourself crazy over nothing. He's a professional. If you walk over, give him a quick compliment about the set, and walk away, he isn't going to think twice about it. He hears it from thousands of people every single night anyway. To him, you're just one of his trusted dancers."
That last part... you're just one of his trusted dancers, stung with a strange, twisting irony that made your stomach churn.
It was true, objectively. To the rest of the world, to the thousands of screaming fans in the audience, and even to management, you were simply part of the professional machinery backing up global superstars. You shared studio sweat, grueling rehearsal hours, and synchronized formations. But it didn't feel professional anymore. Not after the lingering glances in the practice room mirror, the way his hand would brush yours just a fraction longer than necessary when reviewing choreography notes, and the electric, suffocating way he looked at you when the cameras finally stopped rolling.
"That's exactly why I can't do it," you mumbled into your hands, your voice muffled and desperate. "If I go up there and try to play it cool, my voice is going to shake, or I'll stare at his mouth, or I'll completely forget how to speak English or Korean at the same time. I'd rather die."
"You're being dramatic," Hana scoffed good-naturedly, tossing her empty water bottle into the recycling bin by the door. "You survived the main stage wardrobe malfunction scare of 2025, you can handle telling a guy he did a good job."
Before you could fire back another desperate excuse, a sharp, authoritative voice cut through the background hum of the dressing room.
"Alright, ladies! Five-minute warning! Let's move, move, move! We are resetting for FYA right now!"
The stage manager’s voice echoed off the concrete walls with military precision, instantly transforming the relaxed, bantering atmosphere of the dressing room back into a high-stakes zone of urgency.
"Saved by the bell," Minji whispered with a teasing wink, stepping away from your chair and grabbing her fresh stage jacket off the rack. "Consider your execution postponed. But we're revisiting this conversation the second the show wraps tonight."
"I hate you both," you muttered, though a nervous, excited grin tugged at the corners of your lips despite yourself.
You scrambled up from the stool, shaking out your limbs to chase away the lingering stiffness in your muscles. You grabbed your spare headset mic from the counter, clipping it securely around your ear and adjusting the pack against the waistband of your cargo dance pants. You took one final, critical look in the mirror, smoothing down your hair, checking your makeup for any signs of sweat-smudging, and forcing your breathing to steady into a controlled, rhythmic pattern.
The cue lights mounted near the exit doors flashed from steady green to a rapid, pulsing amber.
Five minutes.
The collective energy of the backstage area instantly shifted gear. Dancers, stylists, and audio technicians began streaming out of the dressing rooms and into the dimly lit labyrinth of the backstage corridors, all moving with a synchronized, high-octane purpose toward the wings of the main stage.
As you fell into line behind Minji and Hana, weaving your way past heavy road cases and stacked lighting rigs, the low, distant rumble of the stadium seating began to vibrate through the floor once again. The massive crowd was roaring for the transition, the sound swelling into a wall of white noise that made your skin prickle with goosebumps.
This was it. No more time to overthink interactions, no more time to panic over stumbled steps. The next block of the set was coming fast, and the sprawling, neon-soaked world of the Arirang tour was swallowing you whole all over again.
The stadium lights shifted from the cool, electric blues of the previous block into a blinding, hyper-saturated wash of neon pinks and acid greens as the opening heavy synth bassline of "FYA" slammed through the massive arena speakers.
The crowd’s reaction was instantaneous—a deafening, earth-shaking roar that rattled the metal scaffolding overhead and sent a physical shockwave vibrating through the stage floor. You moved into your opening formation with automatic, razor-sharp precision, your body locking into the heavy, aggressive choreography of the track. The energy in the air was thick, electric, and entirely relentless.
As the first verse built up, the main platform elevator lifted smoothly from beneath the stage, bringing Jung Hoseok up into the blinding glare of the spotlights.
The crowd lost their minds. He was an absolute vision under the flashing lights, moving with a fluid, lethal confidence that commanded every single pair of eyes in the stadium. As he stepped forward to take center stage, delivering his rapid-fire bars with absolute mastery, the choreography naturally rotated the core backup dancers into a tight, dynamic framing around him.
Your heart hammered a frantic, deafening rhythm against your ribs. You kept your focus locked outward, hitting every sharp angle and isolation with fierce dedication, desperately trying to keep the memory of your earlier stumble out of your head.
Then, the formation shifted.
The routine required Hoseok to weave backward through the moving lines of dancers during the bridge, his path cutting directly past your wing of the formation. You pivoted smoothly on your heel, tracking the movement, but as he closed the distance, he didn't just pass by.
Hoseok slowed his pace by a fraction of a second, sliding right into your immediate space.
As he dropped low into a sharp body isolation, matching your movement step-for-step, he turned his head. The dark sunglasses he wore couldn't hide the devastating, knowing smirk that split across his face. He leaned in just an inch closer than the choreography called for, his breath hot against your ear as he delivered his next line straight into his mic pack, his voice dipping into a low, teasing register meant exclusively for you.
The proximity was suffocating. The sheer electricity radiating off him made your breath catch violently in your throat.
Out in the sea of thousands of fans, someone near the barricade caught the micro-interaction on the massive jumbotron screens. A piercing, collective shriek echoed through the stadium, instantly multiplying as a wave of high-pitched screams and ecstatic gasps surged through the crowd.
"OH MY GOD, DID YOU SEE THAT?!"
"NO WAY, WAIT—LOOK AT THEM!"
The noise level spiked so violently it felt like physical pressure against your eardrums. Panic flared hot and sharp behind your ribs, threatening to trip your footing all over again. For one terrifying second, your mind went completely blank, the weight of fifty thousand screaming fans pressing down on your shoulders like lead.
Pull it together.
You forced every ounce of your professional survival instincts to kick in. You dragged the corners of your mouth upward, pasting on a bright, utterly convincing, unbothered smile as you smoothly executed the next transition, snapping your arm out on the exact downbeat as if you weren't internally melting into a puddle of absolute mortification.
Hoseok caught the look, caught the split-second panic in your eyes followed by your fiercely stubborn recovery, and his smirk deepened into something dangerously fond before he spun away on his heel, hitting the front edge of the stage as the chorus exploded around him.
You survived the rest of the song in a dizzying, adrenaline-fueled blur, executing every step on pure, automated muscle memory while your pulse roared in your ears.
When the final heavy beat cut out and the stage plunged into darkness, the collective exhale of the entire crew was palpable.
"Alright, brilliant run, everyone! Let's clear the stage, standard rotation to the chill rooms for a ten-minute reset!" the stage manager’s voice cracked through the in-ear monitors.
Instantly, the backup dancers broke formation, turning in a synchronized wave to march off the back of the massive stage toward the sprawling labyrinth of backstage corridors. The moment you crossed behind the heavy black velvet curtains, stepping out of the glaring heat of the stadium lights, your knees felt remarkably weak.
You let out a long, ragged breath, pulling the strap of your dance bag higher up your shoulder as you walked alongside Minji and Hana down the dim hallway.
You hadn't even made it ten feet before Minji grabbed your arm, spinning you around to face her with eyes the size of dinner plates. Her jaw was literally hanging open.
"Are you—did that just—" Minji stammered, her voice pitching up in pure, unadulterated disbelief as she shook your shoulders back and forth. "Did J-Hope just literally corner you on stage, lean down, and whisper directly into your soul while fifty thousand people screamed their lungs out?!"
"Shut up, shut up, keep your voice down!" you hissed frantically, your face instantly catching fire as a burning, mortified flush raced across your cheeks. You slapped a hand over her mouth, glancing around nervously to make sure no stray staff members or stylists were within earshot.
Hana stepped in closer, a dazed, starstruck grin plastered across her face as she gently batted your hand away from Minji's mouth. "Are you out of your mind? You looked like you were going to combust, but you actually pulled off the coolest, calmest little smile right back at him! I swear to god, the jumbotron caught the whole thing. The shippers on Twitter are going to lose their absolute minds by the time we log onto our phones tonight."
"I hate both of you," you groaned, burying your burning face in both hands as you let out a long, pathetic whine. "I didn't want him to do that! I was just trying to do my job, keep my head down, and not trip over the stage lift again! And then he just... he just appeared out of nowhere like a tactical missile of stress!"
"Stress?" Minji let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, elbowing Hana in the ribs. "Babe, that wasn't stress. That man was actively flirting with you on live international broadcast in front of an entire stadium. If that's stress, sign me up for a heart attack immediately."
"Come on," Hana added, linking her arm securely through yours as the group resumed walking down the winding corridor toward the private dancers' chill room. "You survived the stage encounter of the century. But seriously, this is your definitive sign. The universe is literally shoving you toward him on a silver platter. You are walking up to him tonight, and you are telling him he's cool. End of discussion."
"I am going to walk straight into traffic," you muttered miserably, though the frantic, electric fluttering in your stomach completely betrayed how much your heart was racing at the thought.
The corridor opened up into the spacious, dimly lit backstage chill room reserved for the core dance crew and touring staff. Plush velvet couches lined the walls, a long minibar stocked with ice-cold water and energy drinks sat in the corner, and soft warm lighting cast a welcome, relaxed glow over the space. The heavy bass from the main stage muffled through the walls, serving as a distant reminder that the concert was still tearing through its setlist.
As the rest of the dancers filtered into the room, collapsing onto the couches and groaning in shared exhaustion, you kicked off your heavy dance sneakers by the door.
The thick, heavy air of the backstage area was suffocatingly warm, and the cumulative heat from the rigorous choreography had your skin damp with sweat under your layers. Shivering slightly as the chill of the air conditioning hit your overheated skin, you reached up to grab the collar of your damp black stage jacket.
With a sharp, efficient motion, you slipped your arms out of the sleeves, peeling the heavy jacket off your shoulders and tossing it over the back of an empty armchair. You stood there in your form-fitting black tank top and cargo dance pants, running a hand through your slightly damp hair as you let out a long, bone-deep sigh, completely unaware of the heavy silence that had suddenly fallen over the doorway behind you.
The heavy metal door of the private chill room swung shut with a muffled click, cutting off the distant, muffled thud of the stadium bass and plunging the quiet space into an abrupt, eerie stillness.
You stood alone in the center of the dimly lit room, the harsh fluorescent panels overhead casting a warm, amber glow across the plush velvet couches and the empty minibar. Your friends, Minji and Hana, had vanished down the corridor toward the main dressing areas a moment before, leaving you completely by yourself to catch your breath. The oppressive heat of the stage still lingered against your skin, and you reached up to wipe a stray bead of sweat from your collarbone, completely unaware that the heavy latch of the door was turning open once again.
Assuming it was just Minji returning to nag you about going to speak to Hoseok, you didn’t bother turning around as you unclipped your wireless headset pack, tossing it onto the nearest coffee table with a soft clatter.
"Minji, for the last time, I'm not going to hunt him down like a lovesick puppy in the middle of a world tour," you threw your hands up in exasperation, your voice dripping with defensive exhaustion as you turned on your heel. "Drop it."
A low, rich chuckle cut right through the empty air, smooth, velvety, and entirely unmistakable.
"I'm not Minji."
Your breath caught violently in your throat. Your entire body went completely rigid, every single muscle locking up as your eyes snapped toward the doorway.
Leaning casually against the doorframe, blocking any easy exit, was Jung Hoseok.
He had ditched the heavy black leather trench coat from the stage, now wearing a simple, soft charcoal hoodie with the hood slung low, though the delicate silver and pearl chains still draped across his collarbone, catching the dim light of the room. His dark hair was slightly damp, clinging artfully to his forehead, and his expression was an intoxicating mix of amusement and a dark, razor-sharp focus that made your stomach execute a frantic, terrifying freefall.
"H-Hoseok," you stammered, your voice pitching up slightly before you managed to swallow hard and force your jaw to stay shut. Panic flared hot and bright behind your ribs. "What are you... what are you doing in here? Shouldn't you be with the stylists or getting ready for the final encore block?"
Hoseok didn't answer immediately. He pushed off the doorframe with a slow, deliberate movement, closing the distance between you with a predatory, unhurried grace that made every instinct in your body scream.
"I was," Hoseok said softly, his voice dropping into a low, smoky register that seemed to vibrate straight through the floorboards. He stopped just a few paces away from you, his dark eyes sweeping over you with a heavy, undisguised intensity that made your skin tingle. "And then I spent the entire third verse watching one of my best dancers look like she was about to pass out because I got a little too close."
"I didn't look like I was going to pass out," you protested, though the weak, breathy quality of your voice completely undermined your words. You instinctively took a half-step back, your shoulders coming into contact with the firm, padded back of the armchair where you had tossed your jacket minutes earlier. You were officially trapped.
"Oh, you definitely did," Hoseok murmured, a wicked, lopsided smirk pulling at the corner of his lips as he closed the remaining gap between you. He placed one hand on the back of the armchair right beside your head, caging you in completely. The heavy, intoxicating scent of his stage cologne, mixed with sharp cedar and warm skin, completely flooded your senses. "I could see it in your eyes right on the jumbotron. The panic was cute. But the little smile you forced out right after? That was impressive."
"I'm a professional," you managed to squeak out, desperately trying to keep your gaze locked on his collarbone rather than his mouth. "We're on a tight schedule. Management would have a fit if—"
"Management isn't in this room," Hoseok interrupted, his voice dropping another octave, losing all trace of playful banter as his dark eyes locked onto yours with absolute, unflinching gravity. "And I'm tired of pretending we're just coworkers following a strict schedule."
Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird. Every breath you took felt shallow, stolen away by the sheer proximity of him. The memory of how he had leaned down on stage, whispering directly into your ear while fifty thousand people shrieked in the dark, rushed back to the surface with blistering clarity.
"Hoseok, people are going to walk in here," you whispered, your fingers curling tightly into the fabric of the armchair behind you as he leaned in closer, his face mere inches from yours.
"Let them," he replied smoothly, his gaze dipping down to your lips for a fraction of a second before flashing back up to your eyes. He reached out, his warm fingertips brushing lightly against the sensitive skin of your bare collarbone, tracing the path of the silver chains resting against your chest. The casual, electrifying contact sent a violent, shuddering wave straight down your spine, making your knees feel suspiciously weak.
"You've been avoiding me all week during rehearsals," Hoseok noted softly, his thumb tracing a slow, hypnotic circle against your skin. "Every time I try to catch you alone to talk about the routine, you suddenly have a dozen errands to run with Minji or Hana. Or you go talk to one of my members. Why is that?"
"I haven't been avoiding you," you lied instantly, your voice betraying you with a nervous tremor.
"Liar," he chuckled, the low sound rumbling right against your skin. He shifted his weight, pressing his lean, solid frame just a fraction closer so that there was barely any air left between you. "It’s cute, really. You can handle a stadium full of screaming fans, you can execute a backflip on a moving stage lift, but the second I look at you for more than three seconds, you turn into a complete mess."
"I am not a mess," you hissed defensively, a sudden surge of pride overriding your terror as you glared up at him. "You're just... you're arrogant, Hoseok. You think you can just walk up, pull some theatrical stunt on live television, and throw everyone off balance—"
"Did it throw you off balance?" he cut you off smoothly, tilting his head as his dark eyes glittered with undeniable triumph.
You opened your mouth to snap a sharp denial, but the words completely failed you. Your chest heaved, your gaze dropping helplessly to his lips. He knew the answer. You knew the answer. The heavy, electric silence stretched between you, thick with days of suppressed tension, stolen glances in studio mirrors, and the undeniable magnetism that had been pulling you toward each other all tour long.
Hoseok’s expression softened, the playful teasing melting away into something raw, steady, and deeply intense. His hand slid up from your collarbone, his fingers gently cupping the side of your neck, his thumb resting softly against your jawline.
"We can talk more," Hoseok whispered, his breath hot against your cheek, sending a shiver rolling across your skin. "Come by my hotel tonight. I don't share a room with any of the guys. My room number's 45. We can talk as much as you want."
The invitation hung in the air between you like a loaded trigger, heavy with implication and dripping with a quiet, certain gravity that made your head spin.
Before your brain could process the magnitude of what he was asking, before you could formulate a single excuse or muster the strength to say no, Hoseok slowly lowered his head, pressing a lingering, feather-light kiss to the corner of your mouth. The touch was agonizingly brief, just enough to leave your skin burning and your entire body starved for more, before he pulled back with a slow, devastating smile.
"I'll leave the door unlocked for you," he murmured softly against your ear.
Without waiting for an answer, Hoseok stepped back, letting his hand fall away from your skin with a reluctant slide. He turned on his heel, walking toward the heavy metal door with that same effortless, fluid confidence, pulling it open and disappearing back out into the bright, chaotic hum of the backstage corridor, leaving you standing alone in the quiet chill room with your racing heart and a decision that was going to change everything.
The remainder of the concert passed in a dizzying, surreal blur of lights, basslines, and automated choreography. Your body went through the motions on pure muscle memory, executing every formation and turn, but your mind was entirely trapped back in that dimly lit chill room.
Room 45.
The numbers seemed to echo on a loop in your head, overriding every thought, every cue, and every lingering shred of your professional composure. When the final encore wrapped and the crew was finally dismissed to return to the hotel, your heart hammered against your ribs like a caged bird.
You bypassed the group elevator, opting for the quiet service stairs that led up to the private VIP floor of the touring hotel. Every footstep on the concrete stairs felt heavy, loaded with the weight of a decision you couldn't undo.
When you reached the fourth floor, the hallway was dead silent, bathed in soft, amber sconce lighting. You walked slowly down the carpeted corridor, your eyes scanning the gold plaques mounted beside each door until you stopped dead in your tracks.
45.
You didn't give yourself a second to hesitate, terrified that if you stopped to think, your nerve would completely shatter. You raised your hand and rapped your knuckles softly against the wood, tap, tap, tap.
You barely had time to draw a ragged breath before the heavy door clicked and swung inward.
Jung Hoseok stood in the doorway. He had already changed out of his stage clothes into a soft, oversized white t-shirt and loose black sweatpants, his dark hair falling in soft waves across his forehead without the styling product. But it was the look in his eyes, heavy, dark, and burning with an intense, unmistakable hunger that made your breath catch in your throat.
Without a word, Hoseok’s hand shot out, catching your wrist and pulling you smoothly across the threshold before the door clicked shut behind you with a sharp, echoing finality.
The interior of the suite was dim, lit only by the pale city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. Before your eyes could fully adjust, Hoseok backed you gently against the heavy wood of the closed door, caging you in with both arms braced on either side of your head.
"I knew you'd come," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent a violent shiver racing straight down your spine.
"I didn't say I was going to—" you started to protest, your voice betraying you with a breathless tremor.
"Actions speak louder, baby," Hoseok interrupted softly, a dark, wicked smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.
Before you could draw another breath, he captured your mouth in a deep, consuming kiss.
All the restrained tension, the weeks of stolen glances in the practice mirrors, the heavy teasing on stage, and the suffocating anticipation of the hallway melted away into a chaotic, breathless rush. It wasn't gentle; it was hungry, demanding, and utterly intoxicating. His lips parted yours with practiced ease, his tongue sweeping warmly, authoritatively inside your mouth as his hand slid up from the door, his warm fingers tangling firmly into the hair at the nape of your neck to tilt your head back and deepen the angle.
A soft, helpless whimper slipped past your lips, swallowed entirely by his mouth. Your hands instinctively flew up, gripping the soft cotton of his t-shirt, bunching the fabric in your fists as you pulled him flush against you.
Hoseok groaned low in the back of his throat—a thick, resonant sound that vibrated straight through your chest.
Breaking away from your lips for a fraction of a second, he didn't give you a chance to catch your breath. He peppered hot, open-mouthed kisses down the line of your jaw, tracking a burning path over your sensitive collarbone and down the exposed column of your neck. His teeth grazed lightly against your pulse point, making your knees buckle beneath you as an electric shockwave of pure pleasure erupted through your core.
Hoseok paused, his hot breath fanning over your damp skin as he rested his forehead against your shoulder, his hands sliding down to grip your hips with firm, possessive strength.
"Bet you've been thinking about this, mm?" Hoseok murmured against your skin, his voice rough with a heady mix of triumph and desire. "J-Hope of BTS having you like this? Tell me, baby."
"Hoseok..." you gasped out, your voice sounding small, wrecked, and completely ruined as your fingers tightened desperately in his shirt.
"Tell me," he repeated, turning his head slightly so his lips brushed your earlobe. "Say it."
"I've been thinking about it," you confessed, the humiliated, reckless honesty tearing out of your throat. "I've been thinking about it all week..."
A dark, approving chuckle rumbled in his chest.
"Atta girl," he praised softly, pulling back just enough to look down into your flushed, breathless face. His dark, obsidian eyes were dilated, burning with an absolute intensity. "Can I take off your shirt?"
You couldn't form words. You just nodded mutely, your chest heaving under the thin fabric of your top.
Hoseok paused, his hands resting on the hem of your shirt, his thumb tracing the skin of your waist. He tilted his head, a playful, challenging glint flashing in his dark eyes.
"I need words, beautiful," he chuckled softly, his voice a smooth, dangerous velvet. "Do you want this? Because I can stop—"
"No!" you whined instantly, a spike of panic making your hands shoot up to grip his wrists, stopping him from pulling away.
Hoseok raised an eyebrow, a slow, triumphant smirk spreading across his face. "No?"
"Please..." you breathed, your eyes locking onto his with desperate, unfiltered need as your cheeks burned bright red. "Please... I want you."
Hoseok’s breath hitched violently. The playful amusement vanished from his face in a single heartbeat, replaced by a raw, overwhelming surge of heat that made his pupils blow wide.
"Fuck..." Hoseok whispered, his voice trembling slightly as he crashed his lips back down onto yours with a hungry, ravenous desperation. "...I want you too, baby."
The kiss that followed was no longer a question; it was a claim. Hoseok devoured your mouth with a ferocity that made your head spin, his tongue claiming yours in a rhythm that mirrored the pounding of your own heart. The air in Room 45 felt charged, thick with the scent of his cologne something woody and expensive and the undeniable musk of arousal that seemed to radiate from his skin.
His hands, large and warm, abandoned the door to explore the curves of your body. One hand slid beneath the hem of your shirt, his palm searing against the bare skin of your stomach. The contact made you gasp into his mouth, your hips instinctively rolling forward to seek more of him. Through the thin fabric of his sweatpants, you could feel the evidence of his need the hard, unmistakable length of him pressing against your thigh, promising a release that felt both terrifying and inevitable.
"You're shaking," Hoseok murmured against your lips, though he made no move to slow down. His fingers splayed across your ribs, dragging upward until his thumbs brushed the undersides of your breasts. "Is it because you're scared? Or because you're desperate?"
"Both," you confessed, your voice breaking. "More desperate."
"Good girl." The praise was a physical caress. "I want you desperate. I want you so undone that you can't remember anything but my name."
With the practiced efficiency of someone who knew exactly how to dismantle composure, he pulled your shirt up and over your head. The cool air of the suite hit your skin for only a second before his heat replaced it. He didn't immediately move to your breasts that were trapped in your bra; instead, he took a moment to simply admire you. His gaze raked over you with a possessive hunger that made you feel exposed, yet more seen than you ever had in your life. The amber light from the sconces cast long, dramatic shadows across your collarbones and the swell of your chest, painting you in gold.
"Beautiful," he whispered, the word reverent even as his eyes remained dark with lust. "Absolutely fucking beautiful."
He stepped back just enough to guide you toward the king sized bed that dominated the center of the room. The sheets were silk, cool and inviting beneath your bare skin as he pressed you down onto them. Hoseok followed you down, his body a heavy, welcome weight that pinned you to the mattress. He worked quickly, shedding his own shirt before moving to strip you of the rest of your clothing. Every inch of skin revealed seemed to draw a new sound from his throat low growls, appreciative hums, and curses that made your blood sing.
When you were both bare, the reality of the situation settled over you like a fever. The contrast between his lean, corded muscle and your softer curves was stark, a visual feast that made your pulse flutter erratically. Hoseok hovered over you for a moment, his arms braced on either side of your head, simply breathing you in. His eyes traced every line of your body before settling on your face.
"I've imagined this since the first day of rehearsals," he confessed, his voice dropping to a dangerous register. "Watching you move on stage, watching how you command attention... I wanted to see if you'd taste as sweet as you look."
Before you could respond, he descended. His mouth found your breast, his lips encircling one nipple with sudden, sharp hunger. He tugged gently with his teeth, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your clitoris. You arched off the bed, your fingers tangling in his dark waves as you cried out his name. He didn't stop there; his mouth wandered lower, his tongue tracing the valley between your breasts before descending to your stomach. His kisses became more urgent as he approached the apex of your thighs.
"Ho-Hoseok, please..." you whimpered, your legs parting instinctively.
"Shh, baby. Call me Hobi, and I've got you." His hands slid between your thighs, spreading them wide. "Just wanna make you feel good, pretty."
He moved down the bed until he was positioned between your legs. The sight of him the powerful thighs, the lean torso, the dark intensity in his eyes left you breathless. Then, he lowered his head.
The first contact of his tongue against your swollen clitoris made your entire body convulse. It was warm, wet, and impossibly precise. Hoseok was not gentle; he was thorough. He used his tongue like a weapon, swirling it around your sensitive nub before applying firm, direct pressure that drove you toward the edge of madness. One of his hands reached up to grip your hip, holding you steady as he delved deeper, his tongue sliding inside you to explore your slick heat.
"Ho-bi... yes, right there... Feels s'good." You sobbed, your hips bucking against his face. The sensation was overwhelming the wet friction, the sound of his breathing, the way his fingers kneaded your ass cheeks. You felt like you were unraveling, your consciousness narrowing down to that single point of contact.
"You're so wet for me," he mumbled against your inner thigh before returning to your center. "So fucking perfect."
He increased the pace, his tongue working with a devastating rhythm. He knew exactly when to slow down to prolong the torment and when to quicken to drive you over the precipice. You were lost in a haze of sensation, your eyes rolling back as the first waves of climax began to crash through you. "I'm... I'm gonna–"
"Let it go, baby. Give it all to me. I got you," he commanded.
As you shattered, your climax rippling through you in waves that left you shaking and weak, Hoseok drank you in, his mouth never leaving you until the last tremor had passed. You lay there for several minutes, panting, your skin flushed and damp with sweat, feeling completely hollowed out in the best possible way.
But Hoseok wasn't finished. He moved up your body, his eyes fixed on yours, burning with a rekindled fire. "Wanna suck me off, beautiful?"
"Please," you begged, reaching for him.
"Come on then." He stood up by the edge of the bed as you began to crawl to him.
You guided him to your mouth, your fingers wrapping around his hardening length. He was hot and pulsing, a physical manifestation of the hunger he had been carrying for weeks. As you took him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the head and sucking gently on the underside, you watched his expression shift from controlled desire to raw, unguarded pleasure. His head fell back, a guttural groan escaping him as you worked to please him, your throat tightening around him with each stroke.
"Fuck, you're good at that," he hissed, his hand coming down to rest on the back of your head, guiding your movements. "So good. But I need to feel you. I need to be inside you."
He pulled away from you just long enough to position himself. The room was silent except for your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city outside. Hoseok moved between your legs, settling himself between your thighs. He propped himself up on his elbows, hovering over you in a classic missionary position, allowing you to see every inch of his face.
"Look at me, baby," he commanded softly. "I want you to see me when I fuck you."
Slowly, deliberately, he guided the head of his cock to your entrance. He paused there for a heartbeat, letting you feel the blunt pressure before pushing forward. You gasped as you felt yourself stretching to accommodate him, the fullness of him filling the emptiness that had been aching inside you. He moved slowly at first, each inch a deliberate invasion, ensuring you could take all of him.
"You okay? Tell me if it's too much," he whispered, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort.
With your permission granted, the pace shifted from tentative to primal. Hoseok began to thrust, his hips meeting yours in a steady, powerful rhythm. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the quiet room, a metronome for your shared ecstasy. Each thrust drove him deeper, hitting your cervix with a blunt force that made your vision blur.
"You're so tight," he groaned, his teeth gritted as he fought for control. "Like you were made just for me."
"I...," you cried out, clearly unable to finish your sentence, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him even closer, wanting to eliminate every millimeter of space between you. "Hobi..."
The missionary position allowed for an intimacy that no other could match. Your chests pressed together, your hearts beating in synchronized chaos. You could feel the sweat sliding between your bodies, the friction increasing as the pace accelerated. Hoseok's movements became more urgent, less controlled. His breathing turned into harsh, broken gasps, and his eyes never left yours, holding your gaze with an intensity that felt like it was searing your soul.
"I'm close," he warned, his voice breaking. "You gonna come with me, baby?"
"Y-Yeah... Yeah... Mmm."
The climax hit you both simultaneously. As you moaned his name, your internal muscles clamping around him in desperate spasms, Hoseok let out a raw, animalistic roar. He buried himself as deep as possible, his body tensing as he came inside you in powerful, pulsing waves. The sensation of him filling you while you climaxed was overwhelming, a white hot explosion that left you both gasping for air.
For several long minutes, neither of you moved. Hoseok remained collapsed against you, his face hidden in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving against yours. The only sound was the quiet hum of the air conditioning and your own retreating breaths. Slowly, he lifted his head, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your forehead.
"Mine," he whispered against your skin, the word less a claim and more a promise. "You're mine."
"Yours," you agreed weakly, closing your eyes as the afterglow wrapped around you like a warm blanket, finally allowing the exhaustion of the concert and the intensity of the night to pull you toward sleep.
The morning light filtered softly through the heavy blackout curtains of Suite 45, casting a warm, hazy gold across the rumpled white sheets.
You woke up slowly, floating in that heavy, delicious haze where reality hadn't quite set in yet. Your body felt completely relaxed, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and heavy comfort that you didn't want to break. For a second, your sleepy brain tried to convince you that the entire night before, the secret walk down the VIP corridor, the suffocating tension, the breathless panic and raw heat in the dark had just been an impossibly vivid dream born from too many hours of stage adrenaline.
Then, a slow, deliberate movement broke the stillness.
A heavy, warm arm draped securely over your waist, pulling you flush against a solid, bare chest. A split-second later, a soft, lingering warmth brushed against the sensitive skin of your bare shoulder.
Gentle, feather-light kisses were pressed rhythmically right where your shoulder met your neck, deliberate and tender, sending a soft, shiver-inducing ripple straight through your sleepy muscles.
A low, gravelly morning chuckle vibrated right against your back, thick with sleep and absolute satisfaction.
"Good morning, beautiful," Jung Hoseok murmured, his voice rough and deep with slumber as his lips brushed your skin one more time.
Your eyes fluttered open completely, a soft, involuntary smile breaking across your face as the hazy dream state evaporated, replaced by the dizzying, wonderful reality of where you were. You shifted slightly against the mattress, turning your head over your shoulder to look back at him.
Hoseok was lying propped up on one elbow, his dark hair messy and untamed against the white pillows, falling in soft strands across his forehead. He wasn't wearing his stage clothes, nor the fierce, untouchable aura he wore under the stadium lights. Without the sunglasses or the leather trench coat, looking at him like this, soft-eyed, relaxed, and smiling that wide, heart-melting, sleepy smile made your chest ache with a sudden, overwhelming fondness.
"Morning," you whispered back, your voice raspy with sleep.
Hoseok’s dark eyes softened further, a sleepy kind of warmth pooling in them as he reached up, using the back of his fingers to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from your face. His thumb traced a slow, affectionate path along your cheekbone, his gaze lingering on your lips as if memorizing the curve of them all over again.
"Sleep well?" he teased softly, his lips curling into a knowing, lopsided smirk.
"Like I've been running a marathon for three days straight," you mumbled honestly, though you leaned instinctively into his touch, nuzzling slightly against his palm.
"Well, you definitely worked hard last night," he laughed softly, the rich sound rumbling deep in his chest. He pulled you a fraction closer, tucking you impossibly tighter against his side so that your head rested comfortably right over his steady, beating heart. "We earned the rest."
For a long, quiet moment, neither of you moved. The world outside the hotel window could have been ending, but inside Suite 45, time seemed to slow down entirely. The heavy curtains blocked out the morning rush, leaving just the sound of your breathing syncing with his, the quiet rustle of the sheets, and the undeniable, electric comfort of being wrapped up in him.
Your fingers traced idly over the smooth skin of his chest, lightly brushing past the spot where his silver chains usually rested, though right now, he was completely bare, stripped of all the armor he wore for the cameras.
After a while, the faint, internal reminder of reality began to buzz at the back of your mind. Tour schedules, rehearsal calls, the rest of the dance crew.
"What time is it?" you murmured softly into his chest, your eyes still half-closed as you blinked against the bright sliver of light peaking through the curtain gap.
Hoseok didn't answer immediately; he just let out a soft sigh, tightening his arm around your waist as if trying to trap you in bed forever. "Who cares? The call time isn't for hours."
"I should probably check just in case my phone is blowing up," you reasoned, though your limbs felt like lead. You stretched out an arm blindly toward the nightstand where you had tossed your phone the night before. Your fingers brushed against the smooth glass surface, wrapping around it and dragging it back under the heavy duvet cover.
You tapped the screen to wake it up, squinting slightly against the sudden glare of light.
The lock screen was a chaotic wall of notifications, missed calls from Minji and Hana demanding to know if you were alive, group chat messages flooded with teasing emojis, and a cascade of social media alerts. But one notification right at the top, pulled straight from a viral X (formerly Twitter) update tag, made your entire heart stop dead in its tracks.
@TourUpdates_BTS: DID EVERYONE FORGET ABOUT THIS?! Footage of J-Hope cornering backup dancer Y/N on stage during FYA last night is currently hitting 2M views. Look at his face omg... we are not surviving this tour.
Your breath hitched violently in your throat. Your thumb hovered over the screen, paralyzed.
Before you could lock the phone or shove it under the pillow, a lean arm slid over your shoulder. Hoseok leaned in, resting his chin comfortably right on top of your head, his dark eyes reading the glowing screen over your shoulder with effortless ease.
He didn't look panicked. In fact, a slow, highly amused smirk spread across his face as he watched the words register in your mind.
"Well," Hoseok murmured, his warm breath fanning over your ear. "Looks like the secret's out, baby."
"Oh my god," you whimpered, covering your face with your free hand as a hot, mortified flush raced across your cheeks. "We're going to get lectured by management. The whole fandom saw that. They literally caught you trapping me on stage on a live international broadcast..."
"Let them look," Hoseok chuckled softly, unfazed. Instead of pulling away, his index finger reached out, brushing your hand aside so he could take control of the phone screen.
With a smooth, practiced swipe, his finger scrolled down past the initial post, opening the quote-reposts and the comment section below the viral video.
You braced yourself for impact, squeezing your eyes shut for a second, expecting a tidal wave of backlash, jealous theories, or chaotic drama.
Instead, scrolling down the screen, what met your eyes completely threw you off.
@bts_ot7_love: WAIT THEY LOOK SO GOOD TOGETHER THOUGH?? Look at the way he smiles at her pls 😭
@hobi_core: Honestly...if j-hope looked at me like that on stage i would simply combust into flames. let them be happy omggg
@taejin_95: the backup dancers work SO hard, but Y/N is literally living my absolute dream life right now. look at his shoulders!!
@agustd_supremacy: im screaming the way he literally cornered her in broad daylight on live tv?? he is SO not subtle anymore lmao i love it
@ARMY_sunshine_94: protect them at all costs. if hobi is happy we are happy!! STREAM ARIRANG NOW 🍓☁️✨
Hoseok’s finger continued to scroll smoothly down the feed, revealing hundreds of comments, cute edits, supportive fan theories, and overwhelmingly positive, hyper-fixated shipping threads from fans who were melting over the chemistry they had accidentally put on display.
A quiet, disbelieving breath slipped past your lips as you stared at the glowing screen.
"See?" Hoseok whispered softly, his voice dropping into that warm, reassuring register that always made your chest feel too full. He pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to your temple, his arm tightening around your waist once more. "It's ARMY. They love it. And more importantly... I love it."
You turned your head slightly, looking up at him through your lashes. The mischievous, teasing glint in his dark eyes had melted into something entirely devoted, making the frantic hammering of your heart return, not out of panic, but out of a sudden, rushing wave of warmth.
"You're impossible, Jung Hoseok," you muttered, a helpless, genuine smile breaking across your face as you locked your phone screen and tossed it back onto the nightstand.
"I know," he grinned, leaning down to capture your lips in a slow, sweet, lingering morning kiss that completely wiped every remaining thought of the world outside out of your head. "Now stop worrying about the internet, close your eyes, and stay right here."
And for the rest of the morning, in the quiet warmth of Suite 45, you didn't look at a single notification again.
You had just been looking at your boyfriend's concert pictures on social media, and you were completely losing your mind. Hoseok was usually pretty relaxed—always laughing and joking around—but he was dead serious when it came to his work, and when it came to you.
It was almost early morning, and you were mindlessly scrolling through reels until you came across a clip from last night's concert. There was your boyfriend, thrusting his hips and driving the crowd absolutely crazy. Not to mention that insane outfit—a blazer over a low V-cut, thin top that left his toned chest completely on display. You watched the video three times, suddenly feeling a rush of heat.
You missed him so much. He had only flown out to Europe a few days ago for his concert tour, but you already ached for his presence. You missed his laughter, his jokes, and the loud, unapologetic way he always showed you he cared.
Without thinking twice, you dialed his number. He answered after a few rings, and you could tell just from the sound of his voice that he was already smiling.
"Hey," you said in a quiet voice, lying flat on your stomach with your front pressed against the mattress.
"Still in bed, babe?" he asked. In the background, you could hear the muffled sound of shifting around and the other guys laughing loudly.
"It's too early here, Hobi."
"It's that early and you're already calling me?" You heard a door click shut, a clear sign that he had stepped into a room alone.
"Where are you?" you mumbled, pressing your face into the pillow as those concert clips flashed through your mind again.
"Just got back from dinner. It's 10:30 PM here," he replied. "The boys are going out to grab some drinks."
"What about you?"
"I’m going to catch up with my girlfriend. I missed you."
The raw honesty in his voice hit you hard. Before this tour, the two of you had been practically joined at the hip. The one-month separation during the first leg of the tour had been brutal, and you had missed him every single day. You had considered flying out to see him, but work kept you grounded. It felt like torture being apart. When he finally returned to Korea, you spent every moment making up for lost time with endless dates. By the time he was getting ready to leave for Europe, your mornings were filled with whispered "I miss you's" and "I love you's."
This was the first time you both had to deal with long distance since starting your relationship. It was hard, but you were both doing your absolute best to make it work. Whenever the distance got too heavy or things turned a bit more playful, he would switch to a video call and let things flow naturally—though you weren't above torturing him by sending a few teasing photos just to make him miss you even more.
"How was your day?" You shifted back against your pillows, humming softly at his question.
"Better. I mean, today hasn't really started yet, but yesterday I got home from work and went out for dinner with Mom and Dad." You smiled, remembering how your dad and Hoseok always joked around whenever they were together. "Dad says he misses you at the dinner table, too."
Hoseok let out a warm laugh. "Even my mom misses you. She actually asked me if you'd be comfortable having dinner with them alone while I'm away."
"I definitely would be!"
For a few minutes, the two of you just chatted about normal, everyday things, until you finally brought up his outfit from the night before.
"You looked... hot last night. I was just looking at the pictures." You casually twirled a corner of the blanket around your finger.
"Hot?" he teased, his voice dropping an octave.
"Stop," you warned, though you couldn't hide your smile.
"How hot, baby? If I were standing right in front of you after the concert, what would you do?"
"Nothing."
"Really?"
"I would maybe... kiss you?" You raised an eyebrow, smiling to yourself. You always loved teasing him.
"That's it?" he asked, sounding completely incredulous.
"What else, dumbo?" you laughed.
"Uh-huh. Switch to video call?"
Without wasting another second, you grabbed your laptop and accepted the incoming video call. The moment his feed connected, your breath caught. He was half-naked. His broad chest was fully on display, making you swallow hard. He caught your expression and smirked.
"Did you take your shirt off right before calling? Don't lie!" you laughed, trying to play it cool.
"Oh, maybe I did. My girlfriend deserves a treat." He winked, adjusting his tablet to give you a clear view of the defined lines of his abs.
"You've been working out," you pointed out, unable to deny how incredibly fit he looked.
"Shamelessly checking me out, huh? My fans would die to see me like this," he teased, clicking his tongue.
You raised an eyebrow at the screen. "That's my body... it belongs to me. So hush.”
"Wow. So possessive," he smirked, his eyes slowly dropping to the curve of your neck where your silk pajama top had slid slightly off your shoulder. You noticed his gaze immediately. You loved the way he looked at you—the way his focus entirely locked onto your body.
You smiled, teasing him. "What?"
"Just... wishing I was that fabric right now."
You laughed softly. "That's... stupid."
He leaned closer to the screen, making your heart skip a beat. "Nothing is stupid when it comes to you. How about you get rid of it, babe?" His eyes turned heavy, dropping down to focus on your chest.
Your smile slowly faded as a sharp tingle ran across your skin under his intense stare. Swallowing hard, you carefully set the laptop down on the bed and shifted into a more comfortable position.
Hoseok didn't look away for even a single second as you slowly unbuttoned the silk top and slid it completely off your shoulders.
"No bra?" His voice dropped into a husky register that made you ache instantly.
"Who sleeps with a bra?" you laughed lightly, but as you noticed the sudden, serious shift in his expression, the laughter died in your throat. Hoseok was a funny, playful man in everyday life, but when it came to this, his entire demeanor changed into something fierce and completely dominant.
You felt his gaze trace your chest slowly, examining you as if it were the absolute first time.
"Hobi..." you whispered, a sudden wave of heat and shyness washing over you.
His eyes locked onto the peak of your nipples, tracking the way your body was responding to his stare.
"Hold them," he ordered, his eyes snapping back up to meet yours.
Obediently, you cupped your breasts, squeezing them slightly and imagining it was his hands on you instead.
"Don't look away from me. Not even once," he said, shifting back to discard his trousers. Even through his boxers, the prominent ridge of his arousal was entirely visible, making your mouth go dry.
"Pinch your nipples," he whispered, his tone leaving no room for argument.
You slowly pinched the sensitive peaks, your body arching slightly as the cool air from the AC hit your bare skin.
"Yes. Harder," he encouraged, his voice growing deeper as he watched your reaction.
You pinched your nipples harder, a sharp gasp leaving your lips. You pressed your thighs tightly together, feeling the heat and wetness pooling in your panties.
"Gosh, they look so soft... so soft," he groaned, his voice thick. "I wish I could latch my mouth onto them, suck on them for hours and... fuck."
You watched his hand slowly disappear off the bottom of the screen, his shoulder moving in a slow, rhythmic motion. The realization that he was touching himself sent a massive jolt of arousal straight through you.
"On screen," you whispered, needing to see him.
Hoseok sat up fully, adjusting his tablet so you could see the thick, hard length of his erection outlining his boxers. He kept his eyes locked on you, watching you squeeze your breasts and bite your lip, while his hand gripped his own cock through the fabric.
"Wish it was your hand..." he whispered hoarsely.
You wished it was too. You craved his hands, his tongue, and the weight of his body pressing down on yours.
"Pants, babe. Remove them. Panties too," he commanded, his gaze darkening. "Move back and spread for me."
You did exactly as he said. Shifting backward, you pressed your back against the headboard, slowly sliding your pants and underwear down your legs until they were discarded on the mattress.
His eyes devoured your every movement. A heavy curse escaped his lips as you slowly parted your legs, revealing your slick, glistening puff of pussy completely to the camera.
"Leaking for me already, huh?" he smirked, his pace quickening as he watched you.
You felt completely exposed, but you loved it. You shamelessly craved the way his eyes tracked every shift of your body, watching the slick moisture glisten on your skin.
He unconsciously licked his lips, his gaze darkening further as he finally stripped out of his boxers. You watched, breathless, as his erection was fully revealed—thick, fully hard, and glistening at the tip. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he angled the camera down, giving you an unobstructed view.
"See how hard you make me?" he murmured, his grip tightening around himself.
The cool air of the bedroom hit your bare skin, sending a shiver through you that only intensified the ache between your thighs. Instinctively, you started to bring your knees back together.
"Did I say you could close your legs?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, his tone shifting into that strict, commanding register.
You immediately parted your legs again, shivering as the authority in his voice sent a sharp thrill straight to your clit.
"Spread those folds for me," he ordered, his hand slowly rubbing the head of his dick, smearing the pre-cum over the length.
You slowly reached down and parted yourself, exposing your glistening clit, which was visibly throbbing for touch. Hoseok’s cock twitched in response. He fisted his hand tightly around his length and began to pump it, his eyes locked on the way your body reacted to the visual.
"Look at you, spread open for me, leaking and messy, throbbing for me... you want to touch yourself?" he whispered hoarsely.
Your eyes remained fixed on his hand moving rhythmically along his shaft. "Yes... can I touch myself?" you asked, your voice trembling.
"Are you a good girl?"
You nodded eagerly against the headboard.
"Then go on. Swipe your index finger down your slit and back up to your clit," he commanded. You obeyed, a soft gasp escaping you. "Now rub your clit twice, and then bring your finger to your mouth."
Your cheeks burned a deep pink as you followed his instructions, pressing your wet finger against your sensitive clit before lifting your hand to your face.
"Open your mouth, baby. Show me your tongue."
You parted your lips, looking up at the screen just the way you did when he was with you in person. You slowly licked your finger clean, tasting yourself under his heavy, approving stare.
"Good," he praised, knowing exactly how much you loved his approval. "Come on now, spread yourself wide open and thrust your fingers deep inside. Slowly."
You moaned aloud as your fingers slid easily into your own slick warmth.
"Look at that, so eager. If it were my dick in there right now, it would be so tight... right?" he groaned, his pace quickening.
"Hobi..." You whimpered, thrusting your fingers in deep and curling them against your sensitive wall, mimicking the exact rhythm he always used on you.
"God... you look so good, baby. Come on." Hoseok let out a heavy breath, his hand moving in a frantic, desperate blur against his shaft until he finally came, the white heat of his release coating his stomach. He threw his head back, panting, but his eyes never fully left the screen, watching your body arch and your center throb for attention. If he were there, he would have been burying his face between your thighs, licking you clean while his fingers stretched you open.
"I miss the scent of you so much..." he whispered, his voice thick and raspy.
You let out a soft, broken moan, feeling yourself hovering right on the edge. His dirty words were making you squirm against the mattress.
"Open your eyes, baby. No, don't close them... look at me," he commanded softly when your eyelids started to flutter shut. "Look at how much I want you. I want to be inside you. Fuck you. Feel you. Cum deep inside you. Look here." He dipped his fingers into the slick warmth on his skin, holding them up to the camera. "See this? I wish it was inside you right now."
"Hobi..." You moaned loudly, your hips twitching involuntarily.
"Yes... just like that, baby. Come for me. Let me watch you release everything. Let it all out for me," he encouraged, his hand still resting heavily over his hardening length.
With a shattered moan, your body finally snapped. You came hard, your walls contracting tightly around your fingers as a wave of intense pleasure rushed through you.
"That's so hot..." His eyes didn't track away for a single second, completely captivated by the sight of your release. "Gosh, I wish I could slide my tongue all over you right now... taste every bit of it." He swallowed hard, his chest heaving.
You slumped back against the headboard, completely spent, breathless, and satisfied. A small, lazy smile tugged at your lips, your legs still relaxed and parted on the bed.
Hoseok’s intense expression softened into a warm, familiar smirk as he watched you come down from the high. "You did such a good job for me, baby," he praised, his voice returning to that gentle, loving tone you missed so much.
SUMMARY: Performance specialist, Mina Seo has made a career out of taking care of everyone else. As BTS throws themselves into comeback preparations, she spends her days managing injuries, recovery plans, and the impossible task of keeping seven overworked artists healthy. What nobody realizes is that she’s becoming increasingly skilled at hiding her own struggles. When an unexpected connection with Jimin begins offering relief neither of them fully understands, it slowly becomes part of their routine. Late-night conversations, shared silences, and a comfort that grows easier to rely on with every passing week. But while Jimin is getting better, Mina isn’t. And sooner or later, someone is going to notice.
WARNINGS: chronic illness, overwork injuries, some medical scenes, slight cursing, eventual smut scene—This story contains a realistic depiction of chronic illness, including rheumatoid arthritis, pain flares, fatigue, hospitalization, and the emotional impact of long-term health conditions.
Masterlist
———————————
Mina Seo had spent most of her adult life learning how to recognize pain before people admitted it existed.
At thirty, she could read exhaustion in posture, injury in hesitation, and pride in the exact second someone lied through their teeth and said they were fine. Ballet had taught her bodies told the truth. Physiotherapy taught her people usually didn’t. Touring taught her idols were the worst of both.
Which was why returning to BTS for the Arirang comeback cycle felt less like stepping into a job and more like walking back into a room full of old injuries waiting to happen.
Officially, she had been hired to oversee performance recovery and injury prevention during preparations for the comeback and world tour. Unofficially—she suspected management had looked at seven men returning from military service and decided someone needed to stop them from accidentally destroying themselves before opening night.
The rehearsal complex in Seoul smelled exactly the same as it had four years ago. Coffee. Dust from old stage flooring. Hairspray. Overworked air conditioning.
And somehow—even before Mina fully stepped through the practice room doors, her body remembered the rhythm of BTS before her brain caught up to it. Music echoed faintly from somewhere deeper in the building while staff moved quickly through the hallways carrying garment racks, equipment cases, and enough coffee to medically concern several countries. Preparations had officially begun. The album was written but only half the songs had been recorded. The choreography wasn’t finalized. The tour existed mostly in planned documents and ambitious promises.
Mina adjusted the strap of her duffel bag higher onto her shoulder before pulling her rolling case behind her down the corridor. The overnight flight from London still sat unpleasantly in her joints despite the compression braces hidden beneath her loose black joggers. Long flights always did that.
Her right knee protested sharply when she turned the corner too quickly. Mina ignored it automatically. Old habit.
A production assistant nearly collided with her two seconds later before stopping abruptly, “Oh my god—Mina?”
Mina blinked once before recognizing him.
Junseo, Lighting crew, Permission to Dance Tour. He looked older now. Everyone did.
“Still alive unfortunately,” she answered dryly.
His startled laugh echoed through the hallway immediately, “You came back!”
“That does appear to be what the contract implies.”
“You sound exactly the same.”
“That’s devastating news.”
Junseo grinned before quickly taking the suitcase handle from her hand without asking. “Everyone’s been talking about you coming back all week.”
“Im not sure if that’s supposed to be comforting…?”
“It should.”
Mina sighed softly through her nose as he started leading her farther into the rehearsal wing.
The building looked busier than she remembered from PTD preparations. Bigger too. Or maybe the pressure surrounding Arirang simply made everything feel tighter somehow. Post-military comeback. Global press. First world tour together again.
The expectations surrounding Arirang already felt enormous and half the project didn’t technically exist yet. Some songs needed to be finalized. Some songs needed to still be recorded. Some songs needed to be written. Music videos still needed filming. Netflix cameras would be arriving soon. Half the choreography existed only as rough workshop versions. And somehow the entire industry already expected history.
A familiar voice suddenly echoed loudly down the corridor.
“If you tear another pair of rehearsal pants before the first week, management is billing you personally.”—Jin.
Mina barely had time to process the sound before he appeared around the hallway corner holding an iced coffee and arguing with Jungkook, who looked deeply unbothered by whatever crime he’d apparently committed.
“I told you it was choreography-related,” Jungkook defended.
“You were standing still.”
“I move passionately.”
“You move like expensive problems.”
Then Jungkook noticed her. His entire face lit up instantly, “Mina noona!”
Before she could react properly, he crossed the hallway in three long strides and wrapped both arms around her carefully enough that she almost laughed…Almost.
“You’re squeezing my spine,” she informed him.
“You disappeared for like four years.”
“You enlisted for most of them.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s an important distinction.” She let out a small laugh.
Jungkook grinned against the top of her head before finally letting go.
And suddenly Jin was there too, “Mina.”
His voice softened slightly beneath the dramatics in a way that caught her off guard for half a second. Then: “You abandoned me with these children.”
“There are seven of you.”
“And somehow I suffered most.”
“That seems statistically unlikely.”
Jin looked genuinely emotional for approximately one second before immediately pointing toward her face accusingly, “You still dont look British.”
Mina stared at him, “…What does that even mean?”
Before Jin could answer, another voice drifted lazily from farther down the hallway.
“It means you look like you should be in a K-drama, not Bridgerton.” —Taehyung.
Mina turned just in time to see him leaning against the studio doorway in an oversized hoodie and black beanie, expression completely serious despite the amusement sitting quietly in his eyes. Or maybe not serious…With Taehyung it was honestly difficult to tell sometimes.
“You disappeared to Paris for fashion week twice and suddenly you think you understand British people?” Mina asked.
“I understand vibes.”
“That’s somehow worse.”
Taehyung pushed off the doorway and walked toward them slowly, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets. He looked different too. Softer around the hair now that it had grown out slightly again. Broader through the shoulders after enlistment. Calm in a way she didn’t remember from before.
But the moment he reached her, his expression shifted almost imperceptibly. Warmer.
“You’re really back,” he said quietly.
The teasing disappeared from his voice completely for that one sentence.
Mina felt something unexpectedly fond tug in her chest, “Contractually, yes.”
“That’s a very unromantic answer.”
“You asked the wrong person.”
“Hm.” Taehyung tilted his head slightly like he was evaluating that statement seriously. “Still sounds like you though.”
Then, without warning, he reached out and flicked the sleeve covering her taped hand lightly, “You look tired, are you injured already?”
“Jet lag isn’t an injury.”
“You say that every tour.”
“I’ve been on one tour withh you..”
“A long tour,” Jin muttered.
Taehyung nodded thoughtfully, “You always look like you’re judging the weather.”
Jungkook burst out laughing.
“That is unbelievably specific,” Mina said.
“And accurate,” another voice added calmly—Namjoon.
Mina turned automatically toward the end of the corridor where he approached carrying a tablet and what looked like three separate production schedules tucked beneath one arm. Leader mode already fully activated. Some things apparently never changed.
Namjoon stopped in front of her and smiled properly then—warm, relieved, genuine.
And suddenly PTD came rushing back unexpectedly hard—Late-night rehearsals. Arena runs. Recovery rooms. Pre-show chaos. Watching seven exhausted men hold themselves together through one of the strangest periods of their careers while she stumbled through apprentice physio work pretending she knew what she was doing.
Back then she’d mostly hovered at the edges: wrapping dancers’ ankles, resetting ice stations, shadowing senior therapists, trying not to embarrass herself professionally.
Back then the members hadn’t even realized she was Korean at first. Which honestly had been fair. Between: the London accent, blue eyes inherited from her British mother, her Korean father gave her the dark hair and facial features, and the fact that she’d spent most of PTD speaking careful professional English around senior staff—everyone had just collectively assumed she was another foreign apprentice physio. To be fair, she was still only half Korean and she had only spent a few summers in Korea with her father growing up so their judgement seemed reasonable until she answered one of Yoongi’s questions in Korean halfway through rehearsals one day.
The silence afterward had apparently become legendary.
Jungkook nearly dropped a water bottle.
Taehyung had stared at her for a solid ten seconds before asking, completely serious, “Wait…you ARE Korean?”
“Korean-British,” Mina had corrected cautiously.
“You hid that for like three weeks,” Jin accused immediately.
“I didn’t realize it was classified information.”
Namjoon had looked genuinely fascinated. “We were all so confused by you.”
“Thank you?” Mina had answered dryly.
Even now she could still remember Hobi looking personally betrayed for the rest of the rehearsal day because apparently he’d spent two weeks carefully simplifying his Korean around her for no reason.
Now there was no hesitation anymore. Well—less hesitation. Mina still didn’t think her Korean was particularly good despite everyone insisting otherwise. She’d spent most of her life in London with her mom, and the years she remembered clearly were all in English. Korea mostly belonged to childhood memories with her dad now—small fragments more than anything else. Fast conversations still lost her sometimes, especially once multiple people started talking over each other, and when she got tired her accent thickened enough that British phrases slipped out unintentionally.
During PTD, she’d once called Jungkook “cheeky” after he stole someone else’s protein drink from the recovery fridge.
The entire room had paused.
“Is cheeky good or bad?” Jungkook had asked immediately.
Mina had opened her mouth. Paused. Then closed it again because honestly the answer depended entirely on tone.
Namjoon translated eventually while laughing under his breath, and Taehyung spent the next week calling everyone “cheeky” regardless of context.
Even now, certain words still came to her in English first. Especially when annoyed. Or tired. Or in pain…But unlike PTD, she no longer felt delayed inside conversations. Back then she’d translated every sentence carefully in her head before speaking. Now she just…spoke. Another thing that had changed while nobody was looking.
Now Namjoon looked at her like someone essential had finally arrived.
“We missed you,” he said simply.
The honesty in his tone hit harder than she expected.
Mina cleared her throat lightly before defaulting toward humor automatically.
“Emotionally or because your stretching habits are catastrophic?”
“Yes.”
That startled a laugh out of her before she could stop it.
And from farther down the hallway— someone looked up immediately at the sound.
Jimin stood near the entrance of one of the larger rehearsal studios with Hobi beside him, both still dressed in workout clothes from what looked like an earlier dance session.
For a second neither of them moved.
Then Hobi’s entire face lit up. “MINA.”—Oh no.
Mina barely had time to brace herself before Hoseok crossed the hallway at terrifying speed and pulled her into a hug dramatic enough to threaten structural damage.
“You came back,” he said like he still couldn’t quite believe it.
“You’re crushing several internal organs.”
“You survived.”
“Questionable.”
Hobi pulled back only long enough to look at her properly, “You cut your hair.”
“You noticed that immediately?”
“You think I don’t notice things?” He looked deeply offended. “I’m literally in charge of details.”
“That explains the eye twitch.”
“It’s from stress.”
“It’s from perfectionism.”
“Same thing.”
Mina laughed softly again while Hobi launched immediately into rapid-fire updates about rehearsal schedules, choreography workshops, production delays, filming Plans, and how nobody stretched properly when she wasn’t around.
The conversation blurred comfortably around her after that. Familiar voices. Familiar chaos of BTS settling back around her shoulders like muscle memory.
And through all of it— Jimin stayed quieter than everyone else. Not distant. Just watching.
Mina noticed him fully once Hobi finally paused long enough to inhale oxygen again.
He looked older than PTD. Not drastically. Not sadly. Just…different. Broader somehow. More settled. More tired around the eyes.
Military service had changed all of them in small ways, but on Jimin it looked subtler. Less visible externally. More like something had sharpened quietly beneath the surface.
He stepped closer finally.
“Hi,” he said softly. Simple. But somehow it felt different from everyone else’s greeting.
Mina adjusted the strap of her duffel bag slightly against her shoulder, “Hi.”
For half a second the hallway noise faded strangely around them.
Then Jimin’s gaze dropped automatically toward her right hand where faint kinesiology tape disappeared beneath the sleeve of her hoodie. Still noticing too much apparently.
“You’re wearing finger tape already,” he said. Not judgmental. Just observant.
Mina flexed her hand once instinctively before tucking it deeper into her sleeve, “Eight-hour flight.”
His expression shifted slightly at that. Concern maybe. Then hidden again just as quickly.
Hobi clapped loudly once beside them before the moment could settle into something stranger.
“Okay, enough emotional reunions. We have exactly six months before opening night and several people here are already physically concerning me.”
“Rude,” Jungkook said immediately.
“You did a backflip off rehearsal stairs yesterday.”
“It was one time.”
“Gravity doesn’t care.”
Namjoon sighed like this was already exhausting him spiritually.
Jin grabbed Mina’s suitcase again before she could protest.
“You’re coming to production briefing first. Then we’re forcing you to evaluate everyone’s terrible posture.”
“I’m not evaluating anything until I’ve had caffeine.”
“You still drink tea instead of coffee like a grandmother.”
“I’m English.”
“You’re Korean too.”
“And yet somehow still committed to tea.”
Jin looked genuinely disappointed in her choices.
The hallway erupted into overlapping conversation again after that while everyone started moving toward the larger rehearsal studios together. Mina walked beside them quietly for a moment, absorbing the noise and movement and familiar energy settling back into place around her.
Five years ago she’d entered this world as an apprentice trying desperately not to fail inside rooms filled with people far more experienced than her. This time, she was one of the people responsible for making sure non of them broke before opening night.
Now, staff nodded toward her automatically. Choreographers smiled in recognition as she passed. Managers already looked relieved she’d arrived. Somewhere along the way, this place had stopped feeling temporary.
The members looked happy to see her. The managers looked relieved. Which, Mina suspected, had significantly less to do with affection and significantly more to do with the fact that comeback preparations tended to break people.
Keeping BTS healthy enough to survive the next 6 months was, unfortunately, her responsibility.
Ahead of her, rehearsal music suddenly exploded through the main studio speakers loud enough to shake the hallway walls slightly.
Hobi immediately accelerated toward the sound like a man being personally summoned to battle. Jungkook followed while laughing. Jin complained loudly about his knees. Namjoon was already reading schedules again.
And Jimin slowed slightly beside her instead. Just enough to match her pace automatically when her knee stiffened briefly near the studio entrance. Mina noticed.
Unfortunately, she notices herself noticing.
——————-
One week into comeback prep, the recovery room had already stopped belonging entirely to Mina.
People wandered in for ice packs and stayed because it was quiet. Managers sat on treatment tables with coffees they absolutely shouldn’t have been surviving on while somebody from wardrobe inevitably slept in a corner beneath a pile of jackets by midnight.
The room, tucked behind the main rehearsal arena at HYBE, had slowly became chaotic. Familiar, but chaotic..
By 9:30 that morning, it already looked like a small war zone. Ice packs filled one counter beside rows of compression sleeves while treatment schedules covered the whiteboard near the entrance in Mina’s handwriting. Portable stim units sat charging beside resistance bands and unopened tape rolls. Half the overhead lights still remained off, leaving the room washed in soft gray morning light from the narrow windows near the ceiling…Quiet. For now.
Mina sat sideways on one of the treatment tables with one knee loosely pulled upward while wrapping kinesiology tape carefully around her wrist. The joint ached more than usual this morning. Not alarming. Just irritating.
Seoul’s weather had shifted overnight, damp cold settling into the city hard enough for her body to notice before she’d even opened her eyes.
She flexed her fingers experimentally once after finishing the tape. Manageable. Good enough.
A mug of tea sat beside her laptop already going lukewarm while rehearsal schedules glowed across the screen—Seven members. A rotating choreography team. Two assistant physios. Three (for now) music videos shoot days on the schedule. Two ‘Run BTS’ filming blocks. One Netflix camera crew already asking too many questions…Normal.
The recovery room door opened quietly behind her, “Mina?”
One of the assistant physios stepped inside carrying a tablet against his chest.
“Morning.”
He crossed toward the whiteboard automatically now, scanning the updated treatment rotations she’d finalized before sunrise.
“Do you want me handling their mobility assessments or conditioning reviews today?”
“MobiIity first,” Mina answered while reviewing the schedule beside him. “And switch with Hana after lunch because she’s better at conditioning reviews.”
“Got it.”
He hesitated briefly before adding, “Management also asked if Jungkook can add the extra harness rehearsals tonight.”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
Yejun snorted softly like he’d expected it already, “He’s going to argue.”
“He always argues.”
“And if he says he feels fine?”
Mina capped the marker in her hand. “Then he’s lying.”
That pulled a laugh from him before he disappeared back into the hallway.
A few years ago interactions like that would’ve unsettled her. During PTD, she’d jsut been the apprentice, the shadow. Now managers asked for her recommendations before approving rehearsal schedule.
The recovery room door swung open again harder this time.
Hoseok entered already dressed for rehearsals despite it not even being eight in the morning, energy somehow fully operational while the rest of humanity still struggled toward consciousness.
“Mina.”
“That tone suggests problems.”
“Jungkook did extra runs after rehearsals again.”
“Of course he did.”
“And Jimin’s pretending the hip isn’t getting worse.”
“That one I already know.”
Hobi exhaled dramatically before leaning one shoulder against the doorway.
“I leave for one military enlistment and suddenly everyone’s bodies are thirty.”
“You are thirty.”
“Rude.”
Mina smiled faintly into her tea.
That was more accurate to the actual dynamic of preparing 7 performers for the most demanding schedule of their careers. The members cared obsessively about performance quality, but now—older, post-military, carrying years of injuries behind them—they also noticed the physical cost more.
Hobi especially. Perfectionism had simply evolved into protectiveness.
“You need to watch Yoongi during choreography today too,” Hobi continued. “He keeps rolling his shoulder afterward like it’s tightening up every time he moves.”
Mina frowned immediately.
“Why is this the first time I’m hearing that?”
“Because he told me not to tell you.”
“And you listened?”
“Its Min Yoongi.”
Before Mina could answer, the recovery room door opened again and Jungkook walked in carrying enough iced coffees for an entire production department.
“Morning.”
“It’s too early for your energy level,” Mina informed him.
“It’s nine-thirty.”
“That proves nothing.”
Jungkook grinned and handed Hobi a drink before stopping near Mina’s treatment table.
“You taped your wrist again.”
Mina looked down briefly, “It’s cold.”
“That’s not an explanation.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
Jungkook looked unconvinced but let it go. Mostly because the room had started filling rapidly around them. Wardrobe staff appeared looking for blister tape after concept shoot fittings. Managers wanting options on filming schedule and safety. Choreographers argued about rehearsal loads while waiting for someone to tell them no. The preparations were already taking shape.
Mina moved through it automatically.
One of the assistant physios updated Jungkook’s recovery load from additional conditioning session while another waited beside the treatment counter for her approval on recovery metrics form the previous day. Routine…Like the entire tour had quietly reorganized itself around her judgment while she wasn’t paying attention.
“Did Mina clear this?”
“Ask Mina first.”
“She said no impact repetitions today.”
“Wait until Mina sees it.”
The recovery room door opened again while Mina adjusted compression tape around someone’s shoulder.
Jimin stepped inside carrying a black hoodie over one shoulder. Fresh from morning rehearsals already. And still limping slightly.
Mina noticed immediately. Unfortunately, so did he.
“You’re doing it again,” Jimin said.
“Doing what?”
“The observing thing.”
“You’re still guarding the hip.”
One of the managers nearby looked up automatically.
“You’re injured?”
“No,” Jimin answered too quickly.
Mina didn’t even glance up from the tape she was smoothing into place.
“He is.”
Betrayal crossed his face instantly, “That feels deeply unprofessional.”
“You walked into a medical room limping.”
“I was walking normally.”
Hobi pointed immediately from across the room.
“That’s exactly what I told him.”
Jimin sighed like everyone here personally exhausted him.
Mina finished securing the tape before finally straightening fully, “Sit.”
The word came automatically. Not harsh. Not hesitant either.
Jimin looked at her for one second before obeying without argument. That didn’t go unnoticed by anybody in the room.
One of the managers muttered quietly, “That’s terrifying actually.”
“Correct,” Jungkook agreed immediately.
Mina ignored both of them and stepped in front of Jimin instead, while slipping on a pair of nitrile gloves for examination.
Up close, the stiffness through the right side looked worse today. Too much rehearsal load too quickly after military conditioning adjustments probably. Idol choreography demanded sharper transitions and harder floor impact than most people thought; than most standard workouts ever did.
“Pain level.”
“Manageable.”
“That’s not a number.”
“A stylish seven?”
“That’s unfortunately still a seven.”
A smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth despite himself.
Mina crouched slightly to evaluate the movement pattern through the hip while maintaining professional distance in the crowded room around them.
“Show me the rotation.”
Jimin shifted experimentally through the joint. Lifting his leg in front of his body then trying to open his knee to the side once before stopping when it caught halfway.
“There,” Mina said immediately.
“You always sound delighted when you’re correct.”
“I’m never delighted about paperwork.”
That earned a quiet laugh from him.
Around them, the recovery room continued moving at full speed. People talking. Ice packs rotating. Schedules changing. Music echoing faintly from rehearsals deeper inside the arena.
But Jimin’s attention stayed entirely on Mina now. Focused. Like he was trying to understand how she saw things other people missed.
“You caught this before it really hurt properly,” he said quietly.
Mina adjusted the compression wrap around the joint carefully, “You didn’t do Dynamite full out earlier.”
“That was one time.”
“That was enough.”
He studied her for another second.
Then: “You notice everything, don’t you?”
The question landed strangely. Because yes. She did. Thats her job but that had always been the problem.
——————
The first indication that something was wrong arrived halfway through a production meeting. Mina wasn’t even looking at Jungkook. She was reviewing conditioning reports while one of the performance directors discussed filming schedules for an upcoming music video when a number on her tablet made her pause.
She frowned. Then looked again. The room continued talking around her while she scrolled through the previous week’s data—Recovery load. Conditioning volume. Training logs. A familiar sense of irritation began building behind her eyes.
Across the table, Namjoon noticed immediately, “What?”
Mina looked up, “Where’s Jungkook?”
The question prompted several people to glance around automatically.
“He left about twenty minutes ago,” Hobi answered.
“Why?”
“He said he was going to work out.”
Mina lowered the tablet slowly. The room went quiet. Not because anyone thought that sounded unusual. Quite the opposite. Everyone understood exactly why that expression had appeared on her face.
Namjoon sighed first, “Oh no.”
“What?” Taehyung asked.
“Mina found something.”
“I didn’t find something.”
The pause that followed suggested nobody believed her.
Mina turned the screen around, “His conditioning volume is already higher than what I scheduled for this week.”
Nobody looked particularly alarmed. Unfortunately, that was part of the problem. Jungkook exercising more than necessary had become so normal that most people barely registered it anymore.
“He likes training,” Taehyung offered.
“That’s not training.”
“What is it?”
“Jungkook deciding recovery is a personal insult.”
A laugh escaped Yoongi from the far end of the table.
Namjoon covered his face briefly, “You’re going after him, aren’t you?”
“I am absolutely going after him.”
“Good luck.”
Five minutes later, Mina found him exactly where she expected.
The gym sat one floor below the rehearsal studios and looked nearly empty except for a trainer organizing equipment near the far wall.
Jungkook, meanwhile, appeared to be conducting a one-man campaign against the concept of moderation.
He glanced up when she entered. His expression brightened immediately, “Noona.”
Mina stopped beside the rack and folded her arms, “What are you doing?”
The question was so obvious that Jungkook looked genuinely confused, “Working out?”
“That wasn’t rhetorical.”
The trainer across the room immediately became very interested in a stack of resistance bands.
Jungkook rested his forearms on the bar, “I finished rehearsal.”
“Correct.”
“I had free time.”
“Incorrect.”
That earned a grin.
Mina remained unimpressed.
“You’ve already completed every conditioning session on this week’s schedule.”
“I know.”
“You’ve added two extra gym sessions.”
His grin widened, “I know.”
“You slept five hours.”
“It was almost six.”
“That’s not helping.”
Jungkook laughed. The problem was that he genuinely seemed to believe this conversation was amusing.
Mina pulled up the training report on her tablet and held it out, “Your recovery markers are worse than they were last week.”
His smile faded slightly. Not because he disagreed. Because he knew she wouldn’t be saying it if she didn’t have evidence.
“You track all of that?”
“Jungkook.”
“Right. Stupid question.” He accepted that surprisingly easily.
Mina continued scrolling.
“Your resting heart rate is elevated, your sleep has been inconsistent for ten days, and you’ve lost weight since preparations started.”
“I can put the weight back on.”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“The point is that we’re six months away from opening night.”
That finally got his attention. The humour faded. The athlete remained.
Mina lowered the tablet, “You don’t need to survive this week, you need to survive 6 months, and then a tour after that.”
Then Jungkook looked away and rubbed the back of his neck.
“I just don’t want to fall behind.”
There it was. Not stubbornness. Not ego. Fear.
Mina had worked with enough performers to recognize the difference. The comeback meant everything to them.
The first album together after military service. The first tour.
The first chance to prove they could still do this at the level people expected.
She understood exactly why he was pushing. That didn’t make it smart.
“No one’s worried about you falling behind.”
Jungkook laughed softly.
“That’s because they’re not looking at what everyone else is doing.”
“I am.”
That made him pause.
Mina met his gaze evenly, “And I’m telling you to go eat lunch.”
A reluctant smile appeared, “That’s your professional recommendation?”
“That’s my final decision.”
He stared at her for another second before finally stepping away from the rack,“Fine.”
Mina narrowed her eyes, “I don’t trust how quickly you agreed.”
“You should be proud of my growth.”
“I’ll be proud when I stop catching you in the gym on rest days.”
Jungkook grabbed his towel, “That’s a very high standard.”
“It should be.”
As they headed back toward the rehearsal floor, Mina noticed the trainer trying—and failing—not to laugh.
Unfortunately, she suspected the rest of BTS would find the entire situation equally entertaining.
Which was deeply unfair considering she was the only person in the building attempting to stop Jungkook from exercising himself into the ground.
Three weeks into Prep work, Mina had developed a system for identifying which member was approaching physical collapse purely from the way they entered a room:
Namjoon got quieter.
Jungkook became restless, physically incapable of sitting still.
Taehyung grew dramatically affectionate whenever exhaustion hit critical levels.
Yoongi stopped speaking almost entirely.
And Jimin deflected…Smiles. Jokes. Easy answers delivered quickly enough that most people stopped looking deeper. Like if he acted normal convincingly enough, his body might eventually believe him too.
Which was exactly why Mina noticed the problem immediately when he walked into rehearsals that afternoon looking perfectly fine…Too fine.
One of the HYBE’s larger rehearsal studios vibrated faintly beneath bass-heavy playback while camera crews, choreographers and performance directors moved between formation markers taped across the floor..
Mina stood near the mirrored wall reviewing mobility notes on her tablet when Jimin rolled once through his right hip before settling immediately back onto the left side. Fast. Practiced. Trying not to get caught.
Unfortunately for him, Mina spent most of her life catching things exactly like that. On her own body and now on others
“You’re compensating again,” she said without looking up from the tablet,
Jimin glanced over from centre formation briefly, “For what?”
“The hip, and before you ask,no, that doesn’t mean you get a fourth run.”
He looked down at himself like this was genuinely new information. “Hm.”
“You’re avoiding the right side again.”
“I’m dancing.”
“You’re shifting out of the floor transitions early.”
“You noticed that from here?”
“You shortened the turn twice.”
“I recovered the timing.”
“You compensated.” She sighed out loud. “and your recovery numbers were worse this morning.”
Jimin frowned. “you track those too?”
“That’s literally my job.”
“That’s unsettling.”
“You slept four hours.”
A small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth then. Calm. Easy, “And yet I survived.”
Jungkook laughed immediately, while Taehyung looked delighted.
Mina remained unimpressed. Because even while speaking, he shifted subtly off the right side again before Hobi called everyone back into formation. Small. Like his body had already adapted around the pain before he consciously admitted it existed.
The music restarted loud enough to shake the arena floor. Bodies moved instantly back into synchronization beneath the lights while Mina stepped farther toward the edge of rehearsals to stay clear of formations. Arirang choreography demanded sharper moves than PTD ever had, with the added pressure of the comeback.
This choreography was lower, heavier, More impact through the joints. And Jimin kept forcing full performance quality every run like his body wasn’t warning him already.
Mina watched the next sequence carefully. Floor transition. Directional turn. Weight shift—There. Again.
The right side tightened every time choreography forced deeper flexion through the hip. Not horrible yet. But repetitive strain rarely announced itself at first. It accumulated slowly.
The music cut sharply.
“Again!” Hobi called from centre stage.
A collective groan rolled across the arena.
Taehyung dropped backward dramatically onto the floor. “I miss military schedules. At least the suffering had structure.”
“You complained the entire time,” Jungkook replied while grabbing a water bottle.
“Correct. Consistently.”
Namjoon laughed quietly into his sleeve while Yoongi sat cross-legged near the mirrored wall rolling tension through one shoulder.
Mina noticed that immediately too. Of course she did.
She crossed the rehearsal floor automatically while staff reset camera positioning near the stage entrance.
“You too?”
Yoongi glanced up slowly.
“Hm?”
“The shoulder.”
“Hoseok talks too much.”
“You keep resetting the joint any time you lift your arm above your head.”
“You notice too much.”
“That’s literally my profession.”
Yoongi sighed quietly through his nose while rotating the shoulder once experimentally. Tight. Not terrible. But heading there.
“You need recovery work tonight and you’re skipping tomorrow’s conditioning block.”
“I have studio sessions.”
“No you don’t.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, “You’ve become difficult.”
“You’re injured.”
“That’s a bit dramatic.”
“You’re one bad lift away from anti-inflammatory medication.”
“That’s more offensive.”
A laugh escaped Jin somewhere behind them while Jungkook nearly choked on his water.
The rehearsal floor buzzed with overlapping noise while staff reset staging cues for another run. Hobi discussed spacing adjustments near centre stage while Taehyung attempted to convince Namjoon that electrolytes counted as emotional support. Normal chaos.
Mina looked back down at her tablet briefly, updating treatment notes from the morning— Monitor Jimin hip progression. Review Tae’s conditioning load. Watch Yoongi shoulder mobility. Adjust recovery schedule after filming. Easy..At least on paper.
“Writing complaints about me?”
Mina looked up automatically.
Jimin stood beside her now holding a towel around his neck, rehearsal shirt dampened slightly beneath the arena lights.
“You’re still limping,” she answered.
“I walked here perfectly.”
“You adjusted twice.”
“I adapted.”
“You compensated.”
He smiled again. There it was. That automatic lightness he used whenever conversations drifted too close to discomfort.
Mina crossed her arms loosely.
“You know avoiding treatment doesn’t make injuries disappear.”
“I’m standing in the recovery area voluntarily right now. That deserves recognition.”
“You’re standing because rehearsals reset.”
“Still counts.”
“No it doesn’t.”
A laugh escaped Jungkook somewhere behind them.
“You’re losing this argument,” he informed Jimin immediately.
“I don’t see a scoring system.”
“You don’t see medical advice either.”
“Different category.”
Mina watched Jimin shift subtly off the right side again while speaking.. Protecting the hip. Too practiced. That concerned her more than the injury itself.
Because performers adapted around pain frighteningly fast once they decided something mattered more than recovery.And Jimin clearly still thought rehearsals mattered more.
“Did you do the mobility work? — and before you answer Jungkook already told me you skipped cooldown” Mina huffed.
Jimin took a sip of water before answering.
“I seriously considered it.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It’s what I had time for.”
“It was useless.”
That finally pulled a quieter laugh from him. Real this time. Not performative. Not deflecting. Just tired.
Then the choreographer clapped loudly from centre stage again, “Places!”
Everyone immediately started moving back toward formation.
Jimin stepped backward before pausing briefly beside her.
“I’m fine,” he said. Softly this time. Like he’d repeated the sentence often enough that it no longer required thought.
Mina studied him for one second longer than necessary. Then:
“You don’t have to always win against injuries.”
Something flickered briefly across his face at that. Gone almost immediately. Then the smile returned. Easy. Polished. Deflecting.
“Good thing I’m competitive.”
And then he walked back into formation before she could answer.
The music started again. Bodies moved. Lights shifted. Bass rattled faintly beneath the arena floor.
Mina watched the choreography reset automatically while something unsettled quietly in the center of her chest. Because she understood performers like Jimin.
People who learned early that discomfort became easier to survive if you turned it into something manageable. Something smaller. Something easy to laugh through.
But bodies never accepted denial as treatment. Eventually it caught up with them.
—————————————————-
Mina started having problems at eighteen. At first, it was easy to explain away.
Ballet dancers hurt constantly. Feet blistered. Hips clicked. Knees ached. Wrists stiffened from partnering and floorwork and overtraining and the general violence ballet quietly demanded from the body while still insisting on elegance.
Pain was normal. Especially in pre-professional programs where exhaustion got praised almost as often as talent did.
So when Mina started waking up with stiffness crawling through her hands in the mornings, nobody thought much of it. Not even her. Too many rehearsals. Too little sleep. Too much pressure. And Mina had spent most of her life being disciplined.
At seventeen, she’d been on track for the Royal Ballet. Not guaranteed because nothing in ballet ever was. But close enough that teachers started speaking carefully around her future like it had already begun taking shape. Company workshops. Private evaluations. Summer intensives where directors watched quietly from the back of rehearsal studios while students tried not to look nervous.
Mina remembered spending entire train rides home with her pointe shoes balanced across her lap imagining London stages she hadn’t earned yet. Then her body started changing underneath her before she understood why.
And suddenly every plan she’d built her life around became dependent on whether or not her joints cooperated that morning. Then came the fatigue. Not ordinary exhaustion. Not the kind fixed by sleeping for twelve hours after a performance weekend. This felt heavier. Like her body had quietly started resisting itself.
Some mornings she physically couldn’t close her hands properly around pointe shoes ribbons. Other days her knees locked halfway through warmups before loosening again like nothing happened. Unpredictable. Frustrating.
Easy to hide if you were disciplined enough. She pushed through performances. Finished training. Ignored the flare-ups. Ignored the fevers. Ignored the growing realization that her body no longer recovered the way everyone else’s seemed to.
Then, at twenty, she tore through her ankle during rehearsal because exhaustion had slowed her reaction time by half a second.
Career-ending sounded dramatic afterward because she should have been able to come back from that. Others had come back from worse. But ballet rarely survived injuries like that once you’d already started falling behind physically.
The diagnosis came almost a year later—Autoimmune. Chronic. No Cure Manageable, technically. The rheumatologist kept using the word manageable like it was comforting.
Mina mostly remembered staring at her own hands during the appointment wondering when exactly her body had stopped feeling trustworthy.
The career change happened slowly after that. First sports rehabilitation modules. Then physiotherapy courses. Then clinical placements with dancers, gymnasts, and professional athletes where she realized something unsettling: She understood injured dancers frighteningly well, not just injuries.
Everything surrounding them. The way dancers skipped meals when they were stressed. The way athletes hid exhaustion behind routine. The way performers negotiated with pain long before they admitted it existed.
Most clinicians focused on what hurt. Mina found herself paying attention to everything that happened before the injury.
Bodies negotiated before they failed completely. People compensated emotionally long before they admitted pain physically. Performers learned how to smile through damage so automatically most medical staff missed it entirely. Mina didn’t.
That was how she ended up shadowing during the Permission to Dance tour at twenty-three.
Technically she wasn’t supposed to handle much independently yet. In reality, half the touring staff were overworked and sleep deprived enough that Mina simply started helping wherever bodies started breaking down. Tape jobs. Recovery sessions. Mobility tracking. Conditioning reviews. Late-night treatment rooms. Whatever needed doing on any given day.
And all while quietly managing symptoms herself. Compression sleeves beneath hoodies. Painkillers hidden in tea bags. Smiling through flare days because everyone around her already depended on her too much.
By the end of PTD, the members trusted her more than some of the senior staff.
Jin knew more than the rest. Not because she’s outright told him. More because he stumbled into it.
Chicago, near the end of the Permission to Dance tour
The recovery room had finally emptied after a fourteen-hour rehearsal day, leaving Mina alone with treatment notes she still needed to finish, a cup of tea that had long since gone cold, and an ice pack balanced across her left knee.
The flare had been building for nearly a week.
Chicago’s cold weather hadn’t helped, nor had the endless rehearsal schedule or the fact that she had been sleeping far less than she admitted to anyone. The swelling had started as a dull ache she could ignore, then gradually developed into something more persistent. By that afternoon, she could feel the pressure in the joint every time she bent her knee.
It wasn’t severe enough to stop her working. That was the problem.
Pain that stopped you completely was easy. People saw it. They understood it.
Pain that allowed you to continue functioning demanded decisions.
How much could you hide? How long could you compensate? At what point did pushing through become foolish rather than admirable?
Questions Mina had never been particularly good at answering.
She shifted slightly in the chair and immediately regretted it. A sharp pulse of pain traveled through the joint, forcing her to close her eyes for a moment.
Just a minute, she told herself. She would finish the treatment notes, go back to the hotel, sleep for a few hours, and do it all again tomorrow.
The recovery room door opened behind her.
Instinct took over before thought did.
Mina sat up straighter and moved the ice pack aside. Too late.
Jin had already seen it.
He paused just inside the doorway, his attention moving briefly from the abandoned ice pack to her face before settling somewhere in between.
For a moment neither of them said anything.
Then he asked quietly, “How bad is it?”
Not what happened. Not are you okay…How bad is it.
The question caught her off guard because it assumed the injury already existed.
Because somehow he had skipped straight past the polite version of the conversation.
“Bad,” she answered.
Jin’s expression didn’t change.
Mina recognized immediately that he didn’t believe her.
He stepped farther into the room and retrieved the phone he had apparently forgotten earlier in the evening.
“You’ve been limping all week.”
The observation landed harder than she expected. Not because he was wrong. Because she genuinely hadn’t realized anyone had noticed. The dancers hadn’t said anything. The staff hadn’t said anything. Or perhaps they had noticed and simply chosen not to comment.
Either way, she’d assumed she was hiding it better than that.
“You spend all day watching how other people move,” Jin continued. “You didn’t think someone might notice when you started moving differently too?”
There was no accusation in his voice. If anything, he sounded mildly amused. Which somehow made the truth harder to avoid.
Mina looked down at the treatment notes scattered across the desk and felt a familiar wave of exhaustion settle over her.
Not physical exhaustion this time. The deeper kind. The kind that came from carrying something alone for too long.
“I have rheumatoid arthritis.”
The words sounded strangely small once they were spoken aloud.
For so long the diagnosis had existed only in doctors’ offices, medication schedules, and private moments she never shared with anyone else. Hearing it in this room felt unexpectedly vulnerable.
Jin didn’t react immediately.He pulled out the chair opposite hers and sat down, taking a moment to think before speaking.
“When were you diagnosed?”
“Twenty-one.”
His gaze drifted briefly toward her knee. Then back to her face.
“And you’ve been doing all of this while managing that?”
There was no judgment in the question. No disbelief. Just quiet curiosity.
Mina laughed softly.
“When you put it like that, it sounds a bit ridiculous.”
A faint smile appeared at the corner of Jin’s mouth.
“It sounds exhausting.”
For a moment Jin looked at her the same way she looked at everyone else. Like he was cataloguing all the things she wasn’t saying.
For reasons she couldn’t entirely explain, that answer nearly undid her. Not sympathy. Not pity. Just understanding. As though he understood that the hardest part wasn’t the pain itself. It was the constant effort of pretending the pain wasn’t there.
After that, they didn’t discuss the diagnosis very often. They didn’t need to.
Jin just simply noticed.
On days her knee stiffened after long rehearsals, a chair somehow appeared before meetings started. If schedules ran late, a cup of tea found its way onto her desk before she remembered she hadn’t taken a break.
Small things. Easy things to miss if you weren’t paying attention. Mina noticed them because noticing people was what she did for a living.
Which was probably why, years later, Jin remained the first person she looked for on difficult days.
————————————
A month into preperations, the flare settled in properly. Not dramatic enough to stop working. Just persistent and very annoying.
A deep ache through both wrists. Stiffness pulling through her knees every morning. Exhaustion sitting heavier beneath her skin no matter how much sleep she forced herself into getting. Manageable…Probably.
Mina stood near the recovery room counter rotating slowly through one wrist while reviewing schedules on her tablet. The movement hurt. The stiffness refused to release.
She had already stretched twice this morning. Already taken her medication. Already convinced herself it wasn’t going to be one of the bad days…Her wrists disagreed.
She reached automatically for the compression sleeves folded beside the sink before pulling them carefully over both wrists beneath the sleeves of her hoodie.
Hide first. Explain later. High-performance environments rewarded functionality. Nobody cared how difficult something was as long as you could do it.
The recovery room door opened quietly behind her.
Mina looked up automatically.
Jimin stood in the doorway wearing grey sweats and a black hoodie, damp hair curling slightly at the ends like he’d showered recently and stopped caring halfway through drying it.
“You’re limping worse,” she said immediately.
Jimin glanced down at himself briefly before walking farther into the room.
“That’s unfortunate news.”
“The hip tightened overnight?”
“Hm.” Which meant yes.
Mina returned her attention to the treatment schedules glowing across the tablet screen while he moved toward the coffee machine near the counter.
The recovery room stayed comfortably quiet around them. Low equipment hum. Early-morning stillness. Rain tapping faintly somewhere above the arena corridors.
“You still drink tea every morning?” Jimin asked eventually.
Mina glanced up once.
“You say that like it’s surprising.”
“You’re in Korea now.”
“And yet I remain British unfortunately.”
That earned a soft laugh from him before he reached automatically for the kettle instead of the coffee machine.
The movement caught her slightly off guard. Not because it was dramatic. Because it implied he’d noticed. Somewhere between writing session, choreography rehearsal, costume fittings and recording sessions, Jimin had apparently learned how she took her tea.
Mina flexed her fingers carefully beneath the counter while waiting for the stiffness to ease.—It didn’t. Annoying.
“You okay?”
The question came casually enough she almost answered automatically…Almost.
Jimin leaned lightly against the counter now, watching her with the same quiet attention she usually caught him directing toward choreography. Too observant.
Mina pulled the sleeves of her hoodie farther over her wrists instinctively.
“Fine.”
His expression shifted slightly at the answer. Like he knew the word because he used it constantly himself.
“You’re bad at that too,” he said quietly.
Mina looked up, “At what.”
“Making people believe you.”
That pulled a small laugh out of her before she could stop it.
“I work with performers,” she muttered. “None of you know how to answer honestly.”
Something softer flickered briefly across Jimin’s expression at that. Understanding maybe.
Yes. Here’s the same moment rewritten with the pain splitting both ways, but in the smoother style you liked, with less dialogue and more of Mina experiencing the impossibility before either of them can name it.
He handed her the tea carefully, waiting until her fingers had closed around the mug before he let go. Their hands brushed during the exchange, no more than the briefest pass of skin against skin, the kind of accidental contact that should have meant nothing at all. Mina had reached for cups from staff, taken clipboards from managers, guided dancers through stretches, corrected shoulders and hips and knees for years without thinking much about the intimacy of touch. Bodies were part of her work. Contact was practical. Ordinary.
This was not ordinary. The sensation moved through her before she understood what had happened, a sudden shifting beneath her skin that made her grip tighten around the mug. The ache in her wrists, the deep persistent pressure she had been ignoring since morning, loosened so quickly that for one suspended moment she forgot how to breathe around it. It did not vanish completely, but the weight of it changed, as though someone had reached inside her and lifted half of it away.
Relief should have felt simple. Instead, it frightened her. Because in the same breath that her wrists eased, something else settled into place. A low, unfamiliar ache drew itself through her hip, deep enough to make her aware of the joint in a way she had no reason to be. It was not the scattered stiffness of her own condition, not the hot, grinding protest she knew too well from her hands or knees after a difficult day. This pain had a different shape. A different history. It felt used, overworked, threaded through with repetition and strain. It felt lived in. It did not feel like hers.
Mina stood perfectly still with the mug caught between both hands while the kitchen carried on around them. The kettle clicked softly as it cooled. Rain moved against the windows in a steady hush. Somewhere down the corridor, a laugh rose and faded again, ordinary life continuing only a few rooms away as if the world had not just shifted beneath her feet.
Across form her, Jimin went still. He had not stepped back or made a sound, but the change in him was immediate enough that she saw it. The ease had gone out of his posture. His attention dropped to her hands, then returned to her face with a kind of startled focus that made her stomach tighten. He looked pale around the mouth, not in the way people did when they were embarrassed or surprised, but in the way they did when their own body had suddenly become unfamiliar to them.
Mina knew then that he had felt something too. Not because he said it. Because there was no other explanation for the way he was looking at her.
Her wrists still held the echo of relief. Her hip carried an ache that did not belong there. Jimin’s eyes remained fixed on hers, and in the silence between them was the impossible awareness that something had passed through both of them at once, rearranging pain as if it were something that could be divided and handed over.
Mina flexed her fingers carefully around the mug. Jimin’s gaze followed the movement. The ache in her wrists was lighter than it had been a moment ago. The ache in her hip remained, foreign and intimate and terrifying in its specificity.
She did not know what to call it. She only knew that Jimin had gone still for the same reason she had. Whatever had just happened, it had not happened to her alone.
——————————-
Yall im still baby army (toddler? Army). I apologize if my timeline (pre military) is ever off. Please tell me and I’ll fix it. :)
But anyway, let me know what you think! Sorry, it’s taken so long to get this out! I have a sick toddler and my husband is deployed. TT
no romance in this one just father/son chaos ft. One of my fav toys as a kid
hobi as a father. Hobi sfw
“Dad look at my spaceship!” Your son exclaims; it’s… something. Not exactly a spaceship but thats okay! Hobi can use his imagination.
“Ooh, I like the colors!” Hobi compliments. “It kinda looks like an airplane, actually, with the wings,” he points at the fins on his son’s creation.
“Thats- so it can fly in space, dad. Obviously.” His son corrects him, a lot of confidence in an opinion so factually wrong. Hobi makes a face, glancing at you.
“Yeah dad, obviously.” You repeat after your son, smiling when his look of minor annoyance turns to one of surprise. You’re busy on the carpet assembling a kit you and hobi bought specifically to spend time with your child.
The toddler scoffs, a tiny sound that makes Hobi’s chest tighten with affection. "It’s a star cruiser," the boy insists, tapping a plastic fin with a stubby finger. He turns back to his 'vessel,' his brow furrowed in intense concentration as he tries to wedge a stray Lego piece on top. “And this is the laser.”
Hobi leans back, his gaze drifting from the chaos on the rug to where you are fumbling with half assembled “adult” set. He turns the instruction page for you, setting aside what you needed for the next step so you wouldn’t have to hunt.
"He's got your stubbornness," Hobi murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. He reaches out, his thumb grazing your knee in a silent, grounding gesture. "The 'obviously' was crazy. He didn't even blink."
“Yeah, well his sass is all you.” You retort with a knowing smile. “Hear that tone? Sounds just like you.”
He lets out a soft huff, watching his son attempt to 'launch' the ship with a dramatic roar. "Hey, Captain," Hobi calls out, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Does the star cruiser need a pilot?” He assembles one of the little lego people from your kit, offering it. “I think it does.”
“Yeah!” Your son waddles over, taking the figurine and standing it up on top of the creation.
Hobi’s grin widens, a bright, gummy expression. "Alright, takeoff time," he says, scooping the boy up into his arms.
The boy settles, leaning his head against Hobi’s shoulder while still keeping a watchful eye on his masterpiece. "The pilot is ready for takeoff," he declares, his small hand gripping Hobi's shirt.
Hobi looks over at you, his expression softening into something deeply tender. He nudges your foot with his own, a playful, silent invitation to join in. “Watch this,” he says, carefully raising your kid above his head and ‘flying’ the ship around, toddler included.
Hobi mimics the noises his son makes, momentarily turning him upside down, causing the kid to laugh and flail.
“Dad!”
"What?" Hobi asks, his voice low and melodic, directed at both his son and you. "It looks like we might have a landing incoming." He waits, his eyes sparkling with the anticipation of the pretend play that is sure to follow.
“Hobi!” You warn, sitting back as he lowers your son down and ‘crashes’ into the pile of toys on the floor.
“Boom! Crash landing!”
You help your toddler up, fixing his hair. He has never been this excited.
“Again again-“ he reaches for hobi.
“Alright. One last time and then I promised to help mom with her legos. Okay?” He picks him up again.
