Chapter 3: Collide (from "In Between Plays and Playlists"- A Namjoon x Reader fanfic)
First read- Intro, Chapter 1, 2, off-track
Next- Chapter 4 . Masterlist .
Special Appearance: Mingyu Kim
Disclaimer: This is going to be a little long(er) emotional rollercoaster but trust me, it's worth it and to set the stage.
Also, I intend absolutely no hate or ill-feelings (neither will encourage/entertain it from others since I myself admire them) towards other persons or groups or people from other/same groups mentioned henceforth.
The group project was supposed to be chill.
Just a four-person literary analysis for your Shakespeare class. But nothing about it felt chill when he saw you paired with Mingyu — that over-gelled drama major who quoted Keats like a pickup line and smelled like citrus arrogance.
Touching his forearm like it meant nothing.
He’s sitting too close to her.
Mingyu leans over the table, chin propped on his palm like he has all the time in the world to stare at her while she explains the tragic unraveling of Ophelia. His smile is too wide. His eyes are too obvious.
Namjoon watches with his jaw clenched and highlighter forgotten in his hand.
“God,” Mingyu says suddenly, still looking at her, “the way your brain works is just…”
He exhales like he’s genuinely stunned. “Lowkey terrifying in the hottest way possible.”
Namjoon grips his pen tighter.
Snaps the cap shut — loud.
____ just laughs it off. “Terrifying is not the compliment you think it is.”
Mingyu grins. “Oh, it is when it’s you.” Then, with fake casualness — because Namjoon knows better — he adds, “You still down for that dance thing we talked about?”
____ blinks. “The one to Collide?”
Mingyu nods. “Yeah. Studio’s open tomorrow. I’ve got something sexy in mind.”
She doesn’t even blink. Just sips coffee like they’re talking about coursework.
“I’m in,” she says. “I love that track. Let’s see how it flows.”
Namjoon barely hears the next few lines.
His heartbeat’s thudding in his ears.
His jaw clenched so hard he thought he’d crack a molar.
He knows the song — The suggestive lyrics. He’s seen the trend — Half his gym’s IG stories are flooded with steamy duets and couples grinding in mood lighting.
And now ____ —his ____ —is going to do that with Mingyu?
He doesn’t even realize he’s staring until ____ turns to look at him. “You okay?”
He forces a shrug, voice too flat. “Fine. Just… didn’t know you were into that kind of choreography.”
She tilts her head. “It’s just dance, Joon.”
Mingyu leans back with a smug tilt to his lips. “Yeah, man. Just dance.”
Namjoon smiles—tight and teethless.
But inside? He's definitely not cool.
Studio Scene — “That’s... Not Nothing”
The track plays again, slower this time.
You move through the routine — Mingyu’s hand slides across your waist, you spin into him, then drop low and rise again with your back pressed to his chest.
It’s... good. Tight. Smooth. Every move hits like a beat drop.
“Relax,” Mingyu says gently, adjusting your hand on his shoulder. “You’re stiff. Trust me.”
You nod, still catching your breath.
You do trust him. You’ve danced together before. But this choreo — this sultry, up-close-and-personal, almost-whispered-against-your-neck kind of routine — it’s not your usual.
Still, the way he looks at you like he’s in some steamy music video? You’d be blind not to notice.
The music picks up. This time, you commit harder.
Your hand finds its place at the edge of his jaw just as his fingers slide along the back of your thigh, guiding your movement to match his rhythm.
And that’s when the door creaks open.
Mingyu’s arms still around you.
Your breath still high in your throat.
And Namjoon… Namjoon is standing at the door, staring.
His eyes flicker over the scene. Slowly. Deliberately.
From the press of Mingyu’s hand to your hip,
to the closeness of your bodies,
Which somehow is worse than anger.
“Didn’t know you guys were… busy,” he says, voice cool as steel. His gym bag still slung over his shoulder.
“Joon—” you start, but he’s already turning.
“Studio’s booked after this,” he adds over his shoulder. “Just a heads up.”
And it hits you in a way that dance never could.
Later — Mingyu wipes sweat from his brow.
You nod slowly. But your chest is tight. “Yeah. I just… maybe we don’t post this one.”
Mingyu arches an eyebrow. “Why not? This is fire. We could blow up.”
You force a smile. “I just don’t want that kind of attention right now.”
He shrugs, but doesn’t push. “Your call.”
And as the song replays faintly in the background, you suddenly wonder:
If someone else had been dancing with him — that close, that slowly — would you be okay?
The answer is already in your stomach.
Aftermath — “It’s Just Dance, Right?”
You find him by the vending machine in the English wing. Headphones in, hoodie up, water bottle in hand — the full “don’t talk to me” ensemble.
You hesitate before walking up. “Hey.”
He glances over. Doesn’t remove his earbuds.
You raise your brows. “Seriously?”
He sighs and finally tugs one out. “Hey.”
You shift awkwardly. “I… wanted to say sorry. About the studio.”
He takes a long sip of water, shrugs like it costs him nothing. “Nothing to be sorry for. It was a dance routine.”
His tone is perfectly flat.
That’s what makes it hurt.
“Yeah, but I— I didn’t think it’d look like that. I didn’t know Mingyu was—”
“You don’t owe me an explanation, ____.”
The quiet chill in his voice.
Polite. Detached. Deadly.
You force a smile. “Right. Just... felt weird. You walked in at the wrong time.”
Namjoon nods. “It’s fine.”
Later that day, he skipped the library. Went straight to the gym. Threw on his hoodie. Blasted ragey hip-hop. Lifted until his arms trembled and the world blurred.
Instead, he made a new playlist.
Title: “She’s Laughing and I’m Lifting”
He’s benched 200 pounds and still feels hollow.
Three straight days in the gym. Sweating out thoughts he can’t afford to say.
Every time he closes his eyes, he sees her — back pressed into Mingyu, smile soft and unaware. Like she didn’t even know she was breaking him.
And that’s the part that kills him the most.
She doesn’t even realize what she did.
Not because it was wrong.
But because she still thinks it’s just friendship between them.
He grits his teeth and pushes into another set of reps.
Maybe pain is easier than pining.
3 days earlier (Your POV):
The next day, Namjoon doesn’t show up to your shared morning café run.
Or the gym-library-coffee loop you’ve both lived in like ritual.
You told yourself you weren’t checking your phone for him.
Then you looked at your phone for the fiftieth time in two hours.
It wasn’t like him to disappear without a meme, a quote, or a sarcastic “miss me yet, Smol?”
I hate that he gets under my skin so easily. I hate that when he pulls away, it feels like gravity forgets me.
We had a stupid, petty fight. Over what? A project partner? A skipped text?
No. It wasn’t about any of that.
It was about what we don’t say. About all the things we’re too scared to risk.
I think we’re both terrified of breaking whatever this is.
But aren’t we already halfway cracked?
You found him in the gym. Hoodie soaked through, hair a mess, music blasting from his headphones. He looked at you like you were an interruption, not a comfort.
“Wow,” you said. “Remember me?”
Namjoon yanked out one headphone. “You seemed busy. With Mingyu.”
You blinked. “Are you seriously jealous of a guy who thinks Twelfth Night was a Bridgerton sequel?”
He scowled. “Are you seriously acting like that touchy arm and waist grabbing flirt thing wasn’t deliberate?”
You stepped closer. “It wasn’t. But I guess it’s okay for you to disappear and ignore me for three days because your ego got bruised.”
“That’s not—” he started, but the words tangled. “I just needed space.”
“I didn’t,” you snapped. “I needed you.”
That landed between you like a fire alarm no one wanted to acknowledge.
You both looked away at the same time.
Back at the dorm that night:
She tossed the pen across her desk for the fifth time that hour.
Namjoon hadn’t texted back. Or maybe she hadn’t texted first. She didn’t know who was supposed to move anymore. But it was day four and the tension was sitting on her skin like a too-tight sweater.
Hated pretending it didn’t bother her.
Hated being angry when all she really wanted was to hear his dumb voice calling her “Pocket Problem” like it meant something only the two of them understood.
Maybe he was mad. Maybe he had a reason. Maybe he didn’t. But she was tired of waiting to find out.
Her pride wasn’t louder than missing him.
She sighed — a shaky, defeated thing — and curled up in the corner of the bed, then, she grabbed her phone.
If you’re mad because of me — even if there’s nothing to be mad about — I’ll be the one to say it first.
Her thumb hovered over send for half a second.
Instead, she decided on addressing it the other, more subtle way, to save the last of whatever was left of her pride and insecurity.
Text Thread — Later That Night
> We were both kinda dumb today.
> Yeah. I lifted like a maniac and thought angry thoughts about your dance partner.
> I didn’t like watching you shut me out. Felt like losing you. And I hated it.
> You’re not gonna lose me, Smol Chaos.
Even if I act like a dumbass sometimes.
> On Shakespeare’s ghost.
The cursor blinked at him mockingly from his Notes app. A string of unfinished sentences stared back — drafted and redrafted for the past forty minutes.
> I don’t know what’s gotten into me lately. Maybe I’m tired. Or maybe I’m scared. Or maybe it’s just—
He sighed, thumb hovering.
> I just wanted you to be not a moment away from me. That’s all I’ve ever really wanted.
The words didn’t feel enough. Nothing did. He kept trying to shrink his feelings into lowercase confessions, like that would make him less exposed. Less ridiculous for missing her like this.
Why was it so hard to admit that being distant from her — even for a day — made everything duller?
He looked at their thread.
Her name glowing quietly at the top.
Maybe she was waiting on him.
Which is why it nearly knocked the breath out of him when her name lit up his phone.
His chest did that thing — clenched and softened at the same time. Guilt slipped in behind the relief — quiet, but slicing.
Because she reached out first. Again.
Even though he was already typing.
Even though he'd been meaning to.
Even though he should have.
He closed his eyes for a second and let it wash over him — the sound of her voice saying those words, even if it was only in his head. The softness. The surrender.
He could’ve met her halfway. But she came the whole way instead.
And somehow that made him ache worse.
So least he does is try to not let it all out yet — out of fear, ofcourse.
But he doesn’t hesitate to send the riskiest line of all: “your idiot.”
Because that’s exactly what he is — hers.
⚠️ Do not repost, translate, or copy this work without my explicit permission. This includes AO3, Wattpad, Tumblr, TikTok, or any other platform.
