"No my affinity for ships which consist of a trans-masc coded twink and his codependent inappropriately older/related/father figure coded/ insane man says nothing about me at all and I will not dissect it at all thank you"
Summary: When Y/n, a young choreographer, began working with Halsey at just seventeen, she never imagined it would lead her across the globe. Her journey with BTS began in 2018 on the set of 'Boy With Luv,' where she acted as the creative bridge between two worlds. What started as temporary projects turned into a lifelong bond, eventually leading BigHit to offer her a full-time position working as the boys' lead choreographer.
Now, as the members begin their solo careers and prepare for military enlistment, the stakes have never been higher. Y/n is tasked with her most ambitious project yet: Creating the choreography and performance identity for Jungkook’s global solo debut. What begins as late nights perfecting choreography and playful banter turns into quiet moments that blur the line between professionalism and something much more personal.
Their journey unfolds alongside Jungkook and Jimin’s newest travel show, Are You Sure?!, where Y/n travels with the Busan Brothers through the heat of a New York summer, the coastal winds of Jeju, and the deep snows of Sapporo.
Between the raw, unfiltered footage of life on the road and the quiet vulnerability that lingers after the cameras finally stop rolling, the show becomes the backdrop for Y/n and Jungkook’s evolving story.
As the seasons shift, they are pulled closer through creative passion, industry jealousy, and the looming shadow of distance. Amidst the chaos of global stardom and the quiet fear of a long goodbye, they are forced to make a choice only they can answer: Are they truly sure about each other, no matter what the world might say?
Word count: 5.7k
Warnings: Swearing, mentions of alcohol consumption, foreshadowing, new chapters unlocked (where the bp members also have zero chill...), mentions of pole dancing, jungkook in all denim (viewer discretion advised), the unbuttoned jacket agenda, emotional insecurity/Imposter Syndrome (reader), baking is a team sport apparently, weaponized spatulas, that's about it(lmk if I missed anything!)
Playlist: here
Series masterlist
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Bold = talking in english
Author's note: Happy Sunday, my stars! 🌟 This is more of a filler chapter, but it's still pretty important to the story. As always, enjoy and lmk your thoughts!
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Chapter 3
“you want me to what?”
You’re standing in your kitchen, your laptop propped precariously atop a fortress of cookbooks, the screen displaying a pixelated, overly-excited lisa.
“Pole dancing! It would be so much fun!” She beamed, her voice bubbling with her signature infectious energy. “I’ve been doing it for over a year now, and I’m telling you, it is the best workout I’ve ever had. You’ll be a natural.”
You look down at the flour-dusted spatula in your hand, then back at her. “lisa, i have the upper body strength of a wet noodle.”
It’s a lie, mostly. years of conditioning your legs for explosive footwork have left you strong, but the thought of hoisting your entire center of gravity up a vertical pole makes your shoulders ache in sympathy for your future self.
“Excuses,” she waves a hand, dismissive and sharp. “I’ve seen you pull off choreo that would break a normal person. bada and jennie are also joining us. Next wednesday at six. I’ve already told my instructor you’ll be there.”
You and Lisa went way back. Long before you became the boys' lead, you took on any freelance gig that came your way. That was how you ended up assisting on the choreography for LALISA and Money. You two had clicked instantly, and even after your career shifted full-time to the guys, the Blackpink girls, Lisa especially, had remained your sanctuary away from the studio.
“Fine,” You grunt before sending a pointed look through the camera. “But if I snap my neck and have to go on leave, I’m blaming you.”
“Perfect! i’ll send the address.” her expression shifts then, the playful light in her eyes settling into something heavier, more intentional. “but that’s the fun stuff. I actually have a favor. A real one.”
You narrowed your eyes, leaning your hip against the flour-dusted counter. “Why do I feel like this is going to be worse than the pole class?”
“Well… you know we're headlining coachella in april,” she starts, her fingers tangling together. “and for my solo segment... I want you there. on stage with me.”
The spatula hits the counter with a muffled thud. a small cloud of flour rises, dancing in the dim light. “you want me to... perform? at coachella?”
The word felt heavy, almost impossible. It’s been years since you stood in a spotlight that wasn't aimed at someone else. Honestly, not since the early days when you were scraping by on indie gigs in your hometown and LA. Back then, "huge" meant a crowd of maybe three hundred people in a cramped theater. Tens of thousands under the desert sun? The thought makes your stomach do a slow, nauseating somersault.
“lisa, i haven’t been a background dancer in years. and it’s march. how am i supposed to learn a routine in four weeks? my schedule—”
“Don't be mad,” she interrupts, a smug, cat-like grin stretching across her face. “but i may have already had my agent reach out to bang pd.”
The air leaves your lungs. of course. Why does everyone in your life treat your schedule like a public utility?
“He thinks it’s a 'mutually beneficial creative partnership',” she continues, mocking the corporate jargon. “basically, the dates are cleared. you’re coming.”
“Yay,” you mutter, sarcasm thick and bitter. you wipe a smudge of flour off your cheek, only making the mess worse. “I love being told i'm coming out of retirement for the most famous festival in the states via facetime. thank you.”
“Don’t be like that! It’s going to be iconic,” lisa chirps. she leans closer to the lens, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Plus... I heard a certain someone is in LA recording that week. and you get a plus-one.”
“What are you...?” You trailed off.
“oh my god, you are such a forgetful drunk,” she cackles. “remember two weeks ago? third round of tequila? you spent an hour rambling about how much jungkook has been traveling. you literally recited his entire april itinerary. it was impressive. and a little scary.”
A flush creeps up your neck, hot and undeniable. Tequila has always been your undoing—it turns your guarded heart into an open book, one that lisa reads with far too much enthusiasm.
“Note to self: no more tequila,” you mutter, rubbing your temples.
“You and I both know that’s not going to happen,” She teases, “Besides, think about it. private villa. backstage passes. plenty of room for a guest.”
“Lisa…”
“come on! A weekend in the desert with your 'favorite person'?”
It’s the same song they all sing. lisa, jennie, jisoo—even rosé has started making comments about why you’re always wearing his hoodies or why you're the only person allowed to dog-sit bam. to them, it’s a scandal. to you, it’s just the gravity of your lives. when you work sixteen-hour days for five years, your lives don't just touch—they bleed into each other. he’s your friend. he’s your constant.
It was efficient. It was professional.
It was... well, apparently it was "suspicious" according to four of the most famous women in this industry.
“he’s a colleague, lisa,” you say, though the words feel flimsy even to you. “And my friend.”
“I'm your friend, and I don't know your itinerary by heart.”
“Are you jealous?”
“ugh! not the point!”
“Can we just talk about the cake?” you groan, gesturing to the ruins of your baking project. jennie finally pops into the frame, hair tied back, looking like she’s ready to stage an intervention.
It was already late in the evening, your only free night before yoongi’s birthday and you decided to make his requested cake. However, you didn’t know where to start and the three recipes you looked up all had different methods.
You had originally called jennie for help, but lisa hijacked the phone and here we are.
“y/n, ignore her,” jennie says. “preheat to 165°C. we need to start the sesame paste.”
you nod, reaching over to twist the dial. the familiar click-click-whoosh of the gas ignites, but then—a sharp, metallic pop echoes through the small kitchen. you pull open the oven door.
darkness. no orange glow. just the faint, haunting smell of burnt toast.
“uh, guys? i think my oven just died.”
“try the breaker!” rosé shouts from the background.
you scramble to the hall, flip the switches, and run back. nothing. the oven is a cold, hollow void. you slump against the counter, staring at the expensive black sesame seeds that are now just a reminder of your failure.
“Shit, what am I going to do?”
“just come over here! girls' night!” jisoo’s voice drifts through the laptop.
“i can't. i have to...” you stop. you shouldn't say it.
“you're going to jungkook's, aren't you?” jennie asks, her voice dripping with knowing.
“i'm dog-sitting!” you protest. “i was going to finish the cake here first, but...”
“What if you use his kitchen?” lisa says, appearing back on screen. “I’m sure his oven is more updated than your dinosaur one.”
“Hey!” You protested, though lisa wasn’t wrong.
Your apartment was, in your definition, ‘charming’. You were located on the second story of a five-story building that had seen better decades. Creaky hardwood floors, walls with cracks in them you covered with pictures and art. A kitchen so narrow you could practically touch the fridge and the sink that sit on opposite ends of each other.
But it was yours. In the few years you’d lived here, you’d turned it into your sanctuary. A large part of that was thanks to Mrs. Kim, your landlord. She was a sweet, silver-haired woman who had effectively adopted you as the granddaughter she never had. Since she had no children or grandkids of her own, you’d become her primary source of company, often spending hours sipping tea in her floral-patterned living room when you dropped off your rent for the month.
She’d kept your rent at the same rate since the day you moved in, waving off your attempts to pay more as your career took off. As long as you promised to keep bringing her those tangerines from the farmers market you frequent down the street.
Either she really liked you or felt bad to charge you more for the temperamental plumbing and the "dinosaur" appliances Lisa loved to mock. You knew something would eventually give out—you just didn’t think the oven would choose Yoongi’s birthday cake as its moment to go out.
“what if i ruin something? if i ruin anything in that kitchen, i’ll be paying him back until i’m eighty.”
“mmm, i’m sure you can find other ways to pay him back,” rosé adds with a wink that sends the girls into a fit of laughter.
“i hate you all. goodbye.”
“Call me if you still need help!” Jennie called as the screen began to tilt downward.
“I’ll send you the practice schedule for Coachella!” Lisa added, her mischievous grin being the last thing you saw.
you click the laptop shut, the silence of the apartment rushing back in. the wall clock ticks, mocking you. part of you wants to give up, but the other part—the part that hates leaving a job unfinished, knows you can't show up to the studio without yoongi’s cake.
Silence settled over the space, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of a wall clock that seemed to be mocking your lack of progress. You looked at the scattered ingredients, then back at your broken oven.
You were torn.
Part of you wanted to just call it a night and apologize to yoongi tomorrow, but the other part—the part of you that hated leaving a job unfinished, knew you couldn't show up empty-handed. And you very much wanted to redeem yourself for your lack of baking skills.
You paced the narrow floorboards that groaned under your feet.
Using his kitchen feels like overstepping. it’s one thing to walk and feed bam; it’s another to occupy his sanctuary for hours. your mind wanders back to the time you fell asleep on his couch and he carried you to the guest room. the memory is a quiet, warm ache in your chest.
But your oven is broken, Yoongi’s birthday was around the corner, and you were desperate.
Taking a breath, you grab your phone. he’s online.
(9:18 PM): Hey, quick question
(9:18 PM): Could I possibly use your kitchen to make yoongi’s cake?
(9:18 PM): My oven just croaked😞
Koo🍪 (9:22 PM): mmmm. you sure you didn’t cause its fate?🤔
you giggle, your fingers flying over the screen.
(9:23 PM): i didn’t, I swear!
(9:23 PM): *Attached Image* it’s like 1000 years old😭
Koo🍪(9:24 PM): rip mr. oven. you'll be missed. 🪦🕊️
Koo🍪(9:24 PM): but yes. help yourself. no need to ask.
(9:26 PM): you sure?
Koo🍪(9:27 PM): i'm sure. there's a fire extinguisher under the sink. just in case. 😊🔥
(9:28 PM): you're being mean.
Koo🍪(9:28 PM): ㅋㅋㅋ sorry. send pics! can't wait to try it when i'm back.
(9:30 PM): If I save any for you
Koo🍪 (9:30 PM): 😢You’re being mean
(9:31 PM): 😊😊
—
Two hours later…
Jungkook’s house
you toss your phone onto the marble island with a heavy groan, the stone bite-cold against your flour-smudged palms. looking at the aftermath of your war with the pantry, you feel a hollow sort of defeat. there’s a fine dusting of black sesame powder coating the expensive surfaces, bowls of failed batter that look more like grey sludge than a celebration, and yet another sponge that refused to find its height.
"Third time’s the charm, right, bam?"
the dog gives a low, tired huff from the floor, his tail offering a single, lazy thud against the tile.
he’d given up on being your sous-chef an hour ago, realizing your baking skills mostly involved muttering under your breath and staring tragically at rubbery, flat disks.
jungkook has gone radio silent—likely pulled back into the dizzying lights of his shoot or finally catching a few hours of sleep, leaving you alone in a kitchen that is far too modern and far too quiet.
you feel small here, like a kid playing house with toys you haven't quite mastered.
the silence used to be grounding, but tonight, it’s just lonely.
you miss the chaotic chirp of the girls through the laptop; you even miss the way the boys would be teasing you right now, poking at the failed cakes before eating them anyway.
without the noise, you’re just a girl in a house that isn't hers, failing a friend who deserves a masterpiece.
before the spiral can take hold, the soft, mechanical click of the front door slices through the still air.
Who would be coming here at one in the morning?
your heart drums a frantic, jagged rhythm against your ribs. jungkook’s security is airtight, but your mind is already sprinting through every worst-case scenario.
you scramble, fingers closing around the only 'weapon' within reach: a rubber spatula.
you stand frozen, spatula held tight against your chest, eyes locked on the foyer. bam is already up, but he isn't growling. instead, his tail starts a slow, hesitant wag.
a woman steps into the glow of the kitchen lights—blonde, elegant, and moving with a warmth that feels instantly familiar. she pauses, blinking in surprise at the sight of the island blazing with light at one in the morning.
when her eyes land on you—covered in flour, hair escaping its messy bun, clutching a spatula like a sword—her expression melts into soft recognition.
"Oh!...y/n-ah?"
you’d know those boba eyes and that bunny smile anywhere; it’s jungkook’s mother.
the spatula nearly slips from your fingers. "omoni!" you stammer, frantically dropping the tool and trying to wipe your hands on your apron. "i—i'm so sorry. i didn't realize you were coming. i'm dog-sitting bam, and my oven, it just—i'm making a cake for yoongi-ge."
she walks further into the room, her eyes dancing with amusement as she surveys the battlefield of failed sponges.
"jungkook mentioned he had a guest, but he didn't mention it was you! i just came to drop off some banchan for when he returns." she drifts toward the cooling rack, peering at your latest attempt with a discerning tilt of her head. "what kind of cake are we trying to bake?"
"black sesame sponge," you admit, your shoulders slumping. "but i'm struggling. i wanted it to be perfect, but i think i'm over-mixing. or maybe i'm just cursed."
"oh dear, don’t beat yourself up," she says softly, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. the motherly touch catches you off guard, making your throat tighten. "when i was young, i think i cried over more collapsed cakes than i actually served."
she lets out a soft, elegant laugh—the sound is a lighter, silver version of jungkook’s. usually, your interactions are limited to polite bows in hybe hallways or a quick 'hello' backstage.
this is the longest you’ve ever spoken to her, and the fact that she’s standing here at 2:00 AM, sharing her own failures with you, feels like a fever dream.
“why don’t I help you?” she suggested, already rolling up her sleeves.
"omoni, i couldn’t possibly—you must be exhausted."
"nonsense," she insists, her nose scrunching as she smiles at you. "i won't have you staying up all night by yourself when you have a perfectly good teacher right here. baking is a science, y/n-ah," she whispers, handing you a clean glass bowl. "but it is also a dance. you’ll know when the batter is ready."
the silence that had felt heavy minutes ago is now filled with the rhythmic clink of whisks against glass. you find yourself uncoiling under her guidance, your movements becoming fluid as you work together to fold the heavy black sesame paste into whipped whites.
"you have very steady hands," she remarks.
"thank you, omoni."
she pauses, her gaze curious. "does your mother bake? did you spend summers in the kitchen with her?"
You froze for a heartbeat, the spatula hovering over the silver bowl. You tried to summon a memory of a warm kitchen or the scent of vanilla in your childhood home, but the only things that came to mind were the sterile quiet of your apartment and the sharp, lingering sting of a phone call that went unreturned years ago after your dad died.
"no, my mother wasn't much of a baker," you clear your throat, focusing on the silver bowl. "but my dad was a mechanic. i think i got my hands from him."
"a mechanic’s hands," she muses, her eyes softening. she doesn't miss the way your voice tightened, or how deftly you pivoted away from one parent to find safety in the memory of the other.
she reaches over, her hand momentarily covering yours. it isn't a correction; it’s a grounding touch. "precision and care. whether it is an engine or a sponge cake, the intention is the same, isn’t it? to make something run smoothly. to make something whole."
"yeah," you whisper. "he used to say if you didn't have the patience to do it right the first time, you’d spend twice as long fixing the mistake. i guess i apply that to everything. dance, work... this mess."
she doesn’t press you. instead, she begins to sift the flour, the fine white powder falling like snow. "he speaks very highly of you, you know. my son."
your heart skips. "does he?"
"often," she whispers, her nose scrunching just like his. "it’s reassuring to see there is still good behind the talent in this industry."
the air in the kitchen feels very warm now, and it isn't just from the oven. you focus on the batter, the black sesame swirls forming dark, intricate patterns under your hand.
"but enough serious talk!" she brightens. "let’s get this in the oven."
Two hours later…
the air in the kitchen is thick now, heavy with the scent of toasted black sesame and the lingering, dry warmth of the oven—a stark contrast to the frantic, flour-dusted chaos that had consumed you two hours ago. thanks to the quiet, maternal intervention of jungkook’s mother, the “rubbery disks” that previously haunted the trash can are a distant memory, replaced by a sponge that is, quite frankly, a masterpiece of structural integrity.
she had slipped out shortly after the final coat of icing, leaving behind a warm hug, a fridge packed with banchan, and a maternal command to sleep that you are currently, willfully ignoring.
you’ve shed the flour-caked apron and heavy crewneck, opting for the sheer comfort of an oversized t-shirt and sweatpants. despite the exhaustion tugging at your bones, the adrenaline of a successful bake keeps you tethered to the counter. you admire the perfect spring of the cake under your fingertip, a quiet triumph in the middle of the night, before reaching for your phone.
The FaceTime icon rang only once.
The connection was instant, a blur of pixelated motion that you immediately panned over the countertop. "Look. At. It."
"No way," Jungkook’s voice was a low, gravelly rasp—the kind that only came from hours of straining against a microphone. "Is that actually real?"
"I am offended by your lack of faith," you countered, flipping the camera back to yourself. You backed away from the counter, performing a triumphant, clumsy victory shuffle across the tile. "The cake is baked, the disaster is averted, and I am officially the greatest baker of this generation."
His laughter was a bright, melodic burst that seemed to bounce off the kitchen walls. On the screen, he clapped his hands together, his eyes crinkling. "Wow, amazing, gg. Genuinely. I’m proud of you."
You propped the phone against a ceramic bowl to catch your breath, and that was when the visual finally registered.
he is clearly in his dressing room, slumped back in a chair under the harsh, high-contrast glow of vanity lights. he’s clad in a dark blue denim jacket that is completely open, the stiff fabric framing the lean, sharp lines of his chest and abs. his hair is a mess of damp, dark curls clinging to his forehead, and the silver of his piercings catches the light every time he moves.
it’s a lot. it is disruptively, dangerously private.
“how’s the shoot going?” you ask, forcing your gaze to stay north of his collarbone, though the air in the room suddenly feels thinner. “you look like you’ve been through it.
“long,” he admits, running a hand through his damp hair. the movement causes the denim to slide further off his shoulders. “we’ve been chasing the same three shots for five hours. i think i’ve forgotten what the sun looks like. but we’re getting there.”
"spoken like a true perfectionist," you tease.
“well, you look like you’ve been through a war with a bag of flour,” he says, his nose scrunching as he scans your messy bun. “did my kitchen survive the battle?”
“barely,” you admit, focusing on a flour smudge on the hem of your shirt. “your mom is a saint. she basically saved me from a mental breakdown.”
jungkook freezes, his eyes widening as he stares into the camera. “my mom? what—wait, was she at the house?”
“yeah,” you nod, leaning back against the counter. “she came by a few hours ago to drop off some banchan. she found me in a state of baking despair and ended up staying to help me.”
“she just... showed up?” jungkook’s expression shifts into a look of genuine shock, followed quickly by a grimace of realization. “oh, man. i’m so sorry, y/n-ah. i had no idea she was planning to drop by. i hope she wasn't too much or didn't overstep. she can be... enthusiastic.”
“koo, stop. it’s okay,” you laugh, the sincerity in your voice calming his frantic energy. “she taught me a few baking steps i was definitely getting wrong, and we just spent the time talking. it was actually the highlight of my night.”
his expression softens, his hands dropping from where they had been resting behind his head. “she did, did she? i hope she didn't tell you anything too incriminating.”
“only that you were quite the handful,” you tease, finding your footing in the banter again. “but i think i already had that figured out.”
“yah, i was a delight,” he counters, though the warmth in his eyes tells a different story. “i’m glad it came out well.”
“do you think yoongi-ge will like the design?”
“he’s going to love it,” jungkook laughs, the sound rich and genuine. “the ultimate army meme on a birthday cake.”
“it’s a classic!” you grin. “hopefully he shows it to the fans; i think they’d get a kick out of it.”
“bold strategy.” he goes quiet for a moment, his expression softening as he watches you admire your work. “but seriously... it looks incredible. you did well.”
“thanks, koo. i had a good teacher.”
“yeah, mom’s the best,” he whispers, eyes locking onto yours as you flip the camera back.
you feel that familiar prickle of heat against your neck—a warmth that has nothing to do with the oven. you bit your lip, the conversation you’d had with lisa earlier that day suddenly heavy in your mind.
“actually,” you start, your thumb tracing the edge of your phone case. “i heard you’re recording in la next month. during the third weekend of april?”
“yeah...” he goes quiet for a beat, his expression shifting into one of focused curiosity. “for the single. finally prepping for july.”
“excited?” you ask quickly, trying to pivot away from the invitation stuck in your throat.
“always,” he says, his gaze intensifying. he leans in, his face filling the screen as he notes the way you’re fiddling with your fingers. “gg? you okay?”
you let out a small, huffed breath, finally looking back at him. “lisa asked me to join the performance team for her solo at coachella. she said i could bring a plus one. i figured since you’d be in the area anyway... but i know your schedule is a nightmare, so it was just a thought.”
the shock on his face is visceral. “you’re performing? like, on stage?”
“just for her set,” you explain, the nerves returning as you watch him process the news. “it’s terrifying. i’ve never been in front of a crowd like that.”
“you'll be incredible,” he says, his voice dropping into a steady, grounding register.
“easy for you to say,” you joke weakly. “you’re a veteran.”
“i still get nervous, y/n. every single time. that’s how i know it still matters. if the jitters go away, the passion went with them.”
you lean your chin on your palm, watching him. “what do you do? to help?”
his gaze softens. “i look at the guys. right before we go on, we’re in a circle—hobi-hyung catches my eye, or jimin-hyung leans into me. just knowing i’m not doing it alone... it makes the stage feel like home.”
you recall the dim blue light of the backstage tunnels where you’d see the seven of them huddled. you’d always seen jungkook as an invincible force, a machine of motion and adrenaline.
“i never realized you hid it that well,” you murmur.
“i don't like showing that side to everyone,” he admits, his voice private and low. “but it’s okay to be scared. it’s what makes us human.”
“that is... surprisingly reassuring,” you smirk. “i thought you were born with a permanent 'rockstar' switch.”
he laughs, his nose scrunching. “i'm not a robot. but now i'm just worried i'll have to watch you trip over your own feet.”
“don't speak that into the universe,” you warn, pointing a finger at the screen. “if i face-plant, i’m blaming it on your bad juju.”
the laughter fades into a lingering, quiet grin. jungkook leans back, his thumb absentmindedly tracing the silver ring in his lip. “i’ve never actually been to coachella. i think it would be fun to see you in your element.”
“my element is hiding in the dance studio, koo.”
“i disagree,” he says firmly, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that feels disruptively personal. “i’ve watched you lead. you don't hide—you’re the gravity that keeps everyone else in orbit. you belong there.”
“if you think so,” you whisper.
“i know so.”
“i guess we’ll just have to find out then,” you whispered, the words feeling heavier than they should have. you shift your weight against the counter, suddenly hyper-aware of the flour smudges on your skin.
jungkook doesn’t blink. he just watches you through the screen, that small, knowing smirk deepening until a faint dimple appeared.
“yeah,” he murmured, “i guess we will.”
—
Two days later….
Suga’s studio
"and then, after all that, the oven decides it’s the perfect time to croak," you explain, your voice a hushed tether in the sterile, quiet cool of the studio. you’re focused on the task at hand, carefully taping a stray balloon string to the side of yoongi’s chair, the silver ribbon catching the glow of the equipment monitors.
jimin lets out a giggle, a bright, melodic sound that cuts through the hum of the room as he struggles to keep a cluster of silver and red balloons from dancing toward the ceiling fan. “that’s crazy. y/n-ah, you’re a soldier. truly.”
"a soldier who nearly had a breakdown over a pile of toasted sesame," you correct him, your fingers smoothing out the ‘marry me’ script on the cake one last time. "if jungkook’s mom hadn’t shown up like a guardian angel, yoongi-ge would be getting a very expensive, store-bought fruit tart today."
jimin leans over the desk, examining your handiwork with an impressed whistle. "wait, so you were at jungkook’s place until sunrise? did he stay on the phone the whole time?"
"i called him after," you admit, the memory of his gravelly, late-night voice still a warm weight in your chest. "and before you ask, yes, i invited him to coachella. don’t think anything of it."
“i wasn’t going to say anything!” he holds his hands up in a mocking surrender, his eyes disappearing into those familiar, mischievous crescents. “i’m actually offended you didn’t ask me to go, but it’s fine. i’ll live.”
“oh, stop it. you have a solo tour to prep for,” you counter, rolling your eyes as you adjust a star-shaped balloon that’s gone rogue. “besides, lisa is the one who offered the plus-one. i just figured since jungkook is already going to be in la recording...”
“excuses, excuses,” jimin sings, the melody of his voice dripping with knowing. “you excited to perform, though? get to show your talent to the world again after so long?”
“nervous but excited,” you admit, the words feeling fragile. “i’m more terrified of having to take a pole dancing class out of my will next week.”
jimin stills for a second. “shocked he didn’t get an invite for that too.”
“knock it off!” you hit him with a stray balloon, the light thwap echoing in the room. “he doesn’t even know about that! and let’s keep it that way.”
jimin rubs his arm where the balloon made impact, that unrepentant, cat-like grin spreading across his face. “i don’t know, y/n-ah. he’d probably be really impressed. maybe even give you a few tips— ow!”
“shut up!” you hiss, your face heating up in a way that has nothing to do with the studio’s temperature. “gosh, you hang out with rosé too much. she’s rubbing off on you.”
“how else am i supposed to get the good gossip around here? if i waited for you to tell me what’s actually going on, i’d be waiting until we’re all retired.”
“nothing is ‘going on’,” you mutter, turning back to the cake to hide the flare of red in your cheeks. “it’s strictly a girls' night. plus, it felt weird to mention that when we were talking about work.”
“well, you’ll be werk-ing it on the pole. i don’t see a difference in mentioning it.”
“jimin,” you warn, your voice low.
“sorry. had to.”
before you can launch another balloon at him, his phone lets out a sharp ding on the desk. the atmosphere shifts instantly, the playful air tightening into something expectant.
“hobi-hyung just texted,” he whispers, his hand already hovering over the light switch. “they’re at the end of the hall. hide!”
the studio plunges into a heavy, velvet-black silence. the only light comes from the glowing led strips on the equipment and the flickering, fragile flames of the candles atop totoro’s head. you hold your breath, the adrenaline of the surprise finally overriding the 4:00 am exhaustion that’s been tugging at your bones.
the lock on the door chirps—a digital bird in the quiet—followed by the slow, mechanical click of the heavy handle turning.
“i’m just saying, the bridge needs more low end,” yoongi’s voice drifts in, sounding characteristically tired, the low drawl of a man who lives in the shadows of sound.
“i think it needs more cake,” hobi counters, his voice suspiciously bright, a stark contrast to the dim hallway.
as the door swings open, jimin flicks the lights, and the two of you burst into a chaotic, off-key rendition of the birthday song.
"happy birthday to you! happy birthday to you!"
yoongi stops dead in the doorway, his black beanie pushed back and his hands buried deep in the pockets of his oversized hoodie. he blinks, his gaze darting from the balloons to jimin’s dancing form, and finally, settling on you.
his eyes drift down to the desk. the room goes silent for a heartbeat, his lips twitching as he reads the bold, dark icing scrawled across the cake’s stomach: yoongi, marry me!
"you've got to be kidding me," he mutters, though the slow, gummy smile spreading across his face betrays him instantly.
“make a wish!” you cheer, nudging the cake slightly closer as the candles flicker, casting a warm, dancing glow over the intricate frosting.
yoongi lets out a huff that is half-laugh, half-sigh, but he doesn't even try to hide the fondness in his eyes anymore. he leans forward, his fringe falling over his brows as he takes a moment of genuine silence. with a quick puff, the flames vanish, and the room is filled with the faint, sweet scent of burnt wax.
“did you actually make this?” he asks, straightening up and pointing a pale finger at the script.
“i did,” you admit, feeling a flush of pride—genuine and sharp—creep up your neck. “though it nearly cost me my sanity. and my oven.”
“i’m afraid to ask what happened, but thank you, y/n-ah. it looks great.” his gummy smile lingers as he reaches for a plate, the quiet intimacy of the moment grounding the room. but, of course, the peace is short-lived.
“you should thank jungkook, he let her use his kitchen— ow!”
you feel your face go from warm to nuclear in approximately two seconds as you elbow jimin. he is practically vibrating with the need to tease you, eyes darting between you and yoongi to see if he’s landed a hit.
“that reminds me,” you say, your voice suddenly bright and sweet, a desperate pivot. you turn away from a smug jimin and look directly at hobi, who is watching the exchange with a bewildered grin. “hobi-ge, do you want to go to a pole dancing class with me next week? lisa said i can bring a plus-one, and i think you’d be a natural.”
the silence that follows is thick enough to swallow the room.
“wh— pole dancing?” hobi stammers, his head tilting in pure, unadulterated confusion.
“y/n, what the fuck?!” jimin shrieks, his voice hitting a pitch that's almost glass-shattering. “i didn’t get an invite again?!”
Filler chapters, but make it interesting....gg finally got the proper meet mama jeon!!! There were a couple of anonymous asks wondering if y/n is close to any of the members' relatives. To answer the question bluntly, I'd say no. She's really only been around the boys and has only seen their families in passing or at their concerts, like with Jungkook's mom. BUT never say never, it could always change down the line.
