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𝐀𝐍𝐔𝐁𝐈𝐒 | 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞

title: ANUBIS chapter three pairings: yandere mafia namjoon x f!reader genre: dark romance, smut, porn with plot, 90s word count: cca 21K beta read by one and only @chaoticpuff17

summary: “You are something I can sin for” An anchor amidst the stormy seas of life — that’s what Namjoon is for you. But it wasn’t always like that. There was a time where you’ve resented Namjoon with every fibre of your being and every word that came out of his plump lips after what he had done to prove his power. Unfortunately, you will never know what life could be if Kim Namjoon was not in it.

warnings: minors dni 18+ | banter, alcohol, explicit language, themes of control and possession within a romantic relationship, fucking on table, missionary, doggy style, ass spreading, rough sex, hair pulling, raw sex, creampie, explicit content, mentions of violence, mentions of murder, opression, old social traditions, cult mention, iud removal mention, strong patriarchy, same argument over and over again, namjoon be trippin', peaches be walking confusion but yall know why and more...

disclaimer: this story is purely fictional, it does not depict real-life events or involve any actual members of BTS. This story will contain strong language, explicit content, obsessive behaviour, alcohol drinking, illegal activities, oppressiveness, which we do not condone.I am also no medical professional.

author's note: was cooking this for far too long than I originally wanted to, but I guess it's just the way it was supposed to be, like what did I expect with full time job, right? anyway, I really really hope you'll enjoy the continuation of Namjoon's and Peaches story we are right in the middle of it! :))) hopefully, see ya soon :)))

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 "𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟔"; 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞, 𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐚𝐩𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬

masterlist 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝟏𝟗𝟗𝟔

Healing, as you’ve learnt is not exactly a straight line. Yet, this goddamn deep scratch slightly kept reopening because you and Namjoon simply couldn’t take a break. So it may be that if, god forbid, you two would give some very naughty activities at bay, you might have been healed far earlier.

The wound, after weeks, finally sealed, but there is still a dull ache that flares if you laugh wrong. A reminder that your body remembers things you’d rather pretend never happened. Namjoon remembers too. Obsessively.

Maybe you’ll eat christmas pudding in one go. Or you’ll have issues for the rest of your life. Who fucking knows lately.

“Sit,” he says from the kitchen, not even looking at you.

You’re already sitting.

“I am sitting,” you answer, spoon halfway to your mouth, milk threatening to slosh over the rim of the bowl because you’re gesturing like this is a courtroom and not breakfast table.

He turns slowly, one eyebrow lifting with surgical precision. Barefoot. Sleeves of his sweater rolled up. Hair still damp from a shower you were not invited to take with him because you said no to the painkillers he wanted you to take this morning. You’re too full of them already. Why numb you even more.

“You’re perched,” he corrects. “That doesn’t count.”

“This is a chair,” you say, tapping the seat beneath you with the spoon. “May ass be sitting in it like this since 1973. Pretty sure it qualifies.”

He exhales through his nose, a sound that lives somewhere between patience and prayer. You clock the almost-smile anyway. You always do.

You’re back in New York City. Properly back. Not the Bronx, he is not letting you even look that way through the window. Not that sanctuary that smelled like pine resin and old secrets. Manhattan buzzes outside the windows, loud and unapologetic, horns blaring like the city itself is offended you ever left. The penthouse hums quietly in comparison. Too clean in the way that suggests staff, not habit. But it’s changing. Your own sweater is slung over the arm of the couch. Pink as peach. Your new Saint Laurant heels, let you get something to look forward to when you go to work with Namjoon, sitting by the door.

You’re itching to go already, but Namjoon insists on having this domesticated affair of breakfast and morning coffee.

“That’s full of sugar, you know?” He mumbles, lifting the porcelain cup to his plump lips you’d like to kiss to silence.

“Even air has sugar in America, Oppa.”

That earns you a look. Not a glare. A look. The kind that says he’s deciding whether correcting you is worth the argument it would inevitably become.

“You’re impossible,” he says instead, resigned.

“You knew that when you kidnapped me emotionally,” you reply sweetly, digging your spoon into the cereal with renewed purpose. The word kidnapped is kind of off limits, yet Namjoon lets it slide this time.

The morning light catches on his Cartier watch, expensive and understated, the kind of thing men like him wear so no one questions how much blood paid for it. The radio hums softly from somewhere, you didn’t notice earlier, static-laced R&B bleeding into a morning talk segment about subway delays and the Knicks. It feels… normal. Suspiciously so.

“You’re supposed to rest,” he says. Again.

He sets his mug down with a quiet clink and crosses the space between you in three long steps. Too close. Always too close. His hand lands on the back of your chair, fingers curling around the wood like it personally offended him.

“You’re not going to work today,” he says calmly, like stating the weather. Almost too careful to not poke your nerves. Too late for that Mister Kim.

“But you promised!” You blurt out, mouth full of cereals. You throw your hands too, the coffee sloshes dangerously in both mugs, a near-tragedy narrowly avoided.

Namjoon’s hand shoots out on instinct, steadying your mug before gravity can claim it. His fingers linger there a beat longer than necessary, knuckles brushing yours.

“First of all,” he says evenly, “finish chewing before you argue, love.”

You glare at him and chew louder out of spite.

“And second,” he continues, unbothered, “I promised you could go work at the distillery. I just did not promise when.”

“Is that what Seokjin teaches you when you have a whiskey date?” You lean back in the chair, crossing your arms, which immediately pulls at your side in a way that makes you hiss before you can stop yourself. His gaze drops there instantly. Of course it does.

“Don’t.” You warn, already seeing it coming.

“I didn’t say anything,” he replies.

“You’re thinking loudly.”

“You’re still healing–” His jaw tightens just enough to give him away.

“I’m fucking bored and you promised I could work.”

“You almost passed out putting your shoes on yesterday.”

“That was unrelated.”

“That was oxygen deprivation,” he deadpans.

“That was you hovering,” you try to counter again.

He lets out a breath, slow and controlled, and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. This is him counting to ten. This is him choosing peace. It’s unsettling just how much he is willing to grow for you. The question is, will you do the same for him?

“You go first thing next year,” he says finally. “Light hours. No afternoon shifts. A driver. Bodyguards and–”

“You’re stacking conditions. Stalling.” Your eyes narrow, but you keep smiling as you finally have him where you wanted.

“I’m setting parameters.”

“You’re building another cage.”

That one lands. Maybe you should think more before you poke his nerves.

Silence stretches, taut but not snapping. The radio fills it, the host laughing about a missed free throw, the sound grounding and irritating in equal measure. Namjoon’s thumb taps once against the wood of the chair, a tell you’re starting to recognize.

“I’m keeping you safe,” he says quietly.

You look up at him. Really look. The man who controls rooms without raising his voice. The man who has learned your pain threshold better than his own. The man who promised and meant it, even if he always edits the fine print.

“I didn’t survive all that,” you say, softer now, “to be benched.”

His expression shifts. Not anger. Not control. Something closer to concern sharpened into resolve.

“Then don’t make me feel like I almost lost you for nothing,” he says, pressing his lips against yours. But you are having none of that. You push your chair back an inch, separating the two of you, enough to breathe, enough to square your shoulders.

“You’re pushing me to the wall again, Oppa.” He blinks. Once. Twice and before the corners of his mouth start to lift up to say something, you interject. “Well if there is no other option then I guess…..” you take a deep breath, look down at your socked feet and back into his eyes, smile all cute–

“If you don’t let me go to work,” you say, measured now, careful, “Sex. Gone. Extinct. A historical footnote.”

The room changes temperature when he steps back, only by arm’s length, to look you over, try to find a serious bone in your body. All of them oppa—all of them are serious right now.

“As it seems to me, we can fuck, that absolutely does not hijack my healing in any way–” Namjoon’s gaze drops dangerously, slow, like he’s recalibrating the entire situation. “But I cannot work? Tssk, Oppa. Double standards.”

Eyes wide—here it is—realisation.

“That’s not a deal,” he says, a little panic in the back of his throat. “That’s a tantrum.”

“It’s a bargain,” you correct. “You like those, Oppa.”

“You wouldn’t.” His mouth presses into a line.

“Oh, I would.” You lift your chin. “I thought I was very clear in that hot spring.” He drags a hand down his face, slow, like he’s trying to physically wipe the thought away and his failing to not envision how you sat down on his cock for the very first time.

“I’m very principled when I’m miserable.” You give him a 10/10 smile and wait for him to crumble.

“You’re bluffing.” He laughs once, sharp and disbelieving.

“Are you willing to try me?” You shrug. Silence stretches. The radio keeps talking. Somebody calls in about traffic on the FDR. Life goes on, audaciously indifferent.

“You’d punish yourself too, you know?” he says finally, trying to make you back down.

“I’d survive,” you reply. “You’d be the one suffering.”

His eyes flick to your mouth. Then away. Then back again, like muscle memory betraying him.

“That’s manipulative,” he says. Rich.

“I’ve learnt from the best, haven’t I?” You smile thinly.

“You’re not weaponizing intimacy, Peach.” He shakes his head.

“You already did,” you shoot back. “I’m just… renegotiating the terms.”

He steps back a fraction again. A retreat so minor anyone else would miss it. You don’t. You never do. His hand curls into a fist at his side, loosens again. He glances at the door. Your heels. The city waits like it always does, indifferent to his control.

“You know I won’t force myself on you,” he says quietly.

“I do. But no man can survive blue balls.” You meet his gaze. “And I like to sleep…very…very….naked, oppa.”

His gaze drags over you, deliberate and unapologetic, then snaps back to your eyes like he’s angry at himself for the detour. “You’re enjoying this.”

“A little,” you admit. “Mostly because you hate that it’s working.”

“You’re playing a dangerous game.” He exhales, sharp, then softer. A recalibration.

“You built the board,” you reply lightly. “I’m just learning the rules.”

The radio laughs at something stupid now. A jingle plays. Namjoon exhales. Long. Controlled. Like he’s letting go of something expensive and irreplaceable.

“Okay,” he says. “But I’m not arguing about the conditions or you’re not going at all. No afternoon. A driver. Bodyguards. I get updates every thirty minutes. You have lunch break with me.”

He steps back into your space, only to drop his head low and steal a breath-taking kiss from you. It’s quick. Controlled. Almost unfair. Just enough to remind you exactly what you threatened to take away.

When he pulls back, his forehead lingers near yours, not touching, the air between you charged and humming like a live wire.

“Lunch,” he repeats softly, like it’s part of the contract and not a personal indulgence. “Every day.”

You swallow, refusing to let him see how close that kiss came to undoing you. “You’re adding clauses.”

“I’m compensating,” he murmurs. “For stress.”

“You’re the stress.”

“And yet you love me anyway.” A corner of his mouth lifts, faint but real.

“That’s a generous interpretation.” You scoff, because letting that land would be dangerous.

“It’s an accurate one,” he replies, calm as ever, like love is a fact pattern he’s already proven in court.

“Boo!” you startle, the pippet in your hands falling to the table and you hear Jaebum, the head chemist, sigh.

“Every time,” he mutters. “Every single time.”

You clutch your chest, heartbeat trying to escape your ribcage.

“You are such an easy target, Peach, couldn’t help myself.” Jackson says cheerfully. He doesn’t belong here, in the lab, and he makes no effort to pretend otherwise. You ignore the gun tucked at his hip, just like you ignore Namjoon’s.

“Why is he here?” Jaebum finally looks up. Frowns.

“Because the system asked me nicely.” Jackson grins and gestures to the computers, glancing your way for help, but you merely lift your hands to signal him to keep you out of whatever it is between him and the chemist.

“That’s not an answer,” Jaebum moves away from his samples.,

“It is in my department,” Jackson shrugs and you furrow your brows at what bullsit he just said.

“You don’t have an actual department, Jackson.” Jaebum pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I have access,” Jackson corrects lightly, lifting his index finger to emphasize it.

“Should I be worried that the family’s code breaker is hovering around my samples?” You set the pipette down with exaggerated care this time. Jackson’s gaze flicks to the vial, then to the ceiling, then to the far wall where cables snake into sealed panels. Not chemistry. Infrastructure.

“I’m not here for your liquids, you two,” he says. “I’m here for your numbers.” That… doesn’t help.

“This is a controlled lab.” Jaebum straightens.

“So is the distillery. On paper.” Jackson nods.

He reaches past the glass, tapping something on the keyboard, the sound of the keys echoing through the room, some absolutely unrecognisable tabs open on the screen. The display flickers, then changes. Flow rates. Time stamps. Encrypted logs you’ve never been cleared to see, because you are new and Namjoon would have to tell Jackson to give you such clearance. And Mister Kim did not want to attract attention to the fact that you’re working. So he didn’t and the information you’re just seeing is nothing regarding the well aged brandy. This is the financial sector’s playground.

“That’s not supposed to be accessible from this floor, right?” You blink. You needn’t know everything about the system to connect two dots.

“Correct,” Jackson says pleasantly. “Which is why I’m here.”

“Did Sangjanim Kim authorize this?” Jaebum stiffens. Jackson doesn’t answer right away. He scrolls. Stops. Scrolls again.

“I don’t need authorization to notice anomalies,” he says. “Just patterns.”

“What kind of anomalies?” You fold your arms, unease creeping in.

“The kind that don’t show up in chemical composition,” he replies. “Timing delays. Ghost logins. Data packets hitching rides where they shouldn’t.”

“You’re saying someone’s inside the system?” Jaebum swears under his breath.

“I’m saying someone’s very good at hiding it,” Jackson finally looks at him. Silence settles, thick and humming with machinery. You glance at the twin distillery building through the reinforced glass. This distillery runs steady. Brandy flowing. Pipes humming like veins.

“I’m gonna call Sangjanim.” Jaebum blurts out, leaving the lab abruptly. You follow his trail but slowly return to the screen. Jackson isn’t looking at it anymore, instead his gaze is fixed straight on you.

“You look great, Peach,” he says softly. The words land wrong. Not inappropriate. Not flirty. Just… weighted. Like he’s checking something off in his head.

“That’s one way to follow up a potential breach.” You scoff, folding your arms.

“Multitasking,” he replies easily. “I’m gifted.”

You glance back at the screen out of habit. The numbers are still scrolling, orderly and obedient, like nothing ever tried to slip between them. When you look back at him, his attention hasn’t moved.

“How are you holding up?” he asks, quieter now. No jokes in it.

“Depends on the hour.” You hesitate, then shrug.

“Yeah. Trauma does that to one” Jackson nods like that makes perfect sense. You swallow, not quite ready to talk about it with someone who isn’t Namjoon or Princess. Sad. Jackson used to be someone you’d say such things. Now, or at least since you and Namjoon got engaged, you are like two strangers.

“He didn’t mean for you to see it,” Jackson says, gently, revealing something.

“See what?” You stiffen.

“You know what,” he replies, voice softer now. “That night.”

Your fingers curl against the edge of the counter. The memory is sharp enough to still cut.

“W–what do you mean?” you say quietly. Not angry. Not hysterical. Just stating a fact that refuses to become normal.

“I mean,” he says carefully, “that he didn’t plan for you to be part of that moment.”

“He didn’t hesitate, even though I was there—” you start, but…“I don’t want to come back to it, Jackson–” you push yourself away from him, walking to the other side of the lab “me and Namjoon are past it.”

“Past it,” he repeats softly, not mocking. Testing the word. “That’s a strong choice of tense.”

“I appreciate your concern, but it’s coming too late, I’m afraid,” You close your eyes, hoping he will drop this.

“Now you’re just hurting me.” Remembering is a dangerous thing if you ought to be part of this.

“I know, I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I’m just—”

“—stil bringing it back,” you cut in, sharper than you meant to be.

“I just need to know if you’re really okay?” Jackson says carefully. Too carefully and too slowly. Why is he bringing this now? It feels like all that happened a long time ago. Time flies way too fast lately.

“You don’t get to psychoanalyze me,” you retort back, a bit more snappy than how you wanted to.

“Not trying to. Just… observing, you are my friend–” He lifts his hands slightly.

“Then when were you when I woke up at his place?!” Jackson exhales like he’s been holding that breath since you spoke.

“I–I wasn’t allowed to intervene.” The words hang there, thin and insufficient. Your laugh snaps out of you before you can stop it. Not loud. Not amused. Just broken at the edges.

“Allowed,” you repeat, tasting it like something bitter.

“So you knew.” Your vision blurs, heat rushing up your spine.

“Yes,” he says, voice tight. “And I was told to not tell you about it.”

“Right,” you nod, sharp and frantic. “-and that sounds absolutely right to you?!”

“I’m not in the inner circle,” he says, almost pleading now. “I don’t get to override him. I follow commands or I disappear. That’s the reality.”

“And my reality,” you snap, “is being rushed to be a part of something I never wanted to–”

“I know,” he says, fast. “And if I’d acted without authorization, it wouldn’t have freed you. It would’ve tightened the leash.”

That image makes your chest seize. Your hands curl into fists, nails biting down hard enough to ground you in pain.

“So instead you did nothing,” you whisper.

“I did what I was ordered to do,” he corrects softly. “The same thing you’re doing now.”

“Don’t.” Your head snaps up.

“I’m not judging you,” he says. “I’m telling you we’re in the same structure. Different levels. Same rules.”

“You observe too much,” you snap again.

“That’s literally my job,” he replies with nervous laugh.

“Your job is code, Jackson. Systems. Viruses. Not this.” You turn fully now, irritation sparking.

“People are systems.” Jackson’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“That’s such a bullshit.”

“And yet,” he replies, “you used to agree with me–”

“–you used to fight harder than this.” Did you? The words hit sideways. Not hard. Just precise. You look away first.

“We’re not like that anymore,” you say quietly. “Things changed.”

His expression softens at that. Not wounded. Not defensive. Just… resigned.

“Yeah,” he says. “They did.”

A beat passes.

“You happy?” he asks then, simply.

You think of Namjoon counting your pills. Of the kiss stolen between negotiations. Of the way he looks at you like the world learned a new center of gravity and forgot to ask permission.

“Yes,” you say. And this time, it’s true enough to hold. Because it simply has to be. You chose him. You chose him. You–fucking–chose–him.

“I am.”

Jackson nods once. Accepts it. That might be the hardest part for both of you. Did you accept it though? You’re not sure yet.

“Good,” he says. “I guess I’ll see you at the wedding.”

By the time you reach Namjoon’s level, your chest feels too small for your lungs. You don’t think. You just act.

“I need the schauffeur,” you say, already reaching for your coat you left on the couch “to drive me to the Jung’s.” Princess isn’t picking her cell and you need to talk to her about what Jackson just implied to you. You need to know the truth about that night. The real truth. Not what Namjoon wanted you to know.

The bodyguard steps in front of you smoothly, blocking the doorway like he’s always been there. Calm. Polite. Immovable.

“I’m sorry, miss. I can’t authorize that.”

“Namjoon won’t mind that.” Your head snaps up. The words come out too fast, too thin. You hear it yourself. Hate that you do.

“I still can’t,” he replies, eyes flicking briefly to his earpiece. “Please don’t make this difficult.”

“I gotta talk to Misses Jung in person–” Something in you ignites, voice climbing, hands shaking now.

He doesn’t move. You shove at his chest. Weak. Desperate. Useless.

“Don’t touch me,” you gasp when his hands try to catch your wrists to stop you from unraveling. You don’t want another person’s blood on your hands. You can’t let another man touch you.

“You cannot leave the premises at the moment, I can take you to Sangjanim Kim, however–”

“No,” you say immediately, shaking your head. Too fast. Too sharp. “No, I don’t need— I just need Misses Jung. Please.”

The bodyguard doesn’t move. Doesn’t harden either. That almost makes it worse.

“I can’t,” he repeats, quieter now. “Those are my instructions.”

Your chest tightens, panic blooming hot and fast under your ribs. Your hands curl into fists like they might keep you together by force alone.

“You don’t understand,” you say, voice breaking despite your effort to keep it level. “I can’t— I can’t stay here right now. I need to talk to her.”

“I understand,” he says, and you hate how sincere it sounds. “But I can’t let you leave.”

Your vision blurs. Tears spill over before you can stop them, frustration and fear tangling until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

“I just need her,” you whisper, defeated. “Please.”

He hesitates. Then speaks into his earpiece, low, controlled. Next thing, you’re being guided all the way to the ground level, but instead of exiting through the glass and metal door, you go past the reception through the canteen where you’ve never eaten, the kitchen with the cooks not even glancing your way, the storage room, boiler room where one of the pipes leak and drop on your blond hair, until you have no idea if you are still in the building.

A tunnel. It’s a goddamn tunnel.

The air is cool, damp, humming faintly with power lines and ventilation. No windows. Red light. No exits. Just forward.

If it goes where you think it goes, it’s five blocks on the map. A few minutes underground.

It feels like moving through a vein. Your legs feel unsteady by the time the door opens and you take the elevator to the highest floor in the other distillery. You look at yourself in the reflection of the mirror, mascara smudged everywhere, eyes and nose red from tears.

The door opens mid-voices. Conversation stops. Namjoon looks up instantly. And everything in you gives way.

Hoseok’s laughter falters when he sees the state you’re in. The bodyguard opens his mouth to speak, and something does come out, but falls on deaf ears. Namjoon motions him to stop talking with a careless lift of his hand.

While you don’t make it two steps before he’s on his feet, concern wiping every trace of authority from his face.

“What happened, baby?” he asks, already reaching for you.

You crumble into him, fingers clutching his shirt, the blazer must be somewhere around his seat, tears soaking into the white fabric like proof you exist.

“I just—” you sob. “I needed to talk to Princess–” your tears welled up, eyes flickering to Hoseok who tapped the cigarette into the crystal ashtray, next to what must be Namjoon’s cigarette butt.

“And they didn’t let me go to her–” Namjoon’s eyes shot up to the bodyguard behind you, the anger in them giving you hope that this is indeed a man made mistake, not an actual restriction. A misunderstanding. He gathers you in without hesitation, one arm solid around your back, the other cradling your head against his chest.

“Hey,” he murmurs, low and grounding. “I’ve got you.”

Your face turns into his shirt, muffling the sounds you make. Your shoulders shake, stress finally spilling out now that it’s safe to do so. He strokes your hair slowly, deliberately, eyes never leaving the bodyguard as he speaks.

“Leave,” Namjoon says. It’s not raised. It doesn’t need to be. The bodyguard hesitates for half a second too long.

“Now.” Namjoon’s jaw tightens. The door closes softly behind him. Hoseok looks away, deliberately giving you privacy without being asked.

Namjoon exhales, the anger ebbing just enough to focus fully on you again. He tips your chin up gently, forcing you to meet his eyes. They’re dark, intent, searching your face like he’s cataloguing damage.

“You wanted to talk to Princess, why?” he says quietly. Not accusing. Clarifying.

You nod, tears slipping free. “I needed someone to talk to. I couldn’t— I didn’t—I didn’t want to bother you.” You lie. It has become terrifyingly easy to lie lately.

His thumb wipes beneath your eye, catching the smear of mascara with practiced care. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket like this is something he’s done before. Like he knows exactly how to put you back together when you come undone.

“You could never bother me,” Namjoon says, pressing a kiss into your hair, lingering.

His lips move to your temple, then your cheek, kissing the tears as they fall. Each one deliberate. Reassuring. Possessive in the quiet way that feels like shelter.

“I thought I fucked up when he took me to you–” you keep stuttering through your tears. In the corner of your eye you can see Taehyung returning to the conference room, standing right behind Hoseok’s strolling chair. He furrows his brows at the scene of Namjoon tending to you while Hoseok sits silently and watches now. There comes looking away.

“You’re okay,” he murmurs. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” Namjoon kisses your cheek again. Then the corner of your mouth. Then, absentmindedly, dangerously close to your lips.

“If I may say something–” Hoseok’s voice carries over the room, but is silenced by Taehyung’s hand on his chair he grips the back of Hoseok’s chair and drags.

The sound is unmistakable. The wheels are rolling against the floor. Hoseok yelps as he’s pulled backward, sliding across the hall to his office like misplaced furniture.

“HEY— wait— I wasn’t done—”

The door to Hoseok’s office swings open. Taehyung continues hauling him through with zero effort, while even more confused Seokjin bends his neck to see into the room, flicking from the office to the conference room. He takes one look at you in Namjoon’s arms and immediately reaches for the doorknob.

He closes it gently, pointedly, and flashes you a reassuring smile before it shuts. Silence settles back in. Namjoon doesn’t miss a beat. He presses his forehead to yours, voice soft again, like nothing interrupted you at all.

“Now,” he murmurs, “tell me slowly…what happened.”

“It’s a girl-talk thing, so can I just–” You let out a shaky breath that almost turns into a laugh.

“Princess is with Yoongi…but–” he lowers his gaze to you.

“–you can talk to me,” he says softly.

Your eyes drop. His thumb finds your cheek, catching another tear before it reaches your jaw. He kisses it away, slow and careful, like each one matters enough to be acknowledged. He sighs when the thought hits him.

“It involves me, doesn’t it?” You feel him straightening. His brain connects the dots. He knows something’s up.

“Kinda,” you reply quietly. His tongue pokes his cheek, the last thing you want is to upset him. His hand stays on your waist, grounding, but his eyes sharpen with concern rather than suspicion.

“And…does it have something to do with Jackson checking on the system in the lab?” You’re silent. You forgot Jaebum ran to tell him or call or whatever the snitch did. It isn’t even two hours since he left, you yourself couldn’t leave earlier. Being the boss’ girl doesn’t give you the right to abandon your workplace. Despite that, you won’t give Namjoon a reason to question whether you want to work or not.

“He talked, asked and…uhm–” you start, unable to tell him he brought memories you worked hard to bury. Hard to forgive him for.

Namjoon exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. Not angry yet. Processing.

“And that upset you.”

“Yes,” you say immediately, a little too fast. “It felt like he was checking for… cracks. Like I was something that needed auditing,” you swallow.

“–and then he told me…uhm…nevermind.” You shake your head, already retreating, already deciding to keep it. Namjoon doesn’t let it pass.

He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours again, grounding himself as much as you.

“What did he tell you, Peach?”

Your breath stutters. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles whitening like you’re holding onto a ledge.

“What did he tell you, Peach, don’t make me ask again,” his voice drops an octave lower to show you just how serious he is.

“He said,” you whisper, voice barely there, “that you didn’t mean for me to see it.”

Namjoon stills, knowing well what he meant. Your chest tightens immediately, like you’ve done something wrong just by saying it out loud.

“That night,” you add, because the silence demands it.

For a moment, he doesn’t speak. His jaw tightens, then releases. You feel his breath change where your foreheads touch. Slower. He’s careful now. With you. With himself.

“I thought you killed him because he touched me and wanted me for his brothel,” The words fall between you like something fragile and sharp all at once. “You let me think that the whole time.”

Namjoon closes his eyes. Fuck. Was he right? He closed them not in anger. Not in frustration. In something closer to reckoning.

“But if you didn’t plan for me to see it, then…”

When he opens them again, they’re steady, but darker. Quieter. His hands stay where they are, warm at your back, thumbs pressing just enough to remind you you’re here, upright, held.

“Was it assassination?” The word is clinical. Clean. It sounds wrong in your mouth, like it doesn’t belong to the night you’re talking about. Namjoon doesn’t answer immediately.

“Yes,” he says quietly. No ceremony. No euphemism. “It was.”

Your chest tightens anyway. Even knowing it doesn’t soften the impact.

“So he would—” die inevitably, without or with you present in the room.

“Yes,” he says immediately, cutting through the thought before it can finish forming.

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel responsible,” he adds. “Or protected by violence. I was–”

Your fingers tighten in his shirt. “Was what?”

“Scared,” he murmurs. He finally pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, intent, searching your face for cracks he refuses to exploit.

“You don’t owe me forgiveness for that,” he says. “And you don’t owe anyone a cleaner version of what you lived through.”

A tear slips free. He catches it immediately, kissing it away this time, soft and deliberate.

“You’re allowed to ask, you always were,” he continues. “And you’re allowed to be angry that you weren’t told sooner, but I wasn’t sure if you–”

“If I love you back?”

Namjoon’s breath catches. Just once. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t tighten his grip either. He lets the moment sit between you, lets the weight of it exist without trying to reshape it.

“Yes,” he admits quietly. Not because he doubts it. Because he wasn’t sure you were ready to say it. To yourself. To him. “And if you’d come willingly.”

“I wouldn’t but if I didn’t love you I’d be long gone now.” Or at least you keep comforting yourself with that. Namjoon exhales, slow and deep, like something in his chest finally unclenches. His forehead drops back to yours, not pressing, just resting there, a shared pause.

“Also, I don’t think I want Tae to chase me ever again—”

The first kiss is deep but unhurried, a press and pause, his breath warm against your lips as if he’s checking whether you’re still here, still choosing.

You are.

Your hands come up without thinking, fingers sliding into his hair, clutching just enough to tell him you’re not fragile glass. He responds instantly, a low sound in his chest, and then the kiss changes. Opens. Turns hungry in a way that still feels careful.

His lips move against yours with intent now, slow but relentless, like he’s pouring everything he’s been holding back straight through his mouth. He kisses you like he’s been waiting, like restraint finally lost the argument.

You kiss him back harder.

Teeth scrape. Breath stutters. Your mouths meet again and again, never quite pulling far enough apart to breathe properly, foreheads brushing, noses knocking, the rhythm messy and human and real.

He walks you backward until your legs hit the edge of the heavy wooden table. With a grunt of effort, he sweeps the clutter aside—papers fluttering. His hands grip your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto the polished surface.

He steps between your thighs, forcing them wider with his own. He fumbles with his belt, the metallic clatter loud in the sudden quiet, then the sound of a zipper being yanked down. You’re already working on your own clothes, shoving your skirt up around your hips, your panties torn aside in your haste.

He lines himself up, the thick head of his cock pressing against your slick entrance. He looks you in the eye, a silent question which you answer by wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him forward. He slams into you in one hard, deep thrust that steals your breath. The table groans under the combined weight, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the room.

“Fucking hell–” you groan, whimpering from the mix of pleasure and pain. He stretches your walls to the fullest when he leans onto you to push himself deeper. You try to bite down all the moans, remembering that you ain’t exactly in a place where you should scream your lungs out.

He flushes you with this torso, bracing his hands on either side of you, his body a cage of muscle and heat. Your back arches, pushing your breasts against his chest. He takes the invitation, lowering his head to bite and suck at your neck, leaving marks. One of his hands leaves the table to wrap around your throat.

“Look at me, baby,” he growls, his voice ragged. You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. His pupils are blown wide with lust, his face flushed, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. “You take it so good. So fucking good for me.”

You meet his thrusts, rolling your hips, taking him deep while he abuses your mouth again. The slick, wet slide of his cock pulling out of you is loud in the sudden quiet, an obscene, sucking pop that makes you both gasp. You’re drenched, swollen and ready, that he can’t hold on. Your hips buck, trying to chase him back in, but he’s already pulling away, his cock glistening with your arousal, thick and heavy against his stomach.

He doesn’t let you fall. His hands grip your waist, hard as he guides you down, not gently, but with a possessive urgency. One hand slides up your spine, fingers tangling in your hair, and he yanks your head back, forcing you to arch, exposing your throat. He focuses on your chest and the way your nipples harden, poking through the white pullover you’re still wearing.

You turn your back to him, laying your upper body on the table, arching your ass up. His hands slide down your sides, over your hips, and grip your ass cheeks, pulling them apart.

“Impatient, aren’t we?” He chuckles, his cock pressing against your wetness, the head nudging at your entrance. The table rocks violently once he slams his cock back into you. Fucking you hard and fast, his hips pistonning against your ass, the sound of skin slapping against skin loud and rhythmic. Enough to make you bite down your lip a bit too much of just how much that erotic sound turns you on.

He fucks you even harder than before, his thrusts becoming erratic, his cock swelling inside you, his breath coming in ragged gasps. You’re so close, the pleasure building, a tight coil in your belly, ready to snap.

“Spread your ass,” he orders, his voice a low growl. “Show me how wet you are.”

You reach back, your fingers finding the soft, yielding flesh of your ass cheeks. You pull them apart, exposing yourself completely, your pussy stretched around his cock, glistening with your arousal. He groans, a deep, animal sound, and slams into you harder, his cock hitting that sweet spot deep inside, sending shockwaves of pleasure through you.

You scream now, your body convulsing, your pussy clamping down on him, milking his cock as he spills inside you, his hot cum filling you, triggering another, smaller orgasm that leaves you trembling and spent.

“You okay? I didn’t hurt you?” He asks that each and every time to make sure you’re fine afterwards. You shake your head, letting your head fall onto the table, your breaths still ragged.

“I bet Princess wouldn’t be able to ease your mind like this, my love.”

“They renovated it very nicely…” Your voice sounds distant even to yourself.

The church rises pale and solemn against the winter sky, stone scrubbed clean, stained glass restored to jewel tones that catch the weak December sun. It looks softer than you remember. Polished. Almost innocent.

You arrived too early. The doors are already open for Christmas mass. Pine garlands curl around the pillars. Gold ribbon glints beneath candlelight. Someone has polished the brass until it gleams like something sacred instead of ornamental.

The scent hits first. Incense and cold air and wax. Beneath it, something older. Something your body recognizes before your mind does. Your pulse stutters.

It’s beautiful. That’s the cruel part. The last time you stood here, everything felt smaller. Louder. Your memory tries to rearrange the pews, to shift the light, to blur the edges. It won’t.

You swallow.

“You okay, baby?” Namjoon’s voice is low, meant only for you. His hand tightens around yours, warm and steady, thumb brushing once across your knuckles like he can smooth the tremor out of you if he presses hard enough.

You nod. Too fast. Too pretentious.

You’re not fine, you’re terrified just how empty you are. Something stirs inside of you once you overlook the cold space around you. Even the Christmas decor isn’t warming up to you.

His eyes move over your face carefully. Not suspicious. Not controlling. Just attentive. He knows the difference between quiet and spiraling.

You count without meaning to.

Two men near the side aisle who look too broad for prayer. One older woman who doesn’t kneel but watches reflections in the window. A young couple whose coats hang wrong at the hip.

Protection…layered into holiness.

“You’re scanning.” Namjoon’s thumb moves again, slow, rhythmic. It’s not a question.

“I don’t mean to,” you whisper. “But I would rather eat your mum’s pudding than be in this place.”

“I know,” he says, pulling you flush to his body, kissing the crown of your hair. Your blond curls cover your forehead.

“I thought if I came back and it looked different, I’d feel it all over again,” you say. But you, for some reason, don’t, and that’s what scares you even more. The vast emptiness in you, as if those feelings were erased from you.

He lifts your joined hands and presses his lips against your knuckles. Not dramatic. Just grounding.

“Buildings change faster than nervous systems,” he replies softly.

A choir member begins testing notes near the organ. The sound reverberates through the nave, low and warm. It startles you anyway. Namjoon steps closer immediately, his coat brushing yours.

“You’re here,” he murmurs. “With me, breathing.”

You nod again, slower this time. You’d rather let him believe you’re scared than apathetic. That would make him worried even more.

“That’s what matters.”

Does it though? Knowing and feeling are still negotiating terms beneath the stained glass. You’d rather not do both.

“Gguk’s here already,” Namjoon whispers to your ear, so you follow his eyesight. You notice the grip of his hand around hers.

Firm.

Kind of too firm for your liking. Namjoon never held you that way. He’s possessive, yes, but he trusts you, doesn’t he?

Namjoon’s fingers brush your lower back lightly as you walk, guiding but not steering. A habit. A quiet orbit he keeps around you in public spaces. You lean into it without thinking.

“Hosoek and Princess are approaching,” you whisper back to him. You spot them drifting through the aisle like a study in contrast. Hoseok has all the ease and sharp eyes. Princess glowing in that soft, impossible way she carries now, one hand resting instinctively over the curve of her belly.

You inhale slowly. As you move closer to them your body starts doing that thing again. Cataloging. Just in case. Noticing exits. Just in case. Counting men who kneel too stiffly. Just in case. Measuring distance between pews. Just in the fucking case. Healing, apparently, still negotiates in whispers. Namjoon’s hand presses slightly firmer at your back, sensing the shift without you having to speak it.

“Can we sit already?” you say through ragged breaths which upon hearing, Namjoon turns to face you immediately and nods. Your sight fixes on the final destination you’re headed to.

She is sitting halfway down the aisle beside Jungkook now, her posture straight in the way people hold themselves when they’re trying very hard not to show they’re uncomfortable. Well, you aren’t happy to be here yourself. No jolly inside you now.

From a distance she almost blends into the quiet order of the pews — dark hair, pale profile, hands folded in her lap. She…fits. She fits to be by his side. Almost. But there’s something tight in the line of her shoulders.

You slow your steps slightly, to open your fur coat, as you and Namjoon move down the aisle together, the soft echo of your expensive heels is swallowed by the cathedral’s stone floor. Light pours through the stained glass above, catching the medallions on your even more expensive dress every time you pass through a brighter patch.

You can feel other people looking. Of course they do, you are one of the jewels from the family’s crown. Anyhow, they always do look when Namjoon walks into a room. He carries that gravity with him — tall, composed, impossible to ignore even when he isn’t trying.

Beside him you probably look smaller than you actually are.

Your hand slides into the crook of his arm more out of habit than anything else, your fur coat resting loosely over your shoulders. The cathedral air still holds that cold, echoing chill old stone buildings seem to keep no matter the season.

Namjoon nods once to someone passing in the opposite direction. Your attention stays ahead. She hasn’t noticed you yet. Jungkook has though.

His eyes flick up first — quick, assessing, the way his gaze always moves through a room like it’s measuring it. When he sees Namjoon his expression settles back into something neutral, but the alertness never fully leaves.

You’ve seen that look before too.

He leans slightly toward her and murmurs something you can’t hear. Only then does she turn. Her eyes move over the two of you as you approach — Namjoon first, because everyone notices him first — and then they land on you. For a brief moment you see the flicker of something across her face. Not surprising exactly. Recognition. Or she’s trying to mind reading you.

There’s a small pause. You know the type of look. Women tend to do a quick, unconscious inventory. Dress. Hair. Shoes. The quiet math of who you might be. You almost smile at the naturality of her behaviour.

The medallion dress probably didn’t help. It catches the light every few steps, little flashes of gold against black silk.

You stop beside their pew as the priest’s voice drifts through the cathedral. Up close she looks younger than you expected. She may be Jungkook’s age.

Namjoon’s hand slides a little more firmly along your lower back as he steers the two of you toward the pew. Not hurried. Never hurried. But with the quiet decisiveness of someone who understands the difference between patience and endurance. Were you starring for too long? Did you even say hello to her?

Hoseok notices the shift before he sits next to them immediately.

His gaze flicks over your face, then to Namjoon’s hand at your back. One brow lifts slightly, but he doesn’t comment. Instead he leans closer to Princess, murmuring something that makes her smile.

Hoseok leans back slightly over the pew, resting his forearms along the wooden top.

“Thought you two got lost,” Namjoon murmurs. Hoseok exhales quietly, long legs folding neatly as he sits.

“Traffic,” he says.

“In a cathedral?” Namjoon snorts softly.

“You’d be surprised.” Hoseok tilts his head a fraction.

Princess shifts a little in her seat, one hand still resting over her belly as if by instinct rather than thought. The movement draws your eyes before you can stop them. There’s something quietly miraculous about it. Life, right there beneath silk and lace and soft laughter. Your shoulders loosen before you even realize they were tight.

Strange, just how your mind works lately.

Namjoon notices, showing you his dimples when he smiles at you. His thumb brushes once against the small of your back — slow, grounding — before his hand finally settles along the edge of the pew behind you.

Not claiming. Just there.

The organ begins to warm the air with its first deep note. Conversations fade. People straighten.

And for the first time since stepping inside, your mind stops counting exits. At least the ones that were once for you. She needs them more. Until she can use them, you’ll try to ease her stay in this family for that time being. You don’t say anything the whole service, not when they can hear you.

But once you’re sure the noise from people getting up and talking during their exit will cover what you need to say to her, what you need to warn her before it’s too late, you say what you wished someone said to you before you fell for Namjoon.

“Don’t let them get inside your head.”

Because you’re almost sure they somehow got into yours. You just can’t prove it yet.

The confused and shocked face Namjoon had, when you passed next to his office with “I’m grabbing lunch with a friend today, hope you don’t mind!” shouting towards him and as quickly as possible left the building, was absolutely worth every penny.

The thing is. What you realised is that you two do not have any agreement or house rules that you cannot go out by yourself. Not that you know of anyway. You just need to have guards with you at all times. Due to…obvious reasons that keep tormenting this family.

You have no one else to go out with really. You made precisely five calls to your uni pals or people who worked with you in Anubis. You sort off…fell out of touch with the people you knew. You are apparently too snobby now to keep being friends with someone who isn’t old money blood. Or they are terrified to go out with the Peaches. Yes. You got an article in front of your name. What an honor. Because you are the Peaches, the future Misses of Kim Namjoon.

You don’t blame them. However ... .you do lack friends now and Princess is heavily pregnant. She…cannot really keep up with your whims at the moment. So of course you have no groundbreaking rules whether you can leave and just like that…there was simply no instance where he could establish them. Hence, you’re gonna use that fact to the fullest.

Today marks a legendary day in Kim Namjoon’s calendar. He unwillingly had to let you go out—simply because there was no time to say no—by yourself…plus two bodyguards that ran quickly to you, but didn’t stop you. Now they’ll have a lovely day spent shopping for everything you don’t need and have lunch with your…whatever she will become to you.

Your red bottoms echo on the marble floors of Dior’s headquarters the moment you step out of the elevator. The sound runs ahead of you, announcing confidence you barely feel. You have no clue where she is stationed in this cold ice palace. Everything looks like a museum, glass and light and employees moving quietly as if afraid to wrinkle the air.

Yet you continue down the corridor, chin lifted, coat draped over your arm, pretending you belong here the way the men always pretend they own the world.

“Miss? Can I help you?”

The assistant who stops you is carved from professionalism when she gives you her polite smile that freezes once she notices the dove insignia on the bodyguards vests. Your eyes fall upon for a mere second before she speaks again.

“I’ll let Mister Park know you’re here Misses Park.” Huh? Does she think you’re Jimin’s wife? Straightening your hair today might have been a good idea after all. You tied the front back with a Hermes bow you found.

“No need.” You reply quickly once you spot her at the end of the corridor walking from one door to the one on the opposite wall. Which must be her or Jimin’s office. Of course he would keep her close. Probably so Jungkook won’t go all nuts. At least not before you make him. Which, most likely, you’re about to do.

You feel your legs move before your brain starts to think. The door doesn’t state her name nor position for security reasons, you conclude. But something tells you it is her office and not just a private toilet for Jimin.

His door is wide open but it takes him a hot minute to notice you’re standing in between him and her. When he does so, the papers he was reading fall down from his hands and an amused grin spreads across his face. He lifts his hand to hold his chin in between his thumb and index finger, making a tssk sound.

“Please tell me he knows you’re here,” he takes one breath, but his voice still holds the amusement. You ignore that and merely smirk to yourself before entering her office. You said “a friend”, you didn’t clarify which one.

“You're hungry too, right?” You smile, feeling wicked.

Namjoon does not raise his voice. That alone is how you know this is a lecture. He pretended to be all fine with the whole outing when he was sitting in the restaurant with you, Jungkook and Doll. You should have known better it was all an act to not make a scene in public.

“You took her out,” he says, fingers steepled on the kitchen counter as if he’s outlining a case rather than addressing you who still smells faintly of cold air and cigarette smoke. Damn those smoking boys. “Without asking Jungkook or me?”

“I was hungry,” you shrug off your coat, “she was hungry—end of the story.” It lands on the chair harder than necessary.

“That wasn’t the question.”

“She’s allowed to eat, for fucks sake.”

“She is,” Namjoon agrees calmly. “She’s not allowed unsanctioned movement. You knew this, Peach.” Unless, you didn’t. Ah fuck, well, you figured she might not be when he was holding her hand for dear life in the Church.

Still, how could you know she had a strict rule to not leave the premises of the Dior headquarters without Jungkook. Jimin could tell you, of course, but why would he, right? Or maybe he didn’t see you as a liability because you usually obey Namjoon. At least that’s what the fucker said when Namjoon gave him earful just minute prior through phone.

“Unsanctioned movement? It was just a lunch, Namjoon.” You turn to him then, heat crawling up your spine. “We crossed two streets, not a territory border.”

“You know damn well what situation we’re dealing with,” he says. “You made you both visible.”

The words settle heavy between you, less accusation than fact, and for a moment the kitchen feels smaller, like the walls have been listening all along.

“Well I personally was on no movement restriction–” you start to raise your voice when he stops you right there and then.

“Maybe you need one,” Namjoon says, cutting you off cleanly. You freeze at the edge of the counter, the words ringing louder than the clatter of cutlery behind you. He’s mad. He’s seriously mad.

“What are you even talking about?” your voice starts to tremble, as if your worst nightmare came true. Shit. This was not supposed to end this way.

“I’ve let you wander around—that is my fault, yes—” he starts thinking out loud and you can feel his irritation growing with each second, this is going to turn into a bad argument, you can feel it in your bones.

“—but, let me remind you of the ring on your pretty finger.”

You glance down at your hand before you mean to. It feels heavier now, like it has learned a new trick. Like it knows when it is being used as leverage. Now it’s the time he ought to explain what it takes to bear his last name and how it inevitably will always put you in harms way and he is there to graciously keep you safe. But you’ve already had that talk. Too late to go back now.

“What exactly you have in mind, Namjoon-oppa, speak it.”

“Why haven’t you started planning the wedding yet?” So this is what is really frustrating the man. Sometime during the conversation in the restaurant where she asked you to be her maid of honor—to save her own arse—it planted a doubt in Namjoon’s head. A doubt you’ll now have to somehow eliminate.

The words still hit sharper than you expect though. They aren’t a question. They’re an accusation dressed as curiosity and the kitchen tightens around you like a vise. Your stomach knots, a mix of irritation and something colder—unease you can’t shake.

“I thought you wanna wait until the air is clear, Oppa.”

Namjoon’s lips press into a thin line, for a moment, the air between you feels like it could snap. As if he expected this would be your excuse. He doesn’t move, doesn’t blink—just studies you with that calm, unnerving precision that has always made you feel smaller than you are.

“The air is never clear nor was,” he says finally, voice low, deliberate. “And if we wait for paradise, Peaches, we’ll be waiting forever. You are well aware of that.”

You bite your lip, the words sticking in your throat. He’s right, of course. You’ve been using the chaos outside to your advantage to not even think of the promised marriage bond. All you thought through was how to get yourself working again. Not even because you wanted to work, you don’t, but to keep your mind and hand busy. The wedding never crossed your mind either way.

“Or maybe you should think about it a bit more,” he says, more to himself than you, carefully strolling to his home office, having you follow him like a lost puppy.

“What do you mean?” you ask him once it is clear he’s ignoring you and continues to walk to his desk phone. Picking it up with his slender fingers and dialing a number.

“Namjoon-oppa–” you raise your voice, yet he doesn’t pay attention to you. So you close the distance, unplugging the cord from the phone quickly. Out of panic. Shit. You have no clue who he aimed to call but something deep within you tells you it would only hurt your case.

He looks up, the phone still in his hand and his fingers on the number buttons. The last time his eyes were so dark was when you attempted to leave this penthouse for the very first time.

“Peaches–” he basically growls and your eyes widen while you still hold the cord of the desk phone in your hands.

“I know you’re upset … about this all. But you can’t–”

“Disobedience will never go unpunished, and ... you also lost your focus on what’s important” he stays where he is, still as a coiled thing deciding whether to strike. “Us.”

“I didn’t,” you say, but it comes out thin, frayed at the edges. “I didn’t disobey you. You never gave me any boundaries. I thought I could!”

His jaw flexes. Once. Twice. The sound of his breath is louder than it should be.

“Don’t do that,” Namjoon says quietly. That is worse. “Don’t pretend you don’t understand the difference between permission and restraint.”

“You want to turn this into a punishment?” you swallow. Your heart is beating too fast now, rattling against your ribs like it wants out.

His eyes flick to the cord in your hand. Then back to your face. Slowly. Deliberately.

“You already did, love” he replies. The words land heavy, undeniable. He takes a step toward you. Then another. Each one feels measured, intentional, like he’s reclaiming space you forgot was his.

“You are allowed to finish this work week,” he says right to your face through gritted teeth. “No unscheduled outings. No independent movement.”

Your fingers curl reflexively, searching for the cord that’s no longer there. “You can’t just—”

“I fucking can,” he cuts in, not raising his voice. “Because you proved why it’s necessary.”

“I took someone to lunch.” Your throat burns.

“And then carried on fighting against me,” he corrects, pointing to the cord still in your hand.

“Yes! Because I haven’t done anything wrong!” That snaps something inside you. “You’re talking like I endangered the entire system.”

“You endangered both of you,” he says, and now there it is. Not anger. Fear, sharpened into control. “And when you do that, you become a variable I have to manage.”

“A variable. Is that what I am now? What happened to fiancée?” You laugh, hollow. Tears threatening to well up in your eyes. He doesn’t answer right away. He studies you, the way he does when he’s weighing costs. Outcomes. Collateral.

“You’ve pushed me today,” he says finally. “Testing how far autonomy stretches before it tears.” You start to shake your head, disagreeing with him silently.

“You didn’t start to plan the wedding because planning makes it real. And real means you stop pretending you’re untethered.” Fuck he’s right. At least about the wedding part.

“This wasn’t about the wedding.” Yet, you lie. Your chest tightens.

“It wasn’t, but it is now,” he replies calmly. “You want to act like you’re outside the structure while still benefiting from its protection?” He steps closer again, until there is no space left to reclaim. He grabs your chin to force you to look at him.

“Doll doesn’t get that luxury,” he continues, looking you straight in the eye when he finishes what he initiated. “And neither do you anymore.”

“I’ll call Gguk to apologize–” Because if anything, this men are suckers for remorse. Your voice still comes out small despite yourself. You move to plug the cord back into the desk phone to do so, but he stops you from moving away from him. His fingers closing around your jaw, pressing into your cheeks, until your mouth puckers against your will. Your lips are forced forward, distorted, made small and exposed by the grip.

“You can finish the week,” he says again, “then you’re gonna take some time off.” You can see his eyes being a shade darker than before and suddenly the same Namjoon who pulled out a gun and blew his brains out right in front of you resurfaces.

“We can pick the wedding bands this weekend and I advise you to fucking behave until then if you don’t want to add to your punishment.” He lets you go only for you to stumble back a step.

“So you’re grounding me,” you say. “That’s what this is.”

His shoulders square, the white shirt shifting with the movement, broad enough to block the lamp behind him so your shadow collapses into his. One step, then another, not rushed, not angry. Controlled. The kind of stillness that makes your pulse thud loud in your ears.

Your back hits the edge of the library. Not hard. Enough to tell you there’s nowhere else to go.

His hand lifts again but doesn’t grab this time. It hovers at your throat, not touching, just close enough for you to feel the heat of it. A reminder. Your chin tilts up on instinct, spine straightening without permission, breath caught halfway in.

“If you want to reduce it to something juvenile,” he replies, unbothered, “you as well may.”

“You don’t get to confine me because I crossed a goddamn street and thought we could wait with the wedding–” Your chest rises and falls too fast.

“And exposed yourself and another along the way–” he finishes the sentence for you. You are left with nothing to bargain with. By the way his face is sitting, this is beyond negotiable.

“I’m not taking it away,” he says. “I’m pressing pause.”

“For now.” He adds.

“But that’s not fair at all,” you counter.

“How is it not fair, love?” He raises his eyebrows, “you misbehaved, I take away your privilages—that sounds oddly fair to me.”

You let out a puff of air through your nostrils to signal him you’re not liking this at all.

Back to square one Peaches.

The bedroom is dim when you come back from the bathroom.

The television throws a restless blue glow across the walls, the late-night broadcast humming quietly with the soft static of cable channels that never really go dark. Some talk show host is laughing at something off-screen, the sound muted low enough to become background noise.

Namjoon is already in bed. He’s sitting propped against the headboard with one of his books open in his hands, reading lamp on, glasses low on the bridge of his nose. White shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, collar undone. You’re totally not looking at a gangster. You’re looking at hot husband material, you watch the way the shirt hugs his muscled abdomen that was pressed naked onto yours just one night ago.

Not a fucking chance you’re sleeping next to him tonight. He’s angry? He’s restricting you? You’ll restrict him.

You pause for a second when you quietly move to the bedroom door. The first thing you notice is the quiet click of the lock when you test the handle behind you. Your shoulders stiffen.

Of course he fucking locked it. He knows you and your temper.

You turn slowly back toward the bed with one eyebrow raised. Namjoon doesn’t even look up from the page, but you know he stopped reading a long time ago.

“I’m thirsty.” You announce, very loudly to point out you want him to unlock the fucking door. Namjoon turns a page.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Then he lowers the book just enough to look at you over the top of it. His expression is neutral in that infuriating way he has when he’s decided to be immovable.

“The bathroom has a sink.” Your jaw tightens at his bluntness.

“And hungry,” you add. Namjoon exhales slowly through his nose, the sound almost lost beneath the soft murmur of the television. He lowers the book another inch. Still not fully. Still pretending.

“You ate,” he says calmly.

“That was two hours ago.” Your eyebrow lifts higher.

“It was dinner.”

“It was pasta, nobody is filled by pasta.”

He studies you for a moment over the edge of the page and you can practically hear the gears turning behind that annoyingly composed face of his. Like he’s cataloging every word, every tone, every tiny act of rebellion you’re stacking in front of him.

“So now we’re adding starvation to the list of punishments?” You cross your arms. Namjoon finally closes the book. Not loudly. Just decisively.

The page marker slides neatly into place as he sets it on the nightstand. His glasses come off next, folded carefully beside it. When he looks back at you, his eyes are darker in the lamplight, patient in a way that makes your pulse kick up even though he hasn’t moved yet.

“You’re not starving.”

“You locked me in.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You’re not leaving the room tonight.”

You stare at him.

The audacity.

“So what,” you say slowly, “I’m just supposed to go to sleep?”

“Yes.”

“You grounded me, locked the door, confiscated my schedule, and now you want me to just— what — curl up and behave?”

Namjoon tilts his head slightly.

“That would be the idea.” He gives you cutish smile and reaches to turn off the lamp. The only source of light is the telly that is still on, illuminating the white plush carpet your feet are standing on.

You let out a breath through your nose, pacing a slow step across the carpet like a caged animal testing the perimeter. Once you gulp down the feeling to suffocate him with his pillow you plop to bed next to him.

“This is more painful than the IUD in my uterus, I hope you know that.”

You press your face deeper into the pillow, hoping the conversation is finally over.

It isn’t.

Then the mattress shifts. Not dramatically. Just enough.

“What did you just say?”

You keep your face buried in the pillow.

God.

You consider pretending you didn’t say anything at all. But Namjoon isn’t someone you can bluff your way past. Not when his attention locks in like that. You sigh into the fabric:

“Nothing.”

The silence stretches. When you finally turn your head, he’s propped on one elbow now, watching you. Really watching you. The easy patience from earlier is gone.

“IUD,” he repeats slowly. The word sounds foreign in his mouth. Your stomach tightens. You sit up halfway, pushing hair off your face with a restless hand.

“Yes.”

“You have an IUD.” His eyebrows draw together.

“Yeah.” You shrug like it’s nothing.

“How long?” It isn’t a question so much as a demand.

“A while.”

“Peaches.”

Your shoulders tense at the tone of his voice.

“Before we met,” you say quickly. “Okay? Before we met.”

The room goes completely still. Namjoon sits up. The shift is immediate, the mattress dipping. The television throws jagged light across his face, catching the sharp line of his jaw.

“You…you have that in your body,” he says slowly, “and didn’t think it was relevant to mention?” Your chest tightens by the way how disgusted he sounds right now.

“Are you seriously—” he interrupts you.

“This is not acceptable, Peach.” You let out a short laugh that carries zero humor.

“Not acceptable?” you repeat. “It’s my uterus.”

Namjoon swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands. He’s tall enough that the television light cuts his shadow across half the room.

“You said yes to me.”

“And apparently that means I sign my organs over too?” You raise your brows, the amusement is not leaving you yet. But it’s about to.

“It means you don’t make unilateral decisions that affect the future of this family.”

There it is.

“What a what now?!” You shot up into a sitting position, the blanket pooling around your waist. Namjoon’s jaw tightens slightly.

“You made a decision that directly affects reproduction, Peach. You know we value lineage!”

“Lineage?” you echo. “What is this, a fucking medieval dynasty?” Namjoon doesn’t react to the sarcasm. That alone tells you how serious he is.

“You’re being deliberately dismissive.”

“Oh I’m being dismissive?” you shoot back. “You’re standing there talking about my uterus like it’s part of the family estate!”

“You agreed to marry into this family.”

“And that means what exactly?” you challenge, pushing the blanket off your legs and standing up. “That I start producing heirs on command?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s exactly what you implied!” Namjoon’s eyes darken, you barely see him.

“You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being realistic!” you shoot back again. “This whole thing is insane. The rules, the surveillance, all the marriages in this family—” Your hand gestures around the room.

“You guys behave like some kind of cult!” The word lands heavy in the space between you. Namjoon goes completely still.

“Careful.” His tone becomes colder. “Fucking careful, Peaches.”

“No!” you say, shaking your head. “You people track each other, control each other, decide who marries who, and now apparently you get to discuss my reproductive organs like it’s a board meeting.”

“You said yes.” The words cut straight through the room. Flat. Unmovable. Your mouth snaps shut. Namjoon’s voice lowers even more.

“You said yes to me,” he continues. “No one fucking forced you.” Except he fucking did when he threatened to off your father, but something tells you, arguing with him on that point is fucking hopeless.

“You didn’t exactly offer a lot of alternatives.”

“You still chose me.” Your chest tightens at the breaking of his voice.

“That doesn’t mean I give up control over my body, does it?”

“It means you don’t keep secrets like this, when would you even tell me?” Your hands clench at your sides. You should throw things at him. Scream and shout. It surprises you just how good you’re handling your anger.

“It’s an IUD, Joon-oppa” you argue. “Not a declaration of war.”

“It’s a decision made without me.” You stare at him. Your pulse thuds in your ears.

“It was a decision prior to you, for the love of God!” The television flickers across both of you. Neither of you moves.

“You’re right–” he bites the inside of his cheek. “Yet, you’re gonna get it removed, Peaches.”

Your breath leaves you in a short, disbelieving laugh. Not amused. Not even close.

“Excuse me?”

Namjoon doesn’t raise his voice. He rarely has to. His calm has always been the more dangerous thing.

“You heard me.”

Your hands lift in a helpless gesture before dropping again. “No, I did hear you,” you say, incredulous. “I just assumed I hallucinated the part where you think you get to schedule maintenance on my reproductive system.”

“You are by far the most autonomous out of all the girls, and this is how you appreciate my kindness?!” His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring just enough to betray the calm he’s trying to maintain.

“Autonomous?” you repeat, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You just took my autonomy today, remember?” You freeze, caught between disbelief and fury, the words settling like stones in your chest.

“You–are–getting–it–removed.” He says through gritted teeth ignoring your jab.

“Bite me.” You reply in return.

And thus you both go to sleep angry. One more than the other.

The kitchen smells like coffee when you walk in.

Namjoon is already there, reading the newspaper spread across the island counter, sleeves rolled to his forearms like he’s already halfway through the day.

You thought a lot during the night. You thought about every single time you thought you should have Namjoon’s head for his obsessive behaviour. About every time since the bullet grazed you that you should have a rage attack, yet you somehow learnt to regulate your emotions much better after it. A bit odd…and when you couldn’t find a specific reason why you’re this way, you blamed it on the ambush you lived through. It must be some kind of reverse effect.

“Good morning.” You say to him, while pouring yourself a cup of coffee he made. The house feels quieter without Kang-Joon. He is no longer available to work in this household since the unfortunate turn of events. Loyalty issues are a grave matter within this family and Namjoon wouldn’t risk it. So he makes his coffee now.

Speaking of…you know you need to apologize to him. At least for the part where you called his family a cult.

Namjoon glances up briefly over the edge of the newspaper. His eyes catching yours for a brief moment.

“Morning,” he mutters.

Nothing in his tone suggests the argument from last night ever happened. He turns a page with the quiet rustle of newsprint. Yet, no baby, or love, or at least Peach behind that short and brutal ‘morning’.

You lean against the counter, wrapping both hands around your cup.

You take a sip of coffee, letting the warmth settle. Then you glance at him over the rim of the cup.

“About last night.” The newspaper pauses. Not lowered. Just still. You inhale slowly, reading yourself.

“I shouldn’t have called your family a cult.”

Namjoon puts down the newspapers and studies you across the kitchen island, expression calm but sharp.

“Our family.” The correction lands quietly between you. You hold his gaze for a moment, then look down at your coffee.

“…Right.” Can you fuck it up even more? He folds the newspaper once. Precisely.

“That’s what you’re apologizing for?”

“Yes.” Your brows knit. A beat passes. Don’t bring it up, Joon. Just don’t.

“What about the fact,” he says evenly, “that you kept a child killer in your body without telling me.”

Fuck.

“It’s an IUD,” you say slowly, trying not to roll your eyes fast and hard. “Not a hired assassin.”

“It prevents conception.” His gaze doesn’t waver.

“That’s literally the point.”

“And you never thought to mention that to your husband-to-be.”

You stare at him.

“You weren’t my husband-to-be when I got it.” You feel like you’ve repeated this fact at least dozen of times, yet he refuses to hear it. He watches the quotation marks you cut through the air with your fingers like you’ve just made a legal argument instead of a personal one.

“You were my girlfriend.”

“Well,” you add, lowering your hand back to the counter, “I didn’t exactly receive a memo that I was your girlfriend for a while, did I?” His jaw shifts. You just strike his nerve.

“You weren’t supposed to misunderstand it.” His eyes narrow slightly. You let out a quiet, incredulous laugh.

“Right. Of course.”

“You still should have told me.” You lift your brows.

“Told you what exactly? ‘Hey Namjoon, by the way, in case your silent orbiting means we’re dating, I have an IUD’?”

“When I proposed to you—” His jaw sets again.

“I didn’t think I needed permission to control my own fertility.”

“Well, now, you do.”

Great. Argument still on.

The Jeep rolls quietly through the morning streets, the winter sunlight weak and gray against the glass.

Namjoon doesn’t bring it up again and you don’t apologize either. The jeep, instead of the Mercedes he usually drives, eventually pulls up in front of a townhouse — tall, narrow, the kind of quiet old-money building that pretends nothing interesting ever happens inside it.

You should have known that he isn’t taking you to the distilleries when it is him driving it and it’s only the two of you. No bodyguards. At least not close—pretending you don’t see the two black cars that followed you.

It sure isn’t Hoseok and Princess’ place. They live at the Jung estate now, safer–guarded better. It’s safer for her and the unborn baby in her belly. Jungkook lives uptown in the heart of Manhattan, while Seokjin’s home is on the Upper West Side. You know only one person who lives in Manhattan valley.

You look at Namjoon’s hands shutting the car off and pulling the keys out.

“Breakfast,” he says simply when he notices the wide doe eyes you’re glancing at him with. Yeah, of course it is. You didn’t seriously start thinking Yoongi has an ambulance parked in his townhouse for emergencies, for crying out loud. The thought makes you flush with embarrassment and irritation all at once.

You let out a quiet, incredulous laugh, trying to shake the tension from your shoulders. Namjoon doesn’t look at you anymore while he slides out of the Jeep.

You follow him up the steps, your high heels clicking against the stone. The black boots hugging your calves. Your handbag hangs heavy at your side, and every instinct tells you that this isn’t just a casual breakfast, no matter how calm the townhouse looks.

The door opens before you can reach for the handle and a warm, inviting scent of tea hits you, cutting through the crisp winter air. The space inside is suprisingly modest but elegant—wood floors, muted colors and right in the middle of it, the family’s doctor for everything.

He shows you his gummy smile while he says:

“Good morning, Peaches,” he says cheerfully, the kind of bright, practiced expression that almost makes you forget why you’re nervous.

“Hello to you too, brother.” Namjoon mutters and walks past Yoongi, into the warmth of the townhouse.

You hesitate at the doorway for a fraction of a second, scanning the room. Cups clink softly, the faint hum of the television fills the background and you notice her walking from the kitchen. Honeyglazed hair tied loosely, casual sweater, but a presence that somehow dominates the room without force. She looks up, eyes meeting yours, and smiles. Larkie.

“Good morning,” she says softly, calm and deliberate. You met Larkie very briefly during the christmas eve dinner. She kept disappearing quite a lot that night.

Namjoon’s gaze flicks toward her for a beat, then back to you, the silent cue is clear: go on, sit.

You step fully into the room, heels clicking against the polished wood again. Something tells you, this isn’t just breakfast. Somehow, you already know it’s the start of a lesson you weren’t expecting.

You lower yourself into the seat, trying not to fidget, aware of Namjoon at the counter, silent but present, his eyes flicking between you and Larkie now and then. The room smells of coffee, tea and warm bread, but there’s something else in the air, an undercurrent of structure and order that makes your pulse thrum slightly faster.

Larkie picks up her cup and sips, her gaze never leaving yours.

“Dig in gals, we ought to smoke one before,” Yoongi says, stealing two cups of black coffee from the beautifully set table full of food. Larkie tilts her head at him, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips.

Namjoon’s hands are at each of your shoulders, holding the chair you’re sitting at. He lowers his head and kisses the crown of your hair, whispering:

“I’ll be right back. Eat up, babe–” send a small, confusing spike of warmth through your chest. As if the argument from last night was long forgotten.

“So….” You look at Larkie smiling at you grabbing the bread and butter first. “How are you? What about your side—still hurting?”

“From time to time,” you reply, reaching to steal the pancakes from the tray. “Mostly when–”

“Ah shit, I can’t. Namjoon wants me to talk some sense into you.” You freeze mid-reach for the pancakes, caught off guard by Larkie’s sudden outburst, shaking her head with a half-smile, half-sigh. And just like that, your gut was right.

You blink at her, fork halfway in the pencake. “Talk… sense?” you repeat, incredulous, wondering if she’s teasing or serious.

“Yep,” Larkie says, finally settling back into her chair, sipping her coffee. “I know it’s a slap in the face—this family.”

“No, really?” You pluck your lips, tilting your head to the side.

“It runs on rules you don’t get to bend and consequences you don’t get to negotiate,” you lean in closer while she speaks.

“You won’t follow? Good, but don’t expect to have any benefits this family offers.” Larkie leans forward too, gaze steady. You blink at her, fork hovering uselessly in the air.

“Benefits…?” you repeat, slower this time, trying to muster what exactly she means.

“You serious?” She chuckles but then sees the expression sitting on your face. “You are actually serious,” she mutters. Your brows knit together.

Her gaze drifts over you. Not casually. Precisely. Head to toe.

“Do you really want to work nine to five or night shifts? Your hands look pretty dry from the chemicals you must use for cleaning the lab… and is that an acid burn you’re hiding?”

It’s so small Namjoon didn’t notice it, but she did.

“It makes me feel normal.” Your jaw tightens, and you shift in your seat.

“But you’re nowhere near normal anymore, Peaches—”

“You put your lipstick and the keys from the lovely penthouse you’re living in into a three-thousand dollars prada bag, sweetling.” Your fingers tighten around the sleeves of your sweater, which ironically, is designer too.

“Those boots hugging your calves? Louis Vuitton. You don’t even feel how expensive you look anymore, do you?” Heat rises up your neck. Every word presses against the part of you that’s been trying to pretend you can resist this world.

“Not as a barmaid nor chemist you could have afforded these things, so what point are you trying to make?”

You don’t answer her. Because the worst part isn’t that she’s wrong. It’s that your brain is already doing the thing—quietly, treacherously—flipping through memories like receipts you never meant to keep.

The place you call home.

The first night, you remember standing in the middle of it like a trespasser. Afraid to touch anything. Afraid to sit on furniture that probably cost more than anything you owned back then.

You leave lipstick stains on crystal glasses. The very expensive clothes you dreamt of when you couldn’t afford them—now you have more than you ever needed. You let yourself be driven around in expensive cars.

“Money isn't an issue for you anymore,” she continues to talk, “you have the best medical insurance this country can offer.”

The IUD comes to your mind. This is where she’ll try to convince you to put it out.

The thought of going to a doctor other than Yoongi didn’t even feel like an option anymore. Not because you couldn’t afford it. But because everything now runs through him. Through them.

And you let them.

God, you fucking let them. Your jaw tightens slightly. Because somewhere between resisting it and surviving it—

You adapted to this lifestyle.

Quickly. Too quickly.

“Your dad is safe and sound,” You swallow slowly, staring down at your plate. Your fingers curl slightly, she can list any detail of your life right now and it would make a good argument.

“You’ve been given more than you could ever give back,” your breath stutters. She continues, not unkindly. Just… factual.

“Is it so hard to give obedience in return?”

“What’s all this to you anyway?” You cut through her, making her startle a little.

Her fingers pause around her coffee cup and for the first time since you sat down, there’s a flicker of something less controlled in her expression.

Then she exhales.

Softly.

“Fair question,” she says. Larkie leans back in her chair, studying you differently now.

“I’m not doing this for them,” she says finally. A beat.

“That’s supposed to be comforting?”

“I’m doing it for you.” Your brows knit together immediately. “I don’t expect it to be comforting,” she replies calmly.

“You want actual autonomy?” she says, softer, almost conspiratorial. “Then first, you need to understand what it actually costs to have it in this world. And what it truly looks like when someone gives it to you without strings attached.”

Larkie glances briefly toward the doorway Namjoon and Yoongi disappeared through, then back at you. Her fingers trace the rim of her cup absently. Silence settles between you for a second, heavier now, more honest.

“I fought it,” she admits. “For years. Every inch of it. I thought I was different. That I could take what I needed and keep the rest of myself untouched.”

Your chest tightens slightly.

“I even ran away.”

Because that sounds… familiar.

“And came back home,” she adds. A small, humorless smile.

“Then fought all over again,” You look away, jaw tightening again, her words do not sound hopeful. Larkie doesn’t react to that.

“What changed?” You ask her, setting the fork down, intrigued to hear her side if it really can help you.

“It took me months to understand why Yoongi did what he did. But the first time I glanced at him I couldn’t be mad anymore. Because, in the end, he gave me what I wanted.” The silence stretches just a second too long.

“What is it that you want from life, Peaches?”

You…don’t really know.

“So maybe, just maybe, if you let yourself think honestly and truly, you can figure out what you want from life too.” You’re desperately trying to understand what she means and why she talks in riddles, but then—

Soft footsteps and her brutally honest smile. Pure happiness radiates from Larkie when she looks behind you. Your head follows her gaze.

Namjoon steps back into the room, one arm steady, the other supporting a small, squirming weight against his chest.

The baby rests comfortably in his hold, chubby hands gripping at the collar of his sweater, dark eyes wide and alert, already tracking movement in the room. There’s a soft, curious sound bubbling from him, somewhere between a coo and a complaint.

Your breath catches anyway.

Because it’s still… small.

Still fragile.

Still real.

“There he is,” she says, and her voice—God—her voice is completely different now.

Warm.

Soft.

Certain.

Namjoon steps closer and passes the baby to her, careful but unceremonious, like trust has already been established here a long time ago.

The moment he’s in her arms, the baby lets out a small, impatient sound, grabbing at her sweater, and she laughs quietly, adjusting him against her hip with practiced ease.

“Good morning, my love,” she murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to his temple. You didn’t even know. Not a hint, not a whisper. Not a shift in routine that you could trace back and say there—there it started.

You saw her in Anubis all the way before she was Yoongi’s wife, all the way before when she was married to someone else. Now, when you think back, you didn’t see her for a very long time, up until Christmas.

And all that time—

Pregnant.

They must have hid her.

Everyone knows about Princess’ pregnancy. Because she unknowingly implied it to one of the Luen brothers.

You don’t even know which one, and it doesn’t matter. The damage is the same.

Your eyes stay on her as she adjusts the baby—no, her baby—against her hip like it’s second nature. Like it always has been.

Your gaze drops to the table, unfocused now.

They can hide it. They just didn’t with Princess, because they couldn’t.

Which means—

Your stomach twists faintly.

They won’t let that happen ever again and Namjoon wanted to show you that. As if the exposure of you and a baby is the obstacle, not the IUD in your uterus or the fact that you don’t want a baby at the moment.

He must think you are hesitating to put it out because of this. Which is ridiculous.

“Yoongi-ah,” Larkie says softly, shifting the baby slightly as he fusses, the name falling from her lips like it’s been there forever. “You’re getting impatient already, hm?”

Yoongi.

Your throat tightens slightly. They named him after his father. Is that a tradition with baby boys in this family? You know Namjoon is named after his father and he after his and so on and so on. It must be. Thus if you give birth to a boy, it will be…Namjoon. You ain’t sure if you can handle two Namjoon’s though.

“I’ll feed him before he starts a revolution,” she adds lightly, rising from her seat.

For a brief second, her eyes flick toward you again. Not probing. Not sharp.

Just… encouraging? As if she wanted to poke you with her elbow to talk to Namjoon.

Then she turns, disappearing into the kitchen with him nestled securely against her, his small protests already softening into quieter, impatient sounds. You follow her movement until she is out of your sight and only then you snap at Namjoon:

“Are you out of your mind?!”

There goes an apology.

Your chair scrapes faintly as you push back just enough to turn toward him fully, your chest rising faster now.

“That—” you gesture vaguely toward the kitchen, toward everything that just happened, “—that’s what you bring me here for? A fucking demonstration?!”

Your voice drops on the last word, but it doesn’t soften. It tightens. Accuses.

“You sit me down, you parade their baby I didn’t even know existed—named after his father, like this is some kind of dynasty—and I’m supposed to what? Smile? Take notes?”

Your hands fall back to your sides, but they don’t relax. They curl.

“No?” He cringes, “I take you here to eat breakfast, love.”

“You don’t get to downplay it like that.”

He exhales quietly through his nose, something restrained flickering across his expression—not quite annoyance, not quite patience wearing thin.

“I’m not downplaying anything.”

“You are,” you snap back instantly. “You’re standing there like this is normal—like I’m overreacting to what you just—”

Your words cut off abruptly, your jaw tightening as you try to grab onto something that doesn’t feel completely insane to say out loud.

“You’re seriously telling me you brought me here to eat breakfast?” Silence stretches for a second. Then he nods.

“Yes.”

It’s that simple. That steady. Your stare doesn’t break.

“…You’re unbelievable.”

“Am I?” he asks, tilting his head slightly. There’s no bite in it. Just quiet insistence.

“Yes,” you breathe out, shaking your head once. “Because you don’t even hear how that sounds.”

Another step closer—not invasive, just enough to hold your attention when you might’ve looked away.

“I hear it,” he says evenly. “I just don’t agree with you.”

“Of course you don’t.” Your jaw sets.

“No,” he continues, unfazed, “because to me, this is normal.” That word again. Your fingers curl tighter.

“You don’t get to redefine normal just because it suits you.”

“And you don’t get to reject it just because it makes you uncomfortable.”

The hit is immediate.

Clean.

You inhale sharply, something flaring in your chest again.

“Is this what you want?” You ask, fair and square. His gaze stays on you, unwavering, but there’s a shift in it now. Not uncertainty. Not hesitation.

Consideration.

Measured.

Careful in a way that feels… deliberate.

“Yes.”

Your lips part slightly, a breath catching somewhere between your lungs and your throat.

“…All of it?” you press, quieter now.

You don’t look away.

You make him say it.

His jaw shifts faintly.

“Yes…eventually.” No hesitation this time.

You take a deep breath in even though it feels piercing in your lungs. Your eyes water.

“Did you lay me off because I disobeyed you,” your voice falters slightly but you push through it, “or because you think you’ll knock me up so I won’t return to work at all?” It comes out raw.

Your eyes sting, vision blurring just enough that you have to blink it back, but you don’t look away. You don’t give him that.

“Neither.” The word lands, but it doesn’t settle. They don’t feel true. Your brows knit, something sharp flickering through the hurt.

“That’s not—”

“I didn’t lay you off,” he cuts in, still calm, still controlled—but there’s something firmer underneath it now. “I temporarily removed you from a position that puts you at risk of losing focus on what matters the most, which is us.”

“And the second part?” This time, your voice is quieter. More dangerous.

“Don’t pretend that didn’t cross your mind.”

“No.” His gaze shifts slightly—not away, but inward, like he’s choosing his next words with more care than before. “I didn’t think about it until you told me about the IUD.”

A pause.

Then—

“I hoped Larkie would tell you.”

That catches.

Not because of what he said—

But because of what it implies.

“Tell me what?”

Another beat.

“That it wasn’t easy.”

Your expression shifts, confusion cutting through the lingering edge of anger.

“…What wasn’t?” He holds your gaze and you hold his.

“Getting pregnant.” He exhales again, quieter this time. Your chest tightens faintly. Your gaze flicks, just for a second, toward the kitchen again. Toward Larkie. Toward the baby—

“It took time,” he adds. “A lot of it.”

“…How much time?” you ask, quieter now.

“Long enough that she almost stopped trying.” That lands heavier than anything else he’s said. Your throat tightens. Because that doesn’t fit the picture you were given. The one you built in your head in the last ten minutes.

Easy. Expected. Inevitable.

Not… that.

You swallow slowly.

“Yoongi helped her.”

He wants to show you what can happen if you don’t take it out. He wants to show you that it can hurt you both later on when, god’s be, you’ll want children.

“Joon-oppa…” you say quietly. “I don’t think I want a baby now.” He doesn’t react immediately—not with surprise, not with pressure, not with correction.

He just looks at you. And something in his expression softens, almost imperceptibly. Then he exhales slowly.

“I know,” he says quietly. “But we have to reach a compromise.”

“…Compromise,” you repeat, quieter now, testing it. His expression doesn’t change much, but there’s a steadiness in him that feels less like argument and more like structure returning to place.

“You disobeyed me, hid that from me, abused your autonomy–” Your breath catches—half disbelief, half anger rising before you even fully process it and you have to remind yourself you are not in your home but someone else's. Otherwise you’d already throw something at him.

“Actions have consequences–” He continues, still even. “You make sacrifices if you don’t want this to turn into something worse.”

A pause.

“Either you remove the IUD and continue your life without restrictions,” he says, “or you keep it and accept that I can’t allow you the same freedom of movement right now.”

It feels like something spoken in a language that looks familiar but isn’t meant to be understood.

Your throat tightens, but your voice comes out anyway.

“So that’s it,” you say slowly. “That’s your compromise.”

His expression doesn’t shift.

But something in his eyes does—something that almost looks like certainty trying to pass itself off as care.

“Yes.”

His gaze says it all—think about it Peaches and decide what you want.

And neither of you speaks right away after that.

“I didn’t think it would get into his head this much–” you whisper into the landline you took from his office and shut yourself in the bathroom with the empty shower on. Just in case, he’ll come back.

“Hmm, this isn’t about your date with Doll. He is fully focused on the IUD thing it seems.” She thinks out loud. Of course he is, the outing might even be long forgotten with just how consumed Namjoon became with the little copper thing in your uterus.

“If you’d ask me,” she says flatly, “I’d tell you to hide it at all cost, girlfriend.” Princess sounds tired. No wonder, it’s late and Namjoon still hasn’t come back from work. He dropped you off early with words to behave and that he has something to take care of. He also didn’t forget to remind you to think about his ultimatum before he locked the door and took your keys. He, however, didn’t unplug the phone. Or he still has some trust in you afterall.

You sink slightly against the bathroom cabinet, the cold tile pressing into your shoulder blades.

“It’s just an IUD. It’s not—”

“It’s never ‘just’ anything with men like that,” Princess cuts in, not unkind, just certain.

“He’s acting like I murdered someone” you whisper. “I had it before we even were.” She lets you say it all.

“You know what Hoseok did when he found out I stayed on birth control?” Your brow furrows slightly.

“…What?”

Then she says it, like it still irritates her to remember.

“He threw it into a fire.”

Your grip tightens on the phone instantly.

“…He what?”

“Not metaphorically,” she adds. “Literally. Pills. Packets. Everything he could find. Burned it right in front of me like that was supposed to make me… rethink my entire life.”

A shaky breath slips out of you, disbelief. Princess is quiet for a moment. She lets it sink.

“These men don’t like choices they didn’t authorize,” she says. “Even when they love you.” Silence hums between you both for a second.

“What should I do?” You finally sigh. A soft exhale through the line.

“I wish I could give you the answer you want,” she says “I didn’t best him in this matter.” She sighs, and you bet she’s caressing her big belly right now. You close your eyes for a second, forehead resting lightly against your hand.

That isn’t what you wanted to hear.

“One step at a time,” she says. “Not all at once.”

A beat. You keep listening to both her and the potential return of Kim Namjoon.

“First, you get yourself out of isolation, house arrest….” she lowers her tone, “trust me, you don’t want it.” Silence hits immediately after that. Heavier than before. Because you understand what she’s not saying out loud.

“I didn’t hide it to hurt him,” you say quickly, almost defensive now. “I just didn’t think I had to… report it.”

“I believe you,” Princess says immediately.

“Getting it removed doesn’t mean defeat–”

“I told him I don’t want a baby–” you interrupt her before she manages to say anything else, “—now,” you add, to make it clear.

The line goes quiet for a moment after you interrupt her. Careful silence. Like Princess is adjusting her grip on you through the phone, making sure she doesn’t let you slip further into panic while also not pushing you back.

“I told him I don’t want a baby—” you repeat, breath catching slightly as the words spill faster now, “now.”

The emphasis lands heavy in your own ears.

A beat.

Then Princess exhales slowly.

“I heard you,” she says, softer this time.

The bathroom feels even stiller now, the running water suddenly too constant, too loud, like it’s filling in for everything you’re not saying. You press your forehead more firmly into your hand. When she finally speaks, her voice is lower than before.

“This is… dangerous ground.”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the receiver.

Not because she’s dramatic.

Because she isn’t.

A beat.

“But I understand why you said it,” she adds, softer. “I really do.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do right now, he’s determined,” you admit, voice thinner. “No work, house arrest, no seeing Dad or you or anybody else–”

“Is there something else apart from this you’re not telling me, Peach?” she asks, “Namjoon isn’t that…cruel?” she continues, slower now, sounding more as a question than a statement. As if she’s not sure.

For a second, you consider deflecting.

Then you realize there’s no way to make it smaller without it becoming something else entirely.

“…It’s not just that,” you admit quietly. “I also said some things I didn’t mean.”

So you tell her. Everything that happened since you had the idea to make one poor soul happy in her confinement.

The silence after your word hangs in the room like something that shouldn’t have been spoken aloud and you’re pretty sure her breath hitched the moment you revealed what exactly you called this family.

“Cult.” She says, her voice stone cold. “I know you were angry, Peach, but…” Then a quiet exhale.

“I apologized already,” you say, faster than you mean to. Defensive. Tired. Worn down around the edges.

“I didn’t mean–” you stutter, “please…don’t be angry with me too.” You look down at the counter, the reflection of the bathroom light breaking across the sink like it can’t quite hold its shape.

“I’m not angry with you.” It comes out simply, without hesitation. Then, a quieter breath.

“You said you apologized,” she added gently. “So I’m going to trust that part of you meant it.”

“Here’s my advice, if you still want it–” Princess’s voice lowers, steadying now, like she’s trying to bring the ground back under your feet instead of pulling you in any direction.

“Obey–” Princess stops herself mid-word.

You hear it in the way her breath catches slightly, like she’s caught the direction she was about to go and doesn’t like where it leads.

“But before you said–” your first instinct is to protest.

“I know what I said–” Her voice lowers, more careful now. “Obey, but do not yield.” The words sit there between you both, and it clicks for you.

“Princess but you–” you say, trying to understand her change of position.

“I fucking know, Peach,” she says again, quieter this time, like she’s talking more to herself than to you. “It’s my fault for putting all that in your head.”

Your voice comes out smaller than you expect.

“What are you talking about?”

“I thought you could do what I couldn’t,” she admits. That lands wrong in your chest immediately. You sit up slightly without meaning to.

“What does that mean?” Another breath on the line.

“I thought you could break the pattern,” she says.

“I thought you were different enough, angry enough, stubborn enough that you wouldn’t fold into it the way the rest of us did.”

“I was wrong to make you think you could,” she continues. “Change the strategy, Peach.”

“Obey, but do not yield.” She repeats.

“How do I do that?”

You lay on the cognac couch, too soft to feel grounding, too wide to feel like it belongs to one person alone. The fireplace is cracking across the room, illuminating your reddened cheeks from all the tears you shed after you hung up the phone, stopped the water in the shower and walked around the empty penthouse. Namjoon is still not home.

The bed is even emptier. You couldn’t lay there alone. It would remind you of when you woke up here for the first time and those memories were prohibited.

You thought your life through. As any would if they had the opportunity to be locked up alone in a silent space. No book could shut your thoughts. No show in the telly. Nothing could overpower them.

You turn slightly on the couch, pulling your knees closer without really thinking about it. Your thoughts don’t slow down. They circle instead. Why are you resisting him so much?

The question doesn’t arrive as an accusation at first. It arrives as exhaustion.

Because he did want you safe. He did want things arranged so nothing could touch you. And somewhere in the middle of all your anger, that part refuses to fully disappear. You exhale slowly, staring into the fire. Maybe you didn’t give him the same thing back.

Living in this world. In their world. It’s a state of mind you either have or it will consume you. You close your eyes for a second. The scariest part…you have no fucking clue what you’d be doing with your life if you wouldn’t be with Namjoon. You wanted to move out of the Bronx and beyond that…you had no plan. No dream.

“What is it that you want from life, Peaches?” Larkie’s voice cuts through your mind like a blade.

Your breathing slows without you meaning it to, your body staying on the couch while your mind slips somewhere else entirely. Far away from glass walls and fireplaces and controlled silence. Back before all of this. Back before you learned what names could mean when they were spoken by the wrong people in the right rooms.

You didn’t even want to be a chemist in the distillery, who pretends to not see the meth they hide at the bottom of the bottles, to begin with or did you? You had no desire to even work in the field you studied. You got so used to the simplicity of being a barmaid.

You should have never sought work in Anubis. But it was the only place where they turned blind eye and paid double.

A life in the city. A job. Something…anything really. White-picket-fence life. You remember saying it once without really believing it belonged to you.

You remember hearing his name differently back then. Not as something intimate. Not as something inevitable. Just… present. Attached to conversations that made people lower their voices without realizing why.

“Obey, but do not yield.” That sentence never explains itself. It only demands interpretation. And somewhere inside you, it starts to feel less like advice and more like a rule you were never fully told you agreed to.

If you push it, you might lose access to everything and you cannot let that happen.

“Why are you not in bed?” His baritone voice resonates through the dark all the way to your mind, taking you out of your thoughts. You don’t get up immediately, you keep staring into the fire until he squats right in front of your face. You were so far gone in your head, you didn’t even notice him coming home.

“Where were you?” You ask on instinct and listen to his heavy sigh.

“They blew up the floor of the building Seokjin’s girlfriend worked at.” Your stomach tightens immediately.

“Is she okay?” you ask, before you even think about what it means to ask.

“She wasn’t on that floor,” he says. Relief hits you fast enough to make you dizzy. He doesn’t tell you more and you don’t ask either. Always afraid of what you could learn. It feels like it would only burden your mind even more.

The sleeves of his shirt pulled up to his elbows, upper buttons open, a golden bracelet hangs on his wrist, expensive rings on his fingers still shimmer even in the dim light of the living room. You focus on the golden chain that leans against his toned torso and frames his neck. Something elicits you to pull it tight, close to you. As close as you can.

You must be insane. Because not once in the past has it occurred to you that you could flip a coin and be gone before it lands on the ground. First because you know Namjoon has your passport, second, because you didn’t even remember that until now. You simply didn’t aim to leave me. As if something is physically prohibiting you from doing so.

Your gaze drops for a second. Your body already understands something your thoughts are still resisting.

His hand moves—slow, deliberate—tilting your chin just enough to bring your eyes back to his.

“Where did you go?” he asks quietly. Not suspicious. Not accusing. Just… aware.

Your lips part slightly, but the answer doesn’t come out clean.

“I was thinking,” you say instead of addressing if the explosion had something to do with what is going on among the two clans.

“As you wanted.” His thumb lingers for a second longer than necessary before he lets go. You inhale slowly. Then you make yourself steady.

“And?” He whispers, moving the loose strands of your hair from your face.

“I’ll get it removed.”

For a split second, everything in him stills. Then it happens.

Not loud. Not dramatic. But unmistakable.

Kim Namjoon exhales like something tight in his chest has finally loosened. His shoulders drop just slightly, his gaze softening in a way you haven’t seen all night—approval, relief, something dangerously close to satisfaction settling into his features.

His hand comes back to your face, slower this time. Warmer.

“That’s so good to hear,” he murmurs. It’s quiet, but sounds happy. Like a piece has just clicked into place exactly where he wanted it.

His thumb brushes your cheek, lingering and there’s something in the way he looks at you now that feels… settled. Like he’s already moving forward from this moment, already placing you somewhere in a future that makes sense to him.

It almost makes you want to say it to his face again.

“No baby yet.” The words cut through the space cleanly just like they did before.

His hand stills against your face. The warmth doesn’t disappear.

But it changes. His eyes sharpen again, the softness narrowing into focus. You don’t look away. Obey, but do not yield.

“Not now,” you add, steadier this time. “I’ll get it removed. I won’t fight you on that. But I’m not… doing that part yet.” His thumb slowly drops from your cheek.

“You’re making conditions again,” he says quietly.

“I’m setting one,” you correct. “If I bear your child it will be out of love–” The fire cracks behind you. “Not because you’re scared I’ll fly if you don’t clip my wings.”

Namjoon goes completely still. Not the calm, measured stillness you’ve learned to read. This one is different. His gaze doesn’t leave yours, but something behind it shifts—tightens, like a wire pulled just a fraction too far.

“You think I need to clip anything?” he asks, his voice dangerously low. Your breath catches, but you don’t back up.

“I don’t…but you think I need something even more permanent than marriage to stay.”

Break the pattern of this family Peaches. Try.

“You think I don’t believe marriage is enough?” he asks. Quieter now. Not softer. There’s a difference. You swallow, but you don’t look away.

“I think you don’t trust it to be,” you answer. That hits. You see it in the way his jaw shifts, tension pulling tighter beneath his skin. But instead of snapping back—

He steps closer. Closing the space again. Not fast. Not aggressive. Inevitable.

“You’re wrong,” he says. Your breath catches faintly.

“Marriage is enough,” he continues. “When both people understand what it means.”

A beat. His hand lifts again, not quite touching you this time—hovering, like he’s deciding whether you’ve earned that closeness back.

“But you don’t,” he adds quietly.

“I’m sorry if I don’t follow the fantasy you had about us for years–” you say through the warm tears of exhaustion to entertain this topic, your voice shakes. “But this is what I want right now.”

“I didn’t imagine you,” he says. Quieter now. Measured in a way that feels more dangerous than anger.

“I loved you,” he continues. “Long before you decided to step into this world. ” Your breath falters.

Because that—

that sounds true.

“And I knew,” he adds, “you wouldn’t survive outside of it the way you think you would.” Your brows pull together slightly, hurt flickering through the exhaustion.

“That wasn’t your decision to make.”

“No,” he agrees.

A beat.

“But it is now–” your stomach drops. “You want to negotiate? Okay, let’s do it,” he says, steady, controlled. The words don’t feel like relief. They feel like something is being rearranged.

“The IUD will be removed,” Namjoon continues, tone even, like he’s laying out terms already decided. “We don’t have to have a child right now.”

A pause.

Just long enough for you to almost believe that’s where it ends.

“But you’re not going back to work.”

It lands clean.

Final.

Your chest tightens immediately.

“…What?”

“Ever,” he adds. Your head shakes before you can stop it, disbelief flooding in too fast to contain.

“But you promised–”

“I promised to not restrict your movement, not that you can go back to work–” Your pulse spikes, something sharp and panicking rising in your chest.

“How is that not restricting my movement when you take that kind of autonomy from me?” You spit the words out way too fast.

“You’ve already proved you cannot manage within the structure on your own.” He replies.

“That’s not fair, how—”

“You took Doll out without clearance,” he cuts in, voice still low but firmer now. “You weren’t thinking. You made both of you visible–that’s how.”

The words hit like facts. Because they are.

“And then you fought me on it,” he continues. “Instead of understanding why that was a problem.”

Your throat tightens, because it suddenly all feels away – yielding.

“I didn’t know—”

“You didn’t ask,” he corrects. Your fingers curl into the fabric beneath you. “Then you slipped and told me about that goddamn thing you are adamant to keep and proceeded to call our family a cult.”

“People make mistakes?! I said I was sorry. That doesn’t mean you take everything from me,” you say, quieter now—but sharper. “I’m not just going to sit here and exist for you.” His gaze sharpens.

“You won’t be ‘just existing,’” he says. “You’ll be protected. Provided for. Positioned properly as my wife.”

“That’s not the same thing,” you whisper.

“It is in this family.” The certainty in his voice makes something twist painfully in your chest. Your eyes sting again, vision blurring slightly as you shake your head.

“So?” He tilts his head to the side. “What will you choose?”

Fuck.

This is not the end of the world Peaches. He can change his mind later on when you persuade him enough. What Namjoon doesn’t need to know is that you don’t give a flying fuck about that job. Not when it’s your chance to not be baby trapped. And besides… you just need him to be happy to do the persuasion…so..

“Alright.”

You move through the distillery while it’s still half-asleep. This is your last shift, as he promised. The air carries yesterday’s fruit, soft and alcoholic, sweetened by time. You check sugar depletion, acidity, ester formation. You taste with restraint, a drop on the tongue, spit, rinse. Not pleasure. Information. Your mouth is just another instrument.

You calibrate hydrometers, clean glass until it sings, adjust pH in increments so small they feel almost theoretical. You run chromatography to see what the nose can’t yet tell you, tracking the quiet rise of aromatics that will matter months from now.

The best work you’ve done in his family—soon to be yours too—distillery is rarely noticed at the moment. It will only speak years later, when someone lifts a glass and finds balance where there could have been ruin.

You do your daily tasks under the watchful eye of Jaebum as always. All for the very last time. It was nice while it lasted. Now you will cost Namjoon a lot of money, because you…you will show him whether he likes you working or carelessly spending his money whenever and wherever.

You are old money now, you don’t need to pretend to be a normal woman. At least, that’s the idea Larkie put into your head. So Namjoon’s black card? Will cry.

Jaebum didn’t speak much this morning. You bet Namjoon already told him you’ll be taking some time off. You wonder if he told him the truth or if he made up something more domestic. More normal–like you want to plan the wedding, baby or something along that way.

You keep your posture precise. Shoulders relaxed. Chin neutral. Every movement is economical. You give him nothing extra to read. Everything is fine. What happened between you and Namjoon is not his concern.

When you lean over the bench, the lab coat pulls slightly across your shoulders. The familiar weight of it feels heavier today, like it knows it’s about to be taken from you. You adjust a valve, wrist turning smoothly and for a moment your palm rests against warm metal. Copper heat seeps into your skin, grounding, intimate. Work doesn’t ask who you belong to.

When the doors open, the sound cuts clean through the room.

You don’t turn right away. You’re mid-note, pen scratching against the margin of your logbook, pretending the tension rolling up your spine isn’t instinctive. A chair legs back too fast. Bet Jaebum bows to pay him respect. Yet, you don’t move. Even when his footsteps echo louder the faster he walks to where you sit.

“Pack up, Peach,” he says. Simple. But sounds urgent

“I’m in the middle of a—” You blink the confusion away when you notice his face. What happened?

He steps into your space, the hem of his jacket brushing the edge of the bench. You can’t take a full breath without touching him. His presence presses, heavy and deliberate, collapsing the careful geometry of your work.

“I said pack up.” Now that’s the same voice Kim Namjoon had when he confided in you about being afraid of losing you. Fuck. Something really happened.

“What is it?” Your fingers curl around the edge of the counter, latex squeaking under pressure. You don’t move. You don’t trust your legs not to betray you if you do.

“Doll and Lilla were attacked,” he adds, quieter now. The word attacked lands like a chemical spill, sharp and spreading. “We are going full lockdown. So pack the fuck up, Peach.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow once, carefully, like that might keep everything where it belongs.

You push back from the stool slowly. Deliberately. Your knees threaten to lock, so you keep moving. You peel off your gloves, one finger at a time, latex snapping faintly in the quiet. You place them on the bench, straightening them unnecessarily. Control where you can get it.

You reach for your logbook. Namjoon catches your wrist before you can lift it.

His grip is firm, exact. Thumb pressing into the soft underside of your wrist where your pulse gives you away instantly. You hate that. I hate that he can feel it. Hate that he knows.

“You’re not finishing that,” he says.

“It’s protocol, Oppa” you reply, too quickly. Your body leans back a fraction without permission, recalibrating around his hold. “I need to record the—”

“I will burn this place down before I let you stand here another minute.”

Your breath stutters. Just once. He feels that too. His fingers tighten imperceptibly, a warning more than a restraint. He would go as far as to destroy his family’s empire. Just for you to be safe right now. He’s scared and you know Kim Namjoon doesn’t like to feel scared.

So…

You let go of the logbook.

Namjoon releases your wrist only to slide his hand up your arm, fingers spreading over your sleeve, steering you away from the bench. Guiding. You hate that word almost as much as you hate how easily your feet follow.

“Jaebum,” he says without looking away from you.

“Yes, Sangjanim?” Jaebum answers immediately.

“She’s off the floor effectively now. Take over her responsibilities until further notice.”

There will be no further notice. You’re sure of it.

Jaebum hesitates for half a second. Then nods.

“Understood.”

You catch the still in your peripheral vision as Namjoon moves you past it. Copper warm, mid-breath, abandoned. Your work left hanging like a sentence cut off mid-thought.

At the door, he stops you with a hand at your back. Flat. Heavy. Possessive. You straighten automatically under it, spine aligning, chin lifting. He notices. Of course he does.

“Stay close to me,” he says quietly, meant for you alone. “And don’t fucking argue. Not today, Peach.”

You nod once.

And let him take you out of the lab.

The sleeves of Namjoon’s sweater are pushed up, he’s moving with unhurried focus as he prepares you a sandwich for breakfast. You’re sitting at the edge of the couch with the phone pressed tight in your hand. It rings once more before the line connects.

“Hyung?” Jungkook’s voice comes through immediately, a little rougher than usual, like he hasn’t fully slept. But there’s no sharpness in it. No edge.

You swallow, glancing briefly toward Namjoon as if he might somehow translate your guilt into something easier to carry.

“It’s me.” You say quietly. Then you exhale, correcting yourself before you lose courage that you were mustering since you went on lockdown.

“Is she okay, Gguk?”

There’s a pause on the line. Not the kind that signals anger. More like he’s checking something in his head before answering you properly.

“She’s fine, Peach,” Jungkook says, “don’t trouble yourself.”

That last part is said with a faint softness, like he knows you’re already punishing yourself. Your fingers tighten around the phone. You feel you owe him an apology even though Namjoon said Jungkook doesn’t need one.

“I shouldn’t have taken her out like that,” you admit. The words come out faster now, as if you need to get them out before your voice betrays you. “I wasn’t thinking. I just— I saw her in the church and I thought she’d..she’d be happy to have a friend, but I didn’t consider—”

“Peaches.” His voice cuts in, but gently. Not stopping you out of irritation. More like pulling you back from spiraling.

“I’m not mad,” he says simply. You blink, caught off guard by how immediate it is.

“You’re not?” you ask, quieter now.

“No.” A pause. Then, softer, almost amused in a tired way. “If I was mad every time you girls acted first and thought later, I’d never stop.”

A breath slips out of you that almost feels like relief, ignoring the obvious jab.

In the kitchen, Namjoon slides a plate forward and starts arranging the sandwich like it matters more than it should. He doesn’t interrupt. He just listens, present but not intrusive, letting you have the space without making it feel like you’re alone in it.

“I didn’t mean to make things harder,” you say, smaller this time.

“I know.”

“Can I talk to her later?” you ask. A faint sound on the other end—movement, maybe him adjusting the phone.

“Yeah,” he says. “When she wakes up.” You nod before remembering he can’t see you.

“Okay–” you mutter.

“When this is all over…” he starts. “We could go somewhere.” You pause, fingers loosening just a little around the phone.

“Somewhere?” you repeat softly.

“Yeah.” A faint exhale on his end, almost like he’s imagining it as he speaks. “Somewhere quiet. No phones. No… all of this.”

There’s a beat where the idea hangs there between you both, fragile but real enough to feel.

In the kitchen, Namjoon doesn’t react, but his hands slow for a second as he sets something down, listening without inserting himself into it.

You glance down at the sandwich in front of you like it suddenly feels more real than the rest of the world.

“As a family,” Jungkook adds.

It’s said so simply it almost hurts. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“I’d like that,” you admit, finally smiling genuinely after a long time, which makes Namjoon smile too.

If you only knew this was the last time you’d speak to him for a very long while, you wouldn’t let the silence linger the way you did.

𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝

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