Next summer; 01 - From Min to Jung
Genre: Strangers to Lovers I Arranged Marriage
Pairing: Kim Taehyung x Min Reader x Jung Hoseok
Synopsis: In the Min family, worth is based on pleasing the elders. To gain freedom, you agree to an arranged marriage with Jung Hoseok. Despite your efforts to reshape your life, complications arise with Hoseok’s idol, Kim Taehyung. Your alliance and freedom are at risk as you break the rule of never engaging with people from your partner’s social circle.
Word count: 11.6K
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Masterlist of series
General masterlist
Songs to listen to while reading: Move (Taemin), Honey (Solar), Dark Clouds (Heize), I like you (Post Malone), Falling slowly (Daesung)
A strained smile here, a respective bow there. Another of your father’s influential friends taps your hand with their old, wrinkled one. Your brother stands in front of the door, ever the better portion of the Min siblings, taming the tension with unnecessary small talk. It seems that your psychology degree was of little help when it came to catering to the higher society. It's not like you cared but it would’ve been nice if you were gifted with the masking of emotions like Yoongi.
Seokjin peeks into the room, the vessels in your head almost popping at the sight of him. You think of his presence as an intrusion like your father was mocking you by showing him as a trophy he won in this war. If only you played your cards better perhaps, he’d be in the other room as the groom but alas you were stubborn.
Kim Seokjin, the heir of the Kim empire and Yoongi’s childhood friend. The same one that used to tease you about your tantrums, the one who scolded you when you got your heart broken and the one who went broke it all over again. Trice the harder than your last boyfriend. Before that occasion, you might’ve listened to your father and proceeded with the marriage, but you woke from the slumber you’ve been in so long. Marrying him would mean the shackles on your hands would be tighter than ever.
Yoongi glances at his watch before coming to your side. Without much communication, guess it went sideways at the sight of you. He takes your hand. “It’s time.”
Three words were the best you’ll get out of him. It doesn’t come as a surprise, that the two of you had opposite views on this whole charade. While you looked at it as an out from the Min family and embracing freedom, he looked at is a betrayal of sacred family vows. You tried for years to tell him that no matter the love and the respect he had for you, you two never started on the same footing. Something you resented him for.
He had everything handed to him on a silver platter, the heir to the throne of the Min empire. Meanwhile, you, a daughter that in your opinion was a mistake, a slip of a night, had to claw for scraps of your parents’ affection. To your father, you were a pawn in his plan to rise higher than he already has, to him you were his entrance to the Kim empire.
Except you shattered that dream by taking the hand of Jung Hoseok, a chaebol who came from nothing. New money, your father spat at the mention of Hoseok's name.
“Alright.” Your indifference irked Yoongi to oblivion.
Much like your father Yoongi wasn’t the happiest about your marriage partner more so as he shared one too many drinks, and you'd assume women, with Hoseok. You’ll get your heart broken, Seokjin is a better choice, he told you.
Oh, the irony
For starters Seokjin has already broken your heart, secondly, Hoseok could stick it into your best friend for all you care. You weren’t marrying him for love. In the society you grew up, love was a foreign noun. You were marrying Hoseok for the freedom his surname held.
And Hoseok?
He’s marrying you for the freedom your presence held in his life.
So, one might think how did it come to this marriage?
Hyun, ever the dotting closeted cousin of yours, let it slip past you that his close friend Jung Hoseok was looking for a wife. Imagine if you were to marry him, God, I’d pay to see that, he blabbered stumbling over his words. Both stupid enough, both with too many drinks under the belt, you made a bet. You, ever the competitive person he knows you to becould never accept defeat, so you head to the Jung mansion. Long story short, your first impression wasn’t a good one.
Dancing on Hoseok’s last nerve, you barely managed to form a fitting sentence without the mention of a lavender marriage. In your defence, Hyun never had one single straight male friend. How could you know Hoseok was straighter than a pole?
It didn’t help that Hyun was far worse than you, laughing his ass off at every word that left your mouth. Let’s rule the world, you still cringe at your choice of words but deep down you truly meant it. You wanted to put Hoseok on the throne and make your father eat his words out.
Much to your surprise, Hoseok was contemplating your offer alas only when you sober up. The confidence wasn’t there the next day he took notice of that but, the fire in your eyes as you lay out the plan was too tempting for him to turn you down.
As much as you wanted to prove yourself to your father, so did he to society and you were his one-way ticket. With a firm handshake and Hyun’s hangover-self throwing up in the corner of Hoseok’s house, you sealed the deal.
That’s how you found yourself standing in front of him at the altar. You had to pat yourself on the back, despite the marriage being a farce Hoseok was a handsome man. A good catch, you remember Lisa's comment as she helped you fit into the damn tight dress. In a world filled with ordinary faces, Jung Hoseok stood with high cheekbones that gave him a sculpted look, framing his face perfectly and adding an air of sophistication.
His eyes are perhaps the most captivating; large and expressive, adorned by long, delicate lashes that would make any woman jealous. The deep brown hue holds a spark of mischief and kindness. When he smiles, they transform into cheerful crescents, radiating joy and in conclusion from the visual aspect, your marriage surely won't lack.
“Ladies and gentlemen, family and friends, we gather here today in this beautiful setting to witness the union of Y/N and Hoseok in the sacred bond of marriage. It is a celebration of love,”
You snort, luckily the priest doesn’t budge and continues with his speech full of pretentious bullshit. To your side Hoseok contains his laugh, a contrast to his best man – Jinwoo, was it? - who stares at you in shock.
“Y/N, do you take Hoseok to be your lawfully wedded spouse, to love and cherish, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live? “
“I do. “
“Hoseok, do you take Y/N to be your lawfully wedded spouse, to love and cherish, in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live? “
“I do.” You had to give it to him, for a split second you almost believed that the man standing in front of you was deeply in love.
“Now, by the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife. You may seal your vows with a kiss. “
The cheers, coming only from Hoseok's side of the family—now technically yours—cut through the small venue. His hand wraps around your waist, while the other gently pulls away the veil that is doing a poor job of concealing your face.He whispers that you are pretty as he brings his face closer to yours, nose to nose. Panic slowly rises within you, but with better judgment, you close your eyes and allow Hoseok to lead the dance.
The softness of his lips takes you by surprise; they meld perfectly with yours, and your body instinctively follows his rhythm. When he finally pulls away, Hoseok is just as out of breath as you are. The two of you lock eyes, momentarily stunned by the simplicity of the kiss that ignited a fire within you.
He is the first to recover, intertwining your fingers as he pulls you to his side while you walk down the aisle. Both of your mothers are in tears; his out of happiness, yours from the pain. Pushing that aside you follow Hoseok towards the car. Hyun steps out of the driver’s seat and opens the door for you.
He gives you his hand as you curse Lisa for talking you into a dress that had too many layers. “I should’ve just gone with the simple slip dress.”
"That’s for the first night as a married couple," Hoseok says as he sits beside you, while his best man takes the front seat.
"I don’t see the point of that. It’s not like you wear it long enough for your husband to marvel at it. Don’t you guys like, I don’t know lace underwear or something more revealing?"
At your question, Jinwoo chokes on the bottle of water he was innocently trying to drink. Hyun doesn’t give him much time to recover before commenting on how he likes his man naked on the bed. The poor guy blushes fifty shades of red.
Hoseok chuckles at the exchange happening in the car and adds his thoughts on the topic. "I’d say I like whatever my missus likes. Confidence is the sexiest."
You roll your eyes but find his answer somewhat endearing. Unlike Hyun, who calls Hoseok vanilla, which makes Jinwoo groan and you all laugh.
"My misery shouldn’t be your source of entertainment," he retorts, tossing the bottle aside.
Hyun hums, and for a moment, Jinwoo’s eyes flicker with something that you interpret as a soft warning, almost daring him to say what he wants. Hoseok stifles a bubbly laugh, wiggling his brows at you.
"Woo, come on, we all know you’ve had sex. There’s no need to be a prude."
Jinwoo bites his lips in irritation. "I’m far from a prude. I just prefer to keep my sexual preferences to myself. Hoseok."
“Uu full name usage. Right, we just need to buy you whatever new Louis Vuitton bag there is, and you’ll be on all fours." Hoseok jabs Jinwoo’s shoulder with his finger, which Jinwoo playfully slaps away.
“A material king, I like that.” Hyun adds and the three laugh.
This further confirms that you made the right decision. Hoseok is warm to everyone; strangers, friends, or family, it doesn’t matter. In contrast, he is a striking difference from Seokjin, who always looks at everyone as if they were below him. You included.
Hoseok swung open the grand door to his mansion with a playful grin lighting up his face. "Mi casa es su casa!" he declared, beckoning you inside like a host ready for a fiesta.
Just as you were about to step through the threshold, he cheekily blocked your way with one of his legs and nudged you back, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
You stared at him, confusion mixing with amusement, and he quipped, "Come on, we just got married! I can’t let you wander in without proper supervision!"
Before you could retort, he scooped you up in a dramatic bridal lift, declaring, "This is the only way you’re getting in!" With a mock-seriousness, he marched you through the entrance as if you were a prized possession.
When he finally set you down in the grand foyer, you glanced around in awe, taking in the opulent décor. The mansion radiated an air of sophisticated modernity, drawing you in with its clean lines and well-considered design.
A sleek, minimalistic modern sofa, upholstered in soft grey fabric, took up the spacious living room. The centrepiece of the room, a striking chimney made of white stone, reached up towards the ceiling, its contemporary aesthetic balancing the warmth of potential crackling fires.
Above, a magnificent chandelier reminiscent of the one in your father's upscale office hung gracefully. The walls were adorned with a select few paintings that whispered tales of artistry and vision, each frame showcasing pieces from renowned artists.
You could immediately identify the bold strokes of Picasso, the impressionistic flair of Renoir, and the golden allure of Gustav Klimt—all carefully chosen to convey a sense of cultured refinement.
Yet, amidst the sophisticated decor, your gaze was inevitably drawn to a striking display of trophies that dominated one wall. Gleaming under the soft chandelier light, they stood as a testament to extraordinary accomplishment.
Trophies for best artist of the year, best choreography, best song of the year, and best duet, among others. Each award hinted at a world of creativity and triumph—yet their presence also stirred a sense of tension within you. A wave of realization washed over you, reminding you of the many reasons your father held Hoseok in contempt.
It wasn’t just a matter of approval; it was a clash of worlds. Hoseok, the charismatic CEO of an entertainment company, managed talents like Jeon Jungkook and Kim Taehyung, something your father detested. He thought art and any creative branch is for the lower class to create and the upper class to buy as reminder of their everlasting power.
Hoseok was long gone, the sounds of glass clinging directing you to the kitchen which was spacious as his living room. Every single piece in it screamed luxury and although you lived in a similar setting somehow here you felt out of place. As if you were in a visitor in a museum only allowed to watch and not touch for you might break something.
The sound of popping cuts through your daze and you notice Hoseok pouring champagne in two glasses. He strolls towards you with a grin on his face as he offers you a glass. “A toast to our freedom.”
Your glass cling. “A toast.”
Once Hoseok downs the champagne, he loosens the tie and runs a hand through his hair. The messy look gives him a certain allure which he must’ve known because he smirks and with a wink, he walks out nesting himself on the sofa. You follow his lead, finding more comfort in an armchair opposite of him.
He exhales loudly, turning to his side as he plops his head with his palm and looks at you. “We don’t need to go over the rules again, right?”
“There isn’t much to go over, we agreed not to butt into each other’s lives.” You add as you take of the first layer of the wedding dress.
Hoseok nods, eyes staring into space before he fixes them on you again. “True, but I wish to just add some ground rules.”
“Shoot” you say, now fully out of the wedding dress leaving you in a satin slip.
“No hooking up in the mansion”, your face scrunches and Hoseok clicks his tongue signalling you to let him finish, “You can have fun with whomever you want however, co-workers are off the limit.”
You roll your eyes, surely you weren’t dumb to jeopardize your marriage by tainting the image you both are trying so hard to keep pristine. “You know businessmen are not my cup of tea.”
“Well, neither were the daughters of chaebols for me but look at us now.” he teases as you throw a pillow at him full force.
He dodges. “No need to get feisty. Anyway, those are the only rules I have. The reason I agreed to this marriage was to keep my image serious and clean. Do you have anything to add?”
You think for a second. There wasn’t anything specific you wanted to add to the equation, much of it was already agreed upon. You didn’t care about his sex life as long as it didn’t enter the house because you are not sure you’d be able to sit idly as half-naked woman parades around the house. You had some self-respect, fake marriage or not. Additionally, you wanted to keep your face private. The less people knew how you looked, the more freedom you both get.
“No, not really but I am curious what my job at the company will be.”
Hoseok brought the idea on your last meet up. He thought that working at his company would give you the opportunity to put your degree to some use. You didn’t dwell on it, thinking that his opinion might change but it remained the same.
“You’ll be working,” his phone buzzes, eyes skimming through the text, “with idols. Assessing their mental health for debuts and tours, accompanying them for some occasions. I need them to be on top of their game and that means that their health is my top priority.”
You nod, happy to know that your husbands company cared about things that are usually dismissed as a trivial thing. “Sounds good.”
Hoseok grins, excitement laced with anticipation before he gets up. “I am going out. You don’t need to wait up for me.”
Not like you were planning to. Lisa already asked you to come with her to the opening of a new pub in Gangnam. One of her friends decided to try her luck in this area of Seoul, seeing how previous neighbourhood didn’t bring much revenue. You send a text to her asking her about the exact time you need to be there before you go upstairs towards the guest room.
As you pass Hoseok’s room you see him switch out of the elegant suit into a more casual attire that consisted of a flare shirt and comfortable jeans. He was on the phone talking to someone, the smile on his face never flattening for a second. It doesn’t take a genius to know where he’s headed but you couldn’t help but think if the other person on the line was happy with the arrangement.
As you push through the heavy wooden doors of the pub in Gangnam, it feels as if you’ve tumbled into some kind of vibrant alternate universe where laughter doesn’t just echo off the walls, it bounces around the room like a pinball.
The crowd, many consisting of younger people, pulses with energy. Each person a constellation of stories waiting to collide. Conversations swirl around you, a tangled web of half-finished sentences and drunken confessions that make me feel both exhilarated and slightly lost like being caught in a stream of consciousness that threatens to sweep you away.
You navigate through the mass, eyes scanning for Lisa at your reserved table. You catch sight of her in the upper section that, sipping on a vibrant cocktail that matches the spark in her eyes.
She’s wearing the same outfit from the wedding, and you can’t help but ask. “Did you ever go home?”
Her laughter bubbles up, light and carefree. “Home is where the cocktails are, Y/N. I came straight here to help my friend with the grand opening. You know, the universe has plans for us tonight.”
You cringe at her loud voice, the tipsiness in it coming to the surface. “Maybe you should slow down with the alcohol, Lisa. I might need a map just to find you later.”
She tips her glass at you, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Jeongsu will take care of me afterward, I promise!”
At the mention of his name, you groan, the sound escaping me like a balloon losing air. “Jeongsu again?”
Lisa rolls her eyes, a teasing glare in your direction. “Oh, come on. You know it’s better than being all alone with my thoughts. Plus, he’s got that whole priest’s mysterious son vibe going on, which is basically my kryptonite.”
“Right, priest’s mysterious son, because we all know how well that usually ends,” you quip.
Lisa had her fair share of vibey guys she would go through each month. This month’s flavour was the priest’s son she met at the church. You didn’t want to burst her bubble that it was the pastors who get married and, frankly, he fucked her far too many times for God to ship them to heaven anyway. At the end of the day she was just a girl, standing in front of a fuckboy asking him, well… to fuck her.
One of the things you loved about Lisa was that she knew how to read the room. She never questioned why you weren’t with Hoseok on your first night as husband and wife. The main reason probably being that she was built from the same cloth as you and knew most marriages were deals made between the families.
Sensing your irritation she takes your hand and begins swaying you to the beat of the music. You savour the moment, finally freeing yourself from Yoongi’s hard gaze and judgment of his friends, especially Seokjin’s.
“Work it!” Lisa shouts, takes a sip of her drink and waves at someone behind you, “Jeongsu and his friends came.”
Friends? More Jeongsu-s to deal with.
He doesn’t waste time twirling Lisa before he goes in for a very slobbery kiss. It reminded you of the species of birds that often cleaned the crocodile’s teeth. In this instance poor Lisa was the crocodile but judging by her expression she was into it as much as he was. Tearing your gaze in order not to gage, you sip your drink.
The bitterness bites at your throat as you skim through the three friends that were dragged by Jeongsu. The one sitting next to you seemed like the most cultured one, you didn’t catch his name but he nevertheless he caught your eye.
His face, a stunning blend of sharp angles and softness, made it hard to look away. The black hair, slightly tousled, gave him a laid-back yet striking appearance. It enhanced the intensity of his dark eyes. His lips were slightly open, as if he was about to say something important, holding a gentle smile that felt inviting.
You only notices that you’re staring when he turns to you, smirk tugging the corner of his mouth upwards. “Would it be corny if I say take a picture, it lasts longer?”
When he spoke, there was a smoothness to his tone, a musicality, ebbing and flowing like a melody holding you captive.
You didn’t know if the alcohol was working or his stupid joke but suddenly you became aware of the warmth on your cheeks. “Uh,huh, both?”
He laughed, it was deep and resonant, filling the air with a warmth that made you smile. “I am a terrible model, but I’ll do my best to give you a flattering photo.”
“Oho Joonie, be careful she’s a feisty one.” Jeongsu jumps into the conversation albeit uninvited.
You think your eyes will fall out from the rolling they were doing. Joonie, hums at Jeongsu not paying much attention to his words as he leans in whispering in your ear. “If you try any harder, you might actually throw a knife at him.”
“Oh, bite me Joonie.” You spat turning towards him.
The proximity of your faces was far too small for your liking. You could almost count the number of freckles on his nose and the two dimples that appeared as his smile widened. “Where though?”
It hangs between you for a second, the weight of it sinks in at exactly the same moment for both. His eyes widen, his lips part—whether in horror or regret, you can’t quite tell—and suddenly, all that carefully curated confidence crumbles like a sandcastle at high tide. “Oh my God, I didn’t— I mean, I wasn’t— That’s not—” He runs a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at you. “That was weird, right? That was weird. I’m so sorry.”
And you lose it. Not in a cruel way, but in the way you do when someone is so sincerely mortified that it becomes impossible not to find it endearing. He’s still floundering, still tripping over every syllable in his desperate attempt to undo whatever just happened, and the sheer panic on his face is funnier than it should be. “Relax, Joonie” you say, nudging his arm with yours, “I promise I won’t hold it against you forever. Just, you know, for the rest of the night.”
“It’s Namjoon, by the way. Kim Namjoon”
“Such a James Bond introduction.” Jeongsu again butts in, and this time your hand begins reaching for the empty bottle of soda that someone finished earlier.
Luckily for Jeonsgu, and sadly for you and your nerves Namjoon catches on what you were about to do so he beats you to it pushing the bottle of your reach.
You throw him a glare and he put his hands up in a surrender. “As much as I’d love for the bottle to silence him, we have a project due tomorrow. My ass is on the line too.”
You sigh, finding comfort in the straw of your drink. “Min Y/N”
He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m never speaking again.”
“Shame,” you say, smirking into your drink. “You were just starting to entertain me.”
He sighs dramatically but smiles, shaking his head. “This is why I stick to books. They don’t judge me.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” you say, leaning in. “I think if books could talk, they’d have a lot to say about you.”
He scoffs. “Yeah? And what exactly do you think they’d say?”
“That you dog-ear pages even though you claim to love them.”
His mouth falls open. “I do not!”
You raise an eyebrow. “So, if I were to look through your books right now, I wouldn’t find a single folded corner?”
He hesitates for half a second too long.
“Uh-huh,” you say, victorious.
Namjoon groans again, slumping against the bar. “This is character assassination.”
“Maybe,” you tease, “but it’s accurate character assassination.”
And for a while, you just sit there, the silence between you no longer uncomfortable but easy, something warm and unspoken settling into the space he’d just filled with his clumsy attempt at flirtation. He exhales after a moment, gaze flickering from the condensation on his glass to you. “You ever think about how Plato believed love was just the longing for our other half?”
You raise an eyebrow. “That’s an interesting way to pivot from whatever just happened.”
He huffs out a laugh. “I don’t know, I just...there’s something kind of tragic about it, right? The idea that we were all once whole, only to be split apart and left searching for the piece we lost.” He pauses, as if considering his own words, then shrugs. “Or maybe it’s just another way of explaining why people spend their whole lives looking for something they can’t name.”
You study him for a second, the way he absentmindedly taps his fingers against the side of his glass. You tilt your head, considering. “See, but that’s the problem with Plato’s whole theory. It assumes love is about finding someone to complete you when, really, psychology tells us that a lot of what we seek in others is actually a reflection of what we lack or desire within ourselves. Ever heard of attachment theory?”
Namjoon leans in slightly, eyes sparking with interest. “Anxious, avoidant, secure—the whole ‘tell me how much your parents hugged you as a child and I’ll tell you how you handle relationships’ thing?”
You laugh. “Pretty much. Plato’s idea of love is almost… nostalgic? Like he’s romanticizing the search for another half, but psychology would argue that love isn’t about halves. It’s about two whole people learning to exist alongside each other, dysfunctions and all. We project onto people. We fall in love with the versions of them that exist in our heads. Sometimes, we don’t even love the person. We love what they represent, the way they make us feel, the potential of what could be.”
Namjoon exhales, resting his chin on his hand. “That’s interesting. So, what’s your go,to book about love, then? What story do you think gets it right?”
You think for a second. “I’d say The Great Gatsby, because love is obsessive, delusional, and often tragic. Gatsby loved Daisy, sure, but he loved the idea of Daisy even more. He built her up into something impossible, something that could never match reality. That’s how love works sometimes, it’s all projection and nostalgia and chasing ghosts.”
His brow quirks up. “Dark.”
You grin. “Accurate.”
He shakes his head, laughing. “See, I was going to say The Little Prince.”
You blink. “The children’s book?”
He nods. “Think about it. The prince loves his rose, even though she’s difficult and vain. But he learns that love isn’t about possession, it’s about care, about understanding. ‘You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.’” He pauses. “Love is choosing something, even when it’s imperfect. Maybe especially then.”
You stare at him, and for a moment, the bar fades away, the hum of voices, the clatter of glasses, the low thrum of music all softening into the background. It’s just Namjoon, looking at you with quiet amusement, like he’s waiting for you to poke a hole in his theory. And maybe you could. Maybe you should. But instead, you just shake your head.
“You’re annoyingly insightful, you know that?”
He grins, raising his glass in a small toast. “Likewise.”
You clink your drink against his, the warmth of cocktail settling in your chest. The night draws on and you lose track of time as you stare at Lisa who was on her sixth - or was it seventh? - cocktail. Lisa was a hedonist, using every opportunity to feed her hunger and usually you were next to her cheering her on. However, when that same said hedonism slowly started to look like alcoholism, you thought you should interfere. Because Lisa was gone. Like, absolutely, no-holds-barred, "let's text our exes and cry about capitalism" level of drunk.
Jeongsu wasn’t much better—both of them moving like malfunctioning robots, giggling at nothing, slurring words into syllables that never quite made it into full sentences. And there you were, sober even after two cocktails, trying to shove them into your jeep with Namjoon, who was being an MVP about the whole thing unlike the other two who made themselves scarce.
“I swear to God, Lisa, if you don’t—” you started, as she dramatically draped herself across the backseat, one arm in, one leg still out, like she was auditioning for a role as roadkill.
“Shhh,” she slurred, pressing a finger to my lips. “You’re being... so loud.”
“Because you’re not in the car!” you whisper-shouted.
Namjoon sighed beside you, grabbing Jeongsu by the collar and hoisting him in with an ease that made you question his gym routine. “You take Lisa, I got this one.”
Somehow, you managed to cram them in. Namjoon climbed into the passenger seat, shutting the door with a finality that felt like a victory, and you let out a breath before starting the car. And that’s when your phone connected to Bluetooth. The second Taehyung’s Singularity came through the speakers, Namjoon groaned. “Oh, come on.”
“What?” you said, pulling into the street.
“This? This is your choice?” He gestured toward the speakers like they’d personally offended him.
I blinked at him. “Yes? This song is incredible?”
Namjoon made a face like you’d just told him water wasn’t wet. “It’s fine,” he said, dragging out the word like it physically pained him. “But, like… doesn’t it get exhausting? Listening to that song on repeat? It’s all—catchy choruses and formulas and—”
You gasped dramatically. “I will not sit here and let you slander Taehyung in my car. Have you heard his range? His live vocals? His GRAMMY-NOMINATED COLLABORATIONS?”
Namjoon shook his head. “See, this is why I stick to Jungkook. He gets it. Standing next to you, Still with you? That’s real music. It’s art.”
“Taehyung’s music is art,” you shot back. “He literally writes, produces, and choreographs, and you wanna tell me it’s just some mass, produced—”
Namjoon groaned. “I didn’t say that I just mean—there’s more soul in Jungkook’s music.”
“Taehyung’s music is what moves people,” you interrupted. “It’s what you scream in your car at 2 AM when you’re questioning all your life choices. It’s what stadiums full of people sing in unison. It’s emotion. It’s universal.”
Namjoon let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
“And you have bad taste.”
And that’s how the next twenty minutes went—you defending Taehyung like your life depended on it, Namjoon waxing poetic about the depth of Jungkook’s music, while Lisa and her boyfriend snored in the back, completely unaware that a war was being fought in the front seat.
You were in it. Like, fully invested, hands gesturing, voice climbing in intensity, throwing out arguments like you were in the final round of a debate tournament where the fate of humanity depended on me proving that Taehyung was, in fact, a musical genius.
“And another thing,” I said, gripping the wheel, “Taehyung experiments. He doesn’t just stick to one sound. He does R&B, pop, rock, EDM—”
“Which is exactly my point,” Namjoon cut in. “Jungkook doesn’t need to jump genres because it already contains everything. It’s free, expressive—”
“Are you seriously trying to tell me that Taehyung isn’t expressive? That him pouring his entire soul into a song like Love me again isn’t—”
“TURN!”
“What?”
“TURN, NOW—”
At the last second, you realized you were about to blow right past our turn, and with reflexes you didn’t even know you had, you yanked the wheel. The car jerked into a sharp right, tires screeching slightly as we made it onto the street, and from the backseat came a thump—followed by a pair of miserable groans.
Glancing in the rearview mirror you see Lisa sprawled across Jeongsu, her face buried in his jacket, while Jeongsu blinked dazedly, looking like he’d just been yanked out of another dimension.
“Ughhh,” Lisa whined, slowly sitting up. “I think I died.”
Jeongsu just let out an unintelligible noise, rubbing his face.
You were contemplating whether to apologize—maybe even check if they were concussed—but Namjoon just shrugged, looking entirely unbothered. “Honestly,” he said, leaning back into his seat, “you did me a favor. Now I don’t have to wake Jeongsu up myself.”
You snorted. “Glad to be of service.”
A minute later, the car pulls up in front of an apartment building. Without hesitation, Namjoon popped open the door and hopped out with the ease of someone who wasn’t just involved in a vehicular near disaster. He turned back before shutting the door, resting an arm against the frame.
“It was nice meeting you,” he said, flashing an easy smile. “Hope I see you again.”
You raised a brow. “Oh? So, you can lose another argument? Carefully pick the topic, so far, it’s Y/N 3, Namjoon 0”
He laughed, shaking his head. “No, so I can give you Jungkook’s album.” He took a step back, grin widening. “Y’know. So, you can listen to good music.”
Before you could respond, he shut the door and walked off, hands supporting Jeongsu who mid walk decided he wanted to throw up before they disappeared into the building like that motherfucker hadn’t just dropped the most outrageous claim of the night.
You huffed, shaking my head, Taehyung’s voice still playing softly through the speakers.
“Good music,” you muttered. “Unbelievable.”
By the time you pull up to Lisa’s house, she is deep in her own world. Her head lolls against the window, her fingers tracing invisible shapes on the glass. She hums a song that only exists in her mind, and for a second, you wonder what it would be like to live in that universe—the one where melodies are only for you.
You don’t even bother trying to wake her up. That is a battle you have lost too many times before. Instead, you grab your phone and send a text to her brother.
You: Come get your sister. She’s out of it. Him: Ffs. Be there in a sec.
There is something strangely comforting about his immediate response. The universe is unpredictable, people are unpredictable, but the way Lisa’s brother always responds with exasperation and reluctant responsibility is as constant as gravity.
A minute later, the front door swings open, and there he is, looking every bit like a man who did not ask for the burden of siblinghood. He barely acknowledges your existence before yanking the car door open and extracting Lisa like she is luggage that has overstayed its welcome.
“She’s your problem now,” you say, rolling down the window.
“She’s always my problem. See you around Y/N.” he mutters before dragging her inside.
And then it is just you and the night, the clock blinking 3:00 AM, the streets too empty, too still, like the world has paused for a breath. You are tired, a little drunk, and full of thoughts that don’t quite fit inside your head. You drive home with Taehyung’s voice still pouring through the speakers, and the memory of a debate that should not have mattered still lingering like the aftertaste of something bittersweet.
When you pull into the driveway, you half-expect the house to be dark. Hoseok should be out, or asleep, or lost in one of his weird 3 AM routines. But when you step inside—not as quietly as you intended—there he is.
He sits in the living room, book in hand, legs crossed, looking so unbothered that it is almost offensive. His gaze flicks to you, and the corners of his mouth twitch with amusement.
“You look like a disaster,” he observes.
“Feel like one too,” you admit, kicking off your shoes with more force than necessary. One of them lands near the couch, the other... somewhere. “But I made it home, so I’d call that a win.”
Hoseok closes his book with a soft thump and tilts his head. “Was the night worth it?”
You hum, collapsing onto the couch. “Met an idiot.”
“That’s promising.”
“Some guy who thinks Jungkook’s songs are better than Taehyung’s.”
His lips twitch. “I mean… he’s not wrong.”
You sit up. “Excuse me?”
He bites his lip, clearly fighting back a laugh at your reaction. “I’m just saying—Jungkook’s recent songs? Way more emotional. Seven, Standing Next to You, —”
You gasp. “You’re siding with him? That motherfucker?”
Hoseok finally cracks, laughter spilling out of him like he’s been waiting for this moment all night. “Relax, I’m screwing with you,” he says, shaking his head. “They’re different. Taehyungs got that deep, jazzy, soul, stirring thing going on, but Jungkook’s been hitting emotions hard lately. So, for now… I gotta say, I agree with that motherfucker.”
You groan, flopping back onto the couch. “You’re all traitors.”
He just grins, reopening his book like this conversation was nothing but a minor detour in his night. Like he hasn’t just ruined yours all over again.
Just as your body begins to melt into the couch, Hoseok casually flips a page in his book and says, “Oh, and don’t forget. 8 AM sharp.”
You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Can I sleep a little longer?”
He shakes his head, no hesitation, no mercy.
You sigh. “Got it, boss.”
Somehow, you make it to your room, kicking off your dress but not bothering with your skincare routine because sometimes survival takes priority over self-care. You collapse onto the bed, the ceiling swimming slightly above you, and just as sleep starts pulling you under, you remember him.
“Stupid Namjoon,” you mumble into the pillow.
And then, because the universe is cruel and irony is its favorite language, you catch yourself softly singing, oh I wish you could, love me again…
And that is the last thing you know before sleep wins.
___________
You sit in your chair, legs crossed, fingers idly tapping against your notepad, listening—or at least trying to listen—as Hoseok talks about the future. The meeting room is expensive in the way that all the entertainment industry rooms are; sleek, modern, designed to make you feel like something important is happening even if it isn’t. The air is still, heavy with focus, six other people seated around the table, nodding at the right moments, making notes like they already know what’s coming.
Hoseok is talking about projects. A world tour. Two full-length albums. Some kind of documentary. The words flow from him in that effortlessly composed way of his, like he has already seen the next six months play out and is simply relaying the highlights to the rest of you. You are half-listening, half-tracing patterns into the margin of your notes when he says world tour, and something in you straightens. There’s a kind of electricity in the phrase, a promise of movement, of change. You lean in slightly, waiting for him to elaborate—
And then, there’s a knock at the door.
Everything stops.
Six heads turn, the meeting collectively holding its breath as the door swings open, and they walk in.
Kim Taehyung moves like the kind of person who has never once questioned his place in a room. He steps in with the ease of someone who has always been watched, always been listened to, and never had reason to doubt it. His expression is unreadable but polite, his posture casual but controlled. His presence is a statement: I am here, and you are looking at me because that is what people do.
Behind him, Jungkook lingers in the doorway, half-hidden, a contrast in every possible way. Where Taehyung is effortless, Jungkook is hesitant. Where Taehyung moves with quiet confidence, Jungkook hesitates, raising a hand in a small, awkward wave at the staff like he’s both acknowledging and apologizing for his entrance. His sweater sleeves are too long, his stance uncertain, and yet, he is Jungkook, and so the room watches him anyway.
They take the seats directly across from you. You are not someone who gets nervous easily, but suddenly, you are hyperaware of yourself in the way that only happens when you are being seen.
Hoseok clears his throat, gestures toward you, and says, “This is our new addition to the team.”
And just like that, Jungkook and Taehyung’s gazes land on you with full force, the weight of them pressing into your skin like an unspoken question.
“Y/N is going to be working closely with the artists as our in, house psychologist,” Hoseok continues, his voice smooth, steady. “Her job is to evaluate your mental health and be available if you ever need someone to talk to. She’ll be present during some of your photoshoot, music video filming etc.”
A pause.
Then, Taehyung speaks first, his voice low and slow, measured like he’s tasting the words before saying them. “Interesting.” His gaze flickers over you, thoughtful, assessing. “I don’t think we’ve had something like this before.”
Jungkook, still fidgeting with the sleeve of his sweater, sneaks a glance at you before looking back down. “Do we—uh—have to do evaluations?”
You meet his gaze, offering what you hope is a reassuring smile. “Not if you don’t want to,” you say. “I’m just here if you ever need someone to talk to. No pressure.”
Jungkook nods slowly, considering this. Taehyung, however, is still watching you, his head tilted slightly like he’s trying to figure something out. “And what about you?” he asks.
You blink. “What about me?”
Taehyung leans forward just a little, just enough to make it feel deliberate. “You’re evaluating us. Who evaluates you?”
The question hangs in the air for half a second too long. Across from you, Jungkook looks mildly alarmed, like he wasn’t expecting that to be the follow-up. Hoseok lets out a quiet huff of laughter but doesn’t step in to rescue you.
Taehyung lets the question linger for a second before breaking into a slow grin, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I mean, if you ever need someone to evaluate you, I’m happy to volunteer. I have a lot of experience in pretending to be a therapist.”
There’s a brief pause before he flashes a boxy smile. “Just kidding.”
The room chuckles, and you exhale, relieved, but also dangerously close to losing your composure because Taehyung just joked with you. And then—like it’s nothing, like he isn’t one of the biggest artists in the world—he leans back, folds his arms, and says, “Welcome aboard.”
You nod, hoping you look professional and not like a fan who has just been personally acknowledged by their favorite artist. You manage a composed, “Thank you,” when all you really want to do is scream internally.
But then, Taehyung’s gaze shifts, and his attention slides toward Hoseok, brows raising. “Why do you look like you’re enjoying this way too much?”
You blink and follow his gaze.
And sure enough, Hoseok is sitting there, looking entirely too entertained, a telltale sparkle in his eyes that immediately sets off warning bells in your head. You know that look. You have seen that look. And then, all at once, it hits you.
Oh no.
Oh no no no no no.
Before you can stop it, warmth creeps up your neck, heat rushing to your face as last night’s conversation floods back into your memory. You resist the urge to slap a hand over your face.
Of course, Hoseok remembers.
Jungkook, having picked up on something, nudges Hoseok. “What?” he asks, eyes flicking between you two. “What discussion?”
Taehyung, perceptive as always, catches the shift in the atmosphere. His gaze sharpens, amusement dancing at the edges of his expression as he turns to you. “Yeah,” he drawls. “What discussion?”
You immediately shake your head, shrugging like this is the most uninteresting thing in the world. “Nothing important,” you say, waving a dismissive hand. “Just work stuff.”
But Taehyung is no fool. He narrows his eyes, leaning in ever so slightly. “Mm, I don’t believe you.”
“I second that,” Jungkook chimes in, nudging Hoseok again. “Just tell us.”
You shoot a desperate look at Hoseok, silently begging him to not say whatever he is clearly dying to say.
But Hoseok has never once been on your side.
He grins, leans forward, and with all the casual ease in the world, says, “Our dear psychologist here is actually a big fan of yours, Taehyung.”
Silence.
You swear the world stops spinning.
And then—then—Taehyung turns back to you, his eyes glinting with delight, and before you can prepare yourself, he smiles. A full, wide, boxy smile. “Oh?”
You are going to die.
“What’s your favorite song of mine?” he asks, resting his chin on his hand, like he’s actually enjoying this.
You contemplate lying. You contemplate running out of the room. You contemplate evaporating into the atmosphere and becoming one with the universe.
But in the end, you sigh and say, “Singularity.”
Taehyung claps.
“That’s it,” he announces, standing up only to plop himself in the empty seat next to you. “You are officially my new best friend. Hoseok is demoted.”
Hoseok lets out an exaggerated gasp, clutching his chest. “Betrayal.”
Jungkook and the others burst into laughter, and you—still red, still mortified—bury your face in your hands. Your job was supposed to be evaluating their mental health. Not losing yours.
Hoseok sighs like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, which, in some ways, he is. He rubs his temples, glances at the clock, and exhales with all the dramatic exhaustion of a man who just wants everyone to get their shit together. “Alright,” he says, clapping his hands once. “That’s it. Meeting adjourned. Everyone out.”
The room stirs, chairs scraping against the floor, people murmuring quick goodbyes, already half in their next task, their next obligation, their next responsibility. You sit still, watching as the world shifts around you, as the people dissolve into the hallway, until it’s just four of you left in the emptying space—Hoseok, Jungkook, Taehyung, and you.
And then, like a switch being flipped, the atmosphere changes.
The easy-going, quick-witted Hoseok you’ve spent the past 24 hours bickering with disappears, replaced by someone much sharper, much heavier. He leans forward, forearms resting on the table, fingers laced together like he’s about to say something that neither of them will like, but both of them need to hear.
Jungkook picks up on it immediately. His shoulders tense, his gaze flickering to Taehyung, whose lips curl into the ghost of a smirk. “You’re making this sound ominous,” Taehyung comments, voice light, like he’s trying to crack the tension before it has the chance to settle.
Hoseok doesn’t bite. “It is ominous,” he replies, voice even. “I need both of you to understand that this, this isn’t just for show.” He nods toward you. “This isn’t just for some PR stunt to make the company look good. It’s serious.”
Jungkook stays quiet. Taehyung, on the other hand, tilts his head. “You’re acting like we’ve never had therapy before.”
Hoseok’s expression darkens slightly, his fingers tightening against each other. “There have been too many tragedies in this industry,” he says, softer now, but heavier. “Too many avoidable tragedies. I’m not taking chances with either of you.”
Silence stretches for a beat too long. Jungkook shifts in his seat, but there’s something else in his eyes now, something grateful. “I get it,” he says finally. “And... thank you. For caring.”
Taehyung, still watching Hoseok, finally leans back. The teasing edge to his voice has softened. “Yeah,” he murmurs, before flicking his gaze to you with something dangerously close to amusement. “And, y’know, in advance—thank you for whatever trouble I end up causing you.”
You snort. “I’ll start emotionally preparing now.”
Hoseok shakes his head but doesn’t stop the small smirk that appears on his face. And then, as if physically unable to linger in sentimentality for too long, he claps his hands together and stands. “Alright, back to work. Jungkook, go check on the lyrics team. I want an update on the album.”
Jungkook nods, already halfway to the door.
“And Taehyung,” Hoseok continues, stretching his arms overhead, “makeup team. There are paparazzi waiting outside, and we need to make sure you look flawless when they inevitably get pictures of you walking into rehearsal.”
Taehyung sighs, stretching dramatically. “Ah, yes. The burden of being internationally beautiful.”
Jungkook scoffs on his way out. Hoseok rolls his eyes. You just stare at the ceiling, wondering how exactly you ended up in this specific moment of your life.
And then—
“Oh,” Hoseok adds, almost as an afterthought. “You’re going with Taehyung to the Gucci show tonight.”
You blink. “Wait, what?”
Taehyung gasps, clutching his chest. “You think I’d cause a scandal?”
Hoseok just gives him a long, unimpressed stare.
Taehyung grins. “Okay, fair.”
And as Jungkook laughs on his way out, and Taehyung winks at you before striding after him, and Hoseok smirks like he’s enjoying your suffering way too much.
After the meeting you went down to the accounting office to settle the additional paperwork, they needed in order for you to officially call yourself their employer. The amount paperwork between you and them was by far larger than you had initially anticipated. Before you know it, thirty minutes passed quickly and you began to make your way down to the makeup team to check on Taehyung, only to find an empty chair and the makeup artist also gone.
You run through the company halls like you’re being chased, which, in some poetic way, you are except instead of a masked murderer or your crippling existential dread, it’s the very real possibility of being fired by Hoseok before you even make it a full week.
You skid around a corner, narrowly avoiding a poor intern carrying a tower of papers. “Sorry!” you yell over your shoulder, but you don’t slow down. You can’t. Because Taehyung, who was supposed to be in hair and makeup thirty minutes ago, is nowhere to be found, and you’re about three seconds away from losing your mind.
In the middle of your search for Taehyung, you bumped into Hoseok who was going on and about with his work. Amidst ragged breaths, you manage to shoot Hoseok a look that, in a perfect world, would set him on fire. “Why,” you wheeze, “why did you think this should be part of my job?”
He, who has the audacity to look entirely unbothered, doesn’t even glance up from his phone.
“Because” he says simply, “as much as Taehyung is sunshine and laughter and poetic Instagram captions, he’s also someone who gets anxious in group settings. He hides it well, but it’s there.” Finally, he does look at you, and the teasing in his voice fades into something softer, more serious. “I want you to keep an eye on him. Make sure he gets used to the spotlight without it swallowing him whole.”
And you-well. What are you supposed to say to that?
So, with renewed determination (or at least the fear of failure fueling you), you spend the next fifteen minutes asking every living, breathing soul in the building if they’ve seen Kim Taehyung. Most of them haven’t. One guy claims he saw him heading toward the parking lot, and, considering your other options are “continue running in circles” or “give up and accept your fate,” you bolt in that direction.
And that’s where you find him.
Taehyung is leaning against the van, cigarette pinched between two fingers, the other hand typing something on his phone. His posture is relaxed, his expression unreadable, and when he looks up and sees you, he doesn’t seem to register your near mental breakdown. Instead, he waves, casual, oblivious to the fact that you’ve searched high and low for him like some tragic protagonist in a Greek myth.
You march toward him, stopping just short of actually shaking him by the shoulders. “I have been looking everywhere for you.”
Taehyung hums, completely unfazed. Then, as if just remembering, he flicks the cigarette away and steps on it. “Oh?”
“Oh? Oh?” You throw your hands up. “You were supposed to be waiting for me after you’re done with makeup. Which was thirty minutes ago.”
Taehyung shrugs. “I forgot plus I was busy.”
“Busy doing what?”
But instead of answering, he reaches out, plucks your phone straight from your pocket with the smoothness of a seasoned thief, and—unlocks it.
You blink. “Did you just—”
“Kudos to you for not having a password,” he says, and before you can respond, he’s already typing. Then, with one final tap, he hands your phone back. “There. Now you have my number. And I have yours.”
You glance at the screen. He’s called himself from your phone, meaning his contact info is now saved in yours. You don’t know whether to be impressed or horrified.
Before you can decide, the driver leans out of the van, expression tight. “We’re on a schedule.”
Right. The Gucci event.
You sigh, opening the van door. “Come on, troublemaker,” you mutter.
Taehyung grins, like he’s already decided that’s his new favorite nickname, and follows you inside. The drive to the venue is brief, the kind of brief that makes you wonder if time has conspired against you, speeding up when you least want it to. You barely have a moment to steel yourself before the van pulls up to the entrance, and suddenly, the outside world is a hurricane of flashing lights and deafening screams.
It’s a sensory overload—like stepping into the eye of a storm only to realize the storm doesn’t have an eye at all, just chaos stretching infinitely in every direction. Taehyung doesn’t flinch. Instead, he flips open his front camera, checking himself with the kind of practiced ease that suggests this is just another Tuesday to him.
He tilts his head, smirks at his reflection, and then, as if sensing your nerves, winks at you. "Don’t worry,” he says, tucking his phone away. “This time, I’ll actually go to makeup.”
And then he’s stepping out, and the moment he does, the flashes ignite like fireworks, the screams surge to new heights, and security moves like a well, rehearsed dance, closing around him before the crowd can swallow him whole. You watch, stunned, as he walks through it like it’s nothing, like he’s built for this, like the weight of thousands of eyes and camera lenses isn’t crushing at all.
The driver clears his throat, breaking you from your daze. "Personnel takes the back entrance," he informs you, already pulling away from the chaos.
You exhale, nodding. Right. The back entrance. The place for people who don’t belong in the spotlight.
Inside, the venue is its own brand of madness—less frenzied, more controlled, but madness all the same. Models flit between stations, stylists tug at garments, makeup artists wield brushes with the precision of master painters. The air buzzes with tension, last, minute adjustments, whispered commands into headsets. Everything is in motion, a world spinning on an axis of beauty and precision.
You clutch the paper Hoseok gave you, scanning for 7—Taehyung’s station. You weave through clusters of people, dodging models draped in expensive fabrics, until you spot him in front of a mirror, a makeup artist dusting powder across his already flawless skin.
You call his name, and he glances up, meeting your gaze in the reflection. There’s something unreadable in his expression—half amusement, half something quieter, something almost grateful. He doesn’t say anything, just offers you a small, knowing smile.
You take a seat with the rest of Hoseok’s crew, watching as the final touches are applied to him. And you think, for all his effortless confidence, for all his ease under the crushing weight of the world’s attention, maybe even Taehyung isn’t immune to needing someone to see him—not as an idol or a model or a public figure, but just as himself.
The show unravels like a dream, or maybe a fever, or maybe both. The kind where you’re half-aware that reality is slipping, but you let it anyway because it’s beautiful, because it’s loud, because the air is thick with the scent of expensive cologne and camera flashes and anticipation.
Your phone buzzes. Hoseok.
Hoseok: Front row. Where are you?
You: Backstage. Trying not to lose my mind.
Hoseok: Try harder.
You don’t have time to roll your eyes before Taehyung materializes in front of you, dressed in a suit that looks like it was forged in the heart of some celestial fire. Gold drapes across his body like it belongs there, like it isn’t real fabric but something molten, something permanent. The jacket is undone, just enough to suggest he knows exactly what he’s doing, exactly how many headlines this will make.
You gesture vaguely at his exposed chest. “A little breezy, don’t you think?”
Taehyung presses a hand to his sternum, mock scandalized. “Are you starting your evaluation already?”
You shake your head. “Just wondering if you ever feel like... you have no control over your own body.”
And it happens so fast you almost miss it—the half-second where his smile falters, where his eyes dim just slightly, where something flickers across his face that is neither playful nor performative. But then it’s gone, like it was never there to begin with, swallowed by the mask he’s worn so well for so long.
“It’s part of the job,” he says, and it should sound reassuring, but it doesn’t.
Then, his name is called, and the moment evaporates. He turns to leave, but you call after him, holding up a thumbs up. He grins, boyish and bright, and returns the gesture before disappearing into the flood of models and designers and people who exist in worlds far shinier than yours.
And then the show moves forward, like a machine, like a well-oiled and impossibly beautiful thing. Music swells. Lights shift. Models emerge and disappear, their bodies telling stories stitched into fabric worth more than most people’s apartments. From backstage, you watch Taehyung walk as if he was created for this moment alone.
Before you know it, it’s over. Applause fills the space like an ocean crashing against rocks, and backstage morphs into a whirlwind of congratulations and quick costume changes and people exhaling for the first time in hours.
Somewhere in the chaos, Hoseok appears. He leans against a table, casual, amused. “Looked like you were enjoying yourself back here.”
You grab Taehyung’s shirt from the rack, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, well. Someone has to make sure your golden boy doesn’t spontaneously combust.”
The two of you work in silence, packing up Taehyung’s things with the efficiency of people who have done this kind of thing a hundred times before, even though you haven’t. Hoseok moves with practiced ease, folding designer clothes like they’re casual t-shirts, slipping shoes into their dust bags, checking for anything left behind.
You mimic him as best as you can, though your version is noticeably sloppier. Hoseok is shoving the last of Taehyung’s things into the trunk with the kind of efficiency that makes you wonder if, in some alternate timeline, he was a personal assistant instead of a CEO.
The van sits idling in the cold night air, and the driver—who has probably seen enough chaos to last him a lifetime—mutters something about needing to get the front desk guy to open the gate before disappearing into the night. Which leaves you and Hoseok alone.
You cross your arms. “Where’s Taehyung?”
Hoseok doesn’t look up as he zips a bag shut. “Left with his friends. Grabbing a drink or two.”
You groan. Because, of course, he did. Because it is entirely within Taehyung’s brand of chaos to disappear right when you think you have him figured out. But before you can say anything, Hoseok straightens, dusts off his hands, and says, too casually, “By the way, there’s an investor dinner this Saturday.”
You blink. “And?”
“And” he continues, “it would be weird if my wife didn’t attend.”
You let out a noise that is somewhere between a sigh and a death rattle. “Hose—”
“Look, I know you hate these things—”
“Hate is an understatement,” you grumble.
“—but it’s important. And, you know, appearances.”
You groan again, but this time, the sound is cut off by a voice behind you, smooth and curious.
“Wife?”
You and Hoseok jump like you’ve been caught committing a federal crime.
Taehyung stands there, watching you both with that unreadable expression of his, hands tucked into the pockets of his ridiculously expensive coat. He tilts his head slightly, and in the dim glow of the parking lot, he looks like a Renaissance painting, all soft shadows and sharp features. “Did I hear that right?” he muses. “You’re married?”
Hoseok exhales, pressing his fingers to his temple like he’s already developing a headache. “Shouldn’t you be out with your friends?”
Taehyung lifts a hand, dangling his phone between two fingers. “Left it in the car.” Then he looks straight at Hoseok. “And you never said you got married.”
You do the only reasonable thing in this situation, which is: say absolutely nothing and let Hoseok deal with it.
Hoseok, to his credit, doesn’t fumble. “I am married,” he admits, voice even. “But it’s for… a lot of reasons.”
There’s a flicker of something in Taehyung’s expression. It’s gone in a second, but you see it, that brief moment where something unspoken, something heavier than curiosity crosses his face. “And” he says, slow and deliberate, “none of them were because of love, right?”
Hoseok shifts. “It’s complicated.”
Taehyung hums, rolling the words around his tongue as if tasting them. He looks at you for the first time since this conversation started, and you feel like he’s seeing something you don’t even understand about yourself yet. The weight of it makes your stomach twist. But then he just nods, something close to acceptance in his gaze. “I suppose it’s none of my business.”
Hoseok exhales, relief creeping into his posture. “I’d prefer if you kept it that way.”
Taehyung gives a small, lopsided smile, one that feels just a little too sad to be real. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul.”
He pockets his phone, murmurs a quiet goodnight, and walks off. And you stand there, watching his silhouette disappear into the night, feeling a shift in the air that you can’t quite explain.
If only you knew—if only you had felt it—this was the moment everything started unraveling.
You and Hoseok stand there in the quiet, the kind of quiet that feels like it has something to say. The van is still idling, its open trunk like an unfinished sentence. Neither of you rush to fill the silence. It just lingers, stretching between you like an unanswered question.
Finally, Hoseok sighs, rubs the back of his neck, and nods toward the van. “I’ll drop you home.” And then, to the driver, “Take Taehyung’s stuff to the company.”
The drive is slow, the kind of slow that makes you notice things you wouldn’t normally—how the streetlights flicker, how the neon signs smear against the rain-slick pavement, how the world feels both impossibly large and suffocatingly small all at once. You stare out the window, trying not to think about the way Taehyung had looked at you back there, like he had figured something out before you had even begun to understand it yourself.
And maybe it’s that thought, or maybe it’s just the exhaustion settling into your bones, but you find yourself asking, “Why did you tell him?”
Hoseok doesn’t look at you, but there’s something thoughtful about the way his fingers tap against the steering wheel. “Lying would’ve made it messier,” he says eventually. “And I trust him.”
You glance at him. “You sure about that?”
He smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not even a little bit.”
That, somehow, makes you feel slightly better.
When he pulls up in front of your building, he doesn’t kill the engine. Just turns to you with an expression that’s dangerously close to fondness. “I’ve got work to do. Won’t be home tonight.”
You unbuckle your seatbelt and raise an eyebrow. “Should I assume that’s code for ‘I’m sleeping with someone else tonight’?”
Hoseok grins. “Correct.”
You sigh, dramatically. “And here I thought our fake marriage was built on trust.”
“Oh, it is. It’s just also built on me occasionally ditching you for real dates.”
You roll your eyes, pushing the door open, but before you can step out, he adds, “You should date too.”
You pause. “What?”
He shrugs. “You know. Find someone. Maybe that motherfucker you got into a whole music debate with.”
It takes you a second. “From the bar last night?”
“Yeah. Go out with him.”
“I don’t even have his number.”
Hoseok shakes his head in mock disappointment. “Tragic.” Then, just before you shut the door, he adds, “By the way—you did good today.”
You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s driving off, disappearing into the night like a plot twist you didn’t see coming. And for a moment, you just stand there, the city buzzing around you, the weight of the day finally catching up. Then, your phone rings.
A message from Yoongi.
"We need to talk."
The thing about those words is that they’re never the beginning of something good.
You stare at the words on your screen like they have the power to rearrange your life. It’s not that you don’t love your brother—you do, in the way that people love things that have always been there, like gravity or existential dread—but you also know that whatever he has to say is going to make your night significantly worse. Still, obligation wins over self-preservation, so you call.
It rings once. Twice. Then he picks up, and instead of Yoongi’s voice, you’re greeted by the deep bass of a club, the kind that makes your ribcage vibrate even through the phone. There’s a clinking of glasses, some distant shouting, and then finally—
“If you’re at a club,” you say, “was this really that important?”
Yoongi exhales like you are the source of every headache he’s ever had. “I was out when I got the news.”
You sigh, leaning back against the couch. “What news?”
He doesn’t answer right away, which is already a bad sign. Somewhere behind him, the song changes, something fast and electric. Then he says, “One of my friends saw you backstage at the Gucci show. With Hoseok’s staff.”
You blink. “And?”
There’s a pause long enough to be damning. “And?” he repeats, incredulous. “Do you have any idea how that looks?”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Like I was working?”
“No,” he snaps. “Like you were doing someone else’s dirty work. That’s a job for the lower class, and you—”
Ah. There it is.
“—are a Min. You don’t do things like that.”
The laugh that bubbles up in your throat is less humour and more disbelief. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“I’m not,” he says, voice sharper now. “Is Hoseok making you do this?”
Your patience is unravelling like a loose thread. “That’s none of your business, but for the record no. I volunteered.”
For once, Yoongi doesn’t argue. “No, it’s not. But it is father’s business.”
And there it is, the real reason for this call. The real weight pressing against your chest.
Yoongi sighs, and when he speaks again, it’s quieter, like he knows you already understand. “You know he barely let you marry Hoseok. You know he’s going to be furious.”
Yeah. You do.
But right now, you don’t have the energy to care.
So, you take a breath, slow and deep, and then you hang up, ignoring the way Yoongi says your name like he’s trying to stop something from slipping through his fingers. You silence your phone, toss it somewhere across the couch, and let yourself sink into the quiet of your house, the weight of the night settling over you like a promise you’re not ready to keep.