Hi! I really love your writing. I wanted to see if it was possible to request something along the lines of a friends to lovers fic with Yoongi. Maybe some angst like he starts to get kind of distant so the reader thinks she’s being too annoying or clingy and thinks he wants to spend less time together so she starts to back off thinking it’ll make him happy. But it’s the opposite. He actually really really likes (loves) her and is scared and doesn’t know how to handle it or doesn’t want to mess up so he gets hurt that she starts distancing herself from him. Maybe an argument ensues ( it gets worse before it gets better). Have it end fluffy and happy. I’d really appreciate it! It’s okay if this isn’t your style. I’ll understand.
💌 Reply:
Hi love! 💜 Thank you so much for trusting me with this request. I loved your idea and it had me emotional from the start! I absolutely adore friends-to-lovers angst with Yoongi, especially when it’s layered with all that delicious tension and vulnerability. I tried to weave in plenty of hurt, misunderstandings, and emotional confrontations (plus a rooftop kiss in the rain), but don’t worry... it ends with all the softness and hope these two deserve. The members also meddle (because of course they do), and there’s a lot of quiet healing woven into the chaos, at least I think so. I hope this story feels as comfortin to read as it did to write! Let me know if you’d tweak anything... your feedback means the world. Thank you again!
PS.: I'm definitely NOT procrastinating and wrote this to avoid my uni assigments I have to hand in in a week - RIP
REQUEST NAME:
ECLIPSE
↳ Yoongi x F!Reader | Hurt/Comfort | Angst, Drama, (Slow Burn/ Romance) | BTS AU | Slice of Life
Rating: G (13)
Word Count: ~4.7k
Genre: Drama, BTS AU, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Slow-Burn Romance, Slice of Life
Warnings: themes of parental neglect, emotional abandonment, references to, self-harm, emotional distress (panic attacks, anxiety), strong language (occasional profanity), depictions of unresolved trauma and emotional repression, intense arguments, emotional confrontations, mild alcohol use
Pairing: Min Yoongi x F!Reader (Friends to Lovers)
Featuring: Yoongi as a guarded, introverted musician grappling with fear of vulnerability and abandonment, Reader as a resilient but scarred creative, haunted by childhood neglect and rejection, BTS Members as supportive yet meddling found family (Jin, Jungkook, Jimin, Namjoon, Taehyung, Hobi), Themes of healing through connection, the weight of silence, and learning to trust.
ECLIPSE
PROLOGUE: DAEGU, 2010
The bell above the door of Hwanhee Music jingles like a half-hearted apology as you duck inside, your older brother’s laughter still ringing in your ears. “You hum like a dying refrigerator,” he’d sneered, shoving you out of the car. The shop smells of rosin and dust, violins hanging like forgotten ghosts on the walls. You trail your fingers over a cracked cello case, its velvet lining frayed, when a voice slices through the quiet.
“You gonna stare all day,” he snaps, “or hand me the Phillips head?”
The boy under the desk is all sharp angles, elbows like knife-edges, ink-stained fingers, hair dyed a rebellious copper that clashes with his scowl. A gutted keyboard spills wires at his feet, and grease smears his cheekbone like war paint. You freeze, but his glare doesn’t waver.
“Screwdriver,” he barks, nodding to the toolbox.
You fumble for the tool, knees cracking against the linoleum as you kneel beside him. He snatches it without thanks, cursing under his breath as he jabs at the keyboard’s innards. Up close, he smells like solder and spearmint gum.
“You work here?” you venture.
“No. I break things for fun.” He doesn’t look up. “Why’re you here?”
“My brother’s a jerk.”
That earns a snort. “Join the club.”
You watch him work, the rhythm of his hands hypnotic, twisting screws, testing circuits. When the keyboard finally sputters to life, playing a distorted C-major scale, he leans back with a smirk. “Fixed it.”
“Sounds worse,” you say.
He barks a laugh, sharp and surprised. “Yeah. Perfect, isn’t it?”
He shoves a mixtape into your hand as you leave. GLOSS scrawled in red ink. That night, you press play in your closet, headphones swallowing the sound of your parents’ fight downstairs. The beats are raw, angry, alive. You fall asleep to the track on loop, your cheek against the cold floor.
You don’t know it yet, but this boy, Min Yoongi, 16, allergic to small talk and full of broken things, will become your anchor.
PRESENT
The hum of the air conditioner is the only sound in Yoongi’s studio, a sterile chill biting through the warmth of late summer. You hover in the doorway, balancing two paper cups of coffee, one black, decaf, with a sugar cube hidden beneath the saucer, the other a caramel macchiato you’d grabbed on impulse, though you know he’ll tease you for it.
He’s hunched over his desk, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, fingers flying across his laptop keyboard. The blue light of the screen casts shadows under his eyes, deeper than they were last week. A half-empty pack of menthol cigarettes sits beside a stack of lyric sheets, the top one scribbled with angry black strokes: “I built a fortress, but the walls keep crumbling.”
“Hey,” you say softly, setting his coffee down. “Track seven’s bridge… the metaphor about ‘winter bones.’ It’s brutal.”
He doesn’t look up. “It’s supposed to be.”
“But ‘embers’ could work better. Something that still burns, even in the cold.”
His jaw tenses. “Leave it.”
“Yoongi...”
“I said leave it.” The words crack like a whip.
You freeze. He’s snapped before, sleep-deprived, caffeine-jittery, lost in the labyrinth of his own mind, but never at you. Never with that edge of venom.
His fingers pause mid-keystroke. For a heartbeat, the room feels suspended, the air thick with unsaid things. Then he yanks his hoodie over his head, the fabric swallowing him whole, like a turtle retreating in its shell. “Go home. I’m busy.”
You go.
Seoul’s streets blur as you walk, the weight of his dismissal sharp in your ribs. You pass the convenience store where he once bought you banana milk after a panic attack, the alley where he taught you to ride his motorcycle, gripping his waist too tight as he laughed. “Relax, I won’t let you die.”
Your phone buzzes. A text from Jimin: 'Movie night? Bring Yoongi hyung’s grumpy ass.' You type 'Maybe next time' and pocket the phone.
The rain starts as you reach your apartment, a slow drizzle that soaks through your sweater. You’re fumbling with your keys when your brother’s name flashes on your screen.
“Dad’s in the hospital,” he says. “Minor heart attack. He’s fine, but… thought you should know.”
You stare at the puddle forming at your feet. “Did he ask for me?”
A pause. “You know how he is.”
“Right.” You hang up.
Inside, you curl on the couch, the Agust D mixtape he gave you a few years ago, one of the first, spinning quietly. The track skips where it’s been played too many times.
Friday’s samgyeopsal tradition dies with a text: Yoongi: 'Busy. Next week.'
No emojis. No apology. Just three words that carve a hollow in your chest.
You stare at the restaurant reservation on your phone, 'Table for 2, 7:30 PM' and delete it.
Jin texts an hour later: 'Yah, why’s Yoongi sulking in the studio? Did you two fight?'
You lie: 'Comeback stress.'
But you know better.
The next day, HYBE’s greenroom buzzes with laughter. Jungkook’s attempting handstands against the wall, Jimin filming while Taehyung heckles. You’re halfway through a story about Hobi’s failed attempt at baking bungeoppang when Yoongi walks in.
His eyes dart to you, then away.
“Hyung!” Jungkook grins, upside-down. “Bet you can’t do ten push-ups with Y/N on your back!”
“Pass,” Yoongi mutters, beelining for the coffee machine.
You force a laugh. “He’d collapse. Too many sleepless nights.”
It’s an old joke, one that usually earns an eye roll or a sarcastic “Yah, respect your elders.” Today, he stiffens, coffee sloshing over the rim of his mug.
“I’m fine,” he snaps.
The room falls silent. Jimin’s camera lowers.
“Hyung,...” Jungkook starts, but Yoongi’s already out the door.
Ten Years Earlier
You find him on the rooftop of his high school, knuckles split and bleeding.
“Fight?” you ask, sitting beside him.
“None of your business.”
“Your mom called me. Said you missed dinner.”
He scoffs. “She’s used to it.”
You pull a bandage from your bag, always carrying extras since the day he sliced his thumb fixing your bike. He lets you wrap his hand, hissing when the alcohol pad stings.
“Why do you do this?” you whisper.
He looks at you then, really looks, his eyes black and bottomless. “Why do you care?”
You don’t have an answer.
The distance becomes a chasm. He “forgets” your birthday, though you’ve spent every one together since you were 17.
You leave tteokbokki at his studio door. It sits untouched until the security guard throws it out.
At 3 a.m., you hear his motorcycle idle outside your apartment. The engine cuts, then roars away.
One night, drunk on soju and self-pity, you open the demo track he left on your laptop, Eclipse. The lyrics gut you:
“I’m a shadow chasing your light / Scared to touch, scared to fight / What if I’m just another ghost in your night?”
You play it on loop until dawn.
The final straw is a Thursday.
You’re in the HYBE archives, digging through old recordings for Namjoon’s documentary, when Yoongi walks in. He freezes at the sight of you, a file slipping from his hands.
“Need help?” you offer, kneeling to gather the papers.
“Don’t.” His voice is strained.
Your fingers brush his. He jerks back like burned.
“Yoongi, talk to me.”
He stares at the floor, jaw clenched. “There’s nothing to say.”
“Bullshit.” Your voice cracks. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks. Did I do something? Say something?”
He turns to leave.
“Coward,” you spit.
He stops, shoulders rigid.
“You’re scared,” you press. “Of what? Me?”
For a heartbeat, he hesitates. Then the door slams shut.
That night, you dig out the box under your bed, the one labeled Do Not Open in your mother’s handwriting. Inside: divorce papers, a dried corsage from your forgotten recital, and a note in her looping script: 'Sometimes love isn’t enough.'
You text Yoongi: 'I’ll stop bothering you.'
He doesn’t reply.
The silence between you and Yoongi hardens into something tangible, a wall built brick by brick with every unanswered text and averted glance. And you stop waiting.
No more coffee runs to his studio, no more scribbling notes in the margins of his lyrics. You delete his contact from your speed dial and mute the group chat buzzing with tour preparations. At Jimin’s birthday party, you lean into the chaos, laughing too loudly at Taehyung’s absurd jokes, letting Jungkook spin you in a drunken waltz until your heels skid on the polished floor.
“Careful,” Jungkook grins, steadying you as the room tilts. “Hyung’ll kill me if I break his favorite editor.”
You force a smile. “He won’t notice.”
But Yoongi does.
He watches from the balcony, cigarette cherry glowing like a warning light in the dark. The party’s golden haze doesn’t touch him here; he’s a shadow in a leather jacket, sleeves pushed up to reveal the faint scar on his forearm, the one he got teaching you to ride his motorbike years ago. His gaze lingers as Jungkook’s hand slides to your waist, his jaw tightening before he crushes the cigarette under his boot.
“He’s being weird,” Jimin murmurs, appearing at your side with a champagne flute. He nods toward the balcony, where Yoongi’s silhouette melts into the night. “Did you fight?”
“He’s just tired,” you lie, the words ash on your tongue.
Flashback — Age 19
The studio bathroom reeks of bleach and regret. You slump against the sink, your father’s latest text glaring from your cracked screen: 'Next time, kiddo. Promise.' The lie is a familiar ache, a bruise pressed too many times.
The door creaks open. Yoongi leans against the frame, arms crossed, hair mussed from hours of producing. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” you mutter, wiping mascara streaks with a scratchy paper towel.
He tosses a crowbar onto the counter. “C’mon.”
You follow him to the storage closet, where an old keyboard gathers dust. “Break it,” he says, voice flat.
The first strike is hesitant. The second cracks the plastic. By the third, you’re screaming, tears mixing with sweat as shrapnel flies. Yoongi watches, arms crossed, until you collapse against the wall, breath ragged.
“Feel better?” he asks.
“No.”
He hands you a Coke, condensation slick on your palms. “Me neither. But it’s fun, right?”
You hiccup a laugh. “You’re weird.”
“Takes one to know one.”
He doesn’t ask why you were crying. Doesn’t have to. You both know the shape of absence too well.
Yoongi’s Studio, 3:14 AM
The cursor blinks mockingly on his screen, the lyrics to Eclipse taunting him.
“I’m a shadow afraid of my own light / You’re the sun I can’t let myself bite.”
Yoongi slams his laptop shut. The studio walls press in, cluttered with half-empty coffee cups and crumpled lyric sheets. His fingers drift to the light scar on his forearm, tracing it like a prayer. Coward, it snarls back.
He pulls out his phone, thumb hovering over your name. The last text you sent 'I’ll stop bothering you' still burns. He types 'Don’t', deletes it. Types 'I’m sorry', then deletes that too.
The door creaks open.
“Hyung?” Jungkook pokes his head in, hair mussed from sleep. “You’ve been here for 18 hours. Eat something.”
“Not hungry.”
“You’re always hungry.” Jungkook tosses a convenience store kimbap onto the desk. “Y/N texted me. Said you’re being… you again.”
Yoongi’s jaw tightens. “She’s not my babysitter.”
“No,” Jungkook says quietly. “But she’s your friend. Or was.”
The door clicks shut. Yoongi stares at the uneaten kimbap, guilt curdling in his gut.
He notices everything.
The way you no longer linger in his doorway after dropping off coffee. How you laugh at Jungkook’s jokes but freeze when he enters the room. The hollow space where your notes used to clutter his desk.
It’s for the best, he tells himself.
Liar.
One night, he drives to your apartment, engine idling as he watches your shadow move behind the curtains. You’re humming, his melody, the one he wrote after your car crash. His hands shake on the steering wheel.
Go inside. Tell her.
But he’s sixteen again, staring at a closed door after you left Hwanhee Music for the first time after appearing out of nowhere.
He revs the engine and leaves.
The second intervention comes on a Tuesday.
Jin corners him in the practice room, arms crossed. “Fix this.”
“Fix what?” Yoongi dodges, pounding the punching bag.
“You know what. She’s miserable. You’re miserable. Even the staff’s placing bets on how long you’ll last.”
“Not your business.”
“It is when you’re both too stubborn to...”
The bag swings violently as Yoongi lands a final blow. “Back. Off.”
Jin doesn’t flinch. “You’re scared. That’s fine. But don’t take her down with you.”
That night he plays Eclipse on loop, the bass vibrating in his teeth.
“What if I’m just another ghost in your night?”
His fingers slip, hitting a dissonant chord. He slams the piano lid, breath ragged. The room spins, sleep deprivation, regret, the phantom weight of your absence.
On the floor, his sketchbook lies open to a page he’d tried to tear out: your face, half-scribbled, half-erased. He traces the lines, charcoal smudging under his thumb.
You’re home. And I don’t know how to keep things that matter.
His phone buzzes. A notification from your shared cloud album, a photo of you both at last year’s Christmas party, his arm slung over your shoulders, caught mid-laugh.
He doesn’t realize he’s crying until the tear hits the sketchbook, blurring your smile.
He’s at your door at 5:03 AM, fist raised to knock.
The night air bites, but his palms sweat. Through the peephole, he sees the faint glow of your TV, Howl’s Moving Castle paused, your favorite. He knows you’re curled on the couch in that ridiculous Totoro onesie, popcorn abandoned, asleep by now.
Tell her. Tell her.
His phone lights up with a text from his manager: 'Flight to L.A. in 3 hours. Pack.'
He steps back.
The elevator dings.
He’s gone.
Again.
And you?
You stop answering calls.
Your apartment becomes a museum of half-lived moments, takeout containers stacked like monuments, lyric sheets buried under unopened bills, the Agust D mixtape spinning endlessly on your turntable. The world narrows to the glow of your laptop screen, where you edit track after track for other artists, burying yourself in their stories to avoid your own.
One night, you find an old voicemail from your mother. “Sweetheart, call me when you can. Your father wants to...” You delete it.
The past claws back anyway.
Flashback — Age 9
The school auditorium is cold, your ballet shoes pinching as you wait in the wings. “Parents only,” the teacher had said. “No siblings.”
Your brother sits in the front row anyway, smirking as your parents’ seats stay empty. You pirouette, stumble, and the snickers cut deeper than the splinter in your toe. Afterward, your brother tosses you a candy bar. “Don’t cry. They’re not worth it.”
You eat it in the bathroom, chocolate mixing with salt.
On day three after Yoongi flew off, Jimin corners you in HYBE’s dressing room, his reflection sharp in the vanity lights.
“When’s the last time you slept?” he asks, softer than he needs to.
You smudge concealer under your eyes. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” He spins your chair to face him. “Yoongi hyung’s a mess. You’re a mess. Talk to each other.”
Your laugh is brittle. “There’s nothing to say.”
He grips your shoulders, voice pleading. “You’re family. Let us help.”
You slip away, his touch burning like a brand.
Your old habits return like old lovers; familiar and destructive.
You skip meals, survive on iced coffee and nicotine gum. At 2 a.m., you scrub your kitchen floor until your knees bleed, just to feel something else. One night, you dig out the pocketknife from your brother’s old jacket, the blade dull from years of disuse.
Just once, you tell yourself. Just to remember.
The sting is a relief.
However they still notice, of course they do.
Namjoon finds you in the archives, buried under decade-old concert tapes.
“Jimin’s worried,” he says, leaning against a shelf. “I’m worried.”
You don’t look up. “I’m working.”
“You’re hiding.”
The tape in your hand trembles, 2015: Boy in Luv. Yoongi’s voice crackles through the speakers, raw and young. “Why’s love gotta hurt so much?”
Namjoon crouches beside you. “You know what he told me once? That loving someone feels like standing in a thunderstorm with a metal rod. You want to drop it, but you’re scared to let go.”
You press stop. The silence is suffocating.
“He’s scared,” Namjoon says. “But so are you.”
What you didnt know was that Yoongi didn't fly to LA.
He watches you from afar, sees you slip into the studio at dawn, hoodie swallowing your frame. Sees you flinch when Jungkook offers you his jacket. Sees the bandage on your wrist when you reach for a coffee cup.
One night, he follows you to the rooftop, your silhouette haloed by city lights. You don’t turn around.
“Go away,” you say, deep down you had felt his presence, but couldn't trust yourself anymore.
He doesn’t, but when both of you stay silent, you leave.
The panic attack hits you during a staff meeting, it had only been a matter of time.
Someone mentions Eclipse. Your chest tightens, air thinning to razorblades. You stumble into the hallway, clawing at your collar, and collapse against the wall.
Memories flood, your mother’s locked door, Yoongi’s studio light flicking off, your father’s empty seat in the auditorium. Not enough. Never enough.
“Breathe,” a voice rasps.
Yoongi kneels beside you, hands hovering like he’s afraid to touch. You slap him away.
“Don’t,” you choke. “You don’t get to care now.”
He recoils. And you run.
That night, you blast Eclipse until your neighbors pound on the wall. The lyrics twist into a taunt:
“I’m a shadow afraid of my own light / You’re the sun I can’t let myself bite.”
You smash the mixtape against the wall. The plastic cracks, but the music keeps playing.
You ran off, couldn't hear it anymore...
The rain fell in sheets, drowning the city in a haze of silver and shadow. You stood on the rooftop’s edge, fingers numb where they gripped the guardrail, the storm swallowing the sound of your tears. The cold bit through your clothes, but you welcomed it, a distraction from the ache in your chest, the raw sting beneath your bandages. You didn’t hear the door slam open behind you, didn’t register the footsteps until his voice cut through the downpour.
“Get down,” Yoongi demanded, breathless, rain plastering his hair to his forehead. His eyes flickered to your trembling hands, the soaked sleeves clinging to your arms.
You laughed, hollow and cracked. “Why? You’ve made it clear you don’t want me here.”
He stepped closer, boots splashing through puddles. “You’re going to freeze.”
“And you’ll what? Care?” You whirled on him, voice rising above the storm. “You ignored me for weeks! You let me think...”
“I know!” The words ripped from him, raw and ragged. “I know what I did. And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t fix this!” You gestured to your wrist, the bandage peeking beneath your sleeve. “You don’t get to disappear and then show up acting like you care!”
His face crumpled. “I was trying to protect you.”
“From what?”
“From me!” He shouted it, fists clenched at his sides, rain streaking down his face like tears. “From this...this curse of ruining everything I touch! My dad thought I wasn’t enough. My mom cried herself to sleep for years. And you...you...” His voice broke. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I couldn’t watch you realize I’m not worth it.”
The confession hung between you, fragile as the silence after a thunderclap. You stared at him, chest heaving, the truth of his words slicing through the anger.
“You don’t get to decide what I’m worth,” you whispered.
He closed the distance in two strides, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing away rain and tears. “I’m selfish,” he said, voice trembling. “I’m scared. But I can’t lose you. Not like this.”
His lips found yours, a collision of desperation and regret, salt and rain and years of unspoken words. You clung to him, fists tangled in his soaked hoodie, as the storm raged around you. When he pulled back, forehead pressed to yours, his breath shuddered. “Let me fix this. Please.”
He carried you to his apartment, your face buried in the curve of his neck, his grip unyielding. The elevator ride was silent, his heartbeat a frantic drum against your ear. Inside, he peeled off your drenched clothes with clinical care, hands lingering over fresh scars before bundling you into the shower. You stood under the scalding water, trembling as he washed your hair, his touch achingly gentle.
“This one’s infected,” he muttered later, kneeling on the bathroom floor, antiseptic and gauze scattered around him. His lips brushed the bandage on your wrist after he secured it, a silent vow. He tugged his old Agust D hoodie over your head, the fabric swallowing you whole, and microwaved a sad packet of instant jjajangmyeon, the only edible thing in his barren fridge.
You ate in silence at his kitchen table, legs pressed together beneath it, his gaze never leaving you.
When he finally spoke, it was to the darkness of his bedroom, your bodies inches apart on the mattress. “I wrote Eclipse about you,” he admitted, voice rough. “About how you’re… light. And I’m just the shadow chasing it.”
You turned toward him, tracing the scar on his forearm. “You’re not a shadow.”
He shifted, eyes glinting in the dim light. “Then what am I?”
“Mine.”
He kissed you again, slower this time, hands framing your face like you were something fragile, something sacred. You finally fell asleep tangled in his sheets, his arm a steady weight across your waist, nose buried in your hair.
Morning came soft and golden, the storm replaced by a quiet drizzle. You woke to his fingers tracing the curve of your shoulder, his voice sleep-roughened. “Stay,” he murmured into your skin. “Please.”
You turned, meeting his gaze; wide, vulnerable, stripped of armor. “What if we mess up again?”
He kissed the corner of your mouth, then the scar on your wrist. “We will. But I’ll fix it. Every time.”
EPILOGUE: Two Years Later
The soft hum of the studio’s air conditioner blended with the faint click of Yoongi’s mouse as he adjusted the final levels on his latest track. You sat cross-legged on the leather couch behind him, a stack of lyric sheets in your lap, red pen circling a line that felt too sharp, too raw. Outside, Seoul glittered under a midsummer moon, the city alive in a way that once felt suffocating but now pulsed with a rhythm you’d learned to dance to.
“You’re overthinking it,” you said, tossing a crumpled page at his head.
He caught it without turning, smirk audible in his voice. “Says the woman who rewrote the bridge six times.”
“It needed to breathe.”
“It needed to stop being micromanaged.” He spun his chair around, eyes crinkling as he took in your mock glare. The studio lights caught the silver hoop in his ear, the one you’d bought him last Christmas after he’d drunkenly admitted he’d always wanted to try piercings but was “too old for rebellion.”
You stood, padding over to his desk in socked feet, his socks, stolen from his drawer that morning, and leaned against the edge. “Play it again.”
He groaned but obeyed, fingers flying across the keyboard. The track bloomed through the speakers, a haunting blend of piano and synth that made your chest ache. It was different from his older work, softer at the edges, less like a scream and more like a confession.
“See?” you murmured, nodding to the screen. “The second verse. You softened the bass. It’s better.”
He tugged you onto his lap, chin resting on your shoulder. “Only because you bullied me into it.”
You elbowed him lightly, but his arms tightened around your waist, lips brushing the scar on your wrist, the one he still kissed every morning as if it were a promise.
The door creaked open. “Am I interrupting?”
You glanced up to find Jin leaning against the frame, eyebrow arched, a paper bag of mandu steaming in his hand.
“Yes,” Yoongi deadpanned, but he released you anyway, swiping a dumpling from the bag.
“You’re welcome,” Jin said, flopping onto the couch. “By the way, Jungkook’s betting you two will adopt a dog by Christmas. I’ve got 500,000 won riding on this, so hurry up.”
You snorted. “Tell him to mind his own business.”
“Impossible. You’re his favorite drama.”
Later, back at your shared apartment, a sunlit loft cluttered with vinyl records, half-finished paintings, and the Agust D mixtape framed above the turntable, you sprawled on the rug while Yoongi cooked. Or, more accurately, burned.
“You’re supposed to stir it,” you called from the floor, flipping through a photo album Jimin had made for your last anniversary.
“I am stirring it,” he grumbled, smoke curling from the pan.
You glanced up. “That’s a fire, Yoongi.”
“It’s caramelized.”
You abandoned the album, sidling up behind him to wrap your arms around his waist. “Let me.”
He huffed but handed over the spatula, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Show-off.”
The kitchen filled with the scent of garlic and soy sauce, the sizzle of the pan harmonizing with the jazz record spinning in the background. You hummed along, hips swaying, until his hands settled on your waist, his chin hooking over your shoulder.
“Remember the first time you tried to teach me to dance?” he murmured.
“You stepped on my toes.”
“You cursed in three languages.”
You laughed, flipping the kimchi pancake with a flourish. “And now look at you. Practically a pro.”
He spun you around, fingers lacing with yours, and guided you into a slow sway. “Only because you’re stubborn.”
You rested your head against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear. “And you’re a slow learner.”
He kissed your hair. “Worth it.”
The nightmares still came, sometimes.
You’d wake gasping, sheets tangled, the ghost of your father’s empty seat in the auditorium clawing at your throat. But now, Yoongi was there, warm and sleep-rumpled, voice gravelly as he pulled you into his arms.
“Tell me,” he’d say, fingers tracing circles on your back.
So you did. About the recital, the locked door, the way silence felt like rejection. He’d listen, lips pressed to your hair, until your breathing slowed.
And when his demons surfaced, nights he’d pace the balcony, cigarette unlit between his fingers, staring at the city like it might swallow him whole, you’d join him, your hand finding his.
“Talk,” you’d say.
And he would. About his father, the mixtapes he made to drown out his mother’s tears, the fear that love was a currency he’d never earned.
You’d kiss his knuckles, the light scar, the pulse at his wrist. “You’re stuck with me,” you’d whisper. “Better get used to it.”
On your anniversary, he took you back to Daegu.
The music shop was gone, replaced by a sleek café, but the rooftop where you’d first kissed still overlooked the tangled streets. He handed you a new mixtape, Eclipse (Final Version), and pressed play on a beat-up portable speaker.
The track was familiar yet transformed, the old anger tempered by strings, your laughter sampled into the bridge.
“You kept it,” you said, voice thick.
He shrugged, but his ears burned pink. “Had to finish what we started.”
You kissed him there, under the same stormy sky that had once felt like an ending, now a beginning.
That night, curled in the loft’s window seat with his hoodie swallowing your frame, you watched the city lights flicker like distant stars. Yoongi’s head rested in your lap, his breathing even, fingers absently strumming the guitar across his knees.
“You’re humming again,” he said, eyes closed.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He smiled, soft and rare. “I like it.”
You carded your fingers through his hair, the melody spilling into the quiet. Outside, the rain began to fall, gentle, this time, a rhythm you no longer feared.