Main Masterlist here
Before I Forgot here
Summary: Your life was perfect. You had the perfect fiance, the perfect house and the perfect ring on your finger. The only thing that wasn't perfect …. were the memories you lost years ago and the fact your parents won't talk about it.
Pairing: Yoongi x F. Reader
Genre: Romance, Angst, Hurt-Comfort, Smut, Mystery.
Warnings: Memory Loss, Swearing, Blood Mention, Eventual Unprotected Sex, Mention Of Car Accident, Mention Of Drunk Driver. Will add as I go…
You sigh as you tape another box shut.
Around you, the room you’ve called home for the past few months is being packed away. Your clothes are neatly folded in open suitcases on the rug, and half-filled moving boxes line the baseboards of clutter you have acquired since moving out of Corbyn's.
Leah leans against the doorframe, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she watches you tape up another box. Her eyes are filled with a heavy mixture of worry, and reluctance.
"Are you... really sure about this, Y/N?" Leah asks softly. You pause, the tape gun hovering in your hand, and look up at her.
"I'm sure, Leah," you say, offering her a calm smile.
She sighs, pushing off the doorframe and walks into the room to sit on the edge of the mattress. She looks around the half-packed room, then back at you, her brow furrowing with genuine concern.
"I just... I want to make sure you're not rushing into anything," Leah insists gently. "I know how incredible it is that your memories are finally starting to come back, and I know how much you feel for him. But everything is hitting you all at once right now…this massive flood of emotions, the past, the accident... It's a lot. I just don't want you to pack up your life on an adrenaline rush, only to get overwhelmed."
You set the tape gun down on the floor and take her hand, squeezing it warmly. You understand where she's coming from. To the outside world, it looks like a sudden, whirlwind decision. But deep inside your chest, you're finally feeling settled.
"It doesn't feel like a rush, Leah," you explain softly. "When I lost my memory, I felt like I was floating in the middle of nowhere. With Yoongi... it's not just the memories coming back. It’s the feeling of being complete. Being with him is the only place where everything is making sense."
Leah watches your face carefully, searching your eyes for any sign of hesitation. However, she doesn't find any at all.
“I want to build our daily life back together. Leah... I want to live with Yoongi." You nod.
Leah holds your gaze for a long moment. Slowly, the worry in her face melts away, replaced by a soft, resigned smile and a gentle shake of her head.
"You really love him, don't you?" She whispers.
"I do," you answer. "I swear you don't have to worry about me."
"Okay. Okay, then. If you're sure, then I'm behind you 100%. But you're helping me hire your replacement at work if you get too distracted by domestic bliss to focus on your shift, got it?" Leah lets out a breathy laugh, squeezing your hand tight before letting go.
You laugh, the lighthearted sound bouncing off the high ceilings of the room, and pull her into a tight, grateful hug.
"Deal," you murmur against her shoulder. "And thank you, Leah. For everything."
"Don't start getting mushy yet," she teases, pulling back and slapping her hands on her knees as she stands up. "We still have six more boxes to tape, and get you delivered to your new home safely."
By the time the final box was carried up the steps and into Yoongi’s home, the afternoon sun had dissolved into a warm sunset. Leah had stayed just long enough to ensure you were settled, offering Yoongi a mock-stern "take care of her" warning before hugging you goodbye and leaving the two of you in the quiet warmth of the house.
After dinner, you had spent the last few hours putting away your clothes. You filled the empty hangers in the closet, and slotted your everyday items alongside his. It was a quiet, intimate rhythm that made the space feel less like a temporary stop and more like a permanent home.
Walking out into the hallway, you find Yoongi leaning against the kitchen counter, a mug of tea resting between his hands. He looks up, watching you approach.
"All done with the bedroom?" He asks.
"For now," you smile, leaning back against the edge of the counter near him. You take a minute, letting the comfort of the moment settle before speaking up again. "Yoongi... what about the boxes in the garage? The stuff from... before?"
"That's entirely up to you," he says softly, reaching out to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek. "There’s no rush, Y/N. Those boxes aren't going anywhere. We can open them tonight, next week, or leave them right where they are until you feel ready. Everything here happens on your time."
You look down at your wrist, your thumb absentmindedly tracing the worn threads of the braided bracelet resting against your skin. The matching threads on Hobi’s wrist flashed briefly in your mind.
"I think... I'm ready," you say softly, your fingers still playing with the edge of the braid. You looked back up at Yoongi, finding reassurance in his dark eyes. "Not all of them, maybe. But I want to look through a few. With you."
Yoongi’s eyes soften even further as he watches your movement, noticing the way your fingers linger over the bracelet. He didn't say a word, simply giving your hand a gentle squeeze before letting go to reach for the garage key hanging by the door.
"Alright," he murmurs.
Yoongi steps toward the garage door, giving your hand one last reassuring squeeze before he turns the handle.
"I'll bring a few of them into the living room," he says softly, glancing back over his shoulder with a warm, encouraging smile. "You go sit down and get comfortable. I'll be right back."
You nod and walk back into the warm glow of the living room, sinking onto the plush cushions of the couch. The quiet of the house surrounds you, comforting you. It was much different that the suffocating silence you would feel back at the home you would feel with Corbyn sometimes. You draw your legs up against your chest, resting your chin on your knees as you wait, your thumb automatically finding the worn threads of the braided bracelet around your wrist again.
A moment later, the quiet thud of heavy footsteps announces Yoongi's return. He steps into the living room carrying a stack of three brown cardboard boxes, maneuvering carefully so he doesn't lose his grip. He sets the stack down gently on the rug right in front of the coffee table, letting out a soft exhale as he straightens up.
"Alright," Yoongi says, brushing his hands together before kneeling on the floor beside the stack. He taps the top box with his knuckles and looks up at you. "I think most of these are clothes.”
Unfolding your legs from your chest, you slide off the soft cushions of the couch and sit cross-legged on the rug beside Yoongi. You reach out, pulling open the folded top flaps of the first box.
Right on top lies a simple plain t-shirt. It’s well-worn and faded, its soft fabric dotted with stiff, dried splatters of paint. The flecks of muted blue, white, and sage green are scattered across the hem and sleeves. You gently lift it out, running your thumb over the textured stains. A quiet, familiar warmth blossoms in your chest, bringing a soft smile to your lips.
"I remember this one," you whisper, smoothing the fabric over your knees. "Well... I remember the feeling of it, at least."
Yoongi watches you quietly, a small, affectionate curve touching the corner of his lips as he leans back against the couch. Setting the painted shirt aside, you reach back into the box and pull out a thick, heavy sweatshirt folded underneath. You shake it open to hold it up…and freeze. Printed across the front in bright, obnoxious crimson lettering are the words. “Santa's Favorite Ho”.
You stare at the ridiculous text for a moment, your mind momentarily trying to process the sheer audacity of the piece. Then, a sudden, bright burst of laughter bubbles up from your chest, breaking the quiet warmth of the room. You laugh until your shoulders shake, holding the sweatshirt out at arm's length.
"Yoongi..." You turn to him, your eyes crinkling with amusement as you point at the print. "Did TAE buy this for me?"
Yoongi lets out a soft, low chuckle, shaking his head as a familiar fondness shines in his eyes.
"Yeah... he did," Yoongi admits, leaning his arm on his knee as he watches you fight off another giggle. "He was so proud of himself, too. Walked into the room grinning like he'd just won an award."
He pauses, watching the way you place the atrocious crimson sweatshirt over your lap. A quiet curiosity settles over his features, though his tone remains light and unpressured.
"Do you... remember what you bought him in return?" He asks.
Your laughter fades into a thoughtful quiet. You stare down at the soft fabric under your hands, closing your eyes for a moment to let your mind search through the haze. You try to reach for the memory….trying to visualize the bright, chaos-filled holiday where a gift like this would have been exchanged. However, the mental shelf comes up completely bare. No lingering warmth, no sudden flash of a scene.
Nothing.
A tiny knot of frustration tugs at the corner of your brow, and you open your eyes, looking back at Yoongi with an apologetic wince.
"I... no," you admit softly, your thumb tracing the hem of the sweater. "It's not coming back. What was it?"
Yoongi immediately sucks a breath in through his teeth…a sharp, quiet sound that leans far more into second-hand embarrassment than any actual hesitation. His cheeks flush with a faint, dusty-pink, and he suddenly looks very interested in the tape seam of the second box.
"It's not important," he mutters quickly, waving a dismissive hand in the air. "Honestly, you're better off not remembering that one."
You narrow your eyes, a playful spark cutting right through the lingering disappointment of the blank memory. You lean closer to him, propping an elbow on the coffee table.
"Yoongi," you push gently, an amused smile twitching on your lips. "What did I get him?"
Yoongi lets out a long, defeated sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as he surrenders to your gaze.
"It was a sweater," he grumbles, though the quiet warmth in his eyes betrays how much he's secretly enjoying your teasing. "Bright green. It said “Tis the season to be naughty” across the top..." He winces slightly, coughing into his hand before finishing. "...and it had a picture of two gingerbread men... you know….Involved."
You stare at him for a solid two seconds before a breathless snort escapes you, followed immediately by another fit of helpless laughter that has you leaning against his shoulder for support.
"I bought Tae a sweater with gingerbread men having sex?" You wheeze out, hiding your face against the soft fabric of Yoongi's sleeve.
"You wore them together to our Christmas party," Yoongi adds, a quiet, rumbling chuckle vibrating in his chest as he wrapped an arm around your waist to hold you close. "Jin almost choked on his drink, and Joon refused to stand next to either of you in photos. You two thought you were the funniest people on the planet."
“I haven't seen any of those pictures,” you laugh.
“Jin confiscated them,” he tells you.
You carefully fold the outrageous Christmas sweater and set it aside with the paint-splattered shirt. Reaching back into the first box, your fingers sink into something impossibly soft and worn.
You pull it out, holding up a faded black vintage t-shirt. The graphics across the front are cracked and peeling from years of wash and wear. It's an old, iconic concert tee from a tour long past. The fabric is thin, soft, and carries a faint, familiar scent that makes your heart do a little flip. Yoongi freezes, his eyes locking onto the shirt in your hands. His eyebrows shoot up in mild shock.
"Hey... that one is mine," he says, a playful edge of indignation rising in his low voice. "I wondered where that went! I searched the entire house for that shirt two years ago."
He reaches across the space between you, his long fingers stretching out to claim it, but you react instantly. Laughing, you pull the shirt back against your chest, hugging it tight and shielding it with your shoulders.
"Excuse me," you say, tossing your head back with a triumphant grin. "It was in MY box. It’s with MY stuff, which means you clearly didn't care about it that much."
Yoongi lets out a breathy, incredulous laugh, dropping his hand back to his knee as he defends himself.
"I cared! I loved that shirt," he insists, pointing a finger at you while trying…and failing….to maintain a stern expression. "You just had a habit of wandering over to my side of the closet and helping yourself to whatever you wanted. Half my wardrobe used to mysteriously migrate into your drawers."
You lean back slightly, raising a single eyebrow at him as a satisfied, knowing smile spreads across your face.
"And did you stop me?" You ask softly, tilting your head.
Yoongi opens his mouth to counter, but the words stall in his throat. He looks at you. At the bright, teasing spark in your eyes, the absolute comfort sitting between the two of you and the slight posture of defense melts completely out of his shoulders.
"Well... no," he mutters. "No, I definitely didn't."
Without taking your eyes off his, you stretch the neck of the tee and slip it right over your head, pulling your arms through the loose sleeves. It drapes over your tank top, drowning your frame in its soft, broken-in comfort. You pull the hem down over your knees and pat your chest happily.
"Fits great. Thanks, Yoongi." You smile.
Yoongi watches you. A soft, breathless laugh escapes him as he shakes his head, reaching out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear once more, his touch lingering against your jaw.
"Looks better on you anyway," he murmurs softly.
You lean in without a word, drawn by the lingering warmth of his fingers against your jaw, and press your mouth to his in a slow kiss. It's a deliberate kiss that’s becoming so familiar. It's starting to taste like home.
Yoongi's hand slides from your face to cup the back of your neck, pulling you closer as the kiss deepens. The oversized tee slips off one shoulder as you shift forward on the floor, your knees brushing his, and you feel the solid heat of his chest through the thin layers between you. His free hand finds your waist beneath the hem, fingers tracing the curve of your hip before moving up to cradle the back of your head.
Shifting forward on the rug, you climb into his lap, the old wooden floorboards creaking beneath your knees. The position brings you eye-to-eye, your thighs settling on either side of his hips. You feel the lean muscles of his abdomen tense as you lean against him. The soft, worn cotton of his sweatpants was a thin barrier. Through it, you can feel him begin to stir.
“Fuck,” he exhales against your lips.
His hands move from your neck and waist. One sliding down your spine, a firm, possessive stroke that ends at the small of your back. He presses you closer, erasing any last sliver of space. The other hand grabs gently at the loose fabric at your hip, then slides beneath the hem. His fingers are cool at first, tracing the dip of your waist, the flare of your hip bone, before skimming around to the swell of your ass. He squeezes, not roughly, but with a firm appreciation that makes you gasp into his mouth. The sound seems to spur him on.
The gasp you let out is less a sound of surprise and more a release of breath. His mouth leaves yours, trailing a hot path along your jaw, and down the column of your throat. He nuzzles the collar of the tee, his lips finding the sensitive skin where your shoulder meets your neck.
“I am so happy you're home" he whispers against your pulse.
You answer by rolling your hips, a slow, deliberate grind against the hard growing bulge in his pants. The friction, even through the layers, is electric. A sharp, choked groan is torn from him, and his head falls forward, his forehead coming to rest against your collarbone. The hand on your bottom tightens, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you as you continue to move.
“Yoongi,” you breathe, your own voice shaky.
Your hands, which are braced on his shoulders, slide up to cradle his face. You tilt his head back, forcing him to look at you. In the low light of the living room, his eyes are soft and unbearably tender, even as desire settles into his features. You see it all there… the adoration, the raw hunger, and the realization that this is his reality. You kiss him again, softer this time, a slow melding of lips that makes your heart stutter.
“I need to see you,” he rasps against your mouth.
His hands go to the hem of the tee and tank top, gathering the soft cotton in his fists. There is no tearing, no frantic yanking. He breaks the kiss only to pull the fabric up and over your head, letting it fall forgotten beside you. The cool air of the house kisses your skin, causing goosebumps to race across your skin.
He doesn't immediately touch you. He just looks. His gaze sweeping over your bare shoulders, the slope of your breasts, the dip of your waist. It was a look of such appreciation that it made you laugh lightly and hide your face in his shoulder.
“Hey,” he whispers. His thumbs come up to stroke the side of your breasts. “You’re so fucking beautiful. It actually hurts to look at you sometimes.”
Pulling back you look at him and give him a small smile. Your fingers slide down the front of his body finding the hem of his own shirt. He helps you, pulling it off in one smooth motion. You run your hands over his chest, feeling the rapid, thundering beat of his heart beneath your palm.
Your attention drifts lower, to the obvious bulge straining against his sweatpants. You hook your fingers into the waistband, your eyes locked on his. He gives a single, shallow nod, his jaw tight. You push both the sweats and his boxers down in one go, freeing him.
While you and Yoongi have been intimate, he still pretty much takes the lead in bed. You often find yourself shying away still under his gaze as you lie bare under him. Old habits die hard when you're used to a dark bedroom while being completely under the covers.
Biting your lip, you wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly from base to tip, feeling him twitch in your grip. A broken sound escaped his lips. You shift in his lap, rising up on your knees and kicking off the rest of your clothes.
You position yourself over him, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance. His hands fly to your hips, stopping you. He looks up at you, his eyes already a bit hazy.
“You should lie down. I need to…” he starts but you shake your head.
“I don't care what old me wanted,” you whisper against his lips. “I….want you now.”
You sink down.
It’s a slow descent. You take him in an inch at a time as he fills you. Your eyes never leaving his. You watch the play of emotions across his face. The sharp intake of pleasure, the dazed wonder, the overwhelming surge of love that makes his eyes glassy. When you are fully seated, you both let out a long, shuddering sigh. For a moment, you just stay there, joined, breathing, foreheads touching. His hands stroke up and down your back.
“I love you,” he whispers against your mouth. “God, I love you so much it’s stupid.”
“I love you, too.” You smile against his mouth.
A real smile, bright and sudden, breaks across his face. It transforms him, lighting up his eyes. He huffs a soft laugh. His hands tightens on your hips, guiding you. You begin to move, a slow, rolling lift and fall. The angle is deep, perfect. Each time you sink down, he hits a spot that makes you see stars. You set the pace, controlling the rhythm, riding him with a growing confidence.
He lets you.
With his head thrown back against the couch cushion behind him. Yoongi closes his eyes as his hands roam your body. They wander up, cupping your breasts, thumbing your nipples before sliding down to grip your ass to help to lift and lower you.
“Look at you,” he groans, his eyes blinking open. “Fuck, look at you.”
You lean forward, bracing your hands on his shoulders, and increase your pace. The change in angle was exquisite, drawing a sharp gasp from him. You ride him harder, chasing your own rising peak, feeling the familiar, delicious tension coiling tighter and tighter.
That’s when his hands shift.
They slide from your breasts to your back, his touch firm and sure. In one fluid, powerful motion, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you flush against his chest, burying his face in the curve of your neck. His lips were hot and desperate against your skin. He kisses you there, open-mouthed and hungry, his teeth grazing the skin.
“Can’t wait,” he mumbles, the words muffled against your flesh. “Need more. Need all of you.”
Before you can process his words, he is moving. His arms tighten around you as he lifts you straight off his lap. He turns you in his arms, your back now to his front. With a gentle but undeniable pressure, he guides you forward onto your knees onto the cushions of the couch. You brace your forearms on the couch back, your head dropping between them. Behind you, you hear the rustle of his sweatpants being kicked the rest of the way off.
Then he is there.
His body covers yours, chest pressing against your back. One hand splayed possessively over your stomach, pulling you back against him, while the other guided himself back to your entrance. He is slick with your combined wetness, and this time, there was no slow, teasing descent. He pushed into you in one long, deep, claiming stroke.
The sound that is ripped from your throat is a half-sob, half-scream of pure pleasure. The angle is different, deeper, more aggressive. He fills you completely, stretching you in a way that makes your vision blur.
He is everywhere.
The weight of him on your back, his warm breath against your skin, the overwhelming, filling presence of him inside you. It is an assault on your senses, and you welcome it. Your earlier control is gone, shattered. You are at his mercy, and it is the most liberating feeling in the world. You push back against him, meeting his thrusts, the slapping sound of skin on skin filling the quiet room.
One hand props himself up on the couch, while the other slides around your hip to find your swollen clit. His fingers are slick, circling you with a firm, desperate pressure that matches the rhythm of his hips.
“Come on,” he urges, his voice a broken chant. “Come for me. Let go. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”
The dual stimulation….the deep, relentless pounding and the insistent circles on your clit is too much. Your orgasm is building fast and when it crashes over you without warning. Your body jerks as the wave of pleasure tears a loud moan from your throat. Your inner muscles clenching around him in rhythmic pulses, milking his length.
Feeling you clamp down around him shatters his last shred of control. A stuttered moan escaped his throat. His thrusts lose all rhythm, becoming short, frantic jerks as he buries himself all the way into you and holds himself there, shuddering.
He finally collapses over you. His weight is a welcome warmth as the last tremors leave both your bodies. For a few long minutes, the only sounds are your heaving, ragged breaths and the hum of the refrigerator. His forehead is pressed between your shoulder blades, his hands still possessively on your hips.
Slowly, he pulls out and gathers you into his arms. He turns so he can slump back onto the couch, pulling you with him. You end up sprawled across his chest, a sweaty tangle of limbs. His heart is frantically pounding against your ear.
He presses a kiss, soft and lingering, to the top of your head. His hand strokes up and down your back in a slow, soothing rhythm. No words are needed. The silence is comfortable, saying everything that needs to be said.
You are home.
The afternoon heat of August hangs over the community center's outdoor courtyard like a heavy, humid blanket. The tall oak trees lining the perimeter barely rustle and offer little relief from the blazing sun. However, the sheer energy radiating off Hobi completely overshadows the weather.
In front of you stands a chaotic semicircle of twenty eager seven-and-eight-year-olds. Their eyes are wide as Hobi holds a plain white t-shirt high above his head like a sacred artifact.
Across the grass, sitting side-by-side on two long, plastic folding tables, are rows of squeeze bottles filled with vibrant, neon-colored dyes. There's magenta, electric blue, bright turquoise, and sunshine yellow. With them is a mountain of thick rubber bands and metal tongs.
"Listen up, my tiny master artists!" Hobi’s voice booms across the courtyard with infectious excitement. He’s already dressed for the job, wearing a worn, faded splatter-dyed apron over his shorts. "Today, we are taking these super boring, plain white shirts, and we are going to turn them into explosions of color!"
A collective gasp and a chorus of excited whispers ripple through the kids.
"Now, the secret to a mind-blowing tie-dye design isn't just dumping dye everywhere," Hobi continues, dramatically holding up a finger to emphasize his point. "It’s all in the twist. If you pinch the shirt right in the middle….squeeze….and spin it like a tornado..." He demonstrates, his long fingers expertly twisting the fabric into a tight, flat spiral. "...you get the ultimate cosmic swirl! But! You gotta lock it down with these super-strong rubber bands, or the swirl escapes!"
You and Yoongi look at one another with a raised eyebrow.
"And remember the most important rule!" Hobi adds, leaning in close and lowering his voice to a whisper that still manages to carry across the entire lawn. "The dye goes on the shirt, not on your friend, not on your hair, and definitely not on Jin’s clean white sneakers!"
"Hey!" Jin's indignant squeak cuts through the air.
Standing right beside you, Jin takes a protective step back, looking down at his pristine sneakers with genuine panic. He’s wearing a fitted, pale pastel yellow shirt that looks far too nice for an outdoor craft session, his arms crossed over his chest as he glares playfully at Hobi.
"I am a volunteer, Hoseok," Jin says, adjusting his dark hair with a smooth sweep of his hand. "A noble volunteer. If I get magenta dye on these, I'm billing the community center."
"You heard the man! Keep the dye away from the high fashion!" Hobi laughs, his heart-shaped smile breaking free as he begins dividing the energetic group into smaller clusters. "Alright, table one over here with me! Table two, go see Y/N, Yoongi, and Jin!"
The flock of seven and eight-year-olds surges toward your table.
"Okay, slow down, slow down!" You laugh, raising your hands to guide the wave of tiny, eager bodies into position around the long plastic folding table. "There are enough squeeze bottles for everyone, I promise. Grab a shirt and lay it completely flat first."
Beside you, Yoongi is already moving with unbothered confidence. Since he didn't have any music students booked for the afternoon, he’d been pulled into craft duty. While he looks slightly out of place in his dark, oversized t-shirt among the neon squeeze bottles, his calm presence instantly grounds the chaotic cluster of kids around him. He pulls a box of disposable gloves toward his side of the table.
"Gloves on first, scientists," Yoongi says softly, his deep voice carrying an effortless authority that makes three kids instantly freeze mid-reach and scramble for the gloves instead. "Unless you want purple hands for the next four days."
"I want purple hands!" Minjun announces proudly, trying to shove his small hand into an adult-sized glove.
"Your mom won't want you to have purple hands," Yoongi counters without missing a beat, reaching over to gently swap Minjun's giant glove for a small one. "Trust me. Put the small ones on."
Meanwhile, Jin is approaching his section of the table cautiously. He slowly pulls a pair of gloves over his fingers, smoothing the rubber down his wrists while keeping a hawk-like eye on a little girl who is already aggressively shaking a bottle of electric blue dye just two feet away from his pristine white sneakers.
"Sweetheart….what's your name, Soo-jin?" Jin asks, ducking down and placing two gentle fingers on the bottom of her dye bottle to stop the shaking. "Let's leave the caps on until the shirts are tied, okay? Blue is a beautiful color, but it looks much better on cotton than on my footwear."
"Jin, your shoes are really bright," Soo-jin observes, staring down at the spotless leather. "They look like eggs."
Yoongi lets out a sudden, low wheeze of laughter from the other end of the table, burying his face in his forearm to hide his gummy smile. Jin snaps his head up, glaring at Yoongi with pure, dramatic betrayal.
"They are limited edition, Soo-jin," Jin corrects with immense dignity, though his cheeks flush a soft pink. "Not eggs."
"Alright, artists, look here!" You jump in to save Jin, smoothing out a damp white shirt on the plastic tabletop in front of a boy named Eunwoo, who is staring at his crumpled fabric in total confusion. "Let's do Hobi's tornado trick. Watch my fingers."
You lean over the table, your clean gloves pinching the exact center of the damp shirt. With a slow, deliberate motion, you begin twisting your wrist, guiding the fabric into a tight, neat spiral.
"Pinch, and turn." You demonstrate softly. "See how the folds start gathering around the middle? Like a whirlpool."
Eunwoo's eyes light up. He reaches out with his tiny gloved hands, pinching his own shirt and twisting violently.
"Like this?! A giant hurricane?!" He exclaims.
"Whoa, easy on the category five storm, buddy," Yoongi murmurs, sliding into the spot beside Eunwoo. His large, pale hands reach down, gently overlapping the boy's small fingers to steady the movement. "If you twist it too fast, it flips over. Keep it flat against the table. Like you're turning a heavy steering wheel."
With Yoongi’s patient guidance, Eunwoo’s chaotic lump of fabric smooths out into a perfect, flat disc. Yoongi snaps two thick rubber bands around the spiral, binding it tightly into six neat wedges.
"There," Yoongi says, patting the bound shirt once before looking up at you across the table. His dark eyes soften under his bangs, a quiet warmth shining through as he catches your eye. "Look at that. Masterpiece status already."
"You're surprisingly good at this, Min Yoongi," you tease softly, leaning your weight against the edge of the table. “Dealing with little ones.”
"I don't mind it," he replies, stepping an inch closer so his arm brushes against yours.
Before you can reply, Jin’s voice rises in a pitch of mild desperation from the end of the table.
"Y/N! Yoongi! Help!"
You both turn to see Jin trying to manage two kids at once who have both mastered the spiral technique and are now brandishing their rubber-banded shirts like tiny weapons.
"He wants sunshine yellow and I want magenta!" A little girl insists, hovering her squeeze bottle dangerously close to Jin’s pastel shirt.
"We can do both!" Jin says quickly, his hands hovering in the air as he tries to maintain a safe perimeter around his clothes. "We divide the pizza! Yellow on three wedges, magenta on three wedges! It's math! It's art! It's... please don't squeeze the bottle yet!"
"I've got the blue team over here, Jin! Send one my way!" You let out a breathless laugh, grabbing a bottle of turquoise dye from the center caddy.
"Go to Y/N, go to Y/N!" Jin directs frantically, nudging the little girl toward your side with gentle hands. As soon as she moves, Jin lets out a dramatic, exaggerated sigh of relief, fanning himself with a dry paper towel. "I am giving my life for this community center. My actual life."
"You're doing great, Jin," you laugh, watching him carefully unscrew a cap with absolute, surgical precision. "Very brave."
Across the lawn, Hobi’s group erupts into a chorus of chaotic cheering as Hobi demonstrates a technique he calls the "Jackson Pollock Splash," flicking a tiny droplet of dye onto a test rag with the flourish of a stage performer. He looks over at your table, catching you and Yoongi working side-by-side. You guide a child's hand with the squeeze bottle, Yoongi holding the rubber-banded shirt steady and he gives your table a wide, brilliant, heart-shaped smile and a thumbs-up. Yoongi shakes his head fondly at Hobi, but his hand remains steady on the table right next to yours, his thumb lightly resting over the cuff of your glove.
The scent of damp cotton and vinegary dye hangs in the breeze of the humid air, and the shouting of twenty kids fills the courtyard. However, as you look down at your dye-stained hands and then up at Yoongi’s quiet smirk, everything feels light, and completely, beautifully right where it belongs.
The community center has finally gone quiet. The last of the kids had been retrieved by their parents, leaving behind a battlefield of crumpled paper towels, empty rubber bands, and a very traumatized Jin.
You and Yoongi walk side-by-side toward his bike. Yoongi is carrying his matte-black helmet by the chin strap, his dark bangs slightly damp from the heat, his black t-shirt dusted with a faint trace of dried yellow dye near the hem. In your hands, you hold your own helmet, the smooth visor catching the rays of the bright sun.
A breathless laugh escaped your lips, the sound carrying easily in the warm air.
"I still can't get over his face," you laugh, shaking your head as you look up at Yoongi. "When Soo-jin accidentally dropped that squeeze bottle on his shoe? I thought he was actually going to pass out right there on the grass."
Yoongi’s lips curve into that familiar, slow-burning gummy smile. He shifts his helmet to his other hand, reaching out with his free arm to casually sling it over your shoulders, pulling you a little closer to his side.
"The best part was how he tried to hide it," Yoongi says, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. "He stood like a statue for ten minutes, praying nobody would notice the neon pink dot on his spotless white leather. He’s going to be scrubbing that sneaker with a toothbrush until two in the morning."
"He told me he was going to send the community center an invoice," you giggle, leaning your head lightly against his shoulder as you walk. "He was so serious."
"Let him try," Yoongi scoffs affectionately, though his voice was soft. "Hobi will just pay him in glitter and leftover air-dry clay."
You laugh again, the sound light and free. You sigh, taking in the feeling of the cool weight of the helmet in your hands and the heat of Yoongi’s arm across your shoulders. The world feels quiet. It feels safe.
And then, your eyes sweep across the asphalt toward Yoongi’s bike.
Your laughter dies instantly in your throat.
Your shoes freeze against the ground, the sudden stop so abrupt that Yoongi’s arm slips off your shoulder. The lighthearted air evaporates from your lungs, replaced by a sudden, icy shock that makes your breath catch in your chest. Standing just a few yards away, near the edge of the parking lot by a sleek silver sedan, is a man.
He is dressed sharply. Wearing a crisp, fitted button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, tailored trousers, and dark leather shoes. He is checking his watch, his posture neat, polished, and completely out of place against the rugged backdrop of the community center's weathered lot.
Corbyn.
Yoongi’s steps slow instantly the moment he feels you freeze. He takes two steps forward before realizing you aren't beside him anymore, turning back with his dark brows furrowed in concern.
"Y/N?" He asks softly. "What is it? Are you…"
His voice trails off as his eyes follow your frozen, wide-eyed gaze across the lot. The moment Yoongi’s eyes lock onto the man standing by the silver sedan, his entire posture changes. The easy, relaxed warmth from moments ago completely vanishes. His shoulders square, his jaw sets with a tight, dangerous flex, and the matte-black helmet in his grip hangs like dead weight at his side.
Corbyn looks up from his watch. His eyes sweep the lot until they land on you, a flick of relief crossing his polished features before his gaze shifts to Yoongi, then back to you. He adjusts the cuffs of his fitted shirt and begins walking toward you.
"Y/N," Corbyn says, his voice smooth, controlled, and instantly recognizable. It’s a voice that used to belong to your present, but now sounds like a ghost from a completely different life. "I'm sorry to drop in on you like this. Leah mentioned I might be able to catch you here before you left."
You take a small, subconscious step back, your fingers tightening around the visor of your helmet until your knuckles turn white.
"Corbyn. What... what are you doing here?" You ask.
Corbyn stops a few feet away, his eyes scanning your face, taking in your wind-tangled hair, your casual clothes, and the faint, dried trace of tie-dye on the back of your hand. He looks like a stranger who holds a book of secrets about a version of you that doesn't exist anymore.
"I just wanted to talk," Corbyn says gently, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "Just for a few minutes. Please? I tried calling, but... well. I really just need to speak with you."
Yoongi’s dark eyes remain fixed on Corbyn for a moment, calculating the threat with a quiet focus. The tension radiating off his shoulders is palpable. He's ready to step between you and the man who represents the years he missed out on in your life.
He feels you shift beside him, feeling the subtle tremble in your hands against the fiberglass helmet. Slowly, Yoongi turns his head to look down at you. His features soften instantly, the dangerous edge in his dark eyes melting into a quiet, questioning warmth.
"Y/N," Yoongi says softly. "Do you want me to handle this? Do you want to leave?"
You take a slow, deep breath, pulling the warm August air into your lungs. You look at Corbyn, then back up at Yoongi.
"I'm okay," you whisper, offering him a small, steady nod. "Can you... give us just a couple of minutes?"
Yoongi searches your face, checking every line of your expression for any sign of panic. Satisfied with the quiet resolve he finds there, he nods once. He turns his head to give Corbyn a cool, unreadable look. A silent warning before taking a respectful step back.
"I'll be right over by the bike," Yoongi says softly, his fingers giving your hip one last reassuring squeeze before he turns and walks slowly toward his motorcycle.
Corbyn’s eyes follow Yoongi’s frame as he walks toward the motorcycle. Corbyn’s eyebrows twitch upward in genuine, bewildered shock, his gaze shifting back to you, taking in your stained shorts, your wind-tangled hair, and the heavy helmet held comfortably against your hip.
"Is that... Yoongi?" Corbyn asks in disbelief.
"Yeah," you say simply, your tone quiet and steady. "It is."
Corbyn lets out a faint, dry breath, shaking his head slightly as he looks from you to the motorcycle waiting a few yards away.
"You... ride motorcycles now?" He asks, the words sounding foreign coming from him.
"Yeah," you answer, tilting your head slightly, a strange sense of calm settling over your chest. "I do."
The silence stretches between you for a second, heavy with the weight of two different lives that no longer intersect. You shift your weight, bringing your eyes fully back to his face.
"Why are you here, Corbyn?" You ask again, keeping your voice neutral, straightforward, and devoid of the old anxiety that used to choke you whenever your past was brought up.
Corbyn pauses, the polished, controlled composure he usually maintains slipping just a fraction. He reaches around to his back pocket, pulling out a thick, crisp white envelope. He holds it out toward you with two hands, his eyes carrying a mixture of regret and resignation.
"This is for you," Corbyn says softly.
You look down at the envelope, making no move to take it.
"What is it?" You ask.
"It's your portion of the deposits from the wedding," Corbyn explains, his voice dropping an octave as he steps an inch closer, though he keeps a respectful distance. "The venue, the caterers, the photographer... once all the cancellation fees were settled, this was what was left of your contribution. It took a few months for the refunds to process through the banks, but... it's yours. I wanted to make sure you had it back."
You look at the thick envelope, the physical remnant of a life you were supposed to build with him. A life built on a foundation of hidden truths, orchestrated by parents who wanted to erase your history.
"You didn't have to track me down for this," you say quietly. "You could have just mailed it."
"I know," Corbyn admits, swallowing hard. He lowers his hands slightly, holding the envelope loosely between his fingers as he looks at you, his eyes clouded with a deep, lingering sorrow. "I wanted to give it to you myself. And... I wanted to apologize."
You stay quiet, letting him speak.
"When you lost your memories," Corbyn continues, his words coming out slower now, heavy with a defensive sort of guilt. "Your parents told me it was a clean slate. They told me that digging up the past…digging up him…would only set your recovery back, that it would confuse you, hurt you. I thought... I genuinely thought I was doing the right thing by listening to them. I thought I was protecting you by keeping it quiet, by helping you build a new life without all that baggage."
He looks over your shoulder toward the bike, where Yoongi is leaning casually against the guardrail, his dark eyes quietly monitoring the interaction from afar. Corbyn looks back into your eyes.
Corbyn’s gaze drifts back down to the white envelope in his hands, his fingers tightening slightly around the heavy paper. The polished, effortless charm he usually carried is completely gone, replaced by a quiet, raw honesty you had rarely seen in him.
"I should have told you the truth from the beginning," Corbyn says, his voice thick with a genuine, heavy regret. He looks up, meeting your eyes directly. "The moment you started acting differently, I should have stepped up. I should have helped you piece together your past. The good, the bad, all of it. Instead of letting your parents decide who you were supposed to be. I was selfish, Y/N. I was terrified of losing the life we were planning, so I let myself believe their lies because it was easier for me."
He takes a deep, steadying breath, his shoulders dropping as he lets out the weight of the confession.
"I ruined any chance we had at a real future because I built it on a foundation of secrets. And for that... I am so, so sorry." He nods.
You listen to him quietly, watching the way his expression crumples under the weight of his own remorse. There was a time when the mere thought of what happened after the accident would send a sharp, suffocating spike of anxiety through your chest. But standing here now, with Yoongi’s presence just a few feet away, the anger simply doesn't arrive.
Instead, you just feel a quiet, profound sense of closure.
Slowly, you reach out and take the thick envelope from his hands.
"I get it, Corbyn," you say softly, your voice even and calm. "My parents lied to the both of us. They manipulated the situation, and they used your fear just like they used my blank memory. I don't blame you."
"You... you don't?" Corbyn blinks, clearly caught off guard by the utter lack of bitterness in your tone.
"No," you say with a small, gentle nod. "Holding onto anger toward you isn't going to fix what happened, and honestly... I don't need to carry that around anymore. You were trying to protect a life you thought was real. But that life wasn't mine."
You slip the envelope into the deep pocket of your shorts, looking at him with clear, untroubled eyes.
"I'm building my real life now," you continue gently. "And I genuinely hope you find a way to build yours, too. One that isn't managed by my parents, and one where you don't have to carry this guilt anymore."
Corbyn stares at you for a long moment. He sees no lingering resentment, no unspoken accusations. He just sees a peaceful, complete detachment from the life you almost shared. A faint, sad smile touches his lips, but his shoulders visibly relax, relieved of a burden he'd been carrying around.
"Thank you, Y/N," he murmurs quietly. He takes a half-step back, adjusting the cuff of his shirt one last time. "I'm really glad your memories are coming back. You look... happy. Truly happy."
"I am," you answer cleanly, a small, genuine smile curving your lips. "Goodbye, Corbyn."
Corbyn gives you one final, respectful nod before turning to walk back toward his silver sedan. You watch him go for a brief second, feeling the last lingering thread of that alternate life snap quietly, cleanly away. Turning on your heel, you walk over to the matte-black motorcycle where Yoongi is waiting.
As you approach, the dark, protective tension in Yoongi’s frame melts away. He sets his own helmet on the seat and steps forward to meet you.
"You okay?" He asks softly, his low voice wrapping around you like a warm blanket.
"I am," you smile, and the absolute honesty in your voice makes him let out a soft, relieved breath. "Actually... I really am."
Yoongi nods, a faint, proud curve touching his lips. He takes your helmet from your hands, expertly unbuckling the strap and sliding it over your head. He secures the latch under your chin, his knuckles brushing gently against your jaw, before adjusting your hair so it doesn't get trapped. He reaches down, taking your hand in his, and helps you swing your leg over the bike, guiding you smoothly onto the rear seat.
Before Yoongi can swing his own leg over the seat, the sound of footsteps behind you makes you both turn. Corbyn has stopped halfway to his car and walked over to the tow of you. He stands in the open lot, looking over at the two of you, his expression unreadable under the dimming twilight.
"Yoongi!" Corbyn calls out, his voice cutting through the quiet afternoon air.
Yoongi stills. He turns his head slowly, his dark eyes locking onto Corbyn with a calm, steady gaze, waiting. Corbyn hesitates for a fraction of a second, then closes the distance between them with slow, deliberate steps. He doesn't say a word when he reaches the bike. Instead, he simply extends his right hand out toward Yoongi. It's a quiet, silent offer of respect, a final peace between two men who had loved the same woman through two vastly different chapters of her life.
Yoongi looks down at Corbyn's outstretched hand for a moment. He doesn't sneer, nor does he gloat. He simply looks at the hand, then up into Corbyn's eyes, seeing the genuine remorse and the quiet acceptance written across his features. Slowly, Yoongi reaches out. His long, pale fingers wrap firmly around Corbyn's hand, giving it a single, solid shake.
"Take care, Corbyn," you say softly from the back of the bike.
Corbyn offers you one last gentle, reassuring smile, stepping back and slipping his hands into his pockets. Yoongi pulls his own matte-black helmet on, pulling down the dark visor. He swings his leg seamlessly over the bike, the heavy machine settling under his weight. He reaches up to adjust his mirrors, kicking up the kickstand with a swift click of his boot.
Just before his foot comes down on the starter, Yoongi pauses. He turns his head back toward Corbyn.
"Hey. Corbyn," Yoongi says, flipping his visor back up.
Corbyn stops in his tracks, looking up.
"Thanks," Yoongi says. "Thanks for not letting her be alone."
Corbyn blinks, taken aback by the words Yoongi just uttered. A faint, quiet breath escapes his lips, and he gives Yoongi a firm, understanding nod.
Yoongi closes his visor and turns back to the road ahead, thumbing the ignition. The engine roars to life beneath you with a deep, thundering vibration that shakes through your entire body. You slide forward, wrapping your arms tightly around Yoongi’s waist, pressing your chest against his back.
He covers your hands with one of his for a brief squeeze, then grips the handlebars, twisting the throttle as the bike pulls smoothly out of the lot and onto the open, sun-drenched road, carrying you straight toward home.
<Next>
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