People often assumed you were born into dance because of how naturally your body moved, but the truth was simpler than that, you just never remembered a time without it.
Your childhood had always been filled with music leaking through open doors and the sound of your feet against polished floors. Ballet came first, small hands gripping barres too high for you while instructors adjusted your posture and your parents watched quietly from the corner with soft smiles on their faces.
Then came everything else... Jazz, contemporary, street dance, hip-hop.
You learned them greedily, not because someone forced you to, but because movement fascinated you in ways words never could. Every style felt like learning another language for emotions you didn’t know how to explain out loud, and your family never stopped you.
As long as you came home smiling and exhausted, they supported every sudden interest wholeheartedly.
One month you were obsessed with ballet technique, the next you were locking yourself in your room trying to master intricate footwork from underground hip-hop videos at two in the morning.
Somewhere along the way, your body stopped separating the styles entirely.
Ballet softened your lines, hip-hop sharpened them, contemporary taught you restraint while street dance gave you freedom.
You mixed all of it together until your choreography became unmistakably yours, fluid yet precise, elegant yet emotionally aggressive in a way people couldn’t explain properly.
People remembered how your dancing felt before they remembered the actual choreography. Still, despite loving dance itself, you never loved attention.
Even during your early twenties, when you started auditioning as a backup dancer for idols and performance groups, you preferred blending into formations rather than standing in the center. You liked rehearsals more than stages, preferred dim practice rooms over screaming crowds.
You danced because it made you feel alive, not because you wanted people staring at you.
Which was exactly why Hye-jin nearly lost her mind over your refusal to post online.
“You’re wasting talent” she complained one evening while sprawled across your apartment floor watching rehearsal clips on your laptop.
You barely looked up from stretching. “I’m not wasting anything.”
“You choreographed this in one night.”
“And?”
“And nobody’s seeing it except me!” You snorted softly before grabbing your water bottle.
Hye-jin narrowed her eyes at you before suddenly sitting upright. “Post dance covers.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“People online are scary.”
“You literally danced backup for idols.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“They weren’t looking at me.”
Hye-jin stared at you for a long moment before groaning dramatically into your couch cushion. “You’re unbelievable.”
The conversation should have ended there. Instead, a week later, she appeared at your studio holding a cheap black face mask she bought from a convenience store.
“Wear this.”
You blinked slowly “What.”
“If your problem is people seeing your face, cover it.”
The mask lasted exactly twenty-three minutes before you ripped it off in annoyance “It’s stuffy.”
“You’re impossible.”
“Thank you.”
Eventually, after several failed attempts involving masks, hoodies, and lighting angles, you settled on the simplest solution, a black cap pulled low enough to shadow most of your face.
It wasn’t perfect, but it worked.
The first dance cover you uploaded barely had a caption, no introduction, no explanation, just movement then somehow, everything spiraled from there.
One video became ten, ten became hundreds of thousands of views, then millions.
People became obsessed not only with your choreography, but with the mystery surrounding you. Dance forums argued endlessly about your identity, idols began referencing your videos during livestreams while professional dancers recreated your choreography online hoping you might notice them.
Nobody ever did, well... not really.
Because the more attention your account gained, the more carefully you protected your privacy, which was how Hye-jin accidentally became your manager.
“You realize your inbox is terrifying, right?” She said one night while scrolling through endless messages on your phone.
You grimaced from across the studio floor “I know.”
“Half these people are asking for choreography.”
“I know.”
“And the other half are trying to figure out who you are.”
“…I know!”
Hye-jin sighed dramatically before pointing at herself “I’m handling it.”
And somehow, she did. No public applications, no direct contact, no random auditions.
If someone wanted to work with you, they needed to be referred personally by another trusted client, it kept things controlled, quiet and safe.
More importantly, it kept you hidden, which was exactly how you preferred it.
Now at the present, the music finally cuts off inside the studio and silence rushes in almost violently after hours of bass vibrating through the room.
Breathing heavily, you walk toward the camera still recording at the front of the practice room, the brim of your cap continuing to hide your face even as you crouch briefly to stop the video.
Click. Recording ended.
Immediately, your shoulders relax and you pull the cap off your head and run a hand through damp hair before tossing it carelessly onto the counter beside the coffee machine. Sweat clings to the back of your neck as you reach for your towel, wiping your face while walking toward your water bottle.
The cold water disappears embarrassingly fast, only then do you finally reach for your phone lying beside the laptop.
Three missed notifications, one from your bank and two from Hye-jin thus you unlock the screen.
Hye-jin 🦊
Potential client.
A second message arrives almost immediately after.
Hye-jin 🦊
And before you say no, hear me out first.
Your eyes narrow instantly, that never meant anything good.
You press call without hesitation, placing the phone on speaker beside the laptop while cleaning up the studio almost automatically.
“Wow,” Hye-jin answers immediately, “Usually you ignore me for at least ten minutes first.”
“You sent the words ‘hear me out first,’ that’s threatening.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“You live with me, you know I’m right.”
A laugh crackles through the speakers as you start gathering scattered cables from the floor.
The studio occupied the entire second floor of the building the two of you rented together. Downstairs was your actual living space, a cozy kitchen permanently smelling faintly of coffee, a cluttered living room Hye-jin kept filling with throw pillows and a dining table usually buried beneath paperwork and takeout containers.
Upstairs belonged to dance where you come alive. The mirrored studio, two bedrooms and one completely empty spare room neither of you had figured out what to do with yet.
Honestly, you liked it that way.
You settle cross-legged on the floor near the counter and open the freshly recorded dance video on your laptop, immediately slipping into editing mode.
Trim here, adjust brightness slightly, lower the audio distortion at the beginning. Your hand then reaches absentmindedly into your bag beside you while staring at the screen.
“…Did you put this here?”
Hye-jin hums “Put what?”
You pull out a snack bar with narrowed eyes “The snack bar.”
“Yes.”
“You’re treating me like a stray cat.”
“You forget to eat when you dance.”
Fair enough.
You unwrap it anyway, chewing quietly while replaying the video from the beginning.
Hye-jin waits suspiciously patiently on the other end of the call, which immediately makes you suspicious too.
“…Who’s the client?”
“Oh,” Hye-jin says far too casually, “Someone referred by Hyunjin.”
Your fingers pause over the keyboard.
“…Hyunjin?”
“As in Hyunjin, yes.”
That immediately gets your attention, Hyunjin had worked with you months ago after being referred by another dancer and unlike most clients, he had understood your boundaries immediately. No questions about your identity, no attempts to pry, just choreography, rehearsals and mutual artistic respect.
You trusted him which meant anyone referred by him automatically mattered more. Still...
“You sound too excited” You mutter suspiciously.
“Because this one’s interesting.”
“Hye-jin.”
“I’m serious this time.”
“You said that last time and I ended up teaching choreography to an idol group that communicated entirely through screaming.”
“They were enthusiastic.”
“They broke one of the mirrors.”
“…That was technically only one member.”
You sigh deeply and return your attention to the editing timeline. “So who is it?”
“The referral came from Hyunjin,” Hye-jin says, clearly dragging the moment out on purpose “But the actual client is Hoshi.”
Your chewing slows.
“…Wait.”
“Mhm?”
“Hoshi as in…”
“Yes.”
“Kwon Soon-young?”
Hye-jin bursts into laughter through the speakers. “There’s only one Hoshi, you weirdo.”
“No because why are you saying it so casually?!”
“What did you want me to say? Breaking news, tiger enthusiast requests your services!”
You stare blankly at the laptop. “…That’s actually worse.”
“Anyway...”
“No wait, seriously? That Hoshi?”
“Yes, that Hoshi.”
You lean back against the counter fully now, genuinely stunned. Everyone in the industry knew Hoshi when it came to performance, the man practically breathed choreography to which immediately raised another question.
“Why does he need me?”
Hye-jin laughs softly. “Apparently he saw one of your videos through Hyunjin.”
“That narrows it down to absolutely none of them.”
“You know what I mean.”
You sigh quietly, dragging the editing cursor across the screen. “And they’re friends?”
“Hyunjin and Hoshi? Yeah, dance circles overlap a lot more than you think.”
Fair but still, you weren’t agreeing yet. Experience had taught you that talent alone didn’t guarantee compatibility. Some dancers wanted flashy choreography without emotional depth while others treated rehearsals like a status symbol instead of actual art.
You had no patience for either so instead of answering immediately, you start asking questions.
“How long?”
“Initial agreement is around three months.”
“That’s long.”
“He specifically asked for consistency instead of one-time choreography.”
That's... interesting.
“Location?”
“Mostly private studio sessions.”
“Here?”
“Nope.”
“Good.”
Hye-jin snorts. “You’re never letting clients into this building, are you?”
“Absolutely not.”
This place was yours, safe and hidden.
No cameras waiting outside, no fans accidentally discovering your address and definitely no chance of your private life bleeding into your work.
“So where?”
“They offered a private practice studio under the company.”
You hum thoughtfully. “How much are they offering?”
Hye-jin names the amount casually.
Your hand freezes mid-air. “…Excuse me?”
“I know.”
“That’s absurd.”
“That’s idol company money.”
You stare at the screen for another second before muttering “I should’ve become famous properly.”
“You are famous properly.”
“Not enough apparently.” Hye-jin laughs again.
“One more thing.”
“Mhm?”
“Am I teaching only him?” There’s a brief pause.
“Yes.”
Your eyes narrow immediately. “Just him?”
“According to the request, yes.”
That was unusual, most companies preferred group sessions for efficiency, one-on-one training meant this was personal, intentional.
“And the company knows about this?”
“They do,” Hye-jin answers “Apparently he went through official channels first before contacting us.”
That eased part of your concern at least. Still, your eyes drift toward the paused frame on your laptop screen, your shadow frozen mid-dance beneath dim studio lights.
Three months. one-on-one sessions with someone like Hoshi.
Meanwhile, inside a practice room several districts away, Hoseok was losing his mind quietly.
Not visibly, he had dignity but internally? Absolutely not.
Because it had officially been one week since your last upload, one week!
Which normally wouldn’t matter except now Hoseok had accidentally developed a routine.
Your videos usually appeared late at night after long rehearsals and he would tell himself he was only watching for inspiration, choreography analysis, artistic curiosity, then suddenly an hour would pass and he’d somehow memorized specific movements frame by frame... Completely professional behavior obviously.
“Hyung.” No response.
“Hyung.” Still nothing.
Across the practice room, Jimin finally stopped dancing entirely. “You missed Namjoon-hyung’s mistake”
That immediately got everyone’s attention because Hoseok never missed mistakes. Ever.
Usually one crooked shoulder was enough for him to stop rehearsal immediately, yet now?
Namjoon blinked from the center formation. “Wait, I messed up?”
“You were off by half a beat” Jimin answered.
“I was?”
“Yes.”
Silence and slowly, six pairs of eyes turned toward Hoseok who was once again staring at his phone, refreshing the same page repeatedly.
“…Hyung,” Jungkook says carefully “Are you waiting for exam results or something?”
“I’m not waiting for anything.”
“You refreshed your screen six times.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It happened in front of us.”
Hoseok finally pockets his phone with a sigh. “I was checking notifications.”
“You turned notifications on for someone” Taehyung gasps dramatically.
The room goes silent and Hoseok freezes. That was enough confirmation honestly.
“Oh my god” Jimin breathes “He did.”
“It’s a secret account, isn’t it?” Jungkook adds immediately.
“It’s not secret.”
“So there is an account.”
“There are millions of accounts on social media.”
“You’re sweating.”
“We were dancing.”
“No, this is different sweat.”
Hoseok stares at all of them in betrayal. Meanwhile, from the corner of the room, Yoongi doesn’t even look up from his phone as he says “He’s waiting for that ghost dancer to upload again.”
Dead silence. Slowly, everyone turns toward Hoseok whose expression immediately gives him away.
Jin gasps loudly. “The mysterious rival dancer?!”
“They’re not my rival.”
“You called them annoyingly talented three days ago” Namjoon says.
Seriously one of the best Ateez blogs I've encountered. Masterful stories that came from the writers soul. Would recommend any of the fics, even ones I haven't read - yet - because Im sure they're wonderful. Seriously, everyone should check them out, and appreciate their pretty theme and layouts while your at it 🖤
Synopsis: A misunderstanding, two broken hearts, and the need for a second chance. Y/N had met and fallen for Tae as his group fought for the recognition they deserved. But as their fame exploded, a divide formed between them. Then the dating rumors started and she was not the subject of them. One final misunderstanding was the breaking point. But some feelings never go away. When those feelings simmer and boil over, a second chance is born.
Synopsis: What started as two producers who couldn't help but clashing at every chance later turned into something entirely unexpected. When Y/N first had to work with Suga from BTS she was counting down the days until they could be done with one another. Until everything shifted. Now they are navigating love and family life while trying to balance his group's grand comeback.
Synopsis: What does it take to balance the overwhelming weight of fame and a desire for a peaceful life? To the world he is RM, leader of BTS. But to Y/N he is simply Kim Namjoon. Together they navigate the ever careful balance of what the world can and cannot see. From a first meeting to BTS 2.0 their relationship blooms in unexpected ways.
seven months working corporate hasn’t made you hate seoul; but maybe the city’s decision to ignore you while you tend to an injured man will.
MAP OF SEOUL METRO (2023)
words. >8.1k
in this. slice of life. haha. vomiting. mentions of weight struggles? overall super vain social issues. descriptive blood & gore. lot of bleeding. panicking? panic attack. mention of self harm. smoking mentioned a few times. yelling. it gets messy. someone gets hit by a car. derealization? magical occurrences apparently. gets dark. not super proofread !!
note. be gentle im super amateur i only started writing like three weeks ago agh. the map is more for plot and immersion than actual accuracy as ive only been to the city once =] do enjoy !! xoxo
TUNNELS: prev < MASTERPOST > next
관 visuals. 음 playlist. 지 series tag. 길 masterlist.
CHAPTER ONE. the offering is accepted
each successive door proved harder to open than the last, though whether this was the fault of the doors themselves or the weakness steadily splitting through his palms and wrists had become difficult to say.
he had been running for what was likely four surface-hours now, stumbling somewhere between the dynasty and the republic, through tunnels that narrowed when he looked at them too long and passageways that no longer remembered permitting him through.
he was starving. freezing. nauseous. painfully aware that he had ruined a perfectly good pair of loafers; and beneath all of this sat the increasingly unpleasant certainty that if the emperor’s right hand reached him first, the humiliation alone might kill him before anything else managed to.
“should’ve sealed it,” he murmured. whether he meant the passage, the threshold, or himself hardly seemed important anymore.
he promises he’s just passing through.
above — or perhaps ahead; directions had become unreliable some time ago — the city opened around him all at once.
R1 blinked weakly from a sign overhead. traffic lights pulsed. people crossed streets. someone laughed too loudly into a phone. cigarette smoke curled lazily upward into the neon haze. and through the center of it all, he staggered bleeding like an animal the world had not yet decided to acknowledge.
they never did. definitely not at this hour.
blood soaked patiently through his sleeve and into his palm as he struck the first automatic door he saw. the glass trembled faintly beneath the impact while the sensor overhead flickered once — as though something inside it had nearly recognized him — before settling back into stillness.
“don’t do this,” he whispered.
people flowed around him in smooth and uninterrupted currents, untouched by collision, untouched by recognition. a woman stepped neatly around the trail of blood gathering near his shoes without ever lowering her eyes enough to see it there.
when his hand finally slipped against the wall beside him, coming away wet, red and shaking slightly with exhaustion, panic arrived not all at once but carefully, settling itself into the space beneath his ribs with the familiarity of something he expected but didn’t want yet to face.
the realization came a second before the car did.
impact.
pavement.
the terrible sensation of the world lurching sideways while the city itself continued forward untouched.
no one screamed.
no one stopped.
no one looked.
sound stretched thinly around him, warped somewhere in the distance, then returned to its proper shape. the car hesitated only briefly, as though mildly inconvenienced by something difficult to explain, before continuing on its way.
and this is where it dawned on him that, after everything, after all the years spent learning the precise and delicate machinery of forgetting, there was still something deeply embarrassing about being struck by a hyundai.
lying there against the pavement with blood spreading steadily beneath him, he laughed.
good matcha was never rushed.
the leaves had to be shaded before harvest so bitterness wouldn’t settle too deeply into them. hand-ground slowly. sifted carefully. water just below boiling, otherwise the taste bruised.
even the whisking had rules. too rough, and the foam became large and uneven. too gentle, and it never formed at all.
all of this you learn from watching mister kim on slow, sleepy mornings and late, twinkly nights. no matter the time of day, he always has a pocket just for you, waiting with his toothy grin and puffer jacket, and lord knows the sight is one of the few things that kept you going on particularly rough days. his matcha is the best, not just because of his tried and true traditional method, but because it’s always infused with the wisdom behind his eyes, and a good story.
you swear you could taste the difference.
when he spoke of the years before he opened blue night mart, spent in tall corporate buildings like the ones his tiny shop was squished between, the matcha always came out sharper. not too bitter, of course, never. but it had a kind of brightness that settled at the back of your tongue like a citrus peel. something remembered too quickly to be gentle.
on days when the subject drifted to his youth, he talked about his little army dreams, skateboards zooming down unpaved roads amidst occupations of japan and the united states. it should’ve been heavy, but the matcha was oddly light. airier. almost hollow in the way that snowfall is, like it had less to do with taste and more to do with space between things. you never pressed.
occasionally, he would mention people unnamed — which was understandable — he was pushing seventy; it’s honestly a blessing that he remembers enough to keep you entertained everyday. though he speaks of figures carefully, as if language itself might misplace them. recurring characters feature a bird watcher, a woodworker, and a man with a siren’s voice. on those days, the matcha was slightly thicker.
there was one story, told only once, on the day when your boss had you run your first errand through dokbawi..
something about his time as a musician in some grungy rock band, and the air guitar he played was so passionate that even the tea tasted faintly metallic at the edges. you spent the rest of the evening trying to decide if it was memory or the mixing.
regardless, it’s very endearing, the honesty of it;
tea could only become more of itself under pressure. people, on the other hand, usually became someone else entirely.
maybe that’s why you’re the only one in the office who prefers it over coffee, or maybe it’s because you needed something that wouldn’t make you so jittery while carrying the rest of the cups over to the building. we don’t want another latte incident.
there were only seven ways your coworkers liked their coffee — eight, if you counted assistant lee who changed her preferences depending on whether she was trying to lose weight, quit smoking, or get back together with her ex-boyfriend.
editor cho absolutely loves vanilla syrup, but he pretends not to. stylist yoon claimed that oat milk made her skin clearer despite spending most of her lunch breaks vaping outside the fire exit. one of the interns only drank americanos because she thought that chewing ice cubes would burn calories. minju from hr only took strawberry frappuccinos, which you respected. and the boss, well, the boss chugged black coffee like it was water.
the boss who was currently barking at you over the phone about picking up a rental from the givenchy down the street even though you were already halfway to the office in the opposite direction with, mind you, nine coffees trembling in your grip.
“director park—” you started, trying for reason, but of course that’s not something many people know in gangnam. “oh, and could you stop by joe’s garage down apgujeong? i had a jacket custom made for my husband, if he doesn’t get it today i fear i may catch him with another model on his arm. oh, the press!” and somehow that statement distresses you less than the fact that apgujeong is a whole thirty-minute walk away.
seven months. over half a year in the world design capital — or, as your cousin lovingly dubbed it, the world resign capital — fully convinced you’d come home to continue lugging bags of flour in the back of the noodle shop.
yeah, you thought about it a few times, and though you’re starting to feel the ache in your shoulders and the cramp in your fingers, it’s nothing that one of the luxury zen beauty & massage parlors in the area can’t fix. they certainly don’t have those at the noodle shop.
seven months in seoul didn’t really change you, it simply brought out what was already there; and the same goes for the city itself. the warped ideas and what-ifs you once had now settled into your day-to-day — and maybe your uncles weren’t so far off after all.
because seoul did have an appetite, that much was apparent in the endless food stalls in every single strip, you still haven’t managed to try all the restaurants in your district alone.
you also found that they actually seemed to prefer outsiders like you, though mostly as spectacle rather than any genuine embrace of diversity. but hey, a win is a win?
you’d originally imagined it to be nothing but clean, warm marbles and blinking neons and wild, expensive nightlife, but you were surprised to find how dull it was in between such colorful chapters.
grey brutalist buildings with dark eyed workers inside, black graffiti over the sides, grey bridges over small ponds that looked like they were reflecting a night sky in the middle of day; grey subway floors, black coffee — right.
by the grace of whatever god is left in the city, you managed to catch one of the interns, hana, by the entrance of hq, chewing mint gum with a ferocity that suggested she was trying to bury a smoky scent. you shoved the coffee in the poor girl’s arms, telling her to bring it up to the fifth, before dashing back down the street.
today’s outfit was thankfully built for this, stitched together from three different lives: low-waisted jeans that fit just loose enough to survive the subway, your mom’s fitted black bebe sweater that was so old the cuffs had softened, and a black baker boy hat — just cause it’s cute! stylist yoon doesn’t share the sentiment, but her views and way of life isn’t one you vied after anyway.
silver rings crowded your fingers. your chanel tote was heavy enough to qualify as a personal burden. your beloved shoes looked alternative enough to justify the scuffing —
maybe this was a show of character development, your comme des garçons flats you got from a flea market a few years ago never would’ve seen the light of day back at home; where people dressed for weather and practicality. now, they were pounding against pavement, carrying you to givenchy, where the front desk dude, jiwon, gave you another one of his concerned dimply smiles.
“slow down,” he says, for the third time that week.
you tell him, again, that you couldn’t really afford to, already rushing out as soon as he hands you the goods and trying not to rustle the white paper bags that probably cost triple your salary.
the next place your shoes brought you to was a small alleyway between a huge shopping mall and a rental building, taking one of the few cuts you know over to a familiar street of mauve brick and open air. your hand brushes against the glass like an old friend, and you note that the overhead clock reads 8:55 as you descend the escalator.
this crystalline cave opens into what you, and a bunch of other working class citizens, consider to be the heart of the city: the seoul metro subway.
every morning, approximately seven million people descended below just to keep seoul alive for another day.
the railway stretched like exposed anatomy — arteries threaded with fluorescent light, veins carrying warm, energetic bodies from district to district, only to drag the cold, quiet ones back to rest. its face is tangled and messy and beautiful, and it has been for the past century or so,
though it’s not the same face it had in 1899, or 1974; and the distant clang of metal and power tools suggests it may not keep this one for the next ten years either.
the same could be said for many women that walk above.
its skin is branded by liveliness, youth, and the preservation of such, but it is an old soul. those who know how to read between the lines will see that contradiction is a language it is fluent in — motionless and restless, tranquil and moody, gorged, and yet, perpetually hungry.
line 9 strains.
line 5 mourns.
line 3 becomes.
line 1 endures.
and line 2 circles its center in an endless loop — though most who have been on it for too long say it starts to feel like a spiral after the fourth stop. it swallows and spits out the same names and faces so often that eventually, some stopped noticing they were moving at all.
not all passengers moved at the same pace, either. especially not on hell-train.
eonju.
sinnonhyeon.
sapyeong.
sapyeong.
sapyeong.
you’re jolted awake by a particularly rough bump.
awake? ..what?
your cheek is warm from pressing against the window, your matcha wet and cooling between your fingers as you blink. once, then twice, then thrice. turns out finally grabbing a seat on seoul’s crammed line 9 lead to some pretty good naps, like a reward of sorts.
or maybe, a curse. the panic slowly presents itself in your chest when you reach up to rub your eyes — thankfully wearing the smudge-proof eyeliner minju had recommended you so enthusiastically last week — how long were you out? why does your shoulder hurt so damn bad? then you realize it’s probably the ribbons on the givenchy shopping bags.. shit.
you couldn’t have possibly been out for more than ten minutes, right? you feel it more as a plea than a question as you wipe and set your matcha down, steadying it between your thighs in favor of your phone. which immediately crushes all possible hope as the bold 9:25 nearly blinds you.
almost thirty fucking minutes you’ve been out, on what was supposed to be an eight-minute ride. fuck. fuck. fuck this motherfucking life. should’ve listened when assistant lee told you to get more steps in.
you rub at your arm instinctively as you adjust your posture in your seat, trying to spare at least a bit of dignity from the pale redhead wonyoung wannabe retouching her makeup and the salaryman-looking guy with eyes way too old and judgemental for his youthful face, who just watched you realize in real-time that you missed your stop.
it’s fine — you tell yourself — you’ll never see them again.
rush hour is just ending, you take a desperately needed sip of your matcha as you plot your next steps. you could get off at the next stop and probably catch a westward train in another ten. director park will make an example of you, surely, but you could easily stop by the kpop square in hongdae and make it up to her with another seventeen album.
you can worry about that when you figure out where you are first, squinting at the landscape blurring past the window. where does the train even end up this far east? saetgang? jeongmi? the national assembly—?
the pungnyeon plays, and the uplifting zither melody that’s meant to bring good harvests, sounds more like a death sentence. you close your eyes.
this station is: express bus terminal. the door is on your right.
..huh?
now, you should be jumping for joy at the fact that you don’t have to get off and ride another thirty minutes back — and you will — just, when you’re finished processing how the hell it took the train half an hour to get here. it’s three stations away? maybe there was a delay, an emergency or something that you completely slept through, and somehow that only furthers your humiliation.
maybe cut the matcha before bed.
you don’t have time to wallow in it, just thank your lucky stars, again, and down your now room-temp drink in a single heavy gulp before unceremoniously dunking it into the nearest bin. this time, you allow yourself a little skip in your step,
because if director park tries to make a fuss over your timing, you can just blame it on seoul metro.
the best part is, you know she won’t question it, not when you’re around line 3, where you double tap your card again, finally northbound to apgujeong.
her and her superstitions, you smile quietly to yourself as you queue. even her impatient, fast-paced life is forced to slow down in taxis through jongno to eonju, simply to avoid line 5, line 3, and line 1 — which, funnily enough, were all stationed together in her area. “too many were lost along those rails,” she once said, which you empathized with, though you’re not sure if she meant the previous suicide rate or something else entirely.
the doors opened with a soft breath, and that friendly announcement chimed through the space as you boarded. it was now that sweet spot in the morning where the only people left sitting in public transport were those who gave zero fucks and those who worked in beauty and press.
you were teetering between both as you haphazardly threw your belongings onto the empty space.
the grey-haired lady who stepped in after you, however, was a prime example of the former; with a purple hat too big for her head on a cloudy day, a stack of gold necklaces beating on her chest, waving around a purple fan in a fully air-conditioned train car. in her hand is a bright pink carrier with a mewling, black ball of fluff inside — labeled ‘kkami.’
she doesn’t look at you, she’s too out of this world for you; but her companion does. its green eyes blink as it sleepily paws at the bars, happy as can be. you make a mental note to buy some premium tuna for lily.
working at a fashion magazine in seoul gave you somewhat of an upper hand in the hierarchy, and it also taught you the inner workings of all the glam;
like how style here comes from survival more than creativity, or how, contrary to popular belief, nobody actually likes glass skin, the standard is more of a soft mochi look.
the interns knew this. someone’s sobbing in the bathroom while the rest of the girls retouched their powdery faces, donning muted neutrals and clean silhouettes — because they needed to look competent despite being paid less than a decent dinner.
the editors looked rich enough to weaponize proximity, holing themselves in their dens of oxford commas and thesauruses.. thesauri? no clue. that’s their problem.
the stylists had the most pressure, you think, to set a good precedent while trying not to outshine the main stars; no matter how desperately they wanted to be the one posing for the camera. their team usually consists of guys and girls in strictly acne and alaia. one of them is steaming a shirt while swearing under their breath because a celebrity “looked bloated” in yesterday’s shoot.
stylist yoon, in her signature red blazer that signaled her ever-raging soul, had a curling iron clenched between her teeth like a weapon. she’s currently tugging somebody’s bangs into submission.
“if she cries again i’m shaving it,” she muttered around the metal.
“pretty sure that violates labor laws,” you elongated in a sing-song tone, sliding past her like she was literally on fire.
“good. maybe hr will finally do something useful.”
somewhere behind her, the model in question sniffled harder.
you lean over, peeking over her shoulder to offer the blonde woman a sympathetic smile, before swiping a loaded folder off the glass table. the printers never stop. neither do the phones. nor the crying. and the vapes, terribly hidden beneath musks of peach gum and vanilla perfume.
the models were the least flashy, minju says it’s because they don’t have to try as hard as the rest of us anymore, arriving in oversized hoodies and designer sunglasses like they were trying to erase themselves before somebody else could do it professionally — which was where you came in.
after wrestling with four garment bags, one instance of your metro card declining, two jammed elevator buttons, and the growing urge to cause a scene for whichever security guard monitored the cctvs because editor cho sent another apologetic text about “accidentally” mixing up your lunchboxes again, you were actually excited to sit down and do your job.
correction.
ironically, your desk was tucked between two far more respectable workstations like a stubborn act of individuality that couldn’t be sanded down. the concept of not bringing fashion and self expression to your job at a fashion magazine?
between dual monitors and an attempt at neat wiring were fragments of personality sprinkled in and arranged with deep care: silver lip gloss tubes rolling beside color calibration cards. calico critters behind sticky notes scribbles with hex codes and deadlines. little charms. black ribbons. silver studs. trinkets you’ve amassed from one-too-many detours to insadong.
someone said it looks like a tokyo bedroom compressed into four square feet of corporate misery. exactly how you like it. makes you forget how complicated your relationship with the work really is.
initially, it sucked. and, it still, really fucking sucks.
every time you were instructed to make someone prettier or sexier or even smarter by changing minuscule details that realistically had no effect, you felt the guilt eating you alive. as if you’d be doomed to eternal punishment like a corrupt official rather than a creative simply trying to make a living. because it’s stupid, and it’s immoral, and it makes no sense — the length of someone’s fingernails absolutely does not determine their iq.
but you’d learn that your rules don’t apply everywhere, especially not in seoul.
so you kept your mouth shut in favor of the thirty-six million won you were getting every month. you’d eventually come to find that when everything around you moved too quickly and too carelessly, there was something satisfying about being able to pause a person and decide what stayed.
soften the jaw.
brighten the eyes.
lift the nose.
shrink the waist.
assistant lee rested over the back of your chair, arms folded atop your head in a way you normally hated from anyone else. “make her more.. approachable,” she says through a mouthful of her fourth iced americano that day, gesturing in a you get what i mean kind of motion.
approachable. whatever the fuck that means.
but you know what it means in the office, and your mouse is already moving. two clicks later, the model’s decade-old scar vanished beneath your cursor like it had never existed at all.
to you, she’s just another face you don’t know the story of, and her eyes were already too filtered to really read. but lee nodded like you just reinvented the entire image, ruffling your hair with manicured fingers. “keep up the good work.”
remove the mole.
remove the emotion.
remove the proof.
after the six hour mark, faces stopped feeling attached to people. they became arrangements instead — pores, shadows, asymmetry, teeth. things to be corrected. sometimes you zoomed in so closely on somebody’s skin that the image blurred into grain and color, abstract enough to stop resembling a human being entirely.
by no means are you unhappy with the girl in the mirror; you’re cute, well-dressed, you know your colors, you always carry a genuine smile — which was rare around here. but sometimes, after long enough, you catch yourself staring into the dark reflection of your monitor, wondering what parts of you would disappear first beneath somebody else’s hands.
maybe seoul didn’t change people. maybe it simply taught them to be.. edited.
and you can’t help but question what good is all this freedom when you’re the one doing the editing?
overtime finally loosened its grip on the building, and the city outside had already softened into drizzle and neon haze. the baby pink clock perched on the wall — one your boss paid a ridiculous amount for because she thought it was soooo y2k — told you it was already 7:45.
“heading out back again?” minju’s voice drifted toward you as she adjusted the strap of her gucci bag, her gaze sharp beneath little ysl frames. even exhausted, she somehow still looked expensive.
you shove your laptop shut with a sigh. “someone has to maintain diplomatic relations.”
“with the.. invisible cat?”
“she’s not invisible,” you mumble, standing. “just, emotionally unavailable.”
minju snorts loud enough to turn heads.
“you’re seriously stubborn, you know that?” she says, fixing her pin-straight hair as she follows you toward the elevators. “most people would’ve given up after three months.”
you shrug one shoulder.
“the food’s always gone by morning.”
“cho probably eats it.”
“that man would rather die than bend down for anything,” you cross your arms. “even free sashimi.”
“mm. fair point,” she giggles, flashing her perfectly straight teeth that she nearly went into debt for before patting you on the shoulder.
the two of you part ways in the lobby with tired little bows and promises to text that neither of you will have the energy to follow through on. that is, unless she makes you her savior for the night — minju always ends up at that soap club in itaewon on thursdays and saturdays.
you end up where you always do after late shifts: behind the office building, beside the humming vending machines, near the rusted staircase where somebody once tried to grow tomatoes in cracked plastic buckets. they’re now full of cigarette butts and bitterness, courtesy of the distressed interns.
the city sounds different back here.
muffled; like seoul is speaking through its teeth.
you crouch beside the wall and pull the small tin from your bag.
“i brought tuna today,” you announce quietly.
nothing. not that you expected otherwise.
the lid peels back with a soft metallic snap, steam rising faintly into the cold air.
“the expensive kind, too,” you add. “so if you don’t show up soon, i’m taking it personally.”
silence.
for the past three months, this had been your arrangement with the stray cat you named lily, short for spider lily the third: you spoke, she listened. neither of you made yourselves fully visible.
you first heard of her during winter, after director park casually mentioned seeing cat prints in fresh snow leading toward a wall, and then vanishing. the lounge was in chaos that day, the main theory was that it climbed like spider-man — hence, spider lily the third. lee offered that it might’ve just tiptoed away. cho saying it may have been swooped up and eaten by a bird scared you enough that you went around back to leave out salmon and prayers of safety.
since then, the bowls always emptied overnight.
sometimes the food disappeared while you were still there, always when you’ve said your goodbyes and turned to leave. you’d give one final glance to the dark corner and whatever you left out is gone. though whenever you looked up, the alley remained empty. she was like a bored and introverted landlord waiting for you to pay rent and leave.
you stopped questioning it after the second week. seoul was exhausting enough without interrogating every strange little thing it handed you.
you place the tin carefully beside the wall.
“rough day?” you ask the darkness. for a moment, all you hear is the buzz of lights overhead and the harmony of night traffic.
then — a soft scrape.
your breath catches immediately, eyes darting toward the shadows beneath the staircase. thinking this might finally be the day.
but there’s nothing there.
still, you smile anyway.
“yeah,” you sigh, taking off your hat that was now askew, and pulling your knees against your chest. “me too.”
rainwater drips softly from somewhere, and you hope lily doesn’t get wet. or maybe she’s one of those weird cats that actually enjoy the rain, you wouldn’t put it past her. you wonder briefly what lily must look like, is she fluffy and big? maybe she’s tiny, with short fur. is she white, black, grey? regardless, you know she’d never need retouching.
you stare out toward the alley mouth, watching headlights smear across wet pavement. “i think i’m happy here,” your admission is so hesitant that you start to wonder if you even mean it, but who are you kidding? it’s just you and the cat.
you run your fingers through your hair, quieter this time. “which i think is embarrassing.”
your laugh leaves in a puff of white, do cats even get embarrassed? they don’t even speak korean, unless maybe trained to do so. after months of one-sided conversations, could lily understand you?
“back home, everyone kept acting like seoul was going to eat me alive. and maybe it is.” you glance down at your hands. “but i don’t know. sometimes i think i’d let it.”
the vending machine hums louder, probably telling you to just get a damn milk soda and quit talking to yourself like some crazy cat lady.
“is that weird?”
silence. for a minute, or three.
you lick your lips, about to give into the taunts of the vending machine and head back to the subway station.
then, somewhere deeper in the dark, for the first time, you hear her:
mrrrow.
it’s small and raspy, but close. director park owes you lunch.
“yeah,” your smile softens, nodding your head. “thought so.”
another thing that surprised you about seoul is how awkward it felt, the ancient and old jostling with the modern and new.
it's like if you made your brainrotted baby cousin hang out with mister kim; not uncomfortably, but not very respectful either. the image is funny, and the layout itself is even funnier.
well, it was funny at first; but now it makes you a little sad.
it's a city of thousand-year-old burial grounds and cryptocurrency billboards; of yukjo-geori and lotte world tower; of screaming train brakes and silent temples; of preservation without much patience. it's a city alive in the same way a cicada shell still technically looked like something living after the creature itself had already climbed out.
even the highly-acclaimed historical palaces are just replicas of what once was.
you sighed louder than necessary whenever you walked by another courtyard reduced to a restaurant selling seven-thousand won salt bread and matcha tiramisu to couples too busy photographing the desserts to eat them fresh. you hate how old you sound, you love seoul, but you hate even more how such an ancient land pretends to be younger than you are.
that may be why seoul time gets weird at night.
other than the lack of your boss threatening to have your head with every second lost. it’s like the seconds float off like stars in the sky — or blinking subway lamps, that works too.
usually you’re accustomed, just sleeping the minutes away while listening to some montell fish, but the city center isn’t the only thing cut in half from eonju to dangsan. your half-hour ride feels more like fifteen minutes, and — even weirder — your ten-minute line 2 ride from dangsan to hongdae feels like twenty.
you check your phone again, with a bit more irritation this time, and no, there are no time jumps or anomalies in the continuum. maybe you just didn’t add enough songs to your playlist. maybe you just woke up on the wrong side of the bed and you need another pick-me-up from mister kim. your sigh fogs up the glass, and you’re reminded of how chilly it gets, too.
the sounds of culture and art are already greeting you as you leave hongik station on foot.
afrobeats blasts from one direction and some 80s trot from the other. the gimmicky shamanic & tarot café glows a brighter red tonight — as if closed spiritual practices and overpriced coffee belonged anywhere near each other. but that was the charm of hongdae’s red road.
R3 blinked weakly from a sign overhead. traffic lights pulsed. people crossed streets. someone laughed too loudly into a phone. cigarette smoke curled lazily upward into the neon haze. and through the center of it all, you were smiling down at the goblin mascot painted below your feet — you’re not sure if it’s kkaesun or kkaebi, but you know you personally identified with it.
its chubby face beamed up at you, looking like it was about to destroy the big bowl of rice in its hand. you debate doing the same.
like every night, you promise you’re just passing through, but, like every night, you’re already five — maybe closer to ten minutes through a rack of trousers, all smelling like old fabric softener and someone else’s life. a little doll in a red dress was strung over the door, the only thing keeping you company other than the tired nineteen year old working the register.
“ooh, is that chanel—”
you hook your fingers into what you were hoping was grail, and it looks promising. structured shoulders, clean stitching, the kind of jacket that would absolutely get stolen from set if you left it unattended for more than four seconds.
you tug it free, already mentally negotiating whether your salary can survive another “investment piece,” because of course even secondhand clothes cost more than a meal, when your gaze drifts to the mirror at the back wall.
it’s bordered with swirling wood, dusty in a way that makes everything inside it look slightly delayed. you squint, and it’s like the room is happening a second too slow to be trusted or maybe you’re moving too fast? in that smear of reflection, for just a fraction of a moment — you think you see her.
an older woman, with a strangely familiar purple hat.
not browsing, not shifting weight, not doing anything that would justify being there in a moving, breathing thrift store with kitschy peeling posters. she’s just.. positioned near the rear corner like she had been placed there on purpose and forgotten.
your brain tries to correct it immediately — lighting, angle, fatigue, hongdae air doing whatever it does to people like you who don’t get enough sleep. but the detail refuses to dissolve fast enough to feel safe.
you turn your head to ask.
there’s nothing there except coats swaying slightly from someone brushing past, empty space between racks, hangers clicking softly, laughing at you for actually looking. and beside you, the girl at the register lets out a small, distracted chuckle at something on her phone, completely unaware of whatever just happened in your peripheral vision.
and you stand there, brows pinched together for a moment, before you swallow it down like it never occurred.
instead, you end up at the counter with two plastic bags hooked over your arm — a mix of dark baby tees, something lace-adjacent you swear was “practically vintage” that you would surely rub in yoon’s face next week, and a balconette bra you talked down to half price out of sheer principle, and the love of the game.
after another five minutes, you now have three bags, the third full of fresh strawberries, green onions, red apples, and, tucked at the bottom like contraband, three dozen of mister kim’s favorite caramel bars.
your flats hit the pavement outside with the confidence of someone pretending they aren’t just about ready to drop yet. hongdae air greets you again — colder, louder — like it never stopped talking while you were inside. and you could’ve sworn the same person’s been singing karaoke since you got here.
home is that way.
you shift the bags, already thinking about the way mister kim will squint his little eyes at you like he’s reading a headline off your face before you even speak. what story he’ll decide to give you tonight. whether it’ll be one of his youth stories, or one of his half-remembered people who may or may not still exist outside his shop counter.
did he fix the sign like he said he would this morning? you hope he didn’t. you actually kinda like it crooked.
your gaze stays low as you walk, the rhythm of your steps syncing with the unending conversation of red road behind you. everything feels normal in that soft, slightly surreal way that it always does at this hour — like seoul is letting you pass through it instead of holding you inside it. you take the usual cut, slipping into the road near exit 9, expecting the homey stretch of sleepy blue glow waiting just beyond the bend.
but the blue doesn’t come.
instead, you see red.
not in color; not in signage or neon or lanterns or anything that belongs to hongdae at night. this is deeper. denser.
it’s a kind of red that’s weighted, wrong, and persistent. the same red that might just be draining from your face right now.
you shiver and stop in your tracks before you fully give yourself permission to, which sent the man walking behind you nearly stumbling into your back, shoving your shoulder as he sent you an incredulous glare. “yah, are you crazy? watch where you’re going!” his voice drowned out as he stumbled forward, and you couldn’t see his face, no.
your gaze was fixed on his shoes, and the sickening squelch. squelch. squelch. as he stepped in the red. it was sticky, it was thick, it was human. it was blood, and there was a body, and —
“is there something on my feet?” the man whines again, scratching the back of his neck like the situation is about him, and you felt the blood and the bile rise up to your face all at once; you wanted to scream in his fucking face because WHY the fuck is he stumbling over an injured person, acting like they’re not even there. what the fuck is wrong with people?
what the fuck is wrong with you? you need to move, to help, you need —
the rustling sound of your bags dropping to the ground don’t even register, nor does the sound of your knees following, and you swallow up the sickening, terrifying feeling that you’re going to throw up as your jeans sink into the wet, sticky mess. all you see is red, and even that starts to blur as wetness wells up in your eyes. fuck.
you’re grabbing them, gently, at least trying to be, fingers slipping slightly against the wet weight of what was once a baby blue button down as your brain refuses to fully process what your eyes are seeing.
“hello? hello — are you— can you hear me? please,” you choke out, voice already cracking in places it shouldn’t be cracking. you don’t even know if they’re conscious enough to hear you, but talking feels like the only thing keeping you from dissolving.
you try checking their — her? pulse, forcing your violently shaking fingers to still as you brush the person’s long curls, damp and sticky and matted with their own blood, and press against where you think the pulse should be felt. and nothing. no. no. no.
you reach again, slower this time, forcing your hands to behave like they belong to someone competent, someone trained, someone who does not currently feel like their skull is splitting right open from adrenaline.
and you almost sob when you feel the skin shift and beat beneath your fingers. fuck. okay. okay.
“okay—okay—okay,” you whisper under your breath, less reassurance, more command to yourself than the person. a car passes too close. not slowing. not looking. wind cuts through you both like you’re part of the street furniture and not something actively happening.
and, as if it were comedic timing, or divine punishment, someone brushes by a bit too close, about to walk right past, as if two bloody figures crumpled down on a busy street was an easy thing to miss. your shoulder jerks as she clips you, the pain flashing white.
“oh! oh my god, i’m so sorry! i-i genuinely didn’t see—” she turns back mid-step, eyes widening as if the situation so fucking conveniently only becomes visible once language is assigned to it.
this time, you do scream.
“FUCK! what the fuck! what the FUCK is wrong with you fucking people!? do you have no fucking soul, huh?! piece of fucking shit!” you lash out, half in fury and half in hysteria, neck nearly snapping with how fast you turn to look at the wide-eyed girl, and you almost feel bad; the shame colors her face like it was an honest mistake.
“there is a person,” you breathe, shallowly now, “fucking — BLEEDING right in front of you, and y-you just,” you’re sniffling, like a little bitch, and swallowing hard; you almost miss the realization dawning on her face, like the person on the ground had also, conveniently, just appeared to her out of nowhere. she offers to call an ambulance, which you ignore as the head in your hands starts to stir.
fuck. fuck fuck fuck.
you zone right back in as they — he, definitely a he — he lets out a pained groan, his jaw straining as he tries to move his head, and you try not to panic all over again
“hi!” you start, trying to hold enough sunshine for the both of you, “i’m gonna — gonna move you, okay?” your voice spikes higher than you intend, breaking on the last word as your arms adjust under him, locking in a way that shouldn’t really work, but it does.
something in your shoulder is screaming in delayed horror — but your brain refuses to negotiate. he’s heavier than you — of fucking course he’s heavier than you, and way more than your panic accounted for, but somehow he still moves when you shove upward, boots scraping uselessly against the pavement. and it’s something. something is good. something isn’t useless.
you don’t even process that the man is nearly six feet tall, or the fact that you’re carrying him like a sack of mom’s rice flour on pure terror and adrenaline alone — just instinct, just motion, just get him off the fucking ground before another car comes and doesn’t miss.
“just— stand. please stand,” you’re saying it like a prayer now, like bargaining, like a spell of strength, and you briefly consider running to that shaman café. his weight shifts once, unsteady, and you almost collapse with relief before it even stabilizes.
his head lolls forward slightly, breath catching in a way that makes your stomach turn.
then — barely. a breath.
and then his voice, cracked and wrong and far too calm for someone currently bleeding into your sleeves. “what.. hyeonnam is this?”
you freeze so abruptly your grip nearly fails, mind stuttering on the word like it doesn’t belong in any language you know. “what?” it comes out sharper than you mean, disbelieving, and you’re already scanning his half-bloodied face, bruised cheek, a cut lip, a brow piercing? looking for something, anything, to indicate any brain damage.
his fingers twitch against your wrist like he’s trying to confirm you’re real. like you’re the blood red anomaly, and it frustrates and pains you all at once as you successfully manage to nudge him onto the sidewalk. this man —
“this feeding town,” he mutters, like he’s trying to place something that keeps slipping out of reach. his expression shifts in fragments — confusion, offense, then something faintly unsettled — and it makes your head feel worse, not better. at all.
“why is it so loud.” he slurs. and you make a sound that is not language. something between a choke and a malfunction.
“i — what?? no — what feeding town??” your voice cracks upward again, snappier than it would for an injured human being, but you’re already on edge, and the very person you were trying to help was NOT helping you.
“this is hongdae,” you speak louder, more annunciated, more heated, as if communicating with a toddler who only knew half your vocabulary. “this is SEOUL. this is a street. you, sir, are injured. why are you asking me about feeding towns??”
he tries to lift his head again like the answer might be written in the air above you. instead he sways, and you tighten again, so violently that your fingers go numb. “you’re above,” he says slowly, like he’s tasting the concept. “that’s not supposed to—”
“NO,” you interrupt immediately, nearly shaking him, wherever he was going with that, you did not want to hear it. “don’t— don’t do that,” you snap, panic spilling into more frustration because you don’t have space for anything else. “don’t start saying cryptic dying-man things, okay?” you glance down at the situation that caked both your clothes and arms;
and you nearly throw up in his face.
“you’re bleeding. you’re literally— you’re leaking. you’re fucking soaking. we are doing survival first and whatever hyeonnam is, NEVER.”
his brow furrows like he’s offended by your tone more than the fact that he is, in fact, collapsing. which would almost be funny if you weren’t actively trying not to pass out.
behind him, automatic doors to a CU chime, a soft ding that makes his entire body tense like it means something you don’t understand.
the sickness is twisting further around your stomach. you cannot vomit. you cannot vomit. please do not fucking vomit.
tears are still pricking your eyes as around you, the street keeps fucking moving. it’s cruel , so cruel how it seemingly refuses to pause even during something so fucking dire?
someone laughs into a phone. a bike passes. a couple steps neatly into the space where his blood touches the curb without adjusting their pace at all.
squelch.
squelch.
squelch.
are you going crazy?
“don’t — they can’t see—”
“SEE WHO?” you shriek, causing a passerby to finally fucking notice you two again, as they awkwardly shuffle past. “WHO the FUCK is them?? there’s NO THEM, there’s —”
your sentence collapses halfway as his knees buckle again, dragging your focus back into his weight, his reality, the fact that he is still here and still not okay.
“there’s just you and me, and you are currently losing your body weight in BLOOD, please—”
his hand clamps weakly onto your shoulder, not grounding or comforting — but like he’s checking you are actually there, even when he’s clearly not fully there either. then his voice drops, fractured and oddly distant again, as if he’s slipping sideways inside himself.
“you.. smell like sparrow.”
.
you stop completely.
not because that specific jumble of letters and words mean anything to you — it doesn’t, no matter how hard you try — but because your brain simply refuses to continue processing input for a full second. your expression goes blank in a way that feels almost violent after everything that came before it,
like your system has finally hit its limit and chosen shutdown over comprehension.
he sways, and you instinctively adjust your grip again, but slower now, like something in you has shifted and is trying to decide what kind of emergency this is supposed to be — or just because you’re fighting the urge to rattle him for answers.
“what?” there’s no rise in tone this time. no panic. just exhaustion trying to imitate sanity.
his eyes flicker, unfocused again, and for a moment he looks less like he’s leaving and more like he’s being pulled somewhere you can’t see. “can’t,” he murmurs, almost apologetic, like that answers anything. but regardless, he’s fucking leaving.
leaving you with nothing but stinky, blood-soaked clothes, a throbbing head and unanswered questions.
maybe some trauma, too.
your throat tightens, and the scent only thickens. “hospital,” you try again after a deep gulp, softer now, like maybe volume was the problem all along.
he gives a faint, uneven smile that makes your breathing hurt for a bit. “i’ll be okay,” he murmurs, like it’s already decided. “just, tell the cat i said hi.”
footsteps.
silence.
the hum of a distant train.
the air feels wrong without his weight in it, like something has been removed from reality and no one bothered to tell the rest of the scene. your hands are still half-raised, still remembering pressure that isn’t there anymore. you take a deep breath, and another, and another, until you start to feel real again.
real.
that was not real.
you blink, once, twice, thrice, and the sound returns gradually, and now everyone walking by has collectively decided to start looking at you again. but there’s still blood on your legs, and soaking your forearms, and under your fingernails. it’s real.
it’s real?
they don’t disappear, no matter how hard you squeeze your eyelids. neither does the knocking from deep inside your skull. nor the swirling sickness in your stomach, the bile, the blood, the —
you spill your guts out on the street, and all over your comme des garçons.
summary: mingi just really needs some cash and he was told all he had to do was hold a camera. simple enough. he just didn’t anticipate the type of content he’d be helping to create
warning: emo mingi, stoner mingi, possessive mingi, unprotected sex, creampie, mentions of ex abusive relationship
pairing: mingi x afab camgirl reader
genre: smut, angst, drama, romance
word count: 10.4k
chapter thirteen
chapter fifteen coming soon
masterlist
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The city blurred outside the windshield in streaks of gold and gray. Seoul traffic crawled tonight, brake lights glowing beneath a sky threatening rain, and Mingi barely noticed any of it. One hand rested loosely at the top of the steering wheel while the other tapped absentmindedly against his thigh to the bass thumping low through the speakers from a linkin park song.
Y/N’s car smelled like her. Vanilla perfume soaked into the seats. Strawberry lip gloss somewhere in the console. One of her claw clips abandoned in the cup holder beside an empty iced coffee she swore she was going to throw away two days ago. Usually being in her car relaxed him but tonight it just made him worry more.
Mingi exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tight as he stopped at another red light. She’d been quiet. Not angry. Not distant. Just… quiet. Too inside her own head. The last few days after her dad found out had been strange in a fragile sort of way. Her father handled it better than either of them expected. Better than Mingi honestly thought possible. But Y/N still kept drifting away. Not physically. Physically she stayed close. Curled against him at night. Wearing his clothes around the house. Sitting between his legs on the couch while Gladiolus slept on both of them like some spoiled little dictator.
But mentally? He could feel her slipping somewhere he couldn’t reach. She laughed quieter now. Thought longer before answering things. Caught herself zoning out constantly. They hadn’t streamed since her dad found out. And worst of all…. She stopped teasing him as much. Which honestly scared the shit out of him more than anything.
Mingi turned into the familiar alley leading toward Johnny’s apartment, tires crunching softly over uneven pavement. Neon signs reflected across the Camaro’s hood while groups of smokers lingered outside convenience stores, shoulders tucked against the cold. His fingers tightened around the wheel because maybe he was overthinking. Maybe she was just exhausted. But Mingi knew her now. Knew the difference between tired and hurting. The girl who used to smirk at him from across rooms like she had every secret in the world had been looking at herself lately like she didn’t know who she was anymore and he hated it.
Mingi rubbed his hand over his mouth, frustration and helplessness twisting together in his chest. He wished he was home. Hated that she was sitting there alone with her thoughts while he was thirty minutes away trying to buy weed. He looked down at himself, at the rings on his fingers tapping against the steering wheel, already wanting to turn the car back around without even going inside.
A few months ago, the idea of belonging anywhere would’ve made him itch. Now he got anxious being away from her too long. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered to himself, dragging a hand down his face before finally climbing out of the car. The smell of weed and incense invaded his senses the second Mingi got inside and up to Johnnys. “Look who’s alive,” Johnny called from behind the counter the moment he spotted him after Jaehyun let him in. “Thought your ass moved into your girl’s house permanently.”
Mingi flipped him off automatically while shrugging his jacket off. “Shut up.”
Johnny barked out a laugh as he leaned back against the counter, arms crossed over his chest as he looked Mingi over knowingly. “Nah, seriously. You vanished.” His brows lifted. “San said you barely even sleep at your own apartment anymore.” Mingi grabbed the bag Jaehyun slid toward him, inspecting it absentmindedly. “I’ve been busy.”
“Mhmm.” Jaehyun looked deeply unconvinced. “Busy getting pussy and playing house.”
Mingi glared at him. Normally comments like that rolled right off him. But hearing it now only pissed him off. Because Y/N was more than that. She was everything if he were being honest with himself. And yeah…. Maybe he was playing house a little. Cooking dinner in her kitchen. Falling asleep with her legs tangled with his. Grocery shopping together at midnight. Arguuing over which candle smelled better while Gladiolus screamed at both of them for treats. Domestic as hell. Terrifying. And somehow the happiest he’s ever been.
Johnny noticed the expression immediately and pointed at him dramatically. “There it is!”
“What?”
“That look.” Johnny narrowed his eyes accusingly. “You’re gone.” Mingi scoffed, pulling his wallet out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You smile different now.” Jaehyun pointed out.
“Shut the fuck up.”
“You do!” Johnny was full laughing now. “Bro used to look one inconvenience away from committing arson. Now you walk around looking like somebody tucked you into bed and told you you’re pretty.”
Mingi wanted to be offended but instead he just rolled his eyes harder as Johnny took the cash, still grinning like he’d uncovered state secrets. “So…” He dragged the word out dramatically while packing up the rest of Mingi’s order. “You settling down now?” That made Mingi pause. Not visibly long but long enough and Johnny and Jaehyun both caught it instantly.
“OHHHHH,” Johnny yelled loudmy as Jaehyun laughed. “Holy shit. That’s a yes.”
“It’s not a yes,” Mingi argued automatically, though even he heard how weak it sounded and Johnny looked delighted. “That’s exactly how people sound before they accidentally get married.”
“Fuck you.” Mingi rolled his eyes, and waved them both off as he left , shoving the small neon green vacuum sealed bag down the waistband of his boxers the second he got back into the Camaro, hissing quietly at the cold plastic against his skin before tugging his hoodie back down over them as rain started to pour down on him and the city. “Jesus,” he muttered, adjusting himself in the driver’s seat. “This is how people lose their dick.” Neon signs blurred across the wet glass of the windshield while thunder rolled somewhere distant over Seoul.
It was late. Way later than he meant to stay out. Johnny had disappeared for hours handling another pickup and by the time Mingi finally got his text he was home, it was already pushing midnight. Now it was ten minutes past 1:00 am and Y/N was probably still awake waiting on him. That thought alone made guilt twist in his chest because lately she wouldn’t fully relax unless he was home. And honestly? Neither would he.
Mingi started the car, windshield wipers squeaking softly as they pushed rain aside. His rings tapped once against the steering wheel while he pulled out onto the slick street, jaw tight with exhaustion. The roads were mostly empty now. Just taxis, delivery bikes, the occasional drunk group stumbling under umbrellas. His hoodie smelled faintly like Y/N’d detergent and made him want to get back home as fast as possible. His entire life smelled like her lately.
Mingi exhaled slowly through his nose, turning at the next light and that’s when headlights appeared behind him and his stomach dropped instantly when the red and blue lights flicked on. “Fuck.” His pulse spiked so hard he physically felt it in his throat. No no no no. Not tonight. Not with weed shoved down his fucking underwear. Not with Y/N already spiraling emotionally. The Camaro slowed as Mingi’s brain short circuited at lightning speed. Maybe they weren’t pulling him over. Maybe it was somebody else but that hope went away when the siren chirped once. Definitely him.
“Fuck,” he repeated louder this time, running a hand through his hair. The bleached strands had gotten a little longer and Mingi almost buzzed it off completely until Y/N said she liked how long it was getting. Rain started to hammer harder against the roof now and his hands were already sweating as Mingi pulled into a dim side street beside a closed convenience store, heart pounding violently against his ribs as the police car stopped behind him and he stared straight ahead for half a second before he grabbed his phone. Not Y/N. Absolutely not Y/N. She’d panic instantly.
His thumb hit San’s contact and the phone rang twice before San answered groggily. “Why are you calling me this late….”
“San.” Mingi’s voice came out too calm somehow. Which honestly made it worse. “I think I’m about to get arrested.” There was immediate silence before San’s voice came back sharp and alarmed. “What?”
“I got pulled over.” Mingi looked in the rearview mirror, spotting the cop getting out of the cruiser through streaks of rain. “And I have Johnny’s best in inventory in my fucking underwear.” San sat straight up so fast Mingi heard something crash on the other end. “ARE YOU SERIOUS?”
“Yes!”
“Oh my god.”
“Just…” Mingi scrubbed his hand over his face frantically. “If I go to jail, let my dad know before my mom finds out on Facebook or something.” San sounded fully awake now. “Mingi, why are you talking like you joined the mafia?”
“Because I’m about to die.”
“You are not about to die!”
“Might actually.” Mingi glanced back again as the officer adjusted his hat against the rain and started approaching the car. “Okay nope definitely dying.”
“DO NOT SAY ANYTHING WEIRD TO THE COP.”
“I ALWAYS SAY WEIRD THINGS WHEN I’M NERVOUS.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of!”
Mingi’s knee bounced violently now as rain streaked down the windows and the flashlight beam hit the side mirror. “San,” Mingi whispered urgently.
“What?”
“If I get arrested tell Y/N I love her but don’t let her come bail me out because she’ll look too hot walking into a police station and I’ll get jealous.” San made a strangled sound. “This is not the time to be possessive!” A sharp knock hit the driver’s side window and Mingi nearly threw the phone across the car. “Fuck,” he whispered under his breath one last time before locking the screen and tossing it onto the passenger seat.
The flashlight beam swept across the interior again. Slow and deliberately as the rain pelted against the roof hard enough now that it almost drowned out the sound of the officer tapping against the window. Mingi rolled it down carefully and cold rain immediately misted into the car as the officer leaned slightly toward the opening, expression unreadable beneath the glow of the streetlights. Older. Broad shouldered. Tired eyes. “License and registration.”
Mingi swallowed. “Yeah.” His voice cracked slightly and he had to clear his throat. “Yeah, one second.” His hands felt clumsy as he reached for his wallet. Don’t act nervous. You always act nervous like in Busan. Having to try and explain to police how a mattress was thrown out the hotel was something Mingi never wanted to experience again. He handed over his license before opening the glove compartment and the registration sat tucked beneath a pile of napkins and Y/N’s insurance papers. The officer took both, eyes flicking from the registration to Mingi. Then back again. “This your vehicle?”
Mingi shook his head quickly. “No, sir. It’s my girlfriend’s.” The officer hummed quietly, rain dripping from the brim of his cap while he looked everything over and Mingi tried not to visibly sweat. The weed pressed uncomfortably against his lower stomach beneath the waistband of his underwear and suddenly it felt like the bag was glowing neon through his hoodie as the officer shined the flashlight briefly through the car again. Passenger seat. Backseat. Floorboards. Then finally he handed the registration back halfway before stopping. “Step out of the vehicle.”
Mingi’s stomach dropped straight to hell. “What?”
“Out of the car.”
Mingi stared at him for half a second too long before forcing himself to move. “What did I do exactly?” he asked carefully, trying and failing to sound casual instead of like he was getting annoyed. He was never good at hiding when he was pissed off. The officer’s expression didn’t change. “You took that turn too fast and drifted over the line.” Shit. Mingi pushed the door open slowly, sneakers splashing against wet pavement as cold rain instantly soaked through the shoulders of his hoodie.
The officer stepped back to give him room. “Hands where I can see them.” Mingi obeyed immediately, pulse roaring in his ears now. Everything felt too loud. The rain. The traffic in the distance. His own fucking breathing. “Face the car.”
“Seriously?” Mingi asked before he could stop himself and the officer’s tone hardened slightly. “Face the car.” Mingi clenched his jaw and turned, palms pressing against the cold wet hood of Y/N’s Camaro as rainwater streaked down the black paint beneath his fingers and his heart hammered violently when he heard the officer step closer. Then rough hands grabbed his wrists, pulling them behind his back briefly while the officer searched him down quickly and efficiently making Mingi stiffen immediately.
“Relax.”
Hard to relax when I’ve got enough weed in my underwear to spiritually exit my body, Mingi thought hysterically as the officer checked his hoodie pockets first. Empty. Then his jeans. Wallet. Lighter. The officer paused slightly at the lighter. “You smoke?” Mingi’s brain short circuited. Cigarettes? Weed? Fucking dirt from stress? “Yes,” he answered carefully and the officer continued searching. Mingi felt panic spike violently when the hands moved lower toward his waistband. Don’t react. DO NOT REACT. Rain soaked through his clothes completely now, wet hair dripping into his eyes while his entire body locked up trying not to visibly panic.
The officer paused and his hands pressed briefly against the front waistband of Mingi’s jeans causing Mingi to stop breathing entirely. For one horrible second neither of them moved. Then headlights swept across the street behind them, briefly distracting the officer as another car passed through the intersection nearby and the officer stepped back slightly instead. “You carrying anything illegal?”
Mingi laughed. Actually laughed. Too fast and nervous. “No, sir.” The officer stared at him like he could sense Mingi was lying and Mingi stared back trying not to look like a man actively hiding weed against his dick as thunder rumbled overhead again. “Sure.” The officer scoffed and then his hand moved straight to the waistband of Mingi’s jeans and Mingi’s entire body locked. “Wait….”
The officer tugged sharply, fingers hooking beneath the fabric before pulling the neon green bag free from where it had been hidden against Mingi’s lower stomach and the world stopped as the officer held the bag up between two fingers, flashlight glinting off the plastic. “Then what’s this?” Mingi’s stomach dropped so hard he physically swayed. Oh. Oh he was fucked. Actually fucked. Rain slid down the back of his neck while his mind blanked completely for half a second. Then everything hit him at once.
“Fuck…” Mingi whispered, voice hollow as the officer’s face hardened immediately. “Turn around. Hands behind your back.” Mingi obeyed, brain disconnecting from his body now, cold panic spreading through his chest while the officer grabbed his wrists roughly and pulled them behind his back and cold metal cuffs clicked around them. The sound made something inside Mingi sink straight to the floor.
Holy shit.
He was actually being arrested.
Rain poured harder, soaking through his clothes while the officer guided him toward the cruiser and Mingi barely noticed. All he could think about was Y/N. How she was gonna probably get a phone call in the middle of the night that her boyfriend got arrested with weed shoved down his pants like an absolute fucking idiot. His chest tightened painfully. Because the worst part? It wasn’t even about him going to jail. It was knowing this was the last thing she needed after everything Hyun already put her through.
The officer opened the back door of the cruiser and Mingi finally found his voice again. “Can I make one call first?” The officer looked unimpressed. “You’ll get your call downtown.”
Downtown.
Jesus Christ.
Mingi ducked his head automatically climbing into the backseat, wet cuffs digging into his wrists as the door slammed shut behind him. The inside of the cruiser smelled like rainwater, old coffee, and stale cigarettes. Across the wet window, Y/N’s Camaro sat abandoned beneath flickering streetlights and for the first time in a very long time, Mingi genuinely didn’t know what to do.
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The house felt too quiet without Mingi in it. Rain tapped steadily against the windows while the tv played low in the living room, something Y/N had turned on over an hour ago just to fill the silence. Now even that wasn’t helping. Gladiolus was hiding under the couch from the thunder while Y/N sat curled beneath a blanket in one of Mingi’s hoodies, her laptop abandoned beside her untouched.
She checked the time again. 1:47 am. Her stomach twisted. Johnny’s never took this long. Especially not on a weeknight. Y/N pulled her bottom lip between her teeth, glancing toward the front door like Mingi might magically walk through it if she stared hard enough. The hoodie sleeves swallowed her hands completely. It still smelled like him. Weed. Laundry detergent. That stupid expensive cologne he pretended he didn’t care about but absolutely did that she bought him.
Usually Mingi would’ve texted by now. At minimum something annoying like: “ur cat misses me” Or “buy snacks im omw home” Or worse “thinking about ur tits at red lights” A tiny smile almost tugged at her mouth before fading again and her chest tightened slowly. Y/N grabbed her phone off the couch cushion beside her and opened their messages. Nothing new. Last text from him was almost two hours ago: “johnny finally back. b home soon baby” That had been at 11:42 pm. She sat up straighter now as rain rattled harder against the windows.
Gladiolus lifted his head slightly out from under the couch, eyes blinking nervously toward her before disappearing again and Y/N pressed call before she could overthink it. The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. No answer. Her brows furrowed immediately because Mingi answered her calls almost obnoxiously fast most of the time. Even when he was busy. Even half asleep. Especially lately.
The line finally went to voicemail. “Hey, it’s Mingi. Uh…” His recorded voice crackled softly through the speaker followed by San yelling something unintelligible in the background. “Stop recording over my shit!” Then back to Mingi laughing. “Leave a message or don’t. I probably lost my phone again anyway.” The voicemail beeped and Y/N swallowed. “Hey…” Her voice came out quieter than intended. “Call me back when you get this, okay? It’s late.”
She hung up slowly and the anxiety in her chest sharpened. Not panic yet. But close enough she could feel it creeping at the edges as she stood from the couch, blanket falling away as she paced toward the kitchen. Her nails tapped anxiously against the marble countertop while she stared at the rain outside. Maybe he forgot his phone in the car. Maybe Johnny dragged him into something stupid. Maybe he was too high right now to drive. Maybe San called him over. Maybe maybe maybe.
Her brain was spiraling too fast now. She hated this feeling. The waiting. The not knowing. Y/N glanced toward the front door again just as thunder rolled low outside. Still nothing. Her fingers hovered over San’s contact for a second then stopped. No. She didn’t want to be dramatic. Didn’t want Mingi teasing her later for acting like he died because he took too long buying weed. But another ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. 2:27 am flashed across her screen and her stomach dropped harder now. Because something felt wrong. Really wrong.
By 3:30 in the morning, Y/N was pacing. Not the casual pacing where she wandered around with a drink and overthought things. No. Real pacing. Back and forth across the living room, phone clutched so tightly in her hand her knuckles hurt. Her heartbeat felt wrong. Too fast. Too sharp. Every worst case scenario her brain could invent had already happened at least twice in her head. Car accident. Fight. Hyun. Hospital. The silence was killing her. She’d called Mingi seven times now and every single one went straight to voicemail. San twice. No answer. Wooyoung four. Also no answer which was odd as hell for her best friend.
Rain hammered against the windows harder now, thunder rattling faintly overhead while Gladiolus watched her from the couch cushions now with wide eyes like even he could feel the panic soaking into the room as Y/N dragged both hands through her hair, breathing uneven. “Come on…” she whispered to nobody, tears welling in her eyes. “Come on, Mingi…” Headlights suddenly swept across the front windows and Y/N froze instantly as a car door slammed outside followed by another and relief hit her so fast it almost hurt.
She hurried toward the front door barefoot, heart slamming against her ribs, already halfway to angry tears because she was fully prepared to scream at Mingi the second she saw him but when she yanked the door open, it wasn’t Mingi standing there. It was Wooyoung and San. And one look at their faces made her stomach completely bottom out. Wooyoung looked pale. San looked stressed. And neither of them spoke immediately. Rain soaked through San’s hoodie while Wooyoung clutched his jacket tighter around himself, mascara slightly smudged beneath his eyes like he hadn’t bothered wiping it off before bed.
Y/N’s voice came out thin instantly. “Where is he?” San glanced once toward Wooyoung before looking back at her carefully. “Mingi’s in jail.”
“What?”
Wooyoung stepped forward quickly when her knees visibly weakened. “Babe…”
“What do you mean jail?” Her voice cracked sharply now. “What the fuck do you mean jail?” San exhaled hard, rubbing both hands down his face. “He got pulled over.” Y/N stared at him blankly as realization hit. The weed. Her eyes widened in horror. “Oh my god.”
“He called me before they arrested him,” San admitted quietly. “He had weed on him. A lot.” Y/N physically swayed backward and Wooyoung caught her arm immediately. “Hey, hey….”
“He’s actually in jail?” she whispered like she still couldn’t process it. “Like a cell?”
“Temporary holding,” San said quickly. “Probably overnight until his dad gets him out in the morning.” But Y/N barely heard him. All she could picture was Mingi alone somewhere cold and fluorescent lit with tired eyes and that stupid soft look he got whenever he looked at her and tears burned instantly behind her eyes. “This is my fault.”
“What?” Wooyoung snapped immediately. “No the fuck it is not.”
“He was gonna wait until tomorrow but I …. I needed something tonight…. I’ve been so…”
“Y/N.” San’s voice cut through sharply. “No.” She shook her head frantically anyway, panic spiraling higher now. “He went out because I’ve been freaking out all week and he was trying to calm me down and now he’s in fucking jail because of me….”
“He went to buy weed because he always buys weed,” Wooyoung interrupted bluntly. “That man has the survival instincts of a raccoon with car keys.” Despite everything, a broken sound escaped her that almost resembled a laugh as she looked back at San desperately. “Did he sound okay?”
San hesitated just enough to terrify her. “He sounded nervous,” he admitted honestly and that wrecked her instantly. Because Mingi hid nerves and fear behind jokes and sarcasm and cockiness almost all the time.
Y/N covered her mouth with trembling fingers as tears finally spilled over. “Oh my god…” Wooyoung immediately wrapped both arms around her, pulling her against him tightly while she shook. “He kept asking me not to tell you,” San admitted quietly from the doorway. “Didn’t want you panicking.”
“Well that clearly worked out fucking amazing,” Wooyoung muttered but San ignored him, gaze staying on Y/N. “His dad knows already.” That made her look up instantly. “What?”
“He called him from downtown after processing.” San shoved wet hair back from his forehead tiredly. “Mr. Song will handle it.”
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The holding cell smelled like bleach, damp concrete, and somebody’s old cigarettes soaked into fabric. Mingi sat on the hard bench with his elbows resting on his knees, orange tinted fluorescent light buzzing faintly overhead while exhaustion settled heavy into his bones. It was freezing in here. Not literally. Just enough to make everything feel uncomfortable and too real.
His hoodie was gone. His rings too. Everything taken and logged somewhere behind the desk outside while he sat there in a wrinkled black tshirt and jeans that still smelled faintly like rainwater and Y/N’s detergent. 4:03 am glowed red from the clock mounted outside the bars. Mingi hadn’t slept. Hadn’t even come close. His wrists still hurt faintly from the cuffs. But none of that compared to the gnawing anxiety eating through his chest. Because Y/N definitely knew by now and he knew exactly how her brain worked when she panicked. She’d blame herself. Somehow. Even though this was entirely his dumb ass decision.
Mingi leaned his head back briefly against the cold wall behind him and closed his eyes. God. The disappointment he was expecting to be on her face would kill him faster than the arrest itself. A tired sigh left him as he dragged both hands over his face. At least his dad had answered. The call happened about two hours ago now. Mingi still remembered sitting at the processing desk under harsh fluorescent lights with a cop watching him like he might spontaneously commit another crime through sheer inconvenience.
“Phone call,” the officer had grunted as he handed Mingi his cell back momentarily, his fingers hovered over Y/N’s name first automatically then stopped. No. Absolutely not. Calling her from jail at two in the morning felt like something that would emotionally damage both of them permanently. So he called his dad instead. The line barely rang once before he answered.
“Mingi?” His father sounded half asleep but immediately alert underneath it and Mingi swallowed hard. “Hey.”
“What happened?” No hello. No confusion. Just immediate parental dread as Mingi stared hard at the stained floor tiles beneath his sneakers. “I got arrested.” Silence followed. Not shocked silence but more like deeply exhausted silence. “For what?”
“Weed.”
His father sighed heavily through the phone. “Your mother cannot know about this.”
Even sitting in a jail cell hours later, Mingi almost laughed remembering it. His father would come. Eventually. But Y/N… she was probably spiraling herself sick. He could practically picture it. Her pacing. Checking the windows every five minutes. Calling his phone over and over. Gladiolus probably following her around confused as hell. The image made his chest ache violently as Mingi tipped his head back against the wall again, eyes closing briefly.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered quietly into the empty cell. Because somehow even sitting in jail, the thing hurting him most was knowing she was probably scared.
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8:15 am and Mingi was still behind bars. He’d dozed off a few times but never for long. He’d figured his dad would have been there already….
“Song Mingi.” An officer finally appeared to open the holding cell and Mingi sighed in relief as he followed him back to the front of the station and immediately froze. Because his dad hadn’t come alone apparently. Y/N’s dad seemed to be arguing with the police chief, eyes narrowed and sneering as Mingi’s dad watched looking exhausted. And then…. Y/N. She stood beside his dad, eyes red, she had clearly been crying. Her arms were folded across her chest in one of his hoodies.
As soon as she saw him Mingi could see the relief wash over her as she shoved past one of the officers and made quick haste towards him. She wrapped her arms around him, burying her face into his chest. “You asshole….” She scolded him half angry and full of worry and exhaustion. “you should have called me…. I thought…” she didn’t finish. She couldn’t voice the scenarios allowed. Thinking them had been enough.
“I’m sorry.” He wrapped his arms around her as her dad’s voice raised louder in the station. “I don’t care! My daughter’s car better be pulled into this parking lot before I walk out that goddamn door.” Mingi and Y/N turned as watched as her dad lowered his voice saying something only the chief could hear as Mr. Song walked over towards them. “I tried myself but weed is a big no no with them.” His dad looked at the way Y/N clinged to his son like she was afraid she’d let go and Mingi would be thrown in a cell again. “I called Y/N to let her know and she just said she was on her way…. that she would handle it.”
“Technically…” Y/N pulled back just enough to let Mingi wrap an arm around her shoulders and keep her at his side. “my dad’s handling it.” They all turned to watch Y/N’s dad move from the police chief, walking over, giving Mingi a once over. “You good, son?” His tone immediately changed to a concerned parent compared to the man he just was towards the chief. Mingi glanced from Y/N’s dad to his own and then back again. “You’re… not like…. pissed?”
“The only thing I’m pissed at is the fact these son of a bitches purposely stopped you on an anonymous tip.” Y/N’s dad shook his head, clearing his throat. “The chief owes me or else they were gonna try and get you time.”
Mingi furrowed his brows together, putting the pieces together…. anonymous tip? “Hyun?” Y/N stiffened beside him as his dad arched a brow, clearly he had many questions that Mingi didn’t have the energy to answer right now. “I’m handling it.” Y/N’s dad turned towards Mr. Song. “I wish we could have met under better circumstances.” The two older men fell into conversation about the song family restaurant as they waited for Y/N’s car to be brought from the impound.
“Is it bad I want a blunt right now?” Mingi mumbled just low enough for Y/N to hear making her roll her eyes even though she was thinking the same thing. “You’re unbelievable.” She snorted before looking up at him, gaze softening, the worry she had hours before gone now. “Don’t worry….” She pulled him down a little, giving him a soft kiss, letting it linger. “Wooyoung gave me the rest of his stash.” Mingi kissed her again, lingering longer, pressing his forehead against hers. “I love you.”
They stayed like that a moment before the police chief grumbled back towards them. “The car is here. 2024 black Chevrolet Camaro.” Her dad looked smug as they all followed the chief outside and Mingi had to bite his lip hard to keep from saying something smart at the cop who pulled him over handing over the car keys to Y/N’s dad as the cop who arrested Mingi gave him a dirty look before disappearing inside the police station. Mr. Song glanced at his son, repeating what he said on the call earlier that morning. “Your mother can never know about this.”
Y/N snorted. Mrs. Song finding out her son got arrested for getting caught with weed driving his girlfriend’s car that she already has made clear she hates, oh that would definitely go over well. “Trust me…” Mingi glanced at Y/N. “I know.”
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“You sure you don’t want me to pay you back?” Mingi glanced back as he followed behind Y/N into her house, her dad trailing behind them. “Mingi I don’t care about you paying me back. I paid nothing. I told you, the chief owed me.” Y/N’s dad took off his suit jacket, laying it over the chair just in the opening of the living room. “Not ten minutes before my daughter called me this morning, one of my inside deputies called me, told me they just impounded her car and arrested you under an anonymous tip…” he sat down in the chair, eyes darkening, something that made him look at a lot like his daughter for a brief moment. “of course I was given the number and surprise, surprise who made the tip.”
Hyun. Once again his name hung around them like omen. “How did he even know where I was? He fucking stalking us now?” Mingi was pissed. Follow him all he wants but if he even catches that piece of shit near Y/N….. “If he comes near her…” the threat was there, more of a promise. It was funny. A few months ago, Mingi was barely holding himself together, now he was ready to make someone disappear if that meant keeping them away from the woman he loved. “I’m going to stop by, visit his father, he always liked kissing my ass.” Y/N’s dad stood back up, eying the room, gaze lingering on his daughter who was more quiet than usual. “I will handle this.” He assured her before grabbing his jacket and looking at Mingi. “You keep her together.”
“Always.” Mingi didn’t hesitate and that was all her dad needed before he left. Silence enveloped them until Gladiolus meowed loudly, prancing into the room, rubbing against Mingi’s leg, purring as he reached down to scratch the cat’s ear. “I wasn’t gone that long.” He joked and Gladiolus only meowed louder before moving away to jump onto the couch and start cleaning himself. Mingi dropped the bag with his still rain soaked hoodie in it onto the floor. His clothes had long dried on his body but there were still damp spot. He looked at Y/N who seemed to be lost in thought as she stared at his bag. “I’m gonna shower real quick.” He grabbed her arm gently, thumb brushing at her elbow before he let go and walked upstairs.
Y/N stood there a minute or two before following after him upstairs. She could hear the shower on in the bathroom as she pushed open her bedroom door. “Fuck.” She hates how out of herself she was. Hated it. The helplessness. The guilt. The way her thoughts kept circling the same drain no matter how hard she tried to stop them. Mingi had been sitting in a jail cell. A fucking jail cell because of her ex. She knew it really wasn’t anyone at fault but Hyun but her stomach twisted anyways. “If I hadn’t wanted any…”
The thought slipped in before she could stop it again. If she hadn’t wanted any weed, Mingi would’ve stayed home. He would’ve spent the night here. He wouldn’t have been driving around after midnight. Wouldn’t have been pulled over. Wouldn’t have spent the entire night locked up. Wouldn’t have looked exhausted standing in that police station.
Y/N began pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth. Her bare feet moved across the carpet while her mind raced faster and faster. Hyun only knew about the streams because of her. Because he thought he still had claim on her. Hyun only hated Mingi because of her. Because she loves him. Her dad got dragged into this because of her. Mingi got arrested because of her. Every road somehow seemed to lead back to her.
Her chest tightened as the room suddenly felt too small. Too hot. Too loud. “You always ruin everything.” She scolded herself, glaring towards her camera they used for the streams sitting on a tripod beside the window. The voice didn’t sound like her own in her head though. It was a memory. Hyun’s. The way he’d spit the words at her during one of their arguments. The way he’d always managed to make every problem somehow become hers.
Y/N stopped pacing once her breathing had become uneven. No. She wasn’t doing this. She wasn’t. But the thoughts kept coming anyway. What if Hyun escalated? What if next time it wasn’t weed? What if next time he went after Mingi’s family? What if Mingi got hurt because of her? His mother already hates her…. What if…
The bathroom door opened across the hall, steam rolling into the bedroom as Mingi stepped out with a towel hanging low around his waist, another draped over his shoulders as he rubbed at his damp hair. He immediately stopped when saw Y/N halfway across the room, arms folded tightly across her chest, pacing. And the look on her face told him everything. “Baby?” His voice was soft and careful. Y/N froze then immediately started pacing again and Mingi sighed. Because now he knew exactly what was happening. And he had a feeling he wasn’t going to like whatever she’d convinced herself of while he’d been in the shower.
“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly and the question broke whatever fragile thread had been holding her together. Y/N laughed once. A horrible sound. Half laugh. Half sob. Then she covered her face and Mingi froze. Because in all the months he’d known her, through Hyun, through the streams being exposed, through fights with her stepmother, through panic attacks she tried desperately to hide in the last week, he had never seen her like this. Y/N was stubborn. Defiant. Sharp tongued. Even when she was hurting, she usually wrapped it in sarcasm and rolled her eyes at anyone who got too close.
But now? Now she looked shattered. Tears slipped through her fingers as her shoulders began to shake. “Oh, fuck…” she whispered as Mingi crossed the room immediately. The second he reached her she folded with no hesitation. No pretending. No trying to be strong. She buried herself against him and Mingi caught her automatically, both arms wrapping around her as tightly as he could manage. He felt her fingers knot into the back of his towel, felt the way she clung to him like she was afraid she’d fall apart if she let go.
For a moment he didn’t say anything. Just held her. One hand cradling the back of her head. The other rubbing slow circles up and down her spine as Y/N cried harder. The kind of crying that came from somewhere deep. Months. Years. Of fear and guilt and anger finally forcing their way to the surface. “I’m sorry,” she choked out making Mingi immediately frown. “What?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Baby, what are you talking about?”
She pulled back enough to look at him and the sight nearly broke him. Her eyes were red. Cheeks wet. Breathing uneven. “I wanted the weed.”
“What?”
“I wanted it,” she repeated. “If I hadn’t asked for it you wouldn’t have gone to Johnny’s. You would’ve stayed home. You would’ve been here. You wouldn’t have gotten arrested.” The words came faster. Messier. Like she’d been holding them in the entire time he’d been in the shower. “If I hadn’t met you none of this would’ve happened. Hyun wouldn’t know who you are. He wouldn’t be following you. He wouldn’t be calling in tips. He wouldn’t be trying to ruin your life.”
“Baby…..”
“No.”
Fresh tears spilled down her face. “He keeps going after people around me, Mingi. He did it with my friends I had when I was with him. Tried it with Woo. Now you. My dad got dragged into it. Your dad got dragged into it. Everybody keeps getting dragged into my mess.” Mingi stared at her and suddenly he understood. This wasn’t about the weed. This wasn’t about the arrest. This was years of Hyun. Years of being blamed for things that were never hers to carry. All the time she spent under him. Him telling her what to do. Him hitting her when he didn’t get his way. Years of being taught that every disaster somehow traced back to her.
The realization made something angry twist in his chest. Not at her. Never at her. At Hyun. At what that bastard had done to her. Because even now, years later, he was still living inside her head. Still convincing her that everything was her fault. Mingi reached up and grabbed her face gently. Just enough to make sure she looked at him. “Listen to me.” Y/N shook her head immediately. “Mingi…. I think…”
“No.” His voice came out firmer this time. “You listen to me.” The tears continued to fall as Mingi wiped them away with his thumbs. “If you asked me to get weed, that was my decision.”
“But…”
“My decision.” He repeated it slowly. “I got in that car. I drove across town. I bought it. Me.” Y/N looked unconvinced and Mingi expected that. So he kept going. “And Hyun?” His jaw tightened. “Hyun didn’t call that tip in because of you.”
“Yes he did.”
“No.” Mingi shook his head. “He called it in because he’s a pathetic piece of shit who can’t stand the fact that you left.” Y/N stared at him as Mingi kept trying to reassure her. “He doesn’t hate me because of you. He hates me because I’m with you. Because I love you more than his pathetic ass ever could.” Something dangerous flickered briefly behind Mingi’s eyes. The kind of anger he rarely showed. “That man could’ve met anyone you dated after him and he would’ve done the same thing.” He pulled her against him again. Holding her so tightly she could probably feel his heartbeat. “This isn’t your fault.”
She didn’t answer as Mingi rested his cheek against the top of her head. “None of it.” His voice dropped lower. “You didn’t make him abusive. You didn’t make him follow me. You didn’t make him call that tip in.” Y/N’s fingers tightened in the back of his towel. “And you sure as hell didn’t put me in jail.” A watery laugh escaped her despite herself and Mingi smiled faintly. “There she is.” Silence settled around them. The kind that only existed between two people who knew each other well enough to just exist together until Y/N whispered, “I was scared.”
Mingi closed his eyes. “I know.”
“No, I mean really scared.”
His arms tightened around her. Because he knew exactly what she meant. Not scared of the arrest. Not scared of Hyun. Scared of losing him. The same fear he’d been carrying for months. The same fear that made him panic every time someone threatened what they had. “I know,” he repeated quietly. And this time when he said it, he meant every word. Because for the first time since he met her, Mingi realized that maybe he wasn’t the only one terrified of losing everything.
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
December had settled over Seoul fully now. The city glittered beneath strings of white lights draped across storefronts and wrapped around bare tree branches. Christmas music floated from every café and shopping district while cold air nipped at exposed skin. Y/N looked like she belonged in one of the luxury store displays. The cream coat hugged her waist before flaring slightly at the hips, white faux fur lining the collar and cuffs with black tights disappeared into matching white boots. “You know,” Mingi said for probably the tenth time, carrying three shopping bags while she carried none, “I think it’s rude that you decided to look like a rich widow from a murder mystery.”
Y/N glanced at him. “What?”
“You look like the woman everybody suspects did it.”
She snorted. “Did what?”
“Killed her husband for insurance money.”
“Mingi.”
“I’m serious.”
“Mingi.”
“You’d get away with it too.”
Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop smiling. The shopping district was crowded despite the cold. Couples drifted between stores. Families carried armfuls of gifts. Somewhere nearby a street vendor was selling roasted chestnuts as Mingi shifted the bags in his hands then groaned dramatically. “What now?” Y/N asked.
“I’m thinking about Christmas.”
Immediately her smile vanished. “Yeah.”
“Your stepmother is going to be there.”
“Unfortunately.”
“My mother is going to be there.”
“Even more unfortunately.”
Mingi looked genuinely stressed. “Do you realize how bad this is?”
Y/N laughed.
“No, seriously.”
“Mingi…”
“No.”
He stopped walking and a group of teens had to walk around him. “My mother already hates you.”
“She doesn’t hate me.”
“Baby.”
“Okay, she hates me.”
“I’m sorry.”
Y/N sighed as she stared at a pair of combat boots in Mingi’s size.
“Your stepmother hates me.”
“Fair.”
“Your stepmother hates you.”
“Very fair.”
“Your stepmother worships Hyun.”
At that, Y/N’s expression darkened. “Unfortunately.”
“And my mother still thinks Nari was sent from heaven.”
Y/N immediately groaned. “Oh my God.”
“See?” Mingi pointed at her. “Exactly.” He started walking again, muttering under his breath. “We’re basically hosting a family summit between two supervillains.” Y/N laughed despite herself. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m literally not.” Mingi adjusted the bags again. “Your stepmother is going to say something passive aggressive.”
“Probably.”
“My mother is going to say something passive aggressive.”
“Definitely.”
“Then your stepmother is going to respond.”
“Most likely.”
“And then my mother is going to take that personally.”
“Very likely.”
“And then your stepmother is going to somehow make it about money.”
Y/N nodded. “That’s usually how it goes.”
Mingi stared straight ahead. “This is my nightmare.”
“What? Family dinner?”
“No.” His arm slid around her waist. “Watching people be mean to you.” That got her attention. Y/N looked up at him and the teasing was gone. Mingi’s expression had softened. “I know you pretend it doesn’t bother you.” She immediately looked away as Mingi sighed. Because he’d learned something since being with her. Y/N could handle almost anything directed at herself. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. “I just…” He hesitated. “I don’t want you spending Christmas defending yourself.”
The cold breeze caught a few strands of her hair and for a moment neither spoke. Then Y/N slipped her hand into his coat pocket and laced their fingers together. “You know what the funny thing is?”
“What?”
“My dad told me yesterday he can’t wait to meet the rest of your family and spend time with us.”
Mingi blinked, biting back a grin. “Really?”
“Really.”
His grin slowly spread across his face. “Your dad likes me.”
“He does.”
Mingi’s grin widened. “Your cat likes me.”
“He absolutely does.”
“Your dad likes me way more than he ever did your exes.”
“That’s a very low bar.”
“But I still cleared it.”
Y/N laughed. The kind Mingi had been trying to hear more often lately and his chest warmed immediately. “Come on,” she said, tugging him toward another store and Mingi frowned. “We have more shopping?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve bought gifts for literally everyone.”
“No I haven’t.”
“Baby, you bought Gladiolus a Christmas present.”
“He deserves one.”
“He’s a cat.”
“He’s our child.”
Mingi immediately lost the argument. “…that’s fair.” And as she pulled him into another brightly lit store, Mingi couldn’t help thinking that maybe Christmas wouldn’t be a complete disaster as Y/N immediately dragged him toward the next storefront. The bell above the door chimed as they stepped inside, warm air replacing the winter chill. The store was filled with holiday displays, shelves lined with expensive candles, tea sets, silk scarves, perfumes, and enough decorative nonsense to make Mingi nervous about the price tags. He was already regretting this.
“Okay…” Y/N slowed in front of a display table. “Your mother.”
Mingi groaned. “My mom is impossible.”
“She’s not impossible.”
Mingi stared at her and Y/N sighed. “Okay,” she agreed. “She’s mostly impossible.”
“Thank you.”
Y/N picked up a candle, sniffed it, immediately made a face, and put it back down. “I don’t want to kiss her ass.” Mingi immediately perked up. “Great. Because that would be awkward.”
Y/N snorted and rolled her eyes. “But…”
Mingi’s shoulders slumped. “There’s the but.”
“But I have to get her to like me.”
“Why?”
Y/N turned toward him like the answer should have been obvious. “Because she’s your mom.” Mingi frowned. “Baby…. Who cares. She’ll get over herself eventually.”
“No.” She grabbed his arm and dragged him toward another display. “Seriously.”
“Y/N...”
“No.” Y/N stopped in front of a collection of luxury tea sets. “She’s your mother.”
“And?”
“And I love you.” The words came out so matter of factly that Mingi’s brain short circuited for a second. Because no matter how many times she told him, it hit the same every time. Y/N continued browsing as he followed beside her still gripping the multiple bags in his arms. “I don’t need her to love me.” Mingi watched her. “I don’t even need her to like me that much. But I want her to see what you see.” That one hit him harder as Y/N picked up a delicate ceramic tea cup. Examined it and sat it back down. “Because whether she likes it or not, I’m not going anywhere.”
Mingi felt his chest do that annoying thing it always did around her lately. The thing where it became impossible to breathe normally. The thing where he suddenly wanted to never be without her again. “You know what your problem is?” he asked and Y/N glanced over, arching a brow as she examined a highly priced mug. “What?”
“You keep saying romantic shit when I’m trying to be grumpy.”
She laughed and Mingi immediately lost his train of thought again.
“Help me.”
“I am helping.”
“No, you’re following me around carrying bags.”
“That’s helping.”
“It’s not.”
“It literally is.”
Y/N rolled her eyes then her attention landed on a display of luxury pots and pans. His mother loved cooking. His family owned a restaurant…..
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“You found something.”
“I might have.”
“That face means money.”
Y/N ignored him as a sales associate appeared. Ten minutes later he was standing beside her while she debated between three different color sets. Mingi, knowing his mother, pointed at the deep purple and white set. “That one. Purple is her favorite color.” Y/N looked back at the set. Then at him. Then back at the set. “You know your mom’s favorite color?” She teases and Mingi looked mock offended. “Of course I know my mom’s favorite color.”
“I don’t know my dad’s favorite color.”
“That’s because your dad wears black, navy, and gray.”
“Fair.”
Mingi crouched slightly to get a better look at the display model. “She’d actually love this.” Y/N felt herself smile. Not because of the cookware but because of him. Because every time he talked about people he loved there was this softness to him most people never got to see. The same giant intimidating man who’d put Hyun through a birthday cake now looked genuinely excited about pots and pans. “Really?”
Mingi nodded. “Really.” He picked up one of the display lids. “My mom cooks even when she doesn’t have to.”
“Then we’re getting it.” Y/N grabbed the box and immediately regretted it because the thing weighed a thousand pounds. “Jesus.” Mingi laughed, the sound one of the many things she loved more than anything now. He took the giant box from her hands. “Nice try.”
“Shut up.”
“You almost died.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
Y/N stuck her tongue out at him Mingi grinned, leaning down and catching her off guard by licking quickly at her own tongue with his own. She gasped as he pulled back and looked down at the cookware set again. “You know…”
“What?”
“My mom’s probably still gonna find something to complain about.”
Y/N groaned. “Mingi.”
“I’m just saying.” He shifted the heavy box against his chest. “But…” Y/N raised a brow. “But?” Mingi looked at the purple cookware set. Then back at her and smiled. “She’s gonna use the hell out of these.” For some reason that felt like a bigger victory than either of them wanted to admit.
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
The curtains were drawn, but thin stripes of light cut through the room, casting golden lines across the rumpled sheets. Dust floated in the beams like lazy ghosts, the house heavy with the smell of sleep, skin, and the faded scent of Y/N’s lotion. Mingi stirred first, groggy and warm beneath the blankets. He blinked against the morning light, then smiled faintly when he felt her, her fingertips ghosting up the flat of his stomach, lips brushing gently just under his ribs. “Y/N…” His voice was soft, half sleepy, half sighing in content.
Y/N didn’t answer, just kissed higher, a trail of slow affection, like she was memorizing him in pieces and Mingi felt her smile against his skin, the kind of smile he’d once told her could kill a man if she weaponized it. She was straddling his waist, knees tucked under the blanket, sweater hanging off one shoulder, sleep kissed and messy in the way that made his heart ache. “You’re awake early,” he murmured. They had fallen asleep late last night. High, watching old reruns of Degrassi. They didn’t fall asleep until after 3:00 am.
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said, voice low. “Didn’t want to waste this.” He frowned just a little, brow pulling together. “Waste what?” Y/N leaned down, kissed the corner of his mouth, then the center. “You.” Then she gripped his chin and turned him to face the camera that was live and streaming. They hadn’t streamed in so long Mingi almost blurred it away like a buried memory.
Y/N let out a low, surprised laugh as Mingi rolled them over with a quick twist of his body, her back sinking into the mattress, hair fanning out on the pillow. “Hey,” she teased, breathless as he hovered above her. “You were just enjoying the view.”
“I still am,” he grinned, leaning down to kiss her again, slower this time, like he wanted to take his time mapping her mouth, to give those watching a good show after so long. “But if you think I’m letting you be the only one who gets to start something this morning…” He trailed off, letting his lips press to her jaw, then lower. Her sweater, oversized, stretched out, a faded Deftones one he’d worn a hundred times, was pushed up exposing soft skin beneath. Mingi kissed there next, reverent, just under the curve of her breast, dragging his mouth slowly across her stomach like he had nowhere else to be.
Y/N’s hand found his hair, fingers curling gently, tugging once, just enough to make him look up. God, she loved how long his hair was getting. His cheeks were flushed. His expression open, full of affection and something deeper. Worship. Devotion. The kind of look that could level a god. She swallowed hard. “You okay?” he asked softly, low enough that those watching wouldn’t hear.
“Yeah,” she brushed his hair back. “I just need you.” Mingi smiled like she’d just handed him the universe and glanced towards the camera once before he kissed lower, slow and warm. Y/N’s breath hitched as he kissed down her stomach, nose brushing the curve of her navel, hands already slipping beneath the hem of her underwear. They were soft, black cotton, worn, familiar. He glanced up at her and the way his eyes had darkened, he looked like he was about to ruin her.
Y/N lifted her hips without a word, letting him pull them down. He hooked them around her ankles and slid them off gently before he kissed her thigh. Once. Then again. A third time, closer now, and Y/N’s head tilted back into the pillow, eyes fluttering closed as his hands gripped her legs, firm but tender, pushing them open just enough. “You’re so fucking pretty,” he murmured, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. “and all mine.”
“Mingi…” Her voice cracked, too much need in it, too much feeling as he just leaned in and finally, finally tasted her. The first stroke of his tongue made her hips jump, and he grinned against her skin, settling one arm across her stomach to keep her still. His mouth was slow at first. Gentle, coaxing, savoring. She could feel his eagerness building with every shift of his tongue, every muffled groan vibrating through her as her fingers twisted in the sheets and her lips parted in a breathy curse.
Mingi didn’t stop. Not when her thighs started to tremble. Not when her breath hitched into soft, helpless moans. Not even when she whimpered his name like a prayer caught between pleasure and disbelief. He just kept going, mouth locked onto her like he was starving for her, tongue working her with focused desperation until she finally shattered. Her fingers clenched in his hair, pulling and dragging a groan from him, head thrown back as she cried out, back arching beneath his arm still resting over her hips.
He looked up only when her body stilled, lips glossy, face flushed with pride and affection like he’d just won something as he crawled back up her body, grinning like the soft little menace he was. “Good morning to you too.” She let out a breathless laugh, still catching her bearings. But as he hovered over her, she suddenly sat up, straddling his lap, the oversized sweater riding dangerously high until she jerked it completely off. “I’m not done with you.”
Mingi’s hands found her waist as he helped guide her, but she tugged at the waistband of his pajama pants, making him laugh as he shifted to peel them off. “Eager much?”
“Don’t act surprised,” she smirked. And then, just as he leaned in to kiss her again, she turned over. Smooth, slow and teasing, arching her back and settling on her elbows, throwing a look at him over her shoulder as her hips started to move, slow little wiggles that made his mouth fall open. “Oh, you’re evil,” Mingi muttered.
“Mmhmm,” Y/N hummed smugly. “Come show me how much you missed me.”
Mingi didn’t need to be told twice. He climbed over her, hands running down her spine like he couldn’t believe she was real and all his. He kissed every vertebrae, soft and lingering, trailing lower until he reached the small of her back. Then he shifted, settling behind her, hand curling around her hip to steady her as he lined himself up. He looked at the camera once, smirking. “Always watching…… none of them will have you like I do.” He pushed into her slowly, a low groan catching in his throat as he sank in inch by inch, until he was fully buried, hips flush against her.
She was warm, perfect, and the sound she made as he filled her nearly undid him right there. His grip tightened slightly on her hips. “Fuck, baby…” He tried to keep it slow at first. He really tried. He’d started with that steady rhythm, deep, languid thrusts, each one dragging a low sound from her throat. His hands gripped her hips, thumbs pressing into her skin as he rocked into her, lips parted in awe. She felt too good, tight, warm, soaking him like she was made to fit him.
But just as he found his pace, Y/N shifted her weight forward, elbows bending, back arching deeper. And then, oh god, she started to push back. Her hips met his with growing force, a deliberate roll that knocked the breath out of his lungs. Her ass slapped against his thighs with each snap of her body, and Mingi’s jaw clenched. “Y/N…. fuck…” He gasped, already losing the rhythm he’d tried so hard to set but she didn’t wait. She just moaned, voice husky and dark with hunger, and ground back into him again. Harder. Faster. Making a filthy mess of him.
Mingi braced a hand against the headboard, the other still gripping her hip as he tried to match her pace but she wasn’t letting him lead anymore. She was riding the edge, slamming back into him with purpose now, thighs shaking, shadows flickering in the corners of the room like they were reacting to the storm building inside her. “Fuck…” He spanked her once, twice, gripping at her ass. “You trying to kill me?” he groaned, voice cracking.
Y/N laughed, low and sinful. “You said I was evil.”
“Yeah,” he breathed, barely holding on. “I didn’t realize you meant sex demon.” She slammed back again and he nearly folded, choking on a moan as her walls clenched around him. He was close. Too close already. He buried his face between her shoulder blades, trying to hold on, to keep control. But she wasn’t making it easy. She was ruining him.
And god he was letting her.
With a strangled groan, Mingi grabbed her by the waist and flipped her onto her back in one fast, heated motion, their bodies parting only for a second before he was hovering over her again, breathless, eyes wild, flushed from jaw to chest as Y/N hit the mattress with a soft “oof”, laughter curling at the corners of her mouth, legs already parting for him like a reflex. She looked up at him with that wicked grin, the kind that never failed to make his heart skip. “Well hello there,” she panted.
He didn’t answer. Just grabbed her legs, pushed them up and apart, one arm hooking behind her knees as he lined himself back up and sank into her again, deeper, harder and possessive, making her back arch with a cry. “Oh fuck, Mingi!”
His rhythm returned with force now, hips snapping into her with each thrust, the soft slap of skin echoing around the room like a heartbeat gone wild. Her hands gripped his arms, fingers digging into muscle, mouth open in messy gasps that only made him want to ruin her more as their viewers stayed locked in. “Y/N…” he groaned, voice strained as she locked eyes with him, smirking through her moans, and whispered the word that broke him, “Harder.”
Mingi growled, low and ragged in his throat as his grip on her tightened, and he started pounding into her. The bed creaked. Her breath caught. Her entire body jolted with each thrust as Y/N unraveled beneath him, head tipping back, eyes rolling as her orgasm slammed into her so hard she screamed, her legs trembling in his hold, her walls clenching around him in tight, wet waves. She was a fucking mess, sweaty, flushed, twitching under him, and Mingi watched her come apart like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
Mingi chased it, thrusts growing erratic, deeper, rougher, until pleasure finally surged through him in one devastating pulse. His mouth dropped open, head falling forward, body curling as he spilled into her with a choked moan, her name barely a whisper on his lips.
They stayed tangled like that for a moment, panting, wrecked, clinging to each other like gravity had doubled as the livestream kept going. Sweat clung to their skin. Her thighs twitched. His breath tickled her collarbone as he collapsed against her, still inside her, arms shaking as she ran her fingers through his hair.
Neither of them said it. But both of them felt it.
SUMMARY: Performance specialist, Mina Seo has made a career out of taking care of everyone else. As BTS throws themselves into comeback preparations, she spends her days managing injuries, recovery plans, and the impossible task of keeping seven overworked artists healthy. What nobody realizes is that she’s becoming increasingly skilled at hiding her own struggles. When an unexpected connection with Jimin begins offering relief neither of them fully understands, it slowly becomes part of their routine. Late-night conversations, shared silences, and a comfort that grows easier to rely on with every passing week. But while Jimin is getting better, Mina isn’t. And sooner or later, someone is going to notice.
WARNINGS: chronic illness, overwork injuries, some medical scenes, slight cursing, eventual smut scene—This story contains a realistic depiction of chronic illness, including rheumatoid arthritis, pain flares, fatigue, hospitalization, and the emotional impact of long-term health conditions.
Masterlist
————————————-
The gym was quiet when Mina arrived. That was why she liked it early. Before rehearsal schedules crowded the day, before staff moved through the halls with coffees and tablets and production changes, before the building remembered how many people relied on it to keep several different worlds running at once. At this hour, the mirrors were clean, the racks were orderly, and the low hum of the ventilation system was the loudest thing in the room.
Mina set her bag beside the wall and took her time warming up. She always did.
It was not glamorous, but it was necessary. Ankles first, then hips, then a long sequence of controlled mobility work that would have bored anyone who thought training began when the weights did. Mina had learned the hard way that her body did not respond well to being surprised. It liked warning. Preparation. A proper negotiation before effort.
By the time she moved toward the trap bar, her joints had loosened enough to feel trustworthy…Mostly.
The weight was moderate. Heavy enough to require focus, not heavy enough to become stupid. She clipped the plates into place, stepped inside the bar, and adjusted her stance until both feet were exactly where she wanted them. Her hands closed around the handles. For one breath, she let the room narrow to the familiar sequence: brace, hinge, press through the floor, stand tall without leaning back, lower with control.
The first rep moved cleanly. So did the second.
By the fifth, warmth had begun to spread through her legs in a way that felt almost like relief. Strength work had a clarity to it that Mina appreciated. It did not care what she had lost. It did not ask whether she used to dance, whether she missed it, whether her body could still draw a clean line if she asked carefully enough. The bar only asked whether she could lift it with good form right now—Right now, she could.
She finished the set, lowered the bar to the floor, and let her hands release before her grip began to complain. She stood still for a moment, breathing evenly, counting the sensations that followed effort. Quads warm. Hamstrings active. Hips steady. Knees present but not angry. Acceptable.
She reached for her water.
A voice from the doorway said, “Mina-noona.”
Mina closed her eyes briefly. There were many ways Jungkook could say ‘noona’. This one sounded like discovery. She turned. Jungkook stood just inside the gym, dressed for training, hair still damp from what must have been an earlier warm-up, one hand curled loosely around the strap of his bag. His eyes moved from Mina to the trap bar, then back to Mina again with an expression that was not disbelief so much as recalculation.
“I didn’t know you lifted like that.”
Mina looked at the bar, then at him. “I am choosing to believe you meant that respectfully.”
“I did.” He stepped farther into the room, still looking at the weight. “Your form is good.”
That softened the edge of her reply before she could decide whether she wanted it softened. “Thank you.”
“I thought you did more mobility. Ballet conditioning. Controlled work.”
“I do.”
Jungkook nodded slowly. “But also deadlifts.”
“Also deadlifts,” Mina said, reaching for her towel.
He absorbed that with visible interest, the same look he got when a choreographer gave a correction he actually wanted to understand. Mina could see the idea rearranging itself in his head: ballet did not mean delicate, conditioning did not mean easy, and her body being carefully managed did not mean it was weak.
“Can I watch your next set?” he asked.
Mina glanced at him. “You’re not here to train?”
“I am.”
“Then train.”
“I can do both.”
She should have told him no. This was her quiet hour, one of the few places in the week where no one needed her to manage anything but herself. But Jungkook did not feel intrusive in the way some people did. He was not asking because he doubted her. He was asking because he had seen something he did not know about her and wanted to pay attention properly.
Mina took another sip of water and set the bottle down, “Fine,” she said. “But watch properly.”
His expression settled at once. Not playful now. Focused.
Mina stepped back into the bar. The second set moved slower than the first, partly because she was more aware of being watched and partly because fatigue liked to introduce itself politely before becoming difficult. She kept the reps clean. No ego. No grinding through a pull just to prove she could. When the fourth rep slowed a fraction more than she wanted, she finished the fifth and stopped there.
Jungkook noticed, “You had more,” he said.
Mina stepped out of the bar and reached for the towel beside her water. “Probably.”
“Then why stop?”
She wiped her hands slowly, giving herself a second before answering. “Because ‘probably’ is not a training plan.”
He took that in without the immediate impatience she had expected, “You don’t lift to failure.”
“Not often.”
“Because of recovery?”
“Because of tomorrow.” Mina wrapped the towel around the back of her neck and looked at the bar rather than at him. “Being able to do this again matters more than proving I can ruin myself once.”
The room went quiet after that. Not awkwardly. Jungkook did not rush to fill it, which she appreciated. He looked at the trap bar, then at the mobility mat she had used earlier, then at the notebook open beside her bag where she had written the day’s sets in small, precise lines.
“You train carefully,” he said.
“I try to.”
“No.” His voice was thoughtful now. “I mean, you know exactly where that line is.”
Mina’s fingers stilled briefly on the towel. She did not answer right away because that was too close to something larger than lifting. The line was not always clear. Some days it shifted without warning. Some days she guessed wrong and paid for it later. But Jungkook had seen the part she wanted people to see: not fragility, not fear, but discipline. A body managed with intelligence because strength was not useful if it could not be sustained.
“I’ve had practice,” she said eventually.
Jungkook nodded once, then set his bag down near the bench and began his own warm-up properly, which Mina chose to interpret as a small miracle. He did not jump straight to heavy weight. He moved through mobility first, then activation work, his focus narrowing into something quieter and more serious. Mina watched without meaning to and found herself approving despite every effort not to.
He was good—Of course he was good. She knew that. Everyone knew that. But there was a difference between knowing Jungkook was athletic and seeing the way his attention changed when he trained. He listened to his body without making a performance of it. Adjusted quickly. Asked once about foot placement and took the correction the first time. When she told him to slow the eccentric portion of a movement, he did it without complaint, eyes tracking the motion in the mirror as if he wanted the reason, not just the instruction.
They trained separately for a while, sharing the room without filling it with unnecessary conversation.
Mina moved from deadlifts into single-leg work, controlled split squats with one hand resting lightly near the rack for balance. She kept the range precise, not shallow enough to be pointless and not deep enough to invite consequences later. Her left side complained more than it had during the deadlifts. Not loudly. Just enough for her to note it.
By the time she set up for back squats, the fatigue had begun to creep in around the edges. She knew the feeling.
It was not ordinary muscle tiredness. That had a clean burn to it, a straightforward exchange between effort and response. This was slower, duller, a heaviness that made her joints feel as if they were receiving instructions half a beat late. The kind of fatigue that did not announce itself as pain until she had already overdrawn the account.
Mina set the safety bars first. Then she loaded the bar. Moderate weight. Sensible weight. A working set, not a test. Still, when she ducked beneath the bar and settled it across her upper back, she felt the day beneath her skin more clearly than she wanted to. The music video shoot, the cold, the long hours of standing, the recovery sessions, the way she had been staying more, choosing more, wanting more. All of it counted, whether she wrote it down or not.
The first set went well. Clean descent. Controlled depth. Steady drive up. No knee collapse, no dramatic compensation, no reason for anyone watching to think the lift had cost more than it should have.
Mina reracked the bar and stood with her hands still on it, breathing through the effort.
Jungkook looked over from where he had been adjusting dumbbells near the bench, “You okay?”
“Yes.” The answer came automatically. Then she paused.
He had not asked like Jin would have. He had not asked as if her body were something that needed managing by someone else. He had asked like a training partner noticing the difference between a clean set and a costly one. That distinction mattered.
Mina looked at the bar, then at him, “Can you spot this next one?”
Jungkook’s expression changed at once. The curiosity left, replaced by immediate focus.
“Yeah,” he said. “Tell me what you want.”
That made it easier. Not, ‘are you sure?’ Not, ‘should you be doing this?’ Not, ‘I’ve got you’ in a way that made the lift about him…Just ‘tell me what you want.’
Mina adjusted the collars on the bar though they were already secure. “Stay close. Don’t touch unless I say rack, or unless I shift enough that I’m not correcting it. If I miss depth, tell me. If my left side lags, tell me.”
Jungkook nodded once. “Okay.”
He stepped behind her as she moved under the bar again, close enough to help, not close enough to crowd. His hands stayed ready near her ribs without touching. Mina appreciated that more than she wanted to. A bad spot could make a lift feel more dangerous than no spot at all. Jungkook seemed to understand that the point was not to take the weight from her, but to watch the line she might miss while she was inside the work.
She unracked the bar. One step back. Second step to settle. Brace.
The first rep was clean. The second was slower but acceptable. On the third, fatigue pressed harder through her legs, a subtle delay in the left hip as she came out of the bottom. She corrected it before it became visible to anyone who did not know what to look for—Jungkook knew what to look for because she had told him.
On the fourth rep, the shift came again. Not dangerous. Not obvious. Just enough.
“Left,” Jungkook said quietly. One word. No alarm.
Mina corrected on the way up, finished the rep, and breathed at the top. For half a second she considered stopping there. Then pride, or stubbornness, or the old familiar need to prove she could read her own body better than anyone else, told her one more was fine
She did one more. It moved. It was not pretty. Jungkook did not touch her, but she felt him stay close, attention steady behind her until she stepped forward and guided the bar back onto the hooks.
The moment the weight settled, Mina knew. Her breath was controlled. Her form had not fallen apart. Nothing dramatic had happened, But the line had moved while she was already crossing it.
She stepped back from the rack and rested one hand lightly against the bar, already calculating whether another set was sensible or whether she only wanted it to be.
Jungkook watched her for a moment,
“I think that was the line,” he said.
Mina looked over. He did not sound worried. That was what made it difficult to dismiss. There was no pity in his expression, no alarm, no careful softness that made her feel like glass. He sounded like someone who had been asked to watch and had done exactly that.
“You shifted left on the fourth,” he added. “Not much. But enough.”
Mina looked back at the bar. The irritating part was that he was right. She knew her body better than anyone else in the room, and still, sometimes, the line moved while she was already crossing it. That was the part people did not understand. Management was not mastery. Discipline helped, routine helped, strength helped, but none of it turned a body into something fully predictable.
Chronic illness did not make her fragile. It did make the margin thinner. And today she had misjudged it by one rep.
Mina let out a slow breath and stepped away from the rack, “No more squats,” she said.
Jungkook nodded as if that had always been obvious. “Okay.”
No praise for being sensible. No comment about stopping. No question about whether she was sure.
He simply accepted the decision and began stripping one side of the bar without waiting to be asked. Mina watched him for a moment, caught by the quiet ease of it. He did not make helping feel like a rescue. He made it feel like part of training.
That was worse, somehow. Worse because it made accepting it easier.
“Thank you,” she said.
Jungkook glanced at her, then back at the plates. “You asked me to watch.” Such a simple answer. Such an irritatingly kind one.
Mina took a drink of water and let herself sit on the bench for longer than she usually would have allowed. Jungkook finished unloading the bar, then sat on the floor nearby, stretching one leg out in front of him. For a while they were quiet. Not the stiff silence of people avoiding a subject, but something steadier. Shared effort. Shared breath. The peculiar trust of someone seeing a limit and not mistaking it for weakness.
Eventually Jungkook looked at her, “You’re careful with yourself,” he said.
Mina’s thumb moved over the side of her water bottle. “I try to be.”
His gaze drifted toward the squat rack, then back to her. “Jimin-hyung is careful with you like that.”
Her hand stilled. Jungkook noticed immediately, “I don’t mean people are watching,” he said, quieter now.
Mina looked at him then.
“At HYBE,” he added. “I don’t mean that. You’re both careful there.” The answer should have reassured her. It did, a little.
Jungkook rubbed one hand over his knee, choosing his words with unusual care. “I mean I know him. I know when he wants to move closer and doesn’t. I know when he’s pretending not to look because he thinks looking will make it harder for you.”
Mina looked away first. That was harder to dismiss than teasing would have been.
“At the retreat, when it was just us, I saw it more,” Jungkook said. “He was careful with you. That’s all I mean.”
The gym felt very quiet around them.
“It’s complicated,” Mina said.
“I know.”
“You don’t, actually.”
“Not all of it,” Jungkook admitted.
Mina tightened her grip on the bottle, then loosened it again before the plastic could crackle too loudly in the silence.
“I don’t want to become a cliché,” she said.
Jungkook’s brows drew together slightly.
“The staff member and the idol,” she continued, voice lower now. “The woman who got too close because she had access. The person people decide must have confused kindness for something else, or used proximity, or crossed a line she should have known better than to touch.”
She swallowed, “I have worked too hard to be good at my job for that to be the story.”
Jungkook did not answer immediately. That helped. When he did speak, his voice was careful. “That’s not what it looks like to us.”
Mina looked at him. He held her gaze for a moment, earnest and steady. “Not to me.”
The correction mattered. He was not claiming the whole world would be fair. He was not pretending the line did not exist. He was only telling her what he had seen.
“I’m happy for him,” he said quietly. Then, after a moment, “For you too. Whatever it is.”
For some reason, that was harder to answer than the rest.
The gym was quiet around them, the early morning interrupted only by the low hum of the air conditioning and the faint clink of equipment from the far side of the room. She could have corrected him. She could have said there was nothing to be happy about, that he was imagining things, that whatever he had seen between her and Jimin belonged to a private language she had not agreed to translate.
Instead, she took a slow sip of water and set the bottle down, “You’re very observant,” she said.
Jungkook’s mouth softened, but he did not smile fully, “So are you, noona.”
Mina looked back at the rack, at the unloaded bar, at the place where she had almost pushed past sense because wanting to be capable had always been easier than admitting capability still had limits.
“You should finish your last set before rehearsal,” she said.
Jungkook nodded, letting her have the change of subject, “Okay.”
He stood without another word and returned to his own station. Mina stayed seated for a moment longer than necessary, watching him reset his stance with the same focus he had given her lift. She had expected the conversation to make her want distance. It did not. That frightened her more. Because Jungkook had not teased. He had not accused. He had not turned what he saw into gossip or pressure or a demand for clarity she did not yet have. He had simply noticed the shape of something and told her it looked gentle from where he stood.
Jungkook stood without another word and returned to his own station. Mina watched him finish his final set, the correction she had given him earlier still visible in the slower control of the movement. He did not rush it. He did not turn it into a performance because someone was watching. He simply did the work properly.
When he was done, he unloaded the plates, wiped down the bench, and came back toward her with his towel around his neck.
“You were right,” he said.
Mina looked up. “About what?”
“The tempo.” He glanced back at the bench. “Slower was harder.”
“It usually is.”
He nodded, accepting that, then looked toward the squat rack again. “You can ask me next time.”
Mina’s fingers tightened loosely around her water bottle, “To spot?”
“To spot. To watch your form.” His voice stayed even, not too careful but not casual either. “Whatever you need.”
The offer was simple enough that it should not have made anything in her chest shift. It did anyway. Mina looked at him for a moment, at the earnestness he did not try to disguise, at the quiet confidence of someone who had seen one of her limits and had not mistaken it for weakness.
“I usually train alone,” she said.
Jungkook nodded. “I know.”
He did not argue with it. Did not tell her she should change. He only waited, giving her the choice without making it dramatic.
Mina looked back toward the unloaded bar, “Next week,” she said finally. “If you’re actually warmed up before I get here.”
Jungkook’s smile came slowly, small but unmistakably pleased, “I’ll be warmed up, noona.”
Mina believed him. That was new too.
——————————————
Few days later—Taehyung had gone to the small practice room because it was one of the few places at HYBE where the walls did not seem to hum.
The building had been restless all day. Every corridor carried some piece of the upcoming Netflix live comeback show: vocal runs bleeding through closed doors, managers speaking into phones, production staff moving too quickly with tablets pressed to their chests. The date had started to feel less like something approaching and more like something pulling everyone toward it by the collar.
He usually liked the noise. Today, he needed a room quiet enough to hear himself think.
The practice room was small, more lounge than studio, with a couch pushed against one wall and a low table covered in the usual evidence of long workdays: two empty water bottles, a folded hoodie, a pencil case someone had forgotten, and a charger that probably belonged to Jungkook because most abandoned chargers eventually did. Taehyung sat at one end of the couch with one knee tucked beneath him, lyric sheets spread across the cushion beside him.
“Into the Sun” played softly from his phone.
It was one of the warmer songs for the comeback show, though not bright in an easy way. The guide track carried piano beneath the vocal line, gentle but steady, the kind of song that felt as if it had to be held carefully or the feeling would spill out too far. Taehyung had helped write part of it months earlier, back when the comeback still felt distant enough to discuss without everyone checking the time. Now the song was real. Soon they would sing it live, under lights, in front of cameras, after years of people waiting for seven voices to fit together again. He played the same section twice, then paused it to mark a breath on the paper.
The door opened. Mina stood in the doorway with her tablet held against her chest. She looked as though she had meant to find an empty room and had discovered a problem instead.
“Sorry,” she said, already shifting back. “I didn’t realise anyone was in here.”
Taehyung looked at her for a moment. Her hair was neat. Her badge was clipped properly. Her expression was composed in the careful way it became when the rest of her was less so. But the day had left marks anyway. A dullness around her eyes. Shoulders held too deliberately. One hand curled tight around the edge of her tablet, as if she had forgotten how hard she was gripping it.
“You can stay,” he said.
Mina hesitated, “I don’t want to interrupt.”
“You’re not.”
“You’re working.”
“So are you.” That seemed to leave her without an easy exit.
After a moment, she stepped inside and let the door fall almost closed behind her. She crossed to the far end of the couch, leaving a careful amount of space between them, and sat with the tablet balanced on her knees. Taehyung looked back down at his lyric sheet because looking at her too directly would only make her leave.
For a while, the room held them quietly.
He replayed the section of “Into the Sun,” pencil moving across the page now and then. Mina opened her tablet and tried to review whatever schedule she had escaped into the room with, but Taehyung could feel the moment her attention drifted. Her stylus stopped moving. Her eyes stayed on the screen, but she was listening.
The guide vocal moved softly through the room. Taehyung sang one line under his breath, barely louder than the track.
Mina looked down at her tablet without reading it.
“I like this one,” she said quietly.
Taehyung looked over. She seemed to realise she had spoken aloud and glanced back at the screen. “Sorry. That wasn’t meant to interrupt.”
“It didn’t.”
“It’s lovely,” she said, simpler this time. “That’s all.”
For a moment, Taehyung only looked at the lyric sheet in his hand. Then his mouth softened before he could stop it. “I helped write it.”
Mina looked up again. “You did?”
He nodded.
She glanced toward the paper, then back at him. “Then I like it even more.”
The answer was small. Honest. No technical opinion. No attempt to sound like she understood a process she did not. For some reason, that mattered more to him than a longer compliment would have. Taehyung looked back at the lyric sheet, still smiling faintly, and played the section again. This time, Mina let herself listen for a little while before returning to her tablet.
After that, she grew quieter.
At first, Taehyung thought she was reading. Mina could go still when she worked, narrowing herself down until the rest of the room seemed to fade. But then her stylus stopped moving again. The tablet dimmed. Her head tipped back against the couch cushion, not enough to look comfortable, only enough to betray that her body had taken a moment before her mind agreed to it. Taehyung did not say her name.
The guide track remained paused in his hand. Mina’s breathing changed slowly, settling into a rhythm too even to be concentration. Her fingers loosened around the stylus. One foot shifted, then the other, as if even asleep she was trying to find a position her body would accept.
She had fallen asleep. At HYBE. In the middle of the day. Taehyung looked at her for a long moment, lyric sheets forgotten on his lap.
Mina did not do this. He knew that much without Jin telling him and without Jimin looking at her like he was trying not to worry. She rested in fragments, if she rested at all. Five minutes with her tablet open so it could still count as work. A few breaths in a hallway before someone found her again. She made tiredness look like efficiency and pain look like concentration.
But now she was asleep at the far end of a couch, her tablet sliding toward the cushion, one ankle tucked awkwardly beneath the other.
Taehyung set his pencil down. Carefully, he reached for the tablet first. Mina stirred when he lifted it from her lap, but she did not wake. He placed it on the low table within reach, screen down so no one passing the doorway would see her schedule. Then he looked at her legs, at the uncomfortable angle of her knees, and considered leaving them alone.
She would hate being fussed over. She would wake hurting if he did nothing.
Taehyung moved slowly, giving her every chance to wake and stop him. When she did not, he slid one hand beneath her ankles and eased her legs out of the cramped position. Mina made a small sound, not quite pain and not quite relief, and turned her head against the cushion.
He froze. She settled again.
Only then did he draw her feet gently across the couch, resting them over his lap. There was nothing romantic in it. Nothing arranged or sentimental. It was only practical: warmer than the couch, better than letting her knees twist badly while she slept. He took the folded hoodie from beside him and tucked it beneath her knees so her legs were not hanging unsupported.
Mina exhaled in her sleep. The sound did something strange to his chest. Taehyung picked up the “Into the Sun” lyric sheet again, but he did not restart the guide track.
By the time Yoongi opened the door twenty minutes later, Taehyung had stopped pretending to work.
Yoongi stepped in with his phone in hand, already speaking quietly. “Tae, they’re moving the vocal run by—”
He stopped. His eyes moved from Mina asleep at one end of the couch to her feet resting across Taehyung’s lap, then to the hoodie beneath her knees and the tablet turned face down on the table.
Taehyung lifted one finger to his lips.
Yoongi lowered his voice. “How long?”
“Not long.”
Yoongi came farther into the room and let the door close softly behind him. He looked at Mina again, his expression still, but Taehyung had known him long enough to see the thought beneath it.
“She never sleeps here,” Yoongi said.
“I know.”
Mina shifted slightly. Both of them went quiet until she settled.
Yoongi glanced at the lyric sheets. “You were working on ‘Into the Sun’?”
Taehyung nodded. “She said she liked it.”
That made Yoongi’s mouth move slightly, “She has good taste sometimes.”
Taehyung looked down at the page, then at Mina’s feet across his lap. “She was trying to read her schedule. I don’t think she made it through one page.”
Yoongi leaned one shoulder against the wall. “That bad?”
Taehyung did not answer immediately. He watched Mina sleep, the guarded lines of her face eased in a way he almost never saw when she was awake. The tiredness was clearer like this. Not weakness. Not fragility. Just the cost of showing up every day and making it look as though the cost did not exist.
“She’s been slower this week,” Taehyung said eventually. “She hides it.”
Yoongi gave a short breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh. “She hides everything.”
“Not everything.”
Yoongi looked at him.
Taehyung kept his gaze on Mina. “Not with Jimin.”
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Outside the room, HYBE continued moving: distant music, a door closing somewhere down the hall, someone calling for a manager in a voice that tried to stay calm and failed at the edges.
Yoongi slipped his phone into his pocket. “He’s been better.”
“His hip?”
“That too.”
Taehyung understood. He had seen it in Jimin, the quiet change that had settled over him in the last few weeks. Jimin was still Jimin, still bright when he wanted to be, still playful when the room needed it, still sharp and focused when rehearsal demanded it. But around Mina, something stopped performing. Not all at once. Not publicly. Just in small places: the way he waited before stepping closer, the way his shoulders eased when she stayed, the way he seemed less restless when she was near enough to reach but still free to move away.
“She balances him,” Taehyung said.
Yoongi’s gaze stayed on Mina. “She doesn’t flatter him.”
“No.”
“She doesn’t need him to be charming.”
“No.”
“And he doesn’t ask her to be easy.”
Taehyung looked at Yoongi then. That was closer to the truth than anything he had been trying to say.
Across his lap, Mina’s ankle twitched once in sleep. Taehyung adjusted the hoodie beneath her knees with the smallest movement he could manage.
“I like her,” he said.
Yoongi did not tease him for it. He only nodded, as if the statement was obvious enough not to need explanation, “Me too.” That, somehow, said more than a speech would have.
Yoongi stayed another minute. Long enough for the quiet to settle again. Long enough for Taehyung to understand that he was not the only one who had noticed the way Mina was becoming part of the spaces between schedules, not because of Jimin alone, and not because she was useful, but because they had started wanting her there.
Then Yoongi straightened, “The vocal run moved by twenty minutes,” he said.
Taehyung nodded, “She’ll ask.”
“I know.” Yoongi looked toward Mina again. “Let her wake up first.”
Then he opened the door carefully and stepped back into the hallway, leaving it almost closed behind him. Taehyung sat with the lyric sheets loose in one hand and Mina’s feet warm across his lap. Outside, the building rushed toward the comeback show with all its noise and pressure and polished expectation. Inside the small room, for a little while, nothing was required of her. Not usefulness. Not explanation. Not even wakefulness.
When Mina finally stirred, it happened slowly. Her fingers moved first, then her brow furrowed, then her eyes opened to the dim room and went unfocused with confusion.
Taehyung did not move. He waited.
Her gaze dropped to her legs. Then to his lap. Her whole body went still.
“How long was I out?”
Her voice was rough with sleep, and the question came too quickly, too controlled, as if time were the only part of this she could bear to address.
“Not long,” Taehyung said.
Mina pushed herself upright too fast, pulling her feet back at once. Pain crossed her face before she could hide it properly. Taehyung looked down at the lyric sheet in his hands, giving her the privacy of not being watched.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“I know.”
That was worse, somehow. Not because he sounded disappointed. Because he did not. Her eyes flicked toward the low table. Her tablet was there, face down but within reach. Safe. Not moved far. Not taken from her.
“Yoongi came by,” Taehyung said.
Mina went still again. Her gaze moved toward the door, then back to Taehyung. “Did he—”
“No.”
The answer came before she could finish.
No, he had not made a thing of it.
No, he had not gone to tell anyone.
No, he had not looked at her like she had failed some invisible test by falling asleep in the middle of the day.
Taehyung let the quiet settle before adding, “He said the vocal run moved by twenty minutes.”
Mina stared at him for a second, caught off guard by the plainness of it—A schedule change. That was all. Not concern sharpened into questions. Not a lecture. Not a careful conversation about rest that would have made her want to disappear into the floor. Just a shifted vocal run and a room that had let her sleep.
She looked down at the folded hoodie that had been beneath her knees. Her expression tightened with embarrassment, but beneath it was something smaller and more uncertain.
“Thank you,” she said eventually.
Taehyung only nodded. He did not tell her it was fine. He did not tell her she looked tired. He did not ask whether she needed anything. He simply picked up his pencil again and looked back at the lyric sheet, letting the room return to what it had been before she woke. Quiet. Undemanding.
After a moment, Mina reached for her tablet. Then stopped. The screen stayed dark on the table. Taehyung noticed. He did not look at her.
Outside the practice room, HYBE kept moving toward the comeback show with all its noise and pressure and polished expectation. Inside, the guide track for “Into the Sun” remained paused, the lyric sheets loose in Taehyung’s hand, and Mina stayed on the couch for another minute without pretending she had a reason.
For once, no one gave her one. That made staying easier.
————————-
By the time Jin’s dinner became a real plan, Mina had already found several reasons not to go.
The Netflix live comeback show was close enough now that every hour seemed to arrive already claimed. Rehearsal blocks stretched past their original end times. Production notes changed faster than anyone could update them. The members were tired in different ways, trying to prepare for the kind of return that could not be treated like an ordinary schedule, and Mina had begun to feel the pressure of it in her own body as much as she saw it in theirs.
There were recovery notes to finish. Treatment windows to adjust. A revised nutrition schedule waiting on her tablet. She could have filled the evening twice over with things that sounded responsible.
The real problem was that Jin’s apartment was not work.
It was not HYBE, not a treatment room, not a rehearsal studio, not a shoot location, not a space where she could justify her presence because someone’s ankle needed checking or someone’s shoulder needed heat before a run-through. If she went, she would be going because they wanted her there. That remained harder to accept than a schedule conflict.
She was packing her bag after rehearsal when Jungkook found her near the mirrors.
“You’re coming tonight, right?”
Mina looked up. “Coming where?”
“To Jin-hyung’s.”
“I’m not invited.”
Jungkook frowned, not offended, only genuinely confused. “This is me inviting you.”
She blinked at him.
He seemed to believe the matter was now settled.
Jungkook shifted the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder. His hair was still damp from rehearsal, his expression open in a way that made simple refusal feel more complicated than it should have. Since the gym, something had changed between them. Not loudly. He did not hover, did not make a performance out of concern, did not treat her as fragile because he had seen one of her limits. He had simply become someone who expected to be useful if she asked, and somehow that made his invitation harder to dismiss.
“It’s dinner, noona,” he said. “Not a meeting.”
“That is precisely the problem.”
He looked at her for a moment, and she could almost see him deciding not to push too hard. “Jimin-hyung didn’t ask me to ask.”
Her hand tightened slightly around the strap of her bag. Jungkook noticed. Of course he did.
“I mean it,” he added. “This is from us.”
Across the room, Jimin was speaking with Namjoon near the monitors. His attention moved briefly toward Mina and Jungkook, only long enough to register that they were talking. He did not come over. He did not try to help convince her. He turned back to Namjoon and let the invitation remain what Jungkook had made it: a group one.
Mina hated how much that mattered.
“What time?” she asked.
Jungkook’s face changed before he could stop it. Not victory. Relief.
“Eight.”
“I’m not staying late.”
“Okay.”
“And I’m bringing something.”
“Jin-hyung is cooking.”
“I’m aware.”
Jungkook paused, then nodded as if he had remembered that Mina arriving anywhere empty-handed was apparently not something the universe allowed. “Okay.”
“Text me the address.”
“I will.”
“And don’t make it a thing.”
His expression sobered. “I won’t.”
To his credit, he did not. Still, when Mina arrived that evening with a bottle of wine in a narrow paper bag and a level of nerves entirely disproportionate to dinner with people she already saw almost every day, she suspected most of them had been expecting her.
The apartment was warm when Jin opened the door. Not staged. Not too neat. Lived in, but in the way of someone who had prepared for people he wanted in his space. Shoes gathered near the entrance. Low light from the living room. The smell of food rich enough to make her realise she had eaten too little that day. Voices deeper inside, overlapping and familiar: Hoseok laughing, Jungkook answering too quickly, Namjoon saying something low that pulled Yoongi’s dry response out of him a second later.
Jin looked at the paper bag in her hand Then at her face, “You brought wine.”
“I was raised correctly.”
“You don’t drink.”
“I didn’t bring it for me.”
That was not entirely true. She could drink. She simply avoided it most of the time because alcohol had a way of turning into inflammation and poor sleep and regret by morning, and her body had enough ways to punish her without being handed extra material. Jin knew that. He did not say it.
He only took the bag from her with a nod. “Thank you. Come in.”
Mina stepped inside and removed her shoes with unnecessary focus.
Jin waited until she straightened, “You’re not working tonight.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You were preparing to.”
“That seems difficult to prove.”
“I know your face.”
Mina looked at him. His tone was light, but the line beneath it was firm. He was not fussing over her health. He was setting the terms of his own home.
“You can be useful tomorrow,” he said. “Tonight you’re a guest.”
The word sat strangely in her chest—Guest. Not staff. Not patient. Not a problem being quietly managed. Not a professional presence permitted because she had earned her place through usefulness…Guest.
“I can help carry something,” she said.
“You can carry yourself to the living room.”
“Jin.”
“Mina.”
The stalemate might have lasted longer if Hoseok had not appeared around the corner with the easy warmth of someone who had never met tension he did not think could be softened, “You came.”
“I was invited,” Mina said.
“Good.” He said it simply, as if the invitation and her arrival were both things the room had expected.
Jungkook appeared behind him a second later. “Noona.”
“I’m here.”
“I see that.”
“You seem pleased with yourself.”
“I invited you.”
“And I arrived. A successful transaction.”
His smile widened, but he did not turn it into more. He only stepped aside so she could come fully into the living room.
The apartment pulled her in carefully. No one made a show of it. That was what disarmed her. Taehyung looked up from the sofa and lifted one hand in quiet greeting, leaving room beside him without asking whether she needed somewhere safe to sit. Yoongi, already settled low in an armchair, nodded once over the rim of his glass. Namjoon paused in the middle of whatever conversation he had been having with him and said, “I’m glad Jungkook succeeded.”
Mina looked at him. “That makes it sound like there was a campaign.”
“There may have been morale involved.”
“Noted.”
Namjoon smiled, small and warm, and let the joke go before it could become something she needed to defend against.
Jimin was near the dining table, setting down a stack of plates. He looked up when she entered properly.
The apartment did not disappear. The others were still there. Jin was carrying the wine into the kitchen. Hoseok was telling Jungkook not to crowd the doorway. Taehyung had gone back to whatever he was looking at on his phone. Namjoon and Yoongi’s conversation resumed quietly behind her.
But for one breath, Mina felt the familiar stillness that came with Jimin’s attention. He did not cross the room. He only smiled. Small. Private enough to matter. Public enough to be safe.Mina looked away first, but not before she smiled back.
Dinner was easier than she expected. That was not the same as easy.
For the first few minutes, Mina sat with her posture too neat and her hands too carefully placed in her lap, aware of the plates being passed, the open bottle of wine on the counter, the water Jin had placed in front of her without comment. Her instincts kept reaching for work. Refill a glass. Clear a dish. Ask about someone’s hip, ankle, shoulder. Find the role that made her presence make sense.
Namjoon, seated across from her, seemed to notice the exact moment she started calculating whether she could stand without being obvious.
He passed her a dish before she could move.
“You mentioned the middle rehearsal block was the one getting messy,” he said. “Was that because of the choreography or because production keeps stacking interviews before it?”
The question was close enough to work to give her footing, but his tone kept it from becoming a meeting.
Mina accepted the dish. “Both. The choreography is manageable if everyone reaches it fresh. The problem is that no one does.”
Namjoon nodded, listening properly. “So it’s an order issue.”
“Mostly. Also recovery time between takes. Everyone says five minutes is enough until they have to actually use the five minutes.”
Hoseok leaned forward. “I feel accused.”
“You should.”
Jin pointed at Hoseok with his chopsticks. “She’s right.”
“She usually is,” Yoongi said.
Mina looked down at her plate before anyone could see how much that simple agreement unsettled her.
Jimin sat beside her, close enough that their knees brushed beneath the table now and then. The first time it happened, Mina felt the familiar impulse to move away.Then she remembered where she was—Jin’s apartment.
No staff passing the door. No managers. No cameras. No one here who had not already seen enough to know that something had shifted between her and Jimin and chosen not to make her feel exposed for it.
So she stayed. For a while, that was enough. She ate, listened, lost pieces of the conversation when the Korean moved too quickly, found them again when Namjoon slowed naturally or Hoseok circled a story back without making it obvious. Jimin did not translate for her every time. He did not lean in and make himself responsible for keeping her included. He let the room hold her too.
Maybe that was why she reached for him. It was not dramatic. It was not hidden in panic or excused by pain. During a lull in the conversation, while Jin was scolding Jungkook for taking the last piece of something he had absolutely intended Jungkook to take, Mina lowered her hand beneath the edge of the table and found Jimin’s.
His fingers went still. Only for a second. Then his palm opened for her.
Mina slid her hand into his and kept it there. The relief came softly, familiar enough now that she almost missed the more frightening part: she had not reached for him because she needed the pact. Not only. She had reached because he was beside her, because the room was warm, because she wanted the quiet certainty of his hand around hers while everyone talked around them.
Jimin did not look at her immediately. That helped. He continued listening while Namjoon and Yoongi debated whether the live show’s pacing would feel too heavy if one of the slower songs landed before the final stage, but his fingers closed around hers beneath the table, careful and steady.
Across from them, Jungkook dropped his fork. It clattered softly against the floor, and when he bent to pick it up, his gaze caught on their joined hands. Mina felt the moment happen. Her whole body prepared to pull away.
Jungkook straightened with the fork in his hand. For half a breath, his eyes met hers. Then he looked away first. No smile big enough to embarrass her. No teasing. No announcement to the table. He only reached for a napkin, wiped the fork, and returned to the conversation as if he had seen nothing more fragile than two people trying to be careful with something new.
Mina’s fingers tightened around Jimin’s. This time, she did not let go.
Jimin’s thumb moved once against the side of her hand, small enough that only she could feel it.
At the other end of the table, Namjoon said something that made Yoongi huff under his breath and Jin argue on principle. The room carried on, ordinary and warm, and Mina sat in the middle of it with Jimin’s hand in hers, slowly understanding that being seen by these people did not feel like being exposed. Not here. Not tonight.
—————————————-
After dinner, Jin announced games with the grim formality of a man trying to pretend this had not been his plan from the beginning. Mina attempted to help clear the table and made it as far as picking up two plates before Jin removed them from her hands.
“You are very committed to misunderstanding the word guest.”
“I am helping.”
“You are avoiding sitting down.”
“That is a bold accusation.”
“It is an accurate one.”
Before she could answer, Jungkook appeared at her side and took the plates from Jin.
“I’ll do it.”
Mina looked at him. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.” That stopped her more effectively than if he had argued.
He carried the plates away without making a thing of it. When she looked back at Jin, he only nodded toward the living room—She went.
The first game involved cards, which Mina understood in principle and lost in practice because the rules seemed to change depending on which member was losing. Namjoon tried to keep order, failed within five minutes, and eventually became the person everyone appealed to after ignoring the rules he had just explained. Jin accused Jungkook of cheating with such conviction that Jungkook looked genuinely offended, while Yoongi asked whether misunderstanding the rules counted as strategy if it worked.
Mina caught about two-thirds of the argument before the Korean became too fast and too layered to untangle. Namjoon noticed, but he did not translate the whole thing. He only leaned slightly closer and murmured, “Jungkook is claiming innocence. He is not innocent.”
Mina glanced across the table, where Jungkook was defending himself with far too much confidence, “That much I understood.”
Namjoon’s smile appeared slowly. “Then you understood the important part.” It was small. Almost nothing. But it let her stay inside the room without making her feel as though someone had stopped the room for her.
The next game moved them to the floor and involved enough accusation that Mina suspected the game itself mattered less than the opportunity to betray one another with structure. She ended up on the sofa beside Jimin sometime during the third round. She could not have said exactly how.
At first, she sat with a safe amount of space between them, one leg folded beneath her, blanket tucked around her shoulders because Jin’s apartment was warm but the week had left her cold from the inside out. Then Jungkook leaned across the coffee table to move a piece he insisted was legal, Namjoon objected with the weary patience of someone who had already explained this twice, Hoseok laughed hard enough to lose track of his own turn, and Mina shifted closer to see what everyone was arguing about.
Her hand landed on Jimin’s thigh. She did not notice immediately. That was the thing that would undo her later, when she thought back on it and realised there had been no calculation. No careful weighing of who might see. No inward negotiation about whether touch was permitted in this particular room. No attempt to make it clinical, practical, or necessary.
She simply reached. Jimin went still for half a second. Then his hand came down over hers, gentle and warm, not covering it completely at first. Waiting.
Mina should have moved. She did not. His fingers settled more securely around hers. The conversation continued around them.
Jungkook noticed first, because Jungkook noticed everything he had decided mattered. His eyes flicked to their hands, then away again, something pleased and private softening his expression before he turned back to the game. Hoseok saw a moment later and kept speaking, easy and bright, holding the room’s attention elsewhere without making his protection obvious. Taehyung glanced over from the floor, then shifted slightly so the blanket did not pull tight around Mina’s shoulder. Yoongi saw, said nothing, and played the wrong card with such calm confidence that it restarted the entire argument.
Namjoon noticed too. Mina only realised because when the conversation began to tilt toward them, when Jin’s eyes moved briefly from their joined hands to her face, Namjoon asked Yoongi a question about the live show arrangement that drew everyone back into familiar debate before the moment could become too visible.
No one laughed. No one teased. No one asked what they were. The room saw them and chose kindness by continuing to be ordinary That made it possible to stay.
———————
By the time the games dissolved into loose conversation, Mina had stopped pretending she was fully following every thread. Her Korean was good, but tiredness softened the edges of comprehension. When the members spoke over one another, voices quick and familiar, words slipping into slang and inside references she had no hope of catching, she let some of it pass over her instead of fighting to hold every piece.
Jimin sat on her right, close enough that their knees rested together. Mina’s right hand was still linked with his left near his thigh, her fingers held loosely between his. It had started as a small choice beneath the table at dinner, then somehow followed them to the sofa without either of them naming it.
Jimin’s thumb moved once against the side of her hand. Not a question exactly. A check.
Mina looked down at their joined hands. She could have pulled away. She did not. Instead, she leaned a little more into his side, slowly enough that he would have time to shift if he wanted to.
His breath changed beneath the movement, but he stayed still, letting her decide how much closeness she meant. The room continued around them: Jungkook arguing softly with Jin, Hoseok laughing under his breath, Namjoon trying to make sense of the game pieces someone had abandoned, Taehyung listening with that quiet half-smile, Yoongi watching the chaos like he had given up on all of them.
Mina let her head rest against Jimin’s shoulder. The room did not stop. That was the part she would remember.
No sudden silence. No teasing. No meaningful looks made obvious enough to embarrass her. No one asked what they were. The members kept talking around them, voices warm and familiar, and Jimin remained still until her weight settled fully against him.
Only then did his hand loosen from hers. Not pulling away. Making room.
His left arm moved carefully from beside his thigh to around her shoulders, settling over the blanket rather than beneath it, light enough that she could have sat up if she wanted to. She did not.
Her right hand stayed where it had fallen, resting against his thigh beneath the edge of the blanket. After a moment, his fingers brushed lightly over her shoulder, then went still. It was not the pact.
There was no sharp pain to bargain with in that moment, no icy fingers needing warmth, no practical reason she could have offered if anyone asked why being close to him made breathing easier.
No one asked. So Mina stayed there with her head on his shoulder, his arm around her, and her hand resting quietly against him while the members talked until their voices became something softer than language.
—————————
Eventually, the apartment shifted toward the balcony. It happened gradually. Jin opened the doors to let in air. Hoseok carried out glasses. Namjoon and Yoongi continued a conversation that had started at the table and somehow become about the setlist order for the live show. Taehyung took one end of the outdoor couch, long legs stretched out in front of him, while Jungkook settled on the floor with his back against it because he said the view was better from there.
Mina stepped out last, blanket still around her shoulders. The air was cool enough to wake the skin but not cold enough to hurt. The city spread below in layers of light, cars moving like slow sparks between buildings, Seoul carrying on beneath them as if nothing important were happening on one quiet balcony. Someone had placed a glass of water near the couch for her. The wine she had brought was open on the table, half-poured between the members who wanted it, but no one asked why she did not take any. She was grateful for that.
Jimin sat near the middle of the couch, one arm resting along the back cushion. Not around her. Not yet.
Mina looked at the open space beside him. Then she sat there. Close. Closer than she meant to, perhaps, but not closer than she wanted.
The blanket brushed his side. Her knee settled against his. After a moment, her hand found his thigh beneath the edge of the blanket, resting there with a familiarity that should have startled her more than it did. Jimin’s arm remained along the back of the couch, loose and careful, but his fingers shifted slightly against the fabric near her shoulder. An offer without pressure. Mina leaned back. His arm came around her slowly, settling over the blanket rather than beneath it, light enough that she could have moved away without needing to explain. She did not. Instead, she tucked herself a little more securely into his side and let the warmth of him meet the tiredness she had been carrying all day.
Across the balcony, Jungkook glanced over. This time, he did not smile in a way that asked to be noticed. He only looked content.
Hoseok saw too and continued speaking, his voice easy as he responded to something Namjoon had said. Taehyung’s gaze moved briefly to Mina’s face, then away again, giving her the same quiet privacy he had given her in the practice room. Yoongi lifted his glass, eyes on the skyline, and did not react at all.
Jin came out last with another blanket folded over one arm. He looked at Mina tucked into Jimin’s side. Then he placed the spare blanket over Jungkook’s shoulders instead. No one said anything about that either.
The conversation settled into the softer part of night. They talked about the live show in pieces, circling it the way people did when the work was too large to hold directly for too long. Namjoon sat forward with his glass between both hands, looking out over the balcony instead of at any of them when he said the first camera run-through would probably make it feel real.
“It already feels real,” Hoseok said.
“Different real,” Namjoon answered.
Jin said this was exactly why no one should think too deeply after dinner, then immediately ruined his own argument by admitting he had been thinking about it all week. Yoongi said very little, but when he did, the others quieted just enough to listen. Jungkook talked about the first rehearsal where the harmonies had settled properly, how there had been a moment when he stopped counting and simply heard them as seven again. Taehyung answered softly, his words low enough that Mina only caught part of them, but she understood the feeling anyway.
She did not need every word. That was new too.
Usually, missing parts of a conversation made her work harder. She would listen more sharply, translate context in her head, search faces for meaning, prepare an answer before anyone realised she had fallen behind. Tonight, she let some of it pass over her. The members’ voices moved around the balcony in familiar rises and falls, quick Korean and overlapping laughter and old references she did not always have, and for once she did not feel as though understanding everything was the price of staying.
Jimin’s arm rested around her shoulders, warm over the blanket. Mina’s hand had found his thigh again beneath the edge of it. Not hidden exactly, but not displayed either. Her fingers rested there with a familiarity that should have startled her more than it did, and when Jimin’s hand brushed lightly over her shoulder, she leaned further into his side instead of straightening.
Across from them, Jungkook saw. He looked away almost immediately, not embarrassed, not teasing, only quietly pleased in a way that made Mina’s chest tighten. Hoseok continued talking as if nothing about the room had changed. Taehyung’s gaze passed over her once, soft and calm, then returned to the skyline. Namjoon lowered his voice when the conversation drifted near her, not because she was asleep yet, but because the whole balcony had begun to soften. Yoongi noticed everything and said nothing. Jin leaned back with his glass in hand and let his apartment hold them all without needing to name what it was doing.
No one made her feel caught. That was what undid her. Mina had spent so long believing that being seen would mean being questioned. Corrected. Warned back into her proper place. Staff did not curl into idols on balconies after dinner. Staff did not bring wine they would not drink, lose track of games, tuck themselves beneath blankets, and let someone’s arm settle around their shoulders while seven men who should have been impossible to reach simply kept talking around them like she belonged there.
But no one looked at her as if she had crossed a line. No one looked at Jimin as if he had taken something he should not have. They only let the night continue.
Mina turned her face slightly toward Jimin’s shoulder, close enough that the fabric of his shirt brushed her cheek when she breathed. His arm tightened by the smallest degree, still loose enough that she could leave, steady enough that she did not have to.
She did not want to leave. The thought arrived quietly. Not like a confession. Not like panic. Only truth, plain and inconvenient beneath the blanket—She wanted this. Not only Jimin’s hand, though she wanted that too. Not only the relief that came with touching him, though her body had begun to recognise him as safety before her mind could argue. She wanted Jungkook saving her a place without making it obvious. Wanted Taehyung’s quiet rooms. Wanted Hoseok’s warmth, Jin’s food, Yoongi’s dry little observations, Namjoon’s calm way of making space in a conversation. Wanted to be invited again. Wanted to be expected. Wanted, maybe, to be wanted.
The realisation should have frightened her…It did. But not enough to make her move.
The city spread below them in layers of light, and the future waited somewhere beyond the balcony doors with its cameras, rehearsals, rules, and all the difficult lines she still did not know how to cross safely. For now, the members were still talking, Jimin was warm beside her, and Mina let her eyes close for a moment longer than she meant to.
Only a moment, she told herself. Then Jimin’s thumb moved once against her shoulder, and the sound of their voices carried her under..
————————————
Jimin noticed when she fell asleep because of course he did. Her weight changed first, head settling more fully against him, fingers loosening where they rested near his thigh. He glanced down, then went still in that careful way the others had all begun to recognise.
Jin saw from across the balcony. So did Namjoon. Jin lifted one hand slightly, not quite a gesture, more a quiet instruction not to wake her. Namjoon lowered his voice mid-sentence without breaking the conversation, easing the whole balcony down with him until the others followed naturally.
Jimin looked from Jin to Namjoon. Both of them gave him the same answer in different ways—-Let her sleep.
The conversation lowered by degrees, not stopping, only softening around her. Jungkook shifted on the floor so his shoulder blocked more of the breeze. Taehyung reached for the edge of Mina’s blanket and drew it a little higher over her lap. Hoseok continued speaking, gentler now, giving the quiet somewhere to rest. Yoongi leaned back with his glass in one hand and looked out over the city as if this, too, was something worth protecting without naming.
No one made it a moment. That was what made it one. Mina slept tucked into Jimin’s side, surrounded by their voices, calm in a way she had not expected to feel. Safe, not because nothing could hurt her there, but because for once she did not feel like she had to keep watch for it.
————————-
Ahhhhhhhh, shes relaxing around them, she feels safe and calm :) yay
At Korea's most elite university, power is
measured in bloodlines, money, and the
donations your family pours into the campus.Students bow to status. Rumors travel like wildfire. And at the center of it all stands you, the infamous lce Queen. Untouchable. Feared.Untamed.
When Jungkook returns from abroad to enter the ruthless world of Prestige University, he's entertained by the twisted hierarchy and
glittering cruelty surrounding him. Raised with the same wealth and privilege, he refuses to be intimidated by anyone. But then he meets you.The girl with frost in her eyes and scars hidden beneath designer perfection. The girl who
makes an entire campus fall silent with a single glance.
For the first time in his life, Jungkook finds
something he can't buy, charm, or control.
A challenge.
Pairing : Chaebol! Jungkook x Chaebol! Reader
Genre: Dark romance, secrets, drama, family secrets, smut, university au, chaebol au, rich kids.
The bite of the August air was sharp, slicing through the stillness just as a fleet of combustion engines roared to a halt. One by one, the cars, each a masterpiece of engineering and excess, lined the curb of the Prestige University. The institution stood as a relic of old-world ivory and stone, a vintage monument to inherited power.
From these vehicles emerged the elite. They were draped in hand-stitched fabrics and polished leather, their wrists adorned with timepieces that carried the weight of a small nation's GDP. Their smiles were clinical, practiced in front of gilded mirrors to convey charm without warmth. Here, social circles were not merely groups of friends; they were tight, impenetrable knots of influence.
In the shadow of this opulence, the scholarship students arrived. They moved with a different gait, their eyes heavy with the burden of dreams and the desperate hope of upward mobility. They were the lucky ones, invited into the lion's den to prove that merit still held a seat at the table.
Within the iron gates of Prestige University, two disparate worlds shared a single coordinate.
The university was a fortress of silken secrets, a place where the air felt thick with the unspoken. While the formal statutes forbade harassment based on status, the reality was etched into the very masonry: wealth was the only true law. In the quiet corridors of the elite, power didn’t just talk—it decided who was allowed to breathe.
A crimson-lacquered silhouette sliced through the university gates, the engine’s low hum sounding more like a warning than a machine. The sea of students parted instinctively, a choreographed retreat born of both reverence and fear. Some whispered behind trembling hands; others simply looked at the pavement, governed by the unspoken rule that to meet the owner’s gaze was to invite a scrutiny few could survive.
Inside the plush leather interior, you remained unmoved. Your posture was a study in rigid elegance, spine perfectly aligned as your eyes—sharp and calculating as a predator’s—remained fixed on the text of your book. Your lips were painted in a deep, expensive maroon, a color that looked like dried blood against your porcelain skin. Every thread of your outfit was a testament to liquid assets; you weren't just wearing a dress, you were wearing a fortune.
The door opened, and you stepped out. The rhythmic clink of your stilettos against the stone was the only sound that mattered—a steady, metronomic count of your arrival.
As the wind caught the stray strands of your hair, you slung your bag over your shoulder and began your ascent toward the main hall. To you, the crowd was merely white noise. You didn't see people; you saw assets, liabilities, and collateral. Anyone who couldn't offer a strategic advantage in the decades to come was invisible. Life was an elaborate ledger, and you were the only one who knew how to balance the books.
"Y/n!"
The voice was high-pitched, laced with a sweetness that didn't quite reach the eyes. You came to a controlled halt, waiting with the patient stillness of a snake.
Hari approached, her designer heels clicking a frantic counter-tempo to your own. She was a fixture of your past—a girl who had occupied the same elite classrooms and ballrooms as you since childhood. To the world, you were peers. To you, she was a calculated entry in your portfolio. Her family’s empire of luxury hotels in Seoul was a bridge you intended to keep intact, should you ever need to cross it.
With a boldness that bordered on audacity, Hari looped her arm through yours. She was the only one who dared to touch you, a privilege bought through years of proximity.
"Hello, my dear Y/n!" she exclaimed, her smile wide and artificial.
You saw right through the soft persona. You knew her kindness was a performance, a shield used to stay within your orbit. She played the role of the loyal companion because she understood the fundamental truth of the Prestige University: being your associate was an insurance policy, but being your enemy was a death sentence.
In your world, ruin didn't always come with a bang. Sometimes, it was just a name crossed off a list by a hand wearing maroon lipstick.
You resumed your stride, the rhythmic strike of your heels signaling that the conversation was effectively over, even as Hari scrambled to keep pace.
"Jake and I are planning a party tonight," she chirped, her voice fluttering around you like an annoying insect. "You have to come. It won't be the same without you."
Jake. The name alone tasted like cheap copper. He was the byproduct of a scandal, an illegitimate son who overcompensated for his lack of a true pedigree with a suffocating, unearned arrogance. He was a loud, hollow vessel—the kind of variable you had no interest in adding to your evening.
"No. I’m busy," you replied. Your voice was flat, a guillotine blade dropping on the suggestion.
Hari’s lip curled into a practiced pout. "But come on, Y/n. We only finished exams last month. The tension is finally gone. What could possibly be more important than a drink and a little fun?"
"I’m busy, Hari," you repeated, your tone sharpening. "I don’t have the luxury of wasting time on trivialities."
The finality in your voice acted as a physical barrier. Hari offered a quick, submissive nod; she knew better than to push against the wall you had built. To argue with you was to risk a social displacement she couldn't afford.
When you entered the lecture hall, the atmosphere shifted. You moved to your usual spot, an island of cold precision in a sea of chaos. No one dared to occupy the seat next to you—the space around you was a dead zone, preserved by a mixture of respect and genuine nerves.
Hari drifted toward the back, settling into the row where Jake and his loud, entitled inner circle sat. You didn't spare them a glance. You preferred the isolation; it allowed for better observation.
As the professor began the lecture, you opened your notebook. Your pen moved with fluid, predatory grace, capturing every nuance of the discussion. While the others in the room were looking for a party, you were looking for an edge. Information was the only currency that never devalued, and you intended to collect every cent.
After the final lecture, you moved through the vaulted corridors, your attention focused on the glowing screen of your phone. You were scrolling through the group texts of the Elite Club—the university’s true shadow government.
It was an assembly of the untouchables, a circle so small it could fit in a single boardroom, yet so powerful its collective net worth could stabilize a crashing market. These were the architects of the university’s future, the silent financiers of every gala and high-stakes event.
A notification from the Principal—who functioned more as the club's secretary than its superior—caught your eye:
'Two new members have been inducted into the Elite tier. One junior, one sophomore. Transfer students. Full dossiers will be presented at the Saturday summit.'
Your mind began to categorize the potential threats and allies of these newcomers when the physical world intruded. A sudden, clumsy impact jarred your shoulder, sending your phone clattering to the marble floor.
You looked up, your glare sharp enough to draw blood. Standing before you was a girl with wide, pathetic eyes, her posture radiating the unmistakable stench of desperation.
"I am so sorry!" she stammered, reaching down toward your device.
"Stop," you hissed, the word cutting through the air like a whip. "Don't you dare lay your filthy hands on it."
The girl froze, a frown of confusion blooming on her face. "I said I’m sorry. I didn’t see you—"
"Quiet. Are you new here?"
"Yes. I joined yesterday."
A cold, mocking scoff escaped your lips. "Of course. A scholarship parasite. It’s a disgrace that the administration allows such filth to clutter the hallways."
The girl’s eyes welled with tears, her lip trembling, but before she could retreat, a second voice pierced the tension.
"Mind your manners."
You shifted your gaze to the newcomer. She was clearly a junior, draped in labels that matched your own—her heels were immaculate, her jewelry genuine—but her eyes were filled with a misplaced, sickening warmth.
"Excuse me?" you sneered, your voice dropping to a dangerous octave.
"She made a mistake," the junior said, standing her ground with an annoying spark of defiance. "There's no need to be cruel."
A slow, predatory smile touched your lips. "I think you two have failed to realize exactly who I am," you whispered, the statement carrying the weight of a formal threat.
Before the confrontation could escalate, a boy rushed over, his face pale with recognition. He grabbed both girls by the arms, murmuring frantic warnings as he dragged them into the safety of the crowd.
"What happened?" Hari’s voice appeared at your shoulder, her timing impeccable as always.
"A nuisance," you muttered, pulling a silk handkerchief from your bag to wipe the screen of your phone before tucking it away. "These charity cases are ruining the atmosphere. They should be seen and not heard."
You turned on your heel and continued toward the exit. Behind you, Hari followed in silent, obedient lockstep—a loyal shadow trailing behind a queen who had just been insulted.
°
The matte-black Lamborghini sat idling outside the university gates like a crouched predator, its engine a low, rhythmic thrum that commanded a wide berth from the passing students. Jungkook stepped out, his movements fluid and precise, as he opened the passenger door. His sister, Jeny, offered him a tired but genuine smile as she slipped into the carbon-fiber interior.
He rounded the hood and slid into the driver’s seat, the scent of expensive leather and designer cologne filling the cabin.
"How was the first day?" Jungkook asked, his voice deep and effortless as he pulled the car into the flow of traffic.
"It was amazing," Jeny replied, though her excitement was tempered with curiosity. "But why weren't you there? Today was supposed to be your first day, too."
"I only had one seminar on the schedule," Jungkook said, his grip tightening slightly on the steering wheel. "Besides, Dad insisted I meet with the new partners. Expansion doesn’t wait for orientation."
Jeon Jungkook. The name carried a weight that preceded him across continents. As the sole heir to the Jeon conglomerate, his family’s move from the States to Korea wasn't just a change of scenery—it was a strategic takeover. Now a sophomore at Prestige University, he was the newest piece on the board, and likely the most dangerous.
"You know, I met someone today..." Jeny started, looking out the tinted window.
Jungkook tilted his head slightly, signaling her to continue.
"I made a friend—Ava. She’s a transfer student, too. But she had a run-in with someone today... a girl who was incredibly cruel to her. The students call her the 'Ice Queen.' Apparently, she’s untouchable because her father is the university’s primary benefactor. She was... cold, Oppa. Genuinely mean."
Jungkook let out a dark, cynical scoff. "I’d heard the culture here was obsessed with the hierarchy of the wallet. I’ll be on campus tomorrow to see it for myself. Did this girl say anything to you? Did she touch you?"
Jeny shook her head quickly. "No, nothing like that. But just being near her gave me chills. Her name is Y/n."
"Y/n?" Jungkook repeated the name, tasting the syllables as if testing the strength of a potential opponent. A slow, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he accelerated down the highway. "Interesting. Let’s see how long that ice lasts.”
°
The formal dining room, usually a cavern of echoing silence and high-stakes negotiation, felt remarkably small and warm as the family settled into their routine.
Mr. Jeon reached across the table, not to check a notification or sign a document, but to playfully steal a sprig of garnish from Jeny’s plate. "I noticed your favorite dessert is being prepared in the kitchen," he whispered loudly, earning a mock-scandalized look from his wife. "Don't tell your mother I told you. I’m trying to maintain my image as the disciplinarian."
"Too late for that, dear," Mrs. Jeon laughed, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She reached out and adjusted the collar of Jungkook’s shirt, her touch lingering with maternal pride. "You both grew up so fast in the States. I was worried this move to korea would be too much of a whirlwind, but seeing you two sitting here... it feels like we never left home."
Jungkook leaned back, his usual guarded posture melting into something relaxed and boyish. He watched his father recount a story of a particularly stubborn investor who had been won over by a shared love of vintage watches, and he felt the familiar tether of belonging.
"You're doing that thing again, Kook," Jeny teased, nudging his foot under the table. "The 'big brother' look. You look like you're calculating the trajectory of my entire semester."
"Maybe I am," Jungkook retorted, a genuine, dimpled grin breaking across his face. He reached out and ruffled her hair, ignoring her indignant protests. "Someone has to make sure you don't spend your entire tuition on those overpriced lattes you like."
"Hey! That's an investment in my happiness," she joked, leaning her head on his shoulder for a brief moment.
The dinner continued not with the stiff formality of the elite, but with the clinking of silverware against porcelain and the steady hum of shared laughter.
°
The silence of your bedroom was heavy, a suffocating contrast to the sprawling emptiness of the mansion. To the world, this was a palace; to you, it was a mausoleum. You moved to your vanity, the sharp clack of your heavy rings hitting the glass surface echoing like a countdown. You were tired of being glass—easily shattered. You had rebuilt yourself in iron.
The vibration of your phone broke the stillness. You answered, your voice a low, dangerous silk. "Hello?"
"Miss Kim. We have information. A lead on the facility."
A cold, victorious smile ghosted across your maroon lips. The puzzle was finally bleeding into place. You ended the call without a word.
The click of the door handle made your expression harden instantly. Your stepmother leaned against the frame, her presence an invasive species in your sanctuary. You didn't even turn around, watching her through the reflection of the mirror with a look of pure disdain.
"You’ll be joining dinner tonight, won’t you?" she asked, her voice hovering in that practiced, calm register that always grated on your nerves.
"With you?" The question was a sneer.
"Of course. Your father is tied up with the merger; he won't be back until tomorrow. It’s just the two of us, Y/n."
"As if I’d spend a single second performing the 'happy family' act for your benefit," you snapped.
She sighed, stepping closer, her hand reaching out in a gesture of hollow comfort. "Y/n, we cannot live like this forever. I am your mother now, whether you accept it or not. It’s been eight years. Your mother is gone. She’s dead."
The moment her fingers brushed your skin, you recoiled as if burned. You whipped your hand away, your eyes flashing with a predatory fire.
"Don't you dare lay your filthy hands on me." Your voice was a lethal whisper. "You are nothing but a mistress who managed to seduce my father. You aren't my mother. You aren't even a memory. My mother is the only one who holds that title. Now, get out. Don't disturb me again."
You didn't wait for her response. You shoved her out and slammed the door, the heavy wood clicking shut with finality. Leaning your back against it, you let out a shaky breath, the Ice Queen mask slipping for a fraction of a second.
Crossing the room, you opened the hidden compartment in your cupboard. You pulled out a weathered photograph—the only thing in this house that felt real. In it, a younger, softer version of you was wrapped in the warm embrace of a woman with eyes exactly like yours.
Twelve years old. That was when the world told you she died. An accident, a closed casket, a father who looked you in the eye and spoke of autopsies and ashes you were never allowed to see. But you knew better. There were no records, no hospital footprints, only a sudden, convenient void where her life used to be.
You clutched the photo to your chest. They thought they had buried the truth along with her memory, but they forgot one thing: you were her daughter. And you wouldn't stop until you tore down every silk-lined secret this world was hiding.
°
The sky hung low and heavy, a bruised charcoal expanse that threatened to break into a downpour at any moment. On the university courts, the atmosphere was electric, punctuated by the rhythmic thud-thud-thud of basketballs and the screech of rubber against asphalt.
Jungkook moved with a lethal, effortless grace. He hadn't been on campus forty-eight hours, and he was already the center of gravity. He played with a calculated intensity, his jersey clinging to his damp skin, chest heaving as he dominated the paint.
A stray pass caught the rim and sailed wide, bouncing aggressively toward the stone pavement. Jungkook panted, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand as he chased it. That’s when he saw you.
You were walking with a chilling, singular focus. Your arms were crossed, your chin held high, moving as if the world around you were nothing more than a poorly rendered backdrop.
"Hey! Pass the ball!" Jungkook called out, his voice projecting easily across the distance.
He paused, his dark eyes narrowing as he took you in. He grew up in the same circles; he knew the cost of that tailored silhouette and the unmistakable shimmer of those designer shoes. You weren't just rich; you were legacy.
You didn't even break your stride.
"Hey! I'm talking to you," he called again, a note of amusement dancing behind his irritation.
The court went deathly silent. The other players froze, their eyes darting between the newcomer and the university’s sovereign. They were all waiting to see if the equalizer—the boy who treated everyone from the dean to the janitor with the same easy charm—could finally crack the Ice Queen.
You stopped. You didn't turn around fully; you simply tilted your head, your sharp gaze cutting over your shoulder. Jungkook stood there, hair pushed back, muscles tense from the game, looking every bit the defiant challenger.
You looked at him for a beat, not with interest, but with the clinical detachment one might give a malfunctioning machine and then you simply kept walking.
"What—" Jungkook started, a bewildered laugh escaping his lips.
"Jungkook! Drop it," Jimin whispered, jogging over and catching him by the arm. Jimin, himself a scion of a massive tech fortune, looked genuinely nervous. "Don't bother. She doesn't speak to anyone unless she has a reason to, and she definitely doesn't fetch balls."
"What is she, a ghost?" Jungkook asked, his brow arched.
"She’s the Ice Queen," Jimin said, his voice dropping. "Cross her, and your life here is over before it starts."
Recognition flared in Jungkook’s eyes. Y/n. The name his sister had mentioned with such dread. He watched your retreating figure, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face. He had spent his life in the States being told that everyone was equal, but he also knew that some people just needed a reminder that they weren't the only ones who owned the room.
"Oh," Jungkook hummed, his gaze lingering on the corner you had just turned. "It’s her."
"She’s in our next lecture," Jimin added, checking his watch.
Jungkook picked up the basketball, spinning it on his finger as the first drop of rain hit the court. "Good," he said, his voice dropping to a low, competitive rumble. "I was worried this place was going to be boring.”
The atmosphere in the lecture hall was a chaotic symphony of privilege—the rustle of silk, the snapping of high-end tablets, and the hushed gossip of the elite. You remained the eye of the storm, your attention seemingly lost in your phone, though your senses were hyper-aware of the shifting social tides around you.
The heavy oak doors swung open, and Jungkook stepped in. Beside him, Jimin gestured toward a cluster of seats occupied by their usual circle, a space safe and predictable.
"No," Jungkook said, his voice carrying a quiet authority that cut through Jimin's suggestion. "I’m sitting with Y/n."
Jimin’s jaw nearly hit the floor. "With who? Jungkook, no one sits in her orbit. That’s a social dead zone."
"Why not?" Jungkook’s smirk was sharp, a glint of genuine mischief in his dark eyes. "I’ve always had a taste for a challenge, Jimin."
With the fluid confidence of someone who had never been told 'no,' Jungkook moved toward your row. He slid into the seat beside you with a practiced smoothness, his presence instantly radiating a warmth that felt like a direct assault on your carefully maintained cold front.
He had traded his sweat-soaked jersey for a crisp white tee and a heavy leather jacket that smelled of expensive hide and cool rain. He didn't look like a student; he looked like a disruptor.
You froze for a fraction of a second, the glowing screen of your phone momentarily forgotten. You tilted your head slowly, your sharp gaze meeting the same face from the basketball court. He didn't look away. Instead, he began unpacking his materials as if sitting next to the university’s most feared heiress was the most natural thing in the world.
"Why are you staring?" he asked, his voice calm and melodic as he flipped open a notebook. He didn't look up yet, but the corner of his mouth quirked upward. "It’s rude to stare, isn't it? Or does the Ice Queen not follow the same rules as the rest of us?"
A ripple of stunned silence washed over the room, followed by a frantic surge of whispers. The visual was jarring: you, the embodiment of sharp, maroon-lipped hostility, and him, the calm, composed heir who seemed entirely unimpressed by your reputation.
"Did he just...?" Hari whispered from three rows back, her eyes wide.
The contrast was undeniable. You were a fortress of secrets and sharp edges; he was an open book written in a language you didn't yet understand. You raised a single, arched brow, your silken voice finally returning.
"You're bold," you whispered, the words a low warning. "Most people have the instinct to avoid things that can ruin them."
Jungkook finally turned his head, locking eyes with you. "I've never been much for instincts," he replied softly. "I prefer experience.”
The professor, a man who had spent decades consulting for the very conglomerates these students would one day inherit, cleared his throat. He tapped a marker against the whiteboard, his eyes scanning the room before landing on the most formidable presence in the hall.
"Miss Kim," he started, his voice echoing. "In the context of a hostile takeover, if the target firm employs a 'Poison Pill' strategy by issuing preferred stock to existing shareholders, how would you navigate the resulting dilution to maintain the acquisition's viability?"
The room went silent. It was a complex scenario, one that required more than just textbook knowledge—it required a predator’s instinct.
You didn't hesitate. You leaned back, your voice cutting through the air like a diamond-tipped blade. "You don't fight the dilution; you weaponize it. I would initiate a 'Flip-over' provision maneuver, pressuring the board through a proxy fight to rescind the rights before the trigger point. If they refuse, you bypass the board entirely and offer a direct premium to the institutional investors who care more about immediate liquidity than long-term loyalty. Greed is more reliable than a defense strategy."
It was a cold, efficient, and technically perfect answer. A few students actually nodded in intimidation.
"Efficient," a deep voice rumbled from your right. Jungkook hadn't even looked up from his notebook, his pen still dancing across the page. "But remarkably shortsighted."
Your jaw tightened. You turned your head slowly, your eyes narrowing into slits. "Excuse me?"
Jungkook finally set his pen down and turned in his seat to face you, his expression one of calm, intellectual defiance. "Your approach assumes the institutional investors aren't already tied to the board through interlocking directorates. If you go for the 'Flip-over' without accounting for the reputational fallout in the domestic market, you’ll win the company but lose the infrastructure. You’re burning the house down just to say you own the land."
"It's called a takeover for a reason, not a merger," you snapped, your voice dropping into a dangerous register. "In business, the one who hesitates to 'burn the house' is the one who ends up locked inside it."
"And the one who burns it ends up standing in the rain with nothing but ashes," Jungkook countered, his eyes flashing with a sudden, competitive heat. "A strategic acquisition should focus on synergy, not just ego. If you gut the target’s morale by bribing their investors, you destroy the very value you're trying to buy. It’s a basic principle of sustainable growth—something you’d know if you looked past the bottom line."
"Sustainability is a fairy tale told by people who aren't strong enough to hold a monopoly," you hissed, leaning closer into his space. The scent of his leather jacket and a hint of rain clouded your senses, but you didn't flinch. "I'd rather have the ashes than let a competitor have the wood."
"Then you’re a pyromaniac, not a CEO," he shot back, a smirk playing on his lips despite the tension.
The professor watched them, mesmerized, while the rest of the class sat in petrified silence. It wasn't just a debate; it was a collision of two completely different worlds of power.
"Well," the professor finally managed to interject, looking between the Ice Queen and the new student. "It seems we have a fundamental disagreement on the philosophy of power. Shall we move to the next slide, or do you two need a boardroom?”
The lecture hall had remained thick with a suffocating tension long after the professor resumed his slides. You threw a final, venomous glare at Jungkook—a silent promise of retribution—before snapping your attention back to the front.
Beside you, Jungkook felt the heat radiating off your skin. He clicked his pen, the rhythmic snap-snap sounding like the ticking of a countdown. He had seen the way your mask slipped for a fraction of a second when he pushed back.
Most people in this university were terrified of the frost; Jungkook was the only one who realized that fire was the only way to see what was hidden beneath the surface. He was going to enjoy every second of deconstructing the Ice Queen.
°
Later that evening, the air in Jimin’s sprawling penthouse was heavy with the scent of expensive cologne and imported spirits. The Welcome Home party for the Jeon heir was in full swing, but the conversation was anchored to a single topic.
"I’m still in shock," Jimin breathed, his eyes wide as he paced the length of the velvet sofa. "Did you see her face? You actually made Kim Y/n hesitate. No one has ever made her shut her mouth like that."
Jungkook leaned back into the plush cushions, his legs spread in a posture of effortless dominance. He looked like a king bored with his own coronation. "She’s not a mystery, Jimin. She’s just a girl who’s been told 'yes' too many times. She's entirely full of herself."
Hoseok leaned in, his expression uncharacteristically grave. "Don’t underestimate her, Jungkook. She is still Y/n. She won’t tolerate a shadow on her reputation for long. She’ll strike back, and when she does, it won’t be a debate. It’ll be a massacre. Just be careful."
Jungkook took a slow, languid sip of his beer, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Strike me? How? With a daddy-funded lawsuit? A sharp-tongued remark?" He laughed, a low, melodic sound that didn't reach his eyes.
"Imagine if the two of you actually dated," one of the guys mused, leaning against the marble kitchen island. "The power dynamic would level the city."
"I don't date," Jungkook replied flatly, his voice cutting through the speculation. "Romance is a poor investment. A waste of time."
Hoseok’s eyes sparked with mischief as he pulled a thick roll of cash from his pocket and slammed it onto the glass coffee table. "Alright, let's settle this. Who wants to bet that Jungkook won't even be able to get a word out of her next time? She’s going to ghost him so hard he’ll feel like a scholarship kid."
"I’m in!" someone shouted.
"Count me in too! That’s Y/n we’re talking about. She’s permafrost. No one breaks her."
Jungkook scoffed, the corner of his lip curling into a smirk that was as beautiful as it was dangerous. "You all talk about her like she's a god. Ice is just frozen water, and it’s the same water that eventually melts it from the inside out."
"Bro... just give up while you're ahead," Jimin laughed, throwing a coaster at him.
Jungkook stood up abruptly, his presence suddenly filling the room with an undeniable intensity. He adjusted his jacket, looking down at the pile of money with total indifference.
"Is that a challenge?" he asked, his voice dropping to a gravelly, determined silk. "What if I do more than talk to her? What if I tame the brat right out of her? What if I show this entire university exactly who she is beneath all that silk and maroon lipstick? Because I guarantee you... she’s nothing but weak inside. And I’m going to be the one to prove it.”
SUMMARY: After the world learns BTS can actually have soulmates, shy interpreter Ellie Parker joins the U.S. leg of BTS’s Arirang tour unaware that Min Yoongi recognizes her instantly as his soulmate. As growing public attention and a dangerous fan obsession threaten Ellie’s fragile sense of safety, Yoongi becomes the quiet place she keeps finding herself drawn back to. This is a slow-burn story about learning that love can be gentle, protective, and safe enough to finally stop surviving.
WARNINGS: past emotional abuse, anxiety, panic responses, stalking, invasion of privacy, obsessive fan behavior, toxic family dynamics, emotional manipulation, Contains heavy angst, hurt/comfort, and discussions of trauma and healing throughout.
Masterlist
————————————-
The atmosphere changed instantly. One sentence, and the entire backstage hallway shifted into controlled panic.
“It’s all over Twitter right now.”
Ellie stared at the staffer’s phone while her pulse dropped hard into her stomach. The screen showed the hotel name, blurry photos of the entrance, guesses about floors, screenshots spreading faster than anyone could stop them.
Cold moved through her limbs—No…No, no, no.
The soulmate bond snapped sharp enough that Yoongi reached her before Ellie fully processed him moving. His presence pushed warmth into the panic, but this time it did not erase the fear completely.
Yoongi looked at the phone once. His expression changed.
Namjoon arrived seconds later with two security staff close behind him. “What happened?”
The young staffer answered quickly. “The hotel leaked online after the ment.”
Namjoon went very still. That was bad. Especially after the way fan attention around Yoongi and Ellie had escalated so visibly during the show.
He took the phone carefully and scanned the posts. His jaw tightened. “How widespread?”
The staffer swallowed. “Trending.”
Ellie wrapped both arms around herself without realizing it. The bond tightened protectively around her panic, and Yoongi stepped closer on instinct, close enough that her breathing steadied slightly despite everything.
“Okay,” Namjoon said, his voice calm in the way it became only when things were serious. “Nobody goes anywhere alone tonight.”
Security nodded immediately. One manager was already speaking rapidly into comms, coordinating vehicle reroutes and hotel access changes. The hallway began moving around them with quiet urgency.
Ellie looked toward Namjoon, “I’m sorry.”
Every member reacted at once. Yoongi closed his eyes briefly as if the words had hurt him. Namjoon’s expression softened. Hoseok looked heartbroken.
The guilt came anyway…It rose fast and familiar, filling every empty space fear had not already taken. This was because of her. Because of the ment. Because fans had noticed too much. Because she had stood too close and they saw.
The bond pulsed with Yoongi’s immediate rejection of the thought, “No.”
Ellie looked at him.
“You are not responsible for people crossing boundaries.”
She wanted to believe him. Part of her did. But the fear would not leave this time. She kept imagining the hotel entrance crowded with strangers. People waiting in the lobby. Someone learning her room number. Someone appearing outside her door.
Yoongi felt every turn of the spiral. His own emotions sharpened in response, protectiveness turning almost dangerous beneath the surface.
Namjoon noticed. He stepped aside with the security staff, speaking quietly about updated room assignments. After several seconds, his gaze moved to Yoongi. A silent conversation passed between them.
Ellie caught it too late. “What?”
No one answered quickly enough.
Her stomach sank. “No.”
Yoongi turned toward her fully. “Ellie.”
“No.”
His expression stayed calm. Too calm.
“We are not arguing about security tonight.”
Ellie looked between him and Namjoon in disbelief. “You cannot seriously be about to suggest—”
“Your room location is compromised,” Namjoon said gently. “Security wants minimized exposure.”
“And?”
“And you should not stay alone.”
The hallway seemed to fall quiet around her. Because suddenly she understood exactly where this was going.
The bond moved with Yoongi’s tension. Not discomfort. Not reluctance. Concern. Restraint. The careful effort of someone trying not to overwhelm her while every instinct in him wanted to put locked doors between her and the rest of the world.
“I can stay with Avery,” Ellie said quickly.
Avery’s face softened with apology before she even spoke. Jungkook answered instead, quiet and regretful. “Our room leaked too.”
Namjoon exhaled slowly. “Yoongi’s room location has stayed offline.”
Ellie froze. Yoongi remained very still beside her. The bond hummed with patience and worry.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. The lie was obvious before it finished leaving her mouth.
Namjoon’s voice softened. “You’re shaking.
Ellie looked down. Her hands trembled faintly around the translation binder still pressed against her chest.
Before she could hide it, Yoongi stepped closer. “Hey.”
Her breathing caught. She hated how quickly he calmed her. Or maybe she hated that she wanted him to.
“We are not forcing anything,” Yoongi said carefully.
Her voice came out smaller than she wanted. “I don’t want to make things difficult.”
Yoongi’s expression broke a little. There it was again. Ellie treating her own safety like an inconvenience.
He reached gently for the binder she had clutched against her chest and lowered it from her grip. His fingers brushed hers, warm and steady.
“Baby,” he said softly, before he seemed to realize the word had left his mouth.
The hallway froze. So did Ellie.
Yoongi blinked once, as if he had heard himself a second too late. The bond flared between them with embarrassment, tenderness, and fierce protectiveness.
Ellie forgot how to breathe.
Yoongi looked at her steadily. He did not take it back.
“You are not difficult.”
For a moment, no one recovered from the pet name. Least of all Ellie. It had not sounded practiced. It had slipped out of him softly, instinctively, while he was trying to comfort her. Not teasing. Not flirting. Protecting.
Taehyung was the first to react, his eyes wide as he grabbed Jimin’s arm.
Namjoon warned, “Taehyung.”
Taehyung pressed his lips together, clearly suffering.
Hoseok looked emotionally overwhelmed.
Jin covered part of his face with one hand.
Avery whispered, “Oh my God.”
Ellie remained motionless, staring at Yoongi while her pulse raced.
Yoongi noticed everyone, but his attention stayed on her. The bond carried her reaction straight into him: shock, warmth, vulnerability.
His voice lowered. “Breathe.”
Ellie let out one weak, breathless laugh. “That is difficult after what you just said.”
Yoongi’s mouth twitched despite himself. For one fragile second, the fear loosened. Then reality returned. The hotel was still leaked.
Namjoon gently clapped his hands once, reclaiming focus. “As meaningful as that was, we need to move.”
Yoongi glanced at him. “Thank you.”
Security stepped back into motion, and Ellie tried desperately to focus on logistics instead of the fact that Yoongi had accidentally called her baby in front of BTS, their staff, and at least three security personnel. She failed completely.
—————⸻
The drive back to the hotel was tense. Security vehicles surrounded the vans, and the route changed twice before they reached the property. Outside, fans had already begun crowding parts of the perimeter despite the late hour. Phone screens flashed in the darkness beyond tinted windows. Ellie’s stomach twisted at the sight.
By the time they entered through the secured access route, her nerves were stretched painfully thin. Too much noise. Too much attention. Too much visibility.
Security moved quickly, guiding them through a private entrance while fans screamed somewhere beyond the underground garage. Ellie kept her head down automatically.
A sudden bang echoed from above, sharp and metallic, as something struck near the barricades. Ellie flinched violently.
Before she could recover, Yoongi’s hand settled gently at the back of her neck.
“Hey,” he said softly beside her. “You’re okay.”
The touch steadied something inside her immediately—Safe. Ellie leaned into it slightly before she thought better of it. Yoongi felt the trust move through the bond like lightning.
Upstairs, security swept Yoongi’s room before allowing anyone inside. Even after the door locked behind them, the tension lingered. Too much adrenaline. Too much fear still alive beneath the skin.
Ellie stood near the entryway with her overnight bag in hand, trying not to feel like an intrusion. The old guilt crept back in. Too needy. Too inconvenient.
The bond pulsed sharply with Yoongi’s disagreement before she fully finished the thought.
He crossed the suite quietly, “Stop.”
Ellie blinked.
“You’re spiraling.”
She looked away.
Yoongi stopped in front of her, close but not crowding. His voice softened. “You’re safe here.”
The words landed heavily because she believed him. Completely.
A soft knock interrupted them. Then Jin opened the door halfway without waiting. “Security update.”
Behind him, Namjoon, Hoseok, Jimin, Taehyung, Jungkook, and Avery hovered visibly in the hallway.
Ellie stared. “Why are all of you still awake?”
Jin looked offended. “Why would we sleep right now?”
Namjoon stepped inside, phone in hand. “Security doubled floor coverage. No one gets upstairs tonight without clearance.”
He looked at Ellie gently, “You are safe here.”
Ellie nodded slowly.
The fear eased a little. Not fully. But enough.
Taehyung’s gaze suddenly shifted to Yoongi. His eyes narrowed. “You are not getting away with what happened earlier.”
Ellie wanted the floor to open beneath her. Jimin started laughing under his breath. Avery hid her face against Jungkook’s shoulder.
Yoongi closed his eyes. “Leave.”
Taehyung smiled. “You sounded very in love.”
Yoongi threatened violence exactly four times before everyone finally left the suite.
“You said it so softly,” Taehyung continued while backing toward the door, delighted by his own survival. “Like she was made of glass.”
“Leave.”
“And then she looked at you—”
“Kim Taehyung.”
Hoseok clung to Jimin, laughing quietly. Avery still refused to lift her face from Jungkook’s shoulder. Ellie remained near the couch, frozen somewhere between embarrassment and emotional collapse.
The bond still pulsed warm between her and Yoongi, threaded with residual embarrassment and something far more dangerous—Affection.
Namjoon finally stepped in before Yoongi could commit a crime, “Enough.” His leader voice settled the room immediately.
Then he looked at Ellie, gentler. “Try to sleep tonight.”
The concern nearly hurt. Ellie nodded. “I will.”
Jin pointed at Yoongi before leaving. “If she spirals, make tea.”
Yoongi frowned. “Why is that your advice?”
“Because tea helps.”
“That is not medical advice.”
“It is Jin advice.”
————————-
The door finally closed behind them. Silence settled. Real silence this time. And Ellie became painfully aware that she was alone in Yoongi’s hotel suite.
The bond shifted between them now that the room had quieted, intimate in a way that made her look anywhere except directly at him.
Unfortunately, Yoongi looked directly at her.
“You okay?” he asked. The same low voice. The same voice that had called her baby earlier.
Ellie’s heartbeat stumbled again. She gave a faint, tired laugh. “I think my nervous system surrendered tonight.”
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
The silence stretched, softer this time.
Ellie shifted her overnight bag higher on her shoulder. “I can sleep on the couch.”
Yoongi’s expression changed immediately.
The bond carried his objection before he spoke.
Ellie blinked. “That was a strong reaction.”
“Yes.”
The bluntness startled a small laugh from her.
Yoongi moved farther into the suite, slowly, as if giving her time to adjust. “You are not sleeping on a couch because someone violated your privacy.”
The protectiveness in his voice wrapped warmly around her chest.
Ellie hesitated near the entryway. “Are you sure?” The question came quieter than she intended.
Yoongi looked at her steadily. “Ellie.”
Her pulse jumped.
“You do not have to ask permission to exist near me.”
The suite bedroom felt almost painfully normal. A large hotel bed. Dim bedside lamps. A hoodie draped over the chair. Yoongi’s headphones resting on the nightstand. The intimacy of the room unsettled Ellie more than the danger downstairs had.
She stood near the edge of the room while Yoongi pulled an extra blanket from the closet. She watched him quietly, and then the truth hit her all over again.—This was the man she loved…Fully.
Her mind faltered under the weight of it.
“You’re staring,” Yoongi said.
Ellie blinked, mortified. “I was thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
She huffed softly, but he stepped closer before the moment could turn into deflection.
He stopped in front of her without touching, leaving her space to move away if she wanted it, “Hey.”
Ellie looked up slowly.
Yoongi’s expression had softened completely, “You know you don’t scare me, right?”
Her throat tightened. He understood. Of course he understood. This still frightened her. Not him, exactly, but everything that came with him. Needing someone. Depending on someone. Loving someone in a way that made leaving feel unimaginable.
“I’m trying,” she admitted.
“I know, baby.”
There it was again. Softer this time. Intentional.
Ellie stopped breathing. Warmth flooded the bond so intensely it almost hurt.
Yoongi noticed immediately, and a faint smile touched his mouth. He liked what the word did to her…That was dangerous.
Her voice came out barely above a whisper. “You can’t just say things like that.”
Yoongi stepped one inch closer. “Why?”
The quiet amusement in his voice nearly undid her. He knew what he was doing now.
Ellie looked at him helplessly, and beneath the fear, beneath the embarrassment and the lingering panic, something inside her reached for happiness instead of running from it.
——————-⸻
Ellie did not sleep. To be fair, neither did Yoongi. Sharing space with someone she loved while trying not to fall apart from it turned out to be terrible for rest. The suite stayed dim and quiet long after midnight. Outside, Dallas traffic hummed faintly beyond the windows.
Ellie lay stiffly on one side of the bed, staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about Yoongi beside her. Trying not to think about the fact that this was the safest she had felt in years.
Beside her, Yoongi shifted slightly. “You’re thinking too loudly.”
Ellie closed her eyes. “You cannot prove that.”
“You sighed seven times.”
“I hate that you counted.”
A soft laugh escaped him.
Silence returned for a moment. Then, quieter, he asked, “Are you really okay?”
The question landed differently in the dark.
Ellie stared at the ceiling for another few seconds before answering honestly, “I don’t know.”
The vulnerability moved through the bond at once.
Yoongi rolled onto his side to face her more fully. The mattress shifted gently beneath him, “Do you want to talk about it?”
Ellie swallowed. “I think part of me keeps waiting to wake up and realize none of this is real.”
She laughed faintly, though there was little humor in it, “Which sounds ridiculous, considering there are people leaking our hotel online. That part feels very real.”
A pause, “I just don’t understand why this happened to me.”
The honesty struck him hard.
Yoongi moved closer before stopping himself halfway. The bond reacted immediately.—Need.
Ellie felt it too. Her pulse jumped.
“I think you spent so long surviving,” he said quietly, “that happiness feels suspicious now.”
Ellie turned her head toward him. Dim light softened the angles of his face. Her voice dropped. “What if I ruin this?”
Yoongi’s expression changed. There it was again. Ellie assuming love depended entirely on how well she performed.
He moved closer this time, slowly enough that she could pull away. She did not. The distance between them narrowed to inches.
Yoongi’s voice lowered to nearly a whisper. “You are not powerful enough to ruin being loved.”
Her eyes burned. His love was not that fragile. That was what he meant. It could withstand her fear. Her panic. Her bad days. Her doubt. It could stay.
“Hey,” he murmured. His hand lifted carefully, then brushed a strand of hair back from her face. Warm fingers touched her temple. The bond surged between them. Yoongi felt her trust immediately. Felt how still she went beneath his touch. His chest ached with how much he loved her.
Ellie blinked hard against tears. “You say comforting things like you were personally designed to destroy me.”
A startled laugh left him, soft and warm. Ellie smiled despite herself.
Then she whispered, “And the baby thing is unfair.”
Yoongi’s eyes warmed with amusement. “So we are talking about that.”
“No.”
“You brought it up.”
“You started it.”
The room softened around them afterward. No longer tense. Only intimate in the dangerous quiet way that made every breath feel too honest. Ellie became painfully aware of his hand still near her face.
Then something shifted. A pull beneath the warmth. Recognition. Need. The bond tightened, not painfully, but deeply enough that Ellie felt it in the center of her chest.
Her breath caught. “Did you feel that?”
Yoongi’s gaze stayed fixed on hers. “Yeah.”
The word settled heavily between them. They both understood. The bond was changing again. Deepening. And neither of them knew how much further it intended to go before it finally completed.
—————————————
After Dallas, the bond became impossible to ignore. Ellie discovered this the next afternoon when production schedules separated her from Yoongi for nearly four hours.
At first, it seemed manageable. Unpleasant, maybe, but manageable. BTS had interviews across town while Ellie remained at the stadium for revised production meetings with American event staff. It was normal tour logistics. Nothing dramatic. Nothing she had not handled before.
Except two hours in, Ellie realized she had reread the same scheduling email six times without understanding a single word.
The bond buzzed restlessly beneath her ribs, not painful, but constant. Static in the bloodstream. A low, insistent awareness of absence.
Ellie pressed both hands against the conference table and tried to focus while venue managers discussed lighting changes around her.
“Ellie?”
She blinked hard.
“Sorry.” Her voice came out distant. “Could you repeat that?”
The venue coordinator gave her a sympathetic smile. “Long tour day?”
Ellie managed a weak nod…If only.
Across Dallas, Yoongi was doing no better. BTS noticed immediately.
“You’re pacing,” Namjoon said from the dressing room doorway.
Yoongi stopped mid-step. “No, I’m not.”
“You have walked past this room four times.”
Jimin looked worried already. “You and Ellie have only been separated for three hours.”
Yoongi rubbed a hand over his face. Logically, three hours should not matter. The bond did not care about logic.
It felt wrong now. Not unbearable, but wrong, as if some instinctive part of him kept searching for Ellie and failing to find her. It made concentration difficult. The interview staff had already repeated one question because Yoongi had stopped listening halfway through his own answer.
Jungkook leaned against the wall, far too amused. “Hyung, this is getting serious.”
Yoongi gave him a tired look. “Do not start.”
Taehyung’s eyes widened with sudden delight. “Wait. Are you anxious?”
“No.” The lie arrived too quickly.
Everyone stared at him.
Yoongi closed his eyes briefly. “Maybe a little.”
Hoseok made a small, wounded sound, like he had just witnessed something historic.
Jungkook pointed at him. “The bond is progressing.”
Namjoon did not laugh. He looked concerned. Because this was fast. Faster than he expected.
⸻
Back at the stadium, Ellie’s phone buzzed. The second she saw Yoongi’s name, relief hit so sharply it nearly hurt.
She answered too quickly. “Hi.”
A pause. Then his voice, low and familiar, “Hey.”
The effect was immediate. The static in her chest eased. Her shoulders dropped without permission. Across the conference table, one of the venue staff exchanged a discreet, amused glance with another coordinator. Ellie ignored them.
“Are you okay?” Yoongi asked. Not hello. Not what are you doing…Are you okay?
“I’m fine.” The bond pulsed—Lie.
Yoongi sighed softly through the phone. “You sound tired.”
Ellie looked helplessly at the paperwork spread in front of her because now that he had said it, she realized she did feel bad. Restless. Frayed. Unfocused in a way that unsettled her.
Her voice lowered. “It feels bad today.”
Silence answered her. Because he felt it too.
Across town, Yoongi leaned back against the dressing room wall and closed his eyes. The bond softened at the sound of her voice. Relief moved through him, warm and immediate.
“Mine too,” he admitted.
The confession settled between them. Saying it aloud made it real. The bond was affecting them physically now.
“You should eat something,” he said.
Ellie blinked. “What?”
“You skipped lunch.”
Her mouth fell open. “How do you know that?”
“Because you get quieter when you need food.”
Ellie stared at the phone, betrayed by the accuracy. Yoongi’s mouth curved faintly.
“You cannot just know things,” she said.
“I can.”
“That feels invasive.”
“You are soulmate bonded to me.”
Despite herself, Ellie smiled. Warmth moved through the bond immediately, and Yoongi relaxed against the wall like her happiness had physically steadied him.
The realization struck him hard. Ellie regulated him now. Not metaphorically like Actually.
“Hey,” he said, softer.
Ellie’s pulse jumped. “What?”
A brief pause then, low and quiet, “I’m coming back soon, baby.”
Ellie stopped functioning for one full second.
His voice was too warm. Too natural. Like the pet name had already found a place between them and intended to stay there.
She leaned forward over the conference table and covered part of her face with one hand while the venue staff politely pretended not to notice her emotional collapse.
“That is unfair,” she whispered.
Yoongi laughed softly through the phone. The restless ache beneath her ribs loosened enough for her to breathe normally again.
——————————————-
After that, Yoongi started waiting for her. Not intentionally. At least, that was what he told himself. But every time BTS returned from a schedule without Ellie, he somehow ended up near backstage entrances, outside production rooms, or in hallways where she was expected to appear.
“You are waiting for her,” Taehyung said.
Yoongi looked up from the stage notes he was pretending to read. “I’m working.”
“You have been on the same page for fifteen minutes.”
Yoongi narrowed his eyes. “Never say that to me again.”
The stadium corridor hummed with pre-show movement around them. Staff crossed quickly between rooms. Dancers stretched near the walls. Production assistants moved past with tablets and radios.
Yoongi remained by the side entrance, outwardly calm, inwardly stretched thin by the bond that kept tugging toward Ellie somewhere deeper in the stadium.
The doors finally opened. Ellie stepped through carrying translation binders against her chest, looking tired and mildly overwhelmed. The bond settled instantly. Relief flooded Yoongi so strongly his shoulders loosened before he could hide it.
Across the hallway, Ellie visibly relaxed too. The others watched it happen.
Jimin pressed a hand to his chest. “That is actually painful to witness.”
“They calm down when they see each other now,” Hoseok murmured.
Namjoon remained quiet, thoughtful. The speed of the progression worried him. Soulmate bonds deepening this rapidly usually meant the completion pull had already begun. And neither Ellie nor Yoongi seemed to understand yet how intense that could become.
Ellie crossed toward Yoongi automatically. She no longer thought about it.
He reached for the binders in her arms, and she handed them over without hesitation. The familiarity of the motion was so simple it felt intimate.
Taehyung stared at them. “You two know this is unbearable, right?”
Yoongi flipped him off..
Ellie laughed softly. Yoongi looked calmer the moment she did.
Ellie realized that she actually calmed him too… wait what? Somehow she had still been thinking of herself as the one who needed comfort, the one who leaned too hard, the one who required too much. But the bond had never moved in only one direction. Yoongi needed her too.
“You look tired,” Yoongi said.
Ellie looked up at him. The concern in his voice wrapped warmly around her ribs.
“I’m okay.”
He raised one eyebrow.
She sighed. “I had six meetings.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The exhausted voice.”
Ellie stared at him.
Taehyung made a strangled sound from behind them. “I cannot watch this calmly.”
“Then don’t watch,” Yoongi muttered.
Namjoon rubbed at his forehead, distracted. “This bond is progressing faster than I expected.” The words slipped out before he could stop them.
Namjoon realized too late what he had said. “Right.”
Anxiety flickered low in Ellie’s chest—Faster than expected.
The bond carried the fear directly to Yoongi. He stepped closer at once, “There is nothing wrong.”
Namjoon nodded quickly. “There isn’t.” His voice softened. “It is just intense.”
Ellie looked down. Intense was one word for it. The bond had become almost physical in its awareness now. Distance felt wrong. Proximity felt necessary. And somehow, that truth scared her less every day.
————————-⸻
The concert started an hour later. Dallas screamed even louder on the third night.
Ellie stood side-stage with her headset and translation notes while adrenaline buzzed through the arena. The moment BTS stepped onto the stage, the stadium erupted. Pyrotechnics flashed overhead. Fans sang lyrics loud enough to shake the floor beneath her feet.
Ellie loved this part. The energy. The movement. The beautiful chaos of live performance. Here, she felt competent. Useful. Certain.
During the first ment section, Namjoon spoke warmly about returning to Texas, and Ellie translated smoothly beside the stage. Her voice rang through the arena speakers, steady and confident.
Through the bond, Yoongi felt it—Pride.
He loved watching her become fearless while she worked. Loved the way she stopped shrinking when she held a microphone. Loved the way her voice carried not only language, but meaning.
The realization hit him hard enough that he almost missed his cue.
Jungkook noticed immediately.
He grinned toward Yoongi’s mic and said in Korean, “I think Suga is distracted tonight.”
The crowd screamed.
Ellie sighed into her translation mic. “Jungkook says Suga seems distracted tonight.”
The stadium lost its mind.
Yoongi closed his eyes briefly.
Side-stage, Ellie laughed despite herself.
The problem with Dallas was that the crowd noticed everything now. Every glance. Every smile. Every movement between Yoongi and Ellie.
By the end of the concert, clips of “Yoongi smiling at the interpreter again” were already spreading online before BTS had even left the stage.
Backstage exploded into controlled chaos after the encore. Staff rushed through hallways. Managers shouted timing changes into comms. Security coordinated exits while fans still screamed somewhere beyond the venue walls.
Ellie moved through the madness on instinct, translating rapid instructions between American venue staff and Korean management.
“Vehicle three is rerouted to the west exit.”
“Copy.”
“Press access denied on lower levels.”
“Understood.”
This kind of work grounded her. One instruction at a time. One person at a time. But beneath it all, the bond kept pulling softly toward Yoongi somewhere deeper backstage. It felt almost physical now, invisible gravity beneath her ribs.
Ellie exhaled and tried to ignore it.
“Ellie.”
She turned. A security coordinator approached quickly, tension visible in his expression.
“We need you upstairs for route confirmation.”
“Okay.”
He hesitated. “And security wants you with BTS directly tonight.”
Fear returned immediately. Right…The hotel leak.
The bond reacted before Ellie fully did.
Across the backstage corridor, Yoongi stopped mid-conversation.—Fear. Not his. Hers.
He turned toward her so quickly that Namjoon noticed.
Ellie stared. He said it so naturally now, as if her emotions were information he carried too. Namjoon’s expression tightened slightly
The security coordinator continued carefully, “There are more fans outside than expected.”
Ellie’s stomach dropped. “How many?”
“A lot.” Not reassuring.
“People have been livestreaming the exits for the last hour,” he added.
Of course they had. The old guilt rose instinctively. This is because of me.
The bond pulsed sharply with Yoongi’s refusal of that thought.
He crossed the hallway toward her, “You stay between us during exits tonight,” he said quietly.
Ellie looked up. “Us?”
“Me and Namjoon.”
Namjoon nodded. “We’ll keep the path tight.”
The protectiveness in both their voices nearly hurt because neither of them sounded burdened by it.
Yoongi’s hand brushed lightly against her lower back as he guided her toward the secured hallway route.
Ellie relaxed before she could stop herself. She trusted him in crowds now more than she trusted herself. The realization frightened her…But only a little.
————-⸻
The garage exit was chaos. Fans screamed beyond the barricades. Phones flashed violently in the darkness. Security moved fast, surrounding BTS as they advanced toward the waiting vehicles. Ellie stayed between Namjoon and Yoongi exactly as instructed. The noise pressed in from every side.
“Yoongi!”
“Ellie!”
“Look here!”
Her name echoing through the crowd sent adrenaline sharply through her chest. Too loud. Too close. Too many people.
Yoongi’s hand found her wrist automatically. Warmth moved through the panic, and Ellie’s breathing steadied slightly.
Then something slammed hard against a barricade nearby.
A fan screamed above the noise, “Stay away from him!”
Everything changed. Security moved instantly.
The atmosphere shifted from chaotic to dangerous in less than a second.
Yoongi went rigid beside her. The bond surged violently—Protectiveness, Fear, Anger.
Ellie froze. This was not internet speculation anymore. This had escalated.
“Move,” security ordered.
The group was pushed forward at once. Managers barked into radios. Fans screamed louder. Phones flashed endlessly. Yoongi’s hand tightened around Ellie’s wrist as security rushed them toward the waiting SUV. He held on like losing track of her was not an option.
Ellie stumbled slightly on the pavement.
Yoongi turned immediately. “You okay?”
His voice was urgent. The bond roared between them.—Stay close. Safe.
Ellie nodded too quickly. “Yeah.” A lie.
Her pulse hammered as security pushed them into the SUV. The doors slammed shut.
Silence dropped heavily inside.
Outside, fans still screamed through tinted glass.
Inside, everyone looked shaken.
Jimin wrapped his arms around himself. Hoseok had gone pale. Taehyung was quiet. No jokes. No teasing.
Namjoon rubbed a hand over his face. “That crossed a line.”
Yoongi still held Ellie’s wrist. The protectiveness flooding the bond was so intense it almost hurt.
Then Ellie looked down.
His hand was shaking..Subtly, But enough. Enough to terrify her.
Yoongi had always felt steady to her. Calm during panic. Grounded during chaos. The person who stabilized everyone else. Now the bond carried everything clearly. Fear. For her.
The SUV remained quiet except for the muffled screams outside. Security vehicles surrounded them while the escort cleared the route ahead.
No one said what they were all thinking. This was not excitement anymore. It was obsession becoming entitlement. Dangerous entitlement.
Namjoon finally spoke, quiet and controlled. “Security is updating protocols tonight.”
Jimin nodded. “That person got too close.”
Hoseok did not speak.
Ellie swallowed hard.
The reality settled cold in her stomach. Yoongi’s thumb brushed unconsciously against the inside of her wrist. Ellie’s breathing steadied a little, but she realized something else at the same time. He was calming himself through her too.
“Yoongi.”
His eyes shifted to her immediately.
Ellie looked down at their joined hands. “You’re shaking.”
The others looked over quietly. Yoongi’s jaw tightened.
His voice came low. “You scared me.”
The honesty hit harder than she expected. Yoongi almost never admitted fear directly.
Ellie swallowed. “I’m okay.”
His expression changed. “You do not have to say that automatically anymore.”
She looked down.
Yoongi exhaled slowly. “It is okay if this scared you, baby.”
Ellie’s chest tightened.
Namjoon watched them from the opposite seat, careful and quiet.
The bond had shifted drastically in only a few days. Too drastically, maybe. The mutual emotional regulation was unmistakable now. They calmed each other almost instantly. Felt distress before words. Reacted before conscious thought could catch up.
And tonight, Yoongi’s fear response had been strong enough to change the atmosphere around them.
Namjoon’s voice stayed careful. “We may need temporary schedule adjustments.”
Ellie looked up immediately. “What?”
“Security precautions.”
The guilt hit fast.
Yoongi spoke before she could. “We are not separating.”
The certainty in his tone stunned the SUV into silence.
Namjoon looked at him calmly. “That is not what I said.”
“It is what security will suggest.”
No one contradicted him because he was probably right. Standard protocol would involve minimizing visible contact, especially after public fixation escalated this badly.
The bond sharpened with Yoongi’s resistance. Protective. Almost possessive.
Ellie felt it clearly. This time, it did not scare her. Some careful, hidden part of her loved that he wanted to stay.
————————-
The SUV finally pulled into the secured hotel entrance underground. Security moved immediately outside the vehicles, fast and efficient, but the atmosphere remained tense.
Yoongi’s hand had not left Ellie’s wrist. It was as if he needed physical confirmation that she was still beside him.
When the door opened, security surrounded them again. Namjoon stepped out first, already coordinating with staff.
Yoongi looked at Ellie before moving. “You staying close?”
The question was quiet. Almost too quiet. Like some part of him still feared she might disappear into the chaos.
Ellie’s chest ached. Yoongi was not only protecting her anymore. He was afraid of losing her.
She nodded once. “I’m here.”
The words affected him instantly. The bond surged warm with relief so intense it nearly stole her breath.
Yoongi looked at her for one long second then he said, low and soft, as if the truth had slipped out before he could stop it, “Good.”
A pause.
His voice dropped further. “Need you here, pretty girl.”
Ellie completely forgot how to function—That was worse than baby. Lower. Rougher. More intimate.
The bond flared warm enough to make her dizzy.
Across the hallway, Taehyung silently grabbed Hoseok’s shoulder as if he needed support. Jimin covered his mouth. Avery looked like she might actually scream. Jungkook looked delighted.
Yoongi seemed to realize what he had said one second too late. Then his expression shifted. A faint, almost dangerous smile touched his mouth.
Ellie stared at him helplessly. The hotel hallway blurred around the edges. The fear was still there. The danger was still real. But beneath it, impossibly, something warm had begun to bloom.
Because Yoongi was scared too. Yoongi needed her too. And for the first time, Ellie did not feel like a burden because of it.
—————————
The words pretty girl lingered between them long after Yoongi said them. Not because the nickname itself was shocking. Because of the way he said it.
Baby had sounded soft. Protective. Instinctive.
But pretty girl sounded intimate in a way Ellie was not emotionally prepared for. Low and rough around the edges, like Yoongi had forgotten anyone else existed for a second. And through the soulmate bond, she felt exactly what sat beneath the words—Need.
By the time they reached the hotel corridor, Ellie’s nervous system had completely stopped cooperating.
“Did everyone hear that?” Taehyung demanded.
“Unfortunately,” Jin answered calmly.
Jimin looked deeply distressed already. “He said it so naturally.”
Hoseok pressed a hand dramatically against his chest. “This relationship is becoming emotionally dangerous for me.”
Meanwhile Ellie walked beside Yoongi in complete silence while security escorted them toward the elevators because her brain no longer functioned correctly. The bond still glowed warm between them.
Yoongi looked affected too, though less embarrassed than resigned. Like maybe he had not realized until tonight how naturally affection had started slipping into his voice around her.
The private elevator doors finally closed behind the group. Security remained outside while only BTS, Avery, and Ellie rode upward. The atmosphere inside was catastrophic.
Taehyung stared openly at Yoongi. “Pretty girl.”
Yoongi shut his eyes briefly. “Please stop speaking.”
“No, because that was insane.”
“That’s enough,” Namjoon warned.
Jungkook grinned shamelessly. “Hyung’s gone.”
“Completely gone,” Jin agreed.
Ellie covered part of her face weakly. “I would like to disappear.”
Avery looked deeply sympathetic. “I know exactly how you feel.”
The elevator chimed softly at their secured floor. The second the doors opened, security staff approached Namjoon immediately with updated reports. More fans had gathered outside the hotel perimeter. Livestreams were spreading online. Someone had apparently tried accessing the private entrance level before being stopped by hotel staff.
The warmth inside Ellie’s chest cooled instantly. Fear returned fast and quiet beneath her ribs.
Yoongi noticed before she spoke. His hand settled automatically against the small of her back, guiding her down the hallway. Ellie relaxed before consciously deciding to.
——————————
Inside Yoongi’s suite, the atmosphere loosened slightly once multiple locks clicked into place behind them—Safe. Or safe enough.
Jimin collapsed dramatically onto the couch. “I hate stalkers.”
“Same,” Hoseok muttered quietly.
Namjoon remained near the windows scrolling through security updates while Jin handed out bottled water like emergency supplies.
Taehyung, however, remained emotionally trapped on one issue, “Pretty girl.”
Meanwhile Ellie stood near the kitchen counter trying very hard not to think about the way Yoongi’s voice had sounded in the garage. Unsuccessfully.
“You okay?”
Ellie looked up immediately. Yoongi stood beside her now. Close enough that the restless tension in her chest eased automatically. Across the suite, the others kept talking, instinctively giving them partial privacy.
Ellie nodded automatically. Then stopped herself.
Yoongi noticed immediately. Something warm moved through the bond. Quiet approval.
Ellie exhaled softly. “…Still anxious.” Honest. The answer visibly relieved him more than I’m fine would have.
Yoongi leaned lightly against the counter beside her. “That’s normal.”
Ellie stared down at the water bottle in her hands. “I don’t like people knowing where I am.”
The vulnerability in the admission moved sharply through the bond. Yoongi’s jaw tightened. Protectiveness surged immediately beneath the surface again.
“I know.”
Across the room, Namjoon finally looked up from his phone. “Security wants additional guards on this floor overnight.”
Nobody argued. That alone told Ellie how serious this had become.
Jin frowned slightly. “This can’t keep escalating.”
Silence answered him. Because everyone understood he meant more than tonight. The fixation. The entitlement. The way certain fans had started talking about Ellie online like she was something standing between them and Yoongi instead of a real person.
Ellie wrapped both arms around herself unconsciously. Immediately, Yoongi turned toward her. His expression softened at once and, without thinking, he reached up and tucked a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear.
The room went silent. The gesture was devastatingly gentle. Intimate in a way that felt almost private.
Yoongi froze slightly afterward, like he only realized everyone had witnessed it once it was already done.
Taehyung whispered dramatically, “They are violently in love.”
Nobody corrected him.Honestly, nobody could.
⸻
No one wanted to leave the suite afterward. Normally, post-show nights dissolved quickly into showers, food, exhaustion, and sleep. Tonight nobody moved much. Too much adrenaline still clung to the air after the garage incident. Too much fear.
So instead: Jimin curled into one end of the couch half-asleep. Hoseok quietly made tea in the kitchenette. Jin ordered enough food for twelve people. And Taehyung continued watching Yoongi and Ellie like he was observing a live documentary.
Jungkook looked up from beside Avery. “To be fair, everyone else is too.”
Because the atmosphere between Yoongi and Ellie had changed dramatically over the last forty-eight hours. Everyone could feel it.
The bond between them had deepened into something heavier now. Not frantic. Not unstable. Just undeniable.
Avery noticed it most clearly. The pull between them reminded her painfully of the weeks before her own bond with Jungkook completed. The way proximity started feeling necessary instead of comforting. The way emotional awareness sharpened into instinct.
And judging by the way Yoongi kept unconsciously tracking Ellie’s movements through the room, they were getting close. Very close.
⸻
Ellie sat cross-legged on the rug with a mug of tea warming her hands while trying unsuccessfully not to think about: pretty girl, Yoongi touching her hair, the fact that she no longer felt fully calm unless he was nearby.
The soulmate bond hummed softly now from where Yoongi sat only a few feet away on the floor beside the couch. Close enough that the restless ache from earlier finally stayed quiet.
God, She was becoming dangerously attached to him.
“Okay,” Jin announced suddenly while opening takeout containers. “Serious question.”
“No,” Yoongi answered immediately.
“You don’t even know the question.”
“I know enough.”
Jin ignored him completely. “When did you realize you were in love with Ellie?”
Ellie nearly inhaled tea directly into her lungs. Taehyung screamed. Hoseok dropped his chopsticks. Jimin sat upright so fast he almost slid off the couch.
Meanwhile Yoongi looked at Jin like murder had become reasonable, “Hyung.”
Hoseok clutched his chest again. “That’s horrible. I hate how romantic that was.”
“That’s genuinely one of the most romantic things I’ve ever heard,” Avery murmured.
Taehyung looked close to tears himself.
Meanwhile Yoongi appeared mildly horrified that he had apparently said all of that out loud. The bond flooded warm with embarrassment.
Ellie laughed softly before she could stop herself. Instantly, Yoongi relaxed.
The tension left his shoulders automatically at the sound. Everyone noticed…Again.
Namjoon leaned back against the couch watching them carefully. “You regulate each other now.”
The room quieted slightly at the weight beneath the statement. Because he was right. The emotional synchronization between them had become undeniable.
Ellie looked down at her tea. Something was changing. And for the first time in her life, she no longer wanted to run from it.
⸻————
By three in the morning, everyone finally left. Reluctantly…Very reluctantly in Taehyung’s case.
“You better not have emotional development without us,” he warned while backing toward the suite door.
“That sentence alone should get you removed from the building,” Yoongi muttered.
Jin physically shoved Taehyung into the hallway.
Hoseok hugged Ellie tightly before leaving. “Text us if you need anything.”
“We’re one floor down,” Jimin added immediately.
Namjoon lingered last near the doorway.
His eyes moved quietly between Yoongi and Ellie. Thoughtful.
Then he looked toward Ellie gently. “Try to rest tonight.”
The concern in his voice settled warmly in her chest. Ellie nodded once.
Then finally the suite door shut. Locks clicked. Silence settled. Real silence this time.
Ellie stood near the kitchen counter holding tea she had long forgotten to drink while Yoongi dimmed lights around the suite and checked security notifications on his phone. The domesticity of it hit her suddenly.
Ellie watched him quietly. And there it was again…The truth—She loved him. Not with panic attached anymore. Just certainty.
“You’re staring again.”
Ellie blinked immediately.
Yoongi crossed toward her slowly before stopping close enough that the bond softened warmly between them.
“You tired?” he asked softly.
Ellie hesitated.
Yoongi’s mouth twitched slightly. “There it is.”
“What?”
“The exhausted silence.”
She looked offended. “You can’t invent emotional categories for me.”
“I’m not inventing them.” Yoongi looked directly at her now, “I pay attention to you.”
The simplicity of it nearly stole the breath from her lungs. Because he said it like it was obvious. Natural.
Ellie looked away first. Too much.
“Hey.” His voice softened further.
Ellie looked back automatically.
Yoongi’s expression had changed again. Open now. Unguarded. “You know something?”
Ellie’s pulse jumped. “What?”
A pause.
“I think you’re finally starting to believe me.”
The words settled quietly into her chest.
He meant: that he would stay, that he loved her, that she was not too much, that this was not temporary.
Ellie laughed weakly under her breath. “That seems emotionally irresponsible.”
A quiet laugh escaped him too.
Then softer: “You don’t have to be afraid of happy things forever.”
The room fell silent afterward. The bond pulsed low between them. Slow. Deep. Pulling.
Yoongi felt the shift first. Something tightening beneath the surface again.
Ellie noticed seconds later. Her breathing changed subtly. The bond reacted instantly—Closer. Like some part of them suddenly needed less distance.
Yoongi went still. Because this was new. The pull settled low beneath his ribs almost painfully.
Ellie swallowed softly. “…Yoongi.”
He looked at her immediately. The room suddenly felt too warm. Too quiet.
The soulmate bond tightened slowly between them—Need..
Ellie’s pulse hammered hard enough she was sure he felt it too. He probably did.
Yoongi stepped one inch closer unconsciously.
Ellie did not move away..Six months ago she would have fled this level of closeness immediately. Now she stood there looking up at him with trust so open it physically hurt him—Fuck.
Yoongi lifted one hand slowly. His fingers brushed softly along her jaw.
Ellie’s breath caught instantly. The bond surged.—Wanting.
His thumb moved lightly beneath her chin, guiding gently.
“Pretty girl,” he said softly.
Ellie leaned into his touch before realizing she was doing it.
Yoongi’s eyes darkened slightly. The bond pulsed harder.
And suddenly Ellie realized with terrifying certainty: if Yoongi kissed her right now—she would kiss him back without hesitation.
———⸻
Neither of them moved. Yoongi’s hand remained against Ellie’s jaw while the soulmate bond pulsed violently between them. The pull felt almost physical now. Heavy beneath her ribs. Warm enough to ache.
Ellie could feel his breathing. Could feel the exact moment Yoongi realized she was not pulling away.
“Ellie.” Her name sounded different now. Lower. Careful. Like he understood this moment mattered.
Ellie looked up at him silently.
His thumb brushed softly beneath her cheekbone. Yoongi should stop. He knew that. Not because he did not want to kiss her.
That was the problem. He wanted to far too much. And through the bond, he could feel Ellie wanting it too.
His voice lowered carefully. “If I do this…”
The unfinished sentence hung heavily between them: If I kiss you. If I cross this line. If I stop pretending this isn’t already everything.
Yoongi’s jaw tightened slightly. Because he needed her to understand something first:
This was not casual. Not with her. Never with her.
“I know,” Ellie whispered.
Yoongi went completely still. She knew.
Yoongi stepped closer slowly until only inches separated them. Still he waited. Still he gave her room to stop him.
Their foreheads nearly touched. “You can say no.”
The gentleness in his voice almost shattered her. Because even now, Yoongi made sure she had a choice.
Ellie looked up at him beneath the quiet hotel lights, her voice shaking softly. “I don’t want to say no.”
That was it. The last thread of restraint inside Yoongi snapped quietly. His other hand rose carefully to her face. Holding her gently now.
Ellie melted toward him instinctively and the trust in the movement nearly destroyed him.
“Pretty girl,” he whispered shakily.
Then finally— Yoongi kissed her. Soft. God, so soft. Not rushed. Not desperate. Like he was terrified of hurting her.
The soulmate bond detonated instantly—Relief. Love.Want.
Ellie gasped softly against his mouth at the emotional force of it. Like every lonely part of her had finally found where it belonged. The realization overwhelmed her instantly.
Yoongi felt it too. His hands tightened gently against her face as the bond surged harder. Then Ellie kissed him back. Not hesitant anymore. Choosing him.
The second Yoongi realized she was kissing him back willingly, fully, something inside him broke open completely.
The kiss deepened softly. Needier now. Months of restraint unraveling quietly between them.
Ellie’s hands caught lightly in the front of his shirt. The bond roared around them—Closer. Closer. Closer.
Then the soulmate bond tightened violently the moment Ellie kissed him back. Yoongi felt it immediately. Like something beneath them locked suddenly into place.
Ellie made a soft startled sound against his mouth as warmth flooded through her chest. Too intense. Too much. But not wrong.
Yoongi pulled back first only barely. Foreheads touching. Breathing uneven.
His hands still cradled her face carefully like he physically could not let go.
His voice came rough and quiet. “…Did you feel that?”
Ellie nodded immediately. Because yes. Oh God, yes. The bond felt different now. Like every wall between them had cracked open during the kiss.
Yoongi’s thumbs brushed softly beneath her cheeks, grounding her before she could spiral.
Ellie stared up at him silently. And suddenly she realized something terrifying. She was not scared anymore. Not of the closeness. Not of the love. Not even of how deeply the bond wrapped around both of them now.
The fear that remained had changed shape entirely. Not: what if he leaves? But: what if she loses this somehow?
Yoongi felt the shift immediately. His expression softened painfully.
He kissed her once more before thinking. Soft. Instinctive.
Ellie melted toward him immediately.
“You kissed me,” she whispered finally.
Yoongi looked faintly amused despite the emotional devastation currently happening between them. “I’m aware.”
“I might actually be hallucinating.”
A quiet laugh escaped him. Ellie’s knees nearly gave out because now she understood: every laugh, every smile, every touch…she felt all of it through the bond too. No wonder this had become impossible to resist.
Yoongi rested his forehead lightly against hers again. “You okay?”
Ellie laughed weakly. “You just rearranged my entire soul.”
His shoulders shook once with quiet laughter. “Yeah. Same.”
The honesty wrapped warmly around her ribs. God…She loved him so much.
Yoongi felt the realization the exact second it fully formed. The soulmate bond surged violently.
Ellie froze…Oh no. Because through the bond, Yoongi felt it—Love. Complete. Certain. Undeniable.
His breathing caught softly. “Ellie.”
The way he said her name nearly destroyed her.
She covered her face immediately in panic. “Nope.”
Yoongi actually laughed. “Are you hiding after accidentally confessing through the soulmate bond that you love me?”
“I didn’t know it worked like that.”
“That seems like information we should have assumed.”
Ellie groaned into her hands. “This is humiliating.”
“No,” Yoongi corrected softly while pulling her hands gently away from her face. “It’s my favorite thing that’s ever happened to me.”
The sincerity in his voice hit hard enough that Ellie physically stopped breathing.
Yoongi looked at her like he still could not believe she was real, Then quietly: “I love you too, pretty girl.”
Tears filled Ellie’s eyes instantly.
Yoongi’s expression softened at once. “Oh, baby.”
There it was again. That impossible softness he only used with her.
Ellie laughed shakily through tears. “You cannot keep saying things like that.”
His thumbs brushed gently beneath her eyes, catching tears before they could fall, “Sure I can.”
“Yoongi.”
A small smile touched his mouth. “You love me. It’s too late now.”
The soulmate bond glowed warm with smug affection.
Ellie stared at him in betrayal. “Oh my God.”
He kissed her again before she could argue further.
And this time, Ellie kissed him like she had finally stopped being afraid of keeping something good.
SUMMARY: After the world learns BTS can actually have soulmates, shy interpreter Ellie Parker joins the U.S. leg of BTS’s Arirang tour unaware that Min Yoongi recognizes her instantly as his soulmate. As growing public attention and a dangerous fan obsession threaten Ellie’s fragile sense of safety, Yoongi becomes the quiet place she keeps finding herself drawn back to. This is a slow-burn story about learning that love can be gentle, protective, and safe enough to finally stop surviving.
WARNINGS: past emotional abuse, anxiety, panic responses, stalking, invasion of privacy, obsessive fan behavior, toxic family dynamics, emotional manipulation, Contains heavy angst, hurt/comfort, and discussions of trauma and healing throughout.
A/N: this story is gonna contain a lot of angst, but the overall theme is healing! LMK if I left any warnings out.
Masterlist
——————————————
LOS ANGELES — ONE DAY BEFORE THE FIRST SHOW
By the third day, Ellie had learned three things about touring with BTS. First, nobody in this group slept enough. Second, Taehyung operated like a highly affectionate raccoon with unrestricted access to caffeine. And third, Min Yoongi noticed everything. Not in an intimidating way. Just quietly. Which could be considered worse.
“Ellie.”
She looked up from the translation notes in her lap.
Yoongi stood in the aisle of the production shuttle holding out a protein bar, “You skipped breakfast.”
Ellie blinked, “How do you know that?”
“You said your coffee tasted acidic.”
“…What does that have to do with breakfast?”
“You only complain about coffee tasting acidic when you haven’t eaten.”
Ellie stared at him. He stared back calmly.
The shuttle continued moving through downtown Los Angeles traffic while chaos unfolded around them: Taehyung loudly singing something incorrect on purpose; Jungkook arguing with Avery over playlists; Jimin trying to sleep against the window; Namjoon reading production notes like finals depended on it
Meanwhile Ellie sat frozen holding a protein bar because somehow Yoongi had apparently developed observational powers bordering on supernatural.
“…I didn’t know I did that. ” she admitted softly.
Yoongi shrugged once before sitting beside her, “You should still eat.”
The seat beside her dipped slightly with his weight.
Instantly, that strange calm feeling settled through her chest again, like static disappearing. Ellie hated how quickly she was getting used to it.
————————————-
The stadium looked entirely different full. Yesterday’s empty rehearsal arena had transformed overnight into thousands of screaming fans and flashing lights and overwhelming movement. Even backstage, the energy felt electric. Staff rushed constantly through hallways. Security moved in tighter formations. Managers spoke faster into headsets.
Ellie stayed close to the production team while translating timing changes between American venue staff and Korean coordinators. Professional mode. Safe mode.
Focus on words. Focus on work. Don’t think too hard about anything else. Especially not the fact that Yoongi kept appearing beside her unexpectedly throughout the day. Near catering. Near interview staging. Near security transitions. Like gravity kept subtly shifting him closer.
“Are you nervous?”
Ellie looked up.
Avery stood beside her near the backstage monitor wall holding two bottles of water.
“A little,” Ellie admitted.
Avery handed her one automatically. “You’ll survive.”
“That inspiring confidence was life-changing actually.”
Avery grinned. “You’re doing good.”
The compliment hit harder than expected.
Ellie looked down at the water bottle in her hands. “Thanks.”
Avery studied her quietly for a second. “You know,” she said casually, “they already like you.”
Ellie blinked. “…Who?”
Avery looked genuinely confused. “The boys?”
“Oh.” The response came out too soft. Too surprised. Avery noticed immediately.
Ellie saw it happen in real time: that flicker of understanding crossing another woman’s face. Like Avery was suddenly seeing things Ellie hadn’t meant to show.
Ellie forced a small smile quickly. “They’ve all been really nice.”
Avery hummed slightly, “You don’t trust nice people much, huh?”
Ellie’s stomach dropped instantly. She’s too perceptive.
She laughed lightly instead. “That’s kind of a dramatic conclusion.”
“Maybe,” Avery leaned against the wall beside her, “Or maybe I recognize survival mode because I used to live there too.”
The words landed directly in Ellie’s chest. Before she could answer, someone shouted Avery’s name from across backstage.
Avery pushed off the wall immediately, “Duty calls.” Then softer before walking away “You’re allowed to relax here, Ellie.”
Ellie watched her disappear into the crowd feeling strangely exposed afterward. Avery said things too gently, too accurately, like she saw more than she should.
——————————————————
Yoongi found Ellie twenty minutes later sitting cross-legged on the floor behind one of the backstage curtain partitions reviewing interview packets alone….Or pretending to review them.
The soulmate bond buzzed faintly uneasy beneath his ribs—Anxiety. Not sharp panic…the quieter kind. The kind people carried so long it became part of their bloodstream.
He sat beside her without speaking.
Ellie startled slightly anyway, “You really do appear out of nowhere.”
“You keep saying that like it’s my fault.”
The corner of her mouth twitched.
Small victory. For a minute neither spoke. Backstage noise echoed faintly around them: distant music checks; staff movement; crowd screams bleeding through stadium walls
Ellie relaxed incrementally beside him anyway. Yoongi felt it happen through the bond before he physically saw it…Interesting.
“You ready for tonight?” he asked finally.
Ellie looked down at the papers in her lap, “I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I’ve never translated live for something this big before.”
“You’ll be good.”
The certainty in his voice made her glance up automatically, “You sound very confident about that.”
“You’re good at your job.”
Simple. Matter-of-fact. Like it wasn’t even a question. And for some reason that affected Ellie more than exaggerated praise would have. He didn’t sound like he was trying to make her feel better. He sounded like he genuinely believed it. That felt unfamiliar enough to hurt a little.
——————————————————
The first show started at seven-thirty. From backstage, Ellie could feel the stadium vibrating. The screams became almost physical once the opening VCR began. Then the lights dropped. And suddenly the entire arena exploded.
Ellie had watched concert footage before. None of it compared to standing backstage while seventy thousand people screamed loud enough to shake the floor beneath her feet.
The members transformed onstage. Larger somehow. Brighter. Untouchable….Especially Yoongi.
Ellie stood beside one of the backstage monitors during the opening songs translating headset communication for production staff while trying not to stare too much. Which was difficult because Yoongi performing should probably be classified as a public safety hazard.
The energy shift alone was terrifying. Sharp. Focused. Magnetic. Completely different from the quiet man handing her protein bars on shuttle buses.And yet, the second he exited backstage between songs, his eyes found her immediately. Like instinct.
The soulmate bond surged warm enough to make Yoongi’s chest ache. Relief. There you are.
Ellie felt it too. Not the bond itself. Just….that strange settling sensation again, like she could finally breathe properly once he was nearby….Weird.
————————————-—
The problem started after the encore. Crowds outside became chaotic faster than expected. Security tightened immediately while moving staff and members toward waiting vehicles beneath the stadium.
Ellie stayed close to the production managers translating rapidly between venue security and Korean staff as movement bottlenecked near one of the underground corridors. Too many people. Too much noise. Too many voices at once.
Her heartbeat started climbing gradually. Not panic, not yet. Just overwhelm.
“Move left.”
“Keep staff together.”
“Fans breached lower barricade—”
The hallway suddenly compressed tighter as security redirected movement. Someone shoved unexpectedly behind Ellie. Hard enough to send her stumbling forward. Before she could regain balance, another body slammed too close beside her.
Male voice. Too loud. Too aggressive—“Move.”
Ellie froze instantly. Her body reacted before her brain could. Shoulders curling inward. Breath catching. Pulse spiking violently.
Then suddenly, warm fingers closed firmly around her wrist. Steady. Grounding.—Yoongi.
He moved her behind him in one smooth motion so instinctive it clearly wasn’t planned. Security shifted immediately afterward. The hallway reopened. Movement continued. But Yoongi didn’t let go of her wrist, not immediately.
Ellie stared at the back of his black hoodie while her heartbeat slowly stabilized against her ribs….Safe.
The thought arrived so suddenly it almost scared her more than the crowd had, because she couldn’t remember the last time another person made her nervous system feel safe instead of threatened.
And somewhere ahead of her in the corridor, Yoongi felt the exact moment Ellie relaxed behind him through the soulmate bond. It nearly ruined him.
——————————————————
LOS ANGELES — 1:14 A.M.
The first show ended in chaos. Not bad chaos. Successful chaos. The kind built from adrenaline and seventy thousand screaming fans and production staff trying to move an entire stadium operation before midnight.
Ellie spent most of it translating rapid-fire conversations between venue security, management, and transportation coordinators while trying not to get flattened by moving equipment. Which she considered a personal success, barely.
Now, sometime after one in the morning, the hotel floor had finally gone mostly quiet…Mostly. Taehyung was still arguing loudly with Jungkook somewhere down the hallway about ramen proportions. Ellie could hear Avery laughing through the walls.
Apparently exhaustion did absolutely nothing to reduce this group’s volume levels. She smiled faintly despite herself while sliding her hotel keycard into the door.
The room greeted her with silence. Immediate, heavy. And just like that, the strange sense of calm she’d carried all evening disappeared. Ellie paused halfway inside the room….Weird, again.
She closed the door slowly behind her and leaned against it for a second longer than necessary. The silence felt… louder tonight somehow. Her thoughts sharper. Her body heavier. Too much adrenaline probably. Nothing else. Definitely not because Yoongi’s hand had stayed wrapped around her wrist for several seconds too long backstage earlier. Absolutely not that.
Ellie pressed both palms against her face. Get it together.
Twenty minutes later she was still awake. Sweatpants. Wet hair. Translation notes spread across the bed. Her laptop screen glowed softly in the dark room while she reviewed interview terminology for tomorrow morning’s press run.
Focus on work. Work was safe. Work made sense. Feelings did not. Especially feelings involving internationally famous rappers who somehow noticed things nobody else did.
Ellie rubbed tiredly at her eyes before reaching for her phone.
Three unread texts from her younger sister.
Mia:
Mom said you’re working with BTS???
Mia:
Dad found articles already
Mia:
Call me tomorrow before he does something annoying
Ellie stared at the screen too long. The calm from earlier vanished completely now. Of course he found articles….Of course he did.
Her father treated information like ammunition. Whatever vulnerability he discovered eventually became useful later.
Ellie locked the phone immediately and tossed it face down onto the bed.
Nope…Not tonight. Just…not tonight.
————————————
Someone knocked softly on her door fifteen minutes later. Ellie froze instantly. Not logical. Automatic. Her heartbeat stumbled hard enough to hurt.
Silence—Another knock. Gentle. Not aggressive.
Still, her body stayed tense as she crossed the room carefully and checked through the peephole. Yoongi stood outside holding two paper cups.
Ellie blinked, then opened the door before fully thinking through the decision.
“Oh.” Brilliant response.
Yoongi lifted one coffee slightly, “You left yours backstage.”
Ellie looked down automatically. Oh right, She had,
“You didn’t have to bring it up here.”
“I know.”
The hallway stayed quiet around them.
Ellie became painfully aware she was standing barefoot in oversized sleep clothes while Min Yoongi casually occupied the space outside her hotel room at nearly two in the morning. Very normal. Very professional.
“You can just leave it there,” she offered awkwardly.
Yoongi looked at her for one long second, then: “You okay?”
The question hit too directly. Ellie forced a smile immediately. “I’m fine.”
Too fast….again.
Yoongi’s expression barely changed, but something in his posture softened slightly. “You’re bad at lying.”
Ellie stared at him. Nobody said things like that gently. Usually people used observations as weapons. Embarrassment. Criticism. Not…concern?
“I’m just tired,” she admitted quietly. That at least wasn’t fully a lie.
Yoongi nodded once, then held out the second coffee cup. “This one’s actually yours.”
Ellie blinked again, “You brought me another coffee?”
“You looked like you were falling asleep during debrief.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly, tiny, but enough to completely derail Ellie’s train of thought.
She accepted the cup carefully. Their fingers brushed for less than a second. Warm. Instantly that strange calm feeling settled through her chest again, like stepping inside after rain.
Ellie’s breath caught slightly. Weird.
Yoongi noticed. Of course he noticed. The soulmate bond warmed faintly beneath his ribs as Ellie relaxed almost imperceptibly in front of him.
“You don’t have to keep apologizing for existing around us, you know.”
Ellie’s head snapped up, “What?”
Yoongi leaned one shoulder lightly against the hallway wall, “You apologize every five seconds.”
Heat flooded her face immediately, “I do not.”
“You said sorry because Jimin handed you coffee this morning.”
“…no? No, I didn’t?”
“You apologized when Taehyung moved his own bag earlier.”
Ellie opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
“I’m polite.”
Yoongi looked unconvinced, “You’re nervous.” The words weren’t cruel, which somehow made them worse.
Ellie stared down at the coffee cup in her hands instead. Steam curled softly upward between them. The hallway suddenly felt too quiet. Too intimate.
Finally she said softly: “I don’t like causing problems.”
Yoongi’s gaze stayed on her face. “You don’t.”
Simple. Immediate. Like fact. And something inside Ellie’s chest tightened painfully because….because he sounded so certain, like there wasn’t even a possibility she could be difficult. That feeling was unfamiliar enough to scare her.
————————————
Down the hallway someone yelled loudly. Taehyung probably. Ellie flinched instinctively before she could stop herself. Tiny movement. Barely noticeable. Except Yoongi noticed everything.
His expression changed immediately. Not pity. Something quieter. Something heavier.
Ellie looked away fast. Humiliating.
“I should sleep,” she said quickly.
Retreat. Deflect. Disappear….that was safe.
Yoongi studied her for another second, then nodded once. “Okay.”
He pushed away from the wall slowly, “Goodnight, Ellie.”
Her name sounded strange in his voice.Softened somehow.
“Goodnight.”
He started walking down the hallway…Then stopped.
Without turning around he said quietly: “You were good tonight.”
Ellie blinked. “At translating,” he clarified after a beat.
The corner of her mouth lifted despite herself. “…Thank you.”
Yoongi glanced back once over his shoulder. And for one terrifying second, Ellie felt completely seen. Not looked at. Seen.
Then he disappeared around the corner. Leaving behind silence and warmth and a strange aching feeling in her chest that made sleep almost impossible afterward.
——————————————-—
Meanwhile down the hallway, Yoongi entered his own hotel room and closed the door quietly behind him. The soulmate bond still pulsed faintly warm beneath his ribs. Ellie calming down. Ellie safe. Ellie tired. He leaned back against the door and closed his eyes briefly.
This was becoming a problem. A serious one. Because every instinct inside him already revolved around her. Protect her. Stay near her. Notice everything. Keep her safe. And Ellie still had absolutely no idea why looking at him made her nervous system finally rest.
God. He was completely fucked.
—————————————————————
LOS ANGELES — DAY THREE OF THE U.S. LEG
By the fourth morning, Ellie had accidentally developed a routine with Min Yoongi. Which was concerning because routines implied consistency. Consistency implied comfort and comfort around people had historically been a terrible life decision for her.
Still, every morning around 7:30, Yoongi appeared somewhere nearby holding coffee like he’d materialized directly out of hotel walls. Sometimes outside the conference suite. Sometimes near the elevators. Once silently sitting in the back row of the production shuttle while an extra iced coffee occupied the seat beside him like a reserved spot. None of it was acknowledged directly, which somehow made it worse.
Today he was leaning against the hallway window outside rehearsals scrolling through his phone. Black hoodie. Silver rings. Half-awake expression.
Ellie slowed slightly despite herself. The calm feeling arrived instantly. There you are. The thought appeared so naturally inside her head it nearly made her trip over her own feet….Absolutely not.
Yoongi glanced up at the exact same moment. Then silently held out an iced coffee.
Ellie stared at it. “…How do you keep knowing my order?”
“You order the same thing every day.”
“That feels invasive.”
“You’re predictable.”
“That’s rude.”
“You still took the coffee.”
Ellie looked down….Right, because apparently sometime in the last 72 hours she’d developed the horrifying habit of accepting drinks from Min Yoongi without question. Very normal behavior.
“Thank you,” she muttered.
Yoongi hummed softly. Then after a pause: “You slept?”
Ellie blinked. “A little.”
“You look tired.”
“That’s because I am tired.”
“You looked tired yesterday too.”
Ellie narrowed her eyes slightly. “Do you ever stop observing people?”
“No.”
At least he was honest.
———————————————-
Rehearsals moved to soundcheck preparation by noon. The stadium buzzed constantly with movement: lighting crews adjusting cues; backup dancers running formations; managers shouting timing changes into headsets
Ellie spent most of the afternoon translating production corrections while trying to ignore the fact that Yoongi’s presence had somehow become the emotional equivalent of weighted blankets for her nervous system, which felt suspicious.
At one point she lost sight of him entirely during stage transitions, and the anxiety hit immediately. Tiny at first. Then sharper.
Ellie frowned down at her translation notes…Weird.
Before she could overthink it further, Yoongi appeared beside her carrying another coffee. Like an actual fucking cryptid.
Ellie jumped, “Oh my god.”
His mouth twitched slightly. “You should stop saying that every time you see me.”
“You should stop teleporting.”
“I walk normally. You’re just distracted.”
“That sounds fake.”
Yoongi handed her the drink calmly. “You forgot this in catering.”
Ellie looked down at the coffee. “…This is hot.”
“You said the venue air conditioning was making your hands cold.”
Ellie stared at him. Slowly….“How are you a real person?”
Yoongi shrugged once, then casually: “You say things out loud without realizing it.”
Heat rushed into her face instantly. “I absolutely do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
Oh god…Had she been talking to herself around him? Mortifying.
Yoongi watched the horror spread across her expression and actually looked amused. Tiny. Brief, but definitely amused.
Suddenly Ellie understood why the members teased him constantly, because apparently Min Yoongi enjoyed psychological warfare in his spare time.
—————————————-
Across the stadium floor, Taehyung spotted them immediately. “Oh my god,” he whispered dramatically.
Jimin looked up from his phone. “What?”
“Look.”
Jimin followed his gaze. Saw Yoongi standing beside Ellie while she held coffee and looked somewhere between embarrassed and fond.
Then Jimin froze. “Oh.”
Namjoon glanced over once. Immediately sighed into his coffee. “Finally.”
Jimin blinked rapidly, “Wait—how long have we known?”
“You specifically?” Namjoon asked. “Approximately four days less than everyone else.”
Jimin looked offended. “No one told me?”
Namjoon just shrugged.
Meanwhile Taehyung looked personally thrilled. “I knew they were soulmates.”
Namjoon looked at him flatly. “You had no clue.”
“That is also possible.”
————————————————
Ellie remained blissfully unaware of all of this. Mostly because she was currently trying to survive the fact that Yoongi had started remembering tiny details about her.
Like how she took coffee; which translation headset hurt her ears; when crowds overwhelmed her; that she hated being startled; when she forgot meals; how she rubbed at her wrist when anxious
Nobody noticed details about Ellie. Not usually. People noticed Mia. Her younger sister was impossible not to notice. Doctor. Confident. Smart. Effortlessly charismatic.
Meanwhile Ellie had spent most of her life existing quietly beside louder people. Easier that way. Safer too.
So every time Yoongi noticed something small about her, it unsettled her a little. Because part of her kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. Kindness always became conditional eventually….Didn’t it?
——————————————————
That evening’s interviews ran longer than expected. Ellie stood just off-camera translating rapid English questions into Korean while media staff crowded aggressively around the set. Flashing lights. Too many voices. Too much movement.
Her headache started sometime around interview number five. By interview seven, her shoulders were fully tense.
“You okay?”
Ellie startled slightly.
Yoongi sat beside her between takes while stylists adjusted his mic pack.
“I’m fine.” Automatic. Too quick.
Yoongi looked unconvinced immediately. “You say that every time something’s wrong.”
“That feels dramatic.”
“You’re rubbing your wrist.”
Ellie froze. Slowly lowered her hand from where she’d been unconsciously twisting the bracelet around her wrist. “Oh.”
Yoongi’s gaze stayed steady on her face. “Headache?”
“…Maybe.”
He reached into the pocket of his hoodie and held out a small packet of pain relievers.
Ellie stared at him. “You carry medicine?”
“We tour internationally. Of course I carry medicine.”
“That’s terrifyingly responsible.”
“You say terrifying a lot too.”
Ellie laughed softly before she could stop herself.
And the second she did, Yoongi felt the soulmate bond flare warm enough to make his chest ache.
Fuck. This was getting worse. Not better.
Every day around Ellie felt more natural than the last, like she was slowly becoming stitched into the rhythm of his life without either of them realizing it fully yet….Dangerous. Very fucking dangerous.
The problem was: Yoongi wasn’t sure he even wanted to stop it anymore.
Summary: Youre a Victoria’s Secret model with a controversial path who falls for Hyunjin
Warnings: None
Word Count: 1.8k
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The Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show is chaos wrapped in silk and spotlights. You’ve walked it twice before, but this year feels heavier. The wings on your back are lighter than they look, the lingerie you’re wearing is barely there, and the crowd is a glittering sea of phones already recording. You know the drill: strut, pose, own it. But when the lights hit the stage and Stray Kids explode into their set, everything tilts.
They’re performing “Chk Chk Boom,” the beat pounding through the runway like a second heartbeat. Hyunjin is center, all sharp jawline and loose hair, black suit unbuttoned just enough to make the cameras lose their minds. You’re supposed to walk right past him on your final pass. That’s the plan. Simple. Professional.
But the second your eyes lock with his, the plan dissolves.
He doesn’t break character for the choreography, but his gaze follows you like you’re the only thing in the room. When you pause at the end of the runway, striking the signature pose, he steps forward during the bridge, mic in hand, and sings the next line while looking straight at you. The crowd screams. You feel the heat of a thousand flashes, but all you register is the slow, deliberate smirk he gives you right before the lights cut to the next model.
Backstage is a blur of quick changes and adrenaline. You’re halfway out of the wings when a staffer taps your shoulder.
“Hyunjin-ssi asked if you could wait two minutes. He wants to say hi.”
Youve seen the edits already circulating on Twitter, the way he looked at you, the way you looked back. You know what this looks like. You’re not just any model tonight. You’re the one who did the nude campaign last year, the one Korea still call “too bold” and “not idol-friendly.” The one whose name trends every time a new photo drops. You’ve heard the whispers in Seoul for months: she’s too much, too exposed, too Western.
But you wait.He finds you in the hallway behind the stage, still in his performance outfit, hair slightly damp from the lights. Up close he’s taller than he looks on screen, and his eyes are softer.
“You killed that walk,” he says, voice low so only you hear. A small smile tugs at his lips. “Especially the part where you looked at me like you were daring me to keep up.”
Heat crawls up your neck. “You’re the one who stepped out of formation. Risky move for a global stage.”
“Worth it.” He leans against the wall, arms crossed, but his gaze is gentle. “I’ve been watching your campaigns. The new one… it’s art. Not everyone sees it that way, but I do.”
You laugh, short and surprised. Most idols would never admit they’d seen your nudes, let alone call them art. “You’re braver than most.”
“Or just honest.” He pushes off the wall, closing the small distance between you. “Can I have your number? Or is that too forward after eye-fucking you in front of fifty million people?”
You raise an eyebrow, but your pulse is racing. “You’re bold .”
“I’ve been told.” His smile turns playful, but there’s something real underneath. “I don’t care about trouble. I care about the girl who walked like the whole world belonged to her and still looked a little shy when I smiled at her.”
You give him your number. He texts you immediately, a simple sun emoji and the words “saved.”
The clip goes viral before you even leave the venue.
#HyunjinVSModel trends worldwide within an hour. Korean forums light up first, the tone sharp and familiar:
“Hyunjin flirting with a girl who posed nude? JYP needs to control their idols.”
“She’s not even Korean. Why is he giving her that look?”
“Disappointed in Hyunjin. He used to have standards.”
The international side is kinder, thirstier, full of edits and heart-eyes. But back home the narrative is clear: you’re the controversial foreign model who’s “corrupting” their idol. Your past shoots are dug up again, the tasteful nudes from the art book, the ones you did because you loved the photographer’s vision and refused to be ashamed. They call you tacky, reckless, attention-seeking. They tag Hyunjin in every post, demanding explanations.
You scroll through it in your hotel room that night, chest tight. You’ve been here before. You knew this would happen the second his eyes lingered on you longer than they should have.
A knock on your door makes you jump.
Hyunjin is standing in the hallway in a black hoodie and mask, eyes soft but determined. Security let him up because he’s… well, him.
“I saw,” he says the second the door closes behind him. No greeting, no small talk. He steps close, hands sliding to your waist like they belong there. “The comments. The articles. All of it.”
You shrug, trying to play it cool even though your voice wavers. “I’m used to it. You’re not. You should probably distance yourself before..”
“No.” The word is quiet but final. He cups your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “I don’t care. I saw you on that runway and I couldn’t look away. Not because of the lingerie, not because of the wings, because of you. The way you carry yourself. The way you looked right back at me like you weren’t afraid of what people would say. That’s rare. That’s… everything.”
Your breath catches. “Hyunjin, they’re calling me a slut in Korean. They’re saying I’m ruining your image. Your fans are crying about it.”
“Let them.” He rests his forehead against yours. “I’ve read worse about myself. I’ve been called every name for dancing too feminine, for being too emotional, for existing. I know what it feels like to be reduced to one thing. And I know what it feels like when someone sees more. You saw more in me tonight. I see more in you every time I look at your work. The photos aren’t just skin, they’re art. They’re you. And I’m not ashamed of liking what I see.”
He kisses you then, slow and sure, like he’s sealing the words into your skin. When he pulls back his eyes are bright.
“I’m posting something tomorrow,” he says. “A story. Just a photo of us from tonight, nothing explicit, just us smiling. And the caption will say exactly what I want the world to know: I met someone who makes the stage feel small. I’m not hiding her. I’m not apologizing for her. If they have a problem with that, they can take it up with me.”
Your heart stutters. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.” He brushes your hair back. “I’ve spent years performing for people who only want pieces of me. Tonight I want to perform for someone who sees the whole thing. And if that someone is you, then I’m not letting internet comments decide who I get to like.”
You kiss him again, deeper this time, hands sliding under his hoodie to feel the warm skin of his back. He walks you backward until your legs hit the bed, but he doesn’t push. He just holds you, kisses you like he’s got all the time in the world, like the backlash outside doesn’t exist.
The next morning his story is everywhere.
A candid photo of the two of you backstage, his arm around your waist, both of you laughing at something off-camera. The caption in Korean and English:
“Met someone who makes the lights brighter.
She’s art.
I’m lucky.
Don’t @ me with hate. I’m not listening.”
The Korean side explodes. Some fans defend him fiercely. Others unfollow. Dispatch runs a short piece calling the interaction “bold” and “unexpected.” International fans flood your mentions with support and edits. You wake up to hundreds of new followers and a single text from Hyunjin:
“Breakfast? I know a place with really good pancakes and zero judgment. Wear whatever you want. I like all of you.”
You meet him at a quiet café in Hongdae. He’s wearing a beanie and mask, but the second you walk in he pulls you into a hug like the world isn’t watching. When you sit down he slides a plate of pancakes toward you and steals a bite from yours with a grin.
“They’re saying I’m a bad influence on you,” you say, half-joking, half-serious.
He shrugs, eyes sparkling. “Good. I’ve been the good boy for too long. Maybe I need a little controversy. Especially if it comes with a girl who looks at me like that.”
You laugh despite yourself. He reaches across the table and laces your fingers with his, right there in public.
“I don’t care what they say about your past shoots,” he says quietly. “I don’t care what they say about me liking them. I saw you last night and I felt something real. That’s rare. I’m not letting it go because of some comments on the internet.”
You squeeze his hand. “You’re really okay with all of this?”
“I’m more than okay. I’m choosing it.” He leans in, voice dropping to that low, flirty tone that started everything. “Besides, if they’re going to talk anyway, we might as well give them something worth talking about.”
He kisses you right there in the café, soft and unhurried, like he’s got nothing to prove to anyone but you.
The controversy doesn’t die overnight. It simmers for weeks. Some brands hesitate to book you. A few Korean variety shows quietly uninvite Stray Kids from joint appearances. But Hyunjin never wavers. He posts more photos of the two of you: you in his hoodie backstage, him kissing your temple after a late rehearsal, both of you eating street food in matching masks. Each caption is simple and defiant.
“She’s more than the rumors.
So am I.”
You start to believe it too. The girl who once posed nude because she refused to be ashamed now holds hands with one of the biggest idols in the world in broad daylight. The comments still come, but so do the love letters from fans who see themselves in your boldness, in his refusal to hide.
One night, months later, after another sold-out show, he pulls you onto the empty stage under the house lights. The arena is silent, just the two of you and the faint smell of smoke machines.
“Remember when you walked past me that first time?” he asks, spinning you slowly under the spotlights.
You nod, smiling. “You almost missed your cue because you were staring.”
“I did miss it on purpose.” He stops spinning you, pulling you close. “I wanted the whole world to see me looking at you. I still do.”
He kisses you under the same lights that once made you feel exposed. This time they just make you feel seen.
And when the next headline drops, calling you “Hyunjin’s controversial girlfriend,” he only laughs, screenshots it, and sends it to you with a single heart.
summary: in which yunho and mingi have never wanted to share something more than a blunt before until they saw you under blacklights glowing between them
warning: dom possessive yunho, switch mingi, sub reader, use of drugs, threesome, fingering, unprotected sex, oral, light choking, creaming, squirting, double penetration, anal, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, creampie
genre: smut
pairing: dealer yunho x afab reader x dealer mingi
word count: 17.9k
masterlist
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The bass was already rattling the cracked pavement two blocks away as Yunho’s truck turned the corner slow, windows down just enough for the humid Florida air to curl inside. The street leading to the warehouse was half lit by flickering lights, the type of place cops pretended not to know about. Figures lined the sidewalk half naked, glittered up, already high, already dancing. The rave hadn’t even hit full swing yet, and it was already chaos.
Mingi leaned forward in the passenger seat, eyes catching on the neon signs tagging the building’s exterior in shifting graffiti. “Damn,” he muttered, lips curling. “This place is actually kinda sick.” Yunho didn’t answer, just pulled into a spot a little too perfect to be legal. The truck’s engine purred low before cutting off, leaving only the thump of bass and the distant sound of someone screaming with laughter in the dark.
Mingi slouched back, grinning like sin itself, and reached into the pocket of his cargos. “Wanna roll?” Yunho turned his head, expression blank. “What are you doing?” Mingi casually held up a bag of tiny pills between his fingers, the soft glow of the streetlamp catching on the pressed letters. “Molly,” he said. “You want some?”
Yunho stared at him for a long second. Then another. “No,” he said finally, voice low, like he was already exasperated. “Someone has to drive us back home.” Mingi popped one anyway. “You’re gonna stay sober? In there?” Yunho just smirked, slow and dangerous. “I never said I was gonna be sober.” Mingi blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “Wait… did you already….”
Yunho leaned forward, opened the glove box, and pulled out a half finished pack of edibles. He popped one piece between his teeth, the other slipping casually to Mingi. “I took an edible an hour ago.” Mingi made a low sound of betrayal. “You bitch… you pre gamed?” Yunho was already out of the truck, slamming the door shut behind him. The music hit harder once they stepped outside, vibrating through their shoes. Smoke, heat, the sharp sting of ocean salt and gasoline, Florida in the summer had never tasted so wild.
Mingi jogged to catch up. “You’re such a bad influence.”
“Good,” Yunho said, heading toward the line of glowing bodies outside the warehouse. “So are you.” They passed the graffiti covered gates with barely a glance from the bouncer, just a nod at Yunho’s face and a low spoken “you good” as the two of them stepped inside. Heat slammed into them like a wall. Not just from the packed crowd, but from the bodies grinding, the lights slicing through artificial fog, and the music, loud enough to rewire their bones. Every surface pulsed. The air reeked of sweat, perfume, weed, and something else sweeter. The floor trembled beneath their boots like the building was alive.
Mingi exhaled, pupils already beginning to dilate. He tipped his head back, tongue between his teeth as the bass dropped, then leaned in closer to Yunho’s ear, practically shouting over the music. “I’m going for it tonight.” Yunho glanced at him, brows furrowed. “What?”
“Her.” Mingi’s eyes scanned the crowd like a predator loosed into the wild. “You know… Y/N. Don’t act like you haven’t been losing your shit ever since she moved in with Wooyoung.” Yunho’s jaw tightened, just a flicker, but Mingi caught it. “That obvious, huh?” Yunho muttered and Mingi grinned like he’d already won. “Dude. She’s hot as fuck, funny, always half naked when we bump into her in the hall…”
“You don’t bump into her,” Yunho cut in. “You linger outside your door with no shirt on until she walks past from taking the trash out like clockwork.”
“And you don’t look at her?” Mingi shot back, raising a brow. “Please. You think I haven’t seen the way you check her out when she’s walking ahead of us to Wooyoung’s place?” Yunho didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Because yeah, you had been driving him crazy. Ever since that first night Wooyoung introduced you with that smug “she’s off limits unless you’re ready to die trying” smile. Ever since he’d seen you curled up on Wooyoung’s couch in a Tomb Raider shirt and boy shorts, sipping from a can of spiked soda like you weren’t the hottest thing either of them had ever seen.
“First one to make her kiss him wins,” Mingi said suddenly, holding out a hand. Yunho just stared at it, unimpressed. “Are we twelve?”
“No,” Mingi grinned, wiggling his fingers. “We’re bored. Come on, unless you’re scared.” Yunho took a slow breath. Then clasped Mingi’s hand, his smile all teeth, because Yunho was competitive after all. “You’re gonna lose.”
Bodies moved around them in a blur, painted arms thrown in the air, smeared glitter catching the blacklight, eyes blown wide with lust and heat and whatever they’d taken. Mingi moved first, weaving through the crowd with Yunho close behind, both of them scanning faces, hair, silhouettes. But the second Mingi saw you, everything else stopped. “Fuck,” he muttered.
Yunho, high enough now that the lights were starting to ripple, turned his head. “What?”
“There,” Mingi said, voice low, like the moment deserved reverence. “Black leather. Red cup in one hand, Wooyoung’s shirt in the other.” Yunho followed his line of sight. And saw you. Lit by violet strobe and shadows, you stood half turned from the crowd, your body arched slightly as you leaned into Wooyoung’s side, laughing at something he said. You were wearing what could barely be called a top, all straps and skin and black that clung to your chest, wrapping around you like sin. Your shorts laced tight at the hips, barely long enough to hide anything. And your jacket? Hanging loose over your shoulders like you hadn’t bothered to put it on all the way, too busy dancing, glowing, existing.
Yunho’s jaw tensed, his tongue running along his molars as you turned, eyes catching theirs across the strobe lit haze. Your smile curled slow and Mingi’s hand twitched at his side. “Game on,” Mingi said, already moving. They moved like they belonged there. Mingi weaving through the crowd with that loose swagger, like the lights themselves parted for him. Yunho trailing just behind, cool, unreadable, the calm before a storm. Both tall, sharp edged, draped in shadows and neon glow. People turned as they passed. Some stared. Some stepped aside. But neither of them looked at anyone else. Only you.
You were laughing now, leaning into Wooyoung, fingers brushing the collar of his half unbuttoned shirt as Wooyoung glanced past you. Saw them. And grinned. “Told you they’d show up,” he shouted over the music, voice smug as hell, eyes locking with Mingi’s. “Didn’t I say they couldn’t stay away?” You turned, still smiling, but the second your gaze hit Yunho again, it stuttered.
That look in his eyes, low, steady, heavy. Like he’d already decided something. And Mingi? He gave you a look like he wanted to taste the heat off your skin and let it burn his tongue. All teeth and promise, like he hadn’t forgotten a single time he’d run into you in the hall. Not when your shorts rode up. Not when your hair was still wet from the shower. Definitely not when you caught him staring and just winked. “Y/N,” Wooyoung said, practically purring in your ear, “look who finally decided to stop playing hard to get.”
They stopped directly in front of you. Close enough that Yunho could feel the warmth rolling off your skin. Close enough that Mingi caught the faint citrus sweet scent of your perfume under the smoke and sweat. The bass thudded between you, slow and relentless, vibrating straight through bone as Wooyoung looked between the three of you, eyes bright, already feral with anticipation. “So,” he said, clapping a hand on Mingi’s shoulder, “what treats did my favorite dealers bring?”
Mingi laughed, easy and loose, already digging into his pocket. “You don’t waste time, huh?”
“Why would I?” Wooyoung shot back. “I know you.”
Mingi tipped two pills into his palm, holding them up like candy under the strobe. Wooyoung made a delighted noise, snatching one immediately. “Oh, thank God,” he said, already popping it. “San’s gonna lose his mind when he gets here.”
Yunho barely reacted, eyes still on you. The edible had settled in fully now, everything just a touch softer around the edges, lights bleeding together, sound stretching. But you stayed sharp. Clear. Distracting in a way that made his jaw tighten as Mingi turned his attention back to you, grin slow, deliberate. “You want?” he asked casually, like he wasn’t already watching your mouth.
You lifted a brow. “Depends.”
Mingi stepped closer. Too close. He tipped the pill from his palm to his fingertips, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. His voice dipped, just for you. “Depends on what?” Yunho’s breath hitched before he could stop it. The world seemed to narrow to that single, stupidly intimate gesture. The way Mingi’s fingers hovered near your lips. The way Yunho’s gaze flicked down without permission, heat blooming low in his stomach.
Wooyoung noticed. Of course he did and his grin turned wicked. “Ohhh,” he said, dragging the sound out. “This is gonna be a night.”
The pill hovered just inches from your mouth. You didn’t break eye contact. Didn’t answer. Just opened your mouth slowly, lips parting with deliberate ease, tongue slipping out in silent invitation, wet and waiting. Mingi’s grin faltered for half a second. Just a flicker. Like maybe he wasn’t expecting you to say yes without words. Like maybe he thought you’d giggle or tease or make him work for it. But no, you just stared at him, eyes glittering beneath the UV haze, daring him to close the space.
And so he did. Fingers steady, he brought the pill forward and placed it on your tongue, soft, precise, slow enough to feel every heartbeat between you as Yunho watched the whole thing like it was a crime scene. His jaw clenched. His hands slipped into his pockets, not for style, but control. Because watching you let Mingi feed you something he could’ve done… watching your tongue curl and pull it in without a sound? It was obscene.
You closed your mouth with a smirk, lips glossed and dangerous, and leaned back like you hadn’t just made them both lose composure for a second too long as Wooyoung whistled low beside you, laughing. “I told you,” he shouted over the music, spinning slightly like he couldn’t handle the secondhand heat. “Told you. She plays harder than either of you.”
Mingi exhaled through his nose, eyes still on your mouth. “You’re evil.” Yunho didn’t speak. He just licked his lips, slow. And thought about how long he was willing to wait for his turn.
The second the pill was gone, your tongue flicking back behind your lips, you just smiled. Mingi was still looking at your mouth like he’d just watched a miracle. Yunho hadn’t moved an inch, except for the way his jaw was locked tight, like he was biting down a thought he shouldn’t say out loud. And that’s when you hit them with it. “I’m honestly surprised you two left the apartment,” you said, tilting your head, voice lazy and sweet. “Didn’t think you left that couch unless someone was banging on your door or cash apping you.”
Mingi blinked. Yunho raised one brow, lips twitching despite himself as Wooyoung nearly howled. “Yes!” he shouted, pointing at you like you’d just dunked on them both in a single move. “That’s my girl!” Mingi laughed, one sharp breath, stepping in just enough that your knees almost brushed. “So you’ve been thinking about us on that couch, huh?” You gave him a look, equal parts innocent and filthy. “Maybe.”
Yunho finally spoke, voice low, calm like deep water. “Didn’t think you noticed us.”
“I notice everything,” you said, meeting his stare head on. “Especially the way you watch me like you’re trying not to.” That one landed and Mingi let out a quiet, “Shit,” under his breath, delighted. Yunho didn’t blink. Didn’t smirk. Just said, “I wasn’t trying.”
Wooyoung just stood there, sipping his drink with the world’s most satisfied expression. “Okay,” he said, glancing between the three of you. “Well, I feel like the fourth wheel now, so I’m gonna go find somewhere else to be until San gets here.” He patted your hip, leaned close to your ear. “Destroy them,” he whispered, then disappeared into the crowd like he knew exactly what he’d just left behind.
You licked your lips, whether from the taste of the pill or just for show, neither of them could tell, and looked between the two of them, slow, deliberate. “I’m thirsty,” you said. It wasn’t a whine. It wasn’t a request. It was a command dressed up like a casual thought. Mingi blinked as Yunho raised one brow.
And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, Yunho held out a closed fist and Mingi grinned, instantly mirroring him. “Rock, paper, scissors?” Yunho asked, like they hadn’t done this same thing over stupid shit a hundred times before. “Let’s go.”
“One, two, three…. shoot!”
Yunho’s rock smashed Mingi’s scissors and Mingi dropped his hand like he’d just lost a championship. “Bullshit.”
“You lost,” Yunho said simply, that ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth as you watched, amused, as Mingi groaned like he’d just been asked to run a marathon instead of hit the bar. “Fine,” he said, rolling his eyes at you playfully. “What do you want, princess?”
“Surprise me,” you replied, cocking your head. “Something good. And cold.”
Mingi gave you a lazy salute. “On it. If I get trampled on the way to the bar, avenge me.” He disappeared into the crowd, swallowed up by bodies and strobes, leaving you alone with Yunho who rolled his shoulders back, eyelids heavy, half lowered, his stare molten beneath the blacklight. You could tell he must be high. He wasn’t stiff anymore. That always wound up tension in his shoulders had melted, replaced by a kind of lazy ease, like he was made of heat and smoke now. Like if you touched him, your fingers might sink right in.
“You look good tonight.”
Simple. But something about the way he said it, flat tone, that deep voice running over the words like honey over ice, made it feel like a confession. Not a compliment. Your brows lifted, but he wasn’t finished. “I mean,” he went on, licking his lips, “you always look good. Even when you’re yelling at Wooyoung in the hallway in your pajamas with your hair up and no bra on.”
Your lips parted. “What?”
Yunho just looked at you. Dead serious. “What? You think we don’t hear you two through the door?”
You blinked. “You…”
“You stomp your feet when you’re mad,” he added, tilting his head, voice thoughtful now, like he was recalling a favorite memory. “That one night when he ate your leftovers? You said you were gonna pour hot sauce in his shampoo.”
You stared and he smiled. High Yunho was a menace. “And still,” he said, stepping just a little closer, voice low enough that you had to lean in to hear it, “you looked so good. That tiny tank top, those shorts, all attitude. I almost walked over just to see if you’d yell at me like that too after watching you shove Wooyoung inside.”
Your breath caught. He was close now. The kind of close that made it impossible to think about anything else. His eyes were darker, lazier. His voice a shade rougher. His mouth curled just a little, like he was enjoying how much he was messing with you. “You like being mean and bratty?” he asked quietly. “Or just to people who can’t handle it?”
You let out a breathless laugh before you could stop it, more air than sound, caught somewhere between, are you serious? and, please keep going.
Yunho’s mouth twitched at the corners like he heard every unspoken word in that exhale as you tilted your head slightly, eyes narrowing, your voice playful but razor edged. “So…” you said, eyes dragging down his chest before sliding back up to meet his gaze again, “which one of you came here planning on making a move tonight?”
Yunho didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even pretend to deflect. He just took one, slow step closer, enough that your knees nearly brushed again. His voice dropped an octave if that were even possible, drenched in honey and smoke. “I didn’t plan anything,” he said. “But then you opened your mouth and let Mingi feed you like that…” His eyes dipped to your lips. “and now all I can think about is getting my turn.”
Your breath hitched again, but he wasn’t done. High Yunho didn’t have a filter, and apparently, he wasn’t about to start now. He leaned in just enough that you felt the heat of his breath against your ear. “You ask which one of us came here planning to make a move?” he murmured, his voice a low drag of sin, “I think the real question is…” His nose brushed lightly against your jaw, barely there, barely real. “how many moves are you gonna let us make?”
You didn’t even get the chance to answer. Because Mingi slid back into the space beside you with three plastic cups struggling in his hands and that smug, lazy grin like he knew Yunho had been running his mouth in his absence. “Miss me?” he asked, holding your drink out. You took it without hesitation, fingers brushing his as your eyes flicked between both of them, Yunho high and hungry, Mingi glowing from the Molly and the heat. Both of them stared at you like they were ready to make a bad decision if you even hinted.
But you didn’t say anything. Not right away. Because something over Mingi’s shoulder caught your attention. Movement. Shirtless movement. Wooyoung and San had claimed a corner of the rave like it belonged to them, bare torsos lit up under the black light, bodies slick with sweat and paint. San’s hands were on Wooyoung’s chest, dragging glowing streaks over muscle and skin, while Wooyoung tilted his head back and laughed, messy and loud and gorgeous. They looked feral. They looked free. And you wanted in.
Your lips curved into a slow smirk as you took a sip from your cup, sweet, cold, laced with something that bit the back of your throat just enough to spark. Then, without a word, you started moving. Through the crowd. Toward them. Like you belonged as Yunho and Mingi shared a glance. One second. No words. Then they both threw back their drinks, downing them in one go. And followed. Because wherever you were going, they weren’t about to let you go alone.
The crowd thinned just enough for them to see you clearly again, stepping into the chaos where San and Wooyoung were still painting each other like living art installations. The air back here was thick with heat, sweat, and something sweeter, desire, maybe. Or danger. Same thing, really.
Yunho’s buzz was deep now, softening everything around the edges but sharpening you. The way the strobe lit up your skin. The way the blacklight made your eyes glow. He wasn’t even sure if the bass was still playing or if that pounding in his chest had taken over. Mingi’s jaw flexed as you reached San and Wooyoung, the blacklight making his bleached hair glow.
You slipped your arms back, fingers tugging your jacket from your shoulders. Slow. Controlled. Letting it fall and slide down your arms until it dropped to the floor like it meant nothing. The second it hit, every head turned, the cut of your top clinging to your chest, the sliver of your waist exposed. Your breathing had changed. Shallower. Faster. You were feeling it now.
And then you looked at them. Dead on. No hesitation. “So…” you said, voice dipped in challenge, honey sweet and devastating, “which one of you is gonna paint my body?” Yunho froze. Mingi swallowed. Wooyoung made an unholy noise like he was witnessing something sacred as San just muttered, “Jesus,” and passed you the paintbrush he was using, the handle already slick from sweat and color.
Mingi recovered first, stepping forward, slow and grinning, voice thick. “You trust me with that?” You smirked. “Did I say I trusted you?” Behind him, Yunho’s hands flexed at his sides. His voice, when it came, was low and quiet, but it carried. “She asked which one of us,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “I say we both do it.”
The second Yunho said it, they moved. No hesitation. No coordination. Just instinct. Yunho and Mingi flanked you like you were the axis they spun around, blacklight paint already in hand, pupils blown wide, breathing in sync with the bass as Wooyoung, ever the chaos conductor, whistled low. “I’ll give you three some privacy,” he shouted, grabbing San’s wrist.
San barely managed a smirk, eyes lingering for one last second before Wooyoung dragged him into the sea of bodies, leaving you under the hot eyes and hotter hands of the two men who’d been holding back all night. The air kissed your skin, humid and electric. And then Mingi’s brush touched your shoulder. Soft at first. A teasing stroke, sweeping neon pink across the curve of your arm, dragging down to your bicep, then the inside of your elbow where your skin was most sensitive. He used his fingers just as much as the brush, smudging lines in hypnotic patterns that made you shiver. He didn’t rush. Didn’t speak. Just watched the way you reacted to each stroke, the way your lips parted.
Yunho knelt. Just dropped. The moment his knees hit the ground, you felt it in your spine. He dipped low, brush gliding along your thigh, cool against overheated skin. Neon purple bloomed in swirls just under the hem of your shorts, the handle of the brush pressing lightly into your leg as he dragged it downward. Then again, slower. Then his hand smoothed up behind the paint, warm palm, grounding touch, his thumb slipping dangerously close to the crease where your thigh met your hip.
You could feel him breathing. Hear the music bend around your body as the Molly hit hard. Colors exploded in your vision, the floor seemed to tilt slightly, and suddenly their hands weren’t just touching you, they were everywhere. Mapping you. Marking you. Mingi whispered something, too low to catch. You glanced at him. His pupils were blown wide, lips parted, a smear of pink paint across his knuckles. “You’re glowing,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “You feel that?”
Yunho pressed closer against your leg, painting along the outside of your calf now, head tipped to look up at you, eyes dark under the light. “I want to paint all of you,” he said softly. “Everywhere.” His fingers trailed the last stripe of neon up your calf, the brush moving slow like he didn’t want the moment to end. His gaze stayed locked on your thigh, his breath warm against your skin, and then your hand found his jaw. He looked up just in time to see your smirk. “Up.”
Just one word. But it was all it took. Yunho rose like he was pulled by a string, tall and towering again in front of you. Your eyes never left his, even as your fingers found the hem of his shirt. “Take it off.” You didn’t ask but Yunho obeyed. The fabric lifted slow over his torso, revealing hard lines, lean muscle, the faint glint of sweat already forming at his collarbone. Under the blacklight, every inch of him lit up in pieces, like a statue waking under your touch.
And then you snatched the brush from his hand. He didn’t stop you. Didn’t blink. Just let his hands fall to his sides, head tilted slightly, eyes dragging down your body like he couldn’t believe you were real as you dipped the brush in the paint still slick on your palm, purple, and pressed the tip to his chest. A long, slow streak down the middle, right over his sternum. Then another, across his shoulder. A swirl down the outside of his ribcage. You moved closer, bodies nearly flush now, paintbrush dancing like you were claiming him.
Mingi watched, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a groan. He didn’t interrupt. Just let it happen, eyes dark, jaw tight, watching your fingers, watching Yunho take it. And Yunho, high, flushed, lips slightly parted, breathed out slow. “You’re dangerous,” he muttered making you smile, dragging the brush up his throat, stopping just beneath his jaw. “So are you,” you whispered, “but I’m better at it.”
You took one last slow stroke up Yunho’s neck, leaving a streak of glowing purple beneath his jaw, then stepped back to admire your work, paint glistening on his chest, his breathing shallow, his eyes glued to your face like he couldn’t look away if he tried. Then you turned. Head tilting. A single brow raised.
Mingi caught the look and grinned like he’d been waiting for it all night. “Say less,” he muttered, and yanked his shirt over his head in one smooth pull. The blacklight lit him up immediately, broad chest, golden skin already glistening with heat and Molly sweat, a line of silver chain hanging loose around his neck. His jeans sat low on his hips, and the way he stood, relaxed and ready? It made your mouth dry.
You didn’t waste time. You stepped forward and pressed the brush to his chest, dragging a thick stripe of hot pink from his collarbone down to the center of his abs. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. Just watched you, eyes hungry, jaw tense. Then your voice came, slow, a little breathy, like the paint was dragging truth out of you along with color. “Tell me…” The brush slid across his ribs. “how long…” You dipped again, switched colors. A smear of purple across his shoulder. “have the two of you…” A soft drag of the brush across the curve of his bicep. “been thinking about me?”
Neither of them answered. So you kept going. You turned, stepped between them, Yunho to your right, Mingi to your left, both shirtless, glowing, painted like they’d been claimed by your hands. “Which one of you…” you asked, painting a slow swirl over Mingi’s chest, then looking to Yunho, “am I going back to the apartment with later?” Your eyes flicked between them again, lips curling into something darker. Something dangerous. “Or are you the sharing type?”
Yunho’s jaw clenched so hard it ticked as Mingi let out a low laugh, sharp, wrecked, wrecking. And then Yunho stepped forward. Chest to your back and Mingi stepped closer, right in front of you. You were sandwiched now, heat, hands, breath. Trapped by two beautiful, high, paint covered problems. Yunho leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. “We don’t share most things,” he murmured. “But we’ve talked about you.” Mingi’s hand found your hip. “A lot,” he added. “And the way we see it?” His other hand came up, paint still wet on his fingers, dragging across your waist. “If you can handle both of us…. why should you have to choose?”
The moment hung there, thick with breath, bass, and sweat. Their hands were on you. Their paint was on you. Their heat coiled around your spine like smoke. But you didn’t stay. You slipped between them, smooth and untouchable, brushing Yunho’s hip as you passed, dragging your fingers along Mingi’s stomach like a promise. And then you disappeared into the crowd. Into the glow. Into the pulse. Bodies moved around you, painted and shirtless and slick. You started to move with them, head tipped back, lips parted, arms rising as the lights split the dark. The Molly hit now, not all the way just yet but enough the throb of bass vibrated inside your ribcage. Every brush of skin on skin sent your nerves sparking like static. You didn’t just dance. You surrendered.
And they watched. Mingi stood there, eyes wide, chest rising and falling too fast, the paint on his skin glowing like warpaint. Yunho hadn’t moved at all. Still high. Still rooted. Still staring like you were pulling the breath from his lungs just by existing. Then, finally, he spoke, low, sure, teeth clenched around something he’d been holding back since the second he saw you. “If we do this…”
Mingi’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and Yunho didn’t look away. “we’re keeping her.” Mingi’s mouth twitched. Then he nodded, already stepping forward. And together, they walked into the dark and glowing paint after you.
The music was drowning everything, conversations, thoughts, names. You could barely feel the floor beneath your feet. The Molly was peaking now, turning the lights into ribbons, your body into smoke, and every brush of skin into something holy. You didn’t notice them at first. Not until Yunho slipped in front of you, silent as a shadow, paint still streaked across his chest, his eyes locked onto yours like you were the only thing left in the world that mattered. He didn’t touch you. Not yet. Just looked.
And then Mingi was behind you. You felt him first, heat at your back, the low rumble of a breath against your neck, and then his hands, big and warm, sliding around your waist like he’d done it a hundred times in his head already. Your body reacted instantly, hips twitching, chest rising, that high washing over you in crashing waves as their hands found you at the same time.
Yunho’s fingers skimmed your arms, sliding down to your hands, lacing through your fingers before pushing them gently to your sides, like he wanted you open. Exposed. Mingi’s hands were firmer now, one on your stomach, holding you against him, the other drifting lower, dragging across the paint on your thigh, smearing it warm between your skin and his palm.
You let out a soft, involuntary sound as Yunho leaned in, lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “You feel it?” You could only nod. Because you did. Everything. Their breath. Their skin. The heat rising like a tide you had no hope of escaping. Mingi’s mouth brushed the back of your neck, slow and dizzying. “You’re so high right now,” he murmured. Because so were they.
And then Yunho’s hands were on your hips, tilting you between them, rocking your body into Mingi’s slowly as the beat crashed around you like no one else was watching. Like the dance floor had become theirs. Yours. All of it. All of you. Mingi’s lips found your neck like he was starved for it. No hesitation, just heat. Soft at first, then deeper, open mouthed, tongue dragging slow against your pulse. The paint smeared between his mouth and your skin was warm and sweet, and the Molly hitting him full force made every breath of yours feel like it was his.
You gasped, half from surprise, half from how right it felt, and reached back without thinking. Your hand slid into his hair, messy and sweat damp, nails grazing his scalp as he groaned into your neck. “Fuck,” he muttered against your skin. “I need to taste you.”
Yunho pressed in closer from the front, eyes locked on yours, one hand sliding up your side like he needed to ground you both. His fingers dragged along your ribs, slipping just under the band of your top, and your head tipped back between them, utterly lost in the moment. Which is exactly when Wooyoung saw you. Across the dance floor, barely lit by the glow of spinning lights, he stopped mid step, one arm around San, the other holding a drink he immediately forgot he was holding.
“Holy shit,” he said, nearly choking on a laugh. “That’s gotta be, like… the hottest thing I have ever seen.” San, already a little flushed, followed his gaze and froze. His mouth fell open. He blinked. Once. Twice. Then leaned over and stage-whispered, “Wait… are they seriously….. here? Now?”
“Babe,” Wooyoung said, eyes not leaving the scene, “I don’t think they even remember we exist right now.”
Back on the dance floor, your hand was still tangled in Mingi’s hair, your other gripping Yunho’s bicep as his lips brushed your cheekbone, the heat from both their bodies making you feel like you were floating. You could feel Yunho’s next breath against your lips. And Mingi’s next moan into your neck as he was grinding into you now.
His hips rolled slow, perfectly in sync with the beat, with the rhythm of your breath, with the way your ass pressed flush against him. Every movement made you feel how hard he was, how far gone he’d let himself get. His lips were still at your neck, dragging lower now, teeth grazing your shoulder, breath ragged like he could barely hold it together. “Goddamn,” he murmured into your skin. “You’re driving me fucking insane.”
Your hand tightened in his hair. And then you turned. Yunho was right in front of you, looking like he was ready to devour you. His pupils were blown, lips parted, chest rising fast beneath the streaks of paint you’d left on him. He hadn’t touched you in the last few seconds, too busy watching, watching the way you melted under Mingi, watching your body arch, watching the way you looked at him.
So you made the next move. You reached forward, grabbed the front of his jeans with one hand, pulled him in like it was nothing and kissed him. Hard. Hot. Like you’d been waiting to. Yunho froze for half a second, like his brain glitched. Then he kissed you back so deep and hungry it made your knees weak. His hand cradled the side of your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as his mouth slanted over yours again, tongue sliding slow and possessive like he wanted to learn every damn inch of you right there on the dance floor.
Behind you, Mingi froze. You felt it. He pulled back just enough to blink, and then groaned, resting his forehead on your shoulder. “Not fair,” he mumbled, full pout in his voice. “I called dibs.” You broke the kiss just long enough to laugh breathlessly, still holding onto Yunho, your chest rising against his.
Yunho smirked, eyes flicking down to your lips again. “She pulled me in,” he said, voice low, wrecked as Mingi tugged your hips back harder, grinding into you again with intent. “Mingi wants a kiss,” he muttered, all sulk and heat in your ear, his voice low enough to melt your spine.
“Oh?” you said, loud enough for Yunho to hear, sweet as sin. “Hmm. Mingi wants a kiss?” Both of them froze when they heard your tone. That teasing, syrup thick dangerous tone. Then your fingers tugged hard. Your hand still tangled in Mingi’s hair gave a sharp pull, tilting his head up behind you as he gasped softly. And your other hand slid back up Yunho’s chest, curled around the back of his neck, and pulled him forward too.
Their faces met just over your shoulder. So close they could feel each other’s breath. And then you pushed them together. Mingi’s eyes widened as Yunho’s lips parted. And they kissed. At first? Just a spark. Then collision. Mingi groaned into it, hand still gripping your waist. Yunho tilted his head slightly, mouth moving slow and deep over Mingi’s like he’d been waiting for it. The blacklight caught the wetness of their lips, the smudged paint along their jaws, the raw, starving hunger that passed between them like a live wire.
You were sandwiched in between it all. Their bodies, their heat, their mouths. And you had never felt more powerful. When they finally broke the kiss, breathing hard, paint smeared between them, Yunho rested his forehead against yours as Mingi was still gripping your hip like he might fall if he let go. “That’s better,” you whispered, voice wrecked.
The crowd around you was nothing, just silhouettes and smoke, shadows moving to the bass. But here? This was the epicenter. You. Yunho. Mingi. All three of you locked together, dancing, lips swollen, hands everywhere. It wasn’t graceful anymore, it was messy, beautiful, hungry. You kissed Yunho again, fingers in his hair, his hand gripping your waist like he needed to anchor himself to something real. Then your mouth was on Mingi’s, hotter, sloppier, tongues tangled as he dragged your hips into his with no shame, no patience.
Then, Yunho and Mingi again. Another kiss. Another jolt. Longer this time. No push from you. No smirk. Just them, moving, like instinct had taken over. Mingi’s hand on Yunho’s jaw, Yunho’s thumb pressing into Mingi’s hipbone like he didn’t realize he was doing it. And in the middle of it, you were still swaying, chest rising and falling, eyes fluttering closed as their heat bled into you. Until you broke away, grinning, panting. “I need to find Wooyoung,” you said suddenly, breath catching. “I gotta pee and I’m not going alone.”
Both men blinked, dazed, like you’d just pulled them out of a trance. You kissed Mingi once more, quick, sticky with sweat and paint. Then Yunho, slower, just enough tongue to promise you’d be back. Then you disappeared into the crowd again, vanishing into the strobe and fog and bodies.
Yunho and Mingi were left standing there. Still shirtless. Still glowing. Still tasting each other on their lips. Still very much not okay as Mingi cleared his throat after a long beat. “You’re not that bad of a kisser,” he said, voice light but strained, like he was trying to make it a joke and not think about it too hard.
Yunho didn’t look at him. Just stared into the middle distance like he was still buffering. “Shut the fuck up, Mingi.”
Mingi huffed a breath, nervous laugh catching in his throat. Because in all the years they’d been best friends, through everything they’d done, sold, wrecked, and survived, they had never done that before. And it wasn’t going away.
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
You found Wooyoung near the back wall, mid dance with San, glitter streaked across his cheeks and a drink still clutched in one hand. He was laughing, of course he was, until your fingers curled around his wrist.
“Hey!”
“Bathroom. Now.”
Wooyoung blinked at the urgency in your voice but didn’t fight it. He never did when you got that tone. You dragged him past the grinding bodies, past the painted walls and flickering lights, until you shoved open the heavy black door with the hand lettered, COMMUNAL RELIEF ZONE [ Don’t Fuck in Here Please ], sign barely clinging to the frame.
Inside, the restroom looked like the aftermath of a music video, graffiti on every surface, stalls that barely latched, a mirror cracked across the middle, and the faint smell of body spray, beer, and weed lingering thick in the air. The only light came from a busted fluorescent overhead, flickering like it was trying to keep a beat. You stopped in front of the mirror, catching your reflection, sweaty, glowing, flushed, streaked in neon paint, lips swollen from kissing both of them.
Wooyoung leaned against the cracked sink, looking at you like he was already halfway through a reality show in his head. “So,” he said, sipping his drink. “Everything okay? Or, like, the opposite?” You turned to him, eyes wide, voice just above a whisper. “This is insane, right?” you asked. “Like… actually insane?”
Wooyoung blinked. “Babe. It’s you. Of course it’s insane.”
You laughed, breathless, wiping a bit of glowing paint from your neck. “I’m really doing this,” you muttered, almost to yourself. “With both of them.”
Wooyoung’s eyes lit up. “Uh, yeah you are. And can I just say? Finally! The three of you have been teetering on the edge since you moved in with me.”
Your mouth fell open. “We have not!”
“Oh come on,” he groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. “You’ve been orbiting each other for months. You walk past their door like it owes you something. Yunho stares at you like he wants to die about it. Mingi flirts with you like he’s being paid in orgasms.”
You stared at him, silent as Wooyoung sipped his drink again. “So yeah. You’re really doing this. And honestly? You’re glowing. Literally and spiritually. Now piss before I kick the door down and tell them you changed your mind.”
Wooyoung waited as you relieved yourself and came out of the stall a little more grounded, but just barely. Your reflection still looked wild. Cheeks flushed, pupils huge, glowing paint across your chest, your stomach, your thighs. You still had Yunho’s kiss on your lips. Mingi’s breath still burned at your neck. Your body was humming. Buzzing.
Wooyoung watched you from the sink like a cat on a windowsill, bored and amused and deeply invested as you washed your hands. You turned to him, brushing hair from your face, breath evening out. “Hey…”
He raised a brow.
“You’ve had threesomes before…” you said carefully, watching his face. “With San…”
Wooyoung didn’t even flinch. “Yes,” he said, like you’d asked him if he’d tried iced matcha. “Obviously.”
You blinked. “Okay. But…. San’s your boyfriend.”
“Correct again.”
“And you two have an… understanding.”
Wooyoung leaned back against the sink, arms folded, cocking his head. “Also true.”
“But Yunho and Mingi…” you trailed off.
Wooyoung’s smile dropped, just slightly, into something softer. “They’re best friends,” he said. “Very best. They’d die for each other. And yeah… they both want you.”
You swallowed.
“And I know you want both of them,” he added gently.
You looked down at your paint covered hands. “What do I do?”
Wooyoung grinned. Bright. Wicked. Proud. “It’s 2026, babe,” he said, stepping forward and fixing the twisted strap of your top like it was sacred. “Go claim your two boyfriends.”
Your breath caught in your throat.
“Both of them,” he repeated. “Preferably before Mingi comes in his pants and Yunho implodes from emotional repression.”
You burst out laughing, smacking his arm and he grabbed your hand. “Let’s go. You’ve got two men waiting outside who would sell their souls for one more taste of you. Don’t keep them waiting.”
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
Yunho and Mingi stood just off the dance floor, paint still glowing on their bare chests, skin hot from the rush of movement, kisses, and whatever the hell just happened between the three of you. The crowd pulsed around them, bodies grinding, music crashing, lights strobing but neither of them moved.
They just stood there, staring at the bathroom hallway like you might reappear any second and light them on fire again as San appeared beside them like a ghost, shirtless, glowing under the blacklight, a streak of bright orange paint across his collarbone courtesy of Wooyoung.
“Hey,” he greeted casually, sipping from a cup. “You two look like you just saw God.”
Mingi blinked like he was re entering his body. “Maybe we did.”
San’s eyes flicked between them, lingering on the faint smear of color on Yunho’s lips. Then the bruised bite mark on Mingi’s neck. Then the paint handprint on Yunho’s hip and his smirk grew. “So…” San began, slow and smug, “do we need to start calling you boyfriend number one and boyfriend number two, or should we wait until she puts collars on you?”
Yunho let out a low groan and ran a hand through his hair. Mingi didn’t even pretend to hide how far gone he was.
San raised a brow. “Wait. That was your first you two kissed?”
Yunho’s jaw ticked as Mingi turned his head slowly, expression unreadable. “Yes.”
San blinked. “Shit.”
Yunho muttered, “Shut the fuck up.”
San raised his cup in surrender. “Hey, I’m not judging. I just didn’t expect you two to go zero to threesome on a Tuesday night.”
Mingi finally laughed, low and breathy and still buzzing. “What can I say? She brings it out of us.” Yunho exhaled hard, lips twitching. “Yeah,” he murmured, finally looking toward the hallway again. “She does.”
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
The second you stepped out of the hallway, the energy shifted. Yunho saw you first, painted, glowing, eyes glassy but sharp. Your lips were still parted from laughter, your hand tucked into Wooyoung’s like you were keeping each other from floating away. Mingi spotted you a second later, his spine straightening, lips twitching like he was trying not to grin.
You looked like trouble. And you looked like theirs. Wooyoung clocked them instantly as the two of you got back, and leaned in to whisper something in San’s ear. San’s brows shot up. His grin was slow. Dirty. Satisfied. Then he pulled back, eyes dancing, and said loud enough for all three of you to hear, “Well? You three ready to get out of here? Or you gonna spread the desire in the atmosphere a little more first?”
Yunho groaned softly under his breath and Mingi choked on a laugh. San raised a brow, mouth twitching. “Because I’m pretty sure two more people just started making out because they looked at you.”
You stopped in front of them, paint smeared, pupils wide, grinning like a devil in heat. And said nothing. Just looked between Yunho and Mingi like you were deciding. Mingi stepped closer first, sliding his fingers into yours. Yunho followed without hesitation, hand brushing your hip.
Wooyoung, behind you, just clapped his hands once. “God, I love being right.”
Mingi grabbed his shirt from where it had been stuffed into a corner of the speaker booth, tugging it on halfway as he reached down to grab Yunho’s and your jacket too. He handed it to you without a word, his fingers brushing yours as you took it. You caught the look he gave you, eyes dark, slow smile tugging at his lips.
Yunho pulled his shirt back on, jaw still tense but hands steady. San, now glowing and grinning like the devil, had thrown his shirt over his shoulder, while Wooyoung tossed on an oversized flannel that was very much not his. Outside, the Florida air was thick with heat and salt, still buzzing from the rave that throbbed behind you.
“Guess you’re with them now, huh?” Wooyoung said, nudging you with his elbow as the five of you stepped into the muggy night. You gave him a lazy smile. “Guess I am.”
He grinned, then turned to San. “You driving? Because I am in no shape to do anything but be annoying.” San rolled his eyes, unlocking his car. “Get in, glitter boy.” The two of them peeled off toward the direction back to the apartment building, still laughing.
You turned to Mingi, who was standing at the passenger door of Yunho’s truck. You put a hand on his chest and gave him a little smirk as you tugged open the passenger side and climbed in first, sliding smoothly into the middle seat between them. Mingi blinked, then let out a slow, low whistle and followed you in, shutting the door behind him.
Yunho was already behind the wheel, keys in the ignition, glancing at you sideways. He didn’t say a word. But his hand found your thigh. And it stayed there.
The truck rumbled softly as it followed behind San’s car, taillights glowing red in the distance. The streets were nearly empty, just humid Florida air and the occasional flash of neon from a 24 hour diner or corner store cutting through the dark.
Yunho’s fingers rested on your thigh like he owned it, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you. The warmth of his palm bled through the paint streaked fabric of your shorts, and he hadn’t even moved it. Not once. But that pressure? That silent claim? It was driving you insane.
Your chest rose and fell with every breath, the Molly still hitting hard, making your skin feel too tight, your blood too loud. Your fingers twitched against your thighs, lips parted, brain hazy with heat and need. You shifted slightly, just enough for Mingi to notice. He turned to look at you, eyes low, mouth parted in a lazy, wrecked grin. He was leaned back, legs spread, one arm draped across the back of the seat behind you. Sweat still glistened at his temple, and the neon lights flashing through the windshield cast his face in soft flickers of pink and violet.
You met his eyes. Held it. And that was it. Mingi groaned quietly, head tipping back for a second like he was trying to collect himself. Then he reached out, slowly, and placed his hand on your other thigh. Not soft like Yunho’s. Possessive. “You’re killing me,” he muttered, his voice all smoke and wreckage.
You swallowed hard, hand twitching against your leg. And then, you moved it. Your hand slid to his wrist, fingers curling, guiding him upward. Higher. Higher. The moment his fingers brushed over the damp heat pressed inside your shorts, he sucked in a breath through his teeth, hips jolting just a little where he sat. “Oh fuck,” he whispered, eyes wide now, gaze locked on where your hand was pressing his into you. “She’s already wet?”
Yunho didn’t look. But his fingers tightened on your other thigh. Hard. Your head fell back against the seat, breath catching, thighs tensing under both their hands as Mingi’s fingers rubbed slow now, teasing through the soaked fabric, his voice a low rumble in your ear. “You gonna let us take care of this the second we get home?”
Yunho finally spoke, his voice tight, low, rough. “She’s not gonna make it home if you keep that up.”
Mingi grinned, biting his bottom lip, hand sliding under the hem of your shorts now, fingers teasing through the damp fabric of your panties, knuckles brushing just barely where you needed him. His breathing was uneven, chest rising like he’d been holding it back for too long because his dose of Molly was hitting him just as hard as your own.
You whimpered, quiet, broken, and that sound snapped something in him. Without a word, Mingi reached across your lap. And grabbed Yunho’s wrist. Yunho’s gaze cut over instantly, eyes sharp, wild, but Mingi didn’t flinch. He guided Yunho’s hand across your thigh, under the fabric, right there, pressing his best friend’s fingers against the soaked center of your panties like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Feel that,” Mingi breathed, eyes on Yunho’s. “That’s because of us.”
Yunho groaned, low and guttural, hand twitching slightly beneath Mingi’s grip. His fingers flexed on instinct, pressing in just a little harder, and your hips jerked in response, breath catching in your throat as Mingi looked at you. His pupils were blown wide, lips parted, jaw slack with how gone he was in the high.
And then you reached for him. Your hand tangled in his shirt, dragging him forward and your lips crashed into his like you were starved for it. The kiss was messy, open mouthed, all tongue and teeth and need. His hand never left your body, not even when you moaned into his mouth, not even when your other hand clutched Yunho’s thigh like you needed to hang onto something solid.
The truck swerved slightly as Yunho let out another rough, broken sound, a sound that felt like jealousy and desperation wrapped together in one strangled breath. His fingers flexed harder against you, now knowing exactly how wet you were. Exactly how soft. Exactly how ready.
Mingi broke the kiss first, panting against your mouth. “She’s gonna break us,” he muttered. Yunho’s voice was strained as he pulled his hand back. “You started it.”
You just smiled, flushed and glowing, paint still smudged across your thighs, lips kiss swollen, still trembling from where both their hands were as the truck rolled through the last turn toward your apartment building, headlights sweeping across the empty lot, but inside the cab, the world had already collapsed into touch.
You were a mess of heat and sweat between them, hips twitching, breath shallow, nerves crackling under skin that felt too much and not enough all at once. Mingi leaned in, lips dragging against your throat. Hot. Wet. Wrecked. He kissed just below your ear, then lower, teeth grazing your neck like he wanted to bite. “God,” he whispered against your skin, “you feel so fucking good.”
And then he reached over again. Found Yunho’s hand again. And held it against you. Right between your legs. Right where you needed them most. Yunho’s breath hitched in his throat. His fingers twitched, then slowly, carefully curled, pressing more firmly into your soaked panties. Your hips jerked.
“Mingi…” Yunho started, voice low and panicked. But Mingi didn’t stop. He just smirked against your throat. “She wants it.” You moaned, softly, head tipping back against the seat. Then you started to move. Your hips rolled forward in slow, delicious rhythm, grinding against Yunho’s hand while Mingi’s stayed wrapped around his wrist, holding him there. His touch was clumsy at first, hesitant, but that melted the second you whimpered and rocked your hips again.
He groaned, sharp and rough. “Fuck…. she’s so wet.”
Mingi hummed in agreement, his mouth still working at your neck, sucking a mark just below your jaw as his free hand slid up your waist, fingers splayed across your ribs. “Keep touching her,” he whispered into your ear, breath hot. “Don’t stop. Let her show you how bad she wants it.”
And you did. Your eyes fluttered shut, your thighs trembling as you moved against Yunho’s hand, panting, high out of your mind, so close to unraveling with one boy’s mouth on your throat and the other’s fingers rubbing you through fabric soaked from both of their teasing as the truck finally rolled to a stop.
The truck eased into the parking spot with a soft growl of the engine. But you barely noticed as Yunho shifted into park with one hand, the other still trapped between your thighs, your slick soaking through the fabric. His knuckles flexed, his breath ragged. The second the truck stopped moving, he turned toward you, eyes half lidded, pupils gone from the high, and lowered his head.
Mingi was still at your neck on one side so Yunho took the other. His lips pressed just below your jaw, soft at first. Then deeper. Slower. More deliberate. His mouth dragged over your pulse, teeth scraping just barely as his fingers finally moved again, slipping under the edge of your shorts this time, fingertips teasing along the edge of your soaked panties.
You gasped, body jerking forward, and Mingi grinned against your throat. “You’re gonna ruin these seats,” he murmured, his hand slipping under the hem of your top now, dragging up along to your breast. “She’s dripping.”
“She’s shaking,” Yunho muttered, his lips still against your skin. And then it got worse, or better. Because Mingi’s hand slid down between your legs too, right alongside Yunho’s, his fingers dipping lower, teasing the edge of your panties from below. Your thighs trembled, your hips instinctively grinding down, caught between both of their hands now. Two sets of fingers. Two hot mouths on your neck.
Your hands flew out, one gripping Yunho’s thigh, the other fisting Mingi’s shirt, head tipping back between them, breath breaking apart in your throat. They didn’t stop. Yunho pressed a kiss to your collarbone, then another. His fingers finally slid past the edge of your panties, dipping low enough to feel everything. He groaned against your skin, deep, ragged, wrecked. “She’s fucking soaked,” he breathed. “Mingi…. feel her.”
“I already did,” Mingi said, low and proud. “But I’ll feel her again.” And he did. His fingers joined Yunho’s. Two sets of fingers, stroking, exploring, slow and maddening. Your body was writhing between them now, every nerve on fire, your thighs spreading wider, mouth open, the Molly turning your skin electric.
“You gonna come for us right here?” Mingi whispered, breath hot against your cheek. “Wanna make a mess in Yunho’s truck, baby?”
Yunho growled at that, but didn’t stop. Didn’t even think of stopping. “Let her,” he rasped. “She’s already halfway there.” His lips brushed your jaw as his fingers dipped lower, sliding past the soaked fabric of your panties, and this time, he didn’t tease. He pushed in.
One long finger, slow and deep, curling inside you as your thighs trembled around his wrist. Your breath hitched so sharply it turned into a moan, head tipping forward, caught between both their bodies. “Fuck,” Yunho groaned, voice thick and reverent against your skin. “You’re so tight.”
You were beyond words as Mingi’s hand was still on you too, fingers stroking your clit in slow, deliberate circles while Yunho worked inside you, his finger curling just right, his palm pressed firm against your core, grounding you while you unraveled and your hips moved instinctively, grinding down against their hands, chasing it now.
“I can feel you squeezing him,” Mingi whispered, dragging his mouth across your neck. “She’s close.”
You whimpered, God, the pressure building fast, too fast, the way their hands moved in sync, the high amplifying everything. Your pulse was in your ears, your stomach coiled tight, and when Yunho slid in another finger, curling both and brushing just right….
Your whole body snapped. You came hard, legs shaking, mouth dropping open as a cry tore from your throat, your walls clenching around Yunho’s fingers, your hips stuttering against Mingi’s touch. You gripped Yunho’s thigh harder and Mingi’s arm like anchors, like without them you might float away completely.
“Shit, look at her,” Mingi murmured, still stroking you through it, watching the way your body bucked between them. Yunho didn’t say anything. He just watched your face, eyes blown, lips parted, cheeks flushed as you broke open between them, glowing under the streetlight through the windshield, sweat slick and shaking, their hands still on you.
Yunho slowly slipped his fingers out, wet with you, and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean with a low, satisfied sound that made Mingi curse under his breath as your body collapsed against the seat, panting, buzzing, wrecked, and they were both still fully clothed, fully hard, and not done with you yet.
The truck door creaked open. Your legs were still trembling, your shorts clinging to your thighs, soaked through. Every step felt heavy and electric, like the orgasm hadn’t faded, it had just settled into your bones. Mingi stepped out first, grabbing your jacket for you again and tossing it over your shoulders like he knew your hands were too shaky to deal with it yourself. He didn’t say a word, just looked at you with that same wrecked, dark gaze like he was two seconds from dragging you back into the truck and finishing what they’d started.
Yunho rounded the front of the truck, jaw tense, eyes unreadable. But when he reached you, his hand slid back to your waist like it belonged there and stayed. The three of you crossed the lot together in silence, lit only by flickering parking lights and the moonlight off the building’s windows.
The lobby was quiet. The elevator was too slow. So you took the stairs. Three flights. Each one like a countdown. You in the middle, Yunho behind you, Mingi ahead, your hands brushing the railing, your body still buzzing from the high and the heat and the way their hands had wrecked you without even undressing you.
By the second flight, you felt Yunho’s hand slide to your lower back. By the third, Mingi glanced back over his shoulder and smirked. “You gonna make it up here, or do we need to carry you?”
“I think she likes the view,” Yunho murmured behind you, eyes fixed on the sway of your hips. At the top, Mingi stopped at the door to their apartment, third floor, right across from Wooyoung’s, the hallway quiet except for the buzz of the overhead light.
He fished out his keys with one hand, his other already back on you, fingers curling into your hip as Yunho stepped beside you, his knuckles brushing yours.
The lock clicked open and Mingi shoved the door open with his shoulder, stepping inside first. The hallway light spilled in behind you, stretching long shadows across the dark wooden floor and faint haze of incense still hanging in the air. You stepped over the threshold slowly. For a second, you didn’t move further.
You’d only been in here once before, briefly, with Wooyoung, when he stopped by to grab a couple pre rolls and left you standing awkwardly by the door while Mingi flirted and Yunho barely glanced up from his game. Back then, it had just smelled like weed and cologne and something vaguely citrus.
Now? It felt like stepping into something dangerous. Like the tension in the truck had been waiting here for you. The apartment was dim, clean but lived in, an ashtray and a lighter on the kitchen counter, a couple hoodies draped over a chair, one of Mingi’s leather jackets on the arm of the couch. You noticed Yunho’s game controller on the coffee table, a water bottle, a half finished joint in a glass tray.
You stepped in deeper as Yunho shut the door behind you with a thud, final and heavy as you turned back to look at them. Mingi, locking eyes with you as he slid his jacket off and tossed it aside. Yunho, who hadn’t stopped watching you since you walked in, now reaching for the hem of his shirt again, playing with it as you took your jacket off and tossed it on the couch.
You let the silence stretch for a second. Then you took a step forward. Then another, slow, deliberate, until you were face to face with Mingi. He watched you like he was trying not to breathe too hard. His lips parted, paint still faint along his collarbone, pupils wide from the high and the heat of you standing so close.
You reached for him, hands sliding slowly up his chest under his shirt, feeling his heart thundering beneath your palms. Yunho didn’t speak. He just started to move, slowly circling the two of you, footsteps quiet on the wood floor. Not pacing. Stalking. Watching.
You turned your head slightly, tracking Yunho with your eyes while your hands stayed on Mingi. “Have you two ever… been with the same person before?”
Mingi’s throat bobbed as Yunho’s brows lifted slightly, but his expression stayed unreadable. He stopped behind you now, close, so close you could feel the heat of him without being touched. “No,” Mingi said, voice low, tight. “Never,” Yunho added behind you, and God, his voice was rough.
You smiled, fingers curling slightly in Mingi’s shirt. “So this is your first time,” you murmured, glancing between them. “Sharing.” Neither of them spoke. Mingi looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. His mouth opened, then shut again, like whatever he wanted to say would’ve made this too real, too fast.
Yunho was close enough to kiss your neck. But he didn’t. Not yet. You turned your body slightly, between them again, their heat closing in, your pulse pounding in your ears as you licked your lips. “Guess that makes me special.”
Yunho’s breath hitched behind you as Mingi just whispered, “You have no fucking idea.”
You didn’t wait for permission. Didn’t ask who was going first. You already knew the answer. Your fingers slid up Mingi’s chest, slow and teasing, until they tangled at the nape of his neck. You leaned in, just enough for your breath to kiss his lips, and then you pressed your mouth to his.
Mingi groaned into it, hands flying to your waist, gripping tight as your mouths moved in sync, messy, deep, no hesitation now. He kissed like he’d been starving, like holding back all night had made him desperate. His tongue slid against yours, and you moaned into it, high and breathless and needing more.
And Yunho was watching. Standing just behind you, eyes locked on the way Mingi’s hands pulled you closer, on the way you melted into the kiss, on the way your hips pressed into Mingi’s like your body had already chosen. But it hadn’t. Because you wanted both. You broke the kiss just long enough to look down, hands sliding between you and Mingi, fingers already moving to the waistband of his jeans.
One button. A zipper. Slow, deliberate. Mingi’s breath caught, hands tightening on your hips as he watched you work. “You sure?” he asked, voice a low rasp, already knowing the answer. You didn’t look up. You just smirked. And slid your hand lower and behind you, Yunho let out a soft, wrecked exhale.
You didn’t rush, you let your hands slide back up under Mingi’s shirt first, fingers dragging slowly along the ridges of his abs, smearing streaks of glowing paint that had dried there earlier. He hissed through his teeth, body twitching at your touch, hips rolling forward just slightly, like he couldn’t help it. Then you pushed his shirt up. Bit by bit. He lifted his arms obediently, and you peeled it off him like you were unwrapping something precious. Remnants of neon paint across his chest, shoulders, the curve of his biceps, smudged fingerprints, the trail of your brush from earlier, glowing evidence of what the night had done to him.
You tossed the shirt aside without a second thought. And moved lower again. You undid the top button of his jeans again, slowly this time, drawing it out. Yunho’s eyes were locked on your hands. His jaw was tight, his chest rising slow and sharp, like he was holding every breath in his lungs hostage as you dragged the zipper down just as slow, the metal sound loud in the still air of the room. Mingi’s breath stuttered, his hands twitching at his sides like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you or let you keep going.
You tugged his jeans down over his hips, past that line of deep muscle, watching his briefs catch for a second before sliding over thick thighs, glow in the dark fingerprints streaking down the sides of them from where you’d grabbed him in the rave. Now he stood there. In nothing but tight, dark underwear, his dick straining against the fabric, breath shallow, wrecked and waiting. Paint. Sweat. Muscle.
And you, looking up at him like he was yours already. Behind you, Yunho hadn’t moved. But you felt him watching. His eyes burning into your back, his breath heavier now. You didn’t turn around. Not yet. You just looked up at Mingi and murmured, “Let him watch.” And Mingi, his head tipped back, a groan slipping from his throat.
You turned your head, slowly, deliberately, until your eyes locked with Yunho’s. He was standing behind you, jaw tight, arms at his sides, like he was barely holding it together. His chest was rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths, but his eyes? They gave him away. He looked like he wanted to devour something.
You tilted your head, lips curling into a grin. “Are you the jealous type?” you asked, voice sweet, almost innocent, if not for the way your hands were still resting at the waistband of his best friend’s briefs. Yunho didn’t answer right away. Just stared at you. Hard. And then he scoffed, short, sharp. “Of him? Never.”
You smirked at that. “Hmm.” And without another word, you dropped to your knees in front of Mingi and Mingi let out a ragged breath, his hand flying to your shoulder, his stomach twitching as your hands slid down his thighs, slow, possessive, teasing.
You glanced up at Yunho one last time, your voice low and thick with challenge. “We’ll see about that.” Yunho’s jaw clenched as Mingi looked wrecked already, chest heaving, painted skin flushed and twitching. You hadn’t even touched him properly yet, and he was already groaning softly, hand sliding into your hair, pupils locked on you like you were the only thing left in the world. And behind you Yunho was silently burning. You could feel it and you wanted him to.
Your fingers slid into the waistband of Mingi’s briefs, your nails dragging just enough to make him twitch. He hissed softly above you, his hand tightening in your hair as he looked down at you like he couldn’t believe this was really happening.
You eased the fabric down, slow and teasing, your eyes never leaving his. And when his dick sprang free, thick, flushed, hard, you bit your lip and blinked up at him with a look that was somewhere between awe and delight. Yeah. Wooyoung had not been lying. Your mind flickered back to that conversation, the one where he casually, wickedly said, “Come on, there’s no way Yunho and Mingi aren’t packing. Tall. Broad. Quiet. Cocky. That’s big dick energy and I’m a professional.”
At the time, you’d rolled your eyes. Now? You knew for sure. Wooyoung was right. So right. You let your gaze drag down, admiring every inch of Mingi now that you had him in front of you, bare and twitching under the heat of your stare. The paint still streaked his abs, chaotic, glowing evidence of everything the night had become. You bit your lip, slow and deliberate, and looked back up at him.
Mingi groaned, head tipping back, voice thick with restraint. “Baby… you can’t look up at me like that and not do something about it.” Behind you, Yunho let out a breath that was closer to a growl.
Mingi was shaking above you. His hand was still in your hair, barely holding on, his jaw slack as your tongue dragged a slow, wet line up the underside of his dick. You didn’t take him in, not yet. Just let your breath fan over him, tongue circling the tip, teasing, playful, mean.
His hips bucked forward instinctively, but you held him back with a hand on his thigh, nails digging in just enough to make him groan. “F… fuck,” he stuttered, voice trembling, head tipping back. “You’re evil.” You grinned, mouth still hovering just over him, tongue flicking out again, featherlight and he whimpered.
Big, warm hands suddenly settled on your head, fingers weaving into your hair. Not rough but firm. Possessive. That touch that said he’d watched long enough. Yunho. He leaned down, lips brushing your ear, voice low and edged with frustration. “Don’t be a tease.”
You froze for half a second, heat rushing to your core, breath catching in your throat as Yunho’s grip tightened slightly, tilting your head just the way he wanted it. “You know what he needs,” he murmured, his voice wrecked now. “I know you do.” His other hand dragged down your back, over your spine, making you shiver as you looked up at Mingi again, his eyes wide, mouth parted, chest rising fast.
Then Yunho’s grip guided you forward. Not forceful, directed. And you followed. Your lips finally parted. And Yunho didn’t hesitate. His hand stayed firm at the back of your head, guiding you down as you took Mingi into your mouth, slow at first, your tongue sliding over the head, tasting him, savoring every inch as your lips stretched around him.
Mingi choked on a breath, his body jerking forward so hard it nearly made you lose rhythm. “Fucking…. shit,” he gasped, hands flying out, desperate for something to hold onto, and landed on Yunho’s shoulders, gripping tight, anchoring himself as your mouth began to move.
Yunho’s fingers stayed tangled in your hair, not pushing, not rushing, but directing, setting a rhythm that had your mouth gliding over Mingi’s dick in long, wet pulls. “That’s it,” Yunho murmured, his voice low, dark, wrecked. “Just like that.”
Mingi looked like he was breaking, head tipped back, chest heaving, eyes fluttering shut as he fucked into your mouth, guided by Yunho, helpless to stop the way his hips rolled forward with every glide of your lips. Your hands were on Mingi’s thighs now, holding him steady as you let him use your mouth, spit running down your chin, soft gagging sounds muffled by the thick weight of him on your tongue.
“Holy fuck,” Mingi groaned, one hand slipping from Yunho’s shoulder into your hair too, gripping tight as his hips began to stutter. “She feels…. fuck, she feels so good.”
Yunho’s grip tightened just enough to make you feel it. “She’s perfect, isn’t she?” he said, voice low, staring at you like he wanted to memorize this. “Taking you so well.”
You moaned around Mingi, the sound vibrating through him, making his whole body shudder as Yunho watched it all, his hands in your hair, his best friend falling apart from your mouth, you on your knees between them like you were made for it.
You took Mingi deeper. Your jaw ached. Your eyes were glassy. Spit slicked your chin as you gagged again, just barely holding your rhythm but you didn’t stop. Didn’t want to. Mingi was groaning above you, fists clenched in your hair and Yunho’s shirt, hips twitching like he was seconds from falling apart.
Your throat clenched around him, and your gag turned into a sound so wet, so messy, it echoed in the quiet apartment and Yunho’s breath hitched. His eyes darkened. And then he looked at Mingi, really looked at him and grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him close until their foreheads slammed together, sweat slick and tense.
“You better fucking come,” Yunho growled, voice low and mean, his grip tight. “Because it’s gonna be a minute before you can again.” Mingi groaned, wrecked. “Fuck… Yunho, I….” his voice cracked, shaking, already losing it.
Yunho didn’t blink. “I’m not waiting anymore.” His hand in your hair gripped tighter, his jaw clenched, his breathing ragged. He looked down at you like you were his, ruined lips, slick chin, eyes dazed, and then back at Mingi, like this was the last favor he was willing to give.
Mingi’s thighs trembled. His stomach clenched. And with one more stuttered thrust into your mouth, he shattered. “Fuck…. yes, fuckfuckfuck…..” His whole body locked up as he came, loud and broken, his hands shaking in your hair, hips jerking once, twice, before finally slumping, gasping, wrecked.
Yunho released him the moment it hit, attention dropping to you. His hand still in your hair. His eyes starving. He pulled you up off your knees like you weighed nothing, hand still tangled in your hair, the other gripping your waist tight enough to bruise. You barely had time to gasp before his mouth crashed into yours, desperate, messy, full of tongue and heat and want.
He moaned into your mouth the second he tasted it. Mingi. Still lingering on your tongue. Yunho groaned, low and guttural, grinding his hips into yours like it physically hurt to keep waiting. “You taste like him,” he growled against your lips, biting your bottom one hard enough to make you whimper. “Fucking mine now.”
His arms locked around your thighs. And suddenly you were in the air, legs wrapped around his waist as he carried you through the apartment, fast, like if he didn’t get you on a bed in the next five seconds, he might just fuck you in the hallway. Your arms clung to his shoulders, breath ragged, heart racing.
Behind you, Mingi was still catching his breath, wiping at his mouth, pants tangled around one ankle, but the second he saw Yunho lift you, heard that kiss, saw your legs wrapped around him, his body jolted with renewed energy. “Fuck,” Mingi muttered, yanking his pants the rest of the way off, stumbling after you both, completely naked, eyes still glassy and hungry.
Yunho shouldered open his bedroom door and you barely had time to breathe before he turned and tossed you onto his bed, your body bouncing slightly on the mattress, arms splayed, heart pounding, lips still swollen from his kiss.
He stood at the foot of the bed for half a beat, chest heaving, just looking at you like you were already stripped bare. Then he reached down and peeled his shirt off. It clung to his skin, damp, paint smeared, stretched across broad shoulders and lean muscle, but he pulled it over his head in one fluid motion and dropped it to the floor without a second glance.
The blacklight from the small strip above his bed flickered to life as Yunho leaned over to flick a switch. Because of course he had one of his own. The paint from the rave still glowed on his chest and arms, faint streaks of neon pink and purple smeared across muscle and collarbone, your earlier brushstrokes visible like claims. His skin shined with sweat, his jaw clenched tight, eyes locked on yours.
And then the door creaked and Mingi appeared. Naked and wrecked. His lips were red from your mouth. His chest still smeared in dried paint. His dick already hard again, swinging slightly as he stepped inside, eyes dragging down your body like he couldn’t believe he’d let you walk away, or well, carried away, from him for even a second.
Yunho didn’t look at him. Didn’t flinch. Just dropped his voice low and rough. “Close the door.” Mingi did, eyes flicking between you, spread on Yunho’s bed, shorts clinging to your thighs, top still hanging crooked off your shoulders, and Yunho, standing shirtless at the foot of the bed like something feral.
You were all still covered in streaks of paint. Marks from the rave. From your hands. From each other. Yunho didn’t take his eyes off you. Not even when Mingi stepped closer. “Help her out of those,” Yunho said, voice low and tight, fingers already at the button of his own pants.
Mingi didn’t argue. Didn’t hesitate. He climbed up onto the bed behind you, hands slipping to your hips as you sat up slightly. His lips brushed your shoulder, one hand already tugging at your top, the other sliding beneath the hem of your shorts, pulling the waistband over your hips slowly, reverently as you watched Yunho the whole time. His pants hit the floor with a soft thud, and then his boxers followed, his body rising in the dim purple glow of the blacklight like something out of a dream. His skin shimmered with sweat and dried paint, his abs tight, chest flushed, and when he stepped forward, fully bare….
Yeah. Your mouth parted slightly. Because of course. Of course Yunho was just as big as Mingi. He stood tall, dick thick and heavy, hard in a way that made your thighs twitch before Mingi had even finished pulling your panties down. You huffed a laugh, half dazed, half amused, and leaned your head back against Mingi’s chest.
One of Yunho’s hands wrapped around himself lazily as he looked you over, fully bare now, sprawled across his sheets with Mingi behind you. You laid back. Naked. Glowing. Breathless. The blacklight above his bed turned every streak of paint on your body into something celestial, smears of neon across your chest, your hips, your thighs. Your skin shimmered with sweat and anticipation, and both of them were looking at you like you were something holy.
Yunho climbed up the bed. Slow. Controlled. Dangerous. His hands planted beside your knees as he settled between your thighs, eyes locked on where he was headed. His breath hit your skin first, hot, shallow, teasing, and then his lips followed. He started with your inner thighs. Soft licks at first, slow kisses, tongue dragging across glowing streaks of dried paint as he worked his way up. His hands gripped your hips to hold you still as your body twitched beneath him, breath coming faster with every inch closer.
Behind you, Mingi shifted, his hands finding your waist, then your breasts. He groaned into your neck as his fingers found your nipples, teasing them with callused thumbs. His dick pressed hot and heavy against your lower back, smearing pre cum onto your skin as he rocked forward instinctively. “Fuck,” Mingi whispered, his mouth at your ear. “You feel so good. I want to be inside you already.”
Yunho didn’t answer. He just kissed higher. Right above your mound now, his breath ghosting over the heat between your legs. Your thighs trembled, your hands clutching at the sheets as his mouth hovered just shy of where you needed him most. And then he licked you. One long, slow stripe up your slit.
Your back arched instantly and Mingi groaned at the sound you made, mouth now on your neck, teeth grazing skin as his hands massaged your breasts, palms slick with sweat and need as Yunho’s tongue dragged back down, slow, deliberate, tasting you like he had all night to savor. His tongue flicked over your clit again, slow but firmer now, then dipped lower, tasting you, savoring every drop like he was starved.
He pulled back just enough to breathe, his face slick, lips shiny with your arousal, jaw tight like it physically pained him to stop. Then he looked up the length of your body. Mingi was still behind you, his dick grinding lazily against your back, mouth sucking bruises into your neck, fingers rolling your nipples between sweat slicked fingertips. And Yunho moaned. “Mingi…” his voice cracked, half a growl. “Get down here.”
Mingi slowed, lips leaving your throat as Yunho’s voice dropped, thick with need, hand sliding up your thigh as he spread you open wider. “She tastes so fucking good.” Mingi froze for a second, like the words had short circuited something in his brain. Then he moved. Sliding down the bed beside Yunho, past your side, between your legs now. His hands joined Yunho’s at your thighs, and when Mingi looked down at your soaked, swollen pussy, slick and glistening under the blacklight, he let out a sound that was downright filthy.
“Oh fuck,” he whispered. “I need to taste her.”
Yunho didn’t argue. He just shifted slightly to the side. Making room. Your legs were shaking. Your voice was gone. You didn’t even remember when it started, Mingi’s tongue joining Yunho’s, both of them nestled between your thighs like they belonged there. Maybe they did. Maybe this was exactly where they were meant to be. Because they didn’t stop. Not for a second.
Yunho’s tongue circled your clit while Mingi licked deeper, the flat of his tongue dragging up your slit before dipping down again. Then they switched, no warning, Yunho licking lower, filthy, slow, his moans vibrating into you while Mingi sucked gently at your clit, tongue flicking fast, precise, perfect.
You cried out. Loud. Too loud. “F…. fuck… please……. oh my god!” Your hips bucked off the bed, thighs trembling, hands flying to their heads, fisting in their hair, needing something to hold onto as the pleasure built and broke and built again. You didn’t even know whose tongue was where anymore. It didn’t matter. They were both on you. Everywhere.
And when their mouths met accidentally at first, tongues brushing mid stroke, they didn’t pull away. They just kept going. Their lips slid against each other, their tongues still licking you in the space between, both groaning into your pussy, sharing the taste of you with no hesitation. Then Yunho tilted his head slightly, lips catching Mingi’s for real, tongues slick, wet, glowing under the blacklight with your arousal still shining on both their mouths.
They kissed deep, moaning into it, and you felt it, the vibration of it all right where you needed it most. And you lost it. Your head tipped back with a cry, spine arching off the mattress as your orgasm hit hard the second one of their fingers started circling your clit, crashing through you like a wave you’d never survive. Your body shook, your thighs clamped around their heads, and still, they didn’t stop. Didn’t move. Just kept kissing. Until you were trembling beneath them, chest heaving, sweat clinging to your skin, your voice nothing but ragged sounds.
Your hand reached out blindly, grabbing at the nearest arm, didn’t matter whose, and it ended up being Mingi’s. He barely had time to blink before you were pulling him, rough and breathless, pushing him flat onto the mattress beneath you. “What…” he started, but your mouth was already on his, tasting yourself on his lips, grinding against his hips with a wild, needy roll of your body.
“I need you,” you whispered against his lips, voice wrecked and hoarse. “Now.” His hands flew to your waist as Yunho stayed where he was, kneeling at the foot of the bed, watching, his chest rising fast, his dick throbbing between his thighs as he saw you climb onto Mingi like you were about to devour him. “Fuck,” Yunho breathed, voice low, almost reverent. “Do it.”
You straddled Mingi, your thighs braced around his hips, his dick hot and heavy beneath you, slick with your arousal, already twitching as he looked up at you, wide eyed, stunned, dying for it. And then you reached down, grabbed his length, and lined him up. You didn’t wait. You sank down onto him in one slow, shattering motion and Mingi shouted, head snapping back, fingers digging into your hips. “Fucking… oh my god!”
You let out a moan so loud it echoed, your mouth falling open, eyes fluttering shut as he filled you, deep, thick, perfect. Yunho groaned behind you, his hand fisting around the base of his dick, watching every inch disappear inside you, every twitch of your thighs, every sound you made. “Fuck,” he growled. “Just like that.”
You rode him hard. Hips snapping down with a rhythm that was pure desperation, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the room, mixed with Mingi’s broken groans and your breathless moans. He was deep inside you, stretching you, throbbing, his head tipped back into the pillow, eyes wild, mouth open. “Fuck… fuck, baby….”
You didn’t let up. You leaned forward, one hand braced on his chest, the other wrapping tight around his throat making Mingi’s breath hitch, and his hips buck beneath you. Your fingers tightened slightly, your voice low and ruined. “You like watching me use you like this?” His only answer was a whimper.
Behind you, Yunho’s breath was shaky, his fist still working over his dick as he watched you ride his best friend like he wasn’t even there for you to please, just to fill. And then he moved. You felt the bed shift before you felt his hands. He knelt behind you, his chest against your back, his breath hot at your ear. “You’re gonna make him come,” Yunho growled, voice low and feral, one hand reaching up to your neck, his fingers wrapping around the front, just above where your own held Mingi’s. He squeezed gently. Controlling. Claiming.
His other hand slid down, between your bodies, fingers slipping over your clit like he knew exactly how to break you. You cried out, head falling back against his shoulder, your thighs trembling as Mingi groaned beneath you, his hips stuttering as Yunho’s breath dragged against your skin. “Look at you,” he whispered, voice thick. “Taking him so fucking deep… riding him like he’s nothing.”
You shattered all over again, grinding against Mingi’s dick and Yunho’s hand, choking on the pleasure that was everywhere now, your neck, your clit, your core, your brain. All of it. Between them. Held. Owned. Worshipped. Yunho’s hand working your clit while you rode Mingi into the mattress, his dick buried deep, your thighs shaking, your orgasm still rolling through you. Mingi was a mess beneath you, his hands gripping your hips, chest flushed, mouth open, groaning helplessly as you kept moving. “Sh… she’s…. fuck… she’s creaming on me…”
You were. Dripping. Soaking him. Still grinding down like you couldn’t stop, couldn’t breathe, your body caught in that molten loop of pleasure that made you forget your own name as Yunho’s hand stilled. You felt it. Then heard his voice. Low. Tight. Commanding. “That’s enough.”
Before Mingi could even gasp, Yunho grabbed your waist and pulled, lifting you off of Mingi mid thrust, your walls clenching around nothing, the sudden emptiness making you whimper. “Yunho!”
“Turn around,” he growled. You barely had time to register it, his hand already spinning you, guiding you onto all fours in the middle of the bed. You looked over your shoulder, dazed, and there he was. Wrecked. Flushed. Eyes dark. Dick throbbing.
Mingi was still catching his breath behind you, flushed and panting, his own dick gleaming with your slick, his hand wrapped around the base like he didn’t know what to do now that you’d been taken from him again.
But Yunho was done waiting. He knelt behind you, grabbed your hips with both hands, and lined himself up, his dick dragging through your slick folds, spreading the mess you’d left behind from riding Mingi. You gasped, bracing yourself on your elbows as he started sinking into you, “My turn.”
Yunho groaned the second he bottomed out. His hands dug into your hips, his chest pressed against your back, and his head dropped forward, breath catching. His eyes fluttered shut. Then rolled back. “Fucking… Jesus,” he choked out. “You’re so tight. So…. wet.” He didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not right away. You had him frozen, so overwhelmed by the heat of your walls wrapped around him, by the way your body welcomed him like it had been made for him and only him. He was trying to breathe. Trying to process. And you were impatient.
You shifted first, just a little. Then rolled your hips back. Hard. Yunho gasped, his grip on you tightening. Then you did it again. And again. “Fuck… baby….. wait…” But you didn’t. You started backing up into him with slow, powerful rolls, your ass slapping against his thighs, forcing him deeper, forcing motion, your own body using him just like you’d used Mingi, chasing more, needing it. Needing him.
“Oh my god,” Yunho groaned, head tipping back, eyes fluttering as you rocked on his dick, your slick already running down his length, coating his thighs. You looked over your shoulder, breathless, your voice teasing, wrecked. “Thought this was your turn.”
Yunho let out a breathless laugh. Low. Rough. Dangerous. You felt it vibrate against your back just before his hands gripped your hips tighter, fingers digging into your flesh like he didn’t know if he wanted to hold you still or pull you apart. He leaned over you, mouth at your ear, voice thick and shaking from holding back for so long. “Fucking brat.” Then he snapped his hips forward. Hard.
You cried out, your body jolting up the bed as he slammed into you without warning. And he didn’t stop. Not this time. He pulled out, only halfway, then slammed back in again, deep and relentless, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing around the room, your slick making it filthy, wet, loud. You buried your face into the sheets, moaning helplessly, your knees threatening to give out.
Behind you, Yunho was growling now, every thrust harder than the last, like he needed to fuck every smartass word out of your mouth, every last trace of control you thought you had. His dick hit deep, dragging against your walls perfectly, your pussy already fluttering around him from the overstimulation. Your body trembled with every thrust, voice cracking on every moan.
“You think you can ride him like that,” Yunho hissed, pounding into you now, hips snapping with brutal rhythm, “drip all over his dick like that….” Your fingers clawed at the sheets. “and then fuck yourself on me like I don’t know what that little act was?”
You whimpered, broken, and behind you, Mingi groaned, still watching, still stroking his dick slowly, his free hand gripping the headboard now as he stared at the way Yunho destroyed you. Yunho leaned over you, teeth scraping your shoulder. “You’re ours now.” Then his hand reached around your waist, slipping back between your legs again to rub your clit in tight, fast circles as he slammed into you from behind. “Fucking say it.”
You tried to speak. Tried to answer him. To say the words, I’m yours, like he demanded, like he deserved. But your body betrayed you first. Your mouth opened. But the words got caught in a scream as Yunho’s fingers rubbed harder, faster, his dick slamming into you without mercy, and suddenly everything inside you snapped. Your thighs trembled violently. Your back arched. Your scream cracked in the back of your throat as your orgasm tore through you, white hot and blinding, your entire body seizing beneath him as you squirted.
It gushed out of you in hot, messy pulses, soaking his dick, your thighs, the sheets, everything. “Fuck!” Yunho choked, his hips jerking, hands gripping your waist as the force of it pushed him out of you. His dick slipped free with a wet, messy sound, and you collapsed, shaking, gasping, your slick pouring down your legs, your body too overwhelmed to even move.
Mingi let out a broken moan beside you, hand tightening around his own dick, eyes wide, staring. Yunho was frozen for a moment, breathing hard, staring down at your soaked, trembling body, your pussy still twitching from the aftershocks, slick and dripping as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, sweat and spit and disbelief. “Fuck.”
His voice was hoarse. Shaky. And you were still gasping, trying to come down from the most explosive orgasm of your life. Mingi moved first, his hand reaching for you gently, eyes full of something wild. “You good, baby?”
Your chest was rising and falling in shaky waves, thighs trembling, your body a mess of slick, sweat, paint, and the wreckage they’d both left you in as you looked up, eyes hazy but glowing, lips swollen, that grin curling slow at the corners of your mouth. “I want you both.”
The room went silent. Mingi froze. Yunho’s brows lifted, his chest still heaving as he stared down at you like he wasn’t sure he heard you right. Then they looked at each other. Really looked. And for a second, the air was thick with unspoken things, uncertainty, hesitation, want. Because they’d never done this. Not with each other. Not like this. But for you? They’d burn that boundary down without blinking.
Yunho was the first to speak. “Are you sure?” His voice was lower now. Calmer. Just the tiniest tremble beneath it as you smiled again. “Yes,” you whispered. “I’m sure.” Yunho let out a shaky breath, his jaw tightening as he bit his lip. “Mingi…” he said, grabbing your waist and starting to pull you upright, “get under her.”
Mingi’s eyes blew wide. But he didn’t hesitate. He moved instantly, sliding back onto the bed, settling onto the pillows, his dick hard, thick and slick with your earlier mess. You were still breathless as Yunho helped guide you up and over him. Your thighs shook as you straddled Mingi’s hips again, his hands immediately moving to your waist, his mouth open in disbelief and desire.
Yunho knelt behind you, palms smoothing up your back, his dick heavy against your ass as you let him guide you. Still dazed. Still trembling. But you wanted this, needed this. Your thighs spread as you shifted forward, hands bracing on Mingi’s chest while his dick slid back into your soaked, aching pussy with a sound that made all three of you groan. He was so deep, filling you instantly, your body hugging him like you were made for it. Mingi’s hands gripped your hips tight, head falling back against the pillow, lips parting. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned. “Still so tight…. so warm…”
You moaned as you adjusted, hips rolling slightly, already full. And then Yunho’s hands were back, on your hips, on your lower back, smoothing down your spine as he leaned over you. His dick slid between your cheeks, hard and slick, and your breath hitched. “Relax,” Yunho murmured against your ear, his voice thick with restraint. “I’ve got you.” You nodded. Shaking. Wanting. Needing.
One of Yunho’s hands moved down, parting your cheeks as he lined himself up with your tight hole, his other hand steady on your waist. You felt the pressure first, the thick head of his dick coated in your own slick, pressing slowly into you, inch by inch, giving your body time to open. Time to take him. And you did.
You gasped, loud, wrecked, as your muscles stretched around him, your fingers digging into Mingi’s chest, your head dropping forward. Mingi moaned underneath you, holding you steady, his own dick twitching inside you as Yunho slid deeper, slow and controlled. “Fuck… she’s taking it,” Yunho groaned, voice breaking. “So fucking good.” Your whole body shook, not from pain, but from how full you were. Every inch of you was claimed now.
Mingi’s hands slid up your sides, breath ragged. “You okay, baby?” You nodded, voice barely a whisper. “More.”
Yunho let out a growl. And pushed in all the way. No one moved. Not at first. You were so full you could barely breathe. Yunho’s dick buried deep in your ass, Mingi’s thick and pulsing inside your pussy, both of them holding you in place like your body had become their center of gravity. You trembled between them, your hands flat on Mingi’s chest, head bowed, hair clinging to your sweat slicked skin.
Yunho was hunched over your back, his hands gentle now, one on your hip, the other stroking slowly up your spine as he leaned in, his lips brushing your shoulder. “Just breathe,” he murmured, voice low and shaky, even he was overwhelmed by how tight you were around him. “You’re doing so fucking good.” You let out a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, nodding slowly, body adjusting to the incredible stretch of being filled so completely.
Mingi’s fingers flexed on your waist, his brows pinched, eyes squeezed shut. “Shit,” he groaned, voice cracking. “I can feel him. Every time he breathes, I feel it. You’re so tight…. and he’s… fuck, Yunho, you’re right there.”
Behind you, Yunho exhaled through clenched teeth, his hips rolling just slightly, grinding deeper, making you twitch around both of them. “Don’t,” Mingi warned, voice tight. “If you start, I’m not gonna last.” Yunho chuckled, low, dangerous, turned on beyond belief. “She asked for both of us,” he murmured. “We’re giving her everything.”
Yunho’s hand slid up your back, soothing, grounding, before curling into your shoulder as Mingi’s fingers tightened at your hips. And then, together, they moved. A slow, careful rhythm. Yunho pulled back just slightly, only to push forward again in time with Mingi’s shallow thrust upward, both of them feeling each other through you, moving in sync, inch by inch, stretching you in both directions, filling you until your body didn’t know where one of them ended and the other began.
Your mouth fell open. But no sound came out. Just breath, shaky, shattered breath, punctuated by tiny gasps as their dicks slid deep inside you, over and over again. “God… fuck,” Mingi groaned beneath you, his voice thick and cracked. Yunho’s voice was low, wrecked, jaw tight as his hips rocked forward again. “She’s gripping so tight… I don’t know how much longer I can go slow.”
You were gone. Completely. Arms shaking, collapsing slowly over Mingi’s chest as your body stopped even pretending it could hold itself up. You just let go, your chest pressed to his, cheek resting against his shoulder, moaning with every roll of their hips. You didn’t need to move. They were doing it all. Every grind. Every thrust. Every deep, stretching, aching stroke.
“That’s it, baby,” Mingi whispered, breath ragged, lips at your ear. “Just take it. Don’t fight it…. just let us have you.” Yunho’s hand found yours and squeezed. “You’re perfect like this.” Their rhythm stayed slow. But it was deep. So deep. And you had no idea how you were still conscious. Your body was trembling, slick and painted and stretched wide around them, every inch of you owned, claimed, used. And still, it wasn’t enough. “More…” The word left you in a gasp, barely audible. “Please…”
Your voice cracked as your forehead dropped to Mingi’s shoulder, your fingers digging helplessly into his chest. “Fuck me… please, fuck me….”
Yunho’s breath snapped in his throat as Mingi cursed under his breath, hands flexing hard around your waist. And then they moved together harder. Faster. The slow, torturous rhythm broke like a dam bursting, and suddenly you were slamming between them, your body jolting with every thrust, your cunt clenching around Mingi while Yunho pounded into your ass, both of them grunting, moaning, losing it. The room echoed with it now, wet, filthy slaps of skin, the low growls of Yunho’s breath behind you, the broken gasps Mingi let out beneath you every time your pussy clenched around him.
“God, she’s squeezing me…” Mingi groaned, eyes squeezed shut, hips jerking upward into your heat as Yunho’s hand wrapped around your throat from behind, pulling you upright, owning your weight as he fucked into you harder. “You wanted this?” he growled into your ear, hips snapping with every word. “Wanted to be split open between us?”
You sobbed, loud, raw, shattered. “Yes… yesyesyes!” Your body bounced between them now, ragdoll loose, your mind gone, your pleasure spiraling toward something catastrophic as Mingi was already close. He’d been close since the second you’d taken him again, wrapped around him so tight, so wet, so full of him and Yunho both.
But now Yunho was pounding into you from behind, and every thrust had you clenching, tight, rhythmic, choking his dick like your body wanted to drag him over the edge with you. “Fuck…. fuck…baby,” Mingi gasped, his head thrown back, eyes wild. Your arms were limp around his shoulders, your body bouncing between them as Yunho drove into you harder, groaning low and mean every time your ass met his hips.
Mingi’s fingers dug into your waist, trying to slow it down, trying to breathe but you clenched again. And again. “Y/N…. oh my…. I’m gonna… fuck!” He thrust up once, instinct, reflex, desperation, and he came. Hard. Deep. Filling you with thick heat as his entire body locked up beneath you, your name falling from his lips in a shattered groan. “Y/N…. oh fuck, I’m coming…”
You felt it, his dick pulsing, twitching, spilling inside you. And still, Yunho didn’t stop. He growled, slamming into you again, dragging your trembling body against his chest, his hand slipping under you now, rubbing your clit like he wanted to wring another orgasm out of you right there as Mingi whimpered, body twitching under you. His dick was still buried in your pussy, overstimulated, twitching, trapped, and you just kept clenching around him every time Yunho’s thrusts pushed you forward.
“She’s milking me,” Mingi moaned, eyes rolling back, hips bucking helplessly as his body twitched in aftershock. And Yunho was fucking possessed. “Take it,” he growled against your shoulder. “Take both of us.” Your body was on fire. Yunho’s dick pistoned into you from behind, every thrust dragging you down onto Mingi’s overstimulated length, your soaked, fluttering pussy still squeezing him tight, milking the last pulses of his orgasm as you shattered again. A raw, broken moan ripped from your throat as your back arched hard, your body locking between them.
Your walls clamped down on Mingi violently, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave you couldn’t control, your body trembling, twitching, pulsing. “Fuck…. I’m fuck, I’m coming again! Mingi’s mouth fell open. His fingers dug into your waist. And the second you clamped around him like that, soaked and pulsing and hot, his body betrayed him.
“Fuck…. baby… fuck!” Mingi sobbed, breath catching on a shocked gasp as his hips bucked helplessly, another orgasm ripping through him without warning. “I…. I can’t… I can’t stop….” He cried out, loud and wrecked, dick twitching deep inside you as he came again, your orgasm dragging his body into another release, his thighs trembling beneath you, his chest heaving, his mind gone as Yunho’s thrusts were brutal now, sloppy, the rhythm gone, all growl and need and desperation.
He slammed into you one last time, hips locked to yours, buried deep and let out a snarl against your skin. “Mine… fuck, I’m coming….. fuck…” You felt Yunho pulse inside you, thick and hot, his grip bruising on your hips as he spilled deep into your ass, forehead pressed to your spine, his body shaking through it. All three of you froze. Breathing. Shaking.
And then you collapsed. Sandwiched between them, painted and soaked and trembling, your body full of both of them, your throat raw from moaning, your limbs limp, your mind empty as Mingi whimpered beneath you, chest rising and falling like he’d just survived something divine.
Yunho kissed your back once. Then again. Then breathed. “Yeah…” he murmured, voice hoarse. “we’re never letting you go.”
═════════ ═════════ ═════════
The next day was slow. Florida heat leaked through the blinds, casting lazy golden stripes across the living room floor, the faint hum of a fan, and the low crackle of a blunt being passed back and forth.
Yunho was sprawled on the couch, legs spread, clean shirt hanging loose off his frame. His hair was damp from a recent shower, skin now scrubbed clean of paint and sweat and sin, but his jaw was still sore from clenching last night.
Mingi sat beside him, shirtless, sweatpants riding low on his hips, head tipped back against the couch as he took a long pull from the blunt and exhaled slowly, smoke trailing from his mouth as he looked at the ceiling. “So…” then grinned lazily, “Yeah.”
“Never doing that again without prepping better,” Yunho muttered as Mingi laughed.
Knock knock knock.
The front door creaked open without waiting. “Hey,” came Wooyoung’s voice. “I need a favor, and weed, and also to make sure you didn’t break my best friend because she still hasn’t come back and I…” He stopped. Stared. Mouth parted in a half formed question as he took in the scene…..
Yunho and Mingi, stretched out on the couch, very much alive. Very much relaxed. And you. You walked in from down the hall, freshly showered, legs bare, one of Yunho’s oversized shirts swallowing your frame, just long enough to cover the top of your thighs and nothing else.
Wooyoung blinked and before he could even form a real sentence, Mingi reached for you without hesitation, his arm curling around your waist and tugging you into his lap like it was already routine. You went willingly, curling into him with a sleepy smile, your hand brushing Yunho’s knee like you’d done it a thousand times.
Yunho glanced at Wooyoung and took another drag from the blunt. “How much weed you want, man?” Mingi nuzzled your neck, grinning into your skin. And Wooyoung? He just stood there, gaping, hands on his hips like he was about to throw a fit.
San only meant to take out the trash. Instead, he witnesses a murder. The woman holding the gun lets him live. A mistake she cannot afford, and one he cannot forget. Now the most feared syndicate in the country is closer to his life than he realizes, his friends are unknowingly stepping into dangerous territory…and the assassin who spared him keeps watching. Because if he talks, she will have to finish what she started.
And the worst part?
San isn’t sure anymore if he fears her or the way his heart stumbles every time she looks at him.
Tropes: strangers to something much more dangerous, civilian (San) x assassin (y/n), “I was supposed to kill you.”, witness trope, secret identities, found family, protective friend group, mafia debt / trapped life
Featuring: ATEEZ as civilians (Wooyoung, Yeosang, Hongjoong, Seonghwa, Yunho) and mafia enforcers (Mingi & Jongho)
⚠️ Warnings: graphic violence, murder / death, organized crime themes, weapons / gun use, moral ambiguity, trauma, fear & paranoia
Main Masterlist | San's Masterlist
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
This is Part 1
The first time San sees her, she is holding a gun like it belongs in her hand more than anything gentle ever could.
The sound comes first.
Not the gunshot...that has already happened... but the dull, final thud of a body hitting wet pavement.
San freezes halfway through pushing open the metal door behind the bar, a trash bag heavy in his grip. For a strange, suspended second, his brain refuses to make sense of what his eyes are telling him.
Rain slicks the narrow alley into a mirror of neon reflections. Pink from the karaoke sign. Blue from the pharmacy across the street. Everything looks unreal, like a scene staged for someone else’s nightmare.
The man on the ground does not move.
The woman standing over him does not look surprised to see San.
She turns her head slowly, as if she had sensed him the moment the door creaked open.
Their eyes meet.
Dark. Steady. Unreadable.
San’s heart slams hard enough that he feels it in his throat.
He has never seen someone look so calm beside a dead body.
For a moment, neither of them speaks. Rain ticks softly against the fire escape above. Somewhere, a car passes, tires hissing on wet asphalt, blissfully unaware that the world has just tilted off its axis in this forgotten slice of the city.
San tells himself to move.
To run. To scream.
Instead, he stands there like something rooted, breath shallow, fingers loosening around the trash bag until it slips from his hand and collapses at his feet with a damp rustle.
The woman’s gaze drops briefly to the bag, then returns to his face.
She does not raise the gun toward him.
Not yet.
“Go back inside,” she says.
Her voice is low. Controlled. Not unkind — but empty of hesitation.
It is the voice of someone used to being obeyed.
San tries to speak, but his mouth has gone dry.
“I… I didn’t—”
“You weren’t supposed to see this.”
Rain beads along the barrel of the gun. She does not bother wiping it away.
Up close...closer than anyone should ever stand to death...San notices strange, irrelevant details. A loose strand of dark hair stuck to her cheek. Blood speckled across the cuff of her sleeve. The precise, steady rise and fall of her breathing.
She does not look frantic. She looks mildly inconvenienced.
San’s stomach twists.
The man on the ground lets out a wet, broken sound.
San startles.
He is alive.
Barely…. but alive.
The woman exhales through her nose, almost annoyed, and steps forward. The movement is fluid, economical. She does not rush. She simply lifts the gun again.
San hears himself speak before he understands why.
“Wait.”
The word cracks out of him, raw with disbelief.
Her finger stills on the trigger.
Silence stretches.
Slowly, she looks at him again.
And something shifts in her expression...not softness, not quite...but awareness. Calculation.
“You should go inside,” she repeats.
San shakes his head without meaning to.
“That man—he’s—he’s still—”
Another wet breath rattles from the ground.
San has never liked violence. He avoids fights, crosses the street when voices get too loud, shuts off movies when the blood starts looking too real. Yet something deep inside him recoils at the idea of watching a life extinguished while he does nothing.
“You can call an ambulance,” he says, voice unsteady. “It’s not too late.”
The woman studies him as though he has spoken a language she has not heard in years.
Then, very quietly, she says, “It is.”
The gunshot that follows is deafening in the narrow alley.
San flinches so hard his teeth click together.
The man goes still. Completely still.
The ringing in San’s ears swallows everything. The rain. The distant traffic. Even his own breathing.
When the sound fades, horror rushes in to fill its place.
“You…” His voice trembles. “You just—”
“Yes.”
She does not look at the body again. Her attention is entirely on him now. And that is when San understands.
He is a problem. Witnesses are problems.
A cold realization creeps down his spine, prickling every nerve awake.
“You saw my face,” she says.
It is not an accusation. It is a fact.
San takes an involuntary step backward. The door presses into his shoulder blades. He hadn’t even realized he had retreated that far.
“I won’t tell anyone,” he blurts.
She tilts her head slightly. Everyone says that, her expression seems to reply.
He forces himself to hold her gaze despite the terror clawing at his chest.
“I mean it.”
For the first time, uncertainty flickers across her features. Subtle enough that he might have imagined it.
Sirens wail faintly in the distance.
Not close. Not yet. But coming.
She hears them too. He knows she does because her eyes shift upward for a fraction of a second.
Time is narrowing. Choices are closing.
When she looks back at him, something has hardened behind her calm.
She lifts the gun.
San stops breathing.
He thinks of absurd things in that suspended instant. The unfinished glassware behind the bar, the plant he forgot to water, the way his sister always complains he works too late.
He wonders if dying feels like falling asleep.
Then the woman’s gaze drops briefly to his hands.
They are shaking. He hates that she can see it.
“You’re not running,” she observes.
San lets out a thin, humorless sound.
“My legs don’t seem interested in cooperating.”
Something almost like surprise touches her face.
Up close, he realizes she is younger than he first thought. Not soft, not naive... there is far too much steel in the way she carries herself...but not untouchably older either.
Just a person. A terrifying person with a gun.
“Please,” he says, quieter now. “I don’t want to die in an alley behind my workplace.”
The words hang there between them, fragile and painfully honest.
For a long moment, she says nothing. Rain trickles off the edge of the fire escape, tapping against the pavement in slow, irregular beats.
San wonders if this is what the edge of life feels like. Just unbearably still.
Then she lowers the gun.
Not completely. But enough.
Relief floods him so fast his knees nearly buckle.
“Pick up the bag,” she says.
He stares at her.
“What?”
“The trash bag. Pick it up. Go inside. Lock the door.”
“You’re letting me go?”
Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, as if she dislikes the phrasing.
“This never happened,” she says. “You saw nothing.”
San nods too quickly. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
He bends, fingers clumsy, and grabs the damp plastic. It takes everything in him not to glance again at the body.
When he straightens, she is already moving. Efficient. Unhurried.
As if death were just another task to tidy up before the night ends.
San backs toward the door, pushes it open, and slips inside.The noise of the bar crashes over him. Laughter, clinking glasses, a burst of music. Violently normal. For several seconds, he can only stand there, breathing too fast, trying to reconcile the warmth inside with the cold horror waiting just beyond the brick wall.
When he dares look through the small, fogged window in the door again, the alley is empty.
The woman is gone. So is the body.
And San will spend the next twelve hours trying to convince himself he did not imagine her.
Twelve hours earlier, the world had been ordinary.
San wakes to the sound of quiet laughter drifting down the hallway. For a moment, he does not remember falling asleep.
The gray light leaking through the curtains tells him he cannot have managed more than two hours at most. His body feels heavy in that particular way that sleep never fixes — the kind that settles deep into bone and muscle after too many late nights stacked too close together.
He lies still, staring at the ceiling, listening.
Wooyoung’s voice carries easily through the apartment. “…I’m telling you, if he collapses at work again, I’m not carrying him home. He’s too big.”
Yeosang hums in agreement, calm as always. “You said that last time.”
“And I meant it last time too.”
San exhales slowly and drags a hand over his face before pushing himself upright. The apartment smells faintly of toasted bread and laundry detergent. A domestic combination that has come to mean safety more than anything else.
When he steps into the living room, he is greeted by a scene so ordinary it almost makes his chest ache.
Wooyoung is sprawled sideways across the couch, hair still damp from a shower, scrolling through something on his phone. Yeosang sits cross-legged on the floor beside the coffee table, surrounded by open textbooks, a pencil tucked behind his ear.
Both of them look up at once. Both of them immediately frown.
“San,” Wooyoung says slowly, eyes dropping to the neat black slacks and pressed shirt, “please tell me you are not going back to work.”
San glances down at himself as if surprised by the accusation. “It’s called having a job.”
“It’s called having a death wish,” Wooyoung counters.
Yeosang tilts his head, studying him with quiet concern. “Did you sleep at all?”
“Enough.”
“San,” Yeosang says gently, “you cannot redefine the word ‘enough’ just because you are stubborn.”
Despite himself, San smiles. Living together had not been part of any grand plan. It had begun as a practical solution. Three incomes barely strong enough to afford a place that did not smell like mildew and resignation. But somewhere along the way, practicality had softened into something resembling family.
Wooyoung groans dramatically and lets his head fall back against the couch. “You worked a closing shift. You got home at what — three?”
“Closer to four.”
Wooyoung sits up so fast a cushion tumbles to the floor. “Four?! And you’re awake already? No. Absolutely not. Illegal. I forbid it.”
“You don’t have that authority.”
“I should.”
Yeosang closes one of his textbooks and rises smoothly to his feet. “There’s coffee,” he says. “You look like you need it.”
San accepts the mug with quiet gratitude, letting the heat seep into his palms.
For a moment, none of them speaks. Morning sunlight edges its way across the floor, catching in the pale fabric of the curtains. The city beyond the window is still shaking off sleep.
Wooyoung watches him over the rim of his own cup. “You know,” he says, voice softer now, “liking your job is one thing. Living there is another.”
San takes a careful sip. “I do like it.”
This is not entirely a lie. He likes the rhythm of the bar. The familiar faces. The way conversations ebb and flow like tides he can guide without ever fully entering. What he does not like are the hours. The exhaustion that never quite leaves. The quiet arithmetic of bills that ensures he cannot simply choose something easier.
But some truths are heavier when spoken aloud, and he has never enjoyed placing weight on people he loves.
Wooyoung squints at him. “That smile means you are hiding something.”
“It means I am drinking coffee.”
Yeosang huffs a quiet laugh. “Be careful,” he tells Wooyoung. “If you interrogate him too aggressively, he will just go to work early to escape you.”
“I hate how plausible that is.”
San sets the mug down and reaches for his jacket.
Wooyoung groans again. “You’re really going.”
“I have an opening shift.”
“You also have a body that requires sleep to remain alive.”
San steps into his shoes. “I’ll nap later.”
“You always say that.”
He does always say that. And yet, as he pauses by the door, looking back at the small, slightly cluttered living room. At Yeosang already reopening his textbook, at Wooyoung dramatically collapsing across the couch. S quiet warmth spreads through him.
“I’ll bring leftovers tonight,” he offers.
Wooyoung perks up immediately. “Something fried.”
“Everything you like is fried.”
“Because fried food understands me emotionally.”
Yeosang lifts his gaze. “Be careful on your way,” he says simply.
San nods once and slips out into the hallway.
The bar greets him with the familiar scent of citrus and polished wood.
“Look who decided to grace us with his presence,” Minjae calls the moment San steps inside. “I was about to file a missing persons report.”
Jisoo, already slicing limes behind the counter, snorts. “He was here six hours ago.”
Minjae squints at him. “…Were you?”
San only smiles.
That is how it always is here. Affection disguised as teasing, concern wrapped in humor. The bar has never asked him to be anything other than steady, and he has grown quietly loyal to that simplicity.
“Did you sleep?” Jisoo asks.
“Define sleep.”
She points a knife at him. “That is not the answer of a responsible adult.”
“Neither is threatening your coworker with cutlery.”
Minjae claps a hand onto San’s shoulder as he passes. “One day your body is going to unionize and go on strike.”
“I look forward to negotiating with it.”
They laugh, and the sound settles something inside him.
Work begins as it always does. Wiping down surfaces, aligning bottles, preparing garnishes with careful precision. There is comfort in these small acts of readiness, in knowing exactly what is expected of him.
By afternoon, regulars drift in. By evening, the room fills with conversation.
Someone calls his name from across the bar like greeting an old friend. Another complains theatrically that drinks never taste right unless San makes them.He accepts it all with that same easy smile. If anyone notices the faint shadows beneath his eyes, they are kind enough not to linger on them.
Hours slip past unnoticed, measured only by the steady rotation of glasses and laughter. Night deepens. Neon blooms alive beyond the windows.
And when closing time finally arrives, San feels that familiar bone-deep fatigue settle over him. Heavy, but manageable.
He ties the trash bag, pushes open the back door, and steps into the rain.
When San returns to himself, he is already back inside.
He does not remember crossing the threshold. The bar is loud. Painfully normal.
Laughter crashes against his ears, too bright, too careless for a world in which a man stopped breathing less than a minute ago.
His hands are shaking. He hides them beneath the counter.
“San?”
He startles.
Jisoo is watching him. “You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”
For a wild moment, he considers telling her everything.
The alley. The gun. The woman whose eyes had held no hesitation.
Instead, he hears himself say, “Just tired.”
The lie tastes thin.
Minjae appears at his other side. “Go home early if you need to.”
San nods.
But he already knows sleep will not come easily tonight.
Because every time he closes his eyes, he will see her again. Standing in the rain. Looking at him like she was deciding whether he should live.
For several minutes after the woman disappears, San continues moving as if nothing has happened.
He rinses glasses. He wipes the counter. He nods when spoken to.
Later, he will not remember doing any of it. His body has slipped into something older than conscious thought.
The quiet survival instinct that whispers: Act normal. Do not draw attention. But inside him, something has shifted permanently out of place.
The alley keeps replaying behind his eyes.
Rain on black pavement. The dull weight of the gun in her hand. The way she had looked at him. Not cruel, not panicked. Measured.
As if his life had been reduced to a calculation she was solving in real time.
Around two in the morning, Minjae tells him again to go home. This time, San does not argue. He removes his apron with careful hands, folds it twice before setting it down, and thanks everyone with a steadiness he does not feel.
Outside, the rain has thinned to a cold drizzle. The city glows damp and restless.
Normally, San enjoys this hour. The strange quiet that settles after midnight, when even busy streets seem to exhale. Tonight, every shadow looks deeper than it should.
He starts walking.
The first sound startles him before he has gone half a block. A car door slamming somewhere behind him.
His shoulders jerk tight. He turns too quickly. No one is there.
Just a taxi pulling away from the curb. San forces himself to breathe slowly.
You are fine, he tells himself. If she meant to kill you, she would have.
The certainty of that thought does not comfort him nearly as much as it should.
He shoves his hands into his coat pockets and keeps moving, but his senses refuse to dim. Footsteps echo too loudly. Laughter from across the street sounds jagged, wrong. Even the flicker of a failing streetlamp makes his pulse jump.
He has walked this route hundreds of times. Tonight it feels unfamiliar.
At a crosswalk, he catches himself scanning reflections in dark storefront windows, checking if someone walks behind him.
No one does. Still, the feeling persists. That thin, crawling awareness at the base of his spine. His mind circles back to her.
He had not seen her face too clearly. But clearly enough to recognize it. The alley had been too dark, the neon fractured by rain. But he knows, with strange certainty, that she had been young. Not a hardened relic of some violent past.
Young enough that, under different circumstances, he might have passed her on the street without a second glance. The thought unsettles him more than anything else. Violence is easier to understand when it wears an older face.When it belongs to someone the world has already shaped into something sharp.
But her…There had been something almost untouched about the way she carried herself. Not innocence...no, that was the wrong word... but control so complete it erased hesitation. As if she had learned, very early, that mercy was a luxury she could not afford.
San slows as the memory shifts.
The man on the pavement. The broken sound he had made. The final gunshot.
San presses his lips together. He wonders who that man had been.
Someone loved him once. Surely. Someone might even be waiting for him to come home tonight.
A cold realization settles over him. There is now a version of the world in which San is the last person to have seen that man alive.
The thought makes his stomach turn.
And then another follows, quieter but far more dangerous:
What happens to witnesses?
She had let him go.
But why?
He stops at another intersection, staring blindly at the red signal while unease coils tighter inside his chest.
Should he go to the police?
The idea flickers, then collapses almost immediately under the weight of reality.
What would he even say?
Hello, I watched a woman execute someone in an alley, but I cannot describe her face, her height, her voice beyond the fact that it was calm.
And if she learned he had spoken…
A shiver works its way down his spine that has nothing to do with the rain.
By the time his apartment building comes into view, fatigue presses heavily behind his eyes, but sleep feels impossibly far away. He climbs the stairs more slowly than usual, listening to each creak as though it might betray him.
When he reaches the door, his hand hovers over the handle. For a ridiculous second, he imagines it already unlocked.
Imagines stepping inside to find...
He exhales sharply and pushes the thought away.
The lock turns with its familiar click. Warmth spills out to meet him. So does the smell of ramyeon.
Relief hits so suddenly his knees nearly weaken.
“You’re early,” Wooyoung calls from the kitchen.
San steps inside and closes the door perhaps a fraction too quickly.
Wooyoung notices everything. He appears in the hallway, chopsticks still in hand, eyebrows already lifting. “Did the bar explode?”
Yeosang emerges from his room a moment later, drawn by the voices.
He takes one look at San and goes very still. “What happened?”
San blinks. “Nothing.”
The word comes automatically. Too automatically.
Wooyoung tilts his head. “You look like you saw something you weren’t supposed to.”
San forces his mouth into what he hopes resembles a smile. “Just tired.”
“San.” Yeosang rarely interrupts.
The quiet firmness of his voice makes San’s chest tighten.
“You always say you are tired. This is different.”
For a moment, the alley surges back so vividly that he smells rain again. He moves past them before the memory can root itself too deeply, shrugging off his coat with hands that are almost steady.
“I got off early,” he says.
“That never happens,” Wooyoung replies immediately.
San pretends not to hear.
He walks to the sink and washes his hands longer than necessary, watching water spiral down the drain.
Blood that was never on his skin.
A gun he never touched. A life he could not save.
“Did someone cause trouble?” Yeosang asks gently behind him.
“No.”
“Did you?”
Despite everything, a small, startled laugh escapes him.
“No.”
Silence stretches.
Wooyoung sets the chopsticks down.
“Okay,” he says slowly. “Either you are hiding something, or you are about to faint. Sit.”
San does neither.
If he sits, he is afraid the tremor inside him will become visible.
“I think I’ll just go to bed.”
“It’s barely three.”
“I have an opening shift.”
Wooyoung makes a strangled noise of protest. “This is exactly the kind of nonsense that sends people into early graves.”
San turns toward the hallway before they can study his face any longer. “Goodnight.”
“San.”
He pauses.
Yeosang’s voice is softer now. “You know you can tell us if something is wrong.”
The words land with unexpected weight. For one reckless instant, he considers it.
Telling them about the woman. The gun. The choice that had hung in the air between life and death.
But the image that follows is unbearable. Wooyoung unable to sleep, jumping at every sound; Yeosang carrying quiet worry into his exams; both of them suddenly aware that the world is far less safe than they believed.
No.
Some knowledge is a burden.
And he will not place it on them.
“I know,” he says.
It is the closest thing to truth he can offer.
Inside his room, darkness folds around him.
He sits on the edge of the bed without turning on the light.
The apartment creaks softly. Familiar sounds that have never bothered him before.
Tonight, each one sharpens his attention.
A pipe shifts somewhere in the walls.
Footsteps pass in the hallway outside.
A door closes downstairs.
San lies back slowly, staring into the shadows.
The moment he lets his eyes fall shut, she appears again.
Standing in the rain.
Looking at him like she was memorizing his face.
He wonders if she has.
He wonders if somewhere in the city, she is replaying the same night. Calculating risks, correcting mistakes.
Regret does not seem like something she allows herself.
But hesitation…She had hesitated.
That is why he is alive.
The realization brings no comfort.
Because hesitation can be corrected.
And as exhaustion finally begins to drag him toward sleep, one thought settles heavily in his chest:
Tonight, a stranger decided he could live.
Tomorrow…
She might decide differently.
The man is not supposed to look ordinary.
That is the first thing Y/N notices when he steps into the alley.
Most targets carry something visible. Arrogance, desperation, greed. Some tremble before she even speaks. Others attempt dignity they have not earned.
This one only looks tired.
Rain dots the shoulders of his cheap gray jacket. He cannot be older than forty. There is a faint crease between his brows, the kind formed by years of quiet worry rather than anger.
When he sees her standing beneath the fractured neon light, he startles.
“You’re early,” he says.
His voice shakes despite the effort to steady it.
“I am on time,” Y/N replies.
Precision matters.
Always.
He glances behind her as if hoping someone else might emerge from the shadows. Someone kinder, perhaps, someone willing to negotiate.
No one does.
“You said… you said if I paid—”
“You tried to disappear,” she interrupts calmly. “After taking money that was not yours to take.”
“I was going to return it.”
“You were given that opportunity.”
The rain strengthens, tapping softly against the metal fire escape above them.
For a moment, neither moves.
Then the man exhales, shoulders sagging as though something inside him has finally accepted the inevitable.
“I have a daughter,” he says.
They all say something like that in the end.
A son.
A wife.
A mother who needs surgery.
Y/N does not allow herself to picture them.
Faces make hesitation easier.
Hesitation gets people killed, sometimes the wrong people.
“You should not have stolen from my employer,” she says quietly.
His eyes shine.
“I was desperate.”
Desperation is the oldest currency in the world.
It built the syndicate that owns her life.
She raises the gun.
Her hand does not shake.
It never does.
“Please,” he whispers.
The word lands somewhere far away inside her. In a place she learned long ago to lock behind steel.
“I am sorry,” she tells him.
And she means it.
The shot cracks through the alley.
He collapses hard onto the pavement.
For a brief second, the only sound is the rain.
Then...A metallic creak.
Y/N turns immediately.
The back door of the bar swings closed.
A young man steps out, a trash bag slipping from his hand as his eyes land on the body.
Witness.
The calculation begins instantly.
Distance: manageable.
No visible weapon.
Shock response high...he is frozen.
He had not been part of the plan.
Plans are rarely kind enough to remain untouched.
Their gazes lock.
Even in the broken neon light, she can tell several things at once:
He is younger than most witnesses she has dealt with.
His clothes are normal but he wears an apron... bar work.
And his expression…
Not defiance.
Not anger.
Horror.
Clean, unguarded horror.
“Go back inside,” she says.
He does not.
When the man on the ground makes that wet, unfinished sound, the witness flinches.
“Wait,” he blurts when she lifts the gun again.
The plea is instinctive.
Human.
“You can call an ambulance,” he says, voice unsteady. “It’s not too late.”
For a fraction of a second, so small it almost escapes her, something twists beneath her ribs.
Not doubt.
Never doubt.
But awareness.
This is what people like him do.
They believe there is always still time.
She finishes the job.
The second shot echoes sharply.
When the ringing fades, she studies him.
He is still there.
Still not running.
“You saw my face,” she says.
“I won’t tell anyone.”
Everyone says that.
Yet he does not look calculating.
He looks like someone who apologizes when strangers bump into him on the street.
Rain gathers along her lashes. She ignores it.
Her finger rests lightly against the trigger.
She searches his expression for the thing she has learned to recognize over the years. The subtle flicker that signals a future problem.
What she finds instead is terror held upright by stubborn decency.
He does not want to die in an alley.
The thought forms unexpectedly, and with it comes something dangerously close to understanding.
Sirens murmur faintly in the distance.
Time narrows.
She lowers the gun.
“Pick up the bag. Lock the door. You saw nothing.”
Relief crashes across his face so openly it almost startles her.
He disappears inside.
By the time backup arrives to collect the body, she is gone.
But the image of his eyes follows her into the night.
The basement smells faintly of damp concrete and old smoke.
It always has.
Y/N steps inside without knocking.
Her employer sits behind a wide metal desk, reading glasses low on his nose as he studies a ledger.
He does not look up. “It is done?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Clean?”
“Yes.”
Only then does his gaze lift.
Sharp. Assessing.
He searches her face the way a jeweler examines stone for flaws.
After several silent seconds, he nods once.
“Good girl.”
The phrase slides over her like cold oil.
She inclines her head. “May I go?”
A dismissive flick of his fingers answers.
She turns before he can say anything else.
Before he can look too closely. Before he might somehow read the truth she has already buried.
Because if he knew…
If he learned she had allowed a witness to breathe…
Punishment would not be swift.
It would be instructional.
The syndicate survives on fear sharpened into obedience.
Outside, the rain has softened to mist.
She exhales slowly, tension unwinding from her shoulders.
“You look like someone stole your favorite knife.”
Y/N turns.
Mingi leans against a parked car, hands shoved into his pockets, rain darkening his hair. Jongho stands beside him, quieter but no less observant.
“Our shift was boring,” Mingi continues. “Tragic, really.”
“So we decided to bother you,” Jongho finishes calmly.
Despite everything, a faint warmth touches her chest. They are the closest thing she allows herself to have to family.
All three of them had learned the same lessons too young. After slipping through the orphanage gates at eight years old with nothing but stolen bread and reckless hope.
The syndicate had found them first. Or perhaps they had found it. Survival rarely cares about semantics.
Because she despises killing. Hates the way faces sometimes follow her into dreams and yet continues anyway.
Because she has no choice.
But as she watches the witness startle at his own shadow inside that small, warm apartment…
A dangerous thought slips in.
She hopes it will not come to that.
The walk home is quiet.
Not tense. Dilence has never frightened the three of them , but thoughtful, weighted with everything left unsaid.
Streetlights smear gold across wet pavement as they move through familiar back routes, instinct guiding their steps more than memory ever could.
Home is not far. Home is also never permanent. But it is theirs.
The building looks abandoned to anyone who does not know better. Cracked concrete, rusted balconies, windows that reveal nothing. Inside, however, the apartment is unexpectedly warm. Not luxurious, not soft in the way ordinary lives are soft, but lived-in.
Three pairs of shoes by the door. A jacket slung carelessly over the couch.
Mingi disappears into the kitchen almost immediately. “I’m making tea,” he announces. “None of us are sleeping anytime soon.”
Jongho loosens the collar of his shirt and watches Y/N with the quiet intensity that has always made him impossible to lie to.
“You should have killed him.”
No accusation. Just truth.
She shrugs off her coat. “He was not part of the assignment.”
“That has never stopped you before.” Mingi returns, setting three mugs onto the table with more force than necessary.
“We are not saying this because we enjoy it,” he says. “We are saying it because if the boss finds out you left a witness breathing—”
“He won’t.”
“You cannot guarantee that.”
Y/N wraps her hands around the mug, welcoming the heat even though her fingers are not cold.
“He will not talk,” she says calmly.
Jongho studies her. “You are trusting a stranger with your life.”
“I am trusting my judgment.”
Mingi exhales sharply and drops into the chair across from her. “You are the closest thing we will ever have to a sister,” he says. “So forgive us if we are not enthusiastic about the idea of someone else holding a knife to your throat without even realizing it.”
Something tight in her chest loosens at the words. They do not say things like that often. None of them are particularly skilled at tenderness. The syndicate had trained it out of them early. But it surfaces sometimes in blunt, unmistakable ways.
“I know why you are worried,” she says.
“Good. Then kill him.”
“No.”
The word lands gently but immovable as stone.
Silence stretches.
Finally, she adds, “If he steps outside his routine… if he speaks… if he becomes a risk, I will handle it.”
Mingi and Jongho exchange a look.
It is brief. Communicative. Disbelieving.
“You are hesitating,” Jongho says quietly.
“I am evaluating.”
“That is not what it looks like.”
She lifts her gaze to his, steady.
“I will do what is necessary.”
Mingi leans back, studying her with narrowed eyes.
“You hate killing.”
“I hate waste,” she corrects.
And it would be wasteful to end a life that might never threaten hers.
But later, alone, she will admit something she does not dare speak aloud:
When she lowered the gun in that alley…
It had not felt like strategy. It had felt like relief.
Morning arrives pale and indifferent.
For once, none of them has an assignment. Freedom, in their world, does not mean safety. Merely the absence of immediate orders.
Mingi decides this is reason enough to celebrate. “We are going out,” he declares.
Jongho raises an eyebrow. “That sounds suspicious.”
“It is called leisure. Civilians do it constantly.”
Y/N eyes him. “Your definition of leisure usually involves starting a fight.”
“That happened once.”
“It happened four times.”
He waves a dismissive hand. “Details.”
She considers refusing.
But something restless hums beneath her ribs today. A leftover awareness from the night before, sharp as a blade not yet sheathed.
“Fine,” she says at last.
Mingi grins. “I knew you loved us.”
“I tolerate you.”
“Same thing.”
They walk several blocks before the sign comes into view.
Her steps falter.
No.
Of all the bars in this district…Her gaze lifts slowly to the windows.
Warm light spills onto the street.
For a moment, she considers turning around without explanation.
Jongho notices immediately. “You recognize it.”
“Yes.”
“The witness works here,” Mingi says happily.
She nods once. “I am not going inside.”
“Y/N.”
“No.”
Jongho steps closer, lowering his voice. “We should see him again. Properly. Observe him without adrenaline clouding the situation.”
Mingi tilts his head. “If he is truly harmless, you lose nothing. If he is not… better to know now.”
She knows they are right.
Still, an unfamiliar reluctance curls through her.
Not fear.
Something stranger.
Finally, she exhales. “Fine.”
The moment they step inside, warmth folds around them. Laughter, music, the bright clink of glass.
Normal life. It always feels faintly surreal.
They slide onto stools at the bar.
And then...The witness looks up.
For a split second, all color drains from his face.
It is almost impressive how quickly he recovers. Almost.
“Good evening,” he says, voice only slightly tight.
But his eyes betray him. They flick between her and the two men beside her, pupils wide.
He remembers. Of course he remembers.
Y/N watches him carefully.
He does not greet her. Does not expose her.
Instead, he reaches for a glass with hands that are steady enough. Though she notices the precise care in each movement, as if concentration alone might keep them from shaking.
Cute, she thinks before she can stop herself.
He is trying so hard.
“What can I get you?” he asks.
Mingi leans forward, studying him with open curiosity.
Three seconds pass.
Four.
The witness grows visibly more nervous under the attention.
Jongho orders calmly, as though nothing in the world is unusual.
Y/N holds the young man’s gaze just long enough to send a silent message: You saw nothing yesterday.
Understanding flashes there immediately.
Fear follows close behind. Good.
Fear keeps people predictable.
Yet as he turns to prepare their drinks, she notices something unexpected.
He positions himself where he can see all three of them at once.
Not trapped. Not cornered. Observant. Smart enough to survive.
Mingi watches him go and huffs softly.
“I like him.”
“You like everyone,” Jongho replies.
“He looks like a startled deer.”
Y/N takes the drink placed before her.
Their fingers do not touch, but he withdraws his hand quickly anyway.
Amusement flickers low in her chest.
He is terrified. And still functioning.
Still polite. Still pretending this is an ordinary night.
Yes…Very cute.
Jongho leans slightly closer. “He has not reported you,” he murmurs.
“No.”
“He is smart.”
“Or just protecting himself.”
“Both,” Jongho says.
Mingi lifts his glass.
“If he were reckless, we would already know.”
Y/N watches the witness laugh faintly at something another customer says. The sound thinner than it should be, but real.
He is choosing silence.
Choosing routine. Choosing survival.
For now…
She lets herself relax a fraction.
Still, one thought lingers as she studies him over the rim of her glass:
If the day ever comes when he stops choosing silence…
She will not hesitate again.
The moment she walks into the bar, San forgets how breathing works.
Just enough that his lungs seem to pause, waiting for permission they no longer trust themselves to take.
It is her.
There is no doubt. Even without the rain, without the fractured neon, without death cooling at her feet.
In proper light, she looks impossibly… normal.
Young. Composed.
Pretty in a way that feels quiet rather than ornamental.
Which is deeply, profoundly wrong.
Because San has seen her end a life with less hesitation than most people use to cross a street.
For a split second, his vision tunnels.
She found me.
The thought detonates through his chest.
Of course she did.
He had been an idiot to think the night was over once she disappeared into it.
People like her do not leave loose ends.
And now she is sitting at his bar.
Not alone.
The two men beside her look like they were carved out of something sturdier than bone.
Broad shoulders. Still posture. Eyes that move without seeming to.
San has never been particularly skilled at identifying danger. He avoids it too carefully to gain experience. But even he recognizes the quiet alertness in them.
They are searching his face.
He can feel it.
Measuring.
Confirming.
His hands nearly betray him when he reaches for a glass.
Act normal.
It becomes a silent chant.
Act normal. Act normal. Act normal.
“Good evening,” he hears himself say.
He is faintly impressed his voice emerges steady.
The woman watches him.
Just enough that awareness prickles along his skin.
Does she remember his face as clearly as he remembers hers?
Stupid question.
Of course she does.
People like her do not forget details that could destroy them.
“What can I get you?” he asks.
The taller of the two men leans forward slightly.
San has the absurd thought that if this man decided to flip the bar over, he probably could.
Three seconds pass.
Four.
San focuses very hard on not bolting toward the emergency exit.
The shorter one orders in a calm, even tone that feels strangely at odds with the weight of his presence.
San nods once and turns before his composure cracks.
Behind the safety of the counter, he exhales slowly through his nose.
Maybe they are not here for you.
Maybe this is coincidence.
Maybe the universe simply enjoys cruelty.
He risks a glance up.
The woman is still watching him.
When their eyes meet, something silent passes between them.
You saw nothing.
Understanding moves through him immediately.
He lowers his gaze.
Yes.
Nothing.
He prepares their drinks with surgical focus, aware of every tiny movement his body makes.
Do not spill.
Do not shake.
Do not look like prey.
When he sets the glass before her, he withdraws his hand quickly. Terrified that even accidental contact might be interpreted as provocation.
She notices.
Something almost like amusement flickers in her eyes.
San, meanwhile, is trying not to pass out.
And then...the door opens again.
Laughter spills inside.
San looks up automatically.
His soul leaves his body.
Wooyoung strides in first.
Completely unsuspecting.
Completely unafraid.
“San!” he calls immediately. “Tell me you saved something edible for us—”
San’s expression must do something strange because Wooyoung slows.
“…Why do you look constipated?”
No. No no no no.
Yeosang steps in behind him, already observing too much as usual.
His gaze sweeps the room once.
Pauses.
Returns to San.
Something in his eyes sharpens.
San tries to communicate twelve different warnings telepathically.
Leave.
Turn around.
Fake an emergency.
Develop sudden food poisoning.
Anything.
Instead, Wooyoung slides onto the stool directly beside the tall man.
San nearly drops a glass.
He grips the counter harder.
“Hi,” Wooyoung says easily to the women leaning over the man .
And then, because the universe has abandoned San entirely, he adds:
“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
San stops breathing again.
Yeosang closes his eyes briefly, as if accepting that intervention is now too late.
The woman regards Wooyoung with calm curiosity.
Up close, San realizes something that unsettles him even further:
She does not radiate menace.
There is no theatrical coldness.
No sharpened cruelty.
If he had passed her on the street, he might have thought nothing more than she’s pretty or even cute.
The disconnect makes his brain hurt.
“Yes,” she says simply.
Her voice is the same.
Low.
Controlled.
Wooyoung smiles wider.
“Well, welcome to our favorite place.”
San wonders if screaming would be considered unprofessional.
One of the men beside her watches the exchange with poorly concealed amusement.
The other studies Wooyoung like a scientist observing a particularly fearless animal.
San tries to catch Wooyoung’s eye.
Fails.
Tries again.
Wooyoung finally glances over.
San widens his eyes meaningfully.
Wooyoung grins back.
San contemplates early retirement.
“Three beers,” Wooyoung calls.
San nods mechanically.
Behind him, his pulse hammers so violently he is certain someone must hear it.
When he turns back with the drinks....the door opens again.
More voices.
More familiarity.
San does not think his nervous system was designed to survive this evening.
Hongjoong enters first, already talking.
Seonghwa follows, elegant even in something as simple as stepping through a doorway.
And Yunho...Yunho stops.
Not dramatically.
Just a slight pause.
But San sees it immediately.
Yunho’s gaze fixes on one of the men at the bar.
Recognition flickers.
Just the subtle awareness of having seen a face somewhere before.
Then Yunho looks at San.
A silent question passes between them.
Do you know them?
San cannot answer without screaming.
He forces himself to smile.
It probably looks deranged.
Yunho’s brows knit faintly.
He understands something is wrong.
And suddenly San realizes something with cold clarity.
If anything happens here…
If violence erupts…
His friends will be caught in it without ever understanding why.
The thought settles like ice in his veins.
Behind the bar, he straightens imperceptibly.
Fear is still there.
Sharp.
Relentless.
But something else rises beside it now.
Protectiveness.
Because whatever these people are…
Whatever the woman beside Wooyoung is capable of…
He will not let this ordinary, precious life shatter without trying to stand in front of it.
Even if he has no idea how.
San is fairly certain his heart has forgotten how to beat normally.
It has settled instead into a frantic, uneven rhythm that makes concentration nearly impossible.
Wooyoung is still smiling.
Still flirting.
Still catastrophically alive.
And the woman. The woman who ended a man’s life less than twenty-four hours ago is watching the exchange with quiet composure, as if she has all the time in the world.
Then Yunho moves.
Without hesitation, he pulls a chair from a nearby table and slides into the narrow space between Wooyoung and the taller of the two men.
San’s brain stalls.
No.
No, no, no. That is not what you do when you sense danger. You do not voluntarily wedge yourself into it.
Yunho leans one arm casually against the counter.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says.
The tall man turns.
For the first time since entering the bar, something unmistakably human crosses his face.
Recognition.
“Mingi,” Yunho adds.
San nearly drops the bottle in his hand.
The name lands like a physical blow.
The man studies Yunho with narrowed eyes.
“…Yunho.”
The way they say each other’s names is not friendly.
Not hostile either.
Something tighter.
Charged.
Like two people standing on opposite sides of a line only they can see.
Wooyoung looks between them.
“You guys know each other?”
A beat passes.
Then Yunho nods once.
“Old colleagues.”
The word almost makes San vomit.
Colleagues.
As in office work? Team projects? Shared lunch breaks?
The absurdity of the thought is so overwhelming he nearly laughs.
Instead, he grips the counter harder.
Mingi leans back slightly, gaze dragging over Yunho as if confirming he is real.
“Didn’t think you still lived around here.”
“I don’t advertise it.”
A faint smile touches Mingi’s mouth.
“Still cautious.”
“Still alive,” Yunho replies calmly.
The shorter man beside the woman watches this exchange with growing interest.
The woman says nothing.
But her attention has sharpened.
San can feel it.
Wooyoung, oblivious as ever, claps once.
“Well this is convenient! Small world, right?”
No one agrees.
Seonghwa arrives at the bar a moment later, sets a hand lightly on Wooyoung’s shoulder, and murmurs, “Perhaps lower your volume.”
Wooyoung squints at him.
“Why is everyone acting weird tonight?”
Because you are flirting with a hitman, San thinks hysterically.
Hongjoong and Seonghwa slide into the remaining space, greeting San with easy familiarity. Anormalcy so bright it almost hurts to look at.
Yunho gestures lightly toward Mingi.
“We worked together a few years back.”
“Doing what?” Hongjoong asks.
A pause.
Yunho’s expression does not change. “Information logistics.”
It is such a strange phrase that no one knows how to respond.
Mingi lets out a quiet breath that might almost be a laugh.
“Still using clean words, I see.”
“I prefer them.”
Their gazes hold for a second too long.
San suddenly understands something with cold certainty.
Whatever history exists between them…
It is not small.
The rest of the evening passes in a strange, stretched version of time.
Nothing happens.
No weapons appear.
No threats are spoken.
Yet the air feels electrically charged, every conversation threaded with meanings San cannot quite decode.
Several times he catches the woman watching him.
Assessing.
Always assessing.
At one point Wooyoung makes her laugh, a quiet, unexpected sound, and the normalcy of it nearly fractures San’s brain.
How can someone who laughs like that pull a trigger without hesitation?
Near midnight, Minjae appears beside him and studies his face.
“…San.”
San startles.
“You look like you’re about to faint.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
Minjae crosses his arms.
“When was the last time you slept?”
San opens his mouth.
Closes it.
“…Exactly,” Minjae mutters. “You’re taking the next few days off.”
San blinks.
“What?”
“Paid leave. Don’t argue. You look shitty, and I refuse to have you collapse on my floor.”
Relief and fresh panic collide inside his chest.
Leave means distance from the bar.
Distance from her.
But also…
No routine.
No predictable schedule.
What if unpredictability is good?
“Go,” Minjae insists.
San nods slowly.
When he returns to the group and tells them he can close early, Wooyoung cheers immediately.
“Perfect! Family walk home.”
Family.
The word lodges somewhere painful behind his ribs.
Outside, the night air is cool.
They part from the trio at the corner.
San feels the woman’s gaze linger until distance swallows it.
The walk home blurs.
Voices drift around him. Wooyoung complaining about being hungry again, Hongjoong debating late-night takeout, Seonghwa gently scolding someone for not wearing a jacket.
San hears none of it.
His thoughts spiral inward.
Old colleagues.
What does that even mean?
What kind of workplace reconnects people like that?
By the time they reach the apartment, his nerves feel stripped raw.
Yunho enters last.
Then quietly locks the door.
Once.
Twice.
He crosses the room and pulls the curtains shut with deliberate precision.
Wooyoung frowns.
“…Are we hiding from snipers?”
Some of them laughs.
San sinks onto the floor before he realizes what he is doing, back resting against the couch like a child who has forgotten how chairs work.
He looks at Yunho.
Yunho looks back.
“What trouble did you get into?” Yunho asks.
San’s throat feels tight.
Instead of answering, he whispers, “Why did you know them?”
A long silence follows.
Then Yunho exhales.
“I was in the same syndicate.”
Wooyoung snorts.
“Very funny.”
“I worked on Mingi’s side,” Yunho continues calmly. “Information. Routes. Surveillance. Risk analysis.”
Hongjoong lets out a short laugh.
“Wait — are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“You’re joking.”
“I am not.”
Something in his tone finally cracks through their disbelief.
Yeosang straightens slowly.
Seonghwa’s expression goes very still.
“…Which syndicate?” Hongjoong asks.
Yunho meets his gaze.
“The Black Crescent.”
The name hits the room like an explosion without sound.
Even San, who knows almost nothing about the criminal world, has heard it whispered before. In news reports that never dared say too much, in stories that ended abruptly when voices lowered.
One of the most feared organizations in the country.
Wooyoung’s smile fades.
“…Stop.”
“I left years ago,” Yunho says. “Cleanly. Quietly. But people do not simply stumble into their orbit by accident.”
His gaze shifts back to San.
“So,” he says evenly, “what the hell did you get yourself into… and now the rest of us too?”
The words unravel something inside San.
He folds forward slightly, arms wrapping around himself as if that might contain the memory.
Sitting there on the floor, he feels absurdly young.
Small.
“I saw her,” he says.
And then the story spills out. The alley, the rain, the gunshot, the moment she decided he could live.
No one interrupts.
No one jokes.
By the time he finishes, the apartment has gone so quiet he can hear the hum of the refrigerator.
Genre: +18, Smut, Dark academia, Pschological Angst, Slow-burn Mystery, Love triangles, Tangled emotions, Obsession-heavy connections.
wc: 8,2k
Synopsis: After Seonghwa provides a tender escape, a night among friends turns into a nightmare, revealing an old enemy's return and forging a deadly pact of protection.
Warnings: Smut (MDNI!!) Oral sex (f receiving) fingering, passionate kissing, unprotected sex. Sexual harassment, blackmail, and references to past sexual assault. Psychological distress, panic attack, dissociation, anxiety, trembling, and nausea triggered by trauma. Obsessive behavior, possessive and jealous behavior. Strong language.
a/n: Happy Saturday! Guys, I had a terrible week at work... idk why but that motivated me to write this whole chapter haha. Hope you enjoy, love ya'll! ❤️❤️
Series masterlist
Masterlist
The knock at the front door, sharp and insistent, jolted you from your frozen state on the floor. For one heart-stopping second, your mind screamed Daehyun. But the rhythm was all wrong—too familiar, too patient. You scrambled up with trembling knees and peered through the peephole.
Seonghwa.
A sob of relief threatened to escape. You fumbled with the locks and yanked the door open.
He stood there, a silhouette against the fading evening light, holding two plastic bags full of convenience store snacks and drinks. His gentle smile faltered the moment he saw your face.
“Hey, angel.” He said, his voice softening.
“Hi, Hwa.” Your own voice sounded thin, reedy.
He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, setting the bags down to cup your face in his warm hands. His thumbs swept on your cheeks, gently.
His gaze was searching, deep “You okay?”
“Yeah..” You said, forcing a smile and turning away before he could see the lie in your eyes.
You headed towards the living room, needing to put space between you and the door, between you and the memory of what just happened.
“Just a long day. Thanks for coming over.”
Seonghwa followed, saying nothing. But you could feel his eyes on your back, could sense the quiet concern radiating from him. He didn’t press. He never did. He simply gathered the bags and followed you upstairs to your room.
The familiar sanctuary of your space, usually a comfort, felt different. The shadows in the corner seemed darker. Seonghwa, sensing your need for normalcy, got to work. He dimmed your bedside lamp, and began unpacking the snacks onto your bedside table—your favorite chips, two cans of cold cherry soda, chocolate.
“Pick a movie.” He said, kicking off his shoes and settling against your headboard, opening his arms.
You crawled into the space he made, curling into his side. He pulled the comforter over you both, his arm a solid, reassuring weight around your shoulders. You chose something mindless and colorful, a comedy you’d both seen before. The familiar dialogue and his steady heartbeat under your ear began to work their magic, slowly thawing the ice in your veins.
But Seonghwa knew you. He felt the residual tension in the way you held yourself, the slight tremor in your hand when you reached for the soda. The movie played, but his attention was on you. On the tight line of your jaw, the distant look in your eyes even as you laughed at a joke.
About halfway through the film, his hand, which had been stroking your arm, stilled. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. Then another on your cheekbone. You hummed, leaning into the affection.
“Hwa?” You murmured, a small, tired laugh escaping you as his lips traveled to the sensitive spot just below your ear. “What are you doing? The movie’s getting good.”
He didn’t answer with words. He shifted, turning you gently in his arms so you were facing him. In the dim light, his eyes were dark pools of tender intensity. He cradled your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip.
“Your mind is too loud, angel. I know it.” He whispered, his voice a low, velvet rumble that vibrated straight through you. “It’s been too loud for days. Let me… let me quiet it for you. Let me make you feel good. Just feel.”
His kiss then was not the soft peck from before. It was deep, purposeful, a slow, sensual claiming of your mouth that made your toes curl. It was a kiss that promised oblivion, a temporary erasure of every fear, every thought. A soft whimper escaped you, and you surrendered to it, your hands coming up to tangle in his soft hair.
He kissed you until you were pliant and breathless, until the only thing you could think about was the heat of his mouth and the expert way his tongue moved against yours. Only then did he begin his descent. He kissed a blazing trail down your jaw, along the column of your throat, worshiping every inch of skin he uncovered as he deftly unbuttoned your blouse.
“Seonghwa…” You breathed, arching into his touch.
“Shhh..” He soothed against your collarbone. “Just feel, baby. Just feel me loving you.”
He took his time, his hands and mouth mapping your body with a reverence that stole the air from your lungs. He pushed your pants and underwear down your legs, his gaze hot and adoring as he looked his fill. When he settled between your thighs, he looked up at you, his expression one of pure, devastating devotion.
“You are so perfect.” He murmured, the words a warm breath against your most sensitive skin. “My perfect angel. Let me take care of you.”
And then his mouth was on you. It was not hurried. It was an act of worship, slow, filthy, and impossibly skilled. His tongue laved and circled, his lips sucked gently, his fingers, slick with your arousal, slid inside you with a curling motion that made you cry out, your back bowing off the bed.
He worked you with a single-minded focus, his sole purpose to unravel you completely. He enjoyed every gasp, every moan, his free hand pinning your hip to the bed as you writhed.
“Hwa… oh god, Hwa, please…” You begged, mindless, clutching at the sheets, then at his hair.
He hummed against you, the vibration tipping you closer to the edge. He added a second finger, crooking them just right, his tongue maintaining a relentless, perfect rhythm. The coil in your belly tightened unbearably, every nerve ending screaming for release.
“Come for me, angel.” He coaxed, his voice ragged with his own desire. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
The world shattered into a supernova of pure, blinding pleasure. You cried out, a raw, unfiltered sound as the waves crashed over you, your body convulsing under his devoted mouth. He gentled his touch, guiding you through it until you were a trembling, boneless heap against the mattress, breath coming in ragged sobs.
He moved up your body, kissing your stomach, your chest, your throat, before finally capturing your lips again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He was fully clothed, hard and straining against his pants, but he made no move to seek his own pleasure. He simply held you, stroking your hair as you floated back down.
“I love you.” He whispered into your sweat-dampened skin, kissing your shoulder. “So much. You are everything.”
You were floating in a hazy, satiated bliss, the horrors of the earlier evening pushed to a distant corner of your mind. You turned in his arms, seeking his mouth again, your hands fumbling with the button of his jeans.
“Your turn, babe.” You slurred, still dazed.
He chuckled, a low, pleased sound, and kissed you deeply “I just wanted you to feel good, angel.”
“I do.” You promised, your hand sliding into his pants, wrapping around him. He hissed, his hips jerking. “Now let me make you feel good.”
He surrendered to your touch with a ragged sigh, his forehead dropping to yours “If you’re sure.” He breathed, the words more a plea than a question.
You were sure. In the quiet, intimate space he’d carved out of the chaos, you needed this connection, this proof of life and love that was real and gentle. You pushed his jeans and boxers down his hips, your movements slow and deliberate. He helped you, kicking them off the rest of the way before lying back against your pillows, his eyes never leaving yours.
You straddled his hips, taking your time, leaning down to kiss him as you guided him inside you. He entered with a slow, deep glide that made you both gasp into each other’s mouths. For a long moment, you didn’t move, just stayed connected, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air, feeling the impossible rightness of it.
“I love you.” You whispered, the words feeling more true and solid than anything else in your world.
A shudder ran through him. His hands came up to cradle your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. “I love you, Ji. More than anything.”
Then you began to move. It wasn’t frantic or desperate; it was a slow, rolling rhythm, a deep and steady joining. His hands slid down to grip your hips, not to control, but to anchor, to feel every shift and sway. You moved together in a quiet, perfect synchronicity, the only sounds the soft rustle of sheets, the headboard gently tapping the wall, and your mingled, breathy sighs.
He pulled you down for a kiss, deep and languid, his tongue moving in time with the slow rock of your bodies. You kissed for what felt like an eternity, breaking apart only to gasp for air before finding each other again. His lips traced your jaw, your throat, murmuring sweet, filthy, reverent things against your skin.
“You feel… God, you feel like heaven.” He groaned, his hips lifting to meet your downward slide, burying himself deeper.
You buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent, your movements becoming a little more urgent, a little less controlled as the pleasure built again, warmer and slower this time, a deep, spreading heat.
“Look at me, angel.” He pleaded softly. You lifted your head, meeting his dark, earnest gaze. His expression was utterly open, filled with so much adoration it almost hurt. “I’m here. I’m right here with you.”
It was the final anchor. The last thread of tension, fear, and memory snapped. Your climax washed over you not as a crashing wave, but as a warm, all-encompassing tide, pulling a soft, broken cry from your lips. He followed you over the edge moments later, his own release wracking his body, his arms locking around you to hold you impossibly close as he chanted your name against your shoulder like a prayer.
You collapsed onto him, a mess of tangled limbs and sweaty skin, hearts hammering against each other. He held you there, his hands smoothing over your back in long, soothing strokes, his lips pressed to your hair. The distant comedy still played on the screen, forgotten, casting shifting colors over your still forms.
You drifted like that for a long time, wrapped in the safe, warm cocoon of him. Eventually, he shifted, carefully pulling out and disentangling himself just enough to reach for the tissues on your nightstand. He cleaned you both with a tender, practical care that made your heart ache, before gathering you back into his arms, pulling the comforter over you.
You lay curled into his side, your head on his chest, his heartbeat the most soothing sound in the universe. His fingers traced idle patterns on your bare shoulder.
“Jongho’s having people over tomorrow.” He murmured into the quiet, his voice husky with sleep and satisfaction. “Just the guys. And you, of course. Mingi, Yeosang, San… me. No Yunho.”
You knew what that meant. It would be a video game marathon, junk food, the easy, competitive camaraderie of your boys. A bubble of normalcy. A distraction.
“Sounds fun.” You said softly, nuzzling closer. The thought of being surrounded by that particular brand of chaotic, loving safety was a balm.
“It will be.” He kissed the top of your head. “It’ll be good. To just… be. No drama. Just us.”
“Just us.” You echoed the words, a promise to yourself as much as to him.
For a few hours tomorrow, you could pretend the wolf at the door didn’t exist. You could just be Eunji, with her boys.
Seonghwa’s breathing evened out, his arms a protective weight around you. In the sanctuary of his love and the promise of tomorrow’s simple joys, you finally let sleep pull you under, for the first time all day feeling truly, deeply safe.
·:*¨♱✮♱¨*:·
The sleek black sedan was an island of quiet in Jongho’s driveway, the engine a soft purr that had just fallen silent. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of Seonghwa’s cologne and the electric promise of the evening ahead.
“Ready to have fun, angel?” Seonghwa asked, his voice a low murmur. His hand slid from the gearshift to your bare thigh, his thumb tracing a slow, idle circle on your skin.
You glanced at the warmly lit house, then back at him, a wry smile touching your lips “If by ‘fun’ you mean listening to Mingi and Jongho argue over Mario Kart while you and Yeosang debate the theological implications of Ezekiel, then I’m not sure that’s my definition of fun.”
You shifted in the leather seat, the movement deliberate. The short hem of your skirt rode up, and you opened your legs just enough to give him a better view of the pale skin of your inner thighs, the delicate lace edge of your silk panties peeking out.
“But… I’ll tolerate it. Because I know you’ll make it worth my time later. Right?”
Seonghwa’s gaze darkened, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. His fingers crept higher, brushing the hem of your underwear.
“Of course I will, baby.” He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. “But first, we suffer through a few rounds with the others.”
“Deal.” You whispered, closing the distance to capture his lips in a quick, biting kiss. Before he could deepen it, you pulled away, pushing the car door open. “Let’s go then, pretty boy.”
His laughter followed you out—a rich, warm sound. He joined you on the pavement, and you immediately reached for his hand. His fingers interlaced with yours, a perfect, possessive fit.
“Let’s have some actual fun.” You said, squeezing his hand.
“Let’s go.” He agreed, raising his other hand to knock on Jongho’s front door.
You leaned your head against his shoulder as you waited, the solid bulk of him a comfort. The door swung open, but the face that greeted you wasn’t Jongho’s stoic expression or Mingi’s wide grin.
It was Ann. A beat of stunned silence hung in the air.
“Oh! Hi!” She chirped, her voice a pitch too high, her smile so wide it looked painful. “Come in, come in! Everyone’s already here.”
You and Seonghwa shared a confused look. What is she doing here? The unspoken question was laced with a sudden, cold dread. Is Yunho here too?
You stepped inside, your eyes scanning the living room. Mingi was on the floor wrestling with a game controller, Yeosang was lounging on the couch with a book, and San was peering into the snack bowl. No Yunho. The relief was immediate, but the confusion remained.
“Hey, you made it.” Mingi said, not looking up from the screen.
“Yeah, sorry we’re late.” Seonghwa said, his voice carefully neutral.
“No worries. Have a seat.” Yeosang offered, his eyes lifting from his page to sweep over you, a flicker of something intense and unreadable in his gaze before he looked back down.
“Where’s Jongho?” You asked, your tone casual as you shrugged off your jacket.
Ann answered, clasping her hands in front of her “He’s just upstairs grabbing something. We were finishing up our project.”
So that’s it, you thought. A perfectly innocent, academic reason. It didn’t make her presence any more pleasant.
“Well, now that you two are done.” San drawled, not bothering to mask his annoyance. “You can head out. We’ve got plans.”
“San,” Yeosang chided lightly, though there was no real heat behind it.
Ann’s smile tightened “No, he’s right! I should get going. I just wanted to say goodbye to everyone—”
“Ann, wait.” Jongho’s voice came from the top of the stairs. He descended slowly, a textbook in hand. “We need to check the citations on the last two pages before you go. It’ll just take a minute.” His eyes swept over his friends in the living room. “They showed up early anyway. They can wait.”
“Hey, you said seven o’clock, man!” San protested.
“It’s six thirty, you dumbass.” Jongho shot back, his tone flat. “Start the game without me. I’ll join when we’re finished.”
He jerked his head toward the kitchen table, which was visible just behind the living room sofa, littered with papers and laptops. Ann nodded, her posture meek, and followed him to the kitchen.
You settled onto the couch between Seonghwa and the armrest, accepting a controller from Mingi. The familiar, mindless chaos of a multiplayer game began, a comfortable distraction. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw San shift closer to Seonghwa on the other side of the couch, their heads dipping together in quiet conversation.
“So,” San murmured, his voice barely audible over the sound of digital explosions from the TV. “The photos from the other week. The ones with the wings. They’re insane, Hwa. You did an amazing job.”
Seonghwa smiled, a private, proud thing “She makes it easy. The lighting was perfect.”
“Just photos?” San pressed a sly edge to his whisper. “Or… more?”
Seonghwa glanced around. Mingi was shouting at Yeosang, who was beating him soundly. You were focused on the screen, a small frown of concentration on your face. Jongho and Ann had their heads bent over the laptop, speaking in low tones.
Seeing the coast was clear, Seonghwa pulled his phone from his pocket. He unlocked it, navigated quickly to a video editing app, and tilted the screen toward San.
“A little of both.” He confessed quietly. “We filmed something. I’m still editing it.”
He hit play on a short clip. The footage was tight, artistic—a shot of a bare shoulder, the curve of a spine, Seonghwa’s hands spanning a waist. It was sensual but anonymous, the faces carefully out of frame. It was the edited, “safe” version.
Then, with a clumsy thumb-slip or an unfinished cut, the video jumped. The next clip was raw, unedited. The camera angle widened. For two breathtaking, horrifying seconds, the screen clearly showed your face, eyes closed in pleasure, and Seonghwa’s profile as he kissed your neck, his expression one of rapturous devotion. It was unmistakably, intimately you.
Seonghwa cursed under his breath and fumbled to stop the video, locking his phone screen “Shit. Not done with that part yet. The face blur filter isn’t on that clip.”
San whistled low, a grin spreading across his face “Damn, Hwa. That’s… next level. For the page?”
“Maybe.” Seonghwa said, a faint blush on his cheeks as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. “If she agrees. It’s her call.”
They didn’t notice the figure standing frozen in the shadowed archway between the kitchen and the living room.
Ann had finished with Jongho. She’d gathered her things, offered a quiet “thank you,” and moved to say a quick goodbye to the group. She’d seen San and Seonghwa with their heads together, looking at a phone. Curiosity, that petty, venomous creature, had made her steps silent.
She had seen it all.
The first, anonymous clip had shocked her—the sheer intimacy of it, the professional quality. But it was the second, the raw and unedited two seconds, that stopped the very blood in her veins.
Their faces. That was… that was them. Having sex. Recording it.
Her brain short-circuited. Seonghwa, polite, devout, gentle Seonghwa, was not only doing that, but he was filming it. And he was… editing it? Blurring faces? Why? To share it? To… to post it?
The concepts collided in her mind with force. Pornography. Sin. Seonghwa. Eunji. Editing software. Page. A porn page?
The sudden thought snapped together with terrifying, scandalous clarity.
A visceral heat flooded her face, followed by an icy chill. Her stomach lurched. She felt simultaneously repulsed and electrified, her innocence shattering like glass on stone. She took a stumbling step back, her bag slipping from her nerveless fingers and thumping softly to the carpet.
No one noticed. Mingi whooped at the game. Yeosang laughed. Jongho was shutting down the laptop.
Ann just retrieved her bag. She didn’t say goodbye. She simply turned, wrenched the front door open, and fled into the cool evening air, the image of your intertwined faces burned permanently behind her eyes, a secret more powerful and damning than she had ever dreamed of uncovering.
“Alright!” Jongho announced, clapping his hands together as he strode back into the living room. The energy shifted, the tension from Ann’s sudden departure dispersing into a low hum of anticipation. “Now we can start the real game.”
“Ann’s gone?” San was the first to ask, his voice carrying a note of relief he didn’t try to hide.
“Yeah,” Jongho confirmed with a curt nod, already sinking into the plush couch between you and Mingi. He claimed the space with a natural ease that felt protective.
“She didn’t even say goodbye,” Yeosang noted from his armchair, his tone light but his brow slightly furrowed. “That’s a bit rude.”
Mingi, already focused on the game, scrolled through the character select screen “Who’s next?”
“Me!” Seonghwa’s voice was a soft chime of excitement. He’d been watching intently, offering quiet commentary.
You leaned over, pressing your controller into his hands “Take my turn, babe. I’m ceding my throne.”
“You sure, angel?” He looked up at you, his eyes warm. “I was enjoying watching you dominate.”
“I’m sure. I’ve grown tired of beating their asses.” You shot a teasing, imperious look at Mingi and Yeosang, who groaned in mock offense.
You migrated to the smaller, empty loveseat perpendicular to the main couch, seeking a moment of quiet. The competitive shouts and game sound effects faded into background noise as you pulled out your phone, scrolling mindlessly through social media to quiet your own thoughts.
You didn’t notice his approach until the cushion dipped beside you, and a voice, softer than the room’s chaos, cut through your focus.
“Sorry, what did you say?” You said, looking up with a start, quickly locking your phone screen.
Yeosang gave a small, serene smile “I just said you look better than you did a few days ago.”
The words landed with a peculiar weight. You blinked, a frown creasing your brow.
“What do you mean?”
“You seemed… down. After your birthday.” He tilted his head, his gaze inquisitive but unnervingly calm. “I was worried. Is everything okay?”
That icy chill traced your spine again, sharper this time. You weren’t friends. You didn't have classes together, but your circles only tangentially touched through Seonghwa and San. How would he have noticed the subtle shifts in your mood from across the cafeteria, from a different classroom?
The only answer was deliberate, sustained observation.
“I… yeah, everything’s fine.” You murmured, forcing a casual tone that felt brittle. “Just school stress. You know how it is.”
“Are you sure?” He pressed, his voice a gentle, persistent tide. “We might not know each other well, but you can talk to me. I’m a good listener.”
No, I can’t, your mind screamed. This isn’t concern. This is data collection. The smile you gave him was tight, all lips and no eyes.
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Yeosang.”
You stood abruptly, the need for a familiar anchor overwhelming. You crossed the short distance to the main couch, where Seonghwa was now fully engaged in a race, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration. He sensed your presence and glanced up, his expression immediately softening. Without a word, he shifted, holding the controller in one hand and using the other to create a space for you on his lap.
You settled against him, your back to San, who let out an exaggerated, wounded sigh.
“Wow, just push me right off the edge, why don’t you?” San grumbled, but the sly smirk playing on his lips betrayed his amusement.
You twisted slightly to see Mingi on Seonghwa’s other side “Hey, Mingi.”
“Hey there, beautiful.” Mingi replied, his eyes never leaving the screen as he navigated a tricky corner.
The casual endearment, so effortlessly delivered, sent a visible jolt through Seonghwa. His arm around your waist tightened almost imperceptibly, his thumb pressing a firm point into your hip. His gaze flicked from the game to the back of Mingi’s head for a split second, a silent, possessive question hanging in the air.
Beautiful? Since when?
You nestled deeper into Seonghwa, seeking comfort in his familiar scent and solid warmth, trying to shake off the chill Yeosang’s words had left. For a few minutes, you lost yourself in the rhythm of the game—the colorful blur on the screen, Jongho’s strategic muttering, San’s triumphant whoops, the steady rise and fall of Seonghwa’s chest beneath you.
Then, your phone, forgotten in your hand, vibrated with a specific, ominous insistence.
A new message. From the contact saved as: D
Your blood ran cold. You hadn’t heard from him since yesterday afternoon. The preview showed no text, just a video file and several image attachments.
Don’t open it. Delete it. Throw the phone. Every sane instinct screamed at you. But a darker, self-destructive curiosity, the same one that makes you press on a bruise, won out. With trembling fingers, you opened the message.
The video loaded. It was longer than the cruel snippet that had circulated years ago. This was the full, unedited horror.
You saw your own limp hand, moved by his. You saw things you had only inferred from nightmares—the violation documented in sickening, high-definition detail. The photos that followed were worse. Stills of that night, frozen moments of profane intimacy you were never conscious of.
Close-ups. Possessive, grinning selfies with your unconscious form.
A wave of nausea, violent and immediate, rose so fast you tasted bile. The room, once full of friendly noise, telescoped into a silent, airless tunnel. The colors of the game bled into a meaningless smear. The weight of Seonghwa’s arms, once comforting, now felt like a cage trapping you with the evidence of your own defilement.
You couldn’t breathe. You shot to your feet so suddenly you almost knocked the controller from Seonghwa’s hands.
“I—I need air.” You choked out, the words raw and strangled. You didn’t look at anyone. You couldn’t.
“Angel?” Seonghwa’s voice was laced with instant concern, his game character crashing and forgotten on-screen.
But you were already moving, stumbling toward the hallway, a hand clamped over your mouth. The confused calls of your name from San, Jongho, Mingi—even a quiet, attentive silence from Yeosang—faded behind you as you fled to the garden, the ghostly images from your phone burning behind your eyelids, a silent scream trapped in your chest.
You sank to your knees on the cold grass, the world tilting on its axis. Your hands trembled violently as you fumbled with the cigarette box, the crinkle of the plastic deafening in the silent yard.
You needed the burn, the chemical calm, anything to staunch the panic threatening to shred your sanity. After three failed flicks of the lighter, the flame finally caught. You dragged the smoke deep into your lungs, holding it until your vision spotted, then exhaled a grey plume into the twilight.
What the fuck. Literally, what the actual fuck?
You thought you were over what happened that day, you thought you were brave enough to deal with whatever damn game he wanted you to play. The arrogance of it made you want to laugh, or scream. You were so wrong. This shit was making you feel like a fucking child hidding from the monsters under the bed.
You were scared. So fucking scared.
“Angel, are you okay?”
Seonghwa’s voice was soft behind you, but you still flinched. You took another frantic drag, the ember burning bright.
“Love.” He was beside you now, kneeling in the grass, his presence a solid warmth you felt too fragile to lean into. “What happened?”
You shook your head, closing your eyes briefly “Nothing.”
“Nothing?” He repeated. The word was a low crack in his usually gentle tone. He reached out, his fingers hovering near your arm before settling on the grass between you. “You ran out of there like you saw a ghost. You’re shaking so hard you can barely hold that cigarette. Look at me and tell me it’s nothing again.”
He didn't want to sound rude, but he was worried. He’s been worried since that night you ran to his arms, shaking the same way you’re doing right now.
“It's nothing, Hwa.” You couldn’t meet his eyes. If you did, you’d shatter.
“Bullshit.” The rare curse was a whip-crack in the quiet. His hand came up, not to hurt, but to anchor, his fingers gently tilting your chin until you had no choice but to look at him.
And he saw it all. The sheen of unshed tears making your eyes glassy. The frantic pulse beating at the base of your throat. The raw, animal fear you couldn’t hide. His gaze dropped to your phone, discarded in the grass beside your knee as if it were a live wire.
His movements were swift. He snatched it up before you could react.
“Seonghwa—”
“Don’t.” He cut you off, his voice chillingly calm. His gaze locked with yours, a silent command that stilled your reaching hand.
He knew your passcode. His thumb moved, the screen lit up, and his eyes scanned the open message thread. All the color drained from his face. His gentle features hardened into a mask of disbelief, then revulsion, then a fury so cold it stole the air from your lungs.
“What the fuck is this?” He breathed, the word barely audible.
You stubbed the cigarette out on the patio stone, grinding it to nothing “It’s Daehyun. Joo Daehyun. The one from the video.”
The name hung between you, toxic and familiar. Seonghwa’s knuckles whitened around your phone.
“He’s… sending you this? Why?” His voice trembled with the effort to control it.
“He’s trying to blackmail me with that.”
The pieces crashed together in Seonghwa’s mind—your distance, your nightmares, the way you’d clung to him that night.
“This is why you’ve been acting like this all week? Why didn't you tell me, why didn't you tell any of us?”
“Because I don't want it to make it bigger!” The confession burst out of you, desperate and sharp. “Telling someone would make it a problem that I'd have to solve… And I didn't want you to worry.”
“Eunji.” His anger melted, replaced by a pain so profound it etched lines around his eyes. He pulled you into his arms, and this time you didn’t resist, collapsing against his chest. “I am your boyfriend. My job, my privilege, is to help you carry the bad things. All of us. You don’t get to shield us by walking through hell alone. Do you understand that?”
You stayed in silence, biting your lip as you avoided his gaze. He sighed, not angry at you but a little hurt that you didn’t tell him sooner.
“Baby, you can trust us with anything, it doesn't matter if it is something good or bad. We’ll be here always, and you know it, right?”
You nodded against his chest.
His hold tightened, his voice dropping to a low, vicious murmur near your ear “This motherfucker must pay for what he did.”
“Hwa, no.” You looked at him with pleading eyes. “I don't want him to get mad and share that video.. I can't pass through the same shit again, not again. He’ll—” Your voice broke on the last word.
“He’ll what?” Seonghwa interrupted, his eyes blazing. “He already has. He’s terrorizing you with the worst moment of your life. I won’t let him make you feel small or scared ever again. We are not letting this go. We are ending it.”
The finality in his voice was a cliff edge. Arguing was pointless. He was right. Running had only given Daehyun more power. A numb acceptance settled over you, colder than the fear.
You closed your eyes, nuzzling against his chest again. You couldn't argue with him, because he was right. You couldn't keep running from him, you needed to face him.
“I’m calling Hongjoong.” Seonghwa stated, his tone leaving no room for debate. He pulled out his own phone, his movements precise and furious. “We need to talk. Now.”
You just sighed defeated, you could already imagine how mad Hongjoong would be. You heard the low, tense rumble of his voice as he spoke to Hongjoong, but the words were lost in the white-noise roar filling your head.
Your world had narrowed to the phantom weight of the phone in his hand and the chilling certainty that the carefully constructed peace of the last few years was over.
“We’re going inside. We’ll get San and we’re leaving.”
You nodded again as you followed his steps. Back in the warm, game-lit living room, the contrast was jarring. Four pairs of eyes snapped to you, filled with varying degrees of confusion and concern.
“Are you okay, Eun?” Mingi asked, his controller forgotten.
You nodded, offering him a soft smile.
“We’re leaving.” Seonghwa announced, his voice allowing no questions.
“What, why?” Jongho stood, his protective instincts immediately on high alert.
“Hongjoong called, he needs help with something.” He lied.” San, you're coming with us.”
It wasn’t a request. San, sensing the seismic shift in the atmosphere, simply nodded and stood, his playful energy completely gone.
“Guys, are you sure everything is okay? You're acting weird.” Mingi insisted, his eyes never leaving your trembling form.
Yeosang observed quietly, his watchful eyes missing nothing.
“Yeah, don't worry. See you at school on Monday." Seonghwa said, herding you and San toward the door with an urgency that brooked no further delay.
You managed a ghost of a wave, your voice trapped in your throat. The car ride was a silent, pressure-filled capsule. Seonghwa’s grip on the steering wheel was vice-like, his jaw clenched. The moment he pulled out of the driveway, San couldn’t hold back.
“Okay, what the hell is happening? Did someone die?”
“Not yet,” Seonghwa said, the words icy and stark. “We’re going to Hongjoong’s. Wooyoung will be there. I’ll explain everything when we’re all together.”
The ominous lack of explanation did nothing to calm San’s nerves. If anything, the dread in the car grew thicker, a tangible third passenger feeding on the silence and Seonghwa’s uncharacteristic, terrifying rage.
The ride was a vacuum-sealed capsule of silent dread. Seonghwa drove with a lethal focus, his knuckles pale on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the road as if it were an enemy to be conquered. The usual soft hum of the radio was absent, leaving only the oppressive growl of the engine and the whistle of the night wind.
In the backseat, San’s phone screen cast a frantic blue glow on his face as he fired off texts to Wooyoung, asking if he knew what was going on, but he didn't get any answer to his questions.
In the front seat, you felt detached from your own body, a spectator looking out the passenger window. The world blurred into streaks of streetlight and shadow. The only proof you were still inside your skin was the faint, relentless tremor in your hands, which you clasped together tightly in your lap to still.
Your mind was a whirlpool, but not around Daehyun. His threat was a cold, dark stone at the center, but the churning waters were all about the men now speeding toward a confrontation.
How would they look at you when Seonghwa laid the ugly truth bare? Would you see anger in Hongjoong's sharp eyes? Disappointment in Wooyoung's usually playful gaze? Would San’s fiery loyalty turn into a blaze of destructive rage?
You knew their tempers. You’d seen the controlled ice of Hongjoong’s wrath, the volatile spark of Wooyoung’s, the simmering, protective heat of San’s. But this… this was the one thing guaranteed to detonate them all simultaneously.
They weren’t just going to be mad for you. They were going to be mad at the world, at the past, at the man who dared—and the thought of being the focal point of that hurricane of fury made you feel small and terribly fragile.
You were so lost in the storm inside your head that you didn’t register the car slowing, turning, stopping. The engine cut off, and the sudden silence was somehow louder.
“Ji?”
San’s voice, uncharacteristically soft, penetrated the fog. You blinked, the world snapping back into sharp, unwelcome focus. He was standing outside, holding your car door open, his tall frame silhouetted by the porch light of Hongjoong’s house. His expression was pure, undiluted worry.
Fuck. You didn’t want to be the cause of that look on his face. You gave a weak, almost imperceptible nod and let him help you out, your legs feeling unsteady on the solid ground.
As you and San started toward the front walk, a sound like a gunshot cracked through the quiet street, a loud slam rumbled behind you.
You both flinched. It was Seonghwa’s car door. He hadn’t just closed it; he’d put the entire force of his silent, boiling fury into it, a violent period at the end of the tense car ride. He didn’t look at you as he strode past, his footsteps heavy on the pavement, leading the way to the door like a soldier marching toward a long-awaited war.
The message was clear: we’ll end this now.
The door swung open before he could knock. Hongjoong stood in the entryway, his sharp eyes sweeping over your pale face, San’s worried frown, and finally landing on Seonghwa. Behind him, Wooyoung hovered, his usual playful energy completely absent, replaced by a tense, coiled stillness. Seeing Seonghwa like this—jaw clenched, eyes dark with a cold fury they'd never witnessed—was deeply unnerving.
They knew the gentle boyfriend, the patient student, the good boy in mass, and the romantic guy. This version was completely different, a man vibrating with a barely-leashed rage, was a terrifying stranger.
"Get in," Hongjoong said, his voice low. No greeting. Just necessity.
The living room was dim, lit by a single floor lamp. The usual casual mess was absent, as if the room itself was holding its breath. You moved automatically to the couch, and Seonghwa sat beside you, his thigh pressing against yours. Not a possessive gesture this time, but an anchor line. You felt untethered, like you might float away or simply dissolve into the awful, shameful images on your phone.
San perched on the arm of a chair, running a hand through his hair. Wooyoung remained standing, arms crossed, eyes darting between you and Seonghwa. Hongjoong took the seat opposite, his gaze fixed on you.
"Talk." He said, the command was quiet but absolute. "What’s going on?"
Seonghwa took a deep, controlled breath, his hand finding yours on the couch and squeezing. It was a grounding pressure. He could feel the fine tremors running through you.
“Someone is blackmailing her.” Seonghwa began, his voice dangerously calm.
“What? Is again that fucking bitch? Because if—” Wooyoung said immediately.
“Not this time.” Seonghwa cut him off, with a firm tone.
“Then who?” San asked.
“His name is Daehyun.” Seonghwa continued, looking at Hongjoong and Wooyoung. “Is someone you know very well.”
Hongjoong frowned, the words not clocking to him “Who are you talking about?”
“The person responsible for the video.” You said in a murmur, your voice cracking at the last word.
You didn't have to explain more, you didn't have to mention what video. They already knew, and you knew it by the way Hongjoong looked directly at you and how Wooyoung passed his fingers through his hair.
“He’s back.” It wasn't a question. “What the fuck does he want? What is he trying to do?”
“This isn't about what he's about to do." Seonghwa said, his voice dangerously calm, each word measured and precise. "It's about what he did years ago, and what he's using to terrorize her now."
He told them. Carefully, deliberately, he laid out the facts without the visceral horror of the video details, focusing on the threat. He explained Daehyun's return, the forced contact, the blackmail. He watched their faces, trying to gauge the explosion point.
Hongjoong's expression didn't change, but a deep cold settled in his eyes, a glacial fury. Wooyoung, however, lost all color. He'd met you in the aftermath of the video's first release. He'd seen the husk you became, the way Yunho's betrayal had almost broken you for good. To hear that the source of that original agony was back, and wielding it like a weapon…
"No," Wooyoung breathed, the word a broken sound. He shook his head, as if he could reject the reality. "That fucking… no. He can't. He can't touch her again."
San was vibrating with a quiet, building rage "The video… that was him?" The pieces clicked violently into place. Mingi's hushed story about Yunho's brutal fight with you, the rumors he'd heard but never connected to a face… it all crystallized into a target. "The one who… who drugged you? That's this Daehyun, Yunho’s classmate?"
You managed a small, stiff nod, your eyes on the floor.
Hongjoong finally spoke, his voice a razor in the quiet "Why are we just hearing about this now? I thought he was abroad.”
You found your voice, though it was thin and frayed "He was. Now he's back. And he's… he's Minseok's older brother."
The silence that followed was the most profound yet. It wasn't calm; it was the split-second of absolute stillness before a detonation.
"What?" The word tore from San, laced with pure disbelief.
"The little church mouse's brother?" Wooyoung’s laugh was hollow, hysterical. "You've been going to his house? Working with him, and you said nothing to us?"
Hongjoong stood up slowly, a predator uncoiling. All traces of the cold were gone, burned away by a white-hot, incandescent rage. The careful control he was known for evaporated.
"He's been in the same house with you. He knows where you live. He's been touching you." The last part wasn't a question; it was a realization that seemed to physically wound him.
Seonghwa’s grip on your hand tightened almost to the point of pain as he watched the explosion he’d been trying to carefully manage erupt in front of him. Hongjoong began pacing, a caged tiger. Wooyoung looked like he wanted to put his fist through a wall. San had his head in his hands, fingers gripping his hair.
They weren't mad at you. There was no blame in their fury, only a terrifying, protective rage on your behalf. But that rage was now directed at a face, a name, and a horrifyingly close proximity.
The enemy wasn't a shadowy figure from the past anymore. He was the brother of the boy who sat next to you in class, whose house you'd just left. The violation felt immediate, personal, and infinitely more dangerous.
The room was no longer holding its breath. It was filling with a storm, and you were at the eye of it, anchored only by Seonghwa’s hand, watching as the men you loved transformed into avengers you hardly recognized.
“We need to end this shit now.” Wooyoung was the first to speak after a moment of silence. “We cant leave this fucking asshole do whatever the fuck he wants.”
“Guys, no—” You started, anxiety running through your veins.
“Not this time, Eunji.” Hongjoong cut your words, a hard look in his eyes. “We can't let this slip again.”
You closed your eyes, a sigh escaping your lips. This is why you didn't want to tell them in the first place. You knew they would want to solve it, you knew they would want to protect you. This was your fight, you had to end things with Daehyun by yourself…
But you were scared. Scared of the possibility that the life you builded after the video changed because of it, again.
A video that you’re not to blame for existing.
“What’s the plan?” San asked Hongjoong, already in for anything.
Hongjoong scanned all of them with an analytical gaze, his mind working with possibilities and strategies to end Daehyun's threat but without harming you in the process. He sighed before sitting back next to Wooyoung.
“Tell him that you would talk with him. Face to face.”
You looked at him in horror. What did he just say?
“What?!” Wooyoung asked, looking at him like he just said the craziest thing.
“Are out of your fucking mind?” San’s tone was deadly cold.
“Let him finish.” Seonghwa commanded, his voice a low rumble of restraint. His arm around your shoulders tightened, a human barricade.
“I know how it sounds, but it's a good idea.” Hongjoong continued, his eyes locked on you, not them. “Lets make him see you in a public space, we will be there, looking from a distance—”
“And then what?” San interrupted, not liking the idea of putting you in such situation with that man. “Leave him do whatever he wants with Eunji? Abusing her verbally and possibly harassing her again? That fucker doesnt know the word respect, Hongjoong.”
Hongjoong, not hyung. He was damn mad.
The image San painted made you flinch, a full-body shudder you couldn’t suppress. Seonghwa felt it and pulled you completely into his side, tucking your head under his chin, wrapping you in the scent and solidity of him.
“I know, but—”
“Hyung, I don't think that's a good idea.” Wooyoung said softly, his head already creating possible scenarios. “Let's not involve her again with him.”
Silence.
There was silence for a couple of minutes, each of them thinking of what was the best to do, but everything just ended involving you. And they hated that. But maybe you needed to take the risk and just end this shit forever. So with a last sigh, your voice cut through the silence.
“Let's do it.”
Four heads swiveled to you. You extricated yourself slightly from Seonghwa’s hold, meeting Hongjoong’s gaze.
“What?” Seonghwa’s voice was raw beside you.
“Yeah, maybe that way will be easier to approach him. But we’ll do it my way.”
“What do you mean?” Hongjoong narrowed his eyes, already suspecting something that they wouldn't approve of.
“I’ll meet him in a public place, I will play my role and I'm pretty sure that he would suggest going somewhere private.”
“No.” San said. “Absolubtly not.”
“And.” You pressed on, your gaze sweeping over each of them. “I’ll go with him.”
A chorus of furious denials erupted, but you held up a hand, your eyes blazing now with a fragile, fierce determination.
“I can handle the rest but..” You looked at Hongjoong, then Wooyoung, then San, finally Seonghwa. “You promise me that you would knock down the fucking door of whatever place he takes me the moment it closes. No waiting, no signal. Don't leave me alone with him.”
The plea in your voice wasn’t just fear; it was a desperate bargain. You were offering up your temporary terror for a chance at permanent peace. You were trusting them with your safety in the lion’s den.
The room was silent again, but this time it was charged with a grim, awful understanding. They hated it. They loathed every step of this plan. San looked sick. Wooyoung’s hands were fists. Seonghwa’s breathing was shallow and controlled, a visible battle against his own protective instincts.
Hongjoong was the first to nod, his expression granite “Not even a second.” It was a vow.
One by one, through clenched jaws and pained eyes, the others gave their own stiff, reluctant nods. They didn’t agree. They surrendered—to your will, to the horrific necessity, and to the terrifying, absolute trust you were placing in them to be your avenging angels in the very heart of hell.
Summary: After your friends try to embarrass you by daring you to ask out Hyunjin, he helps you stand up for yourself
Warnings: Toxic friendship, manipulation
Word Count: 5.4k
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You’re not stupid. You’re just tired of being the one who laughs a second too late, like you’re trying to catch up to the punchline that’s always aimed at you. Tired of the way your friends say they’re “just messing around” when your cheeks burn and your stomach drops. Tired of telling yourself it’s fine because at least you’re included.
Tonight, you’re included. Technically.
You’re all crowded near a little convenience store on a busy street, the kind with bright fluorescent lights and a poster on the window advertising hot drinks. Your friend group is loud in that casual, careless way. Someone’s got a bag of chips open. Someone’s scrolling with the sound on. Someone keeps bumping your shoulder like you’re furniture.
And then your friend Mina freezes mid-laugh.
Her eyes lock on something behind you.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, like she’s discovered a rare animal in the wild. Her voice goes sharp with excitement. “No way.”
Your other friends turn. Their faces change too, like a switch flips. They suddenly look awake, interested, sparkling with that kind of energy they never use on you.
“What?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder.
There he is.
He’s across the street near a small store window, wearing a mask and a cap, hands tucked in his coat pockets like he’s trying to disappear into the night. But he’s still unmistakable. Even in plain clothes he has that clean, sharp elegance, like he was born with a spotlight in his bones.
Your friends huddle closer together like they’re conspirators.
“That’s him,” Mina whispers.
“Who?” you ask.
They exchange looks.
Then Mina’s smile spreads, mean at the edges.
“You should go ask him out.”
You blink. “What?”
“Go on,” another friend says, nudging you. “Just do it.”
You laugh because you think it’s a joke.
Then you realize they’re not laughing with you. They’re waiting for you to perform.
“I don’t even know who that is,” you say.
Mina tilts her head, sweet as poison. “He’s famous.”
The words land in your chest like a weight.
“You didn’t tell me,” you say, slower.
“Because it’s funnier this way,” Mina replies, and she grins like she’s proud of herself. “Come on. Go ask. Unless you’re scared.”
Your throat tightens. You can feel your body trying to retreat, trying to do what it always does.
Be small. Be easy. Don’t be embarrassing.
But they’re all looking at you. Phones half-raised. Smiles sharp. Their attention feels like a trap.
If you refuse, you’re boring. If you do it, you’re entertainment.
You swallow. “What if he thinks I’m like… a sasaeng?”
Mina shrugs. “That’s the point.”
Your stomach drops hard.
So that’s what this is.
A dare built to break you.
Your hands go cold. Your face goes hot. You hear yourself say, “Fine.”
Their eyes light up. They crowd closer behind you like a wave pushing you forward.
“Do it,” someone whispers.
“Be cute,” Mina adds, like she’s giving you advice instead of a shove.
You take a step.
Then another.
Your legs feel wrong. Like you’re walking on a moving floor. The street noise swallows your thoughts, but your heartbeat is loud enough to be its own soundtrack.
You can feel their eyes on your back.
You can almost feel their laughter waiting.
Hyunjin looks up right as you reach the curb.
His gaze lands on you and holds.
Not blank. Not annoyed.
Curious.
You step closer, hands clenched around your phone like it can protect you. Your mouth opens and nothing comes out.
He tilts his head slightly, like he’s trying to make it easier for you.
You force a sound.
“Hi,” you manage, voice cracking in the middle.
His eyes soften immediately. He gives you a small nod. “Hi.”
You swallow. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to… bother you.”
You don’t know why you’re apologizing. You just do. It’s muscle memory.
Hyunjin’s gaze flicks past you for half a second, toward the cluster of people watching from across the street.
He sees it.
The phones. The posture. The anticipation.
He looks back at you, and something in his expression sharpens into focus. Not anger. Not pity.
Understanding.
You take a breath that shakes on the way out.
“My friends dared me to ask you out,” you blurt, the truth spilling out because lying feels impossible right now. “And they did it to embarrass me. They didn’t tell me you were… you, on purpose.”
You want to disappear the second you finish speaking.
Hyunjin’s eyes widen, just slightly. Then his gaze warms in a way that makes your throat sting.
“That’s… not nice,” he says quietly.
You let out a tiny laugh that sounds awful. “No, it’s not.”
You glance over your shoulder and see your friends watching like they’re waiting for the punchline.
Waiting for him to laugh.
Waiting for you to crumble.
You turn back to Hyunjin, cheeks burning. “You don’t have to say yes. I just… I didn’t know how to get out of it.”
Hyunjin holds your gaze for a beat. His voice comes gentle, steady.
“I’m going to say yes.”
You blink. “What?”
He nods once, calm like he’s making a simple decision. “Yes. I’d like to go out with you.”
Your brain stalls.
Your friends across the street go still, like their script just got ripped in half.
You stare at him, mouth slightly open. “Are you… sure?”
Hyunjin’s eyes flick toward your friends again. Then back to you.
“I’m sure,” he says. “And I’m also not stupid.”
Your breath catches.
He steps a little closer, but not enough to crowd you. Just enough that you can hear him over the street noise.
“Do you want to leave with me,” he asks softly, “or do you want me to walk over there and make them explain why they thought humiliating you would be funny?”
A laugh punches out of you, startled and half disbelieving.
You wipe your palm on your jacket. “I want to leave.”
Hyunjin nods. “Okay.”
He turns slightly, offering you the safest kind of gesture. Not grabbing you. Not pulling. Just an open path beside him.
“Come on,” he says. “We’ll go somewhere public. Somewhere comfortable. You can breathe.”
You take one last look at your friends.
Mina’s expression has gone tight and annoyed, like you ruined her fun.
That’s the first time it really hits you.
If your happiness ruins their fun, they were never on your side.
You step away from them anyway.
You step toward Hyunjin.
And when you pass the streetlight, he glances down at your hands, at the way your fingers are trembling.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
You try to laugh it off. “I’m fine.”
Hyunjin’s gaze slides to you, steady. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
That sentence lands somewhere deep in your chest.
You swallow hard. “Okay,” you whisper. “I’m not fine.”
He nods like that’s allowed.
Like that’s normal.
“Okay,” he says softly. “We’ll fix that first.”
—
The café he chooses is warm and bright, with people everywhere. No corners. No shadows. No audience.
He orders for himself, then looks at you with quiet patience while you decide. He doesn’t rush you. He doesn’t tease you when you stumble over your words. He just waits, like he has nowhere else he’d rather be.
When you sit down, your phone buzzes immediately.
Mina: omg he said yes?? LOL
Mina: come back here we wanna see
Your stomach twists.
Hyunjin sees your face change.
“What is it?” he asks gently.
You turn your phone screen toward him without thinking.
He reads it. His jaw tightens, just a fraction.
Then he looks back at you, voice calm.
“They don’t want to see you,” he says quietly. “They want to see you lose.”
The truth hits so clean and sharp you feel dizzy.
You stare down at your coffee like it might save you.
“I feel stupid,” you whisper.
Hyunjin’s expression softens immediately. “No.”
You look up.
His eyes are kind. Certain.
“You’re not stupid,” he says. “You’re surrounded by people who benefit when you doubt yourself.”
Your throat tightens.
Hyunjin leans back slightly, giving you space, not trapping you in intensity.
“You didn’t deserve that,” he adds. “And you don’t have to go back to it.”
You swallow. “I don’t really have anyone else.”
Hyunjin’s gaze holds yours.
“Then we build you something better,” he says simply.
You blink. “What?”
He gives you the smallest smile, soft and sincere.
“I’m not saying replace your whole life overnight,” he says. “I’m saying… you deserve friends who don’t treat you like a joke.”
Your eyes sting.
You look away fast, embarrassed, but Hyunjin doesn’t act like your tears are inconvenient.
He just lowers his voice, like he’s sharing something private.
“I know what it’s like,” he says. “To be around people and still feel alone.”
You glance back at him, surprised.
He taps his fingers lightly on his cup. “Sometimes people keep you close because you’re useful. Not because they love you.”
Your chest aches.
Hyunjin lifts his eyes again, steady.
“But real support feels different,” he says. “It feels like someone is happy when you’re happy.”
You don’t answer right away.
Because you realize, suddenly, that you can’t remember the last time Mina looked happy for you.
Hyunjin shifts, voice turning lighter on purpose.
“Also,” he says, “I’m still offended they thought I’d say no.”
A small laugh slips out of you.
Hyunjin’s eyes crinkle. “There it is.”
You blink. “What?”
“That sound,” he says gently. “That’s you. Not the version of you they can push around.”
Your breath catches.
Hyunjin sips his drink, then sets it down.
“So,” he says, casual like he’s not changing your life. “Do you want to take a walk after this? Still public. Still bright. I’ll show you a place I like.”
You hesitate.
Then you nod. “Yeah. I want that.”
Hyunjin smiles, warm and real.
“Okay,” he says. “And tomorrow, if you want, I’ll help you figure out what comes next.”
“Next like… what?”
Hyunjin’s tone stays gentle.
“Next like boundaries,” he says. “Next like better people.”
You stare at him.
“Why are you doing this?” you ask quietly. “You don’t even know me.”
Hyunjin’s gaze softens.
“I know enough,” he says. “I know you deserved someone to step in.”
—
Hyunjin doesn’t “save” you like a fairytale.
He just stays consistent.
He texts you the next day. And the next. He doesn’t disappear. He doesn’t make you chase. He checks in like you matter in a way you’re not used to.
When your friends act weird about it, like you owe them credit for pushing you toward him, Hyunjin makes a face so unimpressed it almost makes you laugh.
“They don’t get to claim you,” he says quietly. “You’re not a story they tell.”
The first boundary you set is small.
Mina invites you out like nothing happened. You almost say yes on autopilot. Your fingers hover over the reply, shaking.
Hyunjin is sitting across from you at a quiet table, sketching in a notebook. He looks up and reads your face like it’s a language he’s learned.
“You don’t want to go,” he says.
You swallow. “If I don’t, they’ll be mad.”
Hyunjin’s gaze turns soft and steady.
“Let them,” he says.
Your chest tightens. “That feels… scary.”
He nods like that makes sense. “I know.”
He closes his notebook and leans forward slightly.
“Do you want to practice?” he asks.
“Practice what?”
“Practice saying no,” he says gently. “With me first.”
You stare at him, then huff a small laugh. “Okay.”
Hyunjin’s voice turns playful. “Come to the studio with me tonight.”
You blink. “No.”
His smile brightens. “Perfect.”
You laugh despite yourself, and it feels like something unclenching.
He helps you craft a text that’s short and calm and doesn’t apologize for existing.
You: I’m not coming tonight. Have fun.
When Mina responds with a guilt trip, Hyunjin just raises his eyebrows.
“That’s not friendship,” he says. “That’s control.”
It hurts, hearing it out loud.
It also feels like relief.
A week later, he invites you to a casual group hang with the members. Not a big announcement, not a spotlight moment. Just a normal thing, like you belong in the room.
You try to refuse out of panic.
Hyunjin just looks at you, patient.
“We’ll leave if you want,” he says. “But I think you deserve to see what it feels like when people actually… like you.”
You show up shaking.
Felix is the first one to clock it. He doesn’t stare. He just appears beside you like a golden, smiling safety net.
“Hi,” he says softly. “You’re Hyunjin’s friend, right?”
You blink. “I guess.”
Felix smiles wider. “Cool. You’re our friend too then.”
It’s so simple you almost cry.
Chan offers you a drink like it’s no big deal, then asks about your day in a way that feels real, not performative. Seungmin makes a dry joke that makes you laugh out loud. Changbin is loud in the way that somehow feels protective, like he’ll bite anyone who looks at you wrong.
And Hyunjin watches you slowly relax like he’s quietly proud.
But the best part isn’t even the members.
It’s the two girls you meet through them.
The first is Ji-eun, a staff coordinator who’s always carrying a tote bag full of chaos and snacks. She’s warm, blunt, and immediately clocks you as someone who’s been taught to shrink.
The second is Ara, one of the dancers, all sharp eyeliner and softer eyes than you expect. She has that grounded confidence of someone who’s had to fight for her peace.
Ji-eun hands you a snack without asking questions. Ara nudges your shoulder lightly and says, “You look like you’re bracing for impact. You can stop. You’re safe here.”
Your throat tightens on the spot.
Over the next month, you find yourself in group chats you didn’t have to beg to be included in.
Ji-eun sends you photos of cute things she sees on the street and captions them like they’re inside jokes you already share. Ara drags you to a little dance studio and teaches you a routine for fun, not performance. When you mess up, they don’t laugh at you. They laugh with you.
When you have a bad day and your old friends post something petty, you don’t spiral alone anymore.
You text Ji-eun. She calls you immediately, no hesitation.
Ara shows up with coffee and a face like she’s ready to fight someone on your behalf.
Hyunjin doesn’t gloat. He doesn’t say I told you so.
He just watches you fill out, slowly, like you’re learning how to take up space again.
One night, you’re walking home with Hyunjin after dinner, your hands shoved into your coat pockets. You stop under a streetlight and look at him, words stuck in your throat.
He tilts his head. “What is it?”
You swallow. “I didn’t realize how bad it was.”
Hyunjin’s expression softens.
“I know,” he says quietly.
You stare at the pavement. “I thought I deserved it.”
Hyunjin steps closer, careful. His voice turns gentle but firm.
“No,” he says. “You didn’t.”
You look up and your eyes burn.
He doesn’t ask you to be brave. He doesn’t rush you to heal.
He just reaches for your hand like it’s the easiest choice in the world, like he’s done it a thousand times.
“You’re not hard to love,” he says softly. “You were just in the wrong hands.”
Your breath catches.
Hyunjin’s thumb rubs your knuckles, slow and grounding.
“And now you’re not,” he adds.
You squeeze his hand back.
—
The first time you don’t answer Mina’s text, it feels like you’re doing something illegal.
Your thumb hovers over the notification while your brain runs through every old script it knows.
If you ignore her, she’ll be mad. If she’s mad, she’ll talk. If she talks, everyone will pick a side. If everyone picks a side, you’ll end up alone again.
That fear used to be enough to make you fold.
But now you’re sitting cross-legged on Hyunjin’s couch with a blanket over your knees and a warm mug in your hands, and there are messages coming in from people who don’t feel like landmines.
Ji-eun: you alive?
Ara: I’m bringing snacks later. Don’t argue.
Your chest tightens in a different way. Soft. Disbelieving.
Hyunjin is across the room, hair still damp from a shower, hoodie on, barefoot, sketchbook open on his lap. He looks up when your face changes.
“What?” he asks gently.
You tilt your phone toward him like you’ve started doing without thinking.
Mina: you’ve been so weird lately
Mina: are you like… too famous for us now?
Mina: answer me
Your stomach flips, that old nausea creeping up, trying to drag you back.
Hyunjin’s eyes narrow slightly. Not angry, but focused.
“She’s trying to shame you into responding,” he says quietly.
“I know,” you whisper, but your voice still shakes.
Hyunjin shifts forward, elbows on his knees. His tone stays calm on purpose, like he’s helping your nervous system not panic.
“You don’t owe her access to you,” he says. “What do you want to do?”
That question still surprises you sometimes.
What do you want?
You swallow. “I don’t want to deal with her.”
Hyunjin nods like that’s valid. Like it’s simple.
“Then don’t,” he says. “Put your phone down. Breathe.”
You do, but the anxiety doesn’t vanish. It paces around your ribs like a restless animal.
Hyunjin watches you for a second, then holds his hand out, palm up. No grabbing. No pulling. Just an option.
You take it automatically.
He squeezes once. Grounding. Warm.
“You’ve been trained to think their approval is oxygen,” he says softly. “But you’re breathing fine without it.”
Your throat tightens. “It doesn’t feel like it.”
“I know,” he says, voice gentle. “That’s why you’ve got help now.”
As if summoned by the universe, your phone buzzes again. Not Mina.
Ji-eun: I’m outside. Open up. I have emergency tteokbokki.
You blink, startled.
Hyunjin’s mouth curves. “See?”
You let out a tiny laugh. “She didn’t even ask.”
“She never asks,” he says. “She just shows up with food like a hero.”
He gets up to open the door, and the second it swings inward, Ji-eun storms in like she owns the place, tote bag on one shoulder, hair half up, cheeks pink from the cold.
“I brought peace offerings,” she announces, kicking her shoes off. She pauses when she sees your face. “Oh. You’ve got that look.”
You try to smile. Fail.
Ji-eun drops the tote bag, crosses the room, and plops down beside you with zero hesitation, bumping her shoulder into yours like a solid reminder that you’re not alone.
“Who are we fighting?” she asks.
You snort, watery. “No one.”
Ji-eun squints. “That’s a lie.”
Hyunjin reappears with water bottles, sets one down, then sits nearby, not crowding you but present. Safe.
You glance at your phone again and your stomach drops.
Mina: lol ok
Mina: I guess Hyunjin’s your boyfriend now huh
Mina: don’t forget who was there before him
The old guilt tries to flare. The old voice in your head starts up.
They were there before. You owe them. Don’t be ungrateful. Don’t be dramatic.
Ara’s name pops up immediately, almost like she sensed it.
Ara: Where are you?
Ara: I’m done early. I’m coming over
You stare at the screen, throat tight.
Hyunjin watches your face. “Is it getting worse?”
You nod, barely.
Ji-eun leans in. “Show me.”
You hesitate. Then you hand her the phone.
Ji-eun reads Mina’s messages, and her expression changes so fast it’s almost funny.
It goes from curious to unimpressed to genuinely disgusted.
“Oh,” Ji-eun says flatly. “She’s one of those.”
“One of what?” you ask, small.
“One of the girls who thinks cruelty is the same thing as personality,” Ji-eun replies, and she hands your phone back like it’s contaminated. “She’s not your friend.”
You flinch at how direct it is, even though you already know.
Hyunjin doesn’t contradict her. He just watches you carefully.
Your voice comes out small. “I keep thinking maybe I’m being too sensitive.”
Ji-eun turns to you, eyes sharp but kind. “No.”
Hyunjin nods once. “You’re not.”
You swallow, staring down at your mug. “If I cut them off, they’re going to hate me.”
Ji-eun snorts. “They already don’t like you. They like what they can get from you.”
Your chest aches. “That’s harsh.”
“It’s honest,” Ji-eun says. Then she softens, bumping your shoulder again. “And you’re not doing this alone.”
Hyunjin leans forward slightly, voice calm. “Do you want to handle it quietly or do you want closure?”
You blink. “Closure like… confrontation?”
Hyunjin’s gaze stays steady. “Only if you want it. You don’t owe anyone a speech.”
Your phone buzzes again. Mina, of course.
Mina: we’re all hanging out tomorrow
Mina: come
Mina: unless you’re too good now
Your heart starts racing again. That old panic.
You can already see it. If you don’t go, they’ll post about it. If you do go, they’ll make you small again. Either way, you’ll spend the whole night feeling sick.
Ji-eun watches you freeze and reaches over, gently takes your phone, and sets it facedown on the table.
“No,” she says.
You blink at her. “No what?”
“No more letting them choose your mood for the day,” Ji-eun replies. “We’re going tomorrow.”
Your eyes widen. “We?”
Hyunjin lifts his brows slightly, like he’s curious too.
Ji-eun nods firmly. “Yes. We.”
You swallow. “That sounds terrifying.”
“Good,” Ji-eun says. “We’ll be terrifying together.”
Hyunjin’s mouth curves, but his eyes stay warm. “Ara’s coming too.”
As if on cue, the door knocks.
Ara walks in like a storm in a cute coat, hair down, eyes immediately scanning you like she’s checking your injuries.
She spots your face, then your phone on the table, then Hyunjin’s quiet focus.
“Okay,” Ara says, taking off her shoes. “We’re dealing with it.”
You stare at her. “How do you even know?”
Ara shrugs. “Your vibe was loud.”
Ji-eun points at the phone like evidence. “It’s Mina.”
Ara’s expression turns cold. “Ah. Her.”
Your stomach flips. “You know her?”
Ara nods. “I’ve met her. At that first hangout, remember? She smiled at me like she wanted to swallow my bones.”
Hyunjin exhales a small laugh through his nose. “That’s accurate.”
You look between them, overwhelmed. “I don’t want drama.”
Ara sits across from you, posture relaxed but eyes fierce. “This isn’t drama. This is you defending yourself.”
Ji-eun leans in, voice firm. “They’ve been dramatic. You’ve been surviving.”
Your throat tightens. “What if they record it? Or post it? Or make me look crazy?”
Hyunjin’s gaze sharpens. “If they do, that’s proof.”
“Proof of what?” you whisper.
Hyunjin’s voice stays soft. “Proof they were never your friends.”
Silence settles.
Your heart pounds.
Then Ara reaches over, takes your hand, squeezes.
“You don’t have to be brave,” she says. “You just have to be done.”
Something in your chest shifts at that.
Done.
You swallow. “Okay.”
Ji-eun sits up straighter like a coach. “Good. Here’s the plan. We meet them in a public place. Bright. People around. You say what you need to say. Short. Clear. No apologizing.”
Your stomach flips. “No apologizing is like… hard.”
Ara points at you. “Then we practice.”
Hyunjin shifts closer, not touching you, just there. “We’ll be nearby,” he says. “You won’t be alone.”
Your eyes sting.
You nod, once.
“Okay,” you whisper. “I want to do it.”
Ji-eun smiles like she’s proud of you. “Good. Eat your tteokbokki. Tomorrow we execute.”
Hyunjin looks at you over his mug, voice gentle. “And if you change your mind, you can. You’re in control.”
—
The next day, your stomach is a tight knot from the moment you wake up.
You can’t eat breakfast. You can barely drink water. You keep checking your phone like it’s going to bite you.
Hyunjin doesn’t pressure you. He just texts once.
Hyunjin: I’m here when you’re ready.
Hyunjin: You’re doing really well already.
Already.
You hold onto that like a railing.
By late afternoon, you’re standing outside a café in a busy area, coat zipped up to your chin, hands trembling in your pockets.
Ji-eun is on your left. Ara is on your right.
Hyunjin is a few steps behind, hood up, mask on, quiet and watchful. Not there to intimidate anyone. Just there to make sure you don’t fold.
Ji-eun bumps your shoulder. “Breathe.”
You inhale. Exhale.
Ara whispers, “You say it once. You don’t debate.”
You nod, throat tight.
Your old friends arrive like they own the sidewalk.
Mina spots you first, and her smile is immediate and sharp.
“Finally,” Mina says, loud enough to draw attention. “We were starting to think you forgot us.”
Your other friends smirk. They glance past you like they’re looking for Hyunjin.
Mina’s eyes flicker when she notices Ji-eun and Ara.
“Who are they?” she asks, tone already irritated.
You open your mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Your pulse spikes.
Ji-eun slides half a step closer, not speaking, just solid.
Ara squeezes your elbow lightly. Grounding.
Hyunjin doesn’t move forward, but you feel him behind you like a calm wall.
You swallow hard and force the words out.
“They’re my friends,” you say.
Mina laughs like that’s adorable. “Since when?”
Since I stopped letting you hurt me, you want to say.
Instead, you take a breath.
“Since I realized you weren’t acting like one,” you say, voice shaking but clear.
The smirks fade slightly.
Mina blinks, then scoffs. “Oh my God. Are you serious right now?”
Your heart pounds. The old you would panic. Backtrack. Apologize.
Ara murmurs under her breath, “Don’t.”
Ji-eun whispers, “One sentence. That’s all you need.”
You nod to yourself. You keep going.
“I’m not hanging out with you guys anymore,” you say.
Silence hits like a slap.
Mina’s face twists. “Excuse me?”
You swallow. “I’m not doing it. The jokes, the dares, the way you talk to me. The way you treat me like I’m entertainment.”
One of the other girls rolls her eyes. “It was a dare. You’re so dramatic.”
Your stomach clenches.
Hyunjin shifts behind you, and you feel him step half a pace closer. Not to speak. Just to be there.
Ji-eun’s voice cuts in, calm and deadly polite. “If humiliating her is your idea of fun, you need therapy, not friends.”
Mina glares at her. “Who asked you?”
Ara smiles, sharp. “Someone had to, since she’s been alone in this group for years.”
Your friends bristle, like they’re not used to being challenged.
Mina’s gaze snaps back to you, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “So this is because of Hyunjin? You got attention once and now you’re acting like you’re better than us.”
That old guilt tries to spike. The old urge to explain.
You take a breath and remember Ara’s words.
You don’t debate.
You don’t defend.
You just state the truth.
“No,” you say, voice steadier now. “This is because of you.”
Mina’s eyes widen slightly, like she didn’t expect that.
You keep going before you can lose your nerve.
“You dared me to ask him out to embarrass me,” you say. “You didn’t warn me he was famous on purpose. You wanted me to look stupid. That’s not normal.”
Mina scoffs, but it sounds thinner now. “It was funny.”
You nod once. “It was funny to you.”
Your throat tightens, but you push through.
“And when it didn’t go the way you wanted,” you continue, “you got mad. You tried to guilt me. You tried to shame me. You didn’t ask if I was okay. You didn’t care if I was okay. You only cared if you were getting a show.”
Your friend group goes quiet. People nearby slow down, pretending not to listen.
Mina’s face turns red. “You’re making it sound like we’re evil.”
Ji-eun shrugs. “Then stop doing evil shit.”
Ara lets out a quiet laugh. “Easy solution.”
Mina’s eyes flick toward Hyunjin behind you like she’s finally seeing the full picture. Her voice shifts, aiming for humiliation again.
“Hyunjin,” she calls loudly, “are you really dating her? Like for real? Or is this a charity thing?”
Your stomach drops.
Then Hyunjin steps forward.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to be seen.
He doesn’t take his mask off. He doesn’t need to. His voice is calm, controlled, and unmistakable.
“It’s not charity,” he says.
Mina blinks. “Oh my God, it is you.”
Hyunjin’s gaze doesn’t even stay on her long. It comes back to you, like you’re the only person he’s talking to.
“You’re doing great,” he says softly, just for you.
Your chest tightens.
Then his tone shifts, still calm, but firm.
“And you,” he says, looking at Mina now, “don’t speak to her like that.”
Mina’s mouth opens. “I was joking.”
Hyunjin’s eyes narrow slightly. “That’s the problem.”
Ara’s mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile.
Ji-eun crosses her arms, satisfied.
Your heart is pounding, but it’s different now. Less panic. More fire.
You lift your chin.
“I’m done,” you say, looking straight at Mina. “Don’t text me. Don’t call me. Don’t invite me. If you see me somewhere, leave me alone.”
Mina’s expression twists into something ugly. “You’re going to regret this.”
The threat is supposed to hook you.
It doesn’t.
You shrug, voice quiet but steady. “Maybe. But I’d rather regret being alone than stay with people who enjoy hurting me.”
Mina stares at you like she doesn’t recognize you.
Maybe she doesn’t.
Because the version of you she liked was the version she could control.
You turn away.
Your legs shake as you walk, but you walk.
Ji-eun falls into step beside you immediately. Ara on your other side.
Hyunjin behind you, silent and steady, like a promise.
You don’t look back.
You hear Mina scoff, hear someone mutter something mean, hear the old group’s laughter trying to salvage their dignity.
But it sounds far away.
Unimportant.
Like background noise in a life you’re leaving.
—
Your breath breaks. Tears spill hot and fast.
“I did it,” you whisper, half laughing through it.
Ji-eun throws her arms around you immediately. “You did it!”
Ara hugs you from the other side, firm and grounding. “I’m proud of you.”
Hyunjin steps closer, hands hovering like he’s asking permission.
You turn into him without thinking.
His arms wrap around you carefully, like you’re something precious and breakable and strong all at once.
He rests his chin lightly on your head.
“You were so brave,” he murmurs.
You shake your head against his chest. “I was terrified.”
Hyunjin’s voice stays gentle. “You can be both.”
That makes you cry harder, but it feels like cleansing.
Ji-eun pulls back first, wiping your face with a napkin she somehow has because she’s always prepared.
“Okay,” she says briskly, voice softening. “Now we celebrate. We’re getting food. Like real food. And dessert. And we’re going to talk about how you just upgraded your entire life.”
Ara nods. “Yes. Also, we’re blocking Mina.”
You sniff-laugh. “Right now?”
Ara holds her hand out. “Phone.”
You hand it over, still shaky.
Ara blocks Mina without hesitation. Blocks two others too, like she’s cleaning your contacts list with surgical precision.
Ji-eun leans in. “And if any of them try to contact you through someone else, you tell us.”
Hyunjin’s hand squeezes yours. “And you tell me.”
You stare at them, overwhelmed in the best way.
“Why are you all being so… intense,” you whisper.
Ji-eun scoffs. “Because you’re ours now.”
You blink. “That sounds like kidnapping.”
Ara shrugs. “It’s friendly kidnapping.”
Hyunjin’s eyes crinkle slightly. “It’s found family.”
Your throat tightens again, but this time it’s warmth.
You wipe your cheeks. “Okay.”
Ji-eun grins. “Good. Now let’s go eat.”
Hyunjin keeps holding your hand as you walk, like he’s making sure you feel the difference between your old life and your new one.
