you didn't know your estranged uncle had a son. Not until said son dumps an unusually large, very angry, kangaroo hybrid on your doorstep, claiming it's only for a few days while your uncle is in hospital.
pairing: kangaroo hybrid!jk x f!reader
genre: hybrid au, angst, mild fluff
word count: 8.8k
warnings: still none really besides the ethics of hybrid-keeping (and fighting)
author’s note: i decided to make it into three parts instead of two! i hope you like this, i edited it a tad (but i'll still blame lo from the past for this entire fic lol)
Saturday. As expected, the day doesn’t start very well, but it’s at least… manageable so far. You remember that Jeongguk is supposed to leave for his activity again later, and when you try asking him about it once more, he doesn’t tell you anything. Shocker.
After fixing breakfast for Jeongguk, you return to bed, not knowing if he eats or not. Today, you don’t have the energy to try to force him to eat if he doesn’t want to. Instead, you pop a few pills, writhing in your white sheets. Some months are better than others, and some months, you spend days on end on your bathroom floor, nauseous and desperate for the cool bathroom tiles against your cheek.
When the time comes, you see Jeongguk off again, locking the door behind him and nearly doubling over in pain. Bringing your phone as sufficient entertainment, you retreat to the bathroom.
At two a.m., you hear a tentative knock on the front door, a sound that wakes you out of your half-slumber on the bathroom floor. You get up on shaky legs and approach the door to open it for the hybrid. He looks cautious, as if he’s scared he woke you up although you did tell him to always knock. If you were to guess, you’d say that he probably regrets not taking the key you offered last time.
His eyes trail over you in your sorry state, but he at least doesn’t look angry.
“Are you alright?” you ask, looking over him briefly in turn. You don’t notice any obvious injuries, but he does look spent. His body looks like it feels heavy, and his black hair is still damp with sweat.
He nods and actually opens his mouth to speak. “Are you?”
Damn, you must really look like a mess.
“Yeah. Go take a shower,” you usher him inside, closing the door behind him.
Maybe it’s because you look like you’re on death’s doorstep, but he doesn’t seem to want to argue. Or maybe he does and is glaring at you; you can't tell with your exhausted eyes half closed.
While he’s in the bathroom, you do some of the dishes left out during the day, trying not to cry from the intense bursts of pain. The gods obviously didn’t hear you. Or they just didn’t care.
Silently, you hear the bathroom door open and very quiet footsteps exit. You call for him, drying your hands on your cotton shorts.
“There’s food in the fridge, please eat something,” you instruct when he appears half a minute later, wearing only sweatpants. Even in your weakened state, you definitely take notice of his very muscular and thick physique; how the prominent veins span across his arms and hands. But most importantly, you see the way a large bruise is forming over his right side, just over his ribs.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” you ask quietly.
Luckily, he doesn’t take offense and gives you a small nod. Well, you don’t think there’s anything you can really do to help him at the moment, so you return his nod. Then you leave the kitchen, making your way back to the bathroom—that still bears foggy traces of Jeongguk’s shower—just as another wave of nausea hits you. At least you hear the fridge open, which grants you some mental relief.
The cool tiles against your skin help a lot. It also helps that you’re almost too tired to be nauseous. But it hurts. It hurts so much, and you can’t say that you wouldn’t rather be a man at that moment.
Some time passes. You’re not sure how long. It could be fifteen minutes or it could be an hour, but when you open your eyes, he’s standing there, looking worriedly at you where you're lying on your side, sweaty, tired, and tortured.
“Are you sick?” he asks quietly. “Maybe you should go to the hospital.”
“I’m not sick,” you explain, barely lifting your gaze.
“Then what is wrong with you?”
“You know biology? Women’s anatomy?”
He nods, seemingly realizing.
“Yeah. I have… endometriosis. It’s a condition that makes all of that worse, basically. A whole lot of uterine cells outside the uterus. But it’s usually not very dangerous. If I go to the hospital, they’ll send me home with the same kind of painkillers I already have.”
Not looking convinced, Jeongguk’s eyes flit over your body. If you weren’t so tired and in pain, you’d find it sweet how truly worried and unsure he looks.
“I’ll be fine,” you say, closing your eyes again.
For the remainder of the night, you slip in and out of consciousness there on the bathroom floor, always feeling a lingering presence.
The next few days are easier. The pain and nausea turn more manageable, and your heart warms at how the hybrid also seems more… manageable. Even though you’re doing better, he’s still eating without arguing. Sure, not nearly as much as someone his size and physique should, but it’s something. In turn, you’ve gone back to only talking sweetly to him, no more pretending to threaten him.
And just like that, Jeongguk has been with you for a week.
But when your phone rings one afternoon, it’s Taehyung, asking when he can come pick Jeongguk up.
“Would you sell him to me?” you blurt, realizing that you can’t let them take him back.
“What?”
“I was wondering if you’d sell him to me?” you repeat.
Taehyung still sounds just as confused. “Why?”
You guess you haven’t given off a very interested impression so far.
“Yeah. I actually really like him, and I’ve been thinking about getting a hybrid of my own.”
“Oh. Well, he’s not for sale. At least not for less than 15 000 dollars.”
You blink in shock. That’s not an amount of money you happen to have lying around.
“Oh,” you say, unable to hide your disappointment.
“Yeah, he’s not really one of those pet hybrids. He’s a highly regarded fighter. Brings us extra cash every week.”
“Fighter? I didn’t know that was…. well, legal?”
“It is. Some people just frown upon it, but he’s a kangaroo hybrid; he was bred to fight.”
“Well… I, uh, I’ll see how much I can come up with.”
“Sure. I’ll see you later tonight then.”
“Yeah. Bye.”
Your heart breaks as you end the call because you know for a fact that you don’t have that kind of money. No matter how much you want to remove Jeongguk from his home situation, what can you do? You can’t refuse to return him; Taehyung and his father legally own him, and if you tried to skip town with him, they’d easily track you down due to the GPS tracker in his chip.
When you turn around, shoulders slumping, you spot Jeongguk.
“You want to own me?” he asks, his softer side vanished in favor of his cold, bordering on emotionless one.
“No,” you start, surprised by his conclusion and the distaste for it. “I don’t want to own you. I want to help you and get you away from them, and since you technically don’t have a lot of rights, yeah, I’d have to buy you. But I think that it would be the lesser of two evils.”
“What about what I want then?”
His follow-up question surprises you even more. Of course, you understand that you don’t know each other very well, but… is he implying that he wants to go back? To a place where it seems a luxury to be allowed on the couch? Where you’re convinced he’s made to feel like a burden? Where he’s forced to fight?
You can’t say you have an answer to his question, and so Jeongguk watches you for a few seconds, but when there is no response, he leaves the room.
Just before Taehyung is supposed to arrive to take Jeongguk to his “activity” himself, you approach Jeongguk in the guest room as he’s finishing up packing his stuff.
“Here.”
He looks at your open hand and the key in it and then he looks at you, his dark eyes emotionless.
“No,” is his answer, and after relaying it, he continues to place the last of his stuff inside his duffel bag. He makes the bed, picking up the hot water bottle, and you don't miss the very slight trace of longing in his eyes as he holds it.
“Take it with you,” you offer.
He puts it down on the bed. “Can’t.”
“Why not? I have more.”
“They’ll think I stole it from you,” he argues, and it hurts your heart to hear that they would immediately jump to such conclusions, not believing him.
“I’ll tell Taehyung I gave you some things.”
“You’ll offend them by implying they don’t take care of me.”
“Well, they don’t?” you’re quick to retort. “I’ll say I was going to get rid of it anyway.”
He peers over at it, and you can easily tell that he wants it. “...No.”
He redirects his focus to his bag, continuing his packing.
“At least take this,” you hold the key out again.
“Why? I’m not coming back here?”
“I know. But… I want you to have it. Just in case. And I want you to know that you’re always welcome here. Always. If you want to come here, for any reason, you can.”
He doesn’t take it but doesn’t say anything either, so you reach for his bag, dropping the key into one of its smaller inner pockets and pulling the zipper shut. “Don’t tell them I gave it to you. If they find it, say you didn’t know about it and have them call me to ask about it. I’ll say I sneaked it in there when you weren’t looking or something.”
Almost expecting him to pull the key out and throw it at you, you’re surprised yet definitely relieved when he doesn’t, only looking at you and biting his lip somberly.
When you first met the hybrid, you had no idea it would be so hard to watch him leave. Still, he walks out that door with Taehyung, and your heart aches, knowing that he’s not well cared for and that there’s nothing you can do about it. As far as you know, at least.
It frustrates you because you don’t actually think Jeongguk is hard to care for. Give him a room with a comfortable bed in it, some appropriate clothes, and enough food, and you’d bet he’s good. Maybe entertainment of some kind as well, and a chance to socialize with other hybrids, and he probably wouldn’t complain about a single thing. If you’re going to strip someone of their rights like hybrids have been, you can at least make sure they have everything they need.
Unsurprisingly, you don’t hear anything from Jeongguk—or Taehyung, rather—in the coming months. You wonder about him, if he’s doing alright, and on multiple occasions, you spend entire nights googling hybrid fighting rings. To your disappointment, there are too many to count. Then, one night you find it. A ring that advertises its fighters, one of them familiar looking.
Jeongguk’s name is there, so is his height and weight, and how many wins versus losses he’s accumulated. And you understand why Taehyung wasn’t very eager to sell him to you.
As you scroll the site, you see other kinds of hybrids as well, a lot of which you had no idea even existed. There are not many derived from house pets; no house cat hybrids, but there are a few big dog hybrids as well as a wolf one, two cougars, a bear, and even a few hyenas.
For a while, you debate going to a fight, but then again, what would you even do there? Unfortunately, you can’t just try to locate Jeongguk and grab him since he belongs to the Kims and what they’re doing is supposedly entirely legal. If you were to try anyway, they’d just take him back and probably have you arrested. So you stay home, holding onto the fact that, even if it isn’t much, he at least has a key to your apartment in case he needs it.
Tapping your foot, you wait for the red light to turn green and the driver to accelerate. In your pocket, your phone buzzes, and when you pull it out, there’s a text lit up and waiting for you.
'Had a great time tonight'
You ponder over a reply, before settling for a simple ‘me too’ and hitting send. It was an alright date with an alright dude; you’re just not sure he’s the one for you. Still, you decide to give him one more date to be sure. At least the food was great.
At eleven p.m., the car pulls over outside your apartment complex and with a ‘thanks,’ you step out and close the door behind you. Despite the relatively early hour, you yawn as you twist the key in the lock, opening the door to your dark apartment. Swiftly, you flick the light switch on and start to remove your fall jacket before something catches your eye, and you freeze.
On the little stool you keep in the hallway, there’s a key. One that wasn’t there when you left, and one you’re pretty sure you actually gave away half a year ago.
Carefully, you step further into the apartment, not sure what you’ll find in the dark. What your eyes do fall upon however, is something curled up on the couch.
Your eyes adjust to the darkness slowly, allowing you to discern more. It’s Jeongguk, sleeping on your couch. He’s curled up as much as possible, probably to conserve heat. The weather outside isn’t too cold for late September, but it’s certainly cold if all you’re wearing is jeans and a t-shirt. He’s not even wearing shoes, seemingly intentionally keeping his dirty feet hanging over the edge.
Your heavy heart hurts, and you guess that he’s been kicked out for some reason. From what you gathered when he stayed with you, it’s happened before.
Deciding not to wake him, you pull a blanket off the couch and very, very carefully drape it over his freezing body. Then you exit the living room, leaving the lights there off, and head to the kitchen.
Suspecting that he’s probably hungry, you look through your fridge and freezer in search of something to make him, settling on toasting a couple slices of bread and scrambling some eggs for him. As you do, the kitchen fills with the smell, and you hum to yourself. Despite feeling terrible that he’s obviously still not being treated properly, you’re happy to see him and to get the chance to take care of him for however long he’ll stay.
When you return with the food on a tray, Jeongguk is already awake and sitting up, the blanket wrapped around him. He looks tired and a little less… well, a little less than when you last saw him. It’s no wonder he loses weight when he either doesn’t eat as much as he’s supposed to, or just not being fed what he’s supposed to.
“Hi,” you greet quietly as you place the tray down on the coffee table. Besides a glass of water and a big plate with food for him, it also contains an apple and some water for you. Sure, you just ate at the restaurant, but you figure he’ll be more comfortable eating if you are too.
But he pulls away, diverting his eyes from you and the food as if he’s ashamed. “I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry.”
He goes to stand, but you stop him. “No, no, stay, please. I told you; you’re always welcome here.”
Unsure, he licks his lips but settles back down and pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders again.
“I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about it?” you say, trying not to place any value in your assumption. “If you do, I’m all ears, but otherwise… don’t sweat it. The guest room is yours, and you’re free to stay as long as you’d like.”
Jeongguk looks almost relieved, and in turn, it brings your own heart relief. You spend a few minutes preparing some clean clothes for him; a set of lounge wear that originally belonged to your dad, and after he’s eaten and is taking a shower, you prepare the bed for him as well. He doesn’t say much, and you don’t pressure him.
The next day, he’s already awake when you step out of your bedroom to pee. Sitting on the couch, still wearing the outfit you gave him last night, but doing absolutely nothing, he looks at you when you approach.
“I don’t…” he starts, but stops to clear his throat in uncertainty, “I don’t know if I should stay or try to go back.”
“Well, what do you want to do?” you ask, patting your unbrushed hair down and hoping that he’ll decide to stay at least a little while.
“I want to stay, but…”
“Then stay. Keep me company for a while.”
You think you see a hint of a smile forming on his lips.
He does end up staying, at least another night, and you ask him to watch a movie with you, something he agrees to. You let him scroll your streaming services until he settles on Jurassic Park, and you run to the corner store, getting some chips and soda.
“So, how long do you think you’ll stay?” you ask, trying to sound casual and without looking at him directly. “I don’t mind having you here; in fact, it’s more than okay, and I like having you around. I’m just wondering.”
Despite your precaution, you see how his mood turns sour. First angry, then mixed with sadness.
“I don’t know. I didn’t do well at my last fight, and I talked back. Taehyung told me to leave and not come back until I was ready to show some respect. They usually track me down by my chip after a few days and come and get me, wherever I am. So I don’t know.”
“They just leave you to fend for yourself?” you ask, truly shocked.
Jeongguk scoffs. “I’m very capable of surviving on my own. I’m not a child.”
“I know, it’s not… I didn’t mean it like that. Just that they’re making it unreasonably difficult for you. I mean, you didn’t even have shoes on. If you walked here, it probably took you like, half a day? I don’t know how well I would’ve done if I was left alone outside without money or my phone or even appropriate clothes.”
He keeps his eyes on the screen, and you decide to try something he might not like.
“Maybe tomorrow we can go pick out some clothes for you?” you watch his reaction tentatively, placing another chip in your mouth.
He doesn’t tear his eyes away from the TV, but you can see the internal struggle going on inside him. He doesn’t want you to spend money on him, but he doesn’t want to walk around in dirty clothes in case you think he’s stinking up your home.
“Okay,” he mumbles finally, making you smile.
“Okay. We’ll get you some shoes as well.”
“I, uhm, don’t have my collar, though,” he informs.
You pause. Even when Jeongguk stayed with you for a week, you never went outside with him, and so you’d completely forgotten that hybrids need to wear collars when out in public.
“What are the criteria for a collar? Does it only need to contain owner contact information?”
“Yeah. There are a lot of models, but that’s the minimum criteria.”
You contemplate for a second before rising from the couch to look for something in your bedroom. Collecting a few items—one from an old sewing kit—you make your way back, placing them on the coffee table. Jeongguk peers over at the stuff, watching as you place a piece of yellow tape on the inside of a black silk band of about an inch in width. With the ink pen you brought, you write your own name and phone number in small letters and numbers and then blow on the text to dry it.
Curiously but a little carefully, he looks at you when you lift the band toward him. “I don’t know what yours is like, but would this be okay?”
“Uhm… mine is a lot harder.”
“What, like a prong collar?” you joke, realizing quickly that you shouldn’t have.
He nods, “Yeah.”
“I..” you start, unsure of what to say, “I don’t think you need a collar at all, actually, so this would be enough only to comply with the laws. I know I’m not technically your owner but if we were to be separated, I’d rather have someone call me than them.”
Slowly, he moves closer and lets you tie the band loosely around his neck, the information hidden on the inside.
“It doesn’t need to be tighter than this, right?” you ask, inspecting the band that rests at the very bottom of his neck, more like a regular short-chained necklace than a choker.
Jeongguk lifts his hand to judge the tightness. “I don’t think so.”
“Okay. Does this feel alright then?”
You let your eyes travel over him, and sure, it looks a bit like an odd accessory, but the main goal is to make it comfortable and hopefully also remove the humiliation of wearing an obvious collar.
Jeongguk nods again, and you see that almost familiar trace of a smile, something that makes your heart beat with happiness.
“Good. We don’t need a leash, so just try to stay close to me, and I’ll try to stay close to you.”
You let a few moments of silence pass, watching Jeongguk out of the corner of your eye as he unties the band to place it carefully on the table again.
The day after, you knock on your neighbors’ door after you’ve returned from work, asking to borrow some shoes and an appropriate jacket for Jeongguk to wear as you go shopping. The hybrid doesn’t look too excited when you return with the goods, but he doesn’t complain, and you think he just tries to accept it even if he doesn’t really want it. Not your favors and not your kindness.
With you both dressed appropriately for the fall weather, you get inside your old car. The short journey toward the closest mall with a good supply of hybrid clothes is spent in silence, Jeongguk sitting in the passenger seat and looking out through the window.
Just as quietly, he follows you from the car and into the big building, keeping close just like you asked him to. Looking through the shopping list you wrote in your phone’s notes app, you decide to start with the clothes.
Always a step or two behind you, Jeongguk remains quiet as you head toward a specific store, one that’s bigger than any other hybrid-targeted stores you’ve seen but still only a fraction of the stores for humans. There are a few people inside, both with and without accompanying hybrids.
“Go and look. I’ll keep up,” you encourage him softly when you enter the store, calm music playing from the speakers.
Clearly uncomfortable, he looks down at you with hesitancy in his dark eyes. “Are you sure you want to spend money on me?”
“Yes,” you say determinedly. “Please, let me?”
He considers for a few seconds before giving a small nod. “Okay.”
He looks around, seemingly unsure where to start before he takes tentative steps toward a section with shirts. It's clear how he gravitates toward the cheaper options on the racks. You find it sweet—and you’re relieved he’s not looking at the most expensive garments—but it’s also incredibly sad to you. You realize no one’s probably ever really spent money on him, even though you’ve come to understand that the Kims aren’t exactly struggling. Quite the opposite, actually, and from your recent research, it's definitely partially thanks to Jeongguk.
Staying close without hovering, you watch as he picks out a few things: two t-shirts, a pair of shorts, and two pairs of sweatpants. They’re all black or white and simple in design—not that you expected him to go for pink and sparkles or anything. You also suggest he pick out some underwear, socks, and two pairs of shoes—one to keep at yours and the other to bring with him if he wants since he didn’t have any on when he arrived.
“You wanna try them on?” you nod toward the garments in his arms.
“Uh… Okay.”
You look around the store, scanning. “I think the fitting rooms… there they are.”
He follows your line of sight, and you head toward a small cluster of fitting rooms tucked into the back corner of the store. You wait outside while he steps into one of the small rooms, pulling the beige curtain closed behind him. There’s a soft rustle of fabric as he changes.
“They fit?” you ask a few minutes later as he pulls the curtain open.
“Yeah.” He pauses, looking down at the black and white shirts and sweatpants in his arms. “I’m not sure what color, though? What do you think?”
“We’ll take both, don’t worry about it,” you smile reassuringly. “Let’s pay and then get them tailored.”
He follows you to the checkout, where a friendly woman rings you up, and then you head into a smaller section of the store. There, another woman sits behind a table, an industrial sewing machine in front of her. She’s engrossed in a book, a yellow tape measure draped casually around her neck.
“Hello?” you call out.
She looks up, immediately setting the book down with a warm smile. “Oh, hello. What can I do for you?”
“We’d like to get these tailored, please,” you say, placing the sweatpants, shorts, and even the underwear on the table.
The woman glances at the pile, then shifts her gaze to Jeongguk, who lingers a couple of steps behind you.
“Is he alright with me measuring him?” she asks, her tone considerate.
You turn to Jeongguk, waiting for his reply. He meets the seamstress’ eyes briefly before nodding. “Yeah.”
“Good. Come here, please?” she says, gesturing him forward.
Jeongguk listens and steps up, removing his jacket again and standing still as the woman carefully wraps the tape measure around the base of his tail. She notes the number on a piece of paper before measuring the distance from the top of his tail to his waist, jotting that down too.
Although he’s cooperative, you notice the subtle furrow in his brows. He doesn’t seem particularly fond of having his tail touched. Or maybe he just doesn’t like having anyone’s hands on him in general. You’ve definitely been on the receiving end of that dislike.
With the measurements taken, she thanks him and begins working on the pants. The rhythmic hum of the sewing machine fills the small space, and Jeongguk steps away, glancing around the store. He doesn’t wander far from you, still keeping his promise. Meanwhile, you look through your phone again, trying to see if there’s anything you’ve missed on your quest to put together a little kit of necessities for him.
Besides clothes to have at your place, you’ll try convincing him to let you buy him a phone. At least a cheap one so that he can call you if he needs to—or just wants to—and some cash so that he can take a cab to your place if he needs to. If he finds anyone willing to drive an unaccompanied hybrid, that is. Maybe you’ll laminate a card with your info on it so that he can give it to someone if he’s ever in trouble and you can help from a distance, maybe convince people he’s nice and just needs help home. Or maybe that's a bit overboard?
“Finished!”
The seamstress’ voice pulls you from your thoughts only a few minutes later. You look up, locking your phone and sliding it into your pocket as she folds the clothes neatly. She slides the pile toward you, a satisfied smile on her face.
“Do you want to try them on?” she asks. “So I can alter them if needed.”
Jeongguk approaches, looks at you, and nods. He takes the pants from the table, and with you in tow, heads back to the fitting rooms. As he closes the curtain again, you lean against the nearby wall, waiting patiently as he tries them on again.
“Good?” you ask after a few moments when he’s taking a little extra time.
“Yeah,” he replies, emerging a second later with a hint of something you think resembles satisfaction.
“Awesome. I think we’re done here then?” you ask, already giving the seamstress a thumbs-up. She smiles warmly, her fingers lifting in a small wave as you both head towards the exit.
“Now… I’m getting you a phone,” you announce as you step out of the store, already steering toward another shop a few stores down.
“What? Why?” he asks, but you’re not met with the strong dislike you would have a few months ago.
“I want you to have a way to contact me if anything happens,” you explain, hoping that he accepts what very well could be too much for him.
At the entrance to the tech store, he seems to weigh his options before nodding shortly, and so you step inside. It’s definitely a surprise—and a relief—that he doesn’t argue.
His quiet acceptance also fills you with relief that maybe, just maybe, he’s starting to realize that he has a safe place with you and that something like a phone would help him. But you’re also heartbroken, imagining what it must’ve taken for such a strong-headed person like him to accept help he probably didn’t want in the first place.
You walk him through the aisles of displayed devices, each phone looking more expensive under the strong lights. Jeongguk’s eyes dart from screen to screen, a bit overwhelmed by the sheer number of options. You can tell he’s unsure, but he’s also doing his best to let you do what you for some reason want to do so badly.
“What about this one?” you ask, picking up one of the older models; something practical but not too expensive. Jeongguk peers at it, his black ears lowering further.
“Isn’t that too much?” he mutters, glancing at you like he’s waiting for you to reconsider. Maybe even hoping. But you shake your head.
“It’s not,” you assure him. “It’s not the flashiest, so it’s still pretty cheap. But you’ll be able to call me.”
You smile, trying to keep things light as you head toward the counter. The employee observes Jeongguk for just a little too long, and you’re reminded of how rare he is. Not only are hybrids as big as him not something you see every day, but you’d never even heard of kangaroo hybrids before you met him.
As you finish up at the counter, you catch Jeongguk sneaking curious glances at the people passing by. There’s another hybrid, a smaller woman, talking to her human. Her long, full tail swishes calmly behind her, and although you can’t see any ears due to her hat, you assume she’s a cat hybrid.
Like most hybrids you’ve seen, she looks… satisfied with her situation. You can’t tell if she’s happy being owned by someone, but you can’t sense any discomfort or anger from her either, at least not in the moment and from your distance. You guess Jeongguk doesn’t see a lot of… normal hybrids, only whatever angry, possibly traumatized hybrid he fights in the ring.
“Ready?” you ask, gesturing toward the door.
He nods, his attention snapping back, and he follows you out of the store. There's a comfortable silence between you as you head home.
“Figuring it out?” your voice is light as you move into the living room.
“Yeah, kinda,” Jeongguk mumbles, not looking up from where he’s sitting on the couch, his new phone held carefully in his hands.
You hold your hand out, sitting down next to him. “Here, let me put my number in.”
Without objection, he hands you the phone, and you tap the screen to create a new contact, adding your name, number, and even address. Then you pause, thinking. Who else could he need to call?
“Okay, I’m putting in Taehyung’s number, just in case you ever need it, but remember that he’ll know of your phone if you do use it to contact him. And maybe… Yoongi’s number, if you can’t reach me. And also the authorities.”
You pull up the contacts in your own phone to copy the numbers into the new one. “You know how it works?”
“Uhm, yeah. Type number or press contact to call. Or you can text, right?”
“Yeah. Just press this icon, and you’ll be able to text. Keep the volume and vibration off, and check it now and again, maybe. Also remember to keep it charged in case you need to leave quickly.”
Jeongguk nods.
“Good,” you press your contact in the list, waiting a second until you hear the ringtone of your own phone. “It works. I’ll pay the bill for it, and you can use it as much as you want and need.”
He accepts it back, his eyes stuck on the device for a short moment. “Thank you.”
You smile even though he’s not looking at you. “You’re welcome,” you say softly. “Call me anytime. Or text.”
He nods, and you get the feeling that you've made meaningful progress today.
“Why are you so nice to me?” he asks suddenly, his voice blunt but with an edge of vulnerability that catches you off guard.
You take a moment to choose what to say, deciding to just get straight to the point. “Because I want to. You deserve to be treated with respect, just like anyone else.”
You don’t say that you wish someone had been there to show him this kindness—that's not even really anything special—a long time ago. You don’t say how badly you want him to see how much he deserves it.
He looks away, and you let the silence settle around you both again. But then you glance at your phone. More specifically, the time.
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
Right on cue, his stomach lets out a low, unmistakable growl. You stand up, turning to him with an amused smile.
“Liar,” you say, chuckling. “Also, I’m probably a lot hungrier than that. Do you wanna help me cook?”
“Uh… I don’t know how to?”
“I’ll show you,” you promise, heading toward the kitchen. When you glance over your shoulder, you catch him following you, hesitant but seemingly at least a little curious.
You open the fridge to grab a few ingredients—some eggs, a couple of vegetables, and leftover rice.
“We’ll make… fried rice, if that's okay with you?” you ask, setting everything down on the counter.
"Sure. But I've never…"
Jeongguk hovers nearby, arms hanging loosely at his sides, as though unsure what to do. You grab a knife and a cutting board, holding them out to him. “It's alright. You can chop. I’ll show you how.”
With a few careful instructions, you guide him through slicing the vegetables. His movements are a little stiff at first, but he follows your directions closely, and soon, he’s chopping with a quiet focus.
Meanwhile, you take out a pan and heat some oil. When he's done, Jeongguk brings the vegetables over, watching intrigued as you drop them into the pan.
"Rice?" he suggests when you've stirred a few times and start looking around.
"Yeah."
Without a word, he brings the bowl of rice, and you gesture for him to dump it in. He does, and then takes the spatula when you offer it to him.
His ears twitch slightly as he concentrates on mimicking your motions, stirring the mixture carefully. You watch him for a moment, noticing how the lines of tension in his shoulders seem to soften as he works.
"See? It's very simple. The hardest part is probably the eggs," you say as you approach the carton, picking out a few eggs. "Would you like to crack them? You can do it in a glass first if you're worried about getting shell in the pan."
"Okay."
With a smile, you grab a glass from the cupboard, carefully showing him how you crack the egg against the edge. When it's his turn, he uses too much force, and there's a shard of white egg shell that follows into the glass. He looks at you, unsure, but all you do is hand him a tea spoon and encourage him to fish it out. It takes him a minute, but when he's done, you let him pour the eggs in.
The kitchen is warm, the only sounds being the hiss of the pan and the clink of utensils and plates as you bring them out. It feels peaceful, like you’ve actually found a rhythm together and don't need any words.
That night, you wake to a faint glow seeping under your bedroom door. Blinking the sleep from your eyes, you slip out of bed, padding toward the living room. There, you find Jeongguk sitting on the couch, his gaze fixed on the TV. The soft, shifting light casts shadows across his face, revealing the faint traces of exhaustion in his eyes.
“Can’t sleep?” you ask quietly, sitting down beside him.
He shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the screen.
“You know,” you start, a smile already growing on your lips. “I read something interesting about kangaroos the other day.”
Jeongguk turns slightly, his brows drawing together in mild curiosity. “Why are you reading about kangaroos?”
“Because I have a partial one living with me? Did you know that joeys like to be swaddled? They’ll practically jump into any dark sack if it’s offered.”
“Are you… suggesting you put me in a dark sack?”
“Maybe,” you grin.
Before he can object, you disappear down the hallway, returning with a spare duvet cover. You hold it up, tying two of the ends together to make it smaller and hopefully, a cozy, enclosed space. “Try this.”
“No,” he says, but the difference is how he says it. His eyes aren’t brimming with anger anymore, they’re almost a little amused instead.
The next morning, you walk past Jeongguk's door, noticing that it’s slightly ajar. It’s pretty dark inside his room, but you’re still able to discern the shape of a… ball through the crack? Upon closer inspection, you see that, yeah, Jeongguk is bundled up in the makeshift "sack," peacefully asleep with only his large, black ears and a corner of the fuzzy blanket peeking out. The sight tugs at your heart, and you continue into the kitchen to make breakfast.
Half an hour later—while you’re getting ready for work—your phone rings. Your stomach drops as you spot the name displayed on the screen.
Taehyung.
Of course, you knew it was just a matter of time, and you take a deep breath as you answer the call, expecting the worst.
“Hello?”
“Hey, so, Jeongguk… Why is his tracker showing he's at your place?” he asks, his tone cold.
You swallow, feeling a cold shiver run down your spine at his bluntness. “Yeah, I told him to come here if he got kicked out. It’s inhumane, Taehyung.”
“I’m picking him up.”
A tense silence follows, and without another word, he hangs up. You sigh, closing your eyes for a moment to collect yourself.
It takes you two minutes to let your boss know that you’re feeling ill and won’t be coming in, something that’s honestly not even that much of a lie. Knowing that Taehyung can and probably will stop by today makes you feel something you can only describe as nausea, and you wouldn’t get anything done at work anyway.
Realizing that you’ll have to break the news to him, you knock gently on Jeongguk's door. When there’s no response, you open it slowly, finding him still curled up inside the duvet cover. You walk over quietly, sitting at the edge of the bed.
“So, it worked?” you ask, your voice light but warm. It's easy to push the thoughts of Taehyung away, at least temporarily, when the kangaroo hybrid is so endearing. It's almost unbelievable that the huge guy even fit inside the sack.
He stirs slightly, still entirely hidden from view with the exception of his black ears and a little bit of black hair.
"Maybe," he mumbles, and you chuckle, reaching over to fluff a pillow nearby. As you do, your bracelet slips from your wrist, brushing lightly against his ear.
“Sorry,” you murmur, carefully picking it up. “I know you don’t like to be touched.”
“Yeah… I don’t like being hurt,” he explains from inside the sheets.
The simplicity of his statement twists something in you. “Is there… anything you do like?” you ask, “when it comes to touch? A scratch behind the ear or something? I read that that's usually enjoyed by most hybrids.”
For a moment, he’s silent. “I don’t know. Isn’t the point that it’s not enjoyable?”
“No,” you shake your head even if he can’t see it, your heart heavy. “Of course, it’s not.”
The quiet lingers, and then, carefully, you offer, “I can try… if you’ll let me?” You keep your tone light, respectful.
To your surprise, he hesitates only briefly before agreeing quietly. “Okay.”
You lean in slowly, hand moving very carefully to his ear, tracing the curve with the lightest touch. His fur is softer than you expected, and as you run your fingers over it very, very gently, you feel him… relax. He even lets out a deep breath. Encouraged, you scratch lightly at the base, heart warmed by the subtle way he almost moves into the touch.
For maybe five minutes, you keep your hand on him; tracing, scratching, and gently massaging his ears, enjoying his slow, relaxed breaths and body language. Then you sigh, deciding to just rip the bandaid off.
“Taehyung called.”
Even though Jeongguk doesn’t move or speak, you feel the mood change as you explain. “He didn’t sound too pleased.”
“He’s probably on his way,” Jeongguk mutters.
Watching as he sheds the cozy "sack," your heart hurts, and you wish this small moment could last longer. He sits up—looking very warm and sweet, yet disappointed—and glances at you.
“Yeah. You should probably consider what you want to bring. Feel free to leave some things here too. In case you need them another time.”
What can you do?
Only an hour later, there’s a firm knock on your door. You and Jeongguk have been sitting together, side by side on the couch, just waiting for the inevitable. His phone, its charger, and your key already lie hidden in the deep pockets of his jacket, and he's not bringing anything else but the clothes on his body.
You look at Jeongguk, trying to stay calm and positive even if you’re anxious and worried. You hope your earlier—quite bold—words to Taehyung won’t make things harder for Jeongguk. The last thing you want is to give Taehyung any reason to retaliate.
Standing up, you head to the door, taking a deep breath before opening it.
As expected, it’s Taehyung who stands there. His face is cold, letting you know that he doesn’t care to put on the charming mask he wore when you first met him. He’s not scared of you knowing what kind of person he really is. His eyes scan the room behind you, immediately finding Jeongguk.
“Put your shoes on,” he instructs stoically.
Jeongguk steps forward to do as told, putting the shoes you got him on.
“I can pay you five thousand now,” you offer, the slight panic you feel definitely heard in your voice. You’ve thought through every angle, already decided that selling your car and emptying your savings is a fair trade if it means being able to give Jeongguk a better life. “And I can make monthly payments—eight hundred dollars a month until it’s all paid off.”
Taehyung’s expression doesn’t change. “No.”
“Please, Taehyung,” you plead, your voice softening.
“I said no,” Taehyung repeats, more firmly this time. He nods towards Jeongguk, gesturing for him to follow, and so, Jeongguk steps past you, his face blank and eyes focused straight ahead. He doesn’t look back, not even once.
The door clicks shut behind them, leaving you in silence so thick it feels almost suffocating.
That same night, you find yourself restlessly moving through the apartment, looking through old boxes and drawers to see what you might own that’s just collecting dust. You know it’s a long shot, but you’re determined. If there’s even the slightest chance that you’ll be allowed to buy Jeongguk’s freedom, you’ll have the money.
Among the more valuable items is a camera, a Christmas present from your dad from a few years back. It would hurt to part with it, but you remind yourself that it’s just an object, a small sacrifice in the grand scheme of things. As you research its current value, you send Jeongguk a text. You know that maybe you shouldn’t in case Taehyung finds the phone, but you can’t help it.
‘You okay?’
You wait for a response, staring at the screen until your eyes feel dry, but nothing comes. So you close your phone, thinking that he probably keeps his turned off. After all, it’s for him to contact you in case he needs it, not the other way around.
In the weeks that follow, you throw yourself into selling as many things as you can. Every sale feels like a step closer, each dollar a piece of hope you cling to. You sell old electronics, clothes you rarely wear, even some furniture, managing to collect about twelve hundred dollars over the next few weeks. Most of it are things you probably should’ve parted with years ago, but like your camera, some things still sting a little.
You also trim down your expenses, cancel subscriptions you can live without, cut back on groceries you shouldn’t buy anyway, and really think about each new purchase. Your car, though old, is appraised at about three thousand dollars, and you know that selling it would bring you closer to your goal. But you hesitate, knowing it’s a last resort. You’d definitely rather keep it, so you don’t sell it just yet, not unless you absolutely have to.
One morning, you wake to a new notification on your phone.
‘I’m okay.’
Another month or so passes with no other communication, but then, on a Saturday evening just past six, there’s a knock on your apartment door. The sound startles you, and you glance at the clock before setting your laptop aside. Wrapped in a fuzzy blanket on the couch, you definitely weren’t expecting anyone. Rising, you make your way to the door, opening it with curiosity.
Dark eyes meet yours. Jeongguk.
“Hi,” you greet softly, your voice tinged with surprise. You look him over quickly. He looks… okay. Tired, but okay, dressed in a jacket that’s thankfully appropriate for the chill of early November. His hands are tucked into his pockets, and you notice that he doesn’t seem to have a bag of any kind with him.
“Hi,” he replies, his voice quiet, almost unsure. There’s something in his expression that makes you pause, something that doesn’t quite fit the relief you feel at seeing him.
Figuring that something must have happened, and he needs a place to stay, you step back and gesture for him to come inside. He hesitates for a second before stepping over the threshold.
You shut the door behind him, but it confuses you when he doesn’t make any effort to take off his shoes or remove his jacket.
“You okay?” you ask carefully, your voice gentle but laced with concern.
“Yeah, I just came to…” He trails off, searching for something in the pockets of his jacket, “... return these.”
You look at what he’s holding out to you in his big hand. It’s the key and the phone. You meet his eyes, confusion and worry rising quickly.
“What? Why?”
Jeongguk doesn’t answer right away, instead looking a little unsure of how to tell you whatever he’s about to say.
“I won’t be back.”
“Wait, what?” you breathe, stepping closer to him. “Did Taehyung make you do this? Did he find the phone?”
He shakes his head, his expression unreadable. “No. But I won’t be back, so I wanted to return them.”
“But how do you know that you won’t be back? Did he tell you you can’t come here?” The questions spill out in rapid succession, your voice growing increasingly worried.
“No. I…” He falters, looking around before deciding to bend down and gently put the phone and key on the floor when you’re not taking them from him. Straightening up, he licks his lips, seemingly weighing something in his mind before he finally speaks again. “Do you know about the Ultra Games?”
You blink, the term vaguely familiar. “Uh…yeah, isn’t that…”
You rack your brain, searching your memory. You vaguely remember coming across the term—as well as many other championship and competition titles—during your research months ago.
He watches you as you remember what you read about it, your stomach dropping painfully when you do.
“...When hybrids fight to the death?”
Jeongguk’s sad look is the only confirmation you need. He thinks he’ll be dead and that it’s why he’s not coming back.
“Then why won’t he just sell you to me?” you demand, heartbroken desperation bubbling to the surface.
“The prize money is too tempting. This year, it’s a hundred thousand.”
“Then you’ll win,” you say, not even sparing the other hybrids a thought, too upset at the thought of Jeongguk being killed. “I know you can do it. One last time and then maybe Taehyung will let me have you, and you can live here with me.”
“I can’t… kill someone,” he explains slowly and quietly, his head slightly tilted.
The weight of his words settles over you like a heavy blanket. You feel the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes as realization dawns.
“You’re… forfeiting?” you conclude in a whisper.
Jeongguk doesn’t respond, but his silence speaks volumes.
But then, a spark of hope ignites. “Wait. Does Taehyung know that? Won’t he sell you to me if he knows you’ll lose on purpose? There won’t be any money either way if you do?”
“He thinks I’ll fight for my survival when the time comes,” Jeongguk says, his tone soft but certain. “Says it’s impossible not to.”
The spark dies, and the room feels like it’s closing in on you. Your gaze is stuck somewhere in the air between you as you think.
Jeongguk’s eyes shift to the door, like he’s trying to distance himself from the conversation.
“I’m not winning as much anymore,” he admits. “I broke my tail a few months ago, and without it—without it working properly, and being painful—it puts me at a disadvantage. I can't keep up anymore. I cost too much to keep and feed, and if I’m not bringing in money, there’s no use for me.”
“We’ll leave the country,” you burst, taking a quick step forward and reaching for his warm hand. “We’ll leave tonight, okay?”
He gazes at you with understanding, letting you hold his hand, but the way he looks at you also tells you that he doesn’t see how it would work.
“There’s nothing you can do,” he says, his voice gentle but final. He nods toward the items on the floor. “I just came to return these.”
He’s already moving toward the door, and panic surges in your chest. “Jeongguk, wait!”
He pauses. “I can’t,” he says softly. “Jimin’s waiting, and I have a practice to get to.”
He glances at you one last time, his eyes meeting yours with a look that definitely means goodbye. Then he opens the door and steps out, leaving you standing there, tears welling in your eyes as the sound of the door clicking shut echoes in your lonely apartment.
<previous | next>
author's note: oop 🥹💔 i hope you liked it <3
permanent taglist (for all my works), sign up here (as long as the form is open, there are spots open):
synopsis: During a trip with your friends, you spotted a guy who started to get crowded by a group of girls. Upon taking a closer look, you realized it was a member of your favorite boy band, Jeon Jungkook of BTS. Without hesitation, you bit the bullet and swooped in to save him. In doing so, the trajectory of your life changed forever.
pairing: idol!jungkook x fem!reader
genre: idol au, fluff, angst, smut
series warning: this story will follow the timeline of when jungkook’s solo album, golden, dropped! the members of bts will, of course, be mentioned in here at some point as well as other celebrities/idols! i will provide each chapter with warnings of what they’ll contain! this will mostly focus on real life scenarios but i might make some social media edits to support the plot! any photos used for the edits are for the purposes of mimicking how media/fans would be like; imagine reader as anything you’d like! chapters that will contain mature content, i will list it with “(m)”!, and last but not least, this is for entertainment purposes!!! everything that i write is fictional and it does not portray how jungkook or anyone else are actually like!
note: this is my first series and i hope you enjoy it!! 🥹🥹 if you want to be on the taglist for this fic, please let me know in the comments! i also don’t have a set schedule for when i will publish each chapter but i will send out an announcement before releasing them!
well... hello there. i hope you're ready😅 i guess this fic really became the outlet for all my 'big feelings' these past few weeks. so yea, i hope you love it🤍
The first sign should have been how easy the night felt.
Not in some dramatic, movie-scene kind of way. Just in the ordinary, quiet way that had always belonged to the two of you. The kind built from years instead of sparks. The kind that settled into your bones so deeply you forgot there had ever been a version of yourself that didn’t know him.
By the time Seungcheol pulled up outside the bar, your cheeks were warm from two cocktails and a shared pitcher your friends had insisted on ordering “for old times’ sake.”
You weren’t drunk enough to stumble, but definitely tipsy enough that everything felt softer around the edges. You spotted his car immediately and grinned before he’d even fully parked.
“There’s my boyfriend,” you announced to absolutely no one, because your friends had already gone back inside to pay the bill
Seungcheol stepped out before you could make your way down the curb by yourself. He had one hand shoved into the pocket of his dark coat, the other reaching automatically for you.
Always steady. Always there. Even after nine years, your body knew exactly where to go.
“You waited outside alone?” he asked, brows pulling together as he looked at you
You took his hand and swayed into him with a smile “For like… thirty seconds. Maybe forty. I was brave.”
“Brave, huh?”
“Mhm”
“You can barely stand straight”
“I’m standing great”
“You’re leaning on me”
“That’s because I love you” you said matter-of-factly, as if it explained everything.
His mouth twitched. It was always like this when you’d had a little too much to drink. You got softer, clingier, somehow even more affectionate than usual, which Seungcheol claimed shouldn’t be physically possible considering you were already attached to him on a normal day.
But he never seemed to mind. If anything, he indulged you more. Let you talk too much. Let you hold onto his arm. Let you ramble about your friends and your shoes and how pretty the moon looked from the parking lot.
Tonight was no different.
He opened the passenger door for you and waited until you were seated before buckling your seatbelt himself because you kept getting distracted halfway through.
“Your hair smells nice,” you informed him while he clicked the belt into place
He gave you a look. “Thank you?”
“I’m serious. Come here.”
You caught the collar of his coat and tugged him closer until his face was inches from yours. He let himself be pulled down with the patience of a man who’d spent nearly a decade learning every version of you.
You sniffed dramatically near his neck. “See? Nice.”
Seungcheol laughed under his breath and pressed a kiss to your forehead before shutting the door.
The drive home was only twenty minutes, but you filled every second of it with chatter.
You told him about how one of your workmates was thinking of quitting her job because her manager was “an energy vampire.” You recounted, in painful detail, the argument between two girls in the bathroom over whether texting your ex counted as cheating if it was “just closure.”
He listened to all of it.
One hand on the wheel, the other resting on the center console where your fingers kept finding his. Every time you laced them together, he squeezed once in acknowledgment, eyes still on the road.
That was another thing about Seungcheol. He paid attention even when he acted like he wasn’t. He knew when you were pretending to be okay. Knew when your silence meant exhaustion versus hurt. Knew the difference between your real laugh and the polite one you used around strangers. Knew you liked the heater on in the car even when you’d spent the entire afternoon complaining about being too warm.
Nine years did that to people, you guessed. Or maybe it only did that when love lasted long enough to become muscle memory.
By the time you got home, your words were starting to slur at the edges.
“Baby,” he said, amusement threaded through his voice, “you’re trying to open our neighbor’s door”
You blinked at the number on the wall.
“Oh”
“Yeah. Oh.”
“I knew that”
“Sure.”
Once inside, the apartment greeted you with the familiar hush of late night. It looked exactly like home. Exactly like the life you’d built with him piece by piece since you were twenty and stupidly in love and convinced that nothing in the world could touch you as long as you had each other.
You kicked off your heels in the hallway and immediately groaned
“My feet hate me”
“That’s because you insist on wearing shoes that look like medieval torture devices”
“They’re cute”
“They’re dangerous”
“They’re fashion”
He bent to line them neatly against the wall while you wandered toward the bedroom, pausing halfway to look back at him
“Did you just call me fashionable?”
“I did not”
“You implied it”
“I implied that you make bad choices”
You gasped “Wow.”
Seungcheol smiled despite himself and followed you down the hall.
The routine that came next was one the two of you had done so many times it required almost no words. He disappeared into the bathroom and came back with your makeup remover, cotton pads, and a fresh glass of water.
“Drink first” he said, holding it out.
You obeyed with a tiny pout, taking a few sips while he stood between your knees. Then he set the glass on the bedside table and tilted your chin up with one hand, carefully wiping away your makeup with the other.
You watched him through half-lidded eyes.
Seungcheol had always been beautiful in a way that irritated you a little. Not because you minded looking at him—God, never that—but because he carried it so casually, as if it had never occurred to him what his face did to people. Tonight he was in a black sweater and slacks from work, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, hair slightly mussed from running his hands through it.
His expression was focused, gentle in the way it only ever was with you.
“You’re staring” he murmured
“You’re pretty”
“You say that every time you drink”
“Because it’s true every time I drink”
He snorted and swiped the last of your eyeliner away “Close your eyes”
You did, because even tipsy you knew better than to argue when he was cleaning around your lashes. A moment later his thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, wiping away the smear of lipstick you’d missed. The touch lingered for a second longer than necessary.
When you opened your eyes, he was still looking at you. There was a softness in his face that made your chest ache.
Nine years.
You had met him at eighteen, when everything in your life felt like it was still being sketched in pencil. Back then he’d been loud confidence and broad shoulders and a grin too pretty for his own good. He had driven you insane. He had also walked you home after your night classes because you once admitted you hated the dark and then acted like it was no big deal. He had remembered your coffee order after hearing it one time. He had kissed you for the first time outside a convenience store while rain soaked through both your hoodies and you’d laughed against his mouth because it was so ridiculously cliché.
You had become adults with him.
Not all at once, but slowly. Through exams and part-time jobs and tiny apartments with unreliable heating. Through fights about money and whose turn it was to buy groceries and whether either of you could survive assembling IKEA furniture without ending the relationship. Through promotions and funerals and weddings and all the unremarkable Tuesdays in between.
You knew the exact shape of his hand. He knew how to calm you down from a panic attack in under five minutes. You knew he got quiet when something at work was wrong. He knew you couldn’t sleep if you were angry, no matter how much you pretended otherwise.
Your whole youth was tangled up in him.
Maybe that was why, sitting there in the warm quiet of your bedroom with his hands on your face and your heart a little loose from alcohol, the thought slipped out so easily.
“We should have a baby.”
The room went still.
“Think about it. They’d be so cute.”
Seungcheol set the used cotton pad aside “A baby?”
“Yeah” You laughed softly “Our baby. Little cheeks, little hands… they’d probably get your eyes” Your own voice had gone dreamy, words spilling before you could stop them.
“And maybe my nose. Or your nose. I don’t know. But they’d be cute either way”
He exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“Cute?” he repeated
“The cutest,” you said firmly “Objectively.”
He gave a small hum, brushing your hair back from your face. “You’re really thinking about this right now?”
“I’m tipsy, not delirious.” You reached for his wrist “I mean it. We’ve been together forever.”
Forever. The word came easily too.
You looked up at him, still smiling, and added in a softer voice, “I want one someday”
There it was. The truth underneath the teasing.
You had never been the girl who dreamed about marriage before she could legally drink, or planned names for children she didn’t have. But twenty-seven had arrived with a strange kind of clarity. Not panic exactly. Just a steady awareness that life was moving. That your future wasn’t some abstract thing waiting on the other side of adulthood anymore. You were in it. Living it.
And when you pictured the next version of your life, Seungcheol was there. He always was.
So yes. Someday, you wanted a baby.
“Maybe,” he said after a second
You frowned a little “Maybe?”
Seungcheol smiled, but it was smaller this time. Careful around the edges “Yeah. Maybe.”
You studied him through your tipsy haze, trying to fit his answer into something that made sense. “You don’t want kids?”
He was quiet for just a beat too long. Then he shrugged one shoulder and said, “It’s not really part of the plan yet. Maybe in the future”
The words were gentle. The tone was gentle. There was nothing cruel in it, nothing dismissive. He even reached to smooth his thumb over your cheek like he always did when he thought too hard about how to phrase something.
But still, something in your chest dipped.
It was subtle enough that if you’d been fully sober, maybe you would have hidden it better.
“Not part of the plan,” you repeated
“Hey” He crouched a little closer, reading your face too easily. “That’s not what I mean”
“Then what do you mean?”
He looked at you for a moment, and you could almost see him choosing his words
“I mean,” he said carefully, “I don’t think this is a conversation we should have while you’re half asleep and a little drunk”
You opened your mouth to protest on instinct “I’m not that drunk”
He raised an eyebrow.
You considered it. “Okay. Maybe a little.”
“A little” he echoed, clearly unconvinced
You pouted, and his expression softened immediately.
“Baby” He touched your jaw. “I’m not shutting you down”
“But you kind of are”
“I’m not” He sighed, then leaned forward to press a kiss to your forehead “I just don’t want us to talk about something important like this when you won’t even remember half of what I say tomorrow”
“I would remember”
“You forgot your own passcode three times on the way up”
“That was because the hallway was judgmental”
Seungcheol laughed despite himself, the sound low and fond, and for a second the knot in your chest loosened.
Then he said, quieter, “Let’s talk when you’re sober, okay?”
You looked at him. It would have been easy to leave it there. Easy to nod and let him guide you under the blankets and trust that tomorrow or next week, or next month there would be time to circle back. You had always trusted him with your tomorrows. That was part of loving him. Part of loving someone for so long that your future started to feel shared by default.
But maybe even then, some tiny part of you felt the shift.
Not because of what he said. Because of what he didn’t.
You had known Seungcheol for nearly a decade. Knew the difference between hesitation and uncertainty. Knew when he was buying time because he genuinely wanted to think, and when he was buying time because he didn’t want to say the thing sitting heavily on his tongue.
Tonight, he looked like the second kind.
You didn’t call him on it. Maybe because you were tired. Maybe because your head was fuzzy and warm and you didn’t want to turn a soft midnight conversation into something sharp.
Maybe because part of you was afraid that if you pushed, you’d hear something you weren’t ready for.
So you only said, “You promise?”
His eyes met yours immediately “Promise what?”
“That we’ll talk about it”
Something unreadable flickered across his face then he smiled again, gentler this time, and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
“Yeah,” he said. “I promise.”
The room was quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the distant traffic outside your apartment building.
You traced lazy shapes over his stomach through the sweater. “If we had a baby,” you mumbled, already half asleep, “you’d be a good dad.”
His hand stilled in your hair, you didn’t notice.
“I mean it,” you whispered. “You’d be the best one.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then his arm tightened around you, just enough that you felt the pressure even through the haze pulling you under. When he finally spoke, his voice was so soft you almost missed it.
“Go to sleep”
You smiled against his chest, taking it as agreement. As shyness, maybe. As him not knowing what to do with praise.
“Okay,” you murmured.
He kissed the top of your head.
You fell asleep in minutes, safe in the warmth of him, in the familiar rhythm of his breathing, in the certainty that whatever had gone unsaid tonight would sort itself out because it was the two of you. And the two of you had survived too much, loved too long, built too much for one strange conversation to mean anything.
You didn’t know that Seungcheol stayed awake long after you fell asleep.
Didn’t know he stared at the ceiling with one arm around you and the other clenched quietly in the blanket. Didn’t know he replayed every word you’d said until they stopped sounding sweet and started sounding like a deadline he hadn’t realized was already at the door.
We should have a baby. I want one someday. You’d be a good dad.
The worst part was that he could still hear how happy you’d sounded saying it.
As if it were simple. As if the future was still one shared thing the two of you were walking toward at the same pace.
He turned his head and looked down at you sleeping against him, your cheek pressed to his chest, one hand curled into the fabric of his sweater. Even now, even in sleep, you stayed close. Trusted him so completely it made his chest ache.
Nine years.
He knew exactly how old you were when he first kissed you. Knew the dress you wore on your first real date. Knew the way you cried in the bathroom after your grandmother’s funeral because you didn’t want anyone else to see. He knew the sound of your laugh from another room.
He knew he loved you. That wasn’t the problem.
The problem was that lately, love had started feeling terrifyingly different from certainty.
Seungcheol swallowed hard and looked back at the ceiling.
He had plans. That was the thing. Or maybe not plans exactly—more like timelines, milestones, a shape of life he had convinced himself still made sense. Work harder now. Build more now. Save more now. Buy the bigger apartment first. Get promoted again. Get stable enough that when he gave you everything, it would actually be everything. No corners cut. No fear attached.
He’d always thought there was time.
Time before marriage became urgent. Time before children became a real conversation instead of a vague someday. Time before he had to admit that while you were picturing the next step, he was still trying to secure the ground beneath the one you were already standing on.
And underneath all of that, buried somewhere he hated looking was the quieter fear he never said aloud
What if he wasn’t built for the life you wanted as naturally as you were? What if loving you wasn’t the same as being ready for the things love was supposed to grow into?
He closed his eyes.
Beside him, you shifted in your sleep and tucked yourself closer, your knee brushing his thigh. Instantly, automatically, he adjusted the blanket around you so you wouldn’t get cold.
It was muscle memory. Devotion without thought.
And somehow that made it worse.
Because he could take care of you in a thousand tiny ways. Could pick you up from bars at midnight and clean your makeup off and remember your favorite soup when you were sick and hold you through every bad day.
He could love you with his entire body.
But tonight, with one drowsy confession and one hopeful smile, you had laid your future in his hands so casually, as if of course he would want the same things on the same timeline, as if of course nine years meant you were moving in one direction together.
And for the first time in a long time, Seungcheol had looked at the road ahead and felt the terrifying possibility that maybe you weren’t.
His jaw tightened.
Tomorrow, he told himself.
Tomorrow, when you were sober, they would talk properly. He’d explain better. Tell you it wasn’t a no, not really. Just not yet. Tell you he needed more time. Tell you that wanting you forever and being ready for forever to change shape were not the same thing, no matter how much he wished they were.
Tomorrow, he’d say it right.
Tomorrow, this would still be fixable.
He looked down at you one last time, your face peaceful in sleep, trusting and warm and heartbreakingly unaware.
Then he kissed your forehead so lightly it didn’t wake you.
And in the dark, with you curled safely against him and the apartment wrapped in silence, Choi Seungcheol lay awake beside the woman he loved and felt, for the first time, the faint beginning of something breaking.
=
It didn’t happen all at once.
That would’ve been easier, maybe.
A single fight. A single cold answer. A single moment you could point to and say there, there’s where things changed.
But it wasn’t like that with Seungcheol. It was quieter. Meaner in its own way because it was so hard to catch at first. Hard to accuse. Hard to name.
It started after that night.
Not immediately, not in any way obvious enough to set off alarms.
The next morning he’d still kissed your forehead before leaving for work. He’d still texted you around lunch asking if you’d eaten. Still brought home the strawberry milk you liked from the convenience store downstairs because he’d noticed you were running low.
If anything, he was almost too normal, as if he’d made a private decision overnight to be extra careful with you.
And maybe that was the problem.
Because the conversation never came back.
Not really.
A few days after your tipsy confession, you had brought it up again while folding laundry in the bedroom, your voice light on purpose.
“So,” you’d said, pairing two of his socks together “About what we talked about the other night…”
Seungcheol, sitting at the edge of the bed answering emails on his laptop, had glanced up “Hm?”
“You said we’d talk when I was sober”
He’d gone still for a second. Not enough that anyone else would’ve noticed. But you did.
Then he’d smiled and shut the laptop halfway “You really want to do this while sorting my ugly socks?”
You’d laughed “They are ugly”
“They’re comfortable.”
“They look like something a middle-aged dad would wear to barbecue.”
“Wow. Rude.”
“You’re dodging.”
His smile had faltered, just barely “I’m not”
“You are a little”
He’d rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and looked down at the floor for a moment before saying “I just… don’t know if I have much to say right now.”
The answer had confused you more than hurt you “What do you mean?”
“I mean I’m thinking about it”
That was all you got. I’m thinking about it.
At the time, you let it go because Seungcheol had always been the kind of person who needed time with important things.
He liked certainty. Liked plans, lists, contingencies. He was the one who researched every apartment before signing a lease, who compared interest rates for weeks before opening a savings account, who kept emergency numbers pinned to the fridge and a flashlight in the kitchen drawer in case the power went out.
He took things seriously. That was one of the reasons you trusted him so much.
So you told yourself that was all this was too. He was thinking. Processing. Taking your future seriously because you mattered enough to be taken seriously.
But then one week became two.
And by the third week, something in the apartment had started to feel off.
It was never dramatic. Never enough to point at cleanly. Seungcheol still came home at the same time most nights. Still kissed you hello. Still asked how your day was and listened when you answered. He still slept beside you, still draped an arm over your waist in bed, still reminded you to bring an umbrella when the weather app said it might rain.
Yet there were more moments now where you’d look over and find him somewhere else entirely.
Sitting at the dining table with his dinner untouched, phone dark in his hand, staring at nothing.
Answering your question a second too late, like he’d had to swim back up from wherever his mind had gone.
You’d catch him looking at you too, sometimes. Not in the easy, affectionate way he always had. This was different. Quieter. More troubled. Like he was trying to solve something and hated every answer he came up with.
Then the walls started.
Small ones at first.
He’d say work was stressful, but wouldn’t elaborate.
You’d ask what he was thinking about, and he’d just smile and say, “Nothing, baby.”
You’d curl into his side on the couch and feel him hold you, but not quite melt into it the way he used to.
It was subtle enough that you spent days wondering if you were imagining it. Maybe you were being sensitive. Maybe work really was just hard right now. Maybe you were reading too much into a man being tired.
But you knew Seungcheol.
You knew his moods. Knew his silences. Knew the different shades of them the way other people knew traffic routes or song lyrics.
There was his exhausted silence, where he still reached for you automatically. His irritated silence, where he got clipped and restless and cleaned things aggressively. His upset silence, where he needed twenty minutes alone before he came back ready to talk.
This was none of those. This was distance.
Slow, deliberate distance that he was trying so hard to disguise as normal that it only made your chest tighten more.
By the third week, you couldn’t ignore it anymore.
It was a Thursday night, and the two of you were making dinner together because you had both gotten home early for once. The apartment was warm with the smell of garlic and sesame oil, music playing low from your phone on the counter. You were rinsing vegetables at the sink while Seungcheol chopped onions beside you.
But tonight there was too much space inside it.
You had been talking for the last ten minutes, mostly carrying the conversation by yourself while Seungcheol answered with hums and one-word replies.
You dried your hands on a towel and looked over at him.
He was focused on the onions, expression blank, shoulders slightly tense under his T-shirt. Not angry exactly. Just far away.
“Cheol”
“Hm?”
“You’ve been quiet”
He glanced at you, then back at the cutting board “Have I?”
“Yes” You leaned a hip against the counter “Like… really quiet. Is something wrong?”
He shrugged one shoulder, the motion casual enough to be irritating “No. Just tired.”
You watched him for a beat.That answer had become his favorite lately. Tired. Busy. Fine. Nothing.
You tried to keep your tone light “You sure?”
“Mhm”
“Because it kind of feels like you’re on another planet”
A small smile tugged at his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes “I’m listening.”
“That’s not the same thing”
He didn’t answer. The knife kept moving. Chop, chop, chop. A little too precise. A little too fast.
You turned back to the sink, rinsing the last of the mushrooms and trying not to let irritation get ahead of you.
“Anyway,” you said, shaking the water from your hands “One of my workmate invited us both to the wedding next month”
This got his attention, if only slightly “Us?”
“Yeah. Plus one. So you’re getting dragged with me”
He hummed.
You set the mushrooms aside and smiled to yourself “Apparently she’s doing one of those super pretty outdoor weddings. Garden venue, fairy lights, the whole thing. Very her.”
“Sounds expensive”
“Probably” You laughed “She deserves it, though. She’s been planning this since before she even had a boyfriend.”
That got the tiniest breath of amusement out of him, so you kept going.
“And of course the second she gave me the invite, Yuna from accounting was like, ‘So when is it your turn?’”
You rolled your eyes fondly as you said it, expecting him to make fun of nosy coworkers with you. “I swear people hear ‘nine-year relationship’ and immediately turn into aunties at Lunar New Year”
The knife stopped. Not loudly. Not with a slam. Just a sudden stop in the middle of the chopping rhythm.
The kitchen went quiet except for the low music and the simmer of broth on the stove.
Something in your stomach tightened.
You turned.
Seungcheol was staring down at the cutting board, jaw tense. After a second, he set the knife down carefully beside the onions and let out a slow breath through his nose.
Not a huge reaction.
Just a sigh but it was enough.
“Cheol?” you said, more carefully this time
He reached for the dish towel and wiped his hands on it even though they weren’t wet
“What?” he asked
You stared at him. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“That sigh”
He gave you a look like he genuinely didn’t know what you meant, which only made your pulse tick up “Nothing”
“No, it wasn’t nothing” You set the towel down on the counter “I mention weddings and suddenly you look like you’re about to walk into traffic”
He huffed a laugh, but there was no humor in it “You’re being dramatic”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me what’s wrong”
“Nothing is wrong”
“Seungcheol.”
His jaw tightened at your tone.
You took a breath and tried again, softer “You’ve been weird for weeks”
That made his eyes flick up to yours “0Weird?”
“Yes, weird.” You crossed your arms loosely, not defensive yet but getting there. “Quiet. Distracted. Like you’re somewhere else all the time. And every time I ask, you say you’re tired or busy or fine, and I’m trying not to make a thing out of it, but you literally just tensed up because I mentioned a wedding, so—”
“I didn’t tense up because of a wedding”
“Then what was it?”
He looked away first and there it was again that tiny, infuriating withdrawal. That refusal to just meet you in the middle and say the thing.
You laughed once, short and disbelieving “Okay. So it is something”
Seungcheol exhaled slowly, both palms braced on the counter now “Can we not do this right now?”
The words hit harder than they should have. Not because he raised his voice, he didn’t. If anything, he sounded tired. Worn thin. But that was exactly why it stung. Because it made you feel like you were being unreasonable for asking your boyfriend why he’d been shutting you out for nearly a month.
“Do what?” you asked
“Turn this into an issue”
You blinked at him “Turn this into an issue?”
He rubbed a hand over his face “You know what I mean”
“No, I actually don’t”
The air in the kitchen shifted, subtle but undeniable. The kind of tension that makes every small movement suddenly feel louder.
You stared at him, waiting.
Seungcheol dropped his hand and looked at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read. Frustration, maybe. Guilt. Something tired and cornered all at once.
“I’m just not in the mood to talk about weddings” he said finally
Your chest went tight “Weddings,” you repeated slowly “Plural.”
He said nothing.
You swallowed “This is about us.”
His silence was answer enough.
The realization landed like cold water. It wasn’t just work. It wasn’t stress. It wasn’t your imagination or him having an off month or some passing mood he hadn’t figured out how to explain.
This was about you. About the two of you. And somehow, he had been carrying it alone for weeks.
Your voice came out quieter now. “Why didn’t you say that?”
Seungcheol let out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh, except there was nothing funny in it “Because every time I try to think about it, it turns into something bigger than I know how to handle”
You stared at him “Think about what?”
He looked at the onions instead of at you “Everything.”
“Cheol—” “I don’t know,” he cut in, sharper than before, and that made you fall silent. He shut his eyes for a second, like he regretted the tone immediately, then spoke more evenly
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
You laughed again, but this time it came out brittle “Maybe start with the truth?”
His face changed. Not much. Just enough that you knew you’d hit something and because your own hurt was starting to push past your patience, you kept going.
“The truth about what happened after that night,” you said “Because ever since I brought up kids, and then marriage, and literally any future thing involving us, you’ve been acting like being in this apartment with me is some kind of pressure test you’re failing.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Then tell me what is fair, Cheol, because from where I’m standing, I asked one question about our future and you’ve been halfway out the door ever since.”
His head snapped up “Halfway out the door?”
“Yes.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?” Your voice rose before you could stop it “Because you won’t talk to me. You won’t tell me what you’re thinking. You just keep going quiet every time anything remotely serious comes up and then acting like I’m crazy for noticing.”
“I’m not acting like you’re crazy”
“You’re acting like this is all in my head”
He pushed away from the counter, finally facing you fully now “Because you keep cornering me into conversations I’m not ready to have.”
The words rang through the kitchen. For a second, neither of you moved. You just looked at him, pulse hammering in your throat.
Cornering. Not ready.
It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, but it did. Maybe because you suddenly felt foolish for every gentle attempt you’d made these past weeks. Every time you’d tried to check in, tried to understand, tried to hand him openings so he wouldn’t have to force the words out all at once.
You had thought you were reaching for him.
Apparently, he thought you were trapping him.
Your voice went dangerously calm “Cornering you”
Seungcheol’s expression shifted the second he heard his own words thrown back at him “That’s not—”
“No, go ahead” You nodded once “Say it properly. I’m cornering you by asking why my boyfriend of nine years suddenly can’t have a normal conversation with me about marriage without looking miserable.”
“I do not look miserable”
“You sighed like I’d just asked you to donate a kidney” you laugh bitterly
“Because I’m tired of every conversation lately somehow circling back to this”
Your eyes widened “Every conversation?”
“Yeah”
“What are you talking about?”
“The baby thing. The wedding thing. Your coworker asking when it’s our turn, your friend sending engagement photos, your mom making comments at dinner last weekend—”
“My mom asked if you wanted more rice”
“And then she asked when we were giving her grandchildren”
“So that’s what this is?” you asked, incredulous “You’re upset because people are asking normal questions?”
“It’s not about other people asking questions, and it’s not their business”
“Then what is it about?”
Seungcheol dragged a hand through his hair, agitation starting to show now in the hard set of his shoulders “It’s about the fact that I can feel you waiting for an answer every time it comes up”
“Waiting for an answer,” you repeated
“Yes.”
“You mean because I thought we were going to have a conversation about our future?”
“See?” he said, voice tightening “That. You say it like it’s one conversation, but it’s not. It’s loaded now. Every mention of marriage or kids or ‘our future’ feels like there’s already a right answer and I’m just taking too long to give it.”
Something in your chest cracked, tiny and sharp “A right answer?”
“I’m not saying you’re doing it on purpose”
“But you are saying that being with me feels like some test you can fail”
“I’m saying I need space to think without feeling like every week I owe you a decision”
The second the words left his mouth, his expression changed. He knew. He knew exactly how bad that sounded.
Your face went hot “A decision.”
“Baby—” “No.” You took a step back before he could reach for you “Don’t ‘baby’ me after that.”
Seungcheol swore under his breath and looked away, frustrated with himself now. “That’s not what I meant”
“Then what did you mean?” Your voice shook, and you hated that it did “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like being with me for nine years still somehow hasn’t been enough time for you to know if you want this.”
“That’s not what I said”
“You didn’t have to”
You folded your arms tighter around yourself “Do you know what the worst part is?” you asked quietly
Seungcheol’s eyes lifted to yours
“I wasn’t even asking for a ring. Not tonight, not tomorrow. I wasn’t trying to force some deadline on you” Your laugh came out thin “I just wanted you to talk to me. To tell me what was going on in your head instead of making me stand here for three weeks wondering why the man I love suddenly feels miles away”
He looked stricken for a second, but you were too hurt now to stop.
“You could’ve just told me you were scared,” you said “Or unsure. Or not ready. I would’ve listened. I would’ve understood that. But instead you shut me out and made me feel clingy and dramatic for noticing”
“I never said you were dramatic”
“You didn’t have to say it” Your eyes burned “You just kept acting like every time I reached for you, I was asking for too much”
“That’s not true.”
“Then tell me what is true, Seungcheol” Your voice cracked on his name “Because right now I honestly don’t know what I’m standing in.”
He went quiet. And that, somehow, was the worst part. Not anger. Not defensiveness. Just silence.
Silence from a man who had once known exactly how to hold your heart and now stood three feet away looking like he couldn’t decide whether to protect you from the truth or himself from saying it.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for all of that yet.” The words landed between you with a dull, devastating weight.
You stared at him, waiting for more. For some follow-up, some reassurance, some I’m just scared but I still know it’s you. Some version of this that hurt less.
It didn’t come.
“All of that,” you repeated
He swallowed “Marriage. Kids. The whole next step.”
You nodded once, very slowly “After nine years.”
Seungcheol shut his eyes.
And that was it. Not a yes. Not a no. Just him standing there in your kitchen with his face turned away like even he couldn’t bear the shape of what he’d admitted.
Your throat tightened so badly it hurt to speak “Okay”
His eyes opened immediately “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say it like that”
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve already decided what I mean”
You laughed, and this time there was no humor in it at all “You mean the meaning you refuse to explain?”
He took a step toward you “I’m trying”
“No,” you said, stepping back just as quickly “You’re not. You’re trying not to say it.”
His face fell and for one awful second, you saw it. Saw the possibility that maybe he really didn’t know how to say whatever was inside him without breaking something. Maybe he was drowning in it too. Maybe this hurt him too.
But hurt didn’t erase hurt. Not when you were the one standing here feeling like your entire relationship had just tilted under your feet.
You looked away first, blinking hard.
Everything looked so stupidly normal for a moment that didn’t feel normal at all.
“I can’t do this while you keep talking in half-sentences” you whispered
Seungcheol’s voice softened immediately “Then let me finish.”
You looked at him. And there it was—that knife-edge pause before the real wound. Before the thing neither of you could unsay.
He inhaled, shoulders tense, eyes fixed on yours.
“I love you,” he said “You know I love you.”
Your stomach dropped, because people only started sentences like that when they were about to ruin something.
And suddenly, with the kitchen too warm and your heart beating too hard and his face looking more unfamiliar than it had in nine years, you understood with sick certainty that this wasn’t just an argument anymore.
This was the beginning of the crack. The one that, once it opened, might not close the same way again.
You stared at him across the kitchen, the steam from the pot curling up between you, and for one horrible second you couldn’t hear anything except the pounding of your own heart.
Then you asked, very quietly “Is there?”
Seungcheol blinked “What?”
“A future here” Your voice shook despite how hard you tried to keep it steady “Is there?”
“Baby—” “No.” You cut him off so fast it surprised even you “No, don’t do that. Don’t ‘baby’ me and then say nothing again”
He inhaled slowly, jaw tightening “I’m not saying nothing.”
“You are” Your throat burned “That’s all you’ve been doing for weeks. Saying just enough to keep me from pressing too hard and then pulling away the second it gets real.”
His shoulders tensed “I’m trying to be honest with you.”
“Then be honest” You took a step toward him, hands trembling at your sides. “Tell me now. Tell me while we’re finally talking instead of waiting until tomorrow, or next week, or the next time you decide you’re ‘ready.’ Tell me before we go right back to walking in circles and pretending you’re not building a wall between us.”
“You think I’m pretending?” he asked.
“Then what is it, Seungcheol? What do I call this? Because from where I’m standing, it feels like I’ve been trying to talk to my own boyfriend for three weeks and getting shut out every single time”
He dragged a hand through his hair, turning away for half a second before facing you again “You keep acting like I’m doing this to hurt you.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“I’m trying to figure things out”
“At my expense”
His eyes flashed “That’s not fair.”
“Neither is this!” The words burst out of you louder than you meant them to, bouncing off the kitchen walls. Your breathing had gone uneven.
“You don’t get to disappear inside your own head and leave me standing here guessing whether my relationship is still intact,” you said, voice shaking “You don’t get to go quiet every time I mention our future and then act like I’m pressuring you for wanting to know where I stand.”
“I never said you don’t deserve to know”
“Then tell me”
Seungcheol exhaled sharply, palms flattening against the edge of the counter as if he needed something solid to hold onto
“I don’t know what you want from me right now”
You laughed, and it came out broken “Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“I want the truth.”
“I am telling you the truth.”
“No, you’re giving me pieces of it” You wiped angrily at your eyes before the tears could properly fall “You’re saying you love me, but you don’t know if you’re ready for marriage, or kids, or the next step, and somehow I’m supposed to just… what? Wait around until you decide if the life we’ve built is actually going somewhere?”
His face tightened “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
He opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked away. And that tiny movement, that split second of him looking everywhere except at you, itdid something ugly to your chest.
“God,” you whispered, shaking your head “There really isn’t an answer, is there?”
“That’s not true.”
“Then say it.”
“I—” “Say it, Seungcheol.”
His jaw flexed hard enough you saw the muscle tick. “I can’t give you some clean answer right now,” he said finally, voice rough.
You just stared at him. And then you nodded once, because suddenly everything in you had gone very still.
“That is an answer”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s not a no.”
“But it’s not a yes either.” Your voice was terrifyingly calm now, the kind of calm that only came when you were hurt enough to stop sounding hurt “And after nine years, I think I deserve more than maybe.”
“Stop doing that”
“Doing what?”
“Making it sound simple.” His own voice rose for the first time, not shouting, but close. Frustration, fear, exhaustion, all of it starting to crack through “It’s not simple.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not!”
“Why?” you shot back “Why is it so hard to tell me if you see a future with me?”
He looked wrecked. That was the worst part. Not indifferent. Not cruel. Just… wrecked. Like he hated this too, hated himself maybe, hated the shape of whatever truth he was trying and failing to say.
But your heart was too raw to be softened by it.
“Do you know what I think?” you asked, voice trembling. “I think you’ve already been having this conversation in your head for weeks. I think you already know what you’re scared of saying out loud.”
“That’s not fair.”
“You keep saying that, but you won’t tell me what would be fair!”
Seungcheol shoved away from the counter and paced two steps back, hands on his hips “Because every answer I give you just makes this worse.”
“Because you won’t finish one!”
“Because you won’t let me breathe!”
The words cracked through the room. You froze.
So did he.
For a second, the apartment went silent in the way it only does after something has been said too loudly, too honestly, too ugly to pull back.
Your mouth parted.
“Breathe,” you repeated softly.
Seungcheol’s face changed immediately. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“You need to breathe because of me?”
“No.” He took a step forward “No, that’s not—”
“Because I asked if you still saw a future with me?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” Your voice broke. “What part of this is so suffocating, Seungcheol? Loving me? Being with me? The fact that after nine years I thought maybe I was allowed to ask where this was going?”
“Stop twisting my words.”
“I’m not twisting anything! I’m trying to understand why my boyfriend suddenly looks trapped every time I talk about a life with him”
“I am not trapped.”
“Then why do you look at me like this?”
You saw it in the way his shoulders dropped, just a fraction, like the fight went out of him for a moment and left only something exhausted behind. He looked at you with a kind of helpless anger, but under it there was guilt too. So much guilt it made your chest ache even through the hurt.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he said again, quieter now “I don’t know how to say this without hurting you.”
You laughed through the tears that had finally started slipping free “You think you haven’t already?”
His eyes flicked to the tears on your face and he looked stricken. He took another step forward, instinctive, and you stepped back so quickly your hip hit the counter.
“No,” you whispered, holding up a hand. “Don’t.”
His whole body stilled. The sight of that almost undid you right there, because Seungcheol was not a man you had ever had to stop from touching you.
In nine years, you had never once flinched from him. Never once needed space from him. If anything, he had always been your safest place, the one person you moved toward without thinking.
Now you couldn’t bear the idea of his hands on you while he stood there unable to tell you if he still wanted the life you thought you were building together.
“Just answer me,” you said, and your voice was so small now it scared you. “Please. I’m asking you one thing. Do you still see a future with me?”
He looked like he was in pain.
His throat worked once. Twice and then he said the worst possible thing.
“I don’t know.”
It was quiet, barely above a whisper but it hit like something physical.
For a second, you genuinely couldn’t breathe. The room seemed to tilt, the kitchen blurring at the edges while those three words settled into your chest like glass.
You stared at him as if maybe you’d misheard.
Seungcheol looked horrified the second it was out of his mouth, like he wanted to grab it back, reshape it, turn it into something softer and less devastating. But it was too late. It was already here, hanging between you, impossible to unsay.
“Okay,” you whispered
His face crumpled a little “Don’t—”
“No, it’s okay.” You nodded too quickly, blinking through tears “No, I get it now.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
“You don’t,” he said again, more urgently this time, stepping toward you “I’m not saying I don’t love you. I’m not saying I want to leave.”
“But you don’t know if you want this.”
“That’s not what I—” “You just said you don’t know if you see a future with me!”
“I said I don’t know right now!”
“And what am I supposed to do with that?” you cried, the restraint finally snapping “Tell me, Seungcheol, what am I supposed to do with that? Go to sleep next to you tonight like nothing happened? Keep cooking dinner with you and folding your laundry and acting like my boyfriend didn’t just tell me he doesn’t know if he wants a future with me after almost a decade together?”
He scrubbed both hands over his face, breathing hard now, and for the first time since this started, you saw something dangerously close to panic in him.
“I’m trying,” he said, voice rough “I’m trying so hard not to say this wrong.”
“You already did.”
The words landed like a slap.
He looked at you for a long second, chest rising and falling too fast. The kitchen had gone silent except for the stove, where the broth had started to boil over in thin angry spits against the burner. Neither of you moved.
Then he said, very quietly, “I can’t do this tonight.”
Your head jerked up “What?”
“I can’t” He shook his head once, backing away from the counter “Not like this.”
Your heart dropped all over again.
“Not like this?” you repeated “You think I’m the one making this impossible?”
“I’m not saying that”
“You are leaving me in the middle of this conversation.”
“I need air.” The second he said it, you laughed in disbelief. Of course. More space. More time. More distance.
“Unbelievable,” you whispered
Seungcheol was already reaching for his keys on the counter by the front hallway, movements abrupt now, agitated in a way you had never seen from him with you. Not in all nine years.
You had fought before, of course you had. About money, about schedules, about stupid little things and painful big things. But he had never walked away. Never left the apartment while you were still crying. Never chosen distance over staying and figuring it out.
You followed him out of the kitchen, panic beginning to rise under the hurt.
“Seungcheol.”
He didn’t answer, too busy shoving his feet into his shoes by the door.
“Seungcheol, don’t do this.”
He finally looked up, and his face almost made you stop. He looked awful. Pale, furious at himself, eyes bright with something he was trying very hard to keep down.
“I can’t stay right now,” he said
Your breath hitched “You’ve never left.”
“I know.”
“Then don’t start now.”
His jaw clenched so hard you thought he might break a tooth.
“Please,” you said, and there it was, that note in your voice you hated, the one that made you sound younger, smaller, more desperate than you wanted to be “Please don’t walk out on me. Not like this.”
He shut his eyes for one second and when he opened them, he still looked torn apart. Still looked like leaving was the last thing he wanted to do.
But he opened the door anyway.
“I need to clear my head,” he said hoarsely “I’ll come back.”
“Cheol—” “I’ll come back,” he repeated, like saying it twice would make this feel less like abandonment.
Then he stepped outand the door closed.
For a moment, you stood there staring at the door like your body had stopped understanding how to move.
The apartment went silent around you.
He left.
The thought didn’t land all at once. It came in pieces.
He left.He actually left. Seungcheol left you crying in your apartment and walked out the door.
Your knees went weak. You made it two stumbling steps toward the couch before the first sob tore out of you so hard it doubled you over. One hand flew to your mouth like you could shove the sound back in, but there was no stopping it.
It just kept coming. Sharp, ugly, helpless. The kind of crying that feels less like tears and more like your body giving up on holding itself together.
You sank to the floor beside the couch because your legs wouldn’t hold you anymore.
Your chest hurt. Not in the poetic way people wrote about heartbreak.
In the real way. The brutal, humiliating, physical way. Like your ribs had been cinched too tight around your lungs. Like every breath had to be dragged in around the ache of what had just happened.
I don’t know.
Nine years. Nine years of loving him, growing up beside him, building a life so intertwined you couldn’t remember where yours ended and his began.
Nine years, and he didn’t know.
You thought back to that night in bed—tipsy and smiling and stupidly happy, tucked into his chest while you told him he’d be a good dad.
You thought about the last three weeks of silences and smiles and walls you had tried so hard not to name.
Had he already known then? Had he been lying there next to you, holding you while you fell asleep against him, already feeling this doubt and saying nothing?
The thought cracked something open inside you. You curled tighter into yourself on the floor, one hand pressed to your sternum as if you could physically hold your heart together there.
And somewhere under all that hurt, under the shock, the anger, the grief, one thought kept repeating itself so softly it was almost worse than the rest.
He left. Not because he didn’t love you. Somehow that would have been easier to understand.
He left because he did love you and still couldn’t stay.
And that was the part that terrified you most.
Because if even nine years of love wasn’t enough to make him stay and fight through one terrible conversation, then maybe you had just watched the beginning of the end and hadn’t even realized it until the door clicked shut behind him.
=
Seungcheol woke up with a crick in his neck and the taste of stale whiskey in his mouth.
For one disoriented second, he didn’t know where he was.
The ceiling above him was unfamiliar—too high, too white, with a hairline crack running through one corner. The couch under him was too short for his legs, one arm numb from sleeping twisted beneath his body. Somewhere nearby, a fan hummed softly, and from the kitchen came the sound of cabinet doors opening and closing.
Then memory hit him all at once.
Seungcheol sat up so fast his head throbbed.
“Fuck.”
His voice came out hoarse, rough with sleep and alcohol and the weight of what he’d done. He scrubbed both hands down his face and forced himself to breathe through the nausea curling in his stomach, not from the drinks, not really, but from the sick realization settling heavier with every passing second.
He left.
He had actually left you.
Not for an hour to cool off in the parking lot. Not for a walk around the block. He had driven to Mingyu’s place because he hadn’t trusted himself to go back,
The night after that had blurred in ugly pieces. Mingyu handing him a glass. Seungcheol sitting at the edge of his friend’s couch with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like if he looked hard enough it would tell him how to undo what he’d said.
Mingyu asking, “Did you guys fight?” and Seungcheol laughing once, bitter and exhausted, because fight didn’t even begin to cover it.
He remembered saying things in fragments.
Seungcheol had every intention of going home after that. He remembered standing up, grabbing his keys, saying he needed to fix it now before morning made it worse. He must have sat back down for one second.
One second had turned into him passing out fully clothed on Mingyu’s couch, phone dead in his pocket, with the apology he meant to give you stuck somewhere between regret and sleep.
Now it was morning and he had left you alone all night.
A cold dread flooded his chest.
He was already on his feet before Mingyu rounded the corner from the kitchen, holding two mugs of coffee.
“You’re up,” Mingyu said carefully. “You look like shit.”
Seungcheol grabbed for his phone on the side table. Dead. Of course.
“What time is it?”
“Almost nine.”
“Nine?”
Mingyu’s expression shifted the second he saw the panic on Seungcheol’s face “Cheol—”
“I need to go.”
Mingyu exhaled slowly. “Call me later.”
Seungcheol barely nodded.
The drive home felt endless.
Every red light was an insult. Every slow car in front of him made his hands tighten around the wheel until his knuckles blanched white. His mind kept cycling through the same images over and over: you crying by the door, your voice breaking when you said don’t walk out on me, the way you’d looked at him after he said I don’t know—as if the floor had opened under your feet and you were trying very hard not to fall through it in front of him.
He had never hated himself more.
He tried to rehearse what he would say the second he got home. None of it felt big enough.
The apartment building looked exactly the same as it always did. Same old security guard downstairs. Same potted plant in the lobby that had somehow survived years of neglect. Same elevator with the sticky third-floor button.
Everything was insultingly normal.
He unlocked the apartment door and stepped inside.
Silence.
The first thing he noticed was the kitchen.
It was spotless. No burned pot in the sink. No chopped onions left on the board. No evidence of the mess from last night at all. The counters were wiped clean, dishes dried and put away, stove polished back into order like nothing had happened there.
That, more than anything, made dread crawl up his spine.
You had cleaned. You had spent the night in the apartment alone and crying and somehow still gotten up to scrub away the evidence of the fight before he came home.
“Baby?” he called, voice cautious, already moving toward the hallway “I’m home.”
The apartment was too quiet. No TV murmuring from the bedroom. No music from the bathroom. No kettle boiling. Nothing.
His chest tightened.
“Y/N?” He reached the bedroom doorway and stopped so abruptly it almost hurt.
You were standing beside the bed with your back half-turned to him, folding a sweater with slow, mechanical hands.
The room looked wrong. Your overnight bag sat open on the duvet. Two more tote bags were lined up neatly against the wall. Your suitcase stood upright by the dresser with the zipper already closed. Beside it was a smaller weekender bag and the toiletry pouch you always kept under the bathroom sink.
Seungcheol’s brain struggled to catch up to what he was seeing. For a second, all he could do was stare.
“What are you doing?”
You didn’t turn around, didn’t even pause in what you were doing. You just folded the sweater once more, set it into the open bag, and reached for the next thing.
He took a step into the room “Y/N.”
Now that he was closer, he could see you properly and god you looked wrecked.
Your eyes were swollen nearly shut, the skin beneath them puffy and dark from not sleeping. Your lips were dry. Your hair was tied back in a loose, messy knot that looked like you’d done it with shaking hands. You were still in yesterday’s oversized sleep shirt and sweatpants, like maybe you’d never really gotten dressed at all.
He felt physically ill.
“What are you doing?” he repeated, but softer this time. Not angry anymore. Scared.
You zipped the side compartment of the bag and finally spoke, your voice flat and scraped raw.
“I called my brother”
Seungcheol went still.
“He’s picking me up”
The words landed like a punch “What?”
You bent to pick up a stack of folded T-shirts from the chair by the window, not looking at him “He’ll be here soon”
“No.” He crossed the room in three quick steps “No, what do you mean he’s picking you up?”
You pulled the bag slightly away from him before he could touch it, still avoiding his eyes “It means I’m leaving for a while.”
The air rushed out of him “Leaving where?”
“Jongin’s.”
“For a while?” His voice cracked around the words “What does that mean?”
Now you looked at him and the sight of your face nearly undid him.
There was no anger in it. That would’ve been easier. Anger he knew how to handle. Anger he could meet. But thi this hollow, scraped-out exhaustion, this grief so deep it had gone quiet was infinitely worse.
“It means I can’t stay here right now,” you said
“No.” It came out immediate. Instinctive. A refusal before he even had time to think.
You gave a tiny, humorless laugh and looked back down at the bag “You don’t really get to decide that.”
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like this is some done deal.” He ran a hand through his hair, panic starting to climb up his spine “You’re packing a suitcase because of one fight?”
Your hands stopped. Slowly, you turned to face him fully.
“One fight?”
The look on your face made his stomach drop.
“Is that what you think last night was?”
Seungcheol opened his mouth, then closed it again “No,” he said quickly “No, that’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I meant—” He exhaled hard, frustrated with himself already “I meant we can talk about this. I know I fucked up. I know I did. But you don’t need to leave.”
You stared at him for a long moment then you laughed again, and it sounded like it hurt.
“You left.”
His whole body went still. The words weren’t loud. You didn’t throw them at him or spit them out in anger. You just said them plainly, like a fact you were too tired to dress up.
“You left me in the middle of that conversation and didn’t come back.”
“I know.”
“I called you twelve times.”
His stomach twisted so hard he had to look away.
“My phone died,” he said hoarsely “I went to Mingyu’s and it died and I— I fell asleep there. I swear to God I didn’t mean to stay all night.”
The second the explanation left his mouth, he knew how pathetic it sounded. How useless. Like some teenage excuse for missing curfew, not the truth of a man who had abandoned the woman he loved at the worst possible moment and then been unreachable until morning.
You looked at him with red-rimmed eyes and nodded slowly “Okay.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, stepping closer “I’m so sorry. Baby, I know how bad this looks, I know—”
“It doesn’t just look bad, Seungcheol.” Your voice shook for the first time “It was bad.”
“You know what happened last night?” you asked, tears already gathering again0
“I didn’t sleep. At all. I cried until my chest hurt. Until my throat burned. I sat on the kitchen floor by myself wondering if my boyfriend of nine years had just told me he didn’t know if he wanted a future with me and then decided I wasn’t even worth coming back for.”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why not? That’s what it felt like.”
“It’s not true.”
“Then what is true?” Your voice rose suddenly, cracking on the last word “Because I don’t know anymore. I don’t know if you meant what you said, I don’t know if you regret it, I don’t know if you just panicked, I don’t know if you’re still trying to decide whether I’m someone you want to keep building a life with— I don’t know anything except that I begged you not to leave and you left anyway.”
Each word hit him like a blow.
Seungcheol’s hands curled uselessly at his side “I know. I know and I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t fix what you did.”
“I know it doesn’t” His own voice broke now, low and rough “I know it doesn’t. But please don’t leave like this.”
You stared at him “Like this?”
“Without letting me explain”
“Explain what?”
“Everything. night, what I said, what I meant—I was overwhelmed and I handled it horribly and I panicked and I said the worst possible thing because I was scared and angry and not thinking straight, and then I made it a thousand times worse by leaving. I know that. I know.”
You looked at him for a long time, chest rising and falling unevenly.
“You still don’t get it.”
His heart sank “What?”
“This isn’t just about what you said.” Tears spilled over before you could stop them, and you wiped at them angrily “It’s about the fact that I don’t feel safe here right now.”
He went pale “Safe?” he repeated, horrified
“Not like that.” You swallowed hard “Not physically. I mean—” You pressed a hand to your sternum like it hurt to even say it
“I mean emotionally. I can’t sit in this apartment and pretend everything is fine while I wait for you to figure out if you still want me here.”
“Baby, I do want you here.”
“Do you?”
“Yes!”
“Then why did you say you didn’t know if you saw a future with me?”
Seungcheol opened his mouth and stopped. Because there it was. The question that mattered. The one all of this kept circling back to no matter how much he tried to outrun it.
He knew the answer, or at least part of it. Because he’d felt cornered by the future and ashamed of not being ready and terrified that saying the wrong thing would make him lose you.
Because he’d been carrying doubts that weren’t really about loving you but about whether he was enough for the life you wanted, and instead of saying that plainly like a grown man, he’d let it rot in silence until it came out as something crueler and less true.
But none of that changed what you heard.
He looked at your suitcase by the dresser and felt panic flood him all over again.
“Don’t go to Jongin’s,” he said
Your eyes flashed “You do not get to tell me where I can go right now.”
“I’m not telling you—” He stopped, started again “I’m asking. Please. Stay. Just for today. Let me fix this.”
“You can’t fix this in a day”
“I know.” His voice dropped, raw and urgent now “Then let me start.”
Something in your face wavered, but only for a second then you straightened, wiping at your cheeks with the heel of your palm.
“No.” The single syllable cut deeper than shouting would have.
Seungcheol stared at you “No?”
“No.” You took a shaky breath “I can’t stay here if this is what we’ve become.”
“That’s not what we’ve become”
Your voice shook violently now “How can you possibly know that when twelve hours ago you couldn’t even tell me if there was still a future here?”
He had no answer. Not one that didn’t sound like another excuse. Another half-truth. Another plea without enough substance to hold your weight.
You laughed bitterly when he stayed silent.
“Exactly.”
“Don’t,” he said quietly “Please don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I already lost you.”
Your face crumpled for the first time.
“You might have,” you whispered.
The words knocked the breath out of him “Don’t say that.”
“Then what do you want me to say?” you shot back, tears spilling again “What do you want from me right now? Because I have nothing left to give you this morning except honesty, and the honest truth is that I cannot be in this apartment with you today. I can’t wake up next to the bed we share and not hear you saying I don’t know. I can’t stand in that kitchen and not picture you walking out the door while I begged you not to. I can’t do it.”
Once the words run out, you’re breathless, hot angry miserable tears running down your face again.
And Seungcheol’s eyes burned too. He took one careful step closer. Then another. Slow enough that you could stop him if you wanted to.
This time, you didn’t move away.
“I know leaving last night might be the worst thing I’ve ever done to you,” he said “I know that. And if you need space from me today, if you need to go to your brother’s and breathe and hate me for a while, I’ll let you. I won’t stop you.” His voice dropped to almost nothing
“But don’t leave thinking I don’t love you. Don’t leave thinking I don’t want this with you. That part isn’t true. Even if I said it in the ugliest possible way.”
You covered your mouth with your hand and cried harder.
Seungcheol stood there and let you, because he had finally run out of ways to ask for grace he hadn’t earned.
The doorbell rang. The sound cut through the room so sharply both of you startled.
You wiped at your face with shaking fingers, inhaled once like you were trying to pull yourself together, and reached for the handle of your suitcase.
The bell rang again.
Seungcheol got to the door first, when he opened it Jongin stood on the other side in an expression already grim before he even looked past Seungcheol into the apartment.
He had always liked Seungcheol. More than liked, really. He trusted him. For years Jongin had teased you mercilessly about how disgustingly perfect your boyfriend was. the one person your brother had never once worried about hurting you.
Until now.
Jongin’s eyes flicked from Seungcheol’s face to the swollen, crying mess of you in the hallway behind him.
And something in his expression changed instantly.
“Hey,” Jongin said softly to you, stepping inside “You ready?”
You nodded once, but the second he held his arms out, your face crumpled all over again. The suitcase handle slipped from your fingers as you crossed the hallway and buried yourself into your brother’s chest with a broken sob.
Jongin caught you immediately.
“Hey, hey.” His hand came up to cradle the back of your head, eyes lifting over you to Seungcheol’s face “It’s okay. I got you.”
Seungcheol had never hated himself more than he did in that moment.
Jongin held you close, his jaw tight as he looked at Seungcheol over your shoulder. No accusation. Not yet.
Seungcheol swallowed hard “Jongin—”
“Not now,” Jongin said quietly. Not rude. Not aggressive. Just final.
You pulled back after a moment, wiping your face with both hands, and bent to grab the suitcase again. Jongin took it from you without a word.
“I can carry that,” Seungcheol said immediately, taking a step forward on reflex. Jongin’s gaze met his and for the first time in nine years of being in your family’s orbit, Seungcheol saw something close to disappointment there.
“I’ve got it,” Jongin said. The words weren’t sharp, they didn’t need to be.
His heart climbed into his throat. You were going to say goodbye.
He didn’t know if he could survive hearing it but when you finally spoke, your voice was quiet and exhausted and somehow even more devastating than goodbye would have been.
“I need a few days.”
Seungcheol nodded too quickly “Okay.”
You stepped into the hallway, shoulders small and slumped, and Seungcheol had the insane urge to grab your wrist and beg all over again. To drop to his knees if he had to. To tell you he would tear himself apart and put every broken piece on the table if that was what it took to make you stay.
He didn’t because this was the first thing you had asked of him all morning that he could actually give.
Space.
The thing he had taken so selfishly last night now had to be offered back to you with no strings attached.
So he stood in the doorway and let you go.
And Seungcheol was left standing alone in the doorway of the apartment the two of you had shared for years, staring at the empty hall while the silence rushed back in around him.
=
Three days turned into a week.
A week turned into two.
Two turned into three, and by the time the fourth week came around, Seungcheol had stopped checking his phone with hope and started checking it with the dull, compulsive misery of a man reopening a wound just to make sure it still hurt.
Every message he sent stayed undelivered.
Every call went straight to disconnect, as if the line itself refused him before it even had a chance to ring.
At first, he told himself you just needed space.
A few days. Maybe a week. Long enough to breathe, to cry, to hate him properly, to decide whether you even wanted to hear his voice without it making things worse.
He respected that, at least in the beginning. He texted once the first night after you left.
I’m sorry. I know I don’t deserve a reply, but I’m sorry.
I’m not going to push. I just need you to know I meant what I said. I love you. I’m sorry.
I’ll wait until you’re ready. Please eat. Please sleep if you can.
By the second week, the messages got less measured.
Can we please talk?
Just tell me you’re okay.
I know you’re angry. You have every right to be. I just need to know you’re okay.
By the third, they got worse.
Please.
Please don’t do this like I’m nothing to you.
I know I don’t get to ask for anything right now but please, Y/N.
I’m losing my fucking mind.
Undelivered. Every single one. He tried Jongin once. That call didn’t even make it through the first ring before it was declined.
After that, Seungcheol stopped trying to force his way into your silence and started doing what men like him did when they couldn’t fix the one thing that mattered:
he ran himself into the ground.
He stayed late at work so often that his team stopped pretending not to notice. If he wasn’t there, he was at the gym. Or running until his lungs burned and his knees ached and his T-shirt stuck to his back with sweat. Anything that made him too tired to think.
Anything that meant not going home.
Home was the shape of your absence.
Your side of the bed untouched except for the nights he’d rolled over half-asleep and reached for you before waking up to cold sheets and the ugly realization that you were still gone.
He washed your pillowcase once and nearly had a breakdown because it meant losing the last faint trace of your shampoo.
By the fourth week, he looked as bad as he felt.
Mingyu stopped making jokes and started just showing up with food, dropping it in Seungcheol’s fridge without comment because the one time he’d opened it and found nothing but water, beer, and half a container of kimchi, he’d looked genuinely alarmed.
“You need to stop doing this to yourself,” Mingyu had said one night while Seungcheol laced up his running shoes for the second time that day
Seungcheol hadn’t even looked up. “Doing what?”
“Pretending if you stay moving, you won’t have to feel it.”
He tied the knot tighter than necessary “I already feel it.”
Mingyu had gone quiet after that, because there wasn’t much to say to a man who looked like he’d already been living with the consequences of one bad night for a month straight.
And still some stupid, fragile part of Seungcheol kept believing this wasn’t the end.
That if he gave you enough time, eventually you’d answer. He held onto that hope with both hands.
It was the only thing keeping him from fully losing it.
So the morning he came back from a jog and found the front door unlocked, he didn’t think much of it at first.
Just frowned, chest still rising and falling from the run, and pushed the door open with his keys in hand.
“Hello?”
He stepped inside, dropping his gym bag by the door and toeing off his running shoes. The apartment smelled different.
Not wrong. Just… familiar in a way that hit him before he even understood why.
Then he saw the suitcases.Not one. Three.
For one impossible second, his heart leapt so hard it hurt. Seungcheol forgot how to breathe.
The sight of you after a month was so overwhelming it made his knees weak.
“Y/N,” he said, and your name came out like a wound
Your expression didn’t change. You shifted the blanket in your arms and spoke first, “I just came to get the rest of my stuff.”
The world tilted.
He looked at the luggage again, suddenly seeing it for what it was. Not temporary bags this time. Not a few days’ worth of clothes.
Everything.
His mouth went dry “What?”
“I’ll send the rest of the rent and utilities by the end of the week,” you said, still not looking at him “And the papers are signed. I removed myself from the joint lease and the internet account. The key’s on the counter.”
For a second, Seungcheol genuinely thought he might throw up. He turned toward the kitchen on instinct, eyes landing on the small silver key sitting beside the fruit bowl.
No.
No, no, no.
He looked back at you so fast it made his head spin “What are you talking about?”
His voice had gone sharp with panic “What do you mean the papers are signed?”
You were trying so hard not to cry. He could see it in the way your lips pressed together too tightly.
“I mean I’m moving out, Seungcheol.”
The sentence hit him like a car crash. He stared at you. Actually stared, like if he looked hard enough the words might rearrange themselves into something survivable.
This wasn’t supposed to be how this ended. Not after one fight. Not after one month. Not after nine years of being each other’s first and only real home.
“You can’t be serious.”
You laughed softly, and it was the saddest sound he’d ever heard “I wish I wasn’t.”
“Y/N—”
“No.” You shook your head once, fast, before he could get closer “Please don’t make this harder.”
The room spun with panic.
“Harder?” he repeated, voice breaking “You walk into our apartment after disappearing for a month and tell me you’re moving out, and I’m the one making it harder?”
Your face crumpled for half a second before you forced it back under control “I didn’t disappear.”
“Yes, you did.” He took a step toward you “You blocked my number. You blocked my messages. Jongin wouldn’t answer me. I had no idea if you were okay, if you were sick, if you—”
“I was trying to survive what you did to me.”
The words sliced through him so cleanly he stopped moving.
“I know that sounds cruel,” you whispered, voice shaking “and maybe it is. But I didn’t know how to talk to you without breaking all over again. Every time I thought about hearing your voice, all I could hear was that night.”
“I know,” he said hoarsely “I know what I said.”
“It wasn’t just what you said. It was how you looked at me when you said it. Like I was asking for too much by wanting to know if the man I’ve spent almost a decade loving still saw a future with me.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“But it doesn’t change the fact that when I close my eyes, all I hear is you telling me you don’t know.”
He felt himself unraveling by the second “Baby—”
“Please don’t call me that right now” The plea was so soft it hurt more than if you’d shouted.
You took a shaky breath and looked away from him, toward the living room instead. Toward the couch where you used to curl into his side every night. Toward the dining table where you’d had breakfast together on Sundays and fought over crossword answers .
“I loved you through every version of us,” you said quietly “The broke college version. The overworked version. The version that fought over dishes and bills and whose turn it was to buy detergent. I loved all of it because it was still us.”
Your voice broke on the last word.
Seungcheol stood frozen, every muscle in his body screaming at him to go to you, hold you, stop this somehow. But your posture was all wrong for that now. Closed off. Guarded. Like one wrong move from him would send you running.
“I know,” he whispered
“And I kept waiting for this to feel less awful, I thought maybe if I stayed with Jongin long enough, if I gave us both space, maybe I’d be able to come back and hear you out properly. Maybe I’d be less angry. Less hurt. Maybe I’d stop hearing that one sentence over and over in my head.”
Your eyes met his “I didn’t.”
Seungcheol’s voice came out ragged “Then let me try again.”
Your face twisted with pain “Cheol—”
“No, please.” He crossed the room before you could stop him, then halted a few feet away when he saw you tense “Please, just let me say this once. If after that you still want to leave, I won’t stop you. I swear.”
You closed your eyes for a second. When you opened them again, you looked exhausted.
“Okay.”
That tiny mercy almost broke him more.
Seungcheol dragged a hand over his mouth, trying to steady himself enough to speak. His heart was pounding so hard it made his voice shake.
“I was scared,” he said. “That’s the truth of it. Not of you. Not of loving you. Never that. I was scared of how serious everything started feeling all at once and how behind I was compared to where you already were. I was scared because you were talking about kids and marriage and forever, and all I could think was that you deserved someone who heard those things and felt nothing but certainty. And instead I felt terrified”
You stared at him silently, tears still slipping down your face.
“I thought if I could just figure it out by myself first, if I could get to a place where I had a plan and money and some version of my shit together, then I could come back to you with a yes that looked the way you deserved.” His laugh cracked in half “But instead I let myself get so twisted up in my own fear that I made you feel like I wasn’t sure about you. And that—” he swallowed hard
“—that is the biggest mistake of my life.”
Seungcheol’s own eyes burned.
“I love you,” he said, voice cracking completely “I have loved you since I was eighteen years old and stupid enough to think that was all it took to keep someone forever. I love you now, and I will love you when I’m forty and sixty and mean and gray and probably still annoying as hell. You are it for me. You have always been it for me.”
He took another step forward. You didn’t move.
“But if I’m too late,” he whispered, “if I hurt you too badly for that to matter anymore… then say that. Don’t hide behind bills and lease papers and keys on the counter. Just tell me this is really it.”
That did it.
The sob you’d been trying to hold in finally broke free, and you turned away from him, crying hard enough your shoulders shook. The sound tore straight through his chest.
He almost reached for you.
Almost.
Instead he stood there with his hands clenched at his sides while you cried in the middle of the apartment the two of you had built together, because he had finally learned what it meant to be the reason you were hurting.
“I hate it,” you cried, turning back to him with tears all over your face “Because it would be so much easier if I didn’t. It would be easier if I could hate you for what you said and for leaving and for making me feel like nine years somehow still wasn’t enough. But I can’t. I still love you and that’s the worst part.”
“Then stay,” he whispered.
Your face crumpled harder “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I believe that you love me,” you said “I do. And maybe part of me even believes you when you say you were scared, not uncertain about me. But that doesn’t change what happened. It doesn’t change that when I needed reassurance most, you gave me doubt. When I begged you not to leave, you left anyway. When I needed the person I love to hold the line with me, you walked out and let me spend the whole night wondering if my relationship was over.”
Seungcheol lowered his head. Every word was deserved.
“And now,” you whispered, “even if you say all the right things, I don’t know how to unhear the wrong ones.”
He pressed a hand over his mouth to keep from making a sound.
“I keep thinking about having kids with you,” you said, tears sliding down your cheeks. “About marrying you. About every future version of us I used to picture so easily. And all I can hear is maybe. I hear you telling me you don’t know. And I can’t build a life on maybe, Seungcheol. I can’t.”
He looked up at you with red-rimmed eyes “So that’s it?”
Your knees nearly gave out and you had to grab the back of the dining chair to steady yourself, crying openly now, no longer trying to keep it pretty or controlled.
“I don’t want it to be,” you sobbed “Do you understand that? I don’t want this. I don’t want to leave you. I don’t want to pack up nine years of my life into suitcases and divide furniture and change addresses and learn how to be a person without you in every part of my day.” Your voice cracked so hard you had to stop and breathe around it
“But I also don’t know how to stay with someone who made me feel like loving me for nearly a decade still somehow wasn’t enough to know.”
Seungcheol covered his face with both hands. A broken sound left him.
“Fuck,” he whispered into his palms “Fuck.”
He dragged his hands down his face and looked at you again, devastated.
“I know I don’t deserve to ask this,” he said, “but if there is even the smallest part of you that still wants to fight for us, I will do whatever it takes. Therapy, time, space, whatever you need. I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt me again. Just don’t end us like this. Please.”
You shook your head through tears.
“I can’t be the one who teaches you how to choose me after all this time,” you whispered
Seungcheol stopped breathing. It was such a simple sentence but it destroyed him.
Because that was the truth, wasn’t it? Not that he hadn’t loved you. Not that he hadn’t wanted you. But somewhere in all his fear and silence and panic, he had made the woman who had already chosen him for nine years feel like she had to convince him to choose her back.
You bent down, grabbed the handle of the nearest suitcase, and wiped at your face with your free hand.
“Please move,” you said, voice barely audible “I can’t do this if you keep looking at me like that.”
He didn’t move. Not because he was trying to stop you. His body just… wouldn’t listen.
“Cheol,” you whispered.
The sound of your voice saying his name like that finally snapped him out of it. He stepped aside.
You rolled the suitcase past him toward the door. Every wheel against the hardwood sounded obscene. Final. The second suitcase came next.
He watched all of it.
At the door, you stopped with your hand on the handle.
Seungcheol’s heart lurched into his throat.
You turned back one last time.
Both of you were wrecks now. Tear-stained, shaking, stripped down to the ugliest version of grief. There was no pride left in the room, no winning, no clean edge to hold onto. Just love and damage and the unbearable fact that sometimes they existed at the same time and still weren’t enough.
“I loved you well for a long time,” you said through tears
He nodded immediately, sob catching in his throat “I know.”
“And you loved me too.” Your face crumpled “But sometimes love isn’t the thing that ruins you. It’s timing. Fear. The wrong sentence said at the worst possible moment.”
Seungcheol shook his head like if he did it hard enough, he could stop this from becoming true
“Don’t do this,” he whispered “Please.”
You cried harder. The door opened.
Seungcheol took one involuntary step forward “Y/N—”
But you were already gone. The door closed behind you with a soft click.
And just like that, nine years ended not with screaming, not with hatred, not even with the absence of love but with too much of it, twisted up with fear and regret until it couldn’t save either of you.
For a long time, Seungcheol didn’t move.
He just stood there staring at the closed door, tears still sliding down his face, chest heaving around the silence you left behind.
Even the air felt emptier.
He looked at the key still sitting on the kitchen counter.
Then he broke.
His knees gave out first.
A sound tore out of him, raw, wrecked, the kind of sob that only comes when the body finally understands something the mind has been refusing for too long.
You were gone.
******************TO BE CONTINUED******************
ice skating was an escape from the home that never truly felt like one. every doubt, every tear, every piece of yourself you never showed lives on the rink. you were a girl who moved in silence and only spoke when spoken to. but on the rink, beneath the bright white beaming lights, you feel the weight you carry break free. now, as you stand representing your country at the Winter Olympics in Italy - you expect nothing less than the same isolation you’ve grown accustomed to. so, why would Jeon Jungkook suddenly be so intrigued?
pairing - idol!jk x figure skater!reader
genre/trope/au- romance, angst, slice of life, idol!au, olympic!au
you started skating before you could even form a proper sentence.
that’s what your grandmother would tell people. she would always talk about how you were just four years old when you first stepped onto an ice rink. a stubborn little girl who would refuse to hold her hand. that when you fell for the first time, you glared at the rink as if it had personally offended you.
you don’t fully remember that day. just the nostalgia it brought - the smell of cold air, the sound of blades scraping the floor, and the way her voice echoed across the rink, cheering you on when you wobbled towards her.
when you started competing, she was there. front row, bundled in layers of clothing, holding a cup of coffee that always went cold because she was too busy standing or too busy bragging to the family next to her that you were her granddaughter.
your parents weren’t there that day. hardly ever. you could count on your hand the number of times they came to any of your competitions. running a company wasn’t easy. they were always overseas, handling company matters, or smiling on magazine covers. people knew them as inspiring, powerful, and admirable.
at home, they were distant.
you learned at an early age to never expect anything from them. not at competitions. not at birthdays. not even at the dinner table. when they were home, it was brief. the scent of their expensive perfume and cologne lingered longer than their presence. and somehow, with barely being there, they always found something to criticize.
the way you answered. the way you didn’t answer. even going as far as to critiquing the competitions they were never there for.
“second place isn’t first.”
“what’s the point of competing if you can’t place first.”
“you should’ve rotated faster.”
praises came rarely. silence was expected. disappointment was predictable. compliments were backhanded. your grandmother, though, never asked for you to be better. she asked you if you were happy.
and for a long time, that was enough for you.
you eventually ended up falling in love with figure skating.
—
you’re twenty-seven now.
the rink is no longer small. the air isn’t filled with the smell of worn-out crappy rental skates and cheap hot chocolate.
you’d never thought it would become this.
sharper. intimidating. colder.
going from something so local, doing twirls on a quiet rink. just spinning in circles until you were dizzy. just a little girl running away from her loud thoughts. you’d never imagine that those twirls would turn into medals. that those small competitions would turn into national rankings, into people knowing your name. that something you loved would become the one thing that carried you out of the house some days. and now, you stand on Olympic ice, representing the United States. thousands cheering you on, chanting your name. millions watching your every move, every spin, every slide, every jump.
your heart pounds with excitement, pride blooming inside your chest. you felt alive.
there is only one thing missing. one person.
the one whose laugh lit up a whole room. the one who clapped and cheered you on the loudest. the one who’s smile made the world feel easier, safer, brighter.
your grandmother. she’s not there.
not physically. two years have passed.
nothing could bring back her warmth, her love. you can still feel her, not in the crowd, not in the lights. but in every spin, every jump. she’s with you.
you skate for her. for the little girl she saw. for the potential she saw. for the unconditional love that carried you this far. tonight, you practice your routine one last time. the arena is empty, in silence except for the scrape of your skates.
the music isn’t playing yet. it doesn’t need to. you feel routine in your bones, like it’s imbedded into you.
tomorrow, the world will be watching. but tonight, it’s just you and the ice. just you and her.
—
the plane hums beneath jungkook, the white noise in his ears louder than the cheers that still echo in his head.
he just finished a concert in the Belgium an hour ago. now he sits in a window seat somewhere over Europe on route to Italy.
his voice feels sore. body aching in ways it didn't yesterday. every muscle hurts from the stage, yet there’s no time for rest. not when the Olympics are waiting. whoever told his manager that in the middle of their world tour, they’d make a pit stop to go to the olympics for a sponsorship deserves jail time.
he should feel excited. he should feel proud. but all he feels right now is exhausted.
he leans back, closes his eyes, and lets his thoughts consume him.
beside him, the members talk in low, excited voices.
“i can’t wait to see her,” jimin squeals.
“she’s amazing, really. the way she moves on ice, it’s unreal,” namjoon adds.
“i’ve watched her videos a dozen times. i swear, she’s so talented,” yoongi says.
jungkook opens his eyes, curiosity tugging at him despite the exhaustion. he turns to see what they’re talking about. looking up at the tv, and your face appear, the video paused mid-spin.
jungkook feels a tug in his heart.
his chest tightens in a way he doesn’t expect. he shifts, blinking at the screen again, trying to shake off the feeling. but the pull doesn’t fade.
beside him, taehyung glances at him, grinning. “i thought you were tired,” he teases.
“i am, you guys are just being loud,” jungkook replies.
he leans back against the seat, looking out at the sky.
jimin chuckles, “that’s y/n, she’s on the figure skating team.”
jungkook hums, shrugging, pretending to be uninterested, like the pull isn’t still there.
y/n.
hearing your name makes him even more intrigued, feeling a sense of urgency to know more about you just from the paused clip he just saw.
his thoughts get interrupted by some turbulence on the plane, realizing he’s been thinking about you for an oddly amount of time. but the thought of you still doesn’t fade, and for the first time in hours, the exhaustion in his bones doesn’t feel as heavy as it did.
—
the next day comes quickly, sunlight filters softly through your hotel curtains. your phone buzzes instantly on the pillow next to you. groaning, you grab it and scroll through the notifications. endless messages from friends back home wishing you good luck. your aunt and uncles congratulating you for making it this far and to bring home that gold medal.
you scroll down until reaching the bottom and notice you haven’t received any messages from your parents.
you set your phone down, biting the inside of your cheek. you try not to think too much on it. after a moment, you pick your phone back up and dial your mothers number first. it goes straight to voicemail. then you dial your fathers. straight voicemail as well.
you exhale and let out small smile. no point dwelling on the expected. not today at least.
you swing your legs over the side of the bed and get up. quickly making your bed before walking towards your bathroom. the day ahead will be long. press interviews start soon, you have to mentally prepare for the same questions you’ve answered thousands of times. “what do your parents think about all of this?” “will your parents be present today?” “how are your parents?” and then finally, the ice.
you shower, get dressed, and fix your hair. your stomach flutters, your heart pounds.
when you walk into the lobby, dozens of reporters and cameras are waiting for you. you smile politely, answer their questions, pose for photos. and through it all, the nervous energy in your chest grows.
once you are escorted back to your room to prepare for warm-ups, you feel the grin creeping across your face. despite the nerves and the weight of everyone’s expectations, you feel it: the excitement.
unfiltered, true, exhilarating excitement.
today, you skate for yourself.
—
when you enter the arena, you follow your team down the long corridor, blades clicking against the polished floor, heart racing at an abnormal pace, excitement actively growing in your chest. warm-ups begin with long glides across the ice, stretching your legs, waking them up. you move through your spins with precision, starting small, just to feel the balance, then larger, faster, letting your body remember what you’re capable of.
after twenty minutes of practice, you sit on a cold metal bench alongside your teammates. taking a moment to catch your breath. the chatter of your teammates float around you. the quiet praising, nervous laughter, and last minute tips echo across the rink. the adrenaline still buzzing in your veins doesn’t let you pay much attention, your heart hasn’t settled, and the excitement you feel is still buzzing.
you pull out your phone from your backpack. a message notification pops up: Mom & Dad.
for a second you hesitate on opening it, already guessing what they said. you open it anyways.
“good luck today, try not to embarrass the family name, yeah? make us proud. bring it home.”
your chest tightens.
their congratulations always came with a backhanded comment. their love filtered through criticism. you stare down at your screen, rereading the message, a bitter taste rising, but force it down. at least they texted you? that’s something.
you put your phone away, take a long, deep breath, and glance back at your team. one of them gives you a reassuring nod, and you return it. you get up and walk towards the locker room to get changed. a flicker a determination sparks inside of you.
you inhale slowly, deeply, letting yourself feel the cold air. regardless of the lack of support from your parents, your still proud of yourself.
you made it here. to the Olympics. through early mornings and bruised knees. the lonely dinners and empty seats in the crowd. you’re twenty-seven, standing on Olympic ice. about to perform to millions.
you’ve spent months preparing for this. sleepless nights. perfecting every spin. repeating every jump until your body remembers it without thinking. you feel confident. you have nothing to lose. because by just being here, representing your country, doing something you love; you’ve already won. you’re an olympian.
a real genuine smile spreads across your face as you walk into the locker room. today, you’ll prove to yourself that you were and will always be capable.
—
the sponsorship event ended earlier than jungkook expected.
the cold italy air hits his face as he step into his car. he exhales, finally letting his shoulders drop. It’s been a long morning, endless handshakes, flashes, and smiles that feel practiced but polite.
he slide into the backseat, adjusting himself.
jimin is already talking.
“we need to get there early,” he says, almost bouncing in his seat. “i want to see the rink before it fills up.”
yoongi agrees, “yeah, and i heard some of the skaters will be around warming up. it’d be cool to meet them.”
jungkook chuckles, raising his eyebrow. “since when were you two ever interested in figure skating?”
jin chimes in, “since they saw y/n”
yoongi doesn’t look up from his phone, “you’ll understand when you see her in person.”
jungkook hums, leaning back against the leather seat as the car pulls away from the curb. there’s a quiet anticipation building in his chest. he’s excited to see all the performances, but he’s most excited about the one skater his members won’t stop talking about.
by the time they arrive to the arena, even through tinted windows, flashes immediately appear, cameras everywhere. screaming. chaos erupting.
“they’re early, the competition doesn’t even start until an hour from now,” hoseok mutters, fixing his hair.
the doors open and security moves fast.
jungkook steps out, bowing, smiling waving. bright lights everywhere he looke, microphones being pushed, paparazzi calling his name.
“jungkook! right here!”
he maintains a calm expression, offering a small wave. jimin flashes a grin. the rest keep their heads down. once they make it inside, the doors shut and the noise dies instantly. they immediately follow their guide through long hallways, walls lined with Olympic banners and flags from every country. when they finally step into the rink area, the cold hits first. then the sound - clean scrapes of ice. he sees a few skaters already warming up, gliding across the massive rink.
namjoon turns to the guide. “is she here yet?”
the guide chuckles knowingly, “you’re talking about y/n, right?”
jimin and yoongi immediately nod, “yes!”
“she finished her warm-ups not too long ago, if you’d like to meet her, i can ask her team manager if she’s available to meet you guys before the competition starts.”
the members all look at each other.
“if it’s not a problem, please,” namjoon says.
the guide walks off towards the locker room.
yoongi lean against the railing, “this is insane, meeting an olympian before they compete. this is so cool.”
jin chuckles, “if she even agrees.”
jungkook doesn’t say anything. he watches the ice. his heart unknowingly beating heavy. not from exhaustion, but from anticipation.
the guide returns shortly after, smiling.
“she said she’d love to meet you.”
the members smile, following the tour guide to your room. jungkook follows from behind, feeling a sense of nervousness he can’t quite shake.
—
you sit in front of the mirror, retouching your makeup for what feels like the hundredth time while chatter continues around you. reminders about timing and techniques, complaints about the temperature, jokes to ease the tension all fade as you stare at yourself in the mirror.
in. out. in. out.
the adrenaline you felt from earlier still buzzing beneath your skin.
“yknow, you’re shockingly calm right now, i thought you’d be panicking,” your teammates jokes.
you look up, shrugging, “if i panic, then ill for sure throw up.”
that earns a few laughs throughout the room. conversation is cut short as the locker room door suddenly opens.
your team manager comes in, slightly out of breath, “sorry to interrupt,” he says quickly, looking around the room before spotting you and pointing at you, “y/n, there’s a group here asking to meet you before the competition.”
you blink. “me?”
he nods, “the BTS members.”
a few gasps immediately fill the room.
“are you for real?” your teammates almost chokes.
another one follows, grabbing your arm, “oh my god, you have to say yes!”
you let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head at their reactions. you knew BTS, of course you did. it was basically impossible not to. they were everywhere. articles, social media, billboards. your younger cousins used to force you to watch the same stuck in a car video of them during family gatherings.
you didn’t think much of it, they’re celebrities. this was probably one of those publicity thing tied to the olympics.
“okay,” you replied, grabbing your skates, “i’ll meet them.”
your manger smiles, “okay, come with me”
you nod, getting up from your seat before following your manager towards the door. behind you, your teammates groan dramatically.
“no way you’re seriously going to act normal about this,” one of them complains.
“they’re just people.” you laugh, shaking your head.
“just people? if jeon jungkook asked to meet me i’d pass out on the spot.” another says, pressing a hand on their forehead.
you roll your eyes, ignoring the last comment as follow your manager down the hallway. the sound of their complains slowly fading behind you, replaced by the sound of scrapes alongside the ice somewhere in the arena.
your manager walks beside you, glancing over you with a small smile.
“from what their guide told me, they seemed actually excited to meet you.”
you raised a brow, “really?”
he nods. “apparently the younger ones watch your competition videos.”
a laugh escapes you, “that’s random.”
your manager stops in front of one of the private suites near the rink. you could hear muffled voices and laughter coming from behind the door.
he looks at you, “ready?”
you nod. “sure.”
he steps aside, letting you open the door yourself.
the moment the door opens, several heads turn your direction.
“oh—!”
“hi!”
“she’s here!”
the room suddenly fills with greetings all at once. your eyes widen slightly at the overwhelming energy thrown at you all at once. still, you shyly smile, bowing your head.
“hi,” you greet, “it’s nice to meet you all.”
you greet the members one by one, with them introducing themselves to you, offering friendly smiles and greetings that immediately ease the awkwardness. jimin looks the most excited, while taehyung beams at you like he knows you personally.
the room feels lighter than expected. easier.
then suddenly, the door behind you opens again. everyone’s attention shifts towards it immediately.
“there you are.” yoongi mutters with amusement.
you turn slightly just as the figure steps into the room, he pauses near the doorway after noticing everyone staring at him.
“what?” he asks, evidently confused.
then his eyes scan the room. past the members. past his manager. past your manager, until they land on you.
and stops. the air changes in a way you can’t describe.
jungkook freezes for half a second, visibly caught off guard by your presence. his expression softens instantly, eyes widening before he quickly tries to compose himself.
meanwhile, you blink back at him quietly. for a moment, neither of you say anything to each other.
then jimin grins knowingly beside you.
“jungkook,” he says loudly, breaking the silence, “this is y/n.”
jungkook clears his throat, heat immediately growing across his face.
“right,” he says, stepping forward, “hi, i’m jungkook”
“hi,” you reply softly.
you extend your hand towards him. the moment he wraps his hand around yours, he stills.
his grip remains gentle, but he doesn’t let go.
a second passes.
then another.
and another.
long enough for the entire room to notice.
taehyung bites back a laugh. yoongi hides away to hide his growing smirk. hobi looks visibly uncomfortable.
realizing a little too late, jungkook finally lets go, scratching the back of his head, mumbling a quiet, “sorry.”
but even after pulling away from you, his eyes never leave yours.
the silence afterwards lingers for a moment. not unbearable. just noticeable.
jungkook steps back beside his members while you nervously bite your cheek. the room feels warmer than before despite the cold air you were just complaining about.
thankfully, the members don’t let the tension sit for long.
“haha, okay. enough staring at her. you’re creeping her out,” yoongi says flatly.
“i wasn’t staring,” jungkook rebuttals almost immediately.
jimin snorts beside him, “sure.”
small laughter immediately erupts in the room, changing the atmosphere almost immediately. you smile quietly to yourself, shaking your head as namjoon dramatically throws an arm around jungkooks shoulder.
“he’s just shy,” namjoon tells you.
“hyung,” jungkook groans while everyone else laughs again.
conversation begins to flow, they ask you questions about skating - like how long you’ve been competing, whether spins actually make you dizzy. hobi looks genuinely horrified when you explain how skaters have to practice through injuries. namjoon listens attentively while you speak, while jimin and taehyung excitedly ask about outfits and choreography.
it feels easy talking to them. comfortable in way.
but somehow, throughout conversation, your attention keeps shifting elsewhere. towards jungkook. every single time your eyes wander across the room, they meet jungkooks instantly - like he’s been looking at you first.
and everytime it happens, you swear your heart does a backflip. he’s quieter than others, mostly listens while everyone else speaks, but his attention never seems to fully leave you. even when someone else is talking, you can feel him in the corner of your eye.
it would’ve made anyone else uncomfortable. it should make you uncomfortable. instead, it does the opposite. and you find yourself looking at him just as often.
conversation continues for a while. the awkwardness from earlier slowly fading away beneath teasing comments and casual conversation. making you almost forget where you were for a moment.
than your manager glances down at his watch, his expression shifting immediately.
“y/n,” he says gently, getting everyone’s attention, “you have just about 20 minutes until you go on,”
the atmosphere changes almost instantly - not negatively, just sharper. the competition.
it’s almost like you’re brought back to real life. making your stomach flip at the reminder.
“right,” you murmur, nodding once.
“i guess we lost track of time,” namjoon jokes.
“we’ll be watching,” jimin says quickly.
you smile at them softly, warmth blooming in your chest despite the nerves. somehow, within the short amount of time you’ve known them, they’ve made you feel almost lighter - more relaxed than you’ve felt in a while.
before you can excuse yourself, taehyung speaks up.
“wait,” he says, “we’re going out to dinner tonight after the competition. we’d love for you to join.”
your brows lifts slightly, “dinner?”
“yeah,” jimin agrees, “if you’re not too exhausted, of course.”
you laugh quietly at that.
“it’ll be fun,” namjoon adds.
you hesitate for a second. not because you don’t want to - you do. but because you’re not used to things like this. casual invitations. people actually wanting to hang out with you outside of ice skating.
looking around the room at their hopeful expressions, you find yourself nodding.
“okay,” you say, “i’d like that.”
for some reason, your eyes flicker at jungkook after saying it. and the small smile that appears on his face makes your stomach flutter unexpectedly.
you bid your goodbyes with each member, bowing your head politely, “thank you for inviting me.”
“of course,” taehyung smiles.
your eyes land on jungkook.
the room suddenly feeling quieter around him.
you offer a smile, a genuine one.
“it was really nice meeting you,” you say.
jungkook looks caught off guard for a second before smiling back.
“yeah,” he says gently, “you too.”
you stare at each other for another second before finally turning towards the door and leaving with your manager beside you.
as you leave the room, you can almost hear your heartbeat pounding through your chest. the hallway feeling colder after the warmth of the suite.
you’re halfway back to your locker room when you hear hurried footsteps behind you.
“wait—!”
you stop abruptly. turning around just as jungkook jogs towards you, slightly out of breath like he just rushed out without thinking first.
jungkook slows once he reaches you, scratching the back of his head nervously.
“sorry,” he begins, laughing awkwardly, “you just— you never gave me your number,”
you blink. visibly caught off guard. why would you need his number?
“for the dinner,” he adds quickly, “so i can send you the location. the details.”
you can’t help but giggle at how visibly nervous he suddenly seems.
“right,” you say, pulling your phone out of your pocket, “that would probably be helpful.”
he laughs quietly, the nerves instantly disappearing as he takes your phone and puts his number in.
once he finishes putting his number in, he hands you your phone back, smiling ear to ear.
“and…good luck today. i know you’ll do really good.” he praises.
a hint a red instantly spreads across your cheeks. “thanks,” you reply.
for a second, neither of you move.
then after what feels like forever, your manger lets out a fake cough, immediately bringing the both of you back into reality.
you blink, realizing you both had been standing in the middle of a cramped hallway staring at each other in complete silence.
“ill text you,” he saids, “about the dinner.”
“okay,” you agree, “i’ll be waiting,” you add.
another pause.
“oookayy,” he says clearing his throat, evidently uncomfortable. “we really need to head back so you can change into your outfit.” he adds.
“okay,” you chuckles.
“right,” jungkook mumble. “you should probably go and get ready.”
you nod, “yeah, i probably should.”
“bye y/n.” jungkook says softly
“bye jungkook.” you grin.
with one last smile, jungkook turns and walks back to the suite. you watch him slowly disappear, your eyes lingering a second longer before turning away.
a smile my tugging at your lips before you can stop it.
now you definitely have to win first place today.
a/n : this has been in my drafts since february, and was lowkey just meant for me but i decided to say yolo and post it. hopefully you like it, kisses xx😚🎀
✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader
✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Situationship, idol!au, angst, smut, coworkers, love triangle maybe
✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Across sleepless cities on tour, you and Yoongi cling to each other in an unspoken arrangement neither of you knows how to end until someone new makes you wonder if you should.
✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter warnings: not in fic order: kim effin’ namjoon :3, probably wrong ways to set up mic packs, yoonmin, kim seokjin the knower, yearning, angst, i switched the tour schedule of paris and munich for the plot, lyrics of SDL used as a new song, the smut!, cock sucking, cockwarming, cum facial-ish, p in v, implied big dick yoongi <3, yoongi being bad at all kinds of sports except basketball, mc being bad at all kinds of feelings, yoongi’s toe (this is serious), the last smut scene is a lot to handle bec emotional sex, yoongi wants to make out with MC so bad lol
✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 9k
✎ ˎˊ˗ Betaread by: Aqua (this is for you!), Tea, and Catie. ILY my queens.
✎ ˎˊ˗ Playlist by @angellekookie
✎ ˎˊ˗ Banner by @risky-peaches
✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Thanks for waiting patiently for this one. To all the SM!Yoongi haters, let’s talk after 😀 Enjoy!
Series Masterlist | Masterlist
[Brussels, BE, July 2026]
The VCR is already rolling, the massive 360 screens pulling the audience’s attention while backstage moves in controlled chaos.
You’re digging through the rack of bright cloaks—the ones everyone throws on for the next entrance so the members can blend in and slip onto the stage unnoticed. They switch up colors sometimes, nothing serious. Members just have to make sure they enter with the group wearing the same color so they don’t stand out.
Usually, red goes first, then blue.
You slip your red one on, pull it over your head. You should be in the zone, but are still a little salty about the interaction with Yoongi earlier. But it’s whatever.
“Which color are you taking today?” you ask. He always picks the blue coat, but for some reason, you’re hoping he goes with your color instead. You don’t know why. You just do.
“Don’t really care. I just pick whatever.”
You hum, a little disappointed. He knows what color group you’re in. And he should be smart enough to know why you’re asking.
“Wae? Why are you pouting?”
“Nothing.”
You don’t elaborate. You just walk away.
You button the front and smooth it out, then you tug the hood tighter. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him glance at you, then away.
Seokjin walks by, a crimson delight. You’re curious when Yoongi stops him in his path, a blue coat hanging from the crook of his arm.
“Hyung.” Yoongi holds up the coat in his hand. “Trade.”
“Why?”
“Yah.” Yoongi impatiently shoves his blue cloak to his elder. “Just do it.”
Yoongi’s gaze lands on you.
There’s a second where Seokjin looks behind him and spots you too, then he grins. “Aah, I see how it is.”
You look away, suddenly feeling embarrassed. What does Seokjin mean by that?! Surreptitiously, you view their interaction through a mirror on the side.
“Hyung,” Yoongi says flatly, eyes closed.
“Okay, okay,” Seokjin laughs, already shrugging off the red.
Before you know it, Yoongi walks towards your group, adjusts the red sleeves, checks the buttons, like normal.
You can’t look at him because your heart is doing dumb shit in your chest right now.
“Happy?” he asks, low enough so only you can hear.
“You said you didn’t care.”
“I don’t,” he says immediately.
“Clearly.”
He shakes his head, but there’s the faintest pull at the corner of his mouth. “Now you can stop sulking.”
It’s stupid how much that small thing sticks with you. Matching colors with him. Walking to the stage with him by your side, arms brushing slightly.
Maybe it was nothing.
But lately, despite all the rules you've set for yourself, you've started collecting these little moments with Yoongi.
Little things that probably don't mean much on their own.
It's probably reckless to give them a place in your heart and revisit them later, to let yourself wonder if they're adding up to something more.
Still, this one really feels worth keeping.
⊙⊝⊜
[London, UK, July 2026]
Backstage is once again in motion. Cables snake across the floor, staff weaving through each other with practiced urgency, voices overlapping through comms as the low roar of the crowd seeps faintly through the walls.
You’re halfway through helping reset a prop when Angel grabs your wrist.
“Hey,” she says, already pulling you along. “I need you on Yoongi. His in-ear was acting up earlier.”
“Since when am I in technicals, or wardrobe?” you mutter, but you’re already moving.
“Since…” her voice trails, shooting you a wink. “You decided to become a tour slut.” Then she goes back to professional mode, handing you the spare tape and a headset. “Just check the pack. You know how.”
You do.
That’s kind of the problem with this job. Everyone knows a little bit of everything, and suddenly you’re doing things that aren’t technically yours.
And when you think about it—it’s not just things.
People, too.
Like the man in front of you.
You sigh and slip the headset on as you approach him.
Yoongi’s standing off to the side, dressed for stage, mic already fitted, absently adjusting his bracelet.
“Angel sent me,” you say. “Need to check the pack.”
He glances at you, then nods once, turning his back without a word.
You crouch behind him, one knee rooted on the floor for balance. Your fingers find the small wireless set clipped at the back of his waistband.
“Your right side was cutting earlier,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him as you check the cable connection.
“Mm.” He glances back at you, expression unreadable.
“Can you lift your shirt?”
He doesn’t question it. Just hooks his fingers into the hem of his tee and lifts.
You’ve seen this before. His slender waist, the black band of the non-descript boxer-briefs he likes to wear. And you’ve been in this position before, mouth busy, tear ducts on overdrive, knee caps a little red.
Your eyes linger on his body before you can stop them, catching the line of his waist, the muscles on his back, the lean stretch of his torso… Shit. You swallow it down just as fast.
Focus.
You reach back to adjust the strap of the pack properly against his waist, tightening it so it sits secure. Your fingers brush against warm skin for a split second and you draw your hand away quickly as if you got burned.
You tap your headset monitor, nodding to Yoongi. “Say something.”
“Something,” he says, flat.
You huff. “You’re so helpful.”
“Thought that’s what you asked for.”
You shake your head, adjusting the cable one more time just to be sure. “Again. Properly. If this fucks up, you’re the one singing without a monitor, not me.”
With his cooperation, you finally get things sorted out, but before you can go, his voice crackles in your ear.
“Hey, Y/N.”
He speaks in a frequency just for his and your set.
You stop at your tracks, adjusting your mic. “What?”
You turn to see the glint in his shadowy eyes, enough to know that when he speaks again, it’s not for audio checking. “You look pretty.”
Your brain takes a second too long to catch up.
Because between his sheets, he has sung your praises. Hot. Sexy. So tight. But not like this. Not with his eyes a little too fond, telling you you’re Pretty, of all things. You don’t know what else to do but deflect.
“Pretty cause I got on my knees for you?” You smirk, deliberately making it sound crass. Because you can’t fathom the alternative. The tenderness, the gentleness in the way he said it.
There’s the most minute crease on his brow before someone calls his name across the room. And then he’s gone before he can answer.
You’re left standing there, headset buzzing softly in your ear, trying to remember what you were doing before your brain short-circuited over one word.
⊙⊝⊜
[Paris, FR, July 2026]
You’re in Paris, the city of love, and Yoongi’s been in your mind a little more than usual. Over a cheese croissant, you thought about it: inviting him. Granted, you can’t have him in your room because your twin accommodations aren’t exactly conducive for the activities you usually partake in, but maybe at least you can initiate.
Maybe even ask if he wanted to walk somewhere. You know, get food… then coffee… stroll along the Seine riverside like every other tourist…
The idea flies out the window and flings itself onto incoming traffic the moment you spot him backstage fifteen minutes before showtime.
Yoongi is sprawled across one of the couches, one arm stretched lazily along the backrest. And directly in front of him sits the prettiest faerie in all the land. Park Jimin.
See, this thing between “YoonMin” has always intrigued you. You’ve always thought the boys were platonic, because the alternative would border on incest with how their brotherhood almost runs deeper than blood. But these two looked like they always had something different.
“Can you braid my hair, hyung?” Jimin asks with a little pout.
Yoongi, whose fingers were already absently playing with the edges of the younger’s blonde tips to begin with, nods his assent.
You shouldn't linger. You have somewhere to be. Yet somehow your feet stay planted.
From your shadowy corner backstage, you watch Yoongi gather sections of Jimin's hair with surprising care. His fingers move deftly, practiced, like this isn't the first time he's done it.
Jimin says something you can't hear and Yoongi huffs a laugh, open and wide, almost a guffaw. That’s a real one, unlike those tiny chuckles you’ve seen in interviews. You wonder, almost bitterly, if he’s ever laughed like that with you.
Fuck. You gotta snap out of it and get it together. You have a show to do and this is ridiculous. Jimin is Jimin and Yoongi has known him for half his life.
But when Yoongi finishes the last knot and pats the younger man's head absentmindedly afterward, something contorts in your stomach.
A staff member rushes past you, breaking the moment.
When you look back again, Jimin is already smiling bright and toothy at whatever Yoongi says next and Yoongi’s eyes are shining.
For some reason, you find yourself thinking about the word he'd called you over comms in London. Pretty. Then you immediately hate yourself for it. Because one word doesn't change anything. You’d do your best to remember that.
⊙⊝⊜
Namjoon: Are you bored?
You: save me
Namjoon: Yeah, that’s why I texted.
It’s your last night in Paris and the city glittered beyond the open balcony doors.
It was close to eleven and the sky was washed in the deepest navy. Beyond the wrought-iron railing, rooftops stretched endlessly beneath a sea of golden lights.
And there, impossibly, the Eiffel Tower. You keep catching yourself looking at it. You don’t wanna be dramatic, but hello?! That’s the Eiffel Tower and it just feels ridiculous that it's right there.
Growing up, Paris existed in movies, postcards, textbooks and now you're sitting on a hotel balcony with a direct view of it.
This is not your hotel room, obviously. Yours has a stunning view of the adjacent building's white-washed wall.
But Namjoon's room? WOW.
You briefly wonder how long it takes before views like these stop feeling surreal.
The warm summer air drifts through the balcony as you sit cross-legged on one of the loungers, while Namjoon occupies the chair opposite yours, glasses slipping lower down his nose as he scrolls absently through something on his phone.
He suddenly exhales through his nose, locks the screen, and tosses it onto the table between you. “Can I ask you something weird?”
You squint at him immediately. “Sus, but okay?”
“Do you think…” He pauses, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Do you think people like me actually have a shot at normal love?”
“That’s kinda… loaded.”
“Mm.”
“Also, define normal.”
“You know what I mean.” Namjoon leans back, sighs.
“I dunno.” You shrug. “Is love ever normal?”
Namjoon shifts slightly, gaze drifting toward the Eiffel now instead of you. “Maybe I’m just too hopeless.”
“Why do you think that?”
“You know.” He sighs from deep within his chest. “This life. Always seen. Always moving. Never really staying anywhere long enough.”
“I think the right person wouldn’t care that your life’s this.” You smile faintly, swirling the wine inside your glass. “They’d just wanna be part of it regardless.”
He nods. “I think I’d be happier if I did have someone.”
Your eyes flick toward him. He’s looking at you. Eyes filled with exhaustion, but wrapped in sincerity. His life is never gonna be normal, you both know this. Idol life is not for the weak. And despite all his struggles, Kim Namjoon is still one of the strongest people you’ve ever known.
“Like…” He searches for the words carefully, elbows resting against his knees now. “Someone who actually knows me outside all this. Someone to come home to eventually. I like imagining that. Going to work, home by 7, and there’s a home-cooked meal and someone to have dinner with… Like I’m just a normal fuckin’ guy.”
Your heart bleeds a little. “I think wanting somebody to come home to is probably the most normal thing about you.”
Namjoon laughs softly, almost embarrassed by himself. “After shows I know everybody goes somewhere. Hobi likes to go out. Jin is perpetually on a video call with Hana. Kook, Tae, I know they get up to stuff. They got lives. And I dunno, I just…” He shrugs. “I feel it more lately.”
Loneliness. That’s what this is. Not dramatic loneliness. Just the quiet adult kind. The kind that makes you feel small and sneaks up on you in big hotel rooms after midnight. Like now. You understand exactly what he means.
“Namjoon-ah, I think somebody out there is gonna love you so much that all this,” you gesture vaguely around the area, “won’t scare them away. You’re gonna find them.”
Dots sink against his cheek and for a while neither of you speaks.
A dog barks. A group of women giggle. A police siren blares from a distance.
Then, Namjoon glances over. “What about you?”
You immediately groan. “Absolutely not. We are not doing this.”
“Oh, come on. I was vulnerable. Give me something here.”
“Nope. You’re not baiting me.”
“You’re definitely the type.”
“The type to what?”
He grins, like he’s about to give you the best psychoanalysis ever. “To believe in serendipity and soulmates and all that shit.”
You stare at him blankly.
“No, hear me out.” He settles deeper into his chair. “You’re the kind of person who still thinks there’s meaning in things. Like if two people keep ending up in the same place over and over again, you think it’s fate.”
Looking away, you shake your head.
Namjoon points triumphantly. “See? That face means yes.”
You collapse backward dramatically against the seat. “God. I hate that you can read me.”
“So I’m right,” he says. “You are a hopeless romantic.”
Yup, read you like a damn book.
You pull your knees closer to your chest, staring down at your socks.
“I think…” You hesitate, suddenly feeling shy. “I think I’ve always assumed there’s somebody out there specifically for me.”
Namjoon doesn’t interrupt. So you keep going.
“Like not a fuckin’ prince charming or anything. Just someone…” You exhale softly. “Mine, I guess.”
The confession sounds embarrassingly earnest once it leaves your mouth.
But Namjoon just nods slowly like he understands.
“I know it’s stupid,” you mumble. “Eomma made me watch too many Disney fairytales.”
“It’s not.”
“Maybe not to you.” You laugh quietly. “But sometimes I feel kinda pathetic about it. Like everybody else grew out of wanting that.”
“You didn’t.”
“No,” you say quickly. “But, I also know now you have to be practical.”
“Practical how?”
“To just accept what version of love that’s handed to you. Even if it’s not perfect. Even if it’s just a semblance of it. At least it’s yours.”
Silence stretches again.
You’re not sure if Namjoon understands what you’re talking about. Or who you’re talking about.
Or if he even agrees with the idea.
You stare at the city lights again, voice quieter when you speak next.
“I’m scared of ending up alone.” You swallow once before continuing. You’ve only ever admitted this out loud to one person.
Namjoon’s expression softens almost painfully. “That won’t happen.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I don’t.” He smiles faintly. “But I still don’t think it’ll happen.”
You huff out a laugh through your nose when suddenly your phone lights up.
Someone’s calling. You once set a photo and a name for this person. But now, he’s just this emoji: 🙀for security and other reasons.
Just as quickly as you ended the call, it’s buzzing again.
“You gonna take that?” Namjoon asks.
You don’t think about it for long. Shake your head without further delay. “Nah.”
There’s a tiny click and a haptic feedback on your palm before you place your phone face down beside the ash tray.
Funny how Yoongi’s reminding you he exists in this exact time.
“You know what my toxic trait is?” you murmur after finishing your wine.
“What?”
You huff a soft, sad laugh. “I already know love is bullshit. But I still want it anyway.”
That finally makes Namjoon grin.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Me too.”
Something settles warmly in your chest from the strange comfort of being understood by somebody standing in the same weird in-between place as you.
“Wanna hug?”
Disarmed, you blurt. “No. I’m not wearing a bra.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly feeling chaste.
“Neither am I.”
The fuck?
Your expression pulls a real laugh out of him, loud and unrestrained, dimples cutting deep into his cheeks as he collapses sideways against the chair.
“You’re actually so stupid,” you wheeze.
He stands up and holds one arm open anyway.
You stare at him for a second before rolling your eyes dramatically and scooting over.
The hug is brief. Warm. Just two lonely human beings holding onto each other for a second longer than usual.
You find yourself wondering how many lonely people are out here tonight.
In a city this big, probably thousands. But for a little while, there are two less.
Neither of you realizes that as a balcony door shuts somewhere nearby, there’d be one left.
***
[Munich, GE, July 2026]
Yoongi asks you to come over after the first show. Not unusual. What is unusual is that you still have your clothes on. Usually your garments would be flying right off within the first minute or two, especially since you haven’t gotten with him since before Paris.
But not this night, it seems. You even skipped the panties tonight- that's how quick and dirty you thought this would be.
“Give me ten minutes,” he says the second he opens the door, already turning back toward his small setup near the windows, laptop, a tiny keyboard, and a small mic. “I’m just finishing something.”
You narrow your eyes. “Wow.”
He glances back. “What?”
“You’re making me wait.” You kinda sound bratty there, but too late for regrets. “It’s almost my bed time.”
His mouth twitches faintly as he pushes his glasses higher up his nose. “Stay up for me, baby.”
You scoff under your breath because he is so mean for weaponizing that word, but you toe your shoes off anyway, wandering deeper into the suite while he settles back into the chair in front of his laptop.
You sink into the couch with a sigh. The exhaustion hits you almost immediately. You’re wrung out even more than usual.
Across the room, Yoongi works quietly, keyboard making subtle tapping sounds, mouse clicking every few seconds. Every now and then he mutters something under his breath.
You watch him for a while and you realize there’s something strangely intimate about seeing this part of him. After a few minutes, he leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Can I ask you something?”
You stifle a yawn. “Shoot.”
“I, uh, wrote something.”
Yoongi stares at the screen for another few seconds before finally sighing through his nose.
“I need to know if it’s shit.”
“Okay, read it to me.”
Reluctantly, he mumbles the lyrics in that low rough voice of his. You listen carefully, curled deeper into the couch cushions.
참 말야 바람대로 되는 게 없지
Really there’s nothing that goes the way one wishes
인간관계란 정말 어려워 역시
Human relationships are really difficult, as expected
애초부터 맞지 않는 거였어
From the beginning, we weren’t meant to get along
우리 둘 사이 간극을
The gap between the two of us
좁혀 보려는 것 자체가 억지
it was a forceful attempt to narrow that gap
It’s sadder than what you expected. Lonelier, too. When he finishes, silence settles for a second.
Yoongi doesn’t look at you immediately. He just taps his fingers once against the armrest. “Well?”
You sit up slightly. “I mean…” You hesitate honestly. “I’m probably the worst person to ask. I know nothing about songwriting.”
He shrugs lightly.
“You don’t have to be an expert.” His gaze finally lifts toward yours. “You just gotta be human.”
Something about the way he says it catches you off guard. Like he’s asking for something simpler. More vulnerable. If it made you feel something.
“I think…” You chew on the inside of your cheek. “He feels tired.”
Yoongi’s brows lift slightly. “Tired?”
“Not physically.” You shake your head. “More like…” You search for the right words. “Like somebody who keeps trying, even when they already know how it’s gonna end.”
Silence.
You glance at him, feeling a little silly now. “That’s probably not what you meant, huh.”
“No. Keep going.”
You hate when people say that. Mostly because it means they were listening.
You tuck your feet beneath you. “It feels lonely, I guess. That line about not being able to close the gap.” You shrug. “It sounds like someone who really wanted to understand one person or be understood by them.”
Your voice softens, as a different thought arises. “But, was there really a gap in the first place? He should question that, too. Sometimes, things are much much simpler than what they seem.”
For a moment, Yoongi just stares at his screen. You wonder if you’ve rambled too much. But then he nods once slowly like you’ve landed somewhere close.
“Yeah.” The word is so quiet you almost miss it.
You smile faintly, leaning back. “Well, if your goal was to make people sad with just a few lines, congratulations.”
A small laugh escapes him. “That’s my brand, apparently.”
“You know,” you continue, “if that song had to be performed, I’d probably picture somebody standing alone after everyone else already left.”
His eyes flick up. “That’s specific.”
You shrug. “You asked a dancer.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You guys hear music and think about the track, the production. I hear music and immediately start seeing scenes in my head, movement.”
“Mm.” He leans back slightly. “Tell me what you see.”
You think about it. “A group of dancers in the center of the stage, moving away to reveal somebody sitting on a chair in the middle of their chaos.”
Your gaze drifts toward the city lights outside. “It’s like everybody else moved on already and they’re the only ones still trying to figure out where things went wrong.”
Yoongi is looking at you now. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before he breathes. “Damn.”
You don’t know what that means. You don’t think about it again, but sometime in the future, it’s a look that you'll remember.
Yoongi starts typing again after that, keyboard taps and mouse clicks lulling you to sleep like ASMR.
You’re not able to stifle your yawn, and it’s a big one.
“Go sleep in the bed,” Yoongi says and that is not the response you were expecting.
Your eyes widen instantly. “Uh, no.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s your bed.”
“And?”
“And I’m not sleeping there.”
“Y/N.”
“I’m literally fine.” You curl stubbornly deeper into the couch. “See?”
Yoongi stares at you for a long moment, then shakes his head once. “Suit yourself.”
He disappears briefly into the bathroom while you pull one of the throw blankets over yourself. The couch is unfairly comfortable. Probably even more comfortable than your own bed. And maybe this is the only reason why you stay despite all the good reasons to just leave and pick up where you left off on another day.
You tell yourself you’ll stay awake. Just rest your eyes for a second. Give Yoongi more time because he is in a good flow.
That’s all.
The last thing you vaguely register is Yoongi returning to the room and the soft sound of music playing quietly somewhere near the desk again.
⊙⊝⊜
When you wake up the next morning, sunlight spills warmly across the softest white sheets. Slowly, you bolt upright in the bed, blanket slipping down your lap as your sleepy brain struggles to catch up.
This is not your hotel room.
Nope. This one’s big.
What the hell?
Then you see him. Dark mop of hair on the couch across the room, one arm hanging off the side, the other over his eyes.
Your heart stumbles painfully against your ribs as your mind plays a highlight reel of last night and the realization settles strangely inside your chest. He carried you to his bed and slept out there instead.
Huh. Well, that’s kind of sweet of him, isn’t it? He could have stayed in the same bed, it is his after all, and you’re probably too tired to hear him snore or anything like that. You stare at him fondly for a second too long before ice slides down your spine and panic finally catches up to you.
In all these months of whatever this is, you’ve never stayed the night ever. Shit. This is not great. In fact, this is a fucking mess. Oh my god. This is–
You’re clambering out of the bed, gathering your things with your pulse thudding wildly in your ears.
Yoongi shifts slightly on the couch and you freeze immediately.
Oh my god.
Fuck, he woke up.
Shit-shit-shit.
How can he be such a light sleeper?
“Y/N…”
“Yes?”
“Were you watching me sleep?”
“No!”
“Okay.”
You chew off a dry piece of skin from your lip as you watch him push himself up with a grunt.
“Why didn’t you just wake me up?” You really didn’t mean to, but it sounded like you were accusing him of something.
“You were tired,” he scratches the back of his head.
“You could have let me take the couch.”
Finally, his sleepy eyes meet yours. “I could have,” he says simply before a yawn takes over his face. The insinuation that he could have but he didn’t want to, like he wanted your comfort over his–god what is this you are feeling right now?
Yoongi stretches his arm up and the t-shirt rides up to show his abdomen and the happy trail leading down to… a tall tent in his shorts. You gulp. Because he’s looking very enthusiastic this morning. The fabric of his bottoms are so thin that you can almost see the actual shape of his cock and it’s not computing that you’ve been staring.
He knows, and he makes no move to cover or address the elephant or should you say the anaconda in the room.
Thoughts are forming in your brain, solidifying with each charged second.
“I’m doing room service. Wanna get somethin’ to eat?” He asks coolly, checking his phone for the time.
“Yeah, I do,” you respond firmly, knees burning subtly from where they hit the rough carpet.
Eager fingers curl on the waistband of his shorts, and not even a second later, he’s helping you ease it off him.
“This what you want?” he asks with a wicked grin, clearly enjoying himself. He settles at the edge of the cushion and leans back slightly, legs spread in invitation.
No reply is needed, nope, not when you suddenly have a mouthful of his dick and you get a string of pretty curses in response.
You lick him from the tip to the base, dragging the back of your tongue back up again. Eyes on him, you let your lips pucker, soft and sensual, along his firm length.
Breath quickening, Yoongi sighs, pleasure painted in his features as he watches every move you make. There’s something about having his full and undivided attention like this that makes you feel a little powerful. He’s used to the world watching him, but in this room, it’s like you’re the only one worth seeing and the thought spurs you to perform a little. Make it unforgettable.
You let spit dribble from your mouth like syrup, warm, viscous, pouring straight into the column of his cock in clear swirls. The tip of your tongue spreads it further, coating him inch by inch, before you wrap your lips around his head.
You peer up through your lashes, eyes Bambi-like and beautiful and he already looks positively destroyed.
“Love your mouth. Fuck.”
You moan a little before releasing him with a small pop and giving him a sly, teasing smile.
Licking the palm of your hand, you curl it around his shaft and give it a squeeze. It's a little squishy from your spit and you pump him just enough to see him hang his mouth open with the jolt of pleasure.
After a few firm tugs, he tips his head back with a grin, hair falling softly over his eyes. You absolutely don’t expect what he says next.
“Best morning ever,” he slurs unabashedly, shaking his head like he can’t believe his luck.
You giggle, still massaging his velvety skin. “You haven’t even cum yet.”
“Well whose fault is that?”
Oh?!
“Goodbye asshole. Suck your own co—” You make a move to stand up, but he plants you back down, palms on your shoulders.
“I’m joking, baby,” he says, all gummy-grinned and shit, rubbing your traps, and you hate it so much, but between that stupid smile and that fuckin’ word. Folded.
Yoongi grips his cock, teases the fat tip along your lips, slathering your own spit around your mouth like some kind of lip gloss. “C’mon, baby. You wanna finish what you started, hm?”
An indignant huff and you take him back in your mouth, suckling it noisily for show before you bring yourself forward, a choke rising involuntarily as he touches your tonsils halfway in.
Yoongi hisses. “‘ts what I'm talking ‘bout.”
You swallow once, relaxing your throat to take him further, swallowing again.
“Baby, that feels… fuck,” he praises. “You’re so good at this shit.”
Warmth is spreading on your cheeks, a little caught off guard because Yoongi is usually not this vocal. It seems he's a little less restrained this morning. Looser with praise and affection. Maybe because it’s early and he’s still halfway between sleep and wakefulness. You wouldn’t know for sure because the only time you’ve been with him at this early hour was in rehearsals.
Whatever the reason, there’s something less guarded about him right now from the sounds he lets slip to the way he keeps looking at you, sticky like molasses.
You tighten the seal of your mouth around his girth, bobbing your head up and down, sucking the life force out of him. Whatever doesn’t fit, you pump with a flick of your wrist, twisting your fist every time it bounces lightly against his balls.
“A-aah…”
Got this grown man stuttering and his deep grunts are making you gush between your thighs.
As salt starts to coat your tongue, a sharp, unexpected spark of pleasure shoots through you. It takes you a second to realize why. Yoongi’s toe scrapes your center, the material of your thin shorts offering little to no barrier against your bare cunt.
Is he—? Oh.
Okay.
Shit.
You’re already soaking through your shorts. The thin fabric clings to the slit between your folds, and his toe keeps brushing right over it.
Your mouth hovers his fat bulb, lips barely touching it as the tiny sparks from your cunt renders you immobile.
“You’re drooling everywhere, baby.”
And he’s not wrong.
You moan into his cock.
Honestly you’ve become a little distracted since he started wiggling because fuck—that feels so supremely divine—and you swear you don’t have a foot fetish or anything but! The motions are just driving you in-fucking-sane right now.
Yoongi lifts his hips slightly, thrusting upwards so he is just flopping against your mouth, sliding out to the side of your cheek, then back inside again.
Brain empty.
Pussy wet.
Eyes completely unfocused.
All the while he dips his candy-coated cock in and out of your pathetic mouth, yanking it back, smearing wetness all over your face, your chin, before sliding back in.
You want to regain your composure, you really do. But you love this, the mess he’s made of you, debauched and desperate for that monster between his legs.
Caressing your jaw, he tilts your chin up, bringing you back to the present. “Will you let me fuck your throat?”
You nod eagerly and he beams like he’s won something. He stands up and you adjust your stance, sitting on your heel like a well-mannered sub.
“You’re so good to me, baby,” he praises as you watch his reddened head poke in and out of his clenched fist. He gives it a few more pumps, a tiny pearl shining on the slit, before seeking entrance in your mouth.
Just as you open up for him, you lift your gaze to meet his. “You don’t have to be gentle.”
“Tss,” he huffs out a laugh. “You say that now.”
“Try me.”
Yoongi makes a few shallow passes, a gag getting caught in your throat as he goes deeper. You relax your jaw, breathe in sharply through your nose, as Yoongi really shoves it in, hips stuttering at a steady pace. Soon enough, he’s bucking into you with more force, the skin at the edges of your lips tears with every pass.
You’re crying now, oscillating between the pain and the pleasure as he wrecks your shit. Fingers threaded through your hair are spurring you forward as your throat tightens and molds to the shape of him.
You kind of regret egging him on now.
“Oh look at you,” Yoongi gasps. “So fuckin’ perfect. Go on, baby, you can touch yourself.”
It’s not like you to wait for his, or anyone’s, permission. And it just occurred to you that you were maybe waiting for it. What the–
“Mmph…” you cough violently when he unplugs, air finally rushing inwards like a salvation.
“You okay?” A thumb swipes a rogue tear from your cheek. “We can stop.”
“No, I’m fine.” You reply, shaking your head.
He studies you for a beat before agreeing, his expression morphing into something achingly fond as he tucks a stray tendril behind your ear.
Ignore ignore ignore
You busy your fingers underneath damp satin, rubbing your nub raw, distracting you from any discomfort from your abused throat or, worse, from the unsolicited affection. Shit. Thankfully you’re wound so goddamn tight and are just seconds away from tipping over the edge.
“Get yourself off, baby. Make yourself feel good. Wanna see you cum for me.”
Yoongi looks like the devil incarnate looking down on you like that, watching you pleasure yourself.
You're chasing your breath, deliriously close to your orgasm, but you’re able to croak out an instruction that you just know will snuff out the tenderness in his eyes before it undoes you.
“Paint my face.”
And it sure as hell works, if the way he begins pumping his dick furiously is any indication. Your brain helpfully supplies memories of him impaling you, reaching places inside no man has ever touched before. Soon you’re tipping forward, a desperate cry of his name ripping from your chest, your body heaving, clenching, shaking with the force of your release.
It’s a miracle you hear him beneath the static in your ear drums.
“Shit. Baby, show me your tongue.”
You stick it out for him, soft and flat.
Gripping his shaft, Yoongi slaps his angry-red tip on your wet muscle relentlessly, sloppy thwacks filling the room.
“Fuck,” he curses and gasps with each lewd stroke, tapping his cock into your open mouth, pumping it aggressively, groaning roughly. The veins in his hand flex with every move, and it’s obvious he’s close, so you encourage him.
“I need your cum, Yoongi…” you moan salaciously. “Please…”
You shut your eyes and even in the darkness behind your lids you can imagine his gentle features contorted in ecstasy and with a low growl he vandalizes your face with white-hot spurts of his cum.
It gets quiet after that, the aftermath.
You open your eyes and there it is again, feline eyes gone unexpectedly glassy. He starts rubbing the slick on your cheek, smoothing it like it needs to sink deep. You sense a bead near your mouth and you swoop it in with your tongue, lapping up the liquid with a satisfied hum.
Yoongi sighs, grins tiny. “Stay there.”
You shouldn’t. You should actually get up because your knees are burning, your face is feeling gooey, and a quick douse of warm water would clean you right quick.
Your heart pounds against your ribs because you know what’s next. The part you always refuse. The part you’ve always pretended to not care for.
Yoongi comes back with a washcloth, sits ass-bare on the couch and coaxes you to follow on his lap.
Gentle as ever, white is wiped from your skin. The hotel’s terry cloth is a little rough, but he’s so tender with it, one smooth swipe after another until the slick is gone. He flips the towel on the other side and passes it over your face again.
But when the cloth is gone, his own hand stays, thumb tracing the soft swoop of your jaw before brushing across your lower lip, catching it briefly against his finger before letting it slip free.
The gesture draws your attention to his mouth. His tongue flicks out unconsciously, wetting his lips beneath your stare.
God. Would it really be so bad?
It’s only, what, 8 am and he got you doing downright nasty shit, but the fantasy is still as simple as ever.
A kiss.
Slow and lush and unhurried and then maybe fast, faster, tongues tangling and from there it’s just impossible to stop.
You're so close you can imagine it: he cups your jaw, parts your mouth with his, kisses you over and over until you’re dizzy and breathless. You link your arms around his neck, pulling him closer…
“Y/N…” Yoongi snaps you out of your reverie.
You blink back to the present. “Yeah?”
“I fuckin’ hate your rule in case I haven’t told you,” Yoongi says matter-of-factly.
You smush his lips with your palm, shoving his face playfully away before you get off his lap.
It’s still at the tip of your tongue, you know.
His cum.
As well as the truth you almost say out loud:
You hate it, too.
⊙⊝⊜
It’s been about four months now since the tour kicked off. Long enough that the chaos feels a bit more controlled now.
At the beginning, every venue felt like a maze. Endless hallways, identical black curtains, staff corridors that all looked the same under fluorescent lighting. Now, you can just tell. You can step into a new stadium and figure it out within minutes. Which tunnel leads to where. Which stairwell gets you quickest to wardrobe. Which backstage corners have decent signal. Which production staff to avoid when they’re stressed.
Tour life doesn’t feel borrowed anymore. It feels like it’s yours. The girls help with that too.
You’ve become closer in the way only people surviving the same madness together can. Especially Angel who has started dragging you into wardrobe work whenever she’s overwhelmed and needs to yap with somebody. Now you moonlight beside her sometimes before shows, surrounded by rhinestones and loose thread while listening to her bomb ass playlists.
Your latest masterpiece had been Yoongi’s baseball jersey. Well, okay. Masterpiece might be generous. But you did spend almost 40 minutes bedazzling the name Tang and a tiny silver cat onto the sleeve.
You never told him it was you, but during soundcheck, you caught the exact moment he noticed it. His fingers brushed over the tiny rhinestone cat absently before his mouth twitched into that quiet amused grin he gets when something genuinely catches him off guard.
It just might be the prettiest smile you’ve seen on him.
⊙⊝⊜
And then, there’s Namjoon.
There are nights you end up eating backstage together, sharing food while he talks about whatever book currently has him spiraling philosophically. Other times he finds you stretching before rehearsals and starts rambling about his new Pokemon hyperfixation.
Nothing with Namjoon ever feels hidden or awkward.
Your conversations happen under bright lights. In crowded hallways. Out in the open where anybody could walk by and misunderstand absolutely nothing. Even when he invites you to hang out, it doesn’t feel like a secret. He even mentioned it one time within earshot of Jungkook, who seemed unfazed.
Sometimes you catch yourself wondering if this is what being close to someone is supposed to feel like.
Then you stop thinking about it before your mind wanders somewhere dangerous.
Because Yoongi—
God. That’s a puzzle. Maybe even a Rubik’s cube. Or twenty of them.
Because somehow everything between you has stayed exactly the same while also becoming completely different.
The arrangement hasn’t changed. You still slip into his room late at night. Still leave before morning. Still hide behind small rooms. Still finish quick and clean up fast.
But now you know things about him you didn’t before.
The face he makes when he’s concentrating on lyrics. How he goes soft when his eomma checks in late at night. His face in the morning when pleasure washes over his features.
And worse, he’s started knowing things about you, too.
Sometimes he does things that catch you so off guard it leaves you staring at him after like your brain can’t process what just happened.
Tiny things. Like calling you pretty. Like taking you to a Michelin-starred hole-in-the-wall in Madrid. You’re still a little fucked up about that, not gonna lie.
No matter, they’re inconsequential enough that you can still lie to yourself about them if you try hard enough. And it scares you because the closer you get to him, the harder it becomes to pretend losing him wouldn’t hurt. Though you know you have to. Eventually.
⊙⊝⊜
[East Rutherford, NJ, August 2026]
Production rented an entire pickleball rink in New Jersey and invited anyone who wants to play after the boys’ Run BTS shoot.
A couple of you signed up. You’ve tried it before and you’re pretty decent. Plus, there wasn’t much to do during your day-off and you didn’t want to go outlet shopping with Rei and the other girls.
Eventually you and Seung Eun, Angel, Tiff and some other staff members piled into a van and into The Rink.
The automatic doors slide open and cool air hits your skin instantly, carrying the sharp smell of rubber flooring and sports cleaner. Bright fluorescent lights spill across polished courts while music from an old BTS album (Love Yourself!) echoes faintly from overhead speakers.
On one court, you see Taehyung aggressively stretch like he’s competing in Wimbledon.
“Wow. He’s so serious about all this,” Angel mutters beside you.
“You’re literally wearing a whole tennis outfit.” You bump your hip against hers.
“It’s aesthetic.” She throws a wink over her shoulder before skipping happily towards her waiting man.
You find the equipment counter, observing the people who are still around. Jungkook and Jimin probably left already. Meanwhile, Namjoon is sweating buckets by the coolers and Yoongi—
Why is he still willingly here and… oh, he’s running towards you?
“Hello.” You say awkwardly. “Didn’t think I'll see you here.”
“Heard you signed up.”
“Uh, yeah…”
He’s dressed simply. Black shorts. Oversized grey shirt with a small sweat stain on his chest. A baseball cap tugged backwards which is doing inexplicable things to your mind.
“Been wanting to play again,” you murmur.
“You any good?”
“I’m decent.”
“Okay, one game?” He rolls his shoulder, kneading the muscle there.
“Is your shoulder okay to play?”
The question slips out too naturally. Shit. Months ago, this would’ve stayed trapped inside your head, buried beneath all your rules about what you were and weren’t allowed to care about.
Yoongi glances at you. “Mm,” he says. “It’s fine.”
“You sure?”
A beat.
Then the corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “You worried?”
Immediately defensive, you scoff. “No! I just don’t wanna win because your body is 90 years old.”
“Yah! I literally ran a marathon recently.”
“Mhmm and you almost died?” You grin slyly before grabbing an unmanned paddle on the counter, testing its weight. Then, you hit the side of his hip with it. He shakes his head at you, motioning his head for you to follow him.
“So did you win?” you ask about their Run BTS shoot.
“No.” He winces.
“Oh, so you suck at this, too?” You tease, recalling how he was teased relentlessly for his grandpa-esque foot volley performance.
He narrows his eyes on you, but before he gets a word out, you say, “I can give you some pointers, if you want?”
An arm suddenly slings around your shoulders.
“Y/N-ah.”
Namjoon.
You stumble slightly from the force of it, laughing immediately.
“You’re with me,” Namjoon declares. “Doubles.”
You glance instinctively toward Yoongi and his expression doesn’t change much at all, but his gaze flicks once toward Namjoon’s arm around you before dropping away.
Yoongi licks his teeth as he declares his teammate. “Jin-hyung and me versus you two.”
Which you didn’t think was unfair at first, but apparently Kim Seokjin is the ace.
“Why are you good at everything?” you yell after he effortlessly sends another shot flying past you.
Jin points his paddle at you smugly. “God gives his hardest battles to his handsomest soldiers.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Namjoon winces before lining up to serve.
Yoongi misses what would have been an easy volley completely and the silence afterward is catastrophic.
“Yoongi-yah!” Seokin explodes and Namjoon hits the floor laughing.
“I thought it was yours!” Yoongi protests immediately.
“It was going to you??” Jin screeches.
You’re laughing so hard your knees nearly give out.
Yoongi glares at all of you. But honestly? He’s terrible. Absolutely terrible! Half the time he swings too late. The other half he hits the ball with way too much force like he’s trying to launch it into 134340.
Meanwhile, Jin is carrying their duo on his broad ahh back. Like seriously, how come his shoulders are so wide and his arms are a mile long?
“Ah Yoongi, don’t be so useless!” Jin shouts dramatically across the court.
“We’re still leading by 5 points!”
“Forget the points, your aura’s in the negatives now!”
Yoongi has nothing to say after that, just turns to look at you with a :] and suddenly you are endlessly endeared.
And before you can stop yourself, you holler. “You got this, Yoongi.”
He didn’t expect that. Hell, you didn’t expect to say that out loud, too. But you blame the adrenaline and the endorphins coursing through your body.
Yoongi’s lips press together tightly in a pout. He has this smile that looks reluctant, like he’s trying very hard to stay composed and failing by degrees. It’s a cute look.
Regardless, Yoongi stays terrible after that, but it was kinda worth it to see him a little flustered.
⊙⊝⊜
By the second game, everyone’s sweaty and louder and way too competitive for people who are supposedly here to just have fun.
You’re bent slightly at the waist catching your breath when you feel someone bump your shoulder lightly.
Yoongi.
“You’re with me this round.”
You blink up at him.
There’s no teasing in his voice. No hesitation either. Just quiet certainty.
“Against who?”
He tilts his chin toward the opposite court where Angel and Taehyung are already bickering like an old married couple.
“Oh,” you grin slowly. “Easy win.”
“Really,” Tae points immediately. “Yoongi-hyung, you’ve been taking the L every game.”
“Not this one,” Yoongi says simply beside you. “Not gonna lose with her.”
You look at him. He looks proud.
The game starts pretty badly. Mostly because Yoongi is downright awful.
“You gotta move your feet,” you laugh as he misses another return.
“I am moving!”
“That was one step!”
“I can do two max.”
You shove him playfully. “Get your head in the game, Yoon.”
And somewhere in the middle of the match, something clicks. Not skill. God no. It’s chemistry. You start anticipating each other naturally.
Somehow, you know when he’ll hit too hard so you compensate automatically. He starts setting shots up for you without realizing it.
At one point you dive for a low ball, barely saving it. Yoongi cuts in and slams the return clean across the court.
The point is yours.
“Oh SHIT!” you yell.
Yoongi turns toward you instantly, eyes wide as adrenaline flashes across his face.
“Fuck yeah,” he laughs breathlessly, holding his hand up.
You smack your palm against his.
“That was sharp!”
“You saved that.”
“No, YOU finished it!”
Tae scoffs from across the net. “The fuck? So much dramatics for one point.”
Angel makes a face at the two of you.
Neither of you even notice, because you’re too busy grinning at each other.
Later, during match point, Yoongi completely whiffs on an easy shot.
“Oh my god,” you collapse against him laughing. “You suck so bad. We could have won.”
“Why do you look happy?” he shoots back.
And you don’t really have an answer for that.
⊙⊝⊜
Or this.
Maybe you’re both tired after pickleball. But tonight, he was exceptionally gentle. Like everything happening was moving in slow-mo.
You’re on your back, the mattress dipping beneath you as he follows, one hand braced beside your head, the other coaxing your thigh to come up around him.
You wind your legs around his torso, ankles crossing at his back as you pull him close.
You feel him slip inside you and when he bottoms out, he exhales softly through his nose, forehead dropping to your neck.
You’re closer than you have been all night. Or ever, it seems.
Everything is so quiet, still. Just the sound of ragged breaths, fanning against each other’s bodies.
There’s a comfort in the way his cock is nestled inside you like it’s made a home, and for a minute, maybe more, neither of you moves.
Yoongi groans. “Feels so fuckin’ good.”
“I know…” you mumble.
“Shit…” Yoongi rasps, voice frayed at the edges. “Always feels good with you…”
Lifting his head, he nuzzles his nose against yours, brushing lightly as he moans at the way you’re clenching involuntarily.
You’re not kissing. You made it clear from the start. But you’re fighting for the same air, mouths a fraction apart. If either of you leans in even a little…
No. You can’t. That’s your rule.
It should feel casual. It is casual.
His slow gaze moves between your eyes and your mouth, like he’s thinking about it. He’s been doing this more and more, and you don’t know what to do with him.
It’s a question. He’s asking your permission without words.
Your hands slide up around his neck, tugging his hair back with a necessary force because everything else feels a little too soft, a little too real. You lick his bared neck, feeling the vibration from his throat against your tongue as he groans. The tenderness breaks.
“Yoongi. Move…” You claw at his back, resting your palm just above the curve of his ass.
Slow at first, he slides all the way out before stuffing his length back in with enough force to shake the sense out of you.
You cry in pleasure as he pulses his thumb against your puffy folds and wiggles it against your swollen clit. He knows your body so well now. Knows it’s not gonna take much.
“Oh, Yoongi…” you beg as your thighs quiver against his torso, each nasty thrust from him pulling out puffs of air from your throat.
You’re almost folded in half now as he snaps his hips forward, the tip of his cock kissing your g-spot making you delirious.
“I got you,” he rasps, voice low and gravelly.
And then his hands find yours pressing both palms steady against your own. But then his grip deliberately changes, fingers slipping between yours, interlacing like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You tighten your hold without thinking. And he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he holds on harder.
This is new. Oh this is fucking new and you don’t know what to do.
The rhythm between you turns unsteady for a second—like you both feel it at the same time—and then it settles again, slower, deeper, more intentional.
Your foreheads meet. He huffs your name under his breath.
You’re feeling so much. His hand in yours. Your legs wrapped around him. The way your breathing falls out of sync and then somehow finds its way back together again.
His pace doesn’t falter even as your walls continue to swallow all of him as your climax nears.
“Baby… I can feel you sucking me in… fuck.”
“Yoongi…”
“Ah… you wanna keep me in, huh?”
Your hips falter at the insinuation, a temporary glitch in your brain, but he picks up the pace again and soon you’re back in that haze.
“Need you, baby…”
“I’m here…” he whispers, leaning to plant his lips on your cheek, and another, dangerously close to the edge of your lips. “Not going anywhere…”
It’s those words. Lust-driven words dressed up as a vow that did it for you.
When you come, he follows, spilling himself inside you with a broken gasp.
⊙⊝⊜
You can hear the electric kettle whistling as you step out of his bathroom.
Yoongi stands near the window, chest still bare, trousers sitting deliciously low on his hips.
There are nights you’re still kind of mesmerized by how incredibly handsome this man is.
Funny how two Kim Seokjins break the thought. Worldwide handsome is staring back at you from cups of Jin ramyeon on the table.
“I got hungry.” Yoongi says simply when he sees you, walking to retrieve the kettle. “Wanna eat?”
Two cups of ramyeon sit on the table. One is already cracked open, seasoning packets emptied inside. The other is still sealed, waiting patiently beside it.
You’re thinking, processing, buffering. You never ever stay beyond the clean-up. But the familiar and comforting smell of the broth makes the decision for you.
<3
//part four
A/N: Hi! Hope you liked? This Yoongi just... honestly, it was hard to write him at first, but I'm kinda falling in lo💥💥💥
ANYWAY! Leave me a note or a reblog with a review, if you want. It's the best way you can show your support.
Thank you for reading, you lovely beautiful human xo
Summary: You were only supposed to help him—cook, clean, and leave. Nothing more. But in a house too quiet and a man too broken, your presence became something he couldn’t ignore… even if he tried. While he slowly begins to see you, you’re already learning how to step away. Because some feelings grow in silence— and some distances are created before they’re too late.
Status: Three-shot | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
Pairing: Idol!Yoongi x Reader
Word Count: 6.5k~ | Full: 25.2k~
Genre: Idol!AU, Angst, Fluff, Smut
Rated: MDNI, 18+ 🔞
Tags: ARMY, Strangers to Lovers, Yoongi is a Jerk, Slice of Life, Slow Burn
Posting Date: June 16, 2026
SCC: Ko-fi ☕️ · Taglist 📝
The city lights had begun to dim as you sat in your apartment living room, a book open on your lap, but your attention… wasn’t really there.
It had been almost two weeks. Two weeks since you and Min Yoongi last met. Not because there was a problem. Quite the opposite—everything was fine. He always kept you updated. Short messages, but enough.
“Full practice today.”
“Going home late.”
“Don’t wait for me.”
And you… always replied just as calmly.
“Okay.”
“Be careful.”
“Don’t forget to eat.”
Not once did you say, I miss you.
Not because you didn’t. But because you knew. BTS’s comeback wasn’t something small. Practice, recording, meetings—everything must be packed. You didn’t want to become an extra burden. And you were really… fine. Or at least—that’s what you thought.
Until suddenly—
Ding dong.
You frowned. It was already quite late. Who?
Slowly, you walked to the door. Peeked. And instantly froze. Cap. Mask. Hoodie. But you knew.
“Yoongi?!”
You immediately opened the door, pulling him inside quickly before anyone could see.
“What are you doing here?!” you whispered in panic. “What if someone sees?!”
He didn’t answer. Just walked in, took off his mask, his face looking… tired. But not just that. There was something else.
“You—” you quickly shut the door tightly, still rambling, “you just finished practice, right? You should be resting, not coming here—”
“You talk too much.”
You stopped instantly. Turned. He stood there, arms crossed, his face… flat. But clearly—not his usual mood.
You frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
His tone was short.
You sighed. “Fine, come in first. Hurry.”
You pulled his hand further inside, still half-panicking. “If someone sees, I’m the one getting nervous.”
He stayed silent. Walked to the living room, sat on the sofa. Leaned back. But instead of relaxing—he looked… sulky. You stood there for a few seconds, confused. What’s with him?
You finally sat beside him. “You’re tired, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Short.
You nodded. “Then just rest. Want something to drink?”
“No.”
Okay. Definitely weird.
You stared at him longer now. “Yoongi… what’s wrong with you?”
He was silent. For a few seconds. Then suddenly—
“I feel like you don’t like me.”
You blinked. “…What?”
He stared ahead, not at you. His jaw tightened slightly.
“It’s been almost two weeks since we met,” he continued, his voice flat but clearly holding emotion, “and you’re just… normal.”
You really didn’t expect that. And somehow—you ended up… chuckling softly. Not mocking. Just… fond.
“Hey…” you covered your mouth a little, still smiling, “are you seriously saying that?”
He turned quickly. “You’re laughing?”
“Yeah, because—” you were still smiling, unable to stop, “you’re so cute.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
You moved a little closer, looking at him more gently now.
“Of course I miss you.”
He stayed silent. Still not fully softened. You continued, softly, honestly.
“But I also know you’re really busy. A comeback isn’t something small, Yoongi.”
You took a slow breath. “If I kept insisting on meeting, and kept asking for your time… you’d be tired.”
He cut you off, quietly but firmly. “I still came.”
You looked at him.
“Yeah, you came,” you replied softly, “but I don’t want you coming when you’re exhausted just because of me.”
Silence.
You moved slightly closer again. “I miss you. A lot.”
That sentence finally came out. And this time—you didn’t hold it back. “But I held it in. Because I love you.”
Yoongi’s heart seemed to… stop for a second. He looked at you now. Really looked. And all the pride he was holding—cracked.
“…But you didn’t say it.”
His voice was smaller now. Almost like… a child’s protest.
You smiled again. Softly. “You didn’t say it either.”
He went silent. Got hit.
You raised your eyebrows slightly. “So?”
He clicked his tongue softly, looking away. “…I’m different.”
You chuckled again. “Yeah, different. You’re more prideful.”
“I’m not prideful.”
“You came here without telling me—that’s not prideful?”
He immediately looked back at you. “I missed you.”
Finally out. Direct. Honest. And this time—no cover.
You went quiet for a second. Then your smile changed. Softer. Warmer.
“You could’ve just said that from the start.”
He leaned a little closer, his voice softer now. “I wanted you to say it first.”
You were completely smitten now. “Ugh… you.”
Without thinking, you tugged lightly on his hoodie, pulling him closer. “Now I’ll say it—”
You looked into his eyes. “I miss you.”
Silence. Close. And the next second—he pulled you straight into his arms. Tight. As if those two weeks… really hit now.
“You took so long,” he murmured softly near your ear.
“You too.”
“You should’ve looked for me.”
“You could’ve too.”
“Yeah, but I came now.”
You chuckled softly in his arms. “Yeah, yeah… you’re the best.”
He pulled back slightly, looking at you again. Still close. “…You really love me, right?”
His tone—still had a bit of sulkiness. But now more… soft.
You didn’t answer right away. You just lifted your hand, touching his cheek gently. “If I didn’t, I would’ve told you to go home earlier.”
He went quiet. Then the corner of his lips lifted slightly. “…Then I’m not going home.”
You laughed immediately. “As if.”
“You said I’m tired earlier.”
“Yeah.”
“Then I’ll rest here.”
You shook your head, but didn’t push him away. And a few seconds later—he was already leaning comfortably, pulling you closer again. As if those two weeks never existed. But still felt—because now, his embrace… was tighter than usual.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
A few days after that, Yoongi’s world became packed again. BTS’s comeback truly took everything—long practices, content shoots, even traveling for the BTS Trip show. On screen, everything looked relaxed. Members joking, eating, sightseeing. But there was one small thing the cameras didn’t miss.
Yoongi… checked his phone more often.
Not excessively. Not constantly. But often enough to be noticeable. In between filming, his hand would reflexively unlock the screen. Check notifications. Pause. Then lock it again.
“What are you waiting for?” Jimin asked with a grin.
“Nothing.”
“Lies,” Taehyung added casually. “Hyung’s been smiling to himself.”
Yoongi clicked his tongue. “You guys are noisy.”
But they were right.
You didn’t text constantly. Quite the opposite. You understood him very well. You never disturbed him while he worked. Maybe just one or two messages.
You:
Have you eaten? Don’t forget to rest.
Sometimes you even took a long time to reply.
And that was exactly what made Yoongi… wait.
Every time his phone didn’t buzz, he checked it himself. Every time the screen was empty, he let out a small sigh. Not big. But enough for him to feel it.
When the BTS Trip episode aired, fans immediately noticed.
“Yoongi checks his phone a lot?”
“He keeps smiling…”
“Why does he look happier?”
Those small clips spread. Moments of Yoongi looking lighter, more alive, more… warmer than usual.
And you could only shake your head lightly when you saw it.
“This guy…”
A few days later, you came to his house again. This time because he asked.
Yoongi:
I’m home. Come over.
You were already there first. The kitchen is warm, food ready. Tang-ie asleep on the sofa. And you… waiting.
The door opened. Yoongi walked in. Still wearing a cap and mask, his shoulders slightly lowered from exhaustion. But the moment he saw you—his expression changed instantly.
“You came.”
You smiled softly. “Yeah.”
He didn’t say much. Just walked over, pulling you into a hug.
Tight. As if those few days were long enough for him.
“You’re tired,” you whispered.
“Yeah.”
“But you’re still hugging me.”
“I missed you.”
You chuckled softly. Not long after, you were both on the sofa. You leaned against his shoulder, he held you loosely. And as usual—his phone was in his hand.
You lightly tapped his arm. “Stop checking your phone.”
He turned. “Why?”
“You’re being watched. People are starting to get suspicious.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Suspicious of what?”
“You keep checking your phone. And smiling by yourself on the show.”
He paused for a moment. Then instead… chuckled.
“You want me to frown?”
You looked at him. “Not like that…”
“I’m happy,” he said casually.
You froze for a moment.
“…should I pretend I’m not happy?”
You sighed softly, but still smiled. “Just don’t make it too obvious.”
He found you even cuter. “This is all your fault.”
“Huh?”
“I’m like this because of you.”
You lightly hit his arm. “Hey.”
He laughed softly, then pulled you closer again. Your head naturally fell onto his chest. His hand stroked your arm gently. Slowly. Consistently.
“Just let it be,” he murmured. “If it gets found out, then so be it.”
“Don’t just say things like that!”
He just smiled.
Minutes passed. The TV was on, but neither of you really paid attention. You were half lying down now, he was half leaning back, his arms still warm around you. Occasionally—he kissed the top of your head. Naturally. As if it was a habit.
You went quiet for a moment.
Then softly, “Yoongi…”
“Yeah?”
“…you’re going on tour soon.”
His hand paused for a second. Then continued again. “Yeah.”
You looked down slightly. “That means we’ll see each other less.”
He didn’t answer immediately. Just pulled you a little closer.
“Less,” he said honestly.
Silence. Not heavy. But it lingered.
He lowered his head, kissing your hair again. This time longer.
“I’ll still find time.”
“You’ll be tired.”
“I’ll still find it.”
His tone was firmer now.
You smiled softly. “Okay.”
He looked at you for a moment. Long. Then softly— “I won’t disappear.”
That sentence was simple. But enough to warm your chest. You closed your eyes for a second, taking it in.
“What if I miss you?” you asked softly.
“Video call.”
You laughed quietly. “Seriously.”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t be busy all the time.”
“You also don’t have to act strong all the time.”
You looked at him immediately. “What?”
“You always go ‘I’m fine, I understand,’” he said, mimicking your tone.
You grinned. “Well, I do understand.”
“Yeah, but you’re allowed to miss me too.”
You went quiet. He looked at you more closely.
“And say it.”
Silence.
You finally nodded. “Okay.”
A few seconds. Then you moved first. Hugging him. Tighter than usual. “I’m going to miss you.”
He froze for a moment. Then his arms wrapped around you without hesitation. “Me too.”
And that night, there were no big promises. No dramatic words. Just two people who both knew—what’s ahead won’t be easy. But still choosing to stay. This close. For as long as they can.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
A few days passed by so quickly.
The concert in Japan ended successfully, but as usual—behind it all, Yoongi was completely exhausted. A packed schedule, back-and-forth travel, and then only a short time before he had to fly again to the United States for the next series. And you knew that. That’s why you didn’t contact him much. You didn’t demand anything. You didn’t ask to meet.
That day, you actually went out. To a café, meeting a few friends. Laughing, having light conversations, trying to enjoy your own time. In your mind, you had already thought—Yoongi must be resting today. So you didn’t expect anything. Until you got home.
The apartment door opened slowly. You took off your shoes, still a little tired, still carrying the café mood with you.
Your steps immediately stopped. He was there. Sitting on the sofa. Relaxed. As if it were his home. You froze.
“…You?!”
Yoongi turned. And the moment he saw you—his smile appeared instantly.
“You’re late.”
You were still standing by the door. “What are you doing here?!”
“I’m waiting.”
“You didn’t tell me!”
“You didn’t ask either.”
You immediately walked quickly toward him. “How would I know you were coming here! I thought you were sleeping all day!”
He just looked at you, his eyes soft. “I only have today.”
Straight. No small talk. You immediately went quiet.
“…Oh.”
Your smile was still there. But something dipped slightly.
“I still have something at the agency later,” he continued softly. “And tomorrow I have to be ready again.”
You nodded a little.
“Yeah… I understand.”
And you really did understand. That was what made Yoongi… pause for a moment. Looking at you longer. “That’s why I came here.”
You turned. He stood up, walking closer. “Because if not today… I might not have the chance.”
That sentence wasn’t heavy. But enough to make your chest feel warm… and a little tight at the same time.
You smiled softly. “Alright, just sit. I’ll get you a drink—”
His hand immediately pulled your wrist gently. You stopped.
“I missed you.”
His voice was lower now. More honest.
You didn’t answer. You just moved closer… and hugged him. Tight. “Me too.”
The hug didn’t last long. But it was enough to fill the empty days. A few minutes later, you both sat on the sofa. You leaned halfway against him, he held you casually as usual. And as usual too—he still couldn’t let go of you. His hand played with the end of your sleeve. Occasionally brushing over it. As if making sure you were really there.
“I brought something.”
You turned. “What?”
He didn’t answer right away. His hand went into his jacket pocket. Then he pulled out a small box. You frowned immediately.
“…What is that?”
He opened it. And inside—two rings. Simple. Elegant. But clearly… not ordinary rings.
You went silent for a few seconds. “…Yoongi.”
“Yeah?”
“Are you serious?”
He nodded casually. “Yeah.”
You immediately closed the box gently.
“This is really expensive.”
He clicked his tongue. “So?”
“So don’t buy things like this!” you pushed the box back to him. “I don’t need something like this.”
He sighed softly. But not annoyed. More like… he already expected you to react this way.
“I know you’re not like that.”
“Then why buy this?”
He looked at you. “Because I want to.”
Short. Clear.
You still shook your head. “This is way too expensive, Yoongi.”
He suddenly leaned back casually. “I have a lot of money.”
You looked at him. “…seriously?”
He shrugged. “Enough.”
You chuckled softly, amused. “Ugh, showing off.”
“Yeah.” Without shame.
“And I want to give you something.”
His tone was softer now. More sincere. “Something you can wear.”
You went quiet. Looking at the ring again. Then at him.
“…This is a couple ring, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Aren’t you afraid of getting caught?”
“No.”
He answered immediately, without hesitation. You looked at him for a long moment. Then took a slow breath. After a few seconds—you picked up the box again.
“…Alright.”
He smiled slightly. You opened it again. Looking at the ring more closely. Beautiful. Simple. But clearly expensive.
You bit your lip softly. “Okay… I’ll accept it.”
He looked at you. Softer. More relieved.
“But—”
He frowned immediately. “What now?”
You lifted the ring. “I don’t want to wear it on my finger.”
He paused. “…Why?”
“We’re private.”
“So?”
“You want people to get suspicious?”
He stayed silent. You continued. “If I wear this on my finger, people will notice.”
He clicked his tongue softly. “Then?”
“I’ll turn it into a necklace.”
He stared at you. “…What?”
“You wear yours on your finger,” you continued casually. “I’ll wear mine as a necklace.”
He frowned. “This is a couple ring.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s supposed to be worn on your finger.”
You shook your head. “Can’t.”
He moved closer. “How is it a couple ring if it’s not matching?”
You chuckled softly. “You…”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
You looked at him, softer now.
“If you love me… you also have to protect me.”
He went quiet.
“This isn’t just about us,” you continued softly. “This is about… everything that could happen if people find out.”
Silence. A few seconds. He sighed softly.
“…yeah, that’s true.”
You smiled faintly.
He rubbed his face briefly. “I wasn’t… thinking.”
“You’re just whipped.”
He immediately turned. “What?”
You grinned. “Yeah.”
He clicked his tongue, but clearly—embarrassed. “…I just want everyone to know you’re mine.”
You went quiet. That sentence… was too honest. But you still smiled.
“For now, we can’t.”
He nodded slightly. “Yeah.”
A few seconds. Then he took the ring. Put it on his finger. “This… is okay, right?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
You took the other one. “I’ll make it into a necklace later.”
He watched you. Then smiled softly. “Alright.”
A few seconds of silence. Then suddenly— “So… are we still a couple?”
You laughed. “Of course!”
“Even if it’s in different places?”
“Yeah!”
He finally chuckled. Then pulled you back into his arms. Your head fell onto his shoulder. His arms wrapped around you tighter now.
“I’m lucky.”
You frowned slightly. “Why?”
“Because you understand me.”
You stayed quiet.
“If it wasn’t you…” he paused for a moment, “…I don’t know if I could handle this.”
You slowly hugged him back. “I’m lucky too.”
He lowered his head slightly. Kissing the top of your head. Warm. Calm. And even though both of you knew—that time wouldn’t last long that night—it still felt… enough.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
The days in the United States went by quickly—practice, soundcheck, concerts, interviews. Everything packed, everything scheduled. But there was one thing Yoongi couldn’t control. His own face.
He had tried. Holding back his smile, not checking his phone too often, not looking “different.” Total failure.
“Hyung.”
Jungkook’s voice came from behind while Yoongi was sitting casually backstage.
Yoongi immediately locked his phone screen. “What.”
“You’re smiling again.”
“No.”
“Liar.”
From the side, Jimin chimed in. “Seriously, this has been happening a lot.”
Taehyung grinned. “Hyung’s in love, huh.”
Yoongi let out a long sigh. “Don’t you guys have anything to do?”
They just looked at each other. Then back at him. Silent. Waiting.
Yoongi finally leaned back. “Yeah.”
Direct.
Half a second of silence. Then—
“WHAT?!”
“HYUNG?!”
“SERIOUSLY?!”
Jungkook immediately sat in front of him. “Who?!”
Yoongi clicked his tongue. “Relax.”
“Can’t relax!” Jimin almost jumped. “This is breaking news!”
Taehyung narrowed his eyes. “No wonder you’ve been so different.”
Yoongi just shook his head slightly. But this time he didn’t hide it anymore.
“There is someone.”
Short. But enough. And from that moment… they all knew.
That night, in the hotel room, Yoongi could finally truly relax. A thin hoodie, dim lights, sitting on the bed. Phone in hand. The video call connected. Your face appeared on the screen.
“Yoongi.”
And as always—his expression changed instantly. “Yeah.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re tired, huh.”
“Yeah… but not right now.”
You smiled softly. And for a few seconds, you just looked at each other. Not needing many words. Until—the door opened.
“Hyung—”
Yoongi immediately turned. “What is it—”
Jungkook stopped at the door. His eyes fell on the screen. “…OH.”
You froze too.
“IS THAT HER?!” Jungkook immediately walked closer.
“Hey—don’t—” Yoongi rushed, but it was too late.
Jungkook was already in front of the camera. And you—froze instantly. “…Jungkook?” your voice was small. Then you reflexively covered your mouth. Starstruck.
Yoongi narrowed his eyes. “…what’s wrong with you?”
You were still stunned. “That’s Jungkook…”
“Yeah, I know that’s Jungkook.”
Jungkook waved casually. “Hi!”
You waved back. “Hi…”
Yoongi sat up straight. “You’re smiling a lot.”
“Huh?”
“You’re smiling a lot.”
“You were smiling too earlier,” you shot back.
“Different.”
Jungkook started laughing. “Hyung, relax…”
“Not relaxed.”
You found him adorable. “Hey…”
Before it ended—Jimin and Taehyung came in.
“What’s going on—OH?!” Jimin walked closer. “Is this her?!” Taehyung from behind. “No wonder hyung’s happy.”
Now your screen was full of their faces. You laughed softly, still shocked. “This is too much…”
Jungkook sat right in front. “You’re my fan, right?”
You froze. Looked at Yoongi. Yoongi stared sharply.
“…answer.”
You grinned. “Yeah.”
Instant chaos.
“HYUNG—”
“She’s Jungkook’s fan!”
“This is fun!”
Yoongi immediately pulled the phone away. Now it was just the two of you again. “…seriously?”
You laughed softly. “Before.”
“Now?”
“…Still, actually.”
Yoongi went quiet. His face was flat. But his eyes—weren’t. “You were really happy earlier.”
“You’re really happy every time I appear.”
“Different.”
“You’re not different.”
From behind, Jungkook said, “Hyung, I’m still here.”
Yoongi muted the mic for a second. “…get out.”
Jungkook laughed. “So stingy.”
Jimin pulled him. “Alright, later.”Taehyung waved at the screen. “Congratulations.”
The door finally closed. Quiet again. Yoongi looked back at you. “…you like Jungkook, huh.”
You laughed. “Hey…”
“Seriously.”
“That was before I knew you.”
“Now?”
You leaned closer to the camera. “Now I like you.”
Silence. His expression softened instantly. But still—
“…but you were smiling a lot earlier.”
You couldn’t hold your laugh. “Are you jealous?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
He clicked his tongue softly. “…a little.”
You found him even cuter. “Yoongi…”
“Yeah?”
“You’re BTS.”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re jealous of your own member.”
He paused. “…yeah, that’s true.”
You burst into laughter. He finally smiled too. Then leaned a little closer to the camera. “Alright.”
“What?”
“You can like Jungkook.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“As long as you like me more.”
You smiled immediately. “Deal.”
He nodded slightly. And on that small screen—across two different countries—you still felt close. Closer than before. And for the first time… Yoongi didn’t have to pretend anymore in front of the people closest to him.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
You had been standing in Yoongi’s kitchen for quite a while. Warm lighting, a calm atmosphere, and the aroma of bulgogi filled the room. You came early on purpose. Without telling him. Without any hint. Because this… was a surprise.
From your last chat, you knew—today Yoongi was coming home from a tour. And as usual, he only said it briefly. “I’ll be home tonight.” No additions. No “let’s meet.” And you didn’t ask either. Because you already had your own plan.
The dining table was already set. A few small side dishes, warm soup, and bulgogi still hot on the stove. You stood there, checking the plating again, then let out a slow breath. Nervous.
It had been a while since you last saw each other in person. And honestly—you missed him.
The sound of the front door was finally heard. Your heart immediately jumped. Fast. You quickly turned off the stove, then walked slowly toward the living room. The door opened. Footsteps entered. And—
You froze on the spot. So did Yoongi. A few seconds. Silence. Hoseok slowly turned to Yoongi. “…this is what you meant by ‘there’s no one at home’?”
Yoongi coughed lightly. “I didn’t know she was here either.”
You became flustered. “I—I just…”
Hoseok immediately smiled widely. “Relax. I won’t disturb.”
That made it even more awkward.
You lowered your head slightly. “Sorry… I didn’t know you were coming too.”
“Actually, I should be the one apologizing,” Hoseok replied casually. “Feels like I’m the one intruding.”
Yoongi just stood there. Silent. Even though inside—he was in chaos. He missed you so much. But—Hoseok was there. And that made him… self-conscious.
“You… came?” Yoongi finally spoke, his tone as calm as possible.
You nodded slightly. “Yeah. I cooked.”
Hoseok immediately smelled the aroma. “Wow, is this bulgogi?”
You nodded. “Yeah…”
Yoongi glanced at you briefly. Long. But didn’t dare get closer. Strange. Very. Usually, he would hug you immediately. Now? Even one meter felt far.
Hoseok noticed that. And clearly—he was enjoying it.
“I’ll go to the bathroom first,” he said casually, as if nothing happened.
“Sure…” you answered quickly.
As soon as Hoseok really disappeared—Yoongi immediately moved. Fast. Pulling you into his arms. Tight. Very tight.
“Why didn’t you tell me?!” he whispered quickly, almost half complaining.
You were surprised. “Huh—”
“If you told me you were coming,” he continued, “I wouldn’t have brought him!”
You laughed softly in his embrace. “I wanted to surprise you…”
“This isn’t a surprise,” he muttered, still hugging you. “This is a heart attack.”
You smiled more. “Exaggerating.”
He pulled back slightly, but his hands stayed on your waist. His eyes locked onto you. “Did you miss me?”
You looked back at him. “Yes.” Without hesitation. He immediately went silent. His expression softened instantly.
“Why are you only saying it now…”
“You just got here.”
He clicked his tongue softly, but his grip tightened. “I should’ve come home alone.”
“You’re so mean to Hoseok.”
“Whatever.”
You laughed again. And before you realized it—he pulled you closer, hugging you from the side, his face very close.
“Don’t suddenly do this again.”
“You don’t like it?”
He looked straight at you. “…I do.”
Soft. Honest.
“Just…”
Before he could finish— the bathroom door opened. You both reflexively moved apart. Too late. Hoseok saw. And he—was silent. For a few seconds. Then—a small smile appeared.
“Carry on, I didn’t see anything.”
You immediately covered your face briefly. “Oh my God…”
Yoongi coughed lightly. “There’s nothing.”
“There clearly is,” Hoseok replied casually.
Yoongi got flustered. Completely. His face stiffened slightly, his hands didn’t know what to do— but… one of his hands was still holding yours. Tight. And he didn’t realize it. You noticed first. You glanced down. Then at him.
“Yoongi…”
“Yeah?”
“You…”
He followed your gaze. Your hands were still intertwined. He froze. Silence. One second. Two seconds.
“…let go,” he whispered softly.
“You’re the one holding.”
He got even more flustered. “Well… fine.”
But—he didn’t let go.
Hoseok from the side just shook his head. “Seriously… hyung.”
Yoongi glanced. “What.”
“You’re so different.”
“Shut up.”
You could only laugh softly, your cheeks warm. And in the middle of the slightly awkward atmosphere—Yoongi’s hand stayed there. Holding yours. As if—he didn’t care about being caught anymore. As long as you stayed close. And maybe—that was the only thing he was really thinking about right now.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
At first, you were indeed a bit stiff. Sitting at the same dining table with Jung Ho-seok wasn’t something you had ever imagined before. Especially in a situation… like this.
You weren’t the type who immediately warmed up. You tended to stay quiet, observe, and needed time to truly feel comfortable. But Hoseok—he really was just like you saw on screen. Cheerful. Light. Warm.
“Did you cook all of this?” he asked while sitting down, his eyes immediately lighting up at the table.
You nodded slightly. “Yeah…”
“Wow, it looks really good.”
His tone was sincere. Not forced. And that… made you a little more relaxed. Yoongi sat beside you, still somewhat quiet—but clearly watching you the whole time.
Hoseok started eating. First bite. Then he stopped. His eyes widened.
“This is really good.”
You were slightly surprised. “Really?”
“Yes!” he answered quickly, immediately taking another bite. “Seriously. Even restaurants lose to this.”
You couldn’t hold back a small smile. “Thank you…”
Yoongi glanced at Hoseok. “You’re exaggerating.”
“No, I’m serious,” Hoseok replied, still eating. “Hyung, do you eat like this every day?”
Yoongi answered casually. “Yeah.”
Hoseok paused for a moment. “Wow… your life is really nice.”
You laughed softly. But not even a few minutes later—Hoseok had already taken more. And more. And more.
Yoongi nudged him lightly. “Don’t finish it.”
Hoseok looked. “Why?”
“She’s not coming tomorrow.”
You turned to Yoongi.
“Yeah, I’m not coming this weekend,” you explained.
Yoongi continued casually, “If there’s leftovers, I can reheat it tomorrow.”
Hoseok laughed. “Hyung… this is the first time I’ve seen you possessive over food.”
“That’s not food,” Yoongi replied quickly.
You looked at him.
“…that’s her effort.”
You immediately went silent. Your cheeks warmed slightly. Hoseok just smiled, understanding more now.
The night grew later. The atmosphere became much more relaxed. You were also far more comfortable talking.
Until finally Hoseok stood up. “I should head back.”
You immediately stood as well. “Yeah… me too.”
Yoongi turned. “You too?”
You nodded. “I have lunch with a friend tomorrow.”
He let out a small breath. “Hmm.”
Hoseok grabbed his jacket. “I’ll go first.”
“Yeah, take care,” you said.
Hoseok glanced at both of you. Then smiled slightly. “Don’t be too sweet.”
You covered your face briefly. “Oh my God…”
Yoongi just clicked his tongue. After Hoseok really left, the house felt quieter. And now—you could feel it. Yoongi immediately moved closer.
“You’re leaving so soon.”
“You’re tired,” you replied softly.
“I’m still fine.”
“You still need to rest.”
He looked at you for a few seconds. Then sighed. “…I’ll drive you.” As usual.
You were already in the car a few minutes later. And as usual—his hand found yours. Holding it. Warm. You didn’t resist.
The night road was fairly quiet. City lights passed one by one. And inside the car—a comfortable silence.
“You don’t want to stay over?” he asked suddenly.
You had expected it. You just shook your head slightly.
“No.”
He glanced slightly. “Why.”
You held back a smile. “You’re tired.”
“I’m fine.”
“You just came back from tour.”
“I still—”
“You won’t rest.”
Immediately. Yoongi fell silent. Hit. You glanced at him briefly.
“We both know… if I stay over, it won’t just be sleeping.”
He coughed lightly. “…you’re so blunt.”
You just grinned. “So?”
He clicked his tongue softly. “…fine.”
But clearly—slightly sulking. You could see it from the side. His lips dipped a little. His eyes stayed on the road, but his expression… showed.
You held back laughter. “Hey…”
“What.”
“You’re sulking, aren’t you.”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“No.”
You found him even more adorable.
The car stopped in front of your apartment. You didn’t get out immediately. Your hands were still connected. Silence.
You turned to him. He was still slightly sulking. And without thinking much—you leaned in. Tilting his chin and kissing his lips. Brief. But enough. Yoongi immediately froze.
You pulled back slightly. “I’ll come tomorrow.”
He looked at you. “…stay over.”
You nodded slightly. “Yeah.”
His expression immediately changed. The sulk disappeared. Replaced with—a small smile.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“You promise?”
You laughed softly. “Yeah.”
He finally let out a breath, lighter now. His hand still holding yours. “Alright…”
You opened the door. Got out. But before you fully closed it—he called.
“Y/N.”
You turned. He was still in the car, looking at you.
“…I missed you.”
You smiled. Softer than before.
“Me too.”
And that night—even though you went home alone—it still felt warm. Because you knew—tomorrow, you would come back. And this time—no need to leave in a hurry.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
That morning at Yoongi’s place felt… long. The clock on the wall seemed to move slowly. Usually, he never cared about time. Now? He had been up since early morning. Already showered. Already sat down. Already moved seats. Already checked his phone. Closed it again. Walked around a bit. Sat again. Basically—restless. Even though he knew you were at lunch. And he also knew you would come. Still—impatient.
His phone buzzed.
You:
At the restaurant. Gonna eat first.
Yoongi opened it immediately.Typed quickly.
Yoongi:
I’ll pick you up.
You:
Don’t be weird 😒 people will notice.
Yoongi clicked his tongue softly.
Yoongi:
Fine.
A few seconds.
You:
I’ll go straight to your place after this.
That alone. A bit of relief. But still—the time felt long.
He tried to relax. Turned on the TV. Couldn’t focus. Sat down. Stood again. Looked at the door a few times. Until finally—the sound of the door.
He turned immediately. And you walked in. “Yoongi—”
Before you finished speaking, he was already standing. His gaze locked on you.
You laughed softly. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Took too long.”
“You’re like a kid,” you took off your shoes, still casual.
But you suddenly stopped. Looking at the dining table. Empty.
You turned. “You haven’t eaten?”
He paused. “…not yet.”
You sighed softly. “Oh my God, Yoongi…”
“You said you were coming.”
You looked at him. “So you waited for me without eating?”
He shrugged. Casual. You shook your head, but couldn’t be mad.
“Good thing I packed food earlier,” you said as you walked to the kitchen.
Yoongi watched you.
The way you opened the food packaging. The way you transferred it onto plates. The way you automatically… took care of everything. And somehow—his chest felt warm.
“It’s nice having you here,” he murmured softly.
You didn’t hear. You were still busy preparing. Until suddenly—two arms wrapped around your waist from behind.
You were slightly startled. “Yoongi—”
He rested his chin on your shoulder.
“Hmm.”
“Wait a second, I’m still preparing the food—”
Before you could finish—he turned you around. Fast. And before you could react—he had already lifted you onto the kitchen island.
You instinctively grabbed his shoulders. “Yoongi!”
He didn’t answer. His eyes were on you. Close. Too close. Then—the kiss came. Not slow. Deeper. Like he had really been holding this in. You froze for half a second—then instinctively wrapped your arms around his neck. Pulling him closer. Your breathing started to falter.
“Yoongi…” you whispered between kisses.
“Yeah…”
“The food?”
He stopped for a second. Look at you. His eyes… different.
“Dessert first.”
You frowned slightly. “What—”
He leaned in again. Slower. Closer.
“You.”
Your heart jumped. “Hey…”
You didn’t get to continue. He pulled you in again. His hands tight on your waist, like he was afraid you’d disappear. And everything that was calm before—shifted. Fast. Warm. Heart-racing.
You laughed softly between breaths. “You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”
He didn’t answer. Just leaned in again. And this time—deeper. More certain. You lost your rhythm again. Your hands tightened around his neck. Your breathing became uneven. And the food on the table—completely forgotten.
“Yoongi…”
“Yeah…”
You almost spoke again—but he had already lifted you. Just like that. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist.
“Yoongi—”
He just smiled faintly. “It’s been too long.”
His steps headed straight to the bedroom. Fast. Certain. And along the way—small kisses, warm breaths, touches that grew closer—it all blended together. Leaving you no time to think.
All you knew—he missed you. And you missed him too. When the bedroom door closed—the outside world seemed to stop. There was only the two of you. Close. Warm. And everything that had been held back for days—finally… released. Slowly. But surely. And for a while—nothing else mattered but that.
Until finally—in the middle of unsteady breaths—you let out a small laugh.
“Our food…”
Yoongi was still close, his forehead almost touching yours.
“…later.”
You shook your head lightly, still smiling. “You…”
He looked at you. Softer now. But still not pulling away.
“I told you.”
“What?”
“I missed you.”
And this time—you didn’t answer with words. You just leaned in again. Because… that was enough.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
That morning felt… too quiet. Sunlight slipped softly through the curtains, touching the bedroom that was still messy from last night. Warm air, the blanket slightly shifted, and Yoongi’s body still close behind you.
You woke up first. Still half asleep.
But—you immediately froze. Yoongi’s hand… was wrapped around you. And more specifically—his hand was on your chest. Holding it casually, like it was the most natural position in the world.
You held your breath slightly. “…Yoongi.”
No response. He was still asleep. Or… looked asleep.
You tried to move a little. And instead—his hand moved more. Gently brushing. Reflexively. As if his body knew you woke up first. You bit your lip, half surprised, half… shivering.
“Yoongi…”
Still no answer.
You finally turned around. Facing him. His face was close. Eyes half closed. Hair messy, breath warm.
“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” you whispered.
His eyes opened slightly. And without guilt—
“Yeah.”
You blinked. “…seriously?”
He pulled you closer. Tighter. His hand didn’t move away. In fact—he was even more relaxed now.
You felt both amused and embarrassed. “Yoongi…”
“Hmm.”
“Don’t you want to wake up?”
He shook his head slowly.
“Still early.”
“You said you were tired yesterday.”
“I still am.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Then what’s this?”
He opened his eyes a bit more clearly now. Looking at you. “…this is different.”
You laughed softly, in disbelief. “You…”
He leaned in, his forehead almost touching yours. “Last night wasn’t enough.”
Your heart jumped. “Not enough what…”
He didn’t answer directly. Just pulled you even closer. His embrace warm. Close. Too close to think clearly.
“You know… I’m not a morning person.”
You nodded slightly. “Yeah.”
“But…”
He paused. His gaze dropped to you. “…since there’s you…”
His voice was softer now. “…I started looking forward to mornings.”
You went silent. The sentence was simple. But the way he said it—made it hard to respond quickly.
“You’re being cheesy this early.”
He smiled faintly. “No.”
His hand was still on you. Warm. Slow. But clear. And the distance between you now—almost nonexistent. You looked at him.
“Yoongi…”
“Yeah.”
“Are you really not tired?”
He leaned a little closer. “…I am tired.”
You frowned. “Then?”
“But I still want you.”
Just like that. No filter. You took a small breath.
“Hey…”
He chuckled softly. Then kissed you. Not rushed. Slower. Warmer. Like he was savoring the morning without needing to hurry. You kissed back. Without realizing it. Your hand moved to his shoulder, pulling him slightly closer. And for a while—nothing else mattered but that. Morning. Warm. Close. And a feeling that… still hadn’t ended since last night.
In between, you whispered softly, half laughing.“Yoongi… we’re really going to be late…”
He just smiled close to you. “…it’s fine.”
And somehow—you didn’t really want to rush either.
That morning stayed warm, but the atmosphere shifted slowly… becoming more intense. Yoongi wasn’t rushing. Quite the opposite—he moved very slowly, almost like he was deliberately holding back. Every touch felt clearer, longer, making your breathing gradually change.
“Yoongi…” you whispered softly, half protesting, half… sinking.
“Yeah…”
He stayed calm. His hands kept you close, his movements measured, with no intention of speeding up.
“You’re doing this on purpose…”
He just smiled faintly, his eyes not leaving you. “I’m enjoying this.”
And that made it even more… overwhelming. Because he was really slow. Too slow. Like he wanted to stretch every second, every reaction from you.
You gripped his shoulder tighter, your breathing becoming uneven. “Yoongi…”
“Yeah…”
“Hurry up…”
It finally slipped out. He paused for a second. Looking at you. There was something in his eyes—satisfied. Fond. Proud.
“Already…”
“Yoongi…” you shook your head slightly, almost desperate. “This is torture…”
He laughed softly. Not mocking. More like… he liked seeing you like that. “You’re cute when you ask.”
“Hey—”
Before you could protest—he finally changed his rhythm. Faster. Deeper. And instantly—your reaction shifted. Your hands tightened around him. Your breath hitched.
“Yoongi…”
This time not a protest anymore. He leaned closer, his forehead almost touching yours. His voice is low, warm.
“I love the way you say my name.”
Your heart pounded faster. The way he said it—soft, but clear. And now he wasn’t holding back anymore. Everything he had been holding in—he let go. His rhythm is firmer, but still controlled. Still close. Still… attentive.
You couldn’t speak much anymore. Only hold on, move closer, and let him guide everything. And through it all—he kept watching you. Every reaction. Every breath. Every time you called his name—he smiled slightly. As if that was what he liked most.
And that morning—wasn’t rushed. Not rough. But still enough to make everything feel… deeper. Closer. And harder to forget.
Author Notes: And just like that, this story has finally reached its end. Thank you to everyone who stayed with me and enjoyed this journey. I originally intended for it to be a one-shot, but your support and requests for more inspired me to write two extra chapters. I'd love to know what you think, so please don't hesitate to leave a comment or even just an emoji. Your feedback truly means a lot to me. I'd love to hear your thoughts on the story!
After the excitement of the production meeting, the rest of the morning had been considerably less glamorous.
For the past few hours, you'd been tucked away in the now somewhat familiar confines of your little office, working your way through what felt like an endless list of onboarding tasks. Setting up your company email, activating your employee accounts, signing into various internal systems, changing temporary passwords, and completing mandatory online training had taken far longer than you'd anticipated.
You hadn't realised just how much administration came with starting a new job.
With a quiet sigh, you leaned back in your chair, rolling your shoulders in an attempt to ease the stiffness that had settled there.
Your eyes drifted to your phone lying beside the keyboard.
Picking it up, you glanced at the lock screen. A cute picture of you and Ha-Na illuminated.
12:48.
Your stomach chose that exact moment to remind you that you'd barely eaten anything since breakfast.
Surely I'm allowed a lunch break by now...
You frowned thoughtfully. No one had actually mentioned when you were supposed to take one.
The morning had been packed with introductions, paperwork, meetings, and settling in, but after that, everyone had simply... gone back to work.
You were still learning how everything operated here.
The company itself felt like a small city, with hundreds of employees moving through the building as though they'd memorised every corridor, every schedule, and every unwritten rule. You, on the other hand, still wasn't entirely convinced you could find your own office without getting lost.
There was no doubt HYBE expected a high level of professionalism. Confidentiality, security, and respect had all been emphasised repeatedly throughout the morning.
But when it came to the smaller things, nobody had mentioned a thing.
You glanced towards the office door before looking back at your phone. And sharply stood up on your two feet.
I guess we can explore. The voice in your head loudly spoke.
surely there would be a canteen somewhere? In a building like this there was no way there wouldn't be.
You stepped out of your office, slipping your employee lanyard over your head before locking the door behind you.
The corridor was almost eerily quiet.
Compared to the floors you'd visited that morning, where employees hurried from meeting to meeting with coffee cups in hand, this one felt almost deserted. Apart from the occasional person disappearing into an office, there wasn't much movement at all.
Maybe this floor's mainly for private offices...
Making your way to the lifts, you pressed the call button and waited. A soft ding echoed through the corridor as the doors slid open.
Stepping inside, your eyes travelled over the panel of buttons. Twenty-four floors.
You had absolutely no idea where anything was. Middle sounds good...
Your finger hovered for a second before pressing 12.
As the lift began its ascent, a familiar melody drifted from the speakers overhead. You couldn't stop yourself from smiling.
ANTIFRAGILE.
A quiet laugh escaped you. Of course they'd only play HYBE artists.
The song continued softly in the background until the lift slowed to a halt.
Ding.
The doors parted.
Within half a second, you knew you'd made a mistake.
Beyond the lift stretched an enormous open-plan office packed with row after row of desks separated by glass dividers. Shelves overflowing with files lined the walls, while dozens of employees typed away at keyboards or hurried between departments carrying stacks of paperwork.
Directly outside the lift, two employees stood in the middle of what appeared to be a rather passionate disagreement. Neither of them spared so much as a glance in your direction.
You remained frozen for a moment, feeling as though you'd accidentally walked into somewhere you definitely wasn't supposed to be.
"...Nope." You jabbed the Close Door button perhaps a little too enthusiastically.
The doors slid shut just as one of the employees threw their hands dramatically into the air.
Scanning the panel once more, your finger landed on another random choice.
9.
Maybe I'll have better luck. A few seconds later, the lift chimed once again.
The doors opened onto a noticeably quieter floor.
Dark grey carpet stretched beneath your feet, contrasting against sleek charcoal walls and long strips of warm lighting recessed into the ceiling. The atmosphere felt calmer here, almost secluded from the bustle of the rest of the building.
There was no reception desk. No clusters of employees. Just a wide corridor branching off in several directions. You stepped out cautiously.
Probably no café here either... Still... You'd already come this far.
Might as well have a little look around.
The further you wandered, the quieter it became.
Most of the doors were closed, each bearing simple silver plaques with room numbers or department names you didn't recognise.
Every so often, someone would pass by, offering a polite nod before continuing on their way.
Then something peeked your attention. You heard a soft melody playing in the distance
You frowned slightly, tilting your head as the muffled bass drifted through the corridor.
Curiosity got the better of you.
The music grew louder with every step until you found yourself standing outside a pair of large frosted glass doors.
Unlike the offices you'd passed, these had narrow windows running down either side.
The music was definitely coming from inside.
You hesitated. I probably shouldn't...
Your curiosity won almost immediately.
Taking one careful step closer, you leaned ever so slightly towards the narrow strip of glass.
Inside, a spacious dance studio stretched across the room, floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflecting the bright overhead lights. Bags and water bottles had been abandoned against one wall, while the polished wooden floor bore faint scuff marks from countless hours of rehearsals.
The music came to an abrupt stop.
"...Again tomorrow?" someone called from inside.
"Yeah." Another voice answered.
Your eyes widened. Oh no... Your heart immediately leapt into your throat.
They're coming out.
Before your brain had a chance to decide whether to run or pretend you'd simply taken a wrong turn, the handle began to turn.
The door slowly swung open.
You froze beside the door, your entire body locking in place as the first person stepped out.
Yoongi.
His hair was damp with sweat, a towel slung loosely around his neck. He glanced at you briefly as he walked past, offering the smallest nod in acknowledgement before continuing down the corridor as though seeing unfamiliar staff outside the practice rooms was nothing out of the ordinary.
You barely had time to process it before Taehyung emerged next.
His oversized T-shirt clung slightly to his back, evidence of however long they'd been rehearsing. Catching your eye, he offered a polite smile and a small bow before following after Yoongi without another word.
You let out the breath you'd been holding.
Then Jimin and Hoseok stepped out together. Unlike the others, they stopped. Both of them looked at you with matching expressions of surprise.
"O?" Hoseok tilted his head, a curious smile spreading across his face.
Jimin's eyes widened in recognition. "Oh!" he laughed softly. "It's you again."
Your stomach dropped.
You immediately bowed your head. "I'm so sorr—"
"Jimina—"
Another voice called from inside the practice room. Jungkook stepped through the doorway, absent-mindedly drying the back of his neck with a towel.
He stopped mid-sentence the moment he noticed everyone had come to a standstill.
His gaze travelled from Jimin.....to Hoseok...before finally settling on you.
"Oh."
Fuck. This is so embarrassing.
As if the situation couldn't become any worse, Namjoon and Jin appeared behind him.
"Why are you all just standing—" Namjoon paused the moment he spotted you.
The corridor suddenly felt impossibly small.
You swallowed. "I'm... really sorry," you blurted out before anyone else could speak. "I know I'm probably not supposed to be here." You rubbed the back of your neck nervously. "I was just trying to find somewhere to eat my lunch." Your eyes getting the floor "I... don't actually know where anything is yet." You gave another apologetic bow. "I had no idea this was the practice floor."
For a second, nobody said anything. Then Jin looked up at the sign mounted high on the wall beside the studio doors before looking back at you. "...You mean you missed the giant sign?"
Your eyebrows knitted together. "The sign?"
He pointed behind you. Instinctively, you turned around.
Mounted neatly on the charcoal wall in large brushed silver letters were the words:
PRACTICE STUDIOS
Your eyes slowly closed. ...Oh.
A tiny laugh escaped Jin.Unsure if he was mocking you or found it amusing. "It is pretty hard to miss." He added sarcastically
Heat rushed straight to your cheeks. "I genuinely didn't even see it I promise-" Your wobbly voice spoke out
Jimin let out a laugh, shoulders shaking slightly. "I believe you."
They definitely think I'm some obsessed fan pretending to be lost.
Before your thoughts could spiral any further, Jungkook finally spoke.
"Aish..." He glanced between you and Jin before giving a small shake of his head. "Hyung..." A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "It's her first day."
The teasing immediately softened. Jin lifted both hands in surrender, smiling. "I know, I know...I'm only joking."
There was an awkward pause of silence before Namjoon quickly clapped his hands together. "So you are trying to find somehwere for lunch?"
You hummed, nodding.
Namjoon smiled.
"Well..." he glanced briefly at the others before looking back at you. "We're actually on our lunch break too."
You waited, unsure where he was going with this."Would you like to come with us?"
The invitation seemed to catch a couple of the others off guard too. Hoseok shot a quick glance towards Jin, who subtly raised an eyebrow before looking back at Namjoon. Neither of them said anything, though their expressions suggested the idea hadn't exactly been discussed beforehand.
You hesitated. You didn't want to impose.
"I mean..." You shifted your weight awkwardly. "Are you sure I wouldn't just be getting in the way?"
Before Namjoon had a chance to answer, Jungkook beside him gave a small shake of his head.
"It won't be a hassle." Namjoon's reply was quiet and matter-of-fact, almost as though he couldn't understand why you'd even ask.
Namjoon smiled again. "We've got a couple of hours before we're needed back anyway."
Jimin nodded in agreement.
"And it'd probably save you another twenty minutes of wandering around the building."
A few quiet laughs followed.
You couldn't exactly argue with that. "...Okay." You smiled at the boys. "If you're sure."
"Come on then," Namjoon said, turning towards the lifts.
The group began walking down the corridor together.
As you reached the elevators, Jungkook looked around, frowning slightly. "...Where did Taehyung disappear to?"
The others exchanged brief looks before collectively shrugging.
"I think he left with Yoongi a few minutes ago," you offered. "I saw them head towards the lifts."
"Ah." Jungkook gave a short nod, slipping his phone back into his pocket. "They've probably already gone down."
The elevator arrived with a soft chime. Its doors slid open, and everyone filed inside one after another.
You were the last to step in. The moment the doors closed, you became painfully aware of just how full the lift was.
You found yourself tucked into one corner, your back lightly brushing against the mirrored wall. Namjoon stood beside the control panel, while Hoseok and Jimin chatted quietly near the doors.
Jin absent-mindedly scrolled through his phone.
Jungkook stood almost directly opposite you, one hand resting against the rail behind him as the lift began its descent.
Thankfully, Jimin broke the silence by asking Namjoon something about the afternoon's schedule, and the conversation quickly spread through the lift.
You let out the smallest sigh of relief as the elevator continued its descent.
Floor seven. Right... remember that. You made a mental note to yourself. At least now you knew a floor to eat lunch on.
A soft ding echoed through the lift.
The doors slid open, and everyone gradually stepped out.
Namjoon led the way, with Jin, Hoseok and Jimin naturally falling into conversation as they headed down the corridor. None of them seemed particularly concerned with whether you were walking beside them or a few steps behind.
But you preferred it that way. You didn't have to worry about making conversation or saying the wrong thing every five seconds.
As you stepped clear of the elevator, you instinctively moved to one side.
"After you." The quiet voice came from beside you. Jungkook stood to the side of the elevator door.
"Thank you." You quickly smiled
He gave a small nod before following after you. For a few moments, the two of you walked in comfortable silence.
"You said it's your first day." His voice broke the quiet. "What are you actually starting as?"
You glanced sideways, surprised he'd even bother too speak to you "A makeup artist." Your answer came with a small smile.
You deliberately kept it brief, not wanting your excitement to spill over. The last thing you wanted was to come across as someone who couldn't stay professional simply because she was talking to the Jeon Jungkook.
He nodded thoughtfully. "So... you'll be working with us?"
"I think so." You finally looked over at him. "I was in the meeting this morning, so I'm assuming I'll be part of your team."
"Ah." He tucked his hands into the pocket of his oversized hoodie. "That makes sense."
There was a short pause before he spoke again. "Jimin's makeup artist actually left a few weeks ago." He paused. "Maybe you'll be her replacement?" He spoke, more like a question than an answer
You gave a small shrug. "I'm not really sure yet." A quiet laugh escaped you. "I still don't even know where I'm supposed to be half the time."
He smiled faintly.
"I think this afternoon I'm meant to meet with someone called Minji..." You searched your memory. "She said she'd comeby and find me later in my office to explain everything properly."
At the mention of her name, Jungkook nodded. "Ah... Minji-ssi." A look of recognition crossed his face. "She's nice, if she's looking after you, you'll settle in quickly." he nodded, now looking at the back of the heads of the members walking in front of you
The corridor gradually widened as the smell of freshly cooked food drifted towards you.
After a moment's hesitation, your curiosity got the better of you. "Is it okay if I ask why Jimin-ssi's makeup artist left?" The words had barely left your mouth before regret settled in.
"Oh—"
You shook your head. "I'm sorry." You internally cursed yourself. once.again. "You don't have to answer that...I probably shouldn't have asked." Your voice low, dripping with guilt
Jungkook let out a quiet laugh. "No, it's alright." He shook his head reassuringly. "You've signed all the confidentiality paperwork now."He smiled to himself. Before shooting a glance in your direction, "I hope?" He smiled, you knew he was being sarcastic, but you still felt the need to reassure him.
"Yes! Of course.." You awkwardly laughed
He hummed and gave a slight nod at your answer. "it's actually quite an unusual story."
You looked at him curiously.
"She'd worked with us for years," he explained. "Since around the Boy With Luv era."
You nodded, listening carefully.
"A few weeks ago she handed in her notice. None of us knew though, she kept it a secret till the day she walked out the doors," He glanced ahead to make sure the others were still out of earshot before lowering his voice slightly.
"Before she left, she told Jimin that she'd developed feelings for him."
Your eyes widened. "Oh..."
"But she handled it professionally." He added, "There was no expectation that he'd say anything back." He shook his head. "She just wanted to be honest before she left. She told him not to feel guilty, asked him not to respond, thanked him for the years they'd worked together..."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "...and then she walked away before he could even process what had happened."
For a moment, you weren't sure what to say.
You'd always known that working so closely with famous artists could blur boundaries for some people.
Still...Hearing it happen to someone who'd worked beside them for years made it feel strangely real.
"What did Jimin-ssi think?"
Jungkook exhaled softly. "He was surprised. said he'd never seen it coming."
There was a brief pause."But he respected how she handled it."
You nodded slowly. Your heart ached just a little for the woman. It must've been so hard for her to gather the courage and express her feelings like that.
"I suppose that must've been difficult for both of them." You tried to respond with professionalism.
"Mmm" Jungkook nodded in agreement.
The conversation naturally faded as the group reached the entrance to the staff canteen.
The others had stopped just outside, waiting for everyone to catch up before heading inside together.
Employees moved around the canteen with trays in their hands, chatting amongst themselves as they decided what to eat. The large selection of meals stretched across the counters, making the decision seem almost impossible.
Apparently, even for them.
"Jungkook-ah!" Hoseok walked over to the younger man, who was standing in front of the food counter, scanning the options. "What are you going to eat?" He looked genuinely defeated. "I can't decide."
A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
It was oddly comforting seeing that even they struggled with something as simple as choosing lunch.
of course you had seen BTS on your television screen multiple times. Living in Korea for a while had meant you weren't really able to escape them at times. Billboards of their faces where practically everywhere you looked. Especially since the day they left the military. Once again, BTS had been the hot topic on everyone's tongue.
But seeing the boys in person, no camera's seen anywhere, and they still had the exact dynamic? really warmed your heart.
Jungkook stared at the menu above the counter, his eyebrows slightly furrowed as he considered his options. "Hmm..." His eyes moved between the different dishes. "Kimchi, I think."
He nodded to himself, as if he'd finally made an important decision.
"I'll probably have that too." Jimin appeared behind him, resting his hands lightly against Jungkook's shoulders as he looked over the choices.
"You always pick the same things." Namjoon chuckled.
"Jungkookie has good taste!" Jimin laughed. Jungkook just shrugged, probably used to the glaze..
The woman behind the counter smiled politely as she began preparing their meals.
Hoseok, meanwhile, still looked completely lost. "Aish..." He stared at the food options in front of him like they had personally offended him. "Why is this so difficult?"
"You are acting like we don't do this nearly everyday" Jin called from behind him.
The others laughed.
You found yourself smiling quietly as you watched them.
Namjoon eventually stepped forward, ordering grilled meat along with a few side dishes.
One by one, the others made their choices.
Then came Hoseok's turn. Finally... You watched curiously as he confidently pointed towards his final selection.
Only for everyone around him to immediately react.
"That?" Jin looked at him, almost disgusted "You're actually choosing that?"
Hoseok looked offended. "What's wrong with it?"
"It's just..." Jin shook his head, laughing.
You couldn't help the small giggle that escaped you. You quickly covered it with your hand, hoping nobody noticed.
Once everyone had finished ordering, you stepped forward. You looked over the options briefly before choosing something simple. "Could I have a small portion of potato salad, please?"
The woman behind the counter nodded and prepared your tray.
Before you could step away, Jimin glanced down at your food. His eyebrows lifted slightly. "That's all you're having?"
You looked up.
"You should eat more than that." He spoke with a comforting tone "You don't want to get hungry later." The softness in his voice caught you slightly off guard.
"Thank you," you replied quietly. You offered him a small smile. "Really. But I'm not that hungry."
You gave a small polite bow of your head.
Jimin studied you for a second, like he wanted to say something else, but eventually decided against it. Instead, he simply nodded. "Okay."
You gathered your tray, following the group towards the seating area. Before everyone sat down, you turned back towards them.
"Thank you all for showing me where the canteen is." You gave a small bow. "I appreciate it."
Immediately, they all waved their hands dismissive. Letting you know it wasn't a big deal.
But to you it was one of the biggest deals on earth. How could it not be?
You gave one more goodbye before searching for a table far from the five boys. Of course not out of malice. But because truthfully you weren't sure if you could deal with the pressure of ganging out with five world wide global pop stars.
You better get used to this Y/n.. Your literally about ti start working with them! Your thoughts twirled around in your overstimulated mind.
All Y/N ever wanted to do was sing her songs and be free. Yet somehow, after offering to pay for the meal of a certain boy in a straw hat she finds herself causing havoc through the East Blue.
Pinterest
Masterlist
SEASON 1 (Complete)
1. F$ck The Mar*nes.
2. What does a songbird do?
3. At least a balloon or two.
4. Standards, darlings. Standards.
5. One pansy on the plate.
6. And here I am.
SEASON 2 (TBW)
Disclaimer: The songs I will be using in this fic aren't mine bc I have 0 creativity. I'm sorry.
Summary: When Y/n, a young choreographer, began working with Halsey at just seventeen, she never imagined it would lead her across the globe. Her journey with BTS began in 2018 on the set of ’Boy With Luv,’ where she acted as the creative bridge between two worlds. What started as temporary projects turned into a lifelong bond, eventually leading BigHit to offer her a full-time position working as the boys’ lead choreographer.
Now, as the members begin their solo careers and prepare for military enlistment, the stakes have never been higher. Y/n is tasked with her most ambitious project yet: Creating the choreography and performance identity for Jungkook’s global solo debut. What begins as late nights perfecting choreography and playful banter turns into quiet moments that blur the line between professionalism and something much more personal.
Their journey unfolds alongside Jungkook and Jimin’s newest travel show, Are You Sure?!, where Y/n travels with the Busan Brothers through the heat of a New York summer, the coastal winds of Jeju, and the deep snows of Sapporo.
Between the raw, unfiltered footage of life on the road and the quiet vulnerability that lingers after the cameras finally stop rolling, the show becomes the backdrop for Y/n and Jungkook’s evolving story.
As the seasons shift, they are pulled closer through creative passion, industry jealousy, and the looming shadow of distance. Amidst the chaos of global stardom and the quiet fear of a long goodbye, they are forced to make a choice only they can answer: Are they truly sure about each other, no matter what the world might say?
Word count: 21.3k
Warnings/spoilers: not proofread, swearing, pining, slow burn, so much tension, so much yearning, emotional vulnerability, work stress, snippets of flashbacks, self-doubt, jk and oc are all over the place with their feelings (will they, wont they, blah blah blah), emotional manipulation, lowercase intended, that’s about it (lmk if I missed anything!)
DISCLAIMER: This series is a work of fiction intended for entertainment purposes ONLY. All events, dynamics, and dialogue are entirely fictional and products of the author's imagination. It is not true to life, nor does it reflect the actual personal life of any real individual, and should not be taken as fact.
Playlist: here
Series masterlist
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Bold = talking in english
Author’s note: heyyyy…long time no see…happy Sunday my stars!🌟 I didn’t realize it’s been a month since I last updated🫣yall have been so patient with me and I hope this chapter makes up for the long wait🫶(even if it may or may not make you sad/mad[?] near the end…) it definitely is a lonnnng chapter and there is a lot of themes going on, so get comfy/ready for this roller coaster of emotions you’re about to feel. also I don't know if you've taken notice with my blog and from the last chapter but I am extremely into astronomy. You might notice some references/metaphors in chapter titles, scenes and overall themes in this series so I hope you enjoy tehehe.
Also there’s a new character this chapter! I have a couple characters that I’m planning on introducing in the next few chapters as there are A LOT. it feels weird to like introduce them so fast but I hope you enjoy their presence when I write them in. This one probably won’t be in as often but she is (kind of) important to the storyline in the future.
I’m trying to get back to posting more often but work/life has been CRAZY! Trying to find time to write, work full-time, work towards my certification, AND taking care of myself has been hard these days😅I also have an interview this Monday, so wish me luck🤞🤞(I need to get out of fcking sales; it’s so bad).
But ANWAYS…Please as always leave your comments and thoughts on this chapter!
Likes & reblogs are greatly appreciated🫶
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the next day
“that’s a pretty necklace.”
you look up from your phone, your thumb hovering over the ‘heart’ button of halsey’s latest post; a carousel of her and ender hugging you from yesterday’s surprise, you holding baby ender two years ago, and the last one of just you and her when you got your matching tattoos.
‘happiest of birthdays to my favorite bug 🐞the sun shines brighter when you’re around☀️🌙💫,’ the caption read.
your chest tightens with a mix of warmth and that familiar ache of realization as your free hand instinctively drifts up to touch the pendant. you lock your screen, drop the phone into your lap, and catch your reflection in the mirror.
alyssa, your stylist for today, is gently dusting powder over your cheekbones. her eyes linger on the daisy resting against your collarbone. she gives you a small, knowing smile in the reflection.
“a gift from a special someone?” she asks, tone light but curious.
you feel heat prickle at your neck. you run your thumb over the cool gold.
“thank you. my…” you pause, your heart stuttering as you weigh the word. you can hear the low hum of the production team and the distant, rhythmic rattle of the set being prepped. you go back to fiddling with the metal.
the one jungkook gifted you. correction: the boys gifted you.
“…my friends gifted it to me,” you finished.
alyssa hums, a low, melodic sound as moves her brush to your jawline, her touch light. “well, your friends have good taste; it’s very pretty on you!”
you give a small, tight-lipped smile, cheeks flushing slightly.
today’s day two of filming the music video, and alyssa is a godsend.
after the frantic, claustrophobic energy of the makeup team yesterday, her bright, effortless cheer is a steady presence that makes the air in the room feel lighter.
you remain quiet, your focus toggling between your phone and the scene notes you finalized last night with pablo and bradley.
but now, with your phone set aside, your gaze drifts to her hands. her nails are long, intricately detailed with tiny, artistic designs.
“your nails are really pretty,” you compliment as she begins to style your hair into loose curls. “the detail is incredible.”
her face lights up, a grin spreading across her features. she pauses, holding her hand out so you can get a better look.
“oh my god, thank you! i’m always changing them up almost every week. it's like therapy for me.”
“wait, you did this yourself?” you ask, leaning closer to inspect them.
she nods, eyes shining with pride. “yep! self-taught! i started during my first year at college as a hobby to destress. i even take some clients on the side.”
you note that she looks young, around your age or maybe a little younger.
”that’s amazing,” you say, letting your professional wall crumble for a moment as you actually get to know her. “are you still in school?”
”yeah, just finishing up this fall.”
“oh that’s exciting! what are you studying?”
“dance,” she said, voice still bright and energized. “my goal is to be a choreographer. i just do this and nails because it keeps me in the industry and pays the bills until i land a real gig.”
you smile, remembering when you first started out wondering if you’d ever land your first gig.
look at me now.
“it's a tough path, but it's so worth it. i’ve been right where you are,” you tell her softly. “it all pays off in the end.”
alyssa’s eyes widen. she stops the curling iron, staring at you through the mirror with her jaw slack.
“wait, you’re y/n? like the lead choreographer of bts, y/n?”
“could you remove the hot curling iron from my hair before i answer that?” you ask, slightly panicked as you see a faint wisp of heat radiating from your scalp.
she gasped, pulling the tool away. “oh my god! yes, i'm so sorry!”
she clicks it off, setting it aside, her hands hovering before she lets out a nervous laugh. “i don’t want to be the type of person who fan-girls, but i can’t believe i didn’t realize it was you. wait, you’re an actress too?”
“eh… it's a long story.” you wave it off, trying to sidestep the topic with the same practiced ease you’ve been using to avoid a certain someone on set.
“i really should have recognized you,” she says, breathless. “my professors have us analyzing your performances all the time.”
“oh, really?” you pause, “which ones have you studied?”
you started to wonder; was it with the boys? or halsey? maybe lisa?
alyssa’s next words shock you.
“oh, yours!”
you stare at her, your fingers drifting back to the pendant at your throat.
“my…mine?”
“yes!” alyssa ignores your shock, practically bouncing in her spot. “one of my professors had an entire segment called ‘the tidal pull’ and used you as the main subject.”
“what's ‘the tidal pull’?”
she starts using her hands, gesturing as if drawing shapes in the air.
“it’s this theory about how certain dancers exert an almost gravitational force on an audience. my professor says you don’t just move through space; you pull the entire room’s atmosphere along with your momentum. like an ocean responding to the moon.”
alyssa’s words processed in your brain, the vanity lights suddenly feeling a little too bright.
the idea that someone, a professor at a university, used you as one of their subjects felt surreal; practically impossible.
the idea that a university professor is using you as a subject is surreal; practically impossible.
while you’ve always tried to remain humble, you can’t help but pat yourself on the back for the years of sacrifice, the missed holidays, the exhaustion, and the quiet, lonely hours in empty studios chasing a feeling you weren’t sure anyone else would ever understand.
“well,” you start, your voice wavering just enough to betray the pride blooming in your chest. “your professor is very generous.”
before either of you can say anything more, your name is called.
“y/n! you’re up! we’re ready for you in the restaurant set in five!”
the stage manager’s voice boomed across the studio, cutting through the emotional atmosphere. you blinked, pulling yourself back to reality.
you have a job to do. it still felt surreal to wrap your head around the fact that subbing in for your sick lead actress; to play a love interest for your colleague, aka your friend's solo debut song– was considered "work."
alyssa quickly finishes up, unclipping your cape to reveal your outfit.
you have to admit, the stylists picked a very flattering piece for this scene: a floor-length black silk gown that clings to your frame. it is daringly backless, the silk plunging low to frame your shoulder blades, while a slit runs up the length of your leg, exposing your skin with every step you take in your nude heels.
you shoot her a small smile and turn toward the set.
even on day two, the exhaustion is setting in. last night you stayed late, trading ideas with pablo and bradley. shadowing them as they dissected every frame; analyzing camera angles, lighting, and the emotional stakes, was both exhilarating and deeply humbling.
you felt like a student all over again. watching them communicate with the cameraman, seeing how they made every movement look authentic, made you itch with a new kind of ambition.
there’s a thrill in realizing that you’re building something, frame by frame, just like you would with dance. it’s an amazing feeling.
but it isn’t the only thing you feel.
you still can’t get the sensation of his palm on your waist from yesterday off your skin. even now, you feel the press of his fingers on your hips, the way his gaze held yours, leaving you completely unmoored.
you don’t know how you managed to hold it together after that. i guess that just means you’re a good actress, right?
right.
avoiding him is the only solution, but that’s nearly impossible when you’re forced to work together and you’re planning a trip in a matter of weeks.
fuck, the trips.
you sigh as you near the set, your pulse beginning a slow, rhythmic thud against your ribs.
another problem for a different day.
the set is a hive of controlled chaos, but your eyes immediately lock onto the main attraction.
jungkook is already in his designated seat at the table, his head tilted back as he looks up at the chandelier prop hanging above him.
he’s surrounded by multiple cameras and crew members.
“for this scene, we’re at a restaurant, and i’m just saying whatever i want to say with no regard for what my girlfriend has to say,” he states to the camera beside him.
he looked settled. almost too calm. he reaches up, his thumb and forefinger catching the small silver hoop of his lip ring, tugging at it as he stares into the lens.
the movement is restless, a subtle, nervous tick that contrasts with the practiced charm in his voice.
“i feel bad for y/n,” he adds with a practiced smile. “because i’m being super annoying, i feel like i might be stressing her out more than usual.”
you watch from the edge of the set, trying to gauge if the slight twitch in his jaw is part of the performance or something else entirely.
it’s just pretend, you remind yourself, clutching your clipboard until your knuckles turn white.
that’s all this is.
“y/n!” pablo’s voice booms.
jungkook is still facing the camera, but he must hear the rhythmic, sharp click of your heels against the floorboards. you brace yourself as he turns, expecting a nod, a joke, or maybe a casual “hey, gg.”
but as his eyes land on you, his expression falters.
as you make your way toward him, his mouth parts, and his posture goes completely slack. for a terrifying moment, the studio, the cameras, and the noise seem to vanish, replaced by an intensity that feels dangerous.
you step beside your chair, eyes meeting him across the table, and you watch him struggle to pull himself back to earth. his gaze darts down to the hem of your dress, then to your neckline, before he finally forces his eyes back up to yours.
he looks shaken up.
he’s a really good actor, you reason, refusing to let your mind wander.
“sorry i’m late,” you apologized, offering a light smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. you decide to focus intently on the table setting while your hand stays anchored to your clipboard.
you can feel his gaze on you; a tangible, heavy weight.
bradley waved his hand, entirely focused on the monitor in front of him. “don’t be, you’re just in time!”
jungkook doesn’t respond. he stands up abruptly, the screech of his chair against the floorboards loud in the sudden quiet of the set.
"jk? you with us?" bradley’s voice cuts through the air.
jungkook blinks, the return to reality seeming to jolt his entire posture. his expression is a jarring mix of professionalism and something raw.
"yeah," he finally croaks, his voice lower than he intended. "i'm with you."
though he isn’t looking at bradley when he says it.
he then moved closer to you, pulling out your chair.
“oh, thank you,” you say.
as you slide into the seat, the silk of your dress catches against the edge of the wood.
you reach down to adjust it, but he’s faster. his hand darts out to smooth the fabric, his fingers accidentally grazing the bare skin of your thigh where the gown’s slit ends.
the contact is electric. you feel the heat of his skin seeping through your own, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. he pulls his hand back instantly, as if the touch burned him.
he hovers there a second too long, his shadow shielding you from any prying eyes.
“you look beautiful.”
the compliment hangs in the air between you. your pulse spikes, a frantic thud against your ribs. you looked up, searching his eyes; his pupils are blown, his gaze fixated on yours with an intensity that defies the 'pretend' narrative.
is that the ‘pretend’ jungkook or the real one? you wonder, your throat suddenly dry.
you forced yourself to blink, snapping the image of his searching expression into a box deep in your mind.
you couldn't afford to go there. not here. not in front of the cameras.
"thank you," you say, your voice low and perfectly composed, offering him a polite, small smile. "you look the part, too."
you saw his jaw tighten, teetering on the edge of something far more honest than you were prepared to handle, but you turned your focus firmly back to your clipboard.
you could still feel him standing there, the heat of his proximity felt like an anchor, yet anything but at the same time.
“okay, everyone!” pablo’s voice rang out, effectively shattering the bubble.
jungkook flinches. he takes a jagged breath before stepping back, finally putting the necessary distance between you.
he doesn’t look back as he walks to his side of the table, but the way he grips the back of his chair tells you he’s just as off-balance as you are.
it's just pretend.
bradley claps his hands, the sound sharp and jarring. “alright, let’s keep it natural. we’re going to do some shots of the scene around you first, so just feel free to relax and have a normal conversation, okay? rolling in five…!”
the cameras hum to life. jungkook settles into his chair, posture rigid, his gaze tracking your every move as you adjust your silverware now that your clipboard is out of sight.
normal conversation, you thought. we can do that.
“god, my shoulders are killing me,” he starts, rolling his neck dramatically. “all that time hanging yesterday for that first scene... feels like my arms might fall off.”
you remain quiet, your gaze fixed on the table, your fingers tracing the lace pattern on the tablecloth. you feel his eyes on you, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of meeting them.
you felt too vulnerable, too…exposed.
his compliment still rings in your ears, a dangerous truth threatening to push through the wall you’ve been holding up since yesterday.
if you look at him now, with that look in his eyes, you know you’ll cave.
you might say something you can’t take back, or worse, lean into the space he’s creating instead of the one you’re trying to force between you.
“oh, i’m sorry to hear that,” you murmur, your voice guarded, and far too polite.
you finally lift your head but keep your gaze on his hands resting on the table, his knuckles are slightly flushed. “you should have said something if you were in pain. there’s always someone on set to help with recovery.”
you take a slow, deliberate sip of the wine in your glass, the cool liquid offering a momentary distraction. you watch the way the studio lights catch the rim of the glass before setting it back down with a sharp clink.
jungkook’s brow furrows, his eyes searching yours for the usual spark of wit or the familiar, easy banter, but it’s nowhere to be found.
“i didn't want to make a scene,” he says, tone softening from the usual energetic edge he carries. he hesitates, his fingers twitching, inches from yours on the tablecloth. “besides, i think my hands took the brunt of it. they’re still a bit... stiff.”
your body straightens at his words.
the memory of his hand– that tight, possessive hold he had on your waist in the pool, flashes in your mind. you forced yourself to breathe, keeping your expression blank, though your heart hammered against your ribs.
“your hands?” you repeat, taking a quick, shaky breath to keep your tone neutral. “you were holding on quite tight yesterday. i’m sure that didn’t help with the tension.”
it’s the most honest thing you’ve said to him in twenty-four hours. you could’ve been talking about the train scene, but you know that isn’t what you mean.
and you think part of him knows, too.
“yeah,” he whispers, his voice dropping low enough to make your skin prickle. “i guess i just... i didn't want to let go.”
he holds your gaze, his jaw tight, clearly waiting for you to deflect. you grip the edge of the table, your knuckles white, fighting the urge to lean into the vulnerability he’s showing.
"that's a lot of commitment for a scene," you say softly, your voice barely a breath.
“whatever it takes,” he murmurs. he doesn’t lean back this time. instead, he stays right there, invading your space, his eyes searching yours with an aching shift in tone.
“the guys and i really missed you last night. we ended up at that place you like; the one with the good burgers.”
right. last night.
you recall seeing his text messages while you were working with bradley and pablo.
koo🍪 (8:22 pm): hey! brian is taking me and the guys for dinner tonight, come join
koo🍪 (8:22 pm): my treat
you wanted to go, but there was too much work to be done. and after what happened just hours before, you didn’t want to risk being in the same booth as him while your defenses were already fraying at the edges.
“oh,” you say, your voice softening despite yourself. “that sounds nice. i hope you guys had a good time.”
“it was… fun,” he admits, a small smile playing on his lips. “would have been more fun if you were there. it… it wasn't the same.”
the way he says it should feel reassuring, but it only makes your skin prickle with a renewed sense of unease.
“well…” you pause, trying to find the right words. “at least there will be plenty of other dinner outings where i can tag along.”
he looks at you for a long moment, his gaze searching your face with a quiet curiosity.
“yeah,” he finally murmurs, though his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes this time. “i'm holding you to that.”
before you can respond, bradley’s voice cuts through the air like a blade.
“alright, cut! you both were perfect; now let’s dial in,” he says, turning toward you. “just like we talked about yesterday, y/n, be argumentative. really let that irritation and hurt bleed into the next take.”
you took a sharp, steadying breath, the direction acting as a lifeline.
irritation and hurt. you could do that.
"and jungkook?" bradley continues, gesturing emphatically. “you’re playing it cool, but you’re desperate to keep her. use your charm. try to pull her back while she's trying to push away. okay?”
you both nod, and the cameras whir back to life, the red light blinking as it closes in on the space; just you two. and it feels suffocating.
“rolling!” pablo shouts. “and… action!”
the music swells, the bass thrumming through the floorboards and vibrating up through your heels. jungkook doesn’t waste a second.
as the camera focuses on him, he pulls at his lip ring with his teeth, the metal glinting sharply as he bites down; a habit of his that draws your eyes to his mouth.
he leans his head back, adopting that calculated, effortless confidence.
he begins to mouth the lyrics, his eyes on yours, his gaze heavy with an intensity that makes the fake walls feel like they’re closing in.
“weight of the world on your shoulders, i kiss your waist and ease your mind,”
meanwhile, you keep your jaw set, a sharp, jagged line of frustration cutting across your features as you cross your arms.
play pretend.
"i can’t believe you right now," you say, your voice low, cutting through the lyrics he was projecting at you. “all this back and forth? for what?”
you uncross your arms, raising your hands as you leaned forward.
“i must be favored to know ya, i take my hands and trace your lines,”
his expression is a mix of arrogance and longing. he reaches out, placing his hands on the table, fingers tracing the cloth just like you had earlier.
"you really enjoy this, don't you?" you murmured, your tone deceptively light; the kind of murmur a girlfriend might use to tease a lover, though your eyes remained cold. "the way you look at me like you’re waiting for me to break. you want me to cause a scene, huh?"
“cut! that was great!”
bradley’s voice boomed through the studio, immediately followed by the music dying down. the silence that follows is deafening, heavy with the lingering tension. but it seems to only affect the two of you.
you let out a jagged breath, your posture collapsing as the adrenaline drains out of your limbs. you don’t look at jungkook. instead, you busy yourself with your silverware, your fingers trembling slightly as you rearrange the fork and knife; a desperate, pathetic attempt to regain some form of control.
jungkook notices the tremor in your fingers. he hesitates, his voice low. “y/n, you okay?”
the casual concern in his voice is like a needle to your nerves.
"i'm fine," you said, your voice airy and dismissive, intentionally stripping away any of the heat that had just burned between you. “just tired.”
jungkook lets out a soft, hollow half-laugh. he shifts in his seat, playing with the fabric of his blazer.
"you know," he says, his tone shifting, shedding the performative edge for something more conversational. "i was talking to jimin earlier. he's been non-stop texting me all morning, trying to figure out the logistics for that trip we're supposed to take."
your heart skips a beat. the vacation; a sharp, stinging reminder of the contract binding you to him. at least jimin will be there.
"oh? and?" you ask, your voice tight, forcing yourself to maintain that cool, professional mask.
"and," jungkook continues, his gaze tracking your fidgeting hands, "he's driving me absolutely insane. he's got a whole itinerary mapped out but won’t tell me where we’re going.”
he pauses, his dark eyes searching your face for any sign of a smile. “has he been annoying you with this as much as he’s been with me?”
you keep your expression neutral, focusing intently on the way your fork reflects the harsh overhead lights, but the mention of jimin is a relief, even if you’d never admit it out loud.
“jimin is… jimin,” you say, finally allowing a small huff of laughter to escape. “he’s been sending me voice notes at three in the morning asking about my preferences. when i begged him to just send me the flight details so i could stop stressing about packing, he just replied with a selfie of him wearing sunglasses and a beach hat.”
jungkook lets out a chuckle, the tension in his shoulders finally dropping. “yah, this guy, i swear. it probably means we’re either going to end up in a five-star luxury suite or stuck sleeping in a tent somewhere with no cell service."
you feel your own defensive wall waver.
you feel your own defensive wall waver. there’s something grounding about the way he talks about jimin; it’s normal, it’s real, and it’s a million miles away from the 'pretend girlfriend' role you’ve been forced to inhabit. it reminds you that underneath the contracts and the public scrutiny, there’s still the same dynamic you’ve always shared with the boys. with him.
"well," you start, a hint of your usual playfulness creeping back into your tone, "if he drags us to a tent in the middle of nowhere, at least i know how to start a fire.”
"do you actually?" jungkook leans closer, his chin resting in his hand, his eyes scanning your face with genuine curiosity. "your dad teach you?"
the question hung in the air, simple and unexpected. the mention of your father and the reminder that he actually listens to the stories you’d told him, back in the studio, back in the observatory, when the world was smaller, knocks the wind out of you.
“i remember everything you say, y/n."
you look up, meeting his eyes. he’s looking at you with a soft, focused gaze that feels like he’s trying to map out every secret you’ve ever told him. it’s a terrifying, beautiful feeling; to be fully known in the middle of all this make-believe.
“yeah, he did,” you whisper.
“you’ll have to teach me then,” he says. it wasn't a request for a survival lesson; it felt like a silent pact; an invitation to be something other than 'y/n, lead choreographer' and 'jungkook, global popstar.'
it was an invitation to just be yourselves.
you feel a sudden, sharp pang of longing; for the simplicity of those memories, for the version of yourself that didn’t feel like she was constantly performing, even when she was just standing in a room with him.
you try to pull back, hardening your jaw against the aching need to lean into him.
"you're a fast learner, jungkook," you manage, forcing a wry smile. "i'm not sure you're ready for the reality of 'camping' with me. i can get very strict and competitive.”
jungkook’s lips quirk upward, that signature crooked grin returning, but it’s stripped of the polished charm he usually displays. it’s softer, more private.
“strict, huh? you act like i can’t handle you.”
“oh, you have no idea, jk.” you aren’t sure where this surge of confidence came from; maybe the wine, or maybe just a side of you that is tired of playing the part.
“i think you might be surprised by how much i enjoy a little healthy competition.” he murmurs, his voice deepening like honey. he doesn't look away, his eyes dipping to your lips before locking back onto yours.
oh, you know how competitive he is. you’ve seen it with your own eyes.
you remember once when you walked by them filming an episode for run bts!. apparently, they were on a scavenger hunt involving taking specific photos. jungkook had been wearing a bright pink shirt with his face on it, looking absolutely ridiculous, yet he was charging through the set with the intensity of an olympic athlete.
however, at the end of the hunt, they found out jin was a spy, and if they had any photos with him in them, you lost points.
jungkook had a lot of photos of jin.
he lost a lot of points.
seeing him so frustrated he nearly broke a board had been… comical. and, if you were being honest with yourself, seeing him that worked up was kind of hot.
you couldn’t help but let a small laugh escape your lips.
jungkook blinks, caught off guard. he tilts his head. "what? what's so funny?"
you take a slow, deliberate sip of your wine, watching the way the lights catch the rim of the glass before meeting his eyes again.
"i was just thinking about that one day," you admit, your shoulders relaxing. “when you were filming that scavenger hunt with the boys and you wore that bright pink shirt with your face on it, running around the halls like a madman.”
jungkook groans, covering his eyes with one hand. "oh, don't remind me. i still have nightmares about that. i can’t believe jin was the spy."
“you were so pissed,” you continued, unable to stop the grin that was spreading across your face. “i remember walking past and thinking, he’s actually going to break that board.”
he laughs; a rich sound that echoes warmly. he drops his hand, his eyes crinkling. "i really wanted to win, okay? i have a reputation to uphold."
“i can’t wait to see your reaction when you lose to me,” you state.
"you talk like you've already won," he murmurs, his expression shifting from amusement to something far more dangerous. you swear you see his eyes trail down again before he catches himself.
“maybe i have,” you challenge, a spark of something daring igniting in your chest.
jungkook’s smirk deepens, shifting from playful to something that makes your stomach flip. he mirrors your posture, his elbows hitting the table with a soft thud, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a steady, unyielding focus.
“i could say the same thing.”
the air is thick with the scent of his cologne and the persistent hum of the ac, but all you can feel is the radiant heat emanating from his skin. the small lamp between you casts long, flickering shadows, highlighting the intensity in his eyes.
you don’t realize how close you’ve gotten until you’re practically on the edge of your chair.
he doesn't pull back. instead, his fingers twitch against the tablecloth, still hovering an inch away from your wrist. the silence is no longer empty; it’s a physical weight, vibrating with everything you both haven't said since yesterday.
before you could respond, a shadow fell over the table.
"right! everyone, eyes on me!"
the boisterous voice sends a jolt of alarm through your system. you pull back as if struck, your chair screeching harshly against the floor.
pablo steps into the frame, clipboard held high, entirely oblivious to the tension he just decimated. he stops at the edge of the table, peering down at the two of you with a wide grin.
“this is where the chaos starts, okay? everything will start moving and then once the chandelier falls, y/n, i want you to get up as if you’re about to leave.” he turned toward jungkook. “and jungkook, you’re begging her to stay, then bam! there’s going to be an explosion.”
you take a deep, steadying breath and smooth the silk of your dress, trying to ignore the lingering sensation of his heat on your skin. you are a choreographer, a professional, and now an actress.
you can do this. you told yourself. it’s just pretend.
the crew swarms the set. lights are adjusted; the rigging is checked.
“alright, places, everyone!” pablo’s voice echoes, the spell broken entirely. “let’s keep that intensity!”
the music starts back up. this time, the lights flicker; everything around you begins to move: glassware, tables, lamps, the ceiling, the walls.
“its the way that we could ride, it’s the way that we could ride”
the lyrics fall from his lips, almost as a plea. the studio is dissolving into a cacophony of planned tremors and simulated panic, but jungkook is steady; an anchor amidst the artificial storm around you.
“think i met you in another life, so break me off another time”
the chandelier prop at the table beside you drops, hitting dead center. that’s your cue.
“okay y/n, stand!”
you slam your hands down on the table, the chinaware clinking in sync. the sound muffled by the chaos around you.
“you wrap around me, and you give me life”
you surge to your feet, the silk of your dress following you as you pivot away, just as the script demands. you are supposed to be icy; a woman finally untethering herself from his pull.
"don’t go," jungkook rasped, his voice muffled by the music, but you heard it. he reaches out, fingers curling around your wrist with a sudden, searing pressure that stops you dead in your tracks.
the movement is far too aggressive, far too real. it isn't what you envisioned last night.
it’s visceral, possessive, and entirely unscripted.
you jerk back, your breath hitching as your eyes snap to him in shock. you open your mouth to say something, but the words die on your tongue the moment you see his face. the studio is a hurricane of falling debris and disorienting strobes, but he is completely still, staring up at you with an expression of such hollowed-out devotion that it makes your stomach drop.
the same expression he wore yesterday, right before he pulled you in.
"jungkook," you breathe, his name barely audible over the mechanical shrieking of the set rigs.
he doesn't release you. if anything, his grip tightens, his thumb pressing into the pulse point of your wrist as if he’s trying to measure the frantic speed of your heartbeat.
his eyes are wide, luminous in the strobe lights, searching your face for an answer to a question he’s never dared to ask out loud.
“and that's why night after night i'll be lovin' you right”
"cue explosion!"
the wall behind you erupts with a boom. the shockwave ripples through the floorboards, sending a violent tremor up your legs. you are so entrapped by his gaze that your center of gravity is just… gone.
you stumble, arms flailing, but you don’t hit the floor.
instead, you are yanked forward by the iron grip he still holds on your wrist.
the momentum throws you off-balance, and you collide hard against his chest. his broad frame acts like a wall, absorbing the impact as he catches you as you tumble into his lap.
jungkook’s arms are around you instantly, pulling you flush against him to shield you from the debris.
you are breathless, your chest heaving against his.
he holds you, fingers splayed against your back, his touch grounding and warm. his breathing is ragged, a sharp, uneven sound vibrating through your chest.
you tilt your head back, hair falling away from your face, and look at him.
he looks wrecked; eyes dark, lips slightly parted, jaw locked in that same agonizing expression of devotion he’d shown you in the pool.
"jungkook," you whisper again, his name a plea this time.
his eyes flicker down to your lips, then back to your eyes, grip tightening slightly. he looks like he’s fighting a war inside himself, his knuckles white against the dark fabric of your dress.
he leans in slightly before asking, “you okay?”
your hand is still pressed flat against his chest, right over the center of his shirt, and you can feel the frantic thud-thud of his heart.
“i’m okay,” you manage to get out, suddenly realizing your surroundings. “i should get up.”
but he doesn’t let you move. if anything, his hand at the small of your back presses harder, anchoring you.
"wait," he murmurs, his voice raw, stripped of the practiced, effortless persona he’s worn like armor all day. he shifts his grip, his thumb trailing down your arm from your wrist, his touch electric against your skin. "just... wait a second."
“everyone’s looking.”
they aren’t; they’re focused on the props, but he doesn't care. he lets out a shaky breath, and for a fleeting second, his forehead drops to rest against yours, creating a bubble in the center of the chaos.
"let them," he whispers, so quietly that you almost don't hear him over the dying hiss of the pyrotechnics.
for a moment, you almost believe him. you almost let yourself sink into the weight of his arms; arms that have held you through four years of celebrations, stress, and quiet, late-night comforts. the 'pretend' feels like it’s melting away into something you know you can’t have.
“cut! that was perfect!”
bradley’s shout echoes. the spell; already strained, snaps.
you scramble off his lap, hurried and uncoordinated as your silk dress snags on the remnants of the table. you don’t dare meet his eyes.
you stand up, legs feeling like jelly, and immediately busy yourself with the clasp of your necklace; anything to keep your hands occupied, anything to stop them from shaking.
jungkook remains on his chair for a moment longer, hands still hovering in the space where you’d just been. then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he stands up.
"you're okay, right?" he asks, his voice still raw but soft as he checks on you.
you don’t look at him, can't look at him, but you can feel the weight of his gaze. you brush a stray curl from your face, hands still betraying you with a persistent tremor.
"i'm fine," you say, your voice guarded. you turn to look toward bradley. "ready for the next scene?"
you don’t wait for an answer, already walking toward the monitors.
on the screen, you see it: the two of you, locked in a moment so intimate it makes your skin crawl. you see your wide eyes, the way you clutched his blazer, the way he held you as if you were the only thing keeping him from drifting away.
it was perfect. and it was the most agonizing thing you’d ever seen.
jungkook pivots, his feet instinctively turning in your direction as if drawn by a gravitational pull he can’t control. he takes two steps, eyes locked on the back of your head, clearly intent on crossing that line.
but before he can reach you, his stylist and a team of makeup artists stopped him. they begin dabbing at his collar, adjusting his blazer, and aggressively blotting the fake ash from his cheeks.
simultaneously, the camera crew swarms in, maneuvering to get a close-up of jungkook, who is now trapped in their bubble.
you watch from the edge of the monitors, as he looks toward the camera. he knows you’re standing just a few feet away, listening.
he gave the camera a tired, crooked smile, the kind that looked casual to any fan, but to you, it felt like a direct hit.
“is my acting good?” he asks, his voice projecting just enough for you to catch the gravelly edge of it. he leans slightly toward the lens, expression turning mock-serious, though his eyes keep flickering toward your silhouette. “thank you, but... i can’t say any lines. the moment i do, it gets ruined. i have huge respect for actors, i really do. i could never do it.”
he pauses, a dark, heavy silence hanging on the end of the sentence before he whispers it; a final, biting remark aimed straight at your spine:
“play pretend.”
you stand frozen, fingers still white-knuckled around your clipboard. his stylist tugs at his sleeve, physically pulling him away, but his gaze remains pinned to you for a second longer than necessary; a silent, intense challenge that dares you to look away.
“y/n?”
the sound of your name snaps you back to the present. you jolt, turning toward alyssa, who is standing a few feet away with a sympathetic, slightly confused expression.
“sorry,” you breathe, voice catching. you force your hands to loosen their grip on the clipboard, though your palms are still burning. “yes?”
“you okay?” she asks, eyes scanning your face with gentle concern. “you look like you’ve seen a ghost. come on, we need to get you ready for the next scene.”
“yeah,” you say, the word feeling heavy on your tongue. “just the dust getting to me.”
you take one last glance toward the center of the set, where jungkook's silhouette used to stand.
“okay. let's go.”
this should be a lot easier.
—
the atmosphere on the platform feels different; sharper, charged with the weight of the silence between you and jungkook.
you stand on the wooden stage surrounded by a wall of blue screen tarps that stretch to the ceiling. you’ve switched out of your dress and heels for something more grounded: charcoal-grey cargo pants with silver chains hanging from the loops and a cropped black tank. you’ve traded your pumps for those heavy platform boots from yesterday.
alyssa moves around you, her touch light as she does a final check on your hair, now pulled back into a high, slick ponytail. she’s quiet, though her eyes dart back and forth between you and the man standing ten feet away.
jungkook is getting his own final touches, now sporting a jean jacket over a white tank top, leather pants, and chunky combat boots.
you aren’t looking at him, but you feel the weight of his focus; a tether pulling tight between your chests. every time the stylists adjust his sleeves or dab at his forehead, his eyes snap to your silhouette.
“nervous?” alyssa asks in a hushed tone, her fingers lingering near your shoulder as she finishes dabbing your skin with a sponge.
you let out a breath you feel you’ve been holding since you walked into the studio. “is it that obvious?”
“just a little,” she teases, though her eyes soften with genuine empathy. “i mean, he is pretty cute.”
“oh my god,” you laugh, the sound slightly brittle as it echoes against the high ceilings. “that’s besides the point.”
alyssa laughs with you before dropping the sponge into her kit.
“girl, listen to me. i know we’ve only known each other for five minutes, so don’t take this the wrong way but…” she pauses, leaning closer, dropping her voice into a whisper. “where’s the badass choreographer who can command a stage of more than twenty dancers and idols?”
you take a side glance at him. he’s in deep conversation with one of the directors, going over what you suspect are the final framing notes. he’s nodding; focused, jaw tight, movements clipped and efficient.
professional. doing his job. which is exactly what you should be focusing on.
“probably wishing she was anywhere but here,” you mutter, fingers unconsciously fidgeting with your necklace.
“well, drag her out,” alyssa says, her voice low but steady. she gives your shoulder a firm, grounding squeeze. “besides, aren’t you guys like friends or something?”
“something like that…” you echo, though the term feels inadequate.
alyssa catches your eye, her expression shifting from playful to something more observant.
"well, whatever that 'something' is, don’t let it get in the way of your potential.”
she leans in closer, eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and firm encouragement.
“take charge, y/n.”
her words hit you with a sudden clarity. the knot of anxiety in your chest starts to loosen, replaced by a cold, precise spark of ambition.
“you know,” you start, a small smile tugging at your lips, “you’re going to be a brilliant choreographer one day, alyssa.”
alyssa blushes, fixing a strand of hair that’s loose from your ponytail, though her gaze remains steady and warm.
“well,” she says softly, “i have pretty good inspiration to learn from.”
you think back to your younger self: the girl who would spend hours at the local dance studio in your hometown. back then, you didn’t care about the music industry, global debuts, or the agonizing tension that seemed to crackle whenever jungkook stood within five feet of you.
you danced because it made you feel alive. it was the only way to silence the chaotic noise in your head.
translating the things your lips couldn't bear to say into a language of motion that could reach across a room and touch someone else’s soul.
that was the core of it; the raw, unvarnished passion for the craft.
and jungkook had always seen that in you.
you look at him again as he stands there, so effortlessly centered in the chaos of the set. and for the first time since the filming started, the frantic pulse in your throat begins to steady.
he’s my friend, the thought anchoring you. he’s my best friend. that’s more important than anything else.
you take a long, slow breath, letting the resolve wash over you. you’re going to be the bigger person. you’re going to be a professional. and most importantly, you’re going to protect the bond you’ve spent four years building.
“well, before i forget…” you pause, grabbing your clipboard, “we should stay in contact.”
alyssa beams, her expression turning genuine and soft. “are you serious?”
“sincerely,” you say, writing your number on a note before ripping it off and handing it to her. “you have passion and kindness; rare in this industry. we could definitely use more of it. plus, you seem like a cool person to hang out with.”
“thank you so much!” she tucks the paper into her pocket with a grin. "you won't regret it. i'll make sure you don't."
you give her a soft, genuine smile, feeling the last of your internal franticness dissipate. it feels good to have made that choice. alyssa gives you the all-clear, and you straighten yourself out before making your way over to jungkook.
he’s already in position, his eyes tracking your movement across the studio floor before you even step onto the platform. he looks like he’s bracing for the same jagged friction that has defined every interaction since you arrived, his jaw set in that practiced line.
you don’t meet that version of him. instead, you keep your gaze neutral, walking toward him with the quiet confidence of someone who has just reaffirmed their own center.
"hey," you say, your voice cutting through the ambient noise of the set. it isn't the guarded tone from earlier. it’s lighter, sweeter; like you.
jungkook blinks, the rigidness in his shoulders faltering just a fraction at your tone.
"hey," he replies, his voice a low, gravelly hum that still manages to send a tremor down your spine. he starts to turn his head away, falling back into that familiar distance, but you reach out, poking him right in the ribs; a spot you know makes him jump.
he lets out a startled sound, his hands flying up as he glares at you, though the look is entirely lacking in heat. "yah! what was that for?"
you grin, an easy smile that finally reaches your eyes. "i don't know, you looked way too serious. i thought you might have forgotten how to laugh for a bit."
"i haven't forgotten how to laugh," he mutters, though his own lips are twitching, fighting to hold back a smile. "i've just been busy trying to be a 'cool actor' for the cameras."
"well, you're failing," you tease, stepping closer until you’re well within his personal space; not to challenge him, but to bridge the gap. "you look more like a grumpy puppy."
jungkook lets out a genuine, booming laugh; the kind that echoes warmly through the studio, stripping away the last of the tension.
he leans in, his dimple appearing, his eyes crinkling in that way that always makes your heart do a ridiculous somersault. "grumpy puppy? is that what i am to you?"
"pretty much," you say, shrugging with a smirk. "the hair, the pout; it's all there."
he laughs again, shaking his head. the professional armor he’d been wearing is finally, completely shattered, replaced by the easy, banter-filled rhythm you’ve shared for years. it feels like the air has cleared, the static that had been choking you all day finally dissipating.
“also, when we wrap today, do you want to grab something to eat?” you ask, fidgeting with your fingers before drawing them up to play with your necklace.
jungkook’s expression softens instantly. he seems to study your face, as if checking to see if the invitation is truly genuine or just another layer of your professional act. the silence stretches between you, but it isn't the suffocating, jagged tension of before.
“you're asking me?” he asks.
“yeah,” you say, shrugging slightly. “i don’t know about you, but i’m craving a good burger.”
a slow, relieved smile spread across his face, and he let out a short, airy chuckle. the way his shoulders dropped, the way his jaw finally unhitched, told you everything.
“i do love a good burger,” he says, his voice dropping, carrying a note of quiet anticipation. “but don’t you have some scenes to work out with the directors?”
“i already worked those out with them,” you explain, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture feeling more relaxed than it has all day. “unless maybe you had some other plans?”
you brace for the rejection, for him to retreat back, but he doesn't.
instead, he steps closer, his look one of genuine relief.
"no," he says softly. "i don’t have anything else planned. just a burger. and... talking to you."
the air between you feels heavy again, but it’s a different kind of weight now. it’s soft, humming with a promise that feels far more real than anything you’d been performing for the cameras.
you are both in the middle of a high-pressure set, surrounded by cameras and crew, but in this bubble, it feels as though the entire world has faded away until it is just the two of you.
“okay then,” you say, your voice steadying, surprised by your own boldness. “it’s a da— dinner. it’s dinner.”
he chuckles, the sound low and rich, and the corner of his mouth quirks into that lopsided, endearing smirk you’ve known for four years. “dinner. right.”
the air hums with a quiet electricity, a stark contrast to the chaotic, artificial storm that raged on set moments ago.
then, a sharp voice cut through the stillness.
“alright, jk? y/n? how are we feeling?”
you straighten, your fingers slipping away from your necklace to rest against your clipboard. you feel jungkook shift beside you, his own posture realigning from the soft, relaxed stance he’d taken with you back to that alert readiness.
“good!” you beamed, setting your clipboard off to the side. “ready when you are!”
bradley steps into the space between you, eyes glued to his clipboard, completely oblivious to the intimate, charged atmosphere he’s shattering.
“alright, let’s keep the momentum going! y/n, we’ll have you stand here,” he points to one of the ends of the platform, “and jk, we’ll have you here,” he points to the opposite side.
his instructions cut through the air like a blade, snapping the tension between you and jungkook completely. you both turn, your bodies instinctively moving to the positions he indicates.
you feel the distance grow between you, the warm bubble of your conversation replaced by the cold, clinical reality of lighting cues and camera angles.
jungkook moves to his mark, but just as bradley turns back to his monitor to double-check the camera settings, jungkook pauses.
he bites his lip; a gesture you know means he’s thinking an idea over in his mind.
"wait," jungkook says, his voice quiet but commanding enough to stop the crew from turning the cameras on.
bradley pauses, looking back over his shoulder with a raised brow. "yeah, jk? what’s up?”
jungkook doesn't answer him directly. instead, he steps out of his mark and walks toward you, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes your breath hitch.
"it doesn't feel right," he murmurs, his gaze flicking to your lips and then back up to your eyes. "standing here, acting out a fight... it feels disjointed. it's too theatrical."
you frown, your pulse quickening. "what are you suggesting?"
"why don't we do the choreography?" he asks, his eyes searching yours for understanding. "the bridge. the one we did at your apartment? it’s supposed to be about the tension, right? i think that would really tie it together."
he waits, brow furrowed in a way that makes your heart ache. he needs you to explain it; to be the one to bridge the gap between his artistic vision and the director’s. you look at him, realizing he isn't just talking about the scene; he’s talking about the only way he knows how to communicate with you without the masks.
taking a steadying breath, you turned toward bradley. "bradley, wait."
“everything okay guys?” he asks, looking between you and jungkook.
“everything’s fine! jungkook had an idea that…” you pause. “what if he and i did the choreography for this scene together?”
bradley exchanges a skeptical look with pablo, his head tilting as he weighs the request. the studio suddenly feels very quiet, the only sound being the distant hum of the ventilation system. pablo scratches his chin, his eyes darting between your determined expression and the way jungkook is standing; radiating a focused, quiet intensity that you rarely see him display on set.
“the choreography?” bradley repeated, his voice thoughtful. “you want to scrap the scripted blocking for a full routine?
“i think this plan will be better,” you say, stepping forward with confidence. “just like what we did for the scene yesterday. i think it’ll show that restless devotion… from both sides.”
bradley taps his chin with his pen, his gaze shifting to the platform’s edge, but the look of shared determination between you and jungkook seems to sway him.
he looks at pablo, who gives a nearly imperceptible nod.
“alright, what you say goes…” bradley pauses before saying, “director y/n…”
the sudden use of that title sends a chill down your spine. you feel the shift—the hierarchy of the room reorienting itself around your expertise rather than your role as a choreographer or impromptu actor.
jungkook looks at you, a slow, proud smirk spreading across his lips, his eyes gleaming.
you look at the platform, then back at your crew.
the anxiety that had been clawing at your throat all day evaporates, replaced by a cold, precise clarity. you are the choreographer. you know the story. and for the first time, you aren't fighting the scene; you’re directing it.
"alright," you say, your voice ringing out with a newfound authority that makes the camera crew turn toward you expectantly. “for the choreography, we need to stabilize the platform more. once that’s set, we’ll run the bridge transition from the top.”
bradley steps back, crossing his arms and watching you with a satisfied nod. "you heard her, everyone! let's get to work."
it takes approximately fifteen minutes to secure the platform, and only five for you and jungkook to map out the transitions.
you stand to the side, eyes scanning the structural changes, already visualizing how the choreography will translate to the now-solid platform.
you feel jungkook move into your peripheral vision, his presence heavy and warm. he doesn’t say a word, just stands close enough that the brush of his sleeve against your arm sends a familiar shiver down your spine.
“ready?” you ask, glancing over your shoulder at him.
instead of answering, he holds out his tatted hand for you. you slowly reach out, lacing your fingers through his; his skin against yours providing an anchor in the middle of the buzzing studio.
it’s a simple gesture, yet it carries the weight of everything you haven’t been able to say for the last twenty-four hours: the unspoken apologies, the frustrations, and the overwhelming desire to just be in sync again.
he squeezes your hand once, firm and grounding, before pulling you toward the center of the platform. the crew is already resetting the lights, casting long, dramatic shadows that dance around the two of you.
“y/n, you let us know when you’re ready!” pablo calls from his spot behind the monitor.
"from the top!" you command, your voice steady, ringing with an authority that leaves no room for doubt.
the heavy, driving bassline tore through the silence of the studio, immediately setting the tempo for the routine. as the track swelled into that familiar, kinetic bridge you’d perfected in the privacy of your living room, you didn't hold back.
“monday, tuesday, wednesday, thursday, friday, saturday, sunday, seven days a week”
you initiated the movement; a sharp, angular lunge that cut across his space. jungkook didn't hesitate; he mirrored your intensity instantly, his body a fluid, lethal extension of your own.
you move with a sharp grace, your bodies weaving around each other in a series of precise isolations. there is a raw, kinetic energy in every step, a language of frustration and longing that only the two of you fully understand.
you push off the platform’s edge, using the momentum to pivot sharply back into his space. jungkook catches you, his hands locking onto your waist with a firm, possessive strength that anchors you. he pulls you into a tight hold, your back nearly flush against his chest.
“every hour, every minute, every second,”
the studio lights seem to dim, leaving only the two of you in a private, suffocating bubble of heat and rhythm. as you move together, you reach up, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw before sliding down to his collar.
your movements were slow, deliberate, but entirely yours.
he didn't break the connection, his gaze locked onto yours with that same terrifying, hollowed-out devotion. his hands were firm on your waist, the intricate details of his finger tattoos pressing into your skin, a reminder of the person currently holding you.
“you know night after night, i’ll be lovin’ you right,”
as the music comes to a low thrum, you are completely in his space, your foreheads almost touching, chests heaving in unison. the world outside the blue screens ceases to exist. there is only the sound of your shared breathing.
“cut!”
you pull away instinctively, heart hammering against your ribs, though the physical heat of him; his hands, the press of his chest, lingers on your skin like a brand.
jungkook takes a half-step back, his expression shifting back into the practiced focus of an artist. but his eyes, dark and still blown wide, betray him. he keeps his gaze locked on yours, the silence between you thick with the memory of the routine you’ve just finished.
"that was great guys!" bradley exclaims from behind the monitors, sounding more like a fan than a director. he leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. "pablo, did you get that?"
"every frame," pablo replies, his own voice hushed. he gestures toward the screen where the playback is running.
you turn toward the monitors, chest still heaving, trying to find your footing in the sudden shift from the private bubble you’d shared with jungkook to the glaring reality of the set. you see yourself on screen, see the way your hand rested on his jaw, the way his thumb pressed into your side as if he were trying to measure your heartbeat. seeing it from the outside makes it feel even more dangerous than it did from the inside.
jungkook steps up beside you to look at the monitor, his shoulder brushing yours. the casual contact feels like a live wire.
"the chemistry," bradley says, pointing to the screen, "it’s exactly what the bridge needed. it’s perfect. we don't need another take."
your heart drops. the thought of that bubble popping; of having to go back to being just a choreographer and an idol, of walking off this platform and losing this electric tether, feels unbearable. you look at the monitor again, squinting at the playback, desperately hunting for a flaw.
"wait," you say, your voice sharper than you intended.
pablo, bradley, and jungkook turn to look at you.
"the lighting on the third turn," you continue, your mind racing to construct a plausible technical failure. "it messes with the transition. if we want it to look perfect, the movement has to be sharper at the pivot point."
jungkook tilts his head, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. he looks from the screen to your face, his gaze lingering on your slightly parted lips before drifting back to your eyes. he sees the flush on your skin, the way your hands are still trembling, and the thinness of your excuse.
he knows you’re just as terrified of ending this as he is.
“i noticed that too,”jungkook says, his voice low and steady, backing you up without a moment of hesitation. “i was a bit off-balance on the pivot. i think we can make it tighter.”
bradley sighs, looking between the two of you. he doesn't seem fully convinced, but he also doesn't argue.
"alright," bradley relents, waving a hand. "one more take. make it count."
as the crew scurries to reset the lights, jungkook doesn't move away. he stays close, his presence a heavy, comforting weight in your personal space. he leans in until his lips are inches from your ear, his breath warm against your skin.
"good work, director," he says, his voice a low, gravelly hum that sends a tremor straight to your core. he doesn't move away. he just stands there, the weight of his attention pulling at you, reminding you of the dinner you’d promised, and the reality that you are both far too good at making the fake feel like the only truth you have left.
—
“okay but be honest with me…” you pause, voice muffled by the food in your mouth. “was the hug too much?”
you and jungkook are currently huddled on the trailer’s cramped floor, the scent of cooling takeout burgers and fries hanging heavy in the air; a mundane, welcome change from the exhausting vastness of the studio.
jungkook, who had been focused on picking at his fries, looks up, a faint, amused quirk to his lips. "with latto?"
you nod, a sheepish flush creeping up your neck.
he lets out a low, amused huff, shaking his head. he watches you for a moment, his eyes softening in the dim light.
“gg, you were fine. it was just a hug. honestly? i think she looked more surprised than bothered.”
“you’re just saying that to make me feel better,” you mutter, shoving a fry into your mouth.
“i’m saying it because it’s true,” he replies, his gaze unwavering. he reaches over, brazenly stealing a fry from your tray with a smirk.
“director y/n.”
you rolled your eyes, a laugh escaping you. “don’t even start with that!”
“hey, i’m serious!” he said, “i swear after bradley said that your face was so red-“
you cut him off by throwing a pillow at him, which he caught.
“oh, cut it out,” you laugh, though your smile remains soft. “for the record, i was only supposed to be shadowing them so i say that is progress.”
jungkook pauses, the laughter between you dying down, his expression shifting into something more somber.
“you’re shadowing them?” he asks, his voice suddenly quiet.
fuck. you weren’t supposed to say that.
“um, yeah,” you clear your throat, picking at a loose thread on your jeans. “son wanted me to, while he was gone. since he couldn’t be there, it just… made more sense that way.”
jungkook’s face drops. the spark from moments ago is replaced by a look of sudden, painful realization.
“fuck. did i mess up by asking you to sub in for the lead?” he asks.
“wait, what?” you blink, the laughter completely vanishing as the weight of his guilt sinks in. “koo, no. where is this coming from?”
he grips the pillow tight, his gaze fixed anywhere but on you. “i just… i knew son was having you take charge, but i didn’t realize it would be something like that.” he pauses, his shoulders slumping. “it’s a great opportunity for you, and i blew it.”
the air in the trailer feels razor-thin. you soften, reaching out to cover his hand with yours, forcing him to meet your eyes. “koo, stop. seriously. you didn’t ‘blow’ anything.”
when he finally looks up, his gaze is searching yours, heavy with unnecessary guilt. you offer him a small, watery smile, your thumb stroking the back of his hand to ground him.
”you didn’t ruin anything,” you say firmly. you try to lighten the mood with a sharp, familiar jab. “besides, i think the only thing you blew were the shots where you looked like a lost, grumpy puppy.”
jungkook’s brow furrows, a flicker of his usual playfulness trying to fight through the guilt. "you’re still on that, aren’t you?"
“i mean, the hair, the pout, the brooding stare?” you smirk, leaning in, your voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “you’re just as bad as bam, if not worse.”
jungkook lets out a short, shocked laugh, and before you can blink, he swings the pillow he’s holding, lightly thwacking your shoulder. "yah! you’re unbelievable. i was playing the part!"
"you were being a drama queen," you counter, grabbing a cushion from behind you. “probably where bam gets it from.”
"oh, it's on," he breathes, his eyes glinting with a dangerous, competitive light.
he lunges for the pillow in your hands, and for a frantic moment, it’s a blur of flying fabric and muffled laughter.
he’s faster, inevitably catching the pillow with one hand and pulling you off-balance with the other. you tumble forward, hands landing on the floorboards with a soft thump, your body coming to rest half-sprawled over his.
the momentum of your collision leaves you both breathless, chests heaving in rhythm. suddenly, you are keenly aware of exactly where you are: pressed flush against him, his hands anchored firmly at your waist to steady you. the small space of the trailer feels suddenly, suffocatingly intimate.
jungkook goes completely still. his eyes, usually so sharp and teasing, darken, scanning your face with a focus that makes your skin prickle. he doesn't pull away. he doesn't even move, his fingers splayed against your back, pinning you there in the most gentle, unintentional way imaginable.
as your fingers ghost over his jawline, his skin feels scorching under your touch. suddenly, the trailer’s dim lighting warps, the space around you dissolving into a hazy, amber-lit memory.
you were sitting in a chair, your bones feeling like liquid, your eyes squeezed shut against the exhaustion. you felt the cool, grounding pressure of a cotton pad against your eyelid, moving in slow, rhythmic circles. you heard his voice, a quieter, more vulnerable version, hovering inches from your face.
“can i?” he’d whispered.
“mhm,” you’d hummed, small and trusting, leaning your weight into his space as he wiped away the silver glitter. you remembered the way his gaze felt, anchored entirely on you, as if the world outside; the clubs, the cameras, the expectations, had simply ceased to exist. you remembered the way his ink caught the dim light; the intricate, dark patterns of his sleeve climbing up his arm, wrapping around the solid line of his shoulder and disappearing beneath his shirt. they felt like a map, each line and shadow a piece of the history he had built for himself, inked directly into his skin.you remembered the heavy, sweet silence that had followed when he set the cotton pad down, his thumb lingering against your cheekbone to catch a stray speck, searching your eyes with a terrifying intensity.
“there,” he’d breathed, that pensive smile tugging at his lips. “now, look at me.”
and you had. you had looked at him, your vision slightly blurred by the cleansing oil, and the air between you had thickened, turning heavy and sweet.
“you okay?”
the memory snapped shut, leaving you breathless in the present.
the memory snaps shut, leaving you breathless in the present. you blink, the trailer rushing back into focus. the smell of cold fries lingers, and jungkook is still right there beneath you, his gaze locked onto yours with that same terrifying intensity.
the words feel trapped in your throat, held hostage by the overwhelming vividness of the gaze locked onto yours. it’s the same intensity; the same quiet, terrifying focus, that had been in the memory, pulling you deeper into the present than you’ve ever been before.
your hand, still pressed against his jaw, feels unsteady. slowly, subconsciously, your thumb begins to trace a path across his skin, your eyes wandering as you truly see him for the first time.
you’ve always known he was beautiful, but you’ve never really looked at the constellations that define him. you traced the tiny, dark speck nestled just beneath his lower lip, then let your gaze drift upward to the faint, elegant cluster near the arch of his brow. there were more, hidden in the hollows of his cheeks, near the scar on his left, and tucked near the shell of his ear, each one a small, yet unique mark.
"you have a lot of moles," you whisper, the words slipping out as a desperate, clumsy attempt to anchor yourself in the now. your fingers, still resting on his jaw, tremble just enough for him to notice.
jungkook doesn't blink. he seems to hold his breath, his eyes darting to your lips and then back up, searching for a trace of the strange daze that’s just swept over you.
"is that... a bad thing?" he asks, his voice rougher, barely a breath in the sudden quiet.
he shifts, his hand moving from your back to gently cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin with a deliberate, slow pressure that mirrors the phantom sensation of your memory. the air between you turns thick, heavy with the weight of things unsaid.
"no," you breathed, the confession heavy on your tongue. "not bad at all."
he leans in, his lips parted, the gravity between you pulling tight. just as his hand moves to the back of your neck…
brrrrrrr.
your phone vibrates violently on the rug between you.
you both jolt, scrambling apart as if the sound had been a physical blow. you grab for the screen, heart hammering, feeling completely dazed by how close you’d just come to losing your footing again.
the caller id flashed: chim🐥
“it’s jimin,” you breathe, your own voice sounding thin and shaky.
"you should probably get that," he says, his voice clipped and overly casual. he doesn't look at you, instead focusing intently on crumpling a piece of paper into a ball. "it’s probably about the trip. he’s been blowing up my phone about flights for the last hour."
he stands up abruptly and retreats toward the tiny kitchenette, giving you the privacy he clearly doesn't want to grant but feels obligated to provide. he keeps his back to you, posture rigid, shoulders tight enough to snap. even from across the room, you can feel the way he is straining to listen, as if trying to memorize every word you’re about to say.
you stare at his back for a heartbeat, pulse still racing, before you finally swipe to answer.
"hey, jiminie," you say, voice steadier than you feel.
"y/n-ah! finally," jimin’s voice rings out, bright and oblivious. "i was just checking in; did you guys wrap for the day? or are you still busy?"
you glance over at jungkook. he doesn't turn around, but his hand tightens on the counter, knuckles white. the air in the trailer seems to drop ten degrees, the silence from his end of the room suddenly louder than the music on the phone.
"we just finished up," you reply, voice louder than necessary, an involuntary attempt to soothe the bristling energy coming from the kitchen. "we’re just going over some last-minute things."
"perfect timing," jimin chirps. "i've got some great news. is jungkook there?”
you hesitate, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks again. "uh, yeah, jungkook’s here."
"great! put me on speaker," jimin commands, his voice filled with that signature, infectious energy that usually makes you smile; though right now, it only makes your stomach twist with nerves.
you set the phone down on the small coffee table, the surface vibrating. jungkook immediately turns, his expression carefully schooled into a mask of indifference, though you can see the tension coiled in his neck as he walks over to loom behind you. he doesn't sit; he just leans against the back of the sofa, arms tightly crossed over his chest.
“jiminnnnn,” jungkook drawls.
“jungkookieeee,” jimin mimics, voice soaring with a playful lilt clearly intended to needle him. “you little punk, why have you been dodging my texts!”
jungkook lets out a light chuckle, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
"i’m not dodging you, jimin. i’m working. we just finished, literally seconds ago. what is so urgent that you’re harassing us both?"
"harassing? i’m your friend!" jimin laughs, the sound warm and annoyingly perceptive. “who is the one who wanted to do these trips with each other, by the way!”
“oh my god, jimin— just tell us where we're going?” you beg.
“yah, what is up with you two? so rude to your elders,” jimin states, voice dripping with mock-offense.
“fine, fine. i’ll cut the mystery…” he pauses before saying, “i don’t know where to go!”
you can practically hear him pacing on the other end, the frantic sound of his footsteps echoing. your own anxiety, which had been centered entirely on jungkook’s proximity, shifts toward your friend.
“you guys are going to be in new york, but then in a few days you’ll have to travel back because jungkook is performing at home…” jimin rambles on, not taking a breath.
“jimin, breathe,” you say, voice softening into that calm, grounding tone you usually reserve for the studio. “it’s just a trip. we don’t need a five-star resort. we just need to be together. we can find something simple.”
“simple? i’m the one who promised everyone an ‘unforgettable experience’!” he stresses, voice cracking. “if i don’t pick a location by tomorrow, management is just going to book us in some boring hotel and i’ll never hear the end of it. i’m a failure, y/n-ah. i’m a vacation-planning failure.”
“you’re not a failure,” you soothe, wanting to reach out through the screen. “just stop looking at the high-end stuff. where can we go that’s private, quiet, and doesn't require six-month reservations?”
“what about camping?” jungkook’s voice is low and gravelly, cutting through the static of jimin’s panic like a razor.
your heart performs a precarious somersault.
the mention of it brings back that hazy, half-forgotten memory of your own childhood; the smell of damp pine needles, the way your father would struggle with the tent poles, and the absolute, beautiful wonder of a night sky unpolluted by city lights.
but it also reminds you of that night in the observatory, where you shared those exact memories with the person currently across from you.
he doesn't have to say it, but you know his intentions behind it.
“camping?” jimin’s voice breaks the silence and the eye contact between you and jungkook.
“yeah,” jungkook clears his throat, “i was actually looking at some places, and there’s cute tiny cabins a few hours from new york we could stay at.”
“tiny cabins?” jimin repeats, voice shifting from frantic to cautious. “like… the ones with actual beds and a kitchen? or are we talking ‘cooking dinner on a stick’?”
“they’re nice, jimin,” jungkook says, gaze fixed on you, watching your reaction with a level of intensity that makes your breath hitch. “they have a/c, a small kitchen, and a fire pit. it’s exactly the kind of reset we need. we can drive there right after the gma performance.”
you are quiet for a moment, letting the image take root: the crackle of a fire, the smell of damp earth, and miles of space between you and the expectations of the world. it feels like a tether to a version of yourself you’d almost forgotten.
sure, there will be the filming aspect, you thought, but the best moments are always the ones that go uncaptured.
“y/n? what do you think?” jimin’s voice echoes through the phone, breaking your thoughts.
"i think..." you start, voice slightly breathless as you meet jungkook’s gaze. still looking at you, eyes dark and hungry for your answer. "i think that sounds like exactly what we need, jimin."
“oh, thank god!" jimin lets out a loud, exaggerated exhale. “oh! we could go hiking, maybe do some boating– oh, there’s not a place near the cabins. that’s okay, we can rent a different place for that…”
jimin’s voice becomes a distant, melodic hum; a manic stream of consciousness about hiking trails and boat rentals that seems to exist in a different reality entirely. you don't hear most of it. your attention is tethered to the space between you and jungkook, which feels charged with a sudden, suffocating intensity that jimin’s presence on speakerphone only serves to highlight.
you are no longer just y/n, lead choreographer and jungkook of bts; you are two people sharing something that is slowly becoming impossibly dangerous to ignore.
—
the next day
the sun is relentless, beating down on the exterior set, but the atmosphere feels brittle, as if the air itself was holding its breath.
the final day of shooting is a strange, breathless affair; a fragile mixture of exhaustion, relief, and the mounting dread that this, whatever this is, is finally coming to an end.
pablo and bradley had you running through complex chase sequences all afternoon. you spend hours sprinting until your lungs burn, with jungkook hot on your heels.
it starts as a joke; you leading him on a wild goose chase, but as the hours drag on, the physical toll becomes grueling.
at one point, he’s meant to hand you a bouquet in the middle of a sprint, a gesture meant to symbolize his character’s relentless obsession. when you look down, you see they’re sunflowers and daisies; the exact same species he’d bought you for coachella. the exact same bouquet you saw in your hazy, half-remembered memory in the trailer, right before you’d snapped back to reality with your body sprawled over his.
it took a dozen takes to get it right.
whether it’s you tripping over your own feet, the cameras losing focus, or jungkook’s hand brushing your wrist for a second too long, the scene feels cursed.
every time the bouquet hits the pavement, he is there to pick it up, his gaze dark and heavy, handing it back with a crooked, tired smile that never reaches his eyes. by the twelfth take, the flowers are bruised, and so are your defenses.
between shots, there’s no room for the conversation you left hanging in the trailer. jimin kept you both on the call until the early hours of the morning, debating travel logistics and permits; a convenient, necessary shield that kept you from addressing the gravity of what had almost happened on your trailer floor.
but on set, the silence between takes is louder than any of jimin’s rambling.
the tension is thick, palpable enough to choke on. you both retreat into your corners between takes, but it is unavoidable.
it lives in the way his hand lingers on your elbow when he helps you regain your balance after a rough turn, or the way you catch him watching you from the periphery, his eyes tracing the line of your collarbone before he snaps away to mutter something to a crew member.
you tell yourself the intensity is purely for the cameras; you are just "channeling the character."
but as the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges, you knew the line between performance and truth had vanished.
evening settles, and the crew begins rigging the rain machines for the final scene. you stand under the production tent, your charcoal tank top clinging to your skin as the first sprays of mist hit your face.
across the way, the crew secures jungkook into his harness. stripped down to a white tank top and dark trousers, his skin glistens under the studio lights.
as he moves to adjust his gear, the fabric of his tank top pulls taut across his back and shoulders, barely containing the sheer, coiled mass of his muscles. you feel a jolt in your stomach; a sharp, unbidden memory of last night flooding your senses.
you remember exactly how his chest felt against your palms; solid, unyielding, a wall of heat as you scrambled over him. you remember the way his broad frame felt like the only anchor in a world that had suddenly spun out of control.
seeing him now, fully exposed to the elements, makes your pulse spike in a way that has nothing to do with the script.
he catches you watching, and for a second, neither of you looks away. the distance feels electric.
“you good, y/n?” bradley’s voice breaks the trance.
“yes, i’m fine.” you reply, your voice steadier than you actually feel. you tear your gaze away, focusing on your clipboard.
bradley stands beside you, watching the crew prep the rigs. he follows your line of sight to jungkook, then back to you, a thoughtful expression settling over his face. he’s been quiet most of the day, but you notice the way he’s been watching you with a newfound level of scrutiny.
“you know,” he starts, his voice low. “i’ve worked with a lot of people in this industry. most of the time, when we bring in someone from the dance side, they’re just... there. but you? you’re a different breed. i don’t know how you’re balancing the choreography and managing this performance without losing your mind. and those ideas you pitched? you have a gift, my friend.”
you feel a flush creep up your neck. "i just want the project to be as strong as possible. it’s what i’d want if i were the one calling the shots."
"well, you’re calling plenty of them," he chuckles, pulling a sleek, matte-black card from his blazer pocket. he slides it into your hand. "pablo and i were talking with director son. we’ve got projects coming up next summer, and we’re going to need someone with your vision. not just as a choreographer, but in the director’s chair."
you look down at the card; bradley & pablo productions.
the weight of it feels like a turning point.
"you've got the eye for this, y/n.” bradley says, his tone turning earnest. “if you’re ever interested in more shadowing, or if you want to take a lead on one of our upcoming projects, call us."
"bradley, i..." you’re at a loss of words, the validation hitting you harder than the nerves.
"think about it," he winks, stepping away as the stage manager yells for places. "but keep that drive. it’s rare to find someone who actually cares about the why behind the movement."
jungkook steps in as bradley retreats, his presence an immediate shift in the air. he is already harnessed, the harness straps pulling taut against his chest, covered by his jacket now. he ignores the stylists rushing to dab his skin, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a focus that makes your breath hitch.
"you look like you’ve been doing some serious networking," he says, his voice low. he glances at the card in your hand. "bradley doesn't hand those out to just anyone."
"i guess i’m good at my job," you say, tucking the card away.
“i’d say so,” he murmurs, his gaze trailing over you, taking in the way the rain has already dampened your tank top. "you look ready."
“i could say the same to you,” you smirk, leaning in. "are you ready to fly like a fairy?"
jungkook lets out a low chuckle. he tilts his head. "are you ready to finally give me a chance?"
the question hangs in the damp air. your heart stutters. "um..."
he seems to catch himself, his signature lopsided grin returning, though it doesn't quite reach the intense, searching quality in his eyes.
"our characters," he corrects. "i… i meant our characters.”
you look at him, and the levity feels fragile. you step closer, your voice dropping, stripped of the bravado. "jungkook… i wanted to say i’m sorry. for how i’ve been acting. being so closed off. i know i’ve been off lately, and i shouldn’t let that get in the way of work…”
you hesitate before saying your next choice of words.
“...and our friendship.”
he goes perfectly still.
"gg…" he trails off, the nickname hanging in the air with a weight that makes your skin prickle. "you don't have to apologize. i know this is a lot. the filming, the pressure... the promotion."
"it’s not just that," you admit, fingers ghosting over your necklace. "it’s... it’s been fun, honestly. being able to just play around, to be someone else for a change."
jungkook nods slowly. "yeah. it has. i just… i wish we could do that more often."
you tilt your head. "do what? act?"
"just pretend," he murmurs, his voice layered with a want that makes your stomach flip. "to be whoever we want to be. to just… exist outside of who the world wants us to be."
the tension is a physical weight, humming with a promise that feels far more real than any script. you look up at him, gaze steady.
"well," you start, a slow, challenging smile touching your lips. "at least we have the camping trip."
jungkook’s breath hitches. his eyes darken, hungry and focused. "we do," he whispers, the gravity between you pulling tight enough that you feel like you might snap.
"we do."
“alright everyone, places!” pablo’s voice slices through the air.
you both jolt. the crew swarms the set, adjusting the rigs that hum with a menacing, metallic vibration.
you jolt, your heavy platform boots skidding across the gravel. you crouch behind the washer prop, the metal cold and biting. jungkook grabs onto the street pole, his knuckles white as he anchors himself.
“cue rain sequence and… action!”
the music cuts through the roar of the rain with a driving beat. jungkook grips the pole, his body angled against the wind.
“okay, jk let go!" pablo bellows.
as his hand leaves the pole, the jerk of the harness sends him soaring back; but instead of a cinematic flight, he lets out a high-pitched, unscripted yelp of shock.
"i'm a fairy!" he screams, his voice cracking mid-air as he flails his limbs, his cool-guy composure replaced by sheer adrenaline.
you’re crouched behind the washer, meant to be the icy girlfriend. but the sight of jungkook flailing through the air and declaring his new identity as a fairy completely breaks you. you bury your face in your arms to stifle the sound, but it’s no use; a sharp, uncontrollable snort escapes you.
you bury your face in your arms to stifle the sound, but it’s no use. a sharp laugh escapes you, followed by a full-blown, uncontrollable snort.
"cut! cut, cut, cut!" bradley bellows, though even he sounds like he’s fighting back a laugh.
jungkook is lowered to the ground, harness clanking. he stands there, drenched, hair plastered to his forehead. water beads on his broad shoulders and drips from his chin, catching the light on the silver hoop in his lip and the subtle piercings lining his ears. he looks absolutely ridiculous, yet even in this state, the coiled, muscular frame of his body is impossible to ignore.
he pushes the wet strands out of his eyes, squinting at your shaking frame.
"it wasn't that funny," he tries to defend, though his own lips are twitching.
you push yourself up, wiping tears of genuine mirth from your eyes. you walk over to him, your laughter trailing off into soft, breathless chuckles.
“i cannot wait to tell the boys about that.”
he glares at you, nose scrunched but the look is soft, almost doting.
“they'll never let me live it down, will they?” he grumbles, though he steps closer, effectively invading your personal space.
“oh, absolutely not,” you confirm, shaking your head and sending water droplets flying. “i’m already planning to make it the group chat’s new profile picture.”
”yah! you’re making me the new profile meme?” he asks, clutching his chest.
“oh yeah,” you giggle. “you’re definitely replacing joonie’s.”
you and the boy’s group chat constantly changed the group photo with one of the boy’s newest memes that surfaced on the internet. it had become an unspoken rule: whoever was caught in the most ridiculous candid, or who possessed the most unfortunate facial expression during a live stream or an interview, became the face of the group for the next week or even, month.
you’d seen it all. there was the one where hoseok and yoongi were on the viking ride wearing matching yellow shiba inu helmets that was there for a solid three weeks, or the time where jin ate a lemon flavored cake and spit it out that lasted over two months.
“you can’t be serious,” jungkook huffs jokingly, shaking his head in disbelief.
“it’s time for a renovation, koo,” you tease. “the people are demanding change.”
“you mean you and jimin?”
“precisely”
you felt a little smug about it, honestly. you were usually the most cautious of the group, a stealthy ninja when it came to avoiding the camera’s lens during bad moments. there had been maybe two or three times over the last few years where you’d ended up as the group profile picture; once when you’d accidentally fallen asleep mid practice sitting against the mirror, and another time when tae had captured you mid-sneeze after a glitter cannon went off in your face.
the wind kicks up, sending a spray of mist across your faces.
you start to reach up to push your hair back, but jungkook’s hand beats yours.
he tucks the damp strand behind your ear, his palm staying pressed against the side of your face, his skin warm despite the cold rain.
the playfulness in his gaze shifted, darkening into something far more intense, something that made your heart stutter in your chest.
the playfulness in his gaze shifts, darkening. the sound of the rain machines dips into a distant, muffled hum as the studio around you begins to bleed into a memory; the vanity chair, the scent of his cologne, the feeling of his chest touching your knees.
“because they’re like little stars. a whole constellation just for me.”
the present rushes back, violent and cold. the rain is still plastering your hair to your cheeks, but the heat from his palm makes the skin of your face feel like it’s burning.
the playful banter about memes and group chats feels like a lifetime ago. the silence between you now is heavy, humming with the weight of that night in your suite, the reality of what happened last night; and what was left unsaid, crashing into the here and now.
the present rushes back. “gg,” he murmurs, his voice losing every trace of the teasing quality. “you okay? you’re doing it again.”
“doing what?” you whisper.
“spacing out,” he says, moving his hand away.
"i... i was just remembering," you admit, the words feeling heavy. the transition from the hazy, amber-lit warmth of that memory to the harsh, rain-slicked reality of the set is jarring, leaving you feeling exposed.
jungkook’s eyes search your face, trying to figure out if you are grounded in the present.
"remembering what?" he asks.
you bite your lip, feeling the erratic thrum of your pulse. you want to be reckless, but you can't.
"um…," you pause, looking away. “just what pablo’s notes on the final scene were.”
the tension in jungkook’s shoulders seemed to loosen but not from relief, almost…disappointment?
"right," he says. "the notes. of course."
“jk! y/n! let’s get to your marks for the final scene.” pablo’s voice echoes.
you stand on the damp street set, the rain sticking to the gravel and cooling your skin. jungkook is already in position behind you, his posture coiled and watchful. he’s not looking at the crew, and he’s not looking at the camera. he’s looking at you.
"focus, y/n," you whisper to yourself.
"alright, rolling!" pablo shouts, his voice echoing through the studio. "and... action!"
the music kicks in– a pulsing, driving bassline that seems to match the rhythm of your own heart.
”monday, tuesday, wednesday, thursday, friday, saturday, sunday, a week”
the lyrics kept repeating, on and on. you knew the song was coming to an end soon. which means whatever you two have going on is ending with it.
“cut!” bradley’s voice cut through the music, eyes trailed on you. “y/n, remember you have to walk toward the camera.”
“oh, right,” you clear your throat. you wipe a stray droplet of rain from your cheek and take a breath. "sorry, i lost the beat."
"it's alright," bradley calls out. "let's reset. same thing; rain, walk, focus on the lens. y/n, keep that 'done with him' energy, but when you look back, give us that lingering doubt. jungkook, keep being persistent."
”that shouldn’t be too hard,” you hear jungkook murmur behind you.
you turn to give him a look. “yah, what’s that supposed to mean?”
he doesn't give you a straight answer, just that signature, crooked grin. he steps toward you, unbothered by the rain.
“oh, nothing,” he whispers.
“you’re so annoying,” you groan.
“you say that like it’s a bad thing,” he counters, grin widening. “it’s technically my job to annoy you.”
“you’re starting to be worse than jimin and taehyung,” you retort.
he didn’t back away, even as the rain continued to pelt the set around you, turning the floor into a mirror of neon reflections. instead, he tilted his head, his dark, wet hair clinging to his forehead, and looked at you with an expression that was suddenly, entirely devoid of the ‘cool-guy’ act. the playfulness was still there, but beneath it, there was a raw, tethered hunger that made the air between you feel impossible to breathe.
“maybe,” he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly hum. “but you haven’t complained about it much. in fact… i think you’re starting to like it.”
you open your mouth to deny it, but the words die in your throat. he is so close that you can see the drops of rain tracing paths down his jawline.
he goes quiet, his hand drifting up to toy with his lip ring, rolling the hoop between his fingers and worrying at the silver with his teeth.
for a moment, you aren't the lead choreographer, and he isn't the biggest pop star in the world. you are just two people, soaked to the bone, trying to find a way to keep pretending.
“you’re delusional,” you whisper, though your hand, which had been clutching your clipboard, hangs limp at your side.
“rolling!” pablo’s voice shatters the silence. “action!”
the music kicked in again.
you spin on your heel, your boots squeaking as you launch into the sequence, the movement instinctive, sharp, fueled by adrenaline.
all you are doing is walking with your arms crossed, but it feels like a statement. like you are telling yourself to walk away; not because you want to, but because you have to.
and he is right there, mirroring your energy, his body a lethal, fluid extension of your own. the rain is relentless, turning the floor into a mirror of neon reflections.
the rain was coming down even harder and the wind was relentless. you could barely see as you kept you head down, your hair whipping in front of your face.
“you know night after night, i’ll be lovin’ you right seven days a week.”
“cut! end rain sequence!”
thank god
both you and jungkook stay put as stylists come over to fix your hair and outfits. you hardly notice the camera crew hovering nearby, pointed at jungkook.
”jungkook, any thoughts as we wrap up soon?” the cameraman asks.
jungkook ponders for a moment as a stylist gives him a towel.
“i’m excited. i think it’ll look fun. i want to see the first draft of the mv already,” he turns to you, “don’t you?”
you look at him, water dripping from the tips of your hair, and for a fleeting second, the cameras and the exhaustion fall away. the question feels like an invitation.
“yeah,” you say, your voice steady. “i’m excited to see it, too.”
jungkook holds your gaze, searching for that ‘pretend’ wall you’ve been fighting to keep up. he tilts his head slightly, and you catch the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
“what was your favorite part of filming?” jungkook prompts as the cameraman backs up to catch both of you in the frame.
your mind flashes through the last few days; the claustrophobic intensity of the laundromat scene, the heavy, charged air of the dinner set, the platform where you two had finally moved in sync. you weigh them, your heart fluttering as you consider the memories you’ve built in the gaps between the scenes.
“that’s a tough one,” you say, letting out a soft, breathy laugh. “they were all fun, but… i think the subway scene, where pablo and bradley just let me freestyle? that was nice.”
jungkook grins, a genuine, warm expression. “you were incredible in that take. i remember watching from the side, and i forgot we were filming.”
you laugh, the sound bright and authentic. “and i guess i have to mention watching you fly away in the rain just now. that was… truly a cinematic masterpiece.”
he groans, full of laughter. “hey, don’t start with that! i already know i’m going to be the face of the group chat for the next month.”
“oh, you absolutely are,” you confirm.
the cameraman lingers, hoping to catch more, but bradley finally intervenes.
“okay everyone, back to your places!”
the air in the studio shifted instantly. the casual banter dissolved, replaced by a sudden focus as bradley and pablo made their way over to the two of you.
”alright, were in the final stretch!” he announces, “how are we feeling?”
”good, good” you both reply.
”amazing, amazing. pablo and i actually wanted to run something by the two of you.”
bradley exchanges a look with pablo. “we’ve been looking at the playback of that bridge sequence. and honestly? it’s the strongest work in the entire video. the chemistry, the way you two moved… it amazes me how well you played out these characters.”
you felt your throat tighten.
“so,” pablo chimed in, stepping closer. “we’re thinking of scrapping the final ‘walk away’ sequence we had planned for the end.”
your heart hammered against your ribs. “wait, you want to cut the ending?”
“well, we want to tweak it,” bradley agreed, nodding.
jungkook shifts, his gaze flickering to you. “what are you proposing instead?”
“actually,” pablo leans toward you, “we wanted to leave it up to you.”
me? us?
“what exactly did you have in mind?” you ask, your voice sounding steadier than the chaotic fluttering in your chest.
“whatever your heart desires,” bradley confirms, his tone light, yet there’s a professional weight behind it that makes the air in the studio feel thick.
you blink, the words echoing in the sudden quiet of the set. the cameras are still, the rain machines are silent, and the ‘pretend’ world you’ve been living in for three days feels like it’s teetering on the edge of an unscripted reality.
jungkook is perfectly still beside you. you can feel the heat radiating from his arm, a steady, grounding warmth.
“you want us to improvise?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper.
“we want you to finish the scene,” pablo corrects, his expression soft. “the script gives us a narrative, but you two give the story. and frankly, the ending we made just doesn’t work anymore. it feels…wrong.”
the atmosphere in the studio hangs in a fragile, suspended silence as bradley and pablo’s request settles over you.
you look down at the floor. the remnants of the ‘storm’ are still there; the scattered props, the slick, reflective street, the hum of the cooling rigging. it all feels like a stage for something far more significant than a music video.
you felt the card in your pocket; the one representing your future, your own path, your own ‘artistic autonomy’. then you look at jungkook, whose hand is inches from yours, his fingers twitching with the urge to bridge the gap.
the wall you’ve been meticulously maintaining feels perilously thin.
“i think…” you start, your voice gaining a sudden, piercing clarity. “i think their story is about finally realizing you were never meant to be anywhere else; with anyone else.”
bradley lets out a slow breath, a smirk playing on his lips. “well, then. that sounds like a hell of an ending. whenever you two are ready.”
both directors walk away as jungkook takes a step toward you.
in the dim light, his eyes are searching yours for that same reckless honesty. he reaches out, his hand hovering over your arm, his thumb tracing the damp line of your skin.
"y/n!"
the sharp, abrasive bark of a voice shatters the moment.
you both jump. you turn to see david storming toward the two of you. his face is flushed, his suit jacket rumpled, and his eyes are frantic; a stark contrast to the connection you had just established.
"david?" you ask, your voice tight. “everything okay?"
"y/n, i need to talk to you. now," he says, ignoring the crew around him. he reaches as if to grab your arm. "it’s important– i tried calling your phone, but you weren’t answering, i–"
"david, we're in the middle of a shoot," you try to reason. "we're about to film the final scene. can it wait until after?"
"you don't understand, this can't wait!" david’s voice rises, bordering on desperate, but his eyes are fixed on the way jungkook is standing; close enough to you that he’s practically an extension of your own shadow. "it's really important, y/n! please!"
you look at him, and for a second, you see the cracks in his composed exterior. you see the panic. but then you hear bradley’s voice over the loudspeaker.
"alright! places! let’s wrap this up!"
"i'll talk to you after, david!" you call out, not breaking your stride as you walk back to your mark. “i promise!”
behind you, david is still beside himself, but the sound of the rain machines roaring back to life swallows his voice. you don't hear him begging. you don't see him gesture to the crew. you are already in the headspace of the character.
jungkook is already at his mark. as you fall into position, he places a hand on your shoulder.
"ready?" he whispers, his voice low enough to be heard only by you over the rising bassline.
the outro of the music starts, the heavy beat vibrating through the soles of your feet.
this time, there’s no direction to hide behind; no specific steps to execute.
you simply exist in this space with him.
even if its the last time you might be able to.
the rain falls in sheets, artificial and biting, but it serves its purpose; it washes away the remnants of the script, leaving only the raw, jagged edges of the story you are now writing together.
jungkook walks up to stand right next to you, his shoulder brushing yours. he is looking at the way the studio lights are reflected in the shimmering puddles.
you turn your head slowly, watching a droplet of water track its way down his jawline.
he turns to you, his dark eyes searching your face with a raw honesty that makes the artificial rain feel like a tropical downpour.
“what’s the next move, director?”
the cameras were rolling, capturing every flicker of vulnerability, but you didn't care. you didn't feel the need to mask the way your pulse spiked or the way your gaze softened, locking onto his with an intensity that left no room for interpretation.
you realize you are no longer the one directing the movement. the resistance in your heart;that frantic, desperate need to stay anchored to your professional life– snaps. the tide has finally taken you. you aren't just moving through space anymore; you are letting yourself be pulled, completely and irrevocably, into his gravity.
instead of answering verbally, you hold out your hand.
jungkook looks at your hand, then back at your face. without a word, he closes the space between you, his fingers interlacing with yours.
his grip is firm, a silent anchor. he leaves the next move up to you.
you look up at him, your gaze unwavering despite the rain. the neon lights reflect in his dark, wet eyes, turning the surrounding chaos into a blur of neon streaks. you don't let go of his hand.
instead, you tighten your grip, anchoring yourself to him as you begin to lead, pulling him slowly toward the other end of the street.
“where are you taking me?” he asks with a small smile tugging at his lips.
“where's the fun in telling?” you tease. “do you think they can hear us?”
“doubtful,” he states, eyes not leaving your frame as you both walk, your backs turned to the cameras.
the roar of the fans dies down to a low hum, leaving the space feeling strangely isolated. you pause, the bravado you’d cultivated shifting into something sharper.
a daring spark ignites in your chest. you can feel the heat radiating from him, a stark contrast to the cold water still clinging to your skin.
“i wish that too,” you whisper, voice dropping into the same gravelly, challenging tone he’d used earlier. you hold his gaze with a fierce intensity. “to be whoever we want to be. to just… exist outside of who the world wants us to be."
he goes perfectly still, his eyes widening just a fraction as he realizes the shift in your demeanor. the rain is still drumming against the set, but in this bubble, the sound is muted, rhythmic, almost like a heartbeat.
without another word, you start to run with his hand in yours.
jungkook’s grip on your hand shifts, his thumb tracing a slow, rhythmic circle over your knuckles; a gesture so intimate it feels like a secret language. he leans into the pull, his stride matching yours with a seamless, intuitive grace.
the cameras are still tracking you, the lights still painting your silhouettes in stark, high-contrast frames, but it feels like the lens is merely a spectator to something far more fundamental.
the music already ended as you two reached the end of the street. you both skid to a halt, panting, hair plastered to your foreheads, faces lit with pure, unadulterated adrenaline.
you throw your head back, a bright, melodic peal of laughter erupting from your throat as you realize you are both soaked and lost in your own little world. jungkook matches your energy, his laugh deep and joyous.
before you can catch your breath, he shifts. in one fluid motion, he sweeps his arms under your knees and across your back, lifting you off the gravel.
you let out a startled yelp, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders. as he begins to spin, you are lifted into the air, the world blurring into a kaleidoscope of neon lights and rain. the joy is absolute. you can hear the muffled cheers of the crew, but they sound miles away.
as he twirls you, the rush of the movement brings a sudden, sharp flash of déjà vu; the chaotic neon light of the coachella club, his hand on your waist, him twirling you upon request; the feeling of being known. you had so much fun that night and you knew he did too.
but then, the memory shifts.
the same amber-lit vision slams into your mind: the scent of expensive cologne, the feeling of a cotton pad on your skin, his chest touching your knees.
"because they’re like little stars. a whole constellation just for me."
you felt him freeze, his forehead pressing more firmly against yours, his hands moving to cup the back of your neck. his skin was scorching, and his touch was an anchor.
"a whole constellation, huh?" he whispered. the vibration of his voice hummed against your lips, a low, intimate frequency that made your stomach flip.
you searched his eyes, feeling small and suddenly uncertain in your vulnerability. the exhaustion was stripping away your professional defenses, leaving you feeling dangerously bare. "koo?" you whispered. "did i... did i look pretty? up there?"
you expected him to laugh, or to offer a polite, dismissive comfort. instead, you felt him lean in until his lips brushed against your forehead, a soft, lingering pressure that sent a shiver down your spine.
"pretty?" he repeated, his voice low and ragged. "y/n, you always look pretty."
his hand shifted, sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your damp, messy waves of hair. the scent of him—clean, familiar, and intoxicating—filled your senses, making your head swim in the best possible way. you tilted your head closer to his, fueled by a drowsy, unfiltered honesty you couldn't control.
"i like your hair long," you murmured, your fingers ghosting over the locks brushing his collar, feeling the texture beneath your touch. you were quiet for a moment, the world narrowing down to just the two of you in the soft, amber glow of the room. you watched him through sleep-heavy, fluttering lashes. "but i also like it short... like... in-between."
"in-between?" he asked, his voice barely a breath.
"mmhmm," you hummed, a small, sleepy smile tugging at your lips. "like last year."
"the mullet?" he whispered, and you could feel the lopsided grin forming against your own skin.
"yeah," you admitted, your fingers gently smoothing a stray lock behind his ear, lingering on the shell of it. "i mean... i like every style on you. you're handsome regardless. but i really loved that one. it was... special."
you felt him go completely still. it was a rare, beautiful moment of stillness between you, a bubble where the titles didn't exist. there was no performance to perfect, no formation to critique, and no audience to impress. it was just you and him, stripped down to the marrow.
"i feel dizzy," you whispered, the words small and breathless, tumbling out as you felt your consciousness finally starting to fray at the edges.
the spell broke. you felt him move instantly, his hands tightening on your shoulders as you swayed, the room tilting dangerously.
"whoa, hey," he murmured, his voice shifting back into that steady, protective cadence that always made you feel safe. "i've got you. too much adrenaline for one night, gg."
he didn't give you a chance to argue, sweeping you into his arms with an effortless strength. he carried you a short distance to the bed, the mattress sinking as he settled you against the soft silk sheets.
"sleep," he commanded softly, the word wrapped in a tenderness that was almost impossible to bear. he tucked the duvet around your shoulders, his hand lingering one last time to brush a damp lock of hair from your forehead. you were already sinking into the dark, rhythmic pull of sleep, the last thing you heard before you drifted away being a soft, whispered, "goodnight, my golden girl."
the spinning slowed, the frantic blur of neon and rain settling into a single, sharp focus: jungkook’s face, hovering inches from your own.
the laughter died, replaced by the heavy, rhythmic thud of your heart. he held you with an ease that felt like a permanent extension of himself, his arms wrapped securely around you, shielding you from the cold.
“cut! that's a wrap!”
the shout echoes, signaling the end of an exhausting, emotionally charged three days. the rain machines began to die down, transitioning from a roar to a gentle, steady drip.
jungkook sets you down slowly, his hands lingering on your arms a second too long as he checks your balance. you take a shaky step back, your heart hammering; partly from the spin, partly from the sheer weight of the memory you don’t remember having.
he frowns, his brow creasing as he studies your pale face. "you okay? you look like you’ve seen a ghost."
you blink, trying to force the image of silk sheets and quiet whispers out of your mind. you look at him, desperate to know if he remembers the same thing; if that moment was real or just a glitch in your own exhausted brain.
"yeah," you manage, your voice thin. "just… dizzy."
you hold his gaze, searching.
"probably just too much adrenaline from the shoot," you add quickly, trying to fill the silence he leaves open.
he watches you, expression unreadable. you don't miss the way his jaw tightens or the slight hesitation in his posture. he knows. or maybe he doesn’t. you don’t say another word, but the silence between you feels like a promise; one you’ll have to untangle, sooner or later.
“or maybe," he starts, a playful glint returning to his eyes, "you just need something other than coffee in your system."
you let out an indignant scoff, the tension in your chest snapping just enough to let you breathe. you reach over and give his shoulder a light, playful shove. "there is nothing wrong with my caffeine intake, thank you very much."
“tell that to your jitters,” he teases, side-stepping your shove and falling into stride beside you as you walk toward the front of the set. "next time, i'm bringing you a decaf."
"you wouldn't dare," you counter, falling into the familiar, easy rhythm of your banter.
he grins, that signature bunny expression that always makes your heart do a ridiculous somersault. "maybe i would. it’s entertaining, honestly."
you open your mouth to fire back a retort, a laugh already bubbling in your throat, but the sound dies the moment a sharp, icy voice cuts through the ambient noise of the studio.
"y/n!"
you freeze, hand still mid-air. you turn, and your stomach drops.
nicole stands by the lighting rigs, arms crossed tightly over her chest. her expression is pinched, her brow furrowed in a way that suggests she’s been waiting; and growing increasingly frustrated. she looks absolutely pissed.
david stands right behind her, offering you a look of pure sorrow.
this is what he meant by ‘its important’, you thought, finally connecting the dots.
the warm air between you and jungkook evaporates instantly, replaced by a cold, sharp reality.
you look at jungkook, whose smile has completely vanished, his jaw tightening into a familiar line of defense.
shit.
—
“what were you thinking, y/n?”
nicole’s voice echoes in the small conference room, the sharp acoustics turning her tone heavy and imposing. she paces the length of the table, her tailored blazer cutting a sharp silhouette against the harsh lights.
david leans against the closed door, arms crossed. he looks exhausted, his tie loose and his eyes darting between you and nicole frantically.
you stand by the table, having changed into dry clothes, your wet hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. you reach for your necklace, but your hand stops halfway; the gold pendant, and the man who gifted it to you, feels like a beacon of the very thing you’re being accused of.
“it wasn’t my first option, but i had no choice, nicole," you say, voice steady despite your hammering heart. “it was either that, or we push back production for another week. his single debuts in two weeks. it would've been too costly.”
nicole stops pacing and turns to face you. “and what were your other options?”
you swallow hard. you have to articulate why stepping into the lead role felt like the only viable path to save the schedule, even if the idea hadn’t originated with you.
“i– i just told you—”
"no," she cuts you off, her voice slicing through the sterile air. "i don't need a lecture on production management. i need to know why you thought it was a brilliant idea to jeopardize your job for a scene that is going to stir up a hell of a lot more than just a 'professional discourse'."
you flinch. david shifts by the door, expression sympathetic but helpless. "nicole, we did try reaching out to other candidates but everyone was unavailable,” he tries. “this was the only way. jungkook—”
“even tried finding someone through his connections,” you cut david off, “but they also weren’t available.”
you give david a pleading look, hoping he understands the subtext. it was jungkook’s idea, but you were the one who agreed to it. this was on you, not him.
“you were not given authority to pull something like that y/n.” nicole says.
“i know that,” you reply, your voice holding a steely edge of defiance. you feel the weight of the last three days; the exhaustion, the emotional whiplash, and now this. “but i did it because the production needed a lead, and i was the only one who could give them what they were looking for.”
“other directors would have had a backup plan”
the words sting. “this was my backup plan.”
nicole groans, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“what is the big deal of me having to sub in, huh?” you press.
“because y/n, it’s you.”
the fluorescent lights buzz with an intensity that makes your pulse throb. you know what she means. it wasn't just that you had stepped in; it was that you had stepped in as the romantic interest for the world’s biggest rising global pop star.
the optics were a nightmare.
“you’ve been the lead choreographer for these boys for four years,” she says, stepping closer. “you are the invisible force. you step into the frame, and suddenly, you’re not directing the narrative anymore; you’re in it. you know what kind of speculation that sparks. you know what the fandom and the press are going to do with that.”
a hollow ache settles in your chest. was she right? had you been so caught up in the thrill of creating something real that you’d blinded yourself to the public eye?
“i did what i had to do to finish the project,” you reply, though your conviction slips.
nicole sighs, walking to the window to look out at the dark studio lot. “we have an image to protect, y/n. both yours and his. if this creates the backlash i’m anticipating, it’s not just a ‘problem for another day.’ it’s a crisis.”
you felt a familiar, cold knot form in your stomach. it was the same anxiety that had been plaguing you since the pool scene; the fear that by crossing the line between colleague and friend, you’d irrevocably altered the dynamic that kept you safe.
she turns back, her expression softening into weary concern. “y/n, i say this because i want the absolute best for you. you’re a bright, talented woman with a career trajectory most would wait decades for.”
you play with the card bradley gave you in your pocket. you have a gift. we’re going to need your vision. director’s chair. call us.
“i thought i was doing the right thing,” you whisper. you feel small, the weight of the decision crushing the last of your adrenaline.
nicole walked over and placed a hand on your shoulder. it wasn't the sharp, corrective gesture you expected; it was steady, grounding.
“i know you did. you always do, y/n. that’s why you’re here.”
she sighed.
nicole walks over and places a hand on your shoulder. it’s steady and grounding. “i know you did. you always do, y/n. that’s why you’re here.” she sighs. “but you’re in line for that promotion you’ve been working for these past six months. do you have any idea how fast the executives can pull that rug out from under you? they see a liability.”
nicole had been your anchor long before you became lead choreographer. when you first arrived at hybe; young, foreign, and navigating a male-dominated industry, she was your bridge. she was your translator and taught you how to survive the egos and the razor-thin margins for error.
over the years, as she climbed to an executive role, your dynamic evolved. she has seen every breakthrough and breakdown you’ve had. she knew exactly which buttons to press to bring you back down to earth. that history, that shared path, made her disappointment feel far more piercing than any professional reprimand.
“you need to be smart,” she continues. “this stunt wasn't smart. you’ve blurred the lines, and the industry doesn't care about your ‘artistic vision.’ they care about the scandal. they care about how your associations impact the bottom line.”
“i wasn’t thinking about the promotion,” you whisper, the truth cutting through the air. “i was thinking about the project, the deadline. i was thinking about how to… finish it.”
nicole’s grip on your shoulder tightens just a hair. she takes a step back, eyes uncharacteristically pensive. “david, please give us a moment.”
david nods and slips out, the click of the lock sounding definitive.
“that, y/n, is your greatest strength and your greatest liability,” she says. “you give everything to the work because of your passion, but you forget that work is also a business.”
she crosses her arms. “you have a bright future, but you're at a crossroads. if you continue to let your personal connection to them dictate your professional decisions, you’re going to lose that trajectory real quick.”
“i know,” you said, voice steadying. “i’m trying. i really do want this.”
“i know you do,” nicole says, voice softening. “but the stakes are only going to go up from here.”
she picks up the tablet on the table and turns it toward you. it’s a digital mock-up of a draft article: speculating on the chemistry between bts’s jeon jungkook and their lead choreographer.
“this is what we’re speculating will take place once the music video hits.” she said flatly. “we have to prepare for the worst.”
we. meaning everyone at hybe knows about your mistake on your first solo project director son trusted you with.
fuck.
“wh- what do i have to do to prepare?” you ask, your heart sinking.
“first, we will have a meeting with pd regarding the situation,” nicole said, “we need to get ahead of the narrative before the teaser even drops. you’re going to be expected to be strictly professional in all public-facing environments. no more… ‘friendly’ banter on set or in studio. you need to distance yourself, y/n. if the public thinks there’s a gap, they’ll fill it with their own assumptions. we need to leave them absolutely nothing to work with.”
you felt a sudden, sharp urge to tell nicole about the 'tidal pull' theory; to tell her that a university professor was using your own work as a primary subject of study. you wanted to see the pride in her eyes, to prove that your work was finally being recognized in the halls of academia, that you weren't just a cog in the industry but a true artist whose energy was being mapped like a constellation.
it would be the perfect shield, wouldn't it? proof of your professional validity.
but then you looked at her face, etched with the calculating lines of how to manage this crisis, and the words died in your throat.
this wasn't the time to talk about art but focus on damage control.
if you brought up the theory now, it would just sound like ego, while she was trying to keep your reputation clean.
you swallowed the pride that had been blooming in your chest, letting it settle into a heavy, suffocating knot.
“and jungkook?” you managed to ask, your voice sounding small even to your own ears. “what is he being told?”
nicole’s expression softens a fraction. “i know he’s part of this project but don't worry about him right now. i will take care of it. you need to focus on yourself. i need you to draft your statement for pd; and one for the public, just in case.”
you nod. you’ve done this before with jimin; it shouldn't be this hard. but why does it hurt more than it should?
she taps the tablet to dim it. “i know this isn't what you wanted to hear. you’ve put a lot of heart into this, and i know what those boys mean to you. but if you want that promotion– if you want to be the one directing these projects, you have to start acting like it.”
you looked at her, searching for some sign of flexibility, but her posture remained rigid, her expression etched with the weary finality of someone who had navigated this exact crisis a dozen times before.
"i understand," you say, quiet but firm. "i'll do what needs to be done."
nicole’s shoulders drop as she steps closer. she places her hand back on your shoulder, a gesture that feels strangely maternal.
“get some rest. you have a long travel day tomorrow. i’ll be with you to help finalize your statements.”
“okay. thank you.” you offer a small smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.
nicole lets go of your shoulder yet she still watches you with her sharp eyes dissecting your every word. she seemed satisfied that you understood the necessity of her demands, even if the price of that compliance felt like it was unraveling everything you valued.
she moves toward the door, hand on the handle, when you realize something.
“wait!” you call out. “what about the travel series?”
nicole paused, her hand hovering over the cold metal handle. she turned back, her expression shifting into a mask of calculated neutrality; the look of a woman who had already anticipated the question and mapped out the answer.
"your involvement in the travel series," nicole said, her voice dropping, " is currently a topic of debate at the executive level. whether or not you are permitted to go will be decided by pd once the fallout of this music video is assessed. your behavior between now and then will be the deciding factor. if you prove to be a liability, you stay in seoul. if you prove you can be a professional, you join them. i suggest you spend your travel day figuring out which version of yourself you want to be."
you feel a hollow ache. the whole point of the series was for jimin to be able to spend time with jungkook and you. there's a fine line with friendships between idols and employees; you have already crossed that bridge a long time ago.
it was inevitable but now it's up to you to decide if this promotion is worth losing your friendships that you shouldn’t have in the first place. and all because you made a stupid decision that you should have checked first with the board.
"i see," you say, forcing your tone to remain neutral. "will do."
she turns the handle, the click echoing. "i’ll see you at the airport tomorrow, y/n. do not give me a reason to regret trusting you with this."
she exited the room, leaving you standing in the silence that followed. you pack your bag, movements heavy and robotic.
your phone vibrated on the table; a notification from jungkook. probably wondering if you were okay after you left with nicole, or perhaps checking in to see if you wanted to get takeout again. you stared at the screen, the black mirror of it reflecting your own exhausted face.
distance yourself.
you couldn’t take the risk reading whatever he sent.
you stand up, legs shaky, and walk out.
the studio hallway is dim. you pass the dark, skeletal sets and can almost feel the weight of his hand on your waist. you shake your head, forcing yourself to keep walking.
you have a statement to write, a flight to catch, and a future to protect; even if it means sacrificing the friendships that made it all feel worth it.
stepping into the cool night air, you realize the hardest part won't be writing the statements. it will be pretending you don't feel anything while doing it.
✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x female Reader
✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Situationship, idol!au, angst, smut, coworkers, love triangle maybe
✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Across sleepless cities on tour, you and Yoongi cling to each other in an unspoken arrangement neither of you knows how to end until someone new makes you wonder if you should.
✎ ˎˊ˗ Chapter warnings: not in fic order: kim effin’ namjoon :3, probably wrong ways to set up mic packs, yoonmin, kim seokjin the knower, yearning, angst, i switched the tour schedule of paris and munich for the plot, lyrics of SDL used as a new song, the smut!, cock sucking, cockwarming, cum facial-ish, p in v, implied big dick yoongi <3, yoongi being bad at all kinds of sports except basketball, mc being bad at all kinds of feelings, yoongi’s toe (this is serious), the last smut scene is a lot to handle bec emotional sex, yoongi wants to make out with MC so bad lol
✎ ˎˊ˗ Word count: 9k
✎ ˎˊ˗ Betaread by: Aqua (this is for you!), Tea, and Catie. ILY my queens.
✎ ˎˊ˗ Playlist by @angellekookie
✎ ˎˊ˗ Banner by @risky-peaches
✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Thanks for waiting patiently for this one. To all the SM!Yoongi haters, let’s talk after 😀 Enjoy!
Series Masterlist | Masterlist
[Brussels, BE, July 2026]
The VCR is already rolling, the massive 360 screens pulling the audience’s attention while backstage moves in controlled chaos.
You’re digging through the rack of bright cloaks—the ones everyone throws on for the next entrance so the members can blend in and slip onto the stage unnoticed. They switch up colors sometimes, nothing serious. Members just have to make sure they enter with the group wearing the same color so they don’t stand out.
Usually, red goes first, then blue.
You slip your red one on, pull it over your head. You should be in the zone, but are still a little salty about the interaction with Yoongi earlier. But it’s whatever.
“Which color are you taking today?” you ask. He always picks the blue coat, but for some reason, you’re hoping he goes with your color instead. You don’t know why. You just do.
“Don’t really care. I just pick whatever.”
You hum, a little disappointed. He knows what color group you’re in. And he should be smart enough to know why you’re asking.
“Wae? Why are you pouting?”
“Nothing.”
You don’t elaborate. You just walk away.
You button the front and smooth it out, then you tug the hood tighter. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him glance at you, then away.
Seokjin walks by, a crimson delight. You’re curious when Yoongi stops him in his path, a blue coat hanging from the crook of his arm.
“Hyung.” Yoongi holds up the coat in his hand. “Trade.”
“Why?”
“Yah.” Yoongi impatiently shoves his blue cloak to his elder. “Just do it.”
Yoongi’s gaze lands on you.
There’s a second where Seokjin looks behind him and spots you too, then he grins. “Aah, I see how it is.”
You look away, suddenly feeling embarrassed. What does Seokjin mean by that?! Surreptitiously, you view their interaction through a mirror on the side.
“Hyung,” Yoongi says flatly, eyes closed.
“Okay, okay,” Seokjin laughs, already shrugging off the red.
Before you know it, Yoongi walks towards your group, adjusts the red sleeves, checks the buttons, like normal.
You can’t look at him because your heart is doing dumb shit in your chest right now.
“Happy?” he asks, low enough so only you can hear.
“You said you didn’t care.”
“I don’t,” he says immediately.
“Clearly.”
He shakes his head, but there’s the faintest pull at the corner of his mouth. “Now you can stop sulking.”
It’s stupid how much that small thing sticks with you. Matching colors with him. Walking to the stage with him by your side, arms brushing slightly.
Maybe it was nothing.
But lately, despite all the rules you've set for yourself, you've started collecting these little moments with Yoongi.
Little things that probably don't mean much on their own.
It's probably reckless to give them a place in your heart and revisit them later, to let yourself wonder if they're adding up to something more.
Still, this one really feels worth keeping.
⊙⊝⊜
[London, UK, July 2026]
Backstage is once again in motion. Cables snake across the floor, staff weaving through each other with practiced urgency, voices overlapping through comms as the low roar of the crowd seeps faintly through the walls.
You’re halfway through helping reset a prop when Angel grabs your wrist.
“Hey,” she says, already pulling you along. “I need you on Yoongi. His in-ear was acting up earlier.”
“Since when am I in technicals, or wardrobe?” you mutter, but you’re already moving.
“Since…” her voice trails, shooting you a wink. “You decided to become a tour slut.” Then she goes back to professional mode, handing you the spare tape and a headset. “Just check the pack. You know how.”
You do.
That’s kind of the problem with this job. Everyone knows a little bit of everything, and suddenly you’re doing things that aren’t technically yours.
And when you think about it—it’s not just things.
People, too.
Like the man in front of you.
You sigh and slip the headset on as you approach him.
Yoongi’s standing off to the side, dressed for stage, mic already fitted, absently adjusting his bracelet.
“Angel sent me,” you say. “Need to check the pack.”
He glances at you, then nods once, turning his back without a word.
You crouch behind him, one knee rooted on the floor for balance. Your fingers find the small wireless set clipped at the back of his waistband.
“Your right side was cutting earlier,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him as you check the cable connection.
“Mm.” He glances back at you, expression unreadable.
“Can you lift your shirt?”
He doesn’t question it. Just hooks his fingers into the hem of his tee and lifts.
You’ve seen this before. His slender waist, the black band of the non-descript boxer-briefs he likes to wear. And you’ve been in this position before, mouth busy, tear ducts on overdrive, knee caps a little red.
Your eyes linger on his body before you can stop them, catching the line of his waist, the muscles on his back, the lean stretch of his torso… Shit. You swallow it down just as fast.
Focus.
You reach back to adjust the strap of the pack properly against his waist, tightening it so it sits secure. Your fingers brush against warm skin for a split second and you draw your hand away quickly as if you got burned.
You tap your headset monitor, nodding to Yoongi. “Say something.”
“Something,” he says, flat.
You huff. “You’re so helpful.”
“Thought that’s what you asked for.”
You shake your head, adjusting the cable one more time just to be sure. “Again. Properly. If this fucks up, you’re the one singing without a monitor, not me.”
With his cooperation, you finally get things sorted out, but before you can go, his voice crackles in your ear.
“Hey, Y/N.”
He speaks in a frequency just for his and your set.
You stop at your tracks, adjusting your mic. “What?”
You turn to see the glint in his shadowy eyes, enough to know that when he speaks again, it’s not for audio checking. “You look pretty.”
Your brain takes a second too long to catch up.
Because between his sheets, he has sung your praises. Hot. Sexy. So tight. But not like this. Not with his eyes a little too fond, telling you you’re Pretty, of all things. You don’t know what else to do but deflect.
“Pretty cause I got on my knees for you?” You smirk, deliberately making it sound crass. Because you can’t fathom the alternative. The tenderness, the gentleness in the way he said it.
There’s the most minute crease on his brow before someone calls his name across the room. And then he’s gone before he can answer.
You’re left standing there, headset buzzing softly in your ear, trying to remember what you were doing before your brain short-circuited over one word.
⊙⊝⊜
[Paris, FR, July 2026]
You’re in Paris, the city of love, and Yoongi’s been in your mind a little more than usual. Over a cheese croissant, you thought about it: inviting him. Granted, you can’t have him in your room because your twin accommodations aren’t exactly conducive for the activities you usually partake in, but maybe at least you can initiate.
Maybe even ask if he wanted to walk somewhere. You know, get food… then coffee… stroll along the Seine riverside like every other tourist…
The idea flies out the window and flings itself onto incoming traffic the moment you spot him backstage fifteen minutes before showtime.
Yoongi is sprawled across one of the couches, one arm stretched lazily along the backrest. And directly in front of him sits the prettiest faerie in all the land. Park Jimin.
See, this thing between “YoonMin” has always intrigued you. You’ve always thought the boys were platonic, because the alternative would border on incest with how their brotherhood almost runs deeper than blood. But these two looked like they always had something different.
“Can you braid my hair, hyung?” Jimin asks with a little pout.
Yoongi, whose fingers were already absently playing with the edges of the younger’s blonde tips to begin with, nods his assent.
You shouldn't linger. You have somewhere to be. Yet somehow your feet stay planted.
From your shadowy corner backstage, you watch Yoongi gather sections of Jimin's hair with surprising care. His fingers move deftly, practiced, like this isn't the first time he's done it.
Jimin says something you can't hear and Yoongi huffs a laugh, open and wide, almost a guffaw. That’s a real one, unlike those tiny chuckles you’ve seen in interviews. You wonder, almost bitterly, if he’s ever laughed like that with you.
Fuck. You gotta snap out of it and get it together. You have a show to do and this is ridiculous. Jimin is Jimin and Yoongi has known him for half his life.
But when Yoongi finishes the last knot and pats the younger man's head absentmindedly afterward, something contorts in your stomach.
A staff member rushes past you, breaking the moment.
When you look back again, Jimin is already smiling bright and toothy at whatever Yoongi says next and Yoongi’s eyes are shining.
For some reason, you find yourself thinking about the word he'd called you over comms in London. Pretty. Then you immediately hate yourself for it. Because one word doesn't change anything. You’d do your best to remember that.
⊙⊝⊜
Namjoon: Are you bored?
You: save me
Namjoon: Yeah, that’s why I texted.
It’s your last night in Paris and the city glittered beyond the open balcony doors.
It was close to eleven and the sky was washed in the deepest navy. Beyond the wrought-iron railing, rooftops stretched endlessly beneath a sea of golden lights.
And there, impossibly, the Eiffel Tower. You keep catching yourself looking at it. You don’t wanna be dramatic, but hello?! That’s the Eiffel Tower and it just feels ridiculous that it's right there.
Growing up, Paris existed in movies, postcards, textbooks and now you're sitting on a hotel balcony with a direct view of it.
This is not your hotel room, obviously. Yours has a stunning view of the adjacent building's white-washed wall.
But Namjoon's room? WOW.
You briefly wonder how long it takes before views like these stop feeling surreal.
The warm summer air drifts through the balcony as you sit cross-legged on one of the loungers, while Namjoon occupies the chair opposite yours, glasses slipping lower down his nose as he scrolls absently through something on his phone.
He suddenly exhales through his nose, locks the screen, and tosses it onto the table between you. “Can I ask you something weird?”
You squint at him immediately. “Sus, but okay?”
“Do you think…” He pauses, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Do you think people like me actually have a shot at normal love?”
“That’s kinda… loaded.”
“Mm.”
“Also, define normal.”
“You know what I mean.” Namjoon leans back, sighs.
“I dunno.” You shrug. “Is love ever normal?”
Namjoon shifts slightly, gaze drifting toward the Eiffel now instead of you. “Maybe I’m just too hopeless.”
“Why do you think that?”
“You know.” He sighs from deep within his chest. “This life. Always seen. Always moving. Never really staying anywhere long enough.”
“I think the right person wouldn’t care that your life’s this.” You smile faintly, swirling the wine inside your glass. “They’d just wanna be part of it regardless.”
He nods. “I think I’d be happier if I did have someone.”
Your eyes flick toward him. He’s looking at you. Eyes filled with exhaustion, but wrapped in sincerity. His life is never gonna be normal, you both know this. Idol life is not for the weak. And despite all his struggles, Kim Namjoon is still one of the strongest people you’ve ever known.
“Like…” He searches for the words carefully, elbows resting against his knees now. “Someone who actually knows me outside all this. Someone to come home to eventually. I like imagining that. Going to work, home by 7, and there’s a home-cooked meal and someone to have dinner with… Like I’m just a normal fuckin’ guy.”
Your heart bleeds a little. “I think wanting somebody to come home to is probably the most normal thing about you.”
Namjoon laughs softly, almost embarrassed by himself. “After shows I know everybody goes somewhere. Hobi likes to go out. Jin is perpetually on a video call with Hana. Kook, Tae, I know they get up to stuff. They got lives. And I dunno, I just…” He shrugs. “I feel it more lately.”
Loneliness. That’s what this is. Not dramatic loneliness. Just the quiet adult kind. The kind that makes you feel small and sneaks up on you in big hotel rooms after midnight. Like now. You understand exactly what he means.
“Namjoon-ah, I think somebody out there is gonna love you so much that all this,” you gesture vaguely around the area, “won’t scare them away. You’re gonna find them.”
Dots sink against his cheek and for a while neither of you speaks.
A dog barks. A group of women giggle. A police siren blares from a distance.
Then, Namjoon glances over. “What about you?”
You immediately groan. “Absolutely not. We are not doing this.”
“Oh, come on. I was vulnerable. Give me something here.”
“Nope. You’re not baiting me.”
“You’re definitely the type.”
“The type to what?”
He grins, like he’s about to give you the best psychoanalysis ever. “To believe in serendipity and soulmates and all that shit.”
You stare at him blankly.
“No, hear me out.” He settles deeper into his chair. “You’re the kind of person who still thinks there’s meaning in things. Like if two people keep ending up in the same place over and over again, you think it’s fate.”
Looking away, you shake your head.
Namjoon points triumphantly. “See? That face means yes.”
You collapse backward dramatically against the seat. “God. I hate that you can read me.”
“So I’m right,” he says. “You are a hopeless romantic.”
Yup, read you like a damn book.
You pull your knees closer to your chest, staring down at your socks.
“I think…” You hesitate, suddenly feeling shy. “I think I’ve always assumed there’s somebody out there specifically for me.”
Namjoon doesn’t interrupt. So you keep going.
“Like not a fuckin’ prince charming or anything. Just someone…” You exhale softly. “Mine, I guess.”
The confession sounds embarrassingly earnest once it leaves your mouth.
But Namjoon just nods slowly like he understands.
“I know it’s stupid,” you mumble. “Eomma made me watch too many Disney fairytales.”
“It’s not.”
“Maybe not to you.” You laugh quietly. “But sometimes I feel kinda pathetic about it. Like everybody else grew out of wanting that.”
“You didn’t.”
“No,” you say quickly. “But, I also know now you have to be practical.”
“Practical how?”
“To just accept what version of love that’s handed to you. Even if it’s not perfect. Even if it’s just a semblance of it. At least it’s yours.”
Silence stretches again.
You’re not sure if Namjoon understands what you’re talking about. Or who you’re talking about.
Or if he even agrees with the idea.
You stare at the city lights again, voice quieter when you speak next.
“I’m scared of ending up alone.” You swallow once before continuing. You’ve only ever admitted this out loud to one person.
Namjoon’s expression softens almost painfully. “That won’t happen.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I don’t.” He smiles faintly. “But I still don’t think it’ll happen.”
You huff out a laugh through your nose when suddenly your phone lights up.
Someone’s calling. You once set a photo and a name for this person. But now, he’s just this emoji: 🙀for security and other reasons.
Just as quickly as you ended the call, it’s buzzing again.
“You gonna take that?” Namjoon asks.
You don’t think about it for long. Shake your head without further delay. “Nah.”
There’s a tiny click and a haptic feedback on your palm before you place your phone face down beside the ash tray.
Funny how Yoongi’s reminding you he exists in this exact time.
“You know what my toxic trait is?” you murmur after finishing your wine.
“What?”
You huff a soft, sad laugh. “I already know love is bullshit. But I still want it anyway.”
That finally makes Namjoon grin.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Me too.”
Something settles warmly in your chest from the strange comfort of being understood by somebody standing in the same weird in-between place as you.
“Wanna hug?”
Disarmed, you blurt. “No. I’m not wearing a bra.” You cross your arms over your chest, suddenly feeling chaste.
“Neither am I.”
The fuck?
Your expression pulls a real laugh out of him, loud and unrestrained, dimples cutting deep into his cheeks as he collapses sideways against the chair.
“You’re actually so stupid,” you wheeze.
He stands up and holds one arm open anyway.
You stare at him for a second before rolling your eyes dramatically and scooting over.
The hug is brief. Warm. Just two lonely human beings holding onto each other for a second longer than usual.
You find yourself wondering how many lonely people are out here tonight.
In a city this big, probably thousands. But for a little while, there are two less.
Neither of you realizes that as a balcony door shuts somewhere nearby, there’d be one left.
***
[Munich, GE, July 2026]
Yoongi asks you to come over after the first show. Not unusual. What is unusual is that you still have your clothes on. Usually your garments would be flying right off within the first minute or two, especially since you haven’t gotten with him since before Paris.
But not this night, it seems. You even skipped the panties tonight- that's how quick and dirty you thought this would be.
“Give me ten minutes,” he says the second he opens the door, already turning back toward his small setup near the windows, laptop, a tiny keyboard, and a small mic. “I’m just finishing something.”
You narrow your eyes. “Wow.”
He glances back. “What?”
“You’re making me wait.” You kinda sound bratty there, but too late for regrets. “It’s almost my bed time.”
His mouth twitches faintly as he pushes his glasses higher up his nose. “Stay up for me, baby.”
You scoff under your breath because he is so mean for weaponizing that word, but you toe your shoes off anyway, wandering deeper into the suite while he settles back into the chair in front of his laptop.
You sink into the couch with a sigh. The exhaustion hits you almost immediately. You’re wrung out even more than usual.
Across the room, Yoongi works quietly, keyboard making subtle tapping sounds, mouse clicking every few seconds. Every now and then he mutters something under his breath.
You watch him for a while and you realize there’s something strangely intimate about seeing this part of him. After a few minutes, he leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “Can I ask you something?”
You stifle a yawn. “Shoot.”
“I, uh, wrote something.”
Yoongi stares at the screen for another few seconds before finally sighing through his nose.
“I need to know if it’s shit.”
“Okay, read it to me.”
Reluctantly, he mumbles the lyrics in that low rough voice of his. You listen carefully, curled deeper into the couch cushions.
참 말야 바람대로 되는 게 없지
Really there’s nothing that goes the way one wishes
인간관계란 정말 어려워 역시
Human relationships are really difficult, as expected
애초부터 맞지 않는 거였어
From the beginning, we weren’t meant to get along
우리 둘 사이 간극을
The gap between the two of us
좁혀 보려는 것 자체가 억지
it was a forceful attempt to narrow that gap
It’s sadder than what you expected. Lonelier, too. When he finishes, silence settles for a second.
Yoongi doesn’t look at you immediately. He just taps his fingers once against the armrest. “Well?”
You sit up slightly. “I mean…” You hesitate honestly. “I’m probably the worst person to ask. I know nothing about songwriting.”
He shrugs lightly.
“You don’t have to be an expert.” His gaze finally lifts toward yours. “You just gotta be human.”
Something about the way he says it catches you off guard. Like he’s asking for something simpler. More vulnerable. If it made you feel something.
“I think…” You chew on the inside of your cheek. “He feels tired.”
Yoongi’s brows lift slightly. “Tired?”
“Not physically.” You shake your head. “More like…” You search for the right words. “Like somebody who keeps trying, even when they already know how it’s gonna end.”
Silence.
You glance at him, feeling a little silly now. “That’s probably not what you meant, huh.”
“No. Keep going.”
You hate when people say that. Mostly because it means they were listening.
You tuck your feet beneath you. “It feels lonely, I guess. That line about not being able to close the gap.” You shrug. “It sounds like someone who really wanted to understand one person or be understood by them.”
Your voice softens, as a different thought arises. “But, was there really a gap in the first place? He should question that, too. Sometimes, things are much much simpler than what they seem.”
For a moment, Yoongi just stares at his screen. You wonder if you’ve rambled too much. But then he nods once slowly like you’ve landed somewhere close.
“Yeah.” The word is so quiet you almost miss it.
You smile faintly, leaning back. “Well, if your goal was to make people sad with just a few lines, congratulations.”
A small laugh escapes him. “That’s my brand, apparently.”
“You know,” you continue, “if that song had to be performed, I’d probably picture somebody standing alone after everyone else already left.”
His eyes flick up. “That’s specific.”
You shrug. “You asked a dancer.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You guys hear music and think about the track, the production. I hear music and immediately start seeing scenes in my head, movement.”
“Mm.” He leans back slightly. “Tell me what you see.”
You think about it. “A group of dancers in the center of the stage, moving away to reveal somebody sitting on a chair in the middle of their chaos.”
Your gaze drifts toward the city lights outside. “It’s like everybody else moved on already and they’re the only ones still trying to figure out where things went wrong.”
Yoongi is looking at you now. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth before he breathes. “Damn.”
You don’t know what that means. You don’t think about it again, but sometime in the future, it’s a look that you'll remember.
Yoongi starts typing again after that, keyboard taps and mouse clicks lulling you to sleep like ASMR.
You’re not able to stifle your yawn, and it’s a big one.
“Go sleep in the bed,” Yoongi says and that is not the response you were expecting.
Your eyes widen instantly. “Uh, no.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s your bed.”
“And?”
“And I’m not sleeping there.”
“Y/N.”
“I’m literally fine.” You curl stubbornly deeper into the couch. “See?”
Yoongi stares at you for a long moment, then shakes his head once. “Suit yourself.”
He disappears briefly into the bathroom while you pull one of the throw blankets over yourself. The couch is unfairly comfortable. Probably even more comfortable than your own bed. And maybe this is the only reason why you stay despite all the good reasons to just leave and pick up where you left off on another day.
You tell yourself you’ll stay awake. Just rest your eyes for a second. Give Yoongi more time because he is in a good flow.
That’s all.
The last thing you vaguely register is Yoongi returning to the room and the soft sound of music playing quietly somewhere near the desk again.
⊙⊝⊜
When you wake up the next morning, sunlight spills warmly across the softest white sheets. Slowly, you bolt upright in the bed, blanket slipping down your lap as your sleepy brain struggles to catch up.
This is not your hotel room.
Nope. This one’s big.
What the hell?
Then you see him. Dark mop of hair on the couch across the room, one arm hanging off the side, the other over his eyes.
Your heart stumbles painfully against your ribs as your mind plays a highlight reel of last night and the realization settles strangely inside your chest. He carried you to his bed and slept out there instead.
Huh. Well, that’s kind of sweet of him, isn’t it? He could have stayed in the same bed, it is his after all, and you’re probably too tired to hear him snore or anything like that. You stare at him fondly for a second too long before ice slides down your spine and panic finally catches up to you.
In all these months of whatever this is, you’ve never stayed the night ever. Shit. This is not great. In fact, this is a fucking mess. Oh my god. This is–
You’re clambering out of the bed, gathering your things with your pulse thudding wildly in your ears.
Yoongi shifts slightly on the couch and you freeze immediately.
Oh my god.
Fuck, he woke up.
Shit-shit-shit.
How can he be such a light sleeper?
“Y/N…”
“Yes?”
“Were you watching me sleep?”
“No!”
“Okay.”
You chew off a dry piece of skin from your lip as you watch him push himself up with a grunt.
“Why didn’t you just wake me up?” You really didn’t mean to, but it sounded like you were accusing him of something.
“You were tired,” he scratches the back of his head.
“You could have let me take the couch.”
Finally, his sleepy eyes meet yours. “I could have,” he says simply before a yawn takes over his face. The insinuation that he could have but he didn’t want to, like he wanted your comfort over his–god what is this you are feeling right now?
Yoongi stretches his arm up and the t-shirt rides up to show his abdomen and the happy trail leading down to… a tall tent in his shorts. You gulp. Because he’s looking very enthusiastic this morning. The fabric of his bottoms are so thin that you can almost see the actual shape of his cock and it’s not computing that you’ve been staring.
He knows, and he makes no move to cover or address the elephant or should you say the anaconda in the room.
Thoughts are forming in your brain, solidifying with each charged second.
“I’m doing room service. Wanna get somethin’ to eat?” He asks coolly, checking his phone for the time.
“Yeah, I do,” you respond firmly, knees burning subtly from where they hit the rough carpet.
Eager fingers curl on the waistband of his shorts, and not even a second later, he’s helping you ease it off him.
“This what you want?” he asks with a wicked grin, clearly enjoying himself. He settles at the edge of the cushion and leans back slightly, legs spread in invitation.
No reply is needed, nope, not when you suddenly have a mouthful of his dick and you get a string of pretty curses in response.
You lick him from the tip to the base, dragging the back of your tongue back up again. Eyes on him, you let your lips pucker, soft and sensual, along his firm length.
Breath quickening, Yoongi sighs, pleasure painted in his features as he watches every move you make. There’s something about having his full and undivided attention like this that makes you feel a little powerful. He’s used to the world watching him, but in this room, it’s like you’re the only one worth seeing and the thought spurs you to perform a little. Make it unforgettable.
You let spit dribble from your mouth like syrup, warm, viscous, pouring straight into the column of his cock in clear swirls. The tip of your tongue spreads it further, coating him inch by inch, before you wrap your lips around his head.
You peer up through your lashes, eyes Bambi-like and beautiful and he already looks positively destroyed.
“Love your mouth. Fuck.”
You moan a little before releasing him with a small pop and giving him a sly, teasing smile.
Licking the palm of your hand, you curl it around his shaft and give it a squeeze. It's a little squishy from your spit and you pump him just enough to see him hang his mouth open with the jolt of pleasure.
After a few firm tugs, he tips his head back with a grin, hair falling softly over his eyes. You absolutely don’t expect what he says next.
“Best morning ever,” he slurs unabashedly, shaking his head like he can’t believe his luck.
You giggle, still massaging his velvety skin. “You haven’t even cum yet.”
“Well whose fault is that?”
Oh?!
“Goodbye asshole. Suck your own co—” You make a move to stand up, but he plants you back down, palms on your shoulders.
“I’m joking, baby,” he says, all gummy-grinned and shit, rubbing your traps, and you hate it so much, but between that stupid smile and that fuckin’ word. Folded.
Yoongi grips his cock, teases the fat tip along your lips, slathering your own spit around your mouth like some kind of lip gloss. “C’mon, baby. You wanna finish what you started, hm?”
An indignant huff and you take him back in your mouth, suckling it noisily for show before you bring yourself forward, a choke rising involuntarily as he touches your tonsils halfway in.
Yoongi hisses. “‘ts what I'm talking ‘bout.”
You swallow once, relaxing your throat to take him further, swallowing again.
“Baby, that feels… fuck,” he praises. “You’re so good at this shit.”
Warmth is spreading on your cheeks, a little caught off guard because Yoongi is usually not this vocal. It seems he's a little less restrained this morning. Looser with praise and affection. Maybe because it’s early and he’s still halfway between sleep and wakefulness. You wouldn’t know for sure because the only time you’ve been with him at this early hour was in rehearsals.
Whatever the reason, there’s something less guarded about him right now from the sounds he lets slip to the way he keeps looking at you, sticky like molasses.
You tighten the seal of your mouth around his girth, bobbing your head up and down, sucking the life force out of him. Whatever doesn’t fit, you pump with a flick of your wrist, twisting your fist every time it bounces lightly against his balls.
“A-aah…”
Got this grown man stuttering and his deep grunts are making you gush between your thighs.
As salt starts to coat your tongue, a sharp, unexpected spark of pleasure shoots through you. It takes you a second to realize why. Yoongi’s toe scrapes your center, the material of your thin shorts offering little to no barrier against your bare cunt.
Is he—? Oh.
Okay.
Shit.
You’re already soaking through your shorts. The thin fabric clings to the slit between your folds, and his toe keeps brushing right over it.
Your mouth hovers his fat bulb, lips barely touching it as the tiny sparks from your cunt renders you immobile.
“You’re drooling everywhere, baby.”
And he’s not wrong.
You moan into his cock.
Honestly you’ve become a little distracted since he started wiggling because fuck—that feels so supremely divine—and you swear you don’t have a foot fetish or anything but! The motions are just driving you in-fucking-sane right now.
Yoongi lifts his hips slightly, thrusting upwards so he is just flopping against your mouth, sliding out to the side of your cheek, then back inside again.
Brain empty.
Pussy wet.
Eyes completely unfocused.
All the while he dips his candy-coated cock in and out of your pathetic mouth, yanking it back, smearing wetness all over your face, your chin, before sliding back in.
You want to regain your composure, you really do. But you love this, the mess he’s made of you, debauched and desperate for that monster between his legs.
Caressing your jaw, he tilts your chin up, bringing you back to the present. “Will you let me fuck your throat?”
You nod eagerly and he beams like he’s won something. He stands up and you adjust your stance, sitting on your heel like a well-mannered sub.
“You’re so good to me, baby,” he praises as you watch his reddened head poke in and out of his clenched fist. He gives it a few more pumps, a tiny pearl shining on the slit, before seeking entrance in your mouth.
Just as you open up for him, you lift your gaze to meet his. “You don’t have to be gentle.”
“Tss,” he huffs out a laugh. “You say that now.”
“Try me.”
Yoongi makes a few shallow passes, a gag getting caught in your throat as he goes deeper. You relax your jaw, breathe in sharply through your nose, as Yoongi really shoves it in, hips stuttering at a steady pace. Soon enough, he’s bucking into you with more force, the skin at the edges of your lips tears with every pass.
You’re crying now, oscillating between the pain and the pleasure as he wrecks your shit. Fingers threaded through your hair are spurring you forward as your throat tightens and molds to the shape of him.
You kind of regret egging him on now.
“Oh look at you,” Yoongi gasps. “So fuckin’ perfect. Go on, baby, you can touch yourself.”
It’s not like you to wait for his, or anyone’s, permission. And it just occurred to you that you were maybe waiting for it. What the–
“Mmph…” you cough violently when he unplugs, air finally rushing inwards like a salvation.
“You okay?” A thumb swipes a rogue tear from your cheek. “We can stop.”
“No, I’m fine.” You reply, shaking your head.
He studies you for a beat before agreeing, his expression morphing into something achingly fond as he tucks a stray tendril behind your ear.
Ignore ignore ignore
You busy your fingers underneath damp satin, rubbing your nub raw, distracting you from any discomfort from your abused throat or, worse, from the unsolicited affection. Shit. Thankfully you’re wound so goddamn tight and are just seconds away from tipping over the edge.
“Get yourself off, baby. Make yourself feel good. Wanna see you cum for me.”
Yoongi looks like the devil incarnate looking down on you like that, watching you pleasure yourself.
You're chasing your breath, deliriously close to your orgasm, but you’re able to croak out an instruction that you just know will snuff out the tenderness in his eyes before it undoes you.
“Paint my face.”
And it sure as hell works, if the way he begins pumping his dick furiously is any indication. Your brain helpfully supplies memories of him impaling you, reaching places inside no man has ever touched before. Soon you’re tipping forward, a desperate cry of his name ripping from your chest, your body heaving, clenching, shaking with the force of your release.
It’s a miracle you hear him beneath the static in your ear drums.
“Shit. Baby, show me your tongue.”
You stick it out for him, soft and flat.
Gripping his shaft, Yoongi slaps his angry-red tip on your wet muscle relentlessly, sloppy thwacks filling the room.
“Fuck,” he curses and gasps with each lewd stroke, tapping his cock into your open mouth, pumping it aggressively, groaning roughly. The veins in his hand flex with every move, and it’s obvious he’s close, so you encourage him.
“I need your cum, Yoongi…” you moan salaciously. “Please…”
You shut your eyes and even in the darkness behind your lids you can imagine his gentle features contorted in ecstasy and with a low growl he vandalizes your face with white-hot spurts of his cum.
It gets quiet after that, the aftermath.
You open your eyes and there it is again, feline eyes gone unexpectedly glassy. He starts rubbing the slick on your cheek, smoothing it like it needs to sink deep. You sense a bead near your mouth and you swoop it in with your tongue, lapping up the liquid with a satisfied hum.
Yoongi sighs, grins tiny. “Stay there.”
You shouldn’t. You should actually get up because your knees are burning, your face is feeling gooey, and a quick douse of warm water would clean you right quick.
Your heart pounds against your ribs because you know what’s next. The part you always refuse. The part you’ve always pretended to not care for.
Yoongi comes back with a washcloth, sits ass-bare on the couch and coaxes you to follow on his lap.
Gentle as ever, white is wiped from your skin. The hotel’s terry cloth is a little rough, but he’s so tender with it, one smooth swipe after another until the slick is gone. He flips the towel on the other side and passes it over your face again.
But when the cloth is gone, his own hand stays, thumb tracing the soft swoop of your jaw before brushing across your lower lip, catching it briefly against his finger before letting it slip free.
The gesture draws your attention to his mouth. His tongue flicks out unconsciously, wetting his lips beneath your stare.
God. Would it really be so bad?
It’s only, what, 8 am and he got you doing downright nasty shit, but the fantasy is still as simple as ever.
A kiss.
Slow and lush and unhurried and then maybe fast, faster, tongues tangling and from there it’s just impossible to stop.
You're so close you can imagine it: he cups your jaw, parts your mouth with his, kisses you over and over until you’re dizzy and breathless. You link your arms around his neck, pulling him closer…
“Y/N…” Yoongi snaps you out of your reverie.
You blink back to the present. “Yeah?”
“I fuckin’ hate your rule in case I haven’t told you,” Yoongi says matter-of-factly.
You smush his lips with your palm, shoving his face playfully away before you get off his lap.
It’s still at the tip of your tongue, you know.
His cum.
As well as the truth you almost say out loud:
You hate it, too.
⊙⊝⊜
It’s been about four months now since the tour kicked off. Long enough that the chaos feels a bit more controlled now.
At the beginning, every venue felt like a maze. Endless hallways, identical black curtains, staff corridors that all looked the same under fluorescent lighting. Now, you can just tell. You can step into a new stadium and figure it out within minutes. Which tunnel leads to where. Which stairwell gets you quickest to wardrobe. Which backstage corners have decent signal. Which production staff to avoid when they’re stressed.
Tour life doesn’t feel borrowed anymore. It feels like it’s yours. The girls help with that too.
You’ve become closer in the way only people surviving the same madness together can. Especially Angel who has started dragging you into wardrobe work whenever she’s overwhelmed and needs to yap with somebody. Now you moonlight beside her sometimes before shows, surrounded by rhinestones and loose thread while listening to her bomb ass playlists.
Your latest masterpiece had been Yoongi’s baseball jersey. Well, okay. Masterpiece might be generous. But you did spend almost 40 minutes bedazzling the name Tang and a tiny silver cat onto the sleeve.
You never told him it was you, but during soundcheck, you caught the exact moment he noticed it. His fingers brushed over the tiny rhinestone cat absently before his mouth twitched into that quiet amused grin he gets when something genuinely catches him off guard.
It just might be the prettiest smile you’ve seen on him.
⊙⊝⊜
And then, there’s Namjoon.
There are nights you end up eating backstage together, sharing food while he talks about whatever book currently has him spiraling philosophically. Other times he finds you stretching before rehearsals and starts rambling about his new Pokemon hyperfixation.
Nothing with Namjoon ever feels hidden or awkward.
Your conversations happen under bright lights. In crowded hallways. Out in the open where anybody could walk by and misunderstand absolutely nothing. Even when he invites you to hang out, it doesn’t feel like a secret. He even mentioned it one time within earshot of Jungkook, who seemed unfazed.
Sometimes you catch yourself wondering if this is what being close to someone is supposed to feel like.
Then you stop thinking about it before your mind wanders somewhere dangerous.
Because Yoongi—
God. That’s a puzzle. Maybe even a Rubik’s cube. Or twenty of them.
Because somehow everything between you has stayed exactly the same while also becoming completely different.
The arrangement hasn’t changed. You still slip into his room late at night. Still leave before morning. Still hide behind small rooms. Still finish quick and clean up fast.
But now you know things about him you didn’t before.
The face he makes when he’s concentrating on lyrics. How he goes soft when his eomma checks in late at night. His face in the morning when pleasure washes over his features.
And worse, he’s started knowing things about you, too.
Sometimes he does things that catch you so off guard it leaves you staring at him after like your brain can’t process what just happened.
Tiny things. Like calling you pretty. Like taking you to a Michelin-starred hole-in-the-wall in Madrid. You’re still a little fucked up about that, not gonna lie.
No matter, they’re inconsequential enough that you can still lie to yourself about them if you try hard enough. And it scares you because the closer you get to him, the harder it becomes to pretend losing him wouldn’t hurt. Though you know you have to. Eventually.
⊙⊝⊜
[East Rutherford, NJ, August 2026]
Production rented an entire pickleball rink in New Jersey and invited anyone who wants to play after the boys’ Run BTS shoot.
A couple of you signed up. You’ve tried it before and you’re pretty decent. Plus, there wasn’t much to do during your day-off and you didn’t want to go outlet shopping with Rei and the other girls.
Eventually you and Seung Eun, Angel, Tiff and some other staff members piled into a van and into The Rink.
The automatic doors slide open and cool air hits your skin instantly, carrying the sharp smell of rubber flooring and sports cleaner. Bright fluorescent lights spill across polished courts while music from an old BTS album (Love Yourself!) echoes faintly from overhead speakers.
On one court, you see Taehyung aggressively stretch like he’s competing in Wimbledon.
“Wow. He’s so serious about all this,” Angel mutters beside you.
“You’re literally wearing a whole tennis outfit.” You bump your hip against hers.
“It’s aesthetic.” She throws a wink over her shoulder before skipping happily towards her waiting man.
You find the equipment counter, observing the people who are still around. Jungkook and Jimin probably left already. Meanwhile, Namjoon is sweating buckets by the coolers and Yoongi—
Why is he still willingly here and… oh, he’s running towards you?
“Hello.” You say awkwardly. “Didn’t think I'll see you here.”
“Heard you signed up.”
“Uh, yeah…”
He’s dressed simply. Black shorts. Oversized grey shirt with a small sweat stain on his chest. A baseball cap tugged backwards which is doing inexplicable things to your mind.
“Been wanting to play again,” you murmur.
“You any good?”
“I’m decent.”
“Okay, one game?” He rolls his shoulder, kneading the muscle there.
“Is your shoulder okay to play?”
The question slips out too naturally. Shit. Months ago, this would’ve stayed trapped inside your head, buried beneath all your rules about what you were and weren’t allowed to care about.
Yoongi glances at you. “Mm,” he says. “It’s fine.”
“You sure?”
A beat.
Then the corner of his mouth lifts slightly. “You worried?”
Immediately defensive, you scoff. “No! I just don’t wanna win because your body is 90 years old.”
“Yah! I literally ran a marathon recently.”
“Mhmm and you almost died?” You grin slyly before grabbing an unmanned paddle on the counter, testing its weight. Then, you hit the side of his hip with it. He shakes his head at you, motioning his head for you to follow him.
“So did you win?” you ask about their Run BTS shoot.
“No.” He winces.
“Oh, so you suck at this, too?” You tease, recalling how he was teased relentlessly for his grandpa-esque foot volley performance.
He narrows his eyes on you, but before he gets a word out, you say, “I can give you some pointers, if you want?”
An arm suddenly slings around your shoulders.
“Y/N-ah.”
Namjoon.
You stumble slightly from the force of it, laughing immediately.
“You’re with me,” Namjoon declares. “Doubles.”
You glance instinctively toward Yoongi and his expression doesn’t change much at all, but his gaze flicks once toward Namjoon’s arm around you before dropping away.
Yoongi licks his teeth as he declares his teammate. “Jin-hyung and me versus you two.”
Which you didn’t think was unfair at first, but apparently Kim Seokjin is the ace.
“Why are you good at everything?” you yell after he effortlessly sends another shot flying past you.
Jin points his paddle at you smugly. “God gives his hardest battles to his handsomest soldiers.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Namjoon winces before lining up to serve.
Yoongi misses what would have been an easy volley completely and the silence afterward is catastrophic.
“Yoongi-yah!” Seokin explodes and Namjoon hits the floor laughing.
“I thought it was yours!” Yoongi protests immediately.
“It was going to you??” Jin screeches.
You’re laughing so hard your knees nearly give out.
Yoongi glares at all of you. But honestly? He’s terrible. Absolutely terrible! Half the time he swings too late. The other half he hits the ball with way too much force like he’s trying to launch it into 134340.
Meanwhile, Jin is carrying their duo on his broad ahh back. Like seriously, how come his shoulders are so wide and his arms are a mile long?
“Ah Yoongi, don’t be so useless!” Jin shouts dramatically across the court.
“We’re still leading by 5 points!”
“Forget the points, your aura’s in the negatives now!”
Yoongi has nothing to say after that, just turns to look at you with a :] and suddenly you are endlessly endeared.
And before you can stop yourself, you holler. “You got this, Yoongi.”
He didn’t expect that. Hell, you didn’t expect to say that out loud, too. But you blame the adrenaline and the endorphins coursing through your body.
Yoongi’s lips press together tightly in a pout. He has this smile that looks reluctant, like he’s trying very hard to stay composed and failing by degrees. It’s a cute look.
Regardless, Yoongi stays terrible after that, but it was kinda worth it to see him a little flustered.
⊙⊝⊜
By the second game, everyone’s sweaty and louder and way too competitive for people who are supposedly here to just have fun.
You’re bent slightly at the waist catching your breath when you feel someone bump your shoulder lightly.
Yoongi.
“You’re with me this round.”
You blink up at him.
There’s no teasing in his voice. No hesitation either. Just quiet certainty.
“Against who?”
He tilts his chin toward the opposite court where Angel and Taehyung are already bickering like an old married couple.
“Oh,” you grin slowly. “Easy win.”
“Really,” Tae points immediately. “Yoongi-hyung, you’ve been taking the L every game.”
“Not this one,” Yoongi says simply beside you. “Not gonna lose with her.”
You look at him. He looks proud.
The game starts pretty badly. Mostly because Yoongi is downright awful.
“You gotta move your feet,” you laugh as he misses another return.
“I am moving!”
“That was one step!”
“I can do two max.”
You shove him playfully. “Get your head in the game, Yoon.”
And somewhere in the middle of the match, something clicks. Not skill. God no. It’s chemistry. You start anticipating each other naturally.
Somehow, you know when he’ll hit too hard so you compensate automatically. He starts setting shots up for you without realizing it.
At one point you dive for a low ball, barely saving it. Yoongi cuts in and slams the return clean across the court.
The point is yours.
“Oh SHIT!” you yell.
Yoongi turns toward you instantly, eyes wide as adrenaline flashes across his face.
“Fuck yeah,” he laughs breathlessly, holding his hand up.
You smack your palm against his.
“That was sharp!”
“You saved that.”
“No, YOU finished it!”
Tae scoffs from across the net. “The fuck? So much dramatics for one point.”
Angel makes a face at the two of you.
Neither of you even notice, because you’re too busy grinning at each other.
Later, during match point, Yoongi completely whiffs on an easy shot.
“Oh my god,” you collapse against him laughing. “You suck so bad. We could have won.”
“Why do you look happy?” he shoots back.
And you don’t really have an answer for that.
⊙⊝⊜
Or this.
Maybe you’re both tired after pickleball. But tonight, he was exceptionally gentle. Like everything happening was moving in slow-mo.
You’re on your back, the mattress dipping beneath you as he follows, one hand braced beside your head, the other coaxing your thigh to come up around him.
You wind your legs around his torso, ankles crossing at his back as you pull him close.
You feel him slip inside you and when he bottoms out, he exhales softly through his nose, forehead dropping to your neck.
You’re closer than you have been all night. Or ever, it seems.
Everything is so quiet, still. Just the sound of ragged breaths, fanning against each other’s bodies.
There’s a comfort in the way his cock is nestled inside you like it’s made a home, and for a minute, maybe more, neither of you moves.
Yoongi groans. “Feels so fuckin’ good.”
“I know…” you mumble.
“Shit…” Yoongi rasps, voice frayed at the edges. “Always feels good with you…”
Lifting his head, he nuzzles his nose against yours, brushing lightly as he moans at the way you’re clenching involuntarily.
You’re not kissing. You made it clear from the start. But you’re fighting for the same air, mouths a fraction apart. If either of you leans in even a little…
No. You can’t. That’s your rule.
It should feel casual. It is casual.
His slow gaze moves between your eyes and your mouth, like he’s thinking about it. He’s been doing this more and more, and you don’t know what to do with him.
It’s a question. He’s asking your permission without words.
Your hands slide up around his neck, tugging his hair back with a necessary force because everything else feels a little too soft, a little too real. You lick his bared neck, feeling the vibration from his throat against your tongue as he groans. The tenderness breaks.
“Yoongi. Move…” You claw at his back, resting your palm just above the curve of his ass.
Slow at first, he slides all the way out before stuffing his length back in with enough force to shake the sense out of you.
You cry in pleasure as he pulses his thumb against your puffy folds and wiggles it against your swollen clit. He knows your body so well now. Knows it’s not gonna take much.
“Oh, Yoongi…” you beg as your thighs quiver against his torso, each nasty thrust from him pulling out puffs of air from your throat.
You’re almost folded in half now as he snaps his hips forward, the tip of his cock kissing your g-spot making you delirious.
“I got you,” he rasps, voice low and gravelly.
And then his hands find yours pressing both palms steady against your own. But then his grip deliberately changes, fingers slipping between yours, interlacing like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You tighten your hold without thinking. And he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he holds on harder.
This is new. Oh this is fucking new and you don’t know what to do.
The rhythm between you turns unsteady for a second—like you both feel it at the same time—and then it settles again, slower, deeper, more intentional.
Your foreheads meet. He huffs your name under his breath.
You’re feeling so much. His hand in yours. Your legs wrapped around him. The way your breathing falls out of sync and then somehow finds its way back together again.
His pace doesn’t falter even as your walls continue to swallow all of him as your climax nears.
“Baby… I can feel you sucking me in… fuck.”
“Yoongi…”
“Ah… you wanna keep me in, huh?”
Your hips falter at the insinuation, a temporary glitch in your brain, but he picks up the pace again and soon you’re back in that haze.
“Need you, baby…”
“I’m here…” he whispers, leaning to plant his lips on your cheek, and another, dangerously close to the edge of your lips. “Not going anywhere…”
It’s those words. Lust-driven words dressed up as a vow that did it for you.
When you come, he follows, spilling himself inside you with a broken gasp.
⊙⊝⊜
You can hear the electric kettle whistling as you step out of his bathroom.
Yoongi stands near the window, chest still bare, trousers sitting deliciously low on his hips.
There are nights you’re still kind of mesmerized by how incredibly handsome this man is.
Funny how two Kim Seokjins break the thought. Worldwide handsome is staring back at you from cups of Jin ramyeon on the table.
“I got hungry.” Yoongi says simply when he sees you, walking to retrieve the kettle. “Wanna eat?”
Two cups of ramyeon sit on the table. One is already cracked open, seasoning packets emptied inside. The other is still sealed, waiting patiently beside it.
You’re thinking, processing, buffering. You never ever stay beyond the clean-up. But the familiar and comforting smell of the broth makes the decision for you.
<3
//part four
A/N: Hi! Hope you liked? This Yoongi just... honestly, it was hard to write him at first, but I'm kinda falling in lo💥💥💥
ANYWAY! Leave me a note or a reblog with a review, if you want. It's the best way you can show your support.
Thank you for reading, you lovely beautiful human xo
⟶ SUMMARY: reaction to life-changing news, and a flashback.
⟶ TW: swearing, depiction of emotional breakdown
⟶ NOTE: just a reminder i'm also on ao3 (joons1uckystar) posting this fic! come chat with me here or on ao3!
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“She’s pregnant. Almost 2 months along, and somehow the baby survived the impact of the crash.”
At the doctor’s surprising news, both Yoongi and Jungkook froze. Yoongi did not know what to say, so he turned to the spot next to him, only to realize that Jungkook was equally as shocked and confused as he was.
Jungkook looked at Yoongi questioningly. How were you pregnant when he knew that your relationship was on the rocks before your divorce even happened? He thought of the worst-case scenario and blurted it out without thinking.
“She cheated on you?” He asked.
Yoongi and the doctor both turned to him in shock at his question.
Yoongi furiously shook his head. “No, she couldn’t have.” The silence after that was deafening.
“How far along did you say she was?” He turned to the doctor.
The man scanned through his clipboard again to make sure he had the right timeline.
“We estimate that she’s about two months along.”
2 months. That’s around the time they were completing the divorce procedures. Yoongi tries to reconcile the memories of those times, tries to think back on when and how you could have ended up pregnant. You started becoming distant sometime in August, when he was getting closer and closer to Yura. Your intimacy lessened as time passed, but he knew you couldn’t—wouldn’t—have cheated on him. You were just not that type of person. What happened in the beginning of September?
After a minute or two of scrambling his brain, Yoongi’s eyes widened after he finally recalled the memory that was most likely the conception date for the pregnancy,
He remembers a warm night in the beginning of September, when he came home late, and you were waiting on the couch with a finished wine glass on the table.
By the time he had gotten home, it was obvious that you were drunk, and you had a lot of words to say when you were drunk. He couldn’t really tell what you were saying because you started crying and slurring as soon as the words came out of your mouth, but he knew you were upset at him. So upset that you had broken down on the floor, sobbing. He’d knelt down on the floor and cupped your cheeks, lifted your face up to meet his. He remembers your eyes. They were so teary and red and sad.
flashback
“What’s wrong, baby? Why are you crying?” He asked, wiping the tears falling down her cheeks.
Those words had only made you cry harder.
“Because you don’t love me anymore.” You cried out, nearly hyperventilating.
The look on Yoongi’s face was a mixture of shock, hurt, and resignation. You were the one who was hurt, so why was he showing you a face like that?
“No, no, no baby. Why would you ever think that? I love you. I love you so much.” Yoongi had said to you as he desperately tried to wipe the tears that continued to flow from your eyes.
You palmed at your chest, wanting to claw your heart out.
“It’s true, though, isn’t it? You don’t love me anymore. You say you do, but you really don’t. You don’t act as if you love me, you don’t show me that you love me. You’re with that girl from your company. You take her to all of your parties, you take her to dinners with the boys. I’m not even a part of your life anymore. You don’t have me in your heart anymore. The boys don’t even talk to me anymore, and I know that some of them hate me. Especially Jungkook. I don’t even know why. Your parents probably don’t like me, and your managers probably don’t like me. Why do you guys hate me so much? Why does God hate me? Why would he do this to me? Am I not enough? Am I not worthy of receiving any sort of fucking love in this life?”
At this point, you were rambling, still slurring your words. Your lungs burned from crying and talking so much and so fast, but you couldn’t really tell because the alcohol made you focus on your tears and dizziness and the man in front of you instead.
Yoongi’s eyes softened, then his brows furrowed. There he goes again, looking confused. What was there to be confused about? He hurt you, but he looked like he was the one hurting in this situation.
“Why do you look like that?” you asked. “Why do you look like you’re the one who got your heart ripped out and stomped on when I’m the one waiting at home for someone who’s never coming back. Or if he does, he’s late, and he’s not mentally there. You don’t even have the decency to tell me where you are, or who you’re with or what time you’re coming home. Why do you get to fucking look like you’re hurt when I’m the one who has to watch you and all of your fucking friends and family and fans swoon over that woman? I’m your wife! That should be me! But all I can do is sit at home and wait for you to fucking care about me. This is not how I want to live, Yoongi. I don’t deserve to be hurt like this. Not after what happened to me. Please, I’m so tired. It hurts so fucking much, Yoongi. Why do you keep doing this to me?”
You couldn’t get the words out fast enough. You were sitting on the floor, hunched over your knees, repeatedly hitting your fist to your chest as if it would ease the pain inside. The crying continued until you practically couldn’t breathe anymore.
Yoongi slowly pulled your form to his, and held you like it was his dying wish. You weren’t sure you'd heard it properly, but you thought you'd heard him crying. It didn’t feel real until you felt dampness trickle down your neck. He knew what you were saying was valid. Extremely. And he couldn’t really refute it because it was true, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t love you.
He stroked your hair until you calmed down a little, and that’s when he finally got a word in.
“Baby, I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry that I did this to you. I love you so much that it breaks my heart to think about not having you in my life. You’re my everything. You own my heart, and I’m sorry I ever made you feel like you didn’t, but please don’t ever doubt my love for you. Yura, she’s nothing. She’s just my friend. She’s Jungkook’s friend. The last time you went to an event with me, you had a panic attack, and I didn’t want you to go through that again. She’s just a friend who goes to events because she’s also under our label. That’s all she is. I love you, not her.”
You and Yoongi both know that he wasn’t being entirely truthful, but you let it be because he was saying things you wanted to hear. Things that you’ve been waiting so long to hear. He was reassuring you of his love for you, and even if it wasn’t true, it still gave you some temporary relief.
He continued to nuzzle his face on the crook of your neck, muttering a million “sorrys” before you moved to put your hand on his back.
“You hurt me. I don’t want you to hurt me anymore, Yoongi. I love you so much that it makes me hate myself. You make me hate myself. You make me want to hurt myself.”
“I know, baby, and I won’t do it again. I love you so much. I’ll try harder, okay? I’ll go home earlier, and I won’t go to the parties anymore. I don’t want to give up on our marriage. I want to be with you. I don’t want you to hurt yourself, and I don’t want to hurt you. I love you. I love you. I love you”
end flashback
That night of tears and venting and apologies and shame had ended with both of you tangled up in bed, loving and hurting each other. It was pure, raw intimacy that hurt Yoongi to think about, but the number of times you had made love that night, with the moonlight shining through the sheet curtains of your bedroom, there was no doubt that the baby you were carrying was his. He never used protection with you, and that was only because he knew you were on birth control, but he had never thought about you getting pregnant, especially not after the fact that it was only a week and a half later when his lawyers brought the divorce papers to you.
Being reminded of that night made Yoongi feel ill. In his heart, he knew he had told you the truth when he said he loved you and that he wanted to save your marriage, but he was tired. And you were growing distant by the day. He could never take you anywhere, and you always got mad when he went with someone else or when he was with Jungkook. Yura was there, and she was so nice and bubbly and happy, and being with her made him happy. With Yura, it was never anything romantic until after the divorce went through. Yoongi tried. You tried, but the arguments increased, and his frustrations bubbled until they boiled over and he finally decided to tell her lawyer to draw up the divorce papers.
Yoongi snapped back to the present and looked up at the doctor.
“Two months sounds correct. How is she doing? How is the baby doing?” He asks, almost in a daze.
“The fetus is doing pretty well considering the accident. We’re surprised she didn’t suffer a miscarriage because of the impact of the crash, but I guess this can be considered a miracle. To reiterate, Mrs. Kim is okay, just suffering from a head wound, multiple lacerations, and bruises. For the next couple of days, bruises might become more prominent. We’ll be doing scans to check on brain activity, especially because we don’t know how severe her head injury is. We don’t know how long she’ll stay unconscious for, but we’re hopeful that she’ll wake up within a couple of days.” The doctor stated.
Yoongi nodded absentmindedly. He was quiet for some time until Jungkook spoke up.
“Are we allowed to see her?” He asked.
The doctor nodded. “Yes, you can see her. I think they’ll have wheeled her into her room by now. You can just go through that door. It’s a hallway that winds so you’ll end up on the other side. She’ll be in room 3. We only allow one visitor to stay overnight.”
“Ok, thank you so much, sir.” Jungkook bowed..
“Thank you, doctor,” Yoongi said with a small but dull smile on his face. He truly was thankful. He didn’t know if he would have ever known that he would be a father if it weren’t for this accident and the doctor. As sick as it sounds, he was somehow grateful to be your emergency contact.
“It’s no problem at all. Since you are her emergency contact, we will be updating you on her progress, and if anything should happen, but right now, things are looking up. Don’t worry too much. She’s alive, and so is your baby. It’s a miracle.” The doctor smiled at Yoongi before waving goodbye.
Yoongi and Jungkook sat back down in their chairs, trying to absorb the information they had just received.
The accident. You. Near-death and pregnant. It all seemed like some sort of crazy movie plot.
“So, she didn’t cheat on you? That’s your child that she’s carrying?” Jungkook’s voice rang in Yoongi’s ears.
The accusations are ridiculous, he knows that. That’s his child that was in your belly. There was no doubt about it, and yet, for some reason, it made him feel strange.
Yoongi nodded to answer his question.
“I thought you said you guys weren’t close leading up to the divorce?” Jungkook questioned.
Yoongi shook his head. “Not for a while, but something happened. I don’t really want to talk about it in detail, but it was emotional, and it got the better of both of us. It was the week before the divorce papers.”
“Oh, when you stopped coming to the parties after work, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Silence followed and stayed until both of them heard heavy footsteps coming up to them. They look up to see Jimin fast-walking with Jeongyeon, who was discreetly in sweatpants, a sweater and a cap, trailing behind him.
“The receptionist told me that they were letting visitors in for Y/n, now. Did the doctors tell you anything?” He asked.
Yoongi’s face blanked. Jungkook looked at him, then back at Jimin, and nodded. From under Jeongyeon’s cap, Yoongi could see the worry and fear in her eyes.
“Let’s head to her room first, and we’ll tell you what he told us,” Yoongi said.
The four of them made their way through the winding hallway to the other side, where your room was. The walk was short, but the silence dragged on until the creaking of the door opening was all they could hear.
Yoongi walked in first, and the moment he saw you, he felt sick to his stomach. He wanted to vomit. Your body, pale and bruised, was covered in bandages from head to toe. Half of your head was wrapped in gauze, and there were multiple wires and needles connected to your hands. He has never, ever seen you or anyone like this before. And it broke his heart, and then the guilt started to seep in.
He walked up to your unconscious body and took your hand in his. Somehow, it felt unreal, but as the seconds passed and as his eyes passed over your still and almost lifeless form, the reality of the accident and the pregnancy settled on his mind and in his heart.
He felt movement from behind him, and from his peripheral, he could see Jeongyeon grip the sleeve of Jimin’s hoodie rightly. She looked scared.
“Can someone please tell me what’s happening?” She asked, voice shaky.
“What did the doctor say?” Jimin asked, settling a hand over Jeongyeon’s to comfort her.
Jungkook stayed back, leaning against the door. He waited for Yoongi to answer, but his eyes were locked on your body, so he decided to just speak up in his place.
“The doctor said she’s ok and is expected to wake up in the next couple of days or a week at most. Lacerations, bruising, and a head injury they’re monitoring”
Yoongi mumbled something as he stroked your bruised fingers. Jimin and Jeongyeon turned to look at him.
“What?” Jeongyeon snaps.
“She’s pregnant,” Yoongi said, louder this time.
Jeongyeon’s eyes widened almost comically. “Pregnant, how in the hell is she pregnant? I think I would know if she was having a kid with somebody.”
“It’s mine.”
“No. There’s no way. You are divorced, and you hurt her. She would have never let you touch her when you hurt her as much as you did.” Jeongyeon’s voice got louder and louder, and the guilt that was planted in the pit of Yoongi’s stomach bloomed.
“Yeah, I know. It was one time, and we were both emotionally wrecked. I made promises to her that I couldn’t keep, and now here we are. But that’s my fucking kid, you can’t tell me otherwise.” Yoongi tried to keep his tone respectful, as Jeongyeon was one of the most prominent people in your life, but he could only take so much criticism. Jeongyeon talked to him as if he’d ruined your life. As if he killed you.
“It’s her child. When she wakes up, she won’t want anything to do with you. You hurt her beyond anything you could probably even imagine in your little brain. You were off doing god knows what when she was suffering at home. That’s not your kid. It might be yours biologically, but you ruined all the chances you had of being a dad when you broke Y/n’s heart.”
Every word Jeongyeon said was like a knife to his heart. It fed the flower of guilt and made it grow. He couldn’t really argue because it was true. He deserved it. You were a unit before, but when he had promised to try harder, he didn’t follow through, and now you’re divorced and pregnant, and you hate him, and you two will be parents, but in a broken family.
Don't Look at Me Like That - Park Jimin (BTS) x You - Part 1
🩰 Pairing: Idol!Jimin (Park Jimin) x Dancer-Choreographer!Reader
Seven years ago, Park Jimin was the most distracting man at a dance intensive in Paris—charming, shameless, impossible to ignore, and responsible for one night neither of you has managed to forget. Now he is building a dance company in Seoul and insists you are the only choreographer capable of helping him do it properly. Seven desperate emails, three unreasonable conditions, one BTS comeback, and several arguments that look suspiciously like foreplay later, you are both forced to admit that the rivalry was never the whole truth.
🩰 Genres: Rivals to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers but They’re Lying About the Enemy Part, Second-Chance Romance, Mutual Pining for Seven Extremely Embarrassing Years, Smut, Banter as a Love Language, Workplace Romance, Secret Hookups Everyone Immediately Notices, Dance as Foreplay, Forced Proximity, Jealous Jimin, Jimin Being Shameless, Reader Being Even Worse, Love Triangle Featuring One Genuinely Lovely Man, Hoseok Fanboying Over Reader While Jimin Suffers, BTS Found Family, Fame and Industry Logistics, Emotionally Avoidant Adults Making Terrible Professional Decisions, Nobody Believes They Hate Each Other
🩰 “They have spent seven years pretending it was rivalry. The problem is that their bodies have never believed them.”
You have always known when someone is performing.
Onstage, at least, people have the decency to admit it.
A dancer can smile through a bad landing, cheat half an inch out of a turn, hold an extension three seconds past the point where the muscle starts begging for mercy. It does not matter. The body keeps records. Give it eight counts and it will tell on you.
People do the same thing. Dancers just use better lighting.
The wings smell like rosin and hot gel and the particular dust that only exists in theaters built before anyone thought to ask what stage floors should be made of.
Sweat, cold cream, the metallic tang of the fly system somewhere above your head.
You come down off the stage still half-inside the performance, the house lights bleeding gold through the gap in the legs behind you, applause collapsing into the low roar of an audience getting up out of their seats, coats, bags, someone's perfume already overpowering the greenroom air before you've even reached it.
Your body is still counting.
It always is, for a while after. Eight counts, eight counts, eight counts, the tempo living somewhere under your sternum long after the orchestra's gone quiet.
You saw it happen from the wings, twenty minutes ago, mid-number — Marisol's landing off the pirouette sequence, the fraction of a second where her weight found the floor wrong. Nobody else would have caught it. The audience didn't. Even half the company didn't, because it was small, and she recovered fast, and recovery is the entire job. But you catch things like that the way other people catch a wrong note in a song they've heard a thousand times. You don't decide to notice. You just do. It's the same instinct that's kept you employed since you were four years old, and the same one that makes you insufferable at dinner parties, according to your mother.
So you don't head for your own dressing room first. You go straight for hers, weaving backstage through the tangle of moving set pieces and stagehands calling clear behind you, letting the muscle memory of this specific building — which door sticks, which hallway is narrower than it looks — carry you there faster than thinking would.
The dressing room is thick with hairspray, sweat, cold cream, and the particular overheated air of an old Broadway theater in December. Around you, the company is dismantling the evening version of themselves. Wigs come off. Makeup disappears beneath cleansing balm. Someone has connected a phone to the speakers and turned the music up loud enough to compete with three separate conversations about where everyone is going after the show.
Marisol is halfway through removing her eyelashes when you find her, one still attached, the other pinched between two fingers, leaving her face in a state of interrupted symmetry. She doesn't look up. She knows exactly why you're standing in her doorway, and she is, visibly, hoping you'll let it go anyway.
You don't.
"Your ankle."
Marisol stops halfway through removing her eyelashes. One is still attached, the other pinched between two fingers, leaving her face in a state of interrupted symmetry.
"What about my ankle?"
"It's swelling."
"It is not."
You look at her. Just look, the flat, unhurried kind of look that has ended more arguments in this dressing room than actual words ever could.
She looks down. Her left ankle has already started pushing against the satin ribbon of her shoe.
"Okay," she says. "It is doing something."
"It's swelling."
"You make everything sound so judgmental."
"Your ligaments don't care about my tone."
You crouch in front of Marisol before she can object, press two fingers carefully along the outside of her ankle, and watch her face.
She flinches. The wince is small and involuntary, gone almost as fast as it arrives, but you clocked it before she could smooth it over.
"You're icing it."
"I'm going dancing." Marisol says it lightly, like the matter's already settled, already reaching for her other eyelash as if the conversation is over.
"You have just spent two and a half hours dancing."
"That was employment. This is different." She says it with her particular cheer, because she knows she's losing and has decided charm is her best remaining strategy.
"You're icing it."
Marisol studies you for a moment, head tilted, weighing the likelihood that she can win this conversation. She has known you for seven weeks. She knows better. Something in her shoulders drops half an inch — the tell-tale give of someone conceding before they've said so out loud.
"You're very controlling for someone who claims not to care about people." It comes out fond despite itself, an accusation with no real heat behind it.
"I have never claimed that." Flat. Immovable. You don't even look up from where you're already reaching for the ice pack.
"You imply it with your face."
"That sounds like a personal interpretation." One eyebrow lifts, just slightly. The closest thing you offer to amusement when you're busy winning an argument.
You rise and take an instant ice pack from the emergency drawer beneath the makeup counter. You crack it against your palm and hand it to her. She accepts it with a sigh dramatic enough for the mezzanine, head tipping back against the mirror like she's been asked to give up a limb rather than twenty minutes of her evening.
"Twenty minutes," you say. "Then compression. If it hurts tomorrow, you tell stage management before warm-up."
"Yes, Mom."
"Your mother would let you go dancing?"
"My mother likes me."
You turn away before she catches the smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. You are not in the business of confirming that you have a sense of humor. It ruins the effect.
Behind you, someone calls your name.
A girl is hovering near the dressing-room door with a program held against her chest like a shield. She cannot be older than sixteen, although the severe bun and the posture say she has been attending ballet classes long enough to have been told that standing normally is a moral failure.
"Sorry," she says immediately. "I know you're probably busy."
You are. You are also still wearing half your stage makeup and one false eyelash. There is a bruise forming beneath your right knee, your toes are numb, and you have approximately eleven minutes before the stage door becomes crowded enough to make leaving unpleasant.
You put the ice pack more firmly against Marisol's ankle anyway.
"What's your name?"
The girl blinks, startled that you asked. "Sophie."
"Hi, Sophie."
She exhales like you have granted her something enormous.
"We studied A Study in Blue at my summer program," she says. "The Vienna recording. I've watched your solo. I don't know, probably fifty times."
"It was better by closing night."
Her face falls, just slightly, the specific crumple of someone who came here hoping for a moment and is worried she's already ruined it.
You soften the statement before she can mistake accuracy for rejection.
"The company filmed the second week. We were still finding it." You gesture toward the program, your tone gentler now than it was with Marisol, something in Sophie's careful posture makes you want to be careful back. "Do you dance?"
"Ballet. Mostly." She says it almost apologetically, like she's bracing for the answer to matter more than it should. "But I want to do contemporary."
"Then do contemporary." You say it simply while you sign her program, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, because to you it is.
"My teacher says I should wait until my classical technique is stronger." Her eyes drop to the program now in her hands when she says it, the specific shame of a kid repeating a rule she doesn't actually believe in.
"Your teacher is afraid you'll enjoy yourself."
Marisol snorts behind you, ice pack still pressed to her ankle, entirely too delighted by the way you just detonated a stranger's ballet teacher in four words.
Sophie's mouth twitches, caught somewhere between a laugh and asking permission for one, her eyes flicking to you like she's checking whether it's safe to find you funny.
"Keep the ballet," you tell her. "It gives you somewhere solid to push from. But don't wait for someone else to decide you're ready to move differently."
You hand it back. Sophie thanks you three times before disappearing into the corridor, clutching the program the way people clutch things they intend to keep for a very long time.
Marisol watches you over the top of the ice pack.
"What?"
"Nothing." Marisol's mouth is doing something it clearly doesn't want to do, pressed flat to keep from spreading into a full grin, and failing.
"You're looking at me." You say it without turning fully around, aware of her eyes on you anyway. You always are.
"I'm looking at the cold, terrifying woman who just changed a teenager's life while wearing one eyelash." The grin wins. It spreads slow and unguarded, the kind she'd deny giving you if you called her on it, one hand still pressed to the ice pack like she's forgotten it's there.
"Her life will survive the interaction." You keep your face carefully unmoved, but there's something at the corner of your mouth that gives you away completely — the two of you speaking a whole conversation neither of you is willing to say out loud.
"Come out with us."
"No." No hesitation. No glance up.
"You didn't even pretend to consider it."
"I considered it yesterday when you asked." Dry, already reaching for your bag.
"That was for yesterday."
"The answer has maintained structural integrity."
Marisol drops her head back against the mirror, a hand over her heart like you've wounded her, though the grin underneath says otherwise — the picture of someone who's accepted defeat but wants credit for the effort. "You are twenty-nine years old."
"I'm aware."
"You're finishing a perfect show eight times a week, men are frightened of you, women want to be you, and you go home every night before midnight."
"Some of us enjoy sleep."
"Some of us are wasting excellent cheekbones." She says it to the ceiling now, mournful, like she's mourning the cheekbones personally.
You start peeling tape from around your toes, not looking up. "I use them at work."
"That sentence is why you're going to die alone." But she's laughing when she says it, already halfway to letting you win.
Your phone vibrates inside your bag. You ignore it.
Marisol's eyes flick toward the sound, sharp with sudden interest, ice pack forgotten. "Secret lover?"
"No."
"You answered quickly."
"Because the answer was easy."
The phone buzzes again. Marisol points at your bag with the ice pack, delighted with herself, eyebrows halfway up her hairline. "That is how every story about a secret lover begins."
"It's probably Lulu."
"Your Manager calls when she wants to destroy your peace. She doesn't email." A beat, considering. "Suspicious."
The phone goes still.
You finish removing the tape, inspect the reddened skin beneath it, and begin packing your things. By the time you've changed into wool trousers and a black sweater, Marisol has negotiated herself into one drink, ankle propped on a second chair, looking entirely too pleased with the compromise.
You make her promise to send a picture of the swelling before bed.
She calls you emotionally repressed, cheerfully, like it's a compliment.
You tell her to use compression.
At the stage door, Sophie is still standing with her mother beneath the yellow spill of the theater lights, staring at the signature on her program like it might fade if she looks away too long.
You pretend not to see. You are good at that when necessary.
December in New York insists on being cold, in the specific, theatrical way certain people insist on being difficult. The walk home starts to feel less like six blocks and more like an episode of survivor.
A wind that finds the gap at your collar no matter how you angle yourself against it, breath fogging under streetlights strung with wreaths the size of tires.
But you still insist on walking.
Storefronts glow gold and red down the avenue. Somewhere behind a lit window, a family is doing the things families apparently do this time of year — a tree half-trimmed, someone's kid pressed to the glass, the noise of people who like each other enough to be loud about it. You walk past three different apartments with their curtains open just enough to see it happening.
Your own family's version of a holiday gathering tends to involve a conference room, a shared calendar, and at least one attorney present to make sure nobody's version of "jolly" contradicts anyone's trust agreement.
Your mother is in Gstaad. Your father is wherever your father currently is. You stopped expecting a tree by the time you were nine and stopped minding somewhere shortly after that, or told yourself you had, which by now amounts to roughly the same thing.
The apartment is on the eleventh floor of a prewar building on the Upper East Side that your grandmother has owned outright since before your mother was born — high ceilings, crown molding nobody makes anymore, a view of a sliver of the park if you stand at exactly the right angle in the kitchen.
You have never had to think about rent in your life and you don't pretend otherwise; it would be its own kind of performance, and you don't do those. It's simply a fact of the architecture of your life, the way perfect pitch is a fact for some people. You didn't earn it. You also didn't apologize for it. Both things are just true.
Lulu is sitting at the kitchen island when you get home, surrounded by open folders, colored tabs, and the remains of what appears to have been a violent encounter with a container of pad thai.
She does not look up when you enter.
"You're late." Lulu doesn't look up, but her voice does the thing it always does when she's already three moves ahead of you, half-distracted, half a challenge.
"It's twelve fourteen."
"You usually reject human connection faster." A small, satisfied smile, still aimed at her folders.
"Marisol's ankle was swollen."
"Of course it was." Lulu says it the way you'd acknowledge weather — inevitable, mildly interesting, not worth further comment.
You hang your coat and glance at the folders spread across the island like evidence at a crime scene, organized with a precision that only Lulu is capable of imposing on chaos. Three are familiar. One is new.
"No."
Lulu finally looks up, chopsticks paused mid-air, eyebrows lifting with delight because you know she's been waiting all night for exactly this opening. "You don't even know which one I was going to show you."
"The red tab is the film."
"It's Toronto." She says it like the city alone should settle the argument, like you're supposed to be dazzled into agreement.
"No."
"The director won an award." A little more insistent now, leaning forward on her elbows.
"For directing. Not choreography."
"They're offering executive credit."
"They want my name on promotional material while someone else tells actors to move vaguely in rhythm."
Lulu closes the folder without protest, entirely unbothered, already three steps ahead in her own head — she never fights for a pitch longer than it takes to gauge whether it's dead. "The green one?"
"Two years."
"In Europe." Said hopefully, like geography might tip the scales.
"Still two years."
"The revival?" Her voice softens slightly here, testing, because she already half-knows the answer to this one too.
"I danced that role when I was twenty-three."
"You would be choreographing it." A small, careful point. She's not conceding yet.
"I would be rearranging furniture in a house I already know."
Something in Lulu's face shifts at that — not defeat exactly, more like she's just caught something she wasn't fishing for. She doesn't push. She just watches you for a second too long, the way she does when she's decided something is worth being gentle about instead of winning.
She watches you put your bag on the counter, something assessing in her expression now, the look of a woman doing math she isn't ready to say out loud yet.
"You're bored."
"I'm tired."
"You're bored and tired. They're different diseases."
"I'm not bored."
"You corrected the spacing in the finale last Thursday."
"The spacing was wrong."
"You were performing in it."
"I had time."
"That," Lulu says, pointing a chopstick at you like a gavel, "is not the defense you think it is."
You open the refrigerator. She has stocked it, because she knows the contents of your refrigerator are reduced to sparkling water, mustard, and half a lemon by the end of every performance week.
There is a labeled container on the top shelf.
EAT THIS BEFORE YOU DECIDE COFFEE IS DINNER.
You take it out without commenting.
Lulu smiles down at the folders, pleased with herself in the specific way she gets pleased when she's already won something and is simply waiting for you to notice.
"You're welcome."
"I didn't say anything."
"You took the container. We've been friends eight years. That was practically a sonnet."
You place it in the microwave.
Luisa Reyes has managed your career for four years and your life for considerably longer, although she disputes this description whenever contracts are due and embraces it whenever you are making a bad decision. She danced until her right knee made the choice for her, rebuilt herself with a speed that frightened everyone who loved her, and now runs your calendar with the efficiency of an air-traffic controller operating under active threat.
She is also the only person alive permitted to call you an idiot more than once in the same conversation.
Your phone vibrates again.
Lulu's attention moves to it, quick and unmistakable, like a bird catching motion in its periphery.
You watch your own phone buzz on the counter and know, with the specific certainty of someone who has spent seven years refusing to forget a name, exactly whose it is.
You do not want Lulu anywhere near this information. Not because it's a thing. It is, categorically, not a thing.
It's an email, unread by choice, from a man you last spoke to seven years ago, and the fact that you could still describe the exact weight of his voice if someone asked is simply a detail of memory, not evidence of anything. But Lulu has a talent for taking a non-thing and turning it, through sheer force of interest, into an event with its own timeline. You have seen her do it to smaller material than this.
So you turn the phone face-down, too fast, and know immediately it was the wrong move.
"What?"
"Nothing." You say it too quickly for it to land as nothing.
"You have been home forty seconds and have already hidden your phone." Lulu's eyes track the motion like she's clocking evidence, chopsticks abandoned entirely now.
"I turned it over."
"Like a woman with nothing to hide." One eyebrow climbs, slow and merciless.
"I have nothing to hide."
"Wonderful." She holds out her hand, palm up, utterly serene, she knows she's already won and is simply enjoying the formality of asking. "Give it to me."
"No."
"Then we have identified a hidden thing." She says it gently, almost kindly, which is somehow worse than if she'd gloated.
The microwave beeps. You use it as cover — turning away, retrieving the container, buying yourself four seconds you don't actually need.
Lulu keeps her hand extended anyway, patient, entirely willing to wait you out. She has waited you out before, over bigger things than this. She will, apparently, wait you out over this too, and you already know — with the same certainty you know a turn is late before the dancer's even landed it — that you are not going to win this one.
"You have contracts to review," you say.
"I reviewed them. You rejected them through color-coded osmosis." Lulu says this with the weary patience of a woman explaining gravity to someone who keeps falling up.
"I'm eating."
"You are stalling." She points her chopsticks at you like an accusation.
"I am chewing."
"You haven't taken a bite."
You look down at the fork in your hand, hovering exactly where it's been for the last thirty seconds. She's right, which is somehow more irritating than if she'd simply been wrong. You stab a piece of chicken with more force than the chicken has earned.
Lulu leans back in her chair, arms crossed, the particular satisfaction of someone who has just watched her opponent walk directly into the trap she set. "You're unbearable."
"I'm excellent. This is why you pay me."
"My family office pays you." You say family office the way other people say the government — with a small eye roll built in.
"Right. Thank your grandfather for me."
"He's dead."
"And yet, still contributing." You keep your face perfectly straight when she says it, which is what finally breaks her — a startled laugh she tries and fails to swallow, hand flying up to cover her mouth like she can stuff it back in.
You take a bite so you do not laugh either. It doesn't entirely work.
Your phone buzzes again against the stone countertop, loud in the small silence left behind by her laugh.
Lulu's eyes cut toward it immediately, sharp and delighted, then back at you, then back at the phone — the exact rhythm of someone watching a rehearsal room where she can already tell something's about to go wrong before anyone else has clocked it, and is thoroughly enjoying the anticipation.
"Is someone dying?"
"No."
"Are they threatening litigation?"
"No."
"Did you accidentally join a cult?" She asks this one completely seriously, like it's a real and recurring risk in your life.
"Not recently."
"Then who has sent you" — she leans across the island, craning for the screen, entirely without shame about it — "seven emails?"
You pick up the phone, fast.
Too late. She's already seen enough.
Her eyes narrow, the gleeful kind of narrow, a bloodhound catching a scent. "HYBE? As in the K-pop company, HYBE?"
"It's work."
"HYBE does not usually email you seven times in 40 minutes unless you've kidnapped an entire boyband." She says it like a woman citing case law.
"It's not HYBE."
The answer comes out before you can stop it — too fast, too specific, and you watch the exact moment it lands, Lulu's whole face going still and delighted at once, like a cat that has just heard a can opener from two rooms away.
That is the problem with spending eight years beside someone who used to make her living reading bodies for a stage. Lulu does not need a confession. She just needs one badly chosen verb, and you have just handed her one, gift-wrapped, with a bow.
"Who is it?"
"No one."
"A specific no one or a general no one?" She's grinning now, fully, chin propped on her hand, in absolutely no hurry to let this go.
You unlock the phone because refusing to look at it has become more conspicuous than looking.
Seven messages sit beneath the same thread.
The first arrived eleven days ago from an official HYBE address. Formal subject line. Formal introduction. Formal description of a privately funded dance center and resident company in Seoul. They wanted someone to help develop the artistic program, build the choreography department, train the inaugural ensemble, and consult on portions of an upcoming tour.
You had read it twice. Then archived it.
The second arrived today.
This time, the signature at the bottom was personal.
Park Jimin.
Of BTS
As if there were another one.
As if your body hadn't already recognized the name a full second before your brain caught up and supplied the rest of it — the group, the stage, the quality of a man who has spent a decade being watched by more people than most countries have citizens, standing in a rehearsal room in Paris seven years ago telling you your turn was late when it was not late, it was simply not the turn he would have done.
You had archived that one too.
This did not stop him.
"What kind of work?" Lulu asks.
You open the first message and slide the phone across the island.
She reads quickly, eyes flicking down the screen with the speed of someone who's skimmed a thousand contracts and knows exactly where the important numbers live. Her eyes pause at the salary.
Actually pause — stop scrolling, go back up, read it again like she thinks she misplaced a decimal.
"That is offensive."
"Yes."
"I mean offensively high." She sets the phone down flat on the counter, very carefully, like it might be worth something and she doesn't want to be the one who drops it.
"I know."
"He is offering you more money than God." She says it with real reverence, the tone usually reserved for describing someone's engagement ring.
"God has never had to negotiate with HYBE's legal team."
"No," Lulu agrees, delighted, "God's never had to do a lot of things. Must be nice." She sets the phone down flat on the counter, still shaking her head at the number.
"That continues to be irrelevant." You say it flatly, but Lulu's already laughing under her breath, shaking her head at you, the specific laugh she saves for the very small percentage of your sentences that are, technically, indefensible.
Lulu scrolls to the bottom. Then back up. Then down again, mouth pressing into a shape that means she is doing arithmetic she isn't ready to announce.
"Park Jimin."
You concentrate on the food.
"Personally led by Park Jimin," she reads aloud. "Park Jimin will oversee the creative direction. Park Jimin has personally requested—"
"I can read."
"Apparently you can also ignore one of the most famous men on earth with an efficiency I find deeply inspiring."
"He's not asking as one of the most famous men on earth."
Lulu's thumb stops over the screen.
There it is again. The badly chosen verb.
Her eyes lift very slowly, sharp now, delighted in the specific way she gets delighted right before she ruins your evening.
"How is he asking?"
You take the phone back.
The second email is shorter than the first.
I wanted to contact you myself. This is not an endorsement arrangement, and I am not looking for someone who will lend their name to the center and leave. I want someone who can help me build it properly.
The third includes a link to an interview you gave six months ago about choreographer ownership and dancer longevity.
You remember the interview. The publication had a small circulation outside the dance world. Your mother had not read it.
Jimin had.
I agree with what you said about companies treating dancers as temporary equipment. I don't want to build another place that does that.
You had stared at that line longer than the others. You are not going to tell Lulu that. You are barely willing to tell yourself that.
The fourth email arrived after you opened the third and failed to respond.
I know you saw the first three.
Lulu reads it over your shoulder, eyebrows arching.
"Oh, I like him."
"You don't know him."
"No, but I support his commitment to the bit."
"He is not funny."
"That sounded personal."
"It was factual."
The fifth email is the longest. You have read it four times.
I have met with other choreographers. They are talented. They also agree with everything I say before I finish saying it.
I cannot build this with someone who agrees with me because of my name. I need someone who will tell me when an idea is bad, even if I've already spent money on it. Especially then.
You are the only person I know who would enjoy doing that.
You reach for the phone before Lulu gets to the next line.
She catches your wrist, quick, delighted, entirely without mercy.
"Absolutely not."
"Lulu."
She reads aloud.
I also think you are the only person who can help me make this what it should be.
Something small and traitorous shifts beneath your ribs.
It did the first time too. In a rehearsal room in Paris, seven years ago, when he looked at you like you were the only correction in the room worth listening to and then spent three weeks pretending he hadn't meant it that way.
Not because he called you talented. People have been calling you talented since you were too young to understand that talent is usually the least interesting thing about an artist.
Because he said only.
Because Park Jimin, who once spent three weeks contradicting every correction you gave him on principle, has spent seven years becoming one of the most exacting performers in the world and has still decided there is something he cannot do without you.
Lulu looks at your face, reading it the way she reads everything — instantly, without asking permission.
You remove your wrist from her hand.
"It's manipulative."
"It's effective."
"That doesn't make it less manipulative."
"It usually does in marketing."
"It's not marketing."
Lulu's smile arrives slowly, the particular smile that means she has just decided something about your evening that you have not yet agreed to.
"No," she says. "I don't think it is."
You open the sixth email.
It arrived 20 minutes ago.
For the avoidance of doubt, Paris does not need to be discussed. It has nothing to do with the offer.
Lulu stops breathing.
You lock the phone.
She blinks at you, delighted, predatory, already halfway out of her chair.
"No."
"Luisa."
"I am going to ignore you just called me my full government name. Unlock it."
"I'm going to bed."
"Unlock the phone."
"You have the important information."
"I have the word Paris and your face doing something I have not seen since—"
"You haven't seen my face do anything."
"Your face has filed for political asylum."
You stand, carrying the container toward the sink.
Lulu follows you around the island, quick on her feet even in socks, the particular energy of a woman who smells a story and has never once in her life let one go unfinished.
"Is he Paris?"
"That is not a complete question."
"Is Park Jimin the man from Paris?"
"There was no man from Paris."
"You went to a private dance retreat in France seven years ago, came home furious, refused to discuss one particular dancer, and watched every performance he posted for the next six months."
You turn.
"I did not."
"You used my laptop."
"Once."
"You were still logged into your account."
"That proves nothing."
"It proved his name, but I was respecting your privacy." She says this with the particular gravity of a woman who has clearly been sitting on it for years. "I thought maybe you were becoming an ARMY. I thought, okay, she likes their music, that's normal, half the world likes the music. And then I did the math — the dates, the way you got quiet for a week after you came back from France, the fact that you never once mentioned his name out loud but somehow knew his tour schedule — and I decided some things are not my business until you make them my business."
"There is no math."
"There is extensive math. I minored in it."
"You minored in dance."
"I contain multitudes."
You turn back to the sink so she cannot watch your face do whatever it is currently doing.
He wasn't — you correct yourself, silently, because there is no version of this you are willing to say aloud, even to Lulu, even at midnight, even after eight years of her knowing you better than most people who share your blood.
He is Park Jimin.
Was, seven years ago, a twenty-three-year-old with something to prove and a body that argued with every correction you gave him on principle, in a rehearsal room in Paris that smelled like rosin and cold spray, where you disliked him within eleven minutes of meeting him and disliked him more with every week that followed, right up until the week you stopped disliking him in any way that was useful to either of you.
You have never discussed what happened after that. Not with him — you have not spoken one real word to him in seven years, not once, not at an awards show you both happened to attend, not through any mutual acquaintance foolish enough to try to bridge the gap. And not really with Lulu either, though she has clearly built her own theory of the case out of six months of suspicious internet activity and a laptop you forgot to log out of.
You have watched his career since. Out of spite. That is the version you have always told yourself, and you intend to keep telling yourself that version for as long as it remains structurally sound, which — you are aware — has been considerably longer than spite usually lasts.
The uncomfortable truth, the one you are not saying out loud in your own kitchen at midnight, is that a man does not send seven emails to someone he successfully forgot. And you have a reasonably confident suspicion, based on nothing you could defend in a court of law, that he has been keeping an equally detailed, equally denied account of you for exactly as long.
The email chain currently sitting on your phone is not really a job offer.
It's a confirmation.
The phone vibrates in your hand.
Both of you look down.
The last email has arrived.
There is no formal subject line this time. No company language. No careful explanation of the center, the company, the contract, or the reason he has decided to break seven years of mutually enforced silence.
Just one word.
Please.
Lulu reads it beside you.
For once, she does not immediately say anything.
The apartment hums around the silence — the refrigerator motor, the pipes knocking somewhere inside the old walls, a taxi leaning on its horn eleven floors below. Your food is getting cold in the sink. Your body still carries the show in small places: adhesive at the base of your neck, rosin between your toes, the ache beneath your right knee.
You look at the word again.
Jimin does not ask twice.
At least, the version of him you knew did not. The twenty-three-year-old who would repeat the same turn until his feet bled but would rather lose a limb than admit he needed help. The man who could charm an entire room and still bristle whenever you looked at him for half a second too long, as though you had found a door he did not remember leaving open.
Seven years, and apparently he has learned how to ask.
Or he has become desperate enough to try.
Lulu nudges your shoulder, gentler now, some of the delight softening into something more serious.
"He said please."
"I can read."
"In writing."
"Yes."
"Save that for the divorce attorney."
You turn your head.
"As If."
"You know what I mean."
Unfortunately, you do.
You should archive it.
The job would mean moving to Seoul with almost no preparation. It would mean leaving Broadway before you have properly decided what comes next. It would mean placing yourself in a studio with a man you have spent seven years insisting, mostly to yourself, that you no longer think about.
It would also mean building something from the floor up. A real company. A real program. The kind of work none of the folders on the island had managed to offer.
Something difficult enough that you might fail at it.
Something he believes only you can do.
Lulu watches you open the reply window, arms crossed, and for once says nothing — just watches, the way she watches you before a show, when there's nothing left to fix and the only thing left to do is see what you do with it.
"I am not accepting," you say.
"Of course not."
"I'm requesting the full proposal."
"Naturally."
"This is a professional decision."
"Everything about your face agrees."
You begin typing.
Send me the complete artistic plan, operating structure, rehearsal schedule, and the actual authority attached to the role. Not the version written by your legal team.
You pause.
Then add:
And if you mention Paris again, the answer is no.
Lulu reads over your shoulder.
"You know that mentioning Paris in the sentence forbidding him from mentioning Paris still counts as mentioning Paris."
You press send.
"Go home, Lulu."
"I live here when your life gets interesting."
"It isn't interesting."
Your phone registers the email as delivered.
Three dots appear almost immediately beneath it.
Lulu sees them.
You see them.
Neither of you comments.
You have always known when someone is performing.
The problem with Park Jimin has never been that you cannot tell.
The problem is that he has always known when you are too.
It is considerably harder to pretend you are indifferent to a man when his face is forty feet tall.
You discover this before you have technically entered Seoul.
The airport has been warning you for several hundred meters. Seven faces rotate across illuminated screens above baggage claim, disappear behind advertisements for cosmetics and credit cards, then return in coordinated black tailoring beneath the announcement of BTS’s first full-group comeback in four years. Their music follows you through customs at a volume low enough to qualify as ambiance and high enough to make escape impossible. By the time you step outside, Park Jimin has attempted to sell you a phone, a duty-free fragrance, and something involving a bank account you are not eligible to open.
You lower your sunglasses despite the fact that it is February and the sky has the exhausted grey of a city that has not seen direct sunlight in days.
Beside you, Lulu wheels two suitcases through the automatic doors and stops.
“Oh,” she says.
You keep walking.
“Y/N—”
“Don’t.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You inhaled with intent.”
“I just think you should prepare yourself.”
“For what?”
Lulu points.
A bus moves through the airport traffic lane, wrapped from end to end in a comeback advertisement. Jungkook occupies the back third. Taehyung and Jin are somewhere in the middle. Jimin’s face covers the section directly beside you, enlarged to the point that one eye is nearly the size of your head.
He is looking over his shoulder at the camera with his mouth parted and his hair falling across his forehead in a way that probably required twelve people and a wind machine to appear accidental.
The bus pauses at the light.
His enormous face pauses with it.
Lulu looks from the bus to you.
You look straight ahead.
"Oh, this is going to be so much worse than I thought." Lulu says it slowly, drawing it out, watching your face like she's reading a scoreboard.
"I don't know what you mean." You keep your eyes fixed pointedly on the crosswalk light, which has not changed, and will apparently take its time about it.
"Your face."
"My face is fine." It is not fine. You are aware it is not fine. This does not help.
"Your face just saw a ghost with excellent bone structure and beautiful lips." She's grinning now, delighted, tilting her head to get a better angle on whatever your expression is currently doing.
"He looks ridiculous." You say it too fast, too flat, the specific overcorrection defending a position you know is already lost.
"He looks expensive." Lulu tips her chin toward the bus, entirely unbothered, like she's appraising a painting rather than a forty-foot photograph of a man you have spent seven years insisting you don't think about.
"He is advertising public transportation."
"He is advertising an album. The public transportation is carrying his face." She says this with the patient authority of someone explaining a very simple concept to a child.
The light changes. The bus pulls away, taking Jimin's left eye with it, and you feel your shoulders drop half an inch you didn't know you were holding.
You release the handle of your suitcase only long enough to adjust the cuff of your coat — a small, precise motion, entirely unnecessary, the kind of thing your hands do when they need something to be busy with.
Lulu watches this. Watches all of it, actually, waiting for exactly this reaction since the plane landed.
"You're nervous."
"I have been on a plane for fourteen hours." You say it like it settles the matter.
"You flew first class." She raises an eyebrow, entirely unconvinced.
"Time still passed."
"You slept for nine of those hours." A small, satisfied smile now, building toward something.
"I rested my eyes."
"You drooled on a pillow that probably cost more than my first car." She's fully grinning now, arms crossed, clearly enjoying herself far too much.
"I did not drool."
"I took a picture." She says it with the calm confidence of someone holding evidence and in absolutely no rush to produce it.
You turn to her.
She smiles brightly and begins walking toward the line of waiting cars.
The cold reaches through your coat as soon as you step beyond the shelter of the terminal. Seoul smells like jet fuel, winter air, and coffee from the kiosk near the taxi stand. Drivers hold signs in gloved hands. People move around you with luggage and phones and the contained urgency of arrivals. You have been here before for work, but never for long enough to learn the city beyond studios, hotels, and the interiors of company vans.
Never when Park Jimin was waiting somewhere inside it.
Not waiting for you personally, you remind yourself.
He has a project. You have a contract. The fact that he sent seven emails to secure that contract does not change its professional nature.
The driver waiting beneath your name bows and reaches for your luggage. Lulu hands hers over before you can stop her, then climbs into the back of the black van and slides across the seat.
You settle beside her.
The car has barely left the airport when she begins counting.
“One.”
You look out the window.
A BTS advertisement covers the side of a building near the expressway.
“Two.”
A digital billboard changes from a skincare campaign to all seven members walking toward the camera.
“Don’t.”
“I’m collecting data.”
“You’re being annoying.”
“These are not mutually exclusive activities.”
The city gathers around the windows as the van carries you farther from the airport. Bridges, apartment towers, traffic pressed into narrow lanes. Comeback posters appear at bus stops and convenience stores. Their faces cover the glass outside a department store. A coffee shop has placed cardboard cutouts near the entrance. Someone has decorated a street-facing window with purple lights and seven names spelled in silver lettering.
“This is objectively insane,” Lulu says.
“They are famous.”
“I understood that concept academically.”
“You manage performers.”
“I manage dancers. Nobody has ever wrapped your face around a city bus.”
“I would sue.”
“You would approve the final image and then sue.”
You pretend not to hear her.
Another bus passes in the opposite direction. This one carries the full group, although Jimin is closest to the window again, smiling as though he knows you are trapped in traffic beside his face.
You hate the photograph.
You have seen it before.
It appeared online three weeks ago. You had been awake after a show, stretching your hip on the living-room floor, when the first promotional images were released. You had looked at the group photographs because the costume construction was interesting. Then at the individual photographs because understanding the visual direction required context.
Then at Jimin’s photograph three times because the lighting was strange.
You had not saved it.
You had, apparently, committed it to memory.
Lulu turns in her seat.
“How much did you actually know?”
“About what?”
She gestures at the city outside. “This.”
“I know who BTS are.”
“That was not the question.”
“They’re one of the largest music acts in the world.”
“Still not the question.”
You look at her.
Lulu folds her hands in her lap. “When you met him, was he already this?”
Your attention returns to the window.
The honest answer is yes.
The more honest answer is that you had refused to care.
Paris had been too hot that summer.
Not pleasantly warm — hot enough that the old studio windows stayed open all day and accomplished nothing beyond letting traffic noise interfere with the music. Twenty-four dancers, twelve companies, six weeks of contemporary training that cost enough to require justification.
Park Jimin arrived forty minutes late on the second morning, baseball cap on, two apologetic staff members trailing behind, the attention of the entire room following him without being asked to.
You knew the type. Trained young, praised often, accustomed to rooms rearranging themselves around him. You did not expect to like him. You were, initially, entirely correct.
"You don't like me," he said, day nine, standing beside you at the barre like the observation cost him nothing.
"I don't know you."
"Is that different?"
It should have stayed that simple. It did not.
He stayed after rehearsal every night, taping his own ankle, repeating combinations until his shirt darkened, working like being second-best in any room was a private emergency. You started answering his questions. He started listening to your corrections instead of just charming his way past them. Weeks in, you caught yourself doing the thing you'd promised yourself you wouldn't — thinking of him not as an idol who danced, but as a dancer who happened to be famous.
That distinction turned out to be the whole problem.
There was a duet neither of you could finish. A studio at eleven at night, everyone else gone, rain against the high windows. There was a moment neither of you anticipated the other, for once, instead of fighting for the lead.
You are not thinking about what happened after that. You have not thought about it for seven years.
What you will allow yourself to remember is the morning after — a rehearsal, an audience of twenty-two dancers who did not need to hear what they heard, and a sentence Jimin said that turned something private into entertainment for an entire company. You said something back. Something aimed precisely enough to land exactly where you wanted it to.
Neither of you apologized. The truce was gone before lunch.
He went back to Seoul. You went back to New York. You told yourself you hated him. It was simpler than admitting how much you'd respected him before he ruined it — and infinitely simpler than admitting that hatred, it turned out, was not incompatible with knowing exactly how someone took their coffee, or how they liked to be touched.
"Your eye is twitching."
You blink and find Lulu watching you from the other side of the van, chin propped on her fist, studying your face with the unhurried focus of someone who has already decided this is going to be the highlight of her week.
"It is not."
"It absolutely is." She says it with real satisfaction, like a doctor confirming a diagnosis she's been hoping for.
The city moves beyond her shoulder. Another billboard. Another comeback announcement. All seven members in profile this time, Jimin standing near the center, jaw doing something unreasonable in fifty-foot lighting.
Lulu follows your gaze before you can redirect it. Her whole face changes — eyebrows up, mouth already curving into the specific shape it takes right before she says something you'll regret her saying out loud.
"Did you sleep with him?"
You turn so fast the seatbelt catches against your coat, half-choking you on your own scarf.
The driver's eyes remain professionally, diplomatically fixed on the road, a man who has clearly transported worse conversations than this one and intends to survive this one the same way.
"Could you lower your voice?"
"He doesn't speak English."
"You don't know that."
Lulu leans toward the front seat, entirely undeterred, already treating this like due diligence. "Sir, do you speak English?"
The driver meets her eyes in the rearview mirror, utterly unbothered.
"A little."
"Wonderful," you say, dragging a hand down your face. "Excellent work, everyone."
Lulu smiles at him, apologetic and completely insincere, and settles back into her seat like she's just gathered useful intel. "So?"
"This is not a conversation for the car."
"That is a yes." She says it triumphantly, pointing at you like she's just solved a case.
"It is not anything."
"You have spent seven years referring to Paris like it was a natural disaster." She ticks it off on her fingers, delighted with her own memory. "Hurricane. Earthquake. 'The incident.' I have heard you call it the incident, Y/N."
"It was an intensive."
"Did the intensive have abs?"
You look out the window again, jaw tight, refusing to dignify that with anything.
Lulu presses both hands over her mouth, eyes going wide over the top of them, the exact expression of someone watching a plot twist unfold in real time. "Oh my God."
"Please stop."
"You slept with Park Jimin." Muffled, through her fingers, entirely too gleeful for someone supposedly scandalized.
"Lower your voice."
"You slept with the man on the bus."
"You have officially gone insane."
"That does not make the information less significant." She drops her hands, fully invested now, twisted sideways in her seat to face you properly.
"It happened once."
"Once?" Her eyebrows climb higher, delighted by the specificity, like you've handed her a gift she wasn't expecting to unwrap this early in the ride.
You say nothing. You look, very deliberately, at absolutely nothing out the window.
Lulu's hands slowly lower, and something in her expression shifts — the teasing easing back just slightly, replaced by the sharper, more attentive look she gets when she's actually paying attention instead of performing outrage for sport.
"Y/N."
"It was seven years ago."
"That was not the question."
"It was a long night."
Her eyes close briefly, like she's receiving spiritual guidance from somewhere above the van's ceiling. When she opens them again, something has clicked into place.
"And then he hurt your feelings."
"He did not hurt my feelings."
"You refused to hear his name for almost a decade." She's counting on her fingers again, methodical now, building a case.
"I have heard his name."
"You changed the radio station in a dentist's office."
"I didn't like the song."
"You don't speak Korean."
"I can still dislike production choices." You say it with total conviction, chin lifted, daring her to argue.
Lulu studies you for several seconds, and for once, doesn't. She just watches — really watches, the amusement settling into something quieter — and then she reaches across the seat and squeezes your knee.
The gesture is so unexpectedly gentle that you stop mid-breath, halfway through preparing your next defense, and just let her hold on for a second.
"I'm going to destroy him," she says. Calm. Certain. Like she's confirming dinner reservations.
You stare at her.
"With professionalism," she adds, entirely serious, releasing your knee to sit back with her arms crossed. "I represent you now. I have standards."
"You are not destroying my employer."
"He's not your employer. Technically the company is."
"The center is privately funded by him."
"Then I will destroy him while respecting the corporate structure." She says it like this is obviously the reasonable compromise, nodding once like the matter's settled.
You pull your sunglasses down over your eyes, done negotiating.
Lulu pats your knee once more, entirely too pleased with herself.
"Don't worry. I'll be subtle."
"That is the least reassuring sentence you've ever said."
The suite has two bedrooms, a living room larger than your first New York apartment, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river, the city smeared gold and glass below. It is, in the specific way of hotel rooms designed for people who never see the bill, entirely too much.
There are flowers on the dining table.
White lilies.
Not orchids. Not roses. Not the safe, anonymous arrangement any competent assistant would order for a business trip. White lilies, exactly the way you've ordered them for yourself since you were nineteen years old and finally had your own apartment to fill with them, a fact you cannot remember ever telling him, a fact you're fairly certain you never told him, which means he noticed. Once. Seven years ago. And filed it away.
There's a card tucked between the stems.
You tell yourself you're not going to read it. You read it.
I remembered. I hope that's still true.
Something in your chest does something you don't have a polite word for. You stand very still with the card between two fingers, willing it to mean nothing, willing yourself to believe it's coincidence — a devastating coincidence, the worst kind, the kind that requires him to have thought about you specifically enough to remember a detail you'd have sworn you never gave him.
Lulu watches you read it twice. She doesn't say anything, which is somehow worse than if she had.
You shower. Wash fourteen hours of airplane air off your skin, stand under water hot enough to loosen the knot between your shoulders, and by the time you're back in the bedroom in a robe, Lulu has opened three suitcases and laid your clothes across the bed like she's staging a trial.
"Our car's at seven-thirty," you say. "This is a contract meeting."
"Mhm." Lulu isn't listening. She's holding up the black dress — the one with almost no back — against her own body, studying it in the mirror with the focus of a general reviewing artillery.
"Absolutely not."
"It says you take contracts very seriously."
"It says I have no internal organs."
"It says your organs are private." She drops it onto the bed, already victorious.
You reach for the navy suit folded beside it. She slaps your hand away without even looking.
"He spent seven years knowing he hurt you and still put his face on public transportation."
"I don't think the bus placement has anything to do with me."
"Don't defend him." She holds the dress out, arms extended, patient as a woman with all the time in the world and none of your objections. "You flew across the planet after he begged you in writing seven times. He thinks he won."
"It's a job."
"He thinks he won."
You look at the dress. Black silk, clean lines, a back that exists mostly as a technicality. You know, with the flat certainty of someone who has worn it before, exactly what it does to a room.
You take it anyway.
Lulu's smile turns unbearable. "This doesn't mean anything," you tell her.
"Of course not."
Twenty minutes later you step out of the bathroom. The dress fits the way it always has — maybe better, your body having spent seven years quietly getting even more furious on your behalf. Lulu turns from the mirror, lipstick still raised halfway to her mouth, and just — stops.
"Oh," she says. "He's going to hate you."
"That's the goal."
"Mhm."
You catch your own reflection over her shoulder and don't entirely recognize the effect — hair pinned back, bare shoulders, the kind of breathtaking that isn't trying to be anything, which is exactly what makes it work. Nothing about it says seven years. Everything about it says you should have thought about this before you sent the seventh email.
Lulu grabs her coat, tosses yours at you, and heads for the door with the specific energy of a woman preparing for battle she has no personal stake in and every intention of enjoying.
"Alright, that is a revenge dress." she announces, one hand on the doorframe, chin lifted like she's about to lead a cavalry charge. "Let's go, Lady Diana. Let's go slay some dragons."
You stare at her.
"That sentence means nothing. Lady Diana didn't slay dragons. Lady Diana was a princess."
"She had presence, Y/N. Work with me."
You're still laughing — helpless, undignified, entirely unplanned — when the elevator doors open downstairs.
This is a professional dinner.
The dress is a coincidence.
You are, demonstrably, lying to yourself about at least one of those things.
And Park Jimin, somewhere across Seoul, is about to learn that seven years have done absolutely nothing to improve your patience.
The restaurant occupies the top floor of a building in Cheongdam, behind an entrance discreet enough to suggest that anyone who needs directions cannot afford to eat there.
The car deposits you beneath a black awning at exactly seven twenty-eight. Lulu steps out first, surveys the entrance, then turns back toward you with the solemn expression of someone preparing to send a close friend into active combat.
“Last chance to fake food poisoning.”
She reaches for your coat before the driver can and holds it while you step onto the pavement. Cold air moves beneath the hem of your dress, sharp against your bare legs. Through the restaurant windows, Seoul glitters in fragments—headlights, glass towers, the reflected glow of advertisements that have followed you across the city all afternoon.
At least none of them are visible from here.
“You look terrifying,” Lulu says, settling the coat over your shoulders.
“Thank you.”
“I meant it lovingly.”
“You usually do.”
“And your ass looks divine.”
“Please develop another interest before we go inside.”
“No.”
The host recognizes your reservation immediately and leads you through a corridor lined with dark wood and low lighting. The restaurant smells faintly of charcoal, citrus, and something expensive being reduced in a copper pan. Private dining rooms sit behind sliding doors, each one far enough apart to keep conversations from travelling.
You almost appreciate the discretion until the host stops outside the last door.
Lulu leans closer.
“Do you need a safe word?”
“For dinner?”
“For him.”
You look at her.
She smiles. “Just checking.”
The private room sits behind a door that slides rather than swings, opening onto floor-to-ceiling windows that hold the whole glittering sprawl of Seoul at night — the kind of view that costs more than most people's rent, offered here like it's incidental.
Park Jimin is standing in front of the table.
One hand is in his pocket. The other checks his watch, an absent, restless motion, like a man who has been ready for twenty minutes and has run out of ways to occupy himself.
He is still blond.
A shade lighter now, pushed back off his forehead instead of falling loose the way it did in Paris, and you find yourself absurdly, uselessly thrown by the difference anyway — the particular golden edge of it catching the window light, softer than you remember, like even his hair has learned some kind of restraint in seven years.
His hair looks like it simply grew this way, like the color was doing him a favor the whole time and nobody told you. It suits him in a way that feels almost unfair. Almost natural. You hate that you notice the difference in under three seconds.
The suit is black, tailored close enough to make the fitting itself sound like a small act of violence — no tie, shirt open at the throat, the kind of quiet, expensive restraint that doesn't announce itself and doesn't need to.
For several seconds, the room becomes inconveniently quiet.
His eyes find you first — not the dress, not the room, you — and something moves across his face before he has time to arrange it into anything more polished. His jaw shifts, almost imperceptibly, the smallest fracture in composure. His lips part around whatever he was about to say to his manager and the words simply don't arrive.
Then his eyes move.
Not far. Not obviously. Far enough that you clock it — the exact half-second his attention drops to the neckline of the dress, follows the line of black silk down, and catches somewhere it has no professional business catching before returning, with visible effort, to your face.
Personal victory arrives warm and immediate beneath your ribs.
You keep your expression perfectly neutral. You have had considerably more practice at that than he apparently has.
Beside him, someone clears their throat — a manager, hovering a respectful two feet back — and Jimin blinks like he's been startled out of somewhere private.
Then he smiles.
There it is. The exact smile that once convinced twenty-two dancers in Paris that language was optional, that a man could get away with anything as long as he delivered it with enough sincerity behind the eyes. Older now. More controlled. Sharpened by seven years of knowing precisely what it does to a room, and precisely when to spend it.
"I'm so glad you're here, Y/N."
Your name doesn't just leave his mouth. It rolls off his tongue slow and deliberate, landing somewhere between a secret and a confession, like he's been waiting seven years for a reason to say it out loud again and has decided, apparently, to make the most of it.
Shameless. Utterly unrepentant.
Seven years, and he has not changed even slightly.
His English is almost fluent.
You resent this immediately.
"Jimin."
His gaze drops again, shameless now that he knows you noticed the first time — no attempt to disguise it, no flicker of embarrassment, just an open, unhurried look that lands somewhere south of your collarbone and stays there a beat too long.
"You look—"
"Employed?"
Lulu makes a strangled sound beside you, quickly disguised as a cough.
Jimin's smile widens, slow and unbothered, like your interruption is exactly the response he was hoping to provoke. "I was going to say beautiful."
"That would have been inappropriate for a contract meeting."
"Then I'm glad you interrupted me."
"You usually are."
His manager steps forward before either of you can improve upon the situation, the practiced motion of a man who has clearly done this exact maneuver before — inserting himself at the precise moment a room threatens to combust. He introduces himself in English, polite and careful, bows, welcomes you to Seoul, asks about the flight, says they appreciate you accepting the project on such short notice.
Lulu shakes his hand, entirely pleasant, entirely unarmed-looking, which is how you know she's about to cause a problem.
"We haven't accepted the full project yet."
The manager's smile holds, though something behind his eyes recalibrates. "The contract was signed."
"The preliminary contract was signed."
"It includes the full term."
"Subject to final approval of the artistic structure."
Jimin looks between them, one eyebrow lifting with open interest, like he's watching a match he has no stake in and every intention of enjoying. You look between them too, arms folding loosely, letting Lulu do exactly what you brought her here to do.
His manager turns slightly toward Jimin, positioning himself with such subtle protectiveness that another person might miss it. Lulu moves half a step closer to you with considerably less subtlety, chin lifting, shoulders squaring like she's decided this is a formation now.
Jimin notices. Of course he does. His gaze settles on Lulu, curious, assessing, faintly delighted. "You must be Lulu."
She tilts her head, not blinking. "You must be Paris."
His manager closes his eyes. Only for a moment, recalculating his entire evening.
Jimin looks at you.
You study the arrangement of glassware on the table with great interest.
"Interesting," he says.
"Is it?" Lulu asks, all innocence.
"You've told her about me."
"She has told me almost nothing about you. I formed my opinion from the silence."
"Lulu."
"What? I'm being charming."
"You're threatening the employer."
"I haven't threatened anyone."
Jimin slides one hand into his trouser pocket, mouth curving further, entirely too entertained for a man supposedly under attack. "I feel a little threatened."
"You should."
His manager says something quietly in Korean, low and urgent. Jimin answers without taking his eyes off Lulu, easy and unbothered, and whatever he says makes his manager's mouth tighten as though suppressing either a sigh or a deeply inappropriate laugh.
"What did you say?" Lulu asks.
"That I like you."
"No, you don't."
"I could."
"You hurt my client and best friend's feelings."
The room changes.
Not dramatically. No one stops breathing. No glass breaks. But Jimin's smile loses a fraction of its ease, something flickering behind his eyes that wasn't there a second ago — surprise, maybe, or the beginning of it.
His manager looks at you, quick and searching. Lulu looks at Jimin, entirely unrepentant. You consider, briefly and seriously, walking directly back to New York and changing your emergency contact information.
"I did not say that," you tell her.
"You did not need to."
Jimin's eyes return to yours. The humor is still there, but something else has moved beneath it — something more careful, more exposed than he probably intended to let show in front of three witnesses and a maître d'.
"I didn't know she was hurt."
"You didn't ask," Lulu says.
His manager steps in fast, smooth, practiced. "I think perhaps there has been a misunderstanding about the purpose of tonight."
"Yes," Lulu says. "You think this is dinner. I think this is discovery."
"Lulu."
She raises both hands, the picture of surrender, entirely unconvincing.
Jimin laughs.
It is quiet, unguarded, and far too familiar, a sound that arrives before he seems to have decided to let it, head tipping back slightly, the performance dropping away for one unscripted second.
You look at him.
He is already looking at you, laughter still settling in the corners of his mouth.
"Still bringing someone else to fight for you?" he asks.
Lulu turns toward you slowly, delighted, silent, waiting.
His manager's expression becomes alert, watching you the way you'd watch a match about to be lit.
You fold your arms beneath your coat. "Still confusing basic loyalty with weakness?"
"No." Jimin's gaze flicks toward Lulu, considering, almost fond. "I think she could kill me."
"She has considered it," you say.
"I have a list," Lulu confirms, entirely serious.
His manager straightens, visibly alarmed. "A list?"
"For legal reasons, it is figurative."
Lulu smiles at him, sweet and unbothered.
You are not entirely certain it is figurative.
Jimin steps closer. Not enough to be improper. Enough that the faint scent of his cologne reaches you — something warm beneath the clean edge of citrus, familiar only in the dangerous way certain memories live inside the body before the mind gives them permission. Your pulse does something inconvenient. You do not let it show.
His attention travels over your face, slow, deliberate, cataloguing.
"You cut your hair."
Your hair is longer than it was in Paris. You don't correct him. You let him be wrong, mostly to watch what he does with it.
"You got better at English."
"I practiced."
"Clearly."
"I had motivation."
"Threatening foreign choreographers?"
"Understanding when they insult me."
"You managed without vocabulary."
His mouth curves, something warmer sliding into it. "You noticed."
"I notice distractions."
"And yet. You came."
"You sent seven emails."
"You answered the last one."
"You begged in the last one."
His manager looks at him, alarmed anew. Lulu lights up like she's just been handed the winning lottery numbers, leaning forward with both elbows on the table.
Jimin's expression does not change, carefully composed, chin level — but the tips of his ears begin turning pink beneath his blond hair, a small, involuntary betrayal that no amount of composure can override.
You feel a satisfaction so pure it should probably embarrass you.
It does not.
"In writing," you add.
His manager says his name in Korean with the weary tone of a man discovering new information about his employer in front of hostile witnesses, rubbing at his temple like this evening has aged him considerably.
Jimin finally looks away from you, jaw tightening slightly. "The first six emails were professional."
"The sixth mentioned Paris."
"The sixth clarified that Paris would not be mentioned."
"By mentioning it."
"I was establishing a boundary."
"You don't establish my boundaries."
"I was respecting one."
"You created it."
"You were already going to create it."
"Then you should have waited."
"For what? Email eight?"
Lulu covers her mouth with both hands, shoulders shaking. His manager stares fixedly at the table, a man who has fully checked out and is simply waiting for the meal to end.
You take one step toward Jimin.
He does not move back. If anything, something in his stance settles, like he's been waiting for you to close that particular distance all night.
"You said you would stop after the third."
"You ignored it."
"That was an answer."
"No, that was avoidance."
"You're an expert now?"
"I had seven years to study."
The words leave him easily. Too easily — no performance behind them, none of the practiced ease from thirty seconds ago. For the first time since the door opened, neither of you has a response ready.
Jimin's gaze stays on yours, steady, unguarded in a way that catches you off balance. The room around him softens at the edges — the table, the city lights beyond the windows, your respective guardians standing nearby and silently reconsidering every decision that led to this evening.
Seven years to study.
The line should sound like another joke. It does not, and you both seem to notice it at the same time, a small, mutual falter neither of you acknowledges out loud.
Then his eyes lower to your dress again, and the softness disappears beneath something openly, unapologetically appreciative.
"You wore black."
You glance down as though the color has surprised you. "A remarkable observation. Your English really has improved."
"I remember you wearing black."
"I own several colors."
"Not when you want to win."
Lulu turns away, shoulders shaking harder now, no longer bothering to disguise it as anything else.
You narrow your eyes. "Win what?"
Jimin steps aside, gesturing toward the dining table, unbothered, entirely too pleased with himself.
"You tell me."
The gesture opens his jacket slightly. The shirt beneath it fits close enough that you can see the movement of his breathing. His hair falls across one eye, and he pushes it back with a ringed hand without breaking eye contact, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to be looked at.
He is flirting with you.
Not the careless, generous flirtation he once distributed across studios and hotel bars, spread thin enough for anyone to catch a piece of it. This is deliberate. Focused. Aimed at you specifically, and far more shameless than it was in Paris because he now possesses both the language and the confidence to make certain you understand every part of it.
You should find it irritating.
You do.
You also become acutely conscious that the back of your dress is almost entirely open.
Jimin's gaze passes over your shoulder, locating the missing fabric. His eyebrows lift, just barely, just enough. The reaction lasts less than a second.
It is enough.
Lulu catches your eye. Her expression says everything.
Divine.
You refuse to give her the satisfaction of agreeing out loud.
His manager moves toward the table and pulls out one of the chairs, apparently deciding the evening has a better chance of surviving if everyone is seated and provided with food.
"We have prepared an agenda," he says.
"Excellent," Lulu answers, already reaching into her bag. "We have revisions."
"Of course you do," Jimin says, resigned and amused in equal measure.
She smiles at him. "You're learning."
He looks at you again, something quieter settling behind his eyes.
"Yes," he says. "But I already knew."
There is something unbearable about the certainty in his voice. As if seven years have not changed anything essential. As if he still knows how you enter a room, how you choose a dress when you intend to make a point, how silence is not the same thing as surrender.
As if you have not spent those same seven years learning him from photographs, performances, interviews, and every piece of work you watched while telling yourself professional curiosity was a sufficient explanation.
His manager gestures toward the table. Lulu does not move. Neither do you.
Jimin glances between the three of you, then exhales through a smile, hands spread slightly, the picture of a man conceding a point he never actually planned to fight.
"Should we take our seats?"
"You first," you say.
"Still don't trust me behind you?"
"I don't trust you anywhere."
"That wasn't true in— before."
His manager makes a small choking sound. Lulu's head snaps toward you, eyebrows somewhere near her hairline.
Jimin's face becomes luminous with satisfaction, the specific look of a man who has just been handed exactly the reaction he wanted.
You smile.
It is not a kind smile.
"This dinner hasn't started," you tell him, "and you're already violating one of my conditions."
"You haven't given me the conditions yet."
"You knew I would have them."
"I wanted you to have them."
You should leave.
Jimin's eyes drop to the open back of the dress. This time, he does not bother pretending otherwise — his gaze lingers, open and unhurried, something unguarded crossing his face before he can smooth it back into something more careful.
The expression on his face is worth the flight.
Worth the billboards.
Almost worth the bus.
You hand the coat to the host and walk past him toward the table, spine straight, chin level, refusing to give him the courtesy of watching you do it.
Behind you, Lulu whispers, "Personal victory," with enough pride to suggest she selected the dress for precisely this outcome.
You take the chair opposite Jimin. He sits across from you, his manager on one side and Lulu on the other, dividing the table into two protective camps that have already declared war without bothering to establish terms.
Jimin reaches for the water, unhurried, watching you over the rim of the glass. "So," he says. "How badly are you planning to make me suffer?"
You unfold your napkin over your lap, not looking up.
"I have three conditions."
His smile returns, slow, delighted, entirely too confident for a man about to hear them.
"Only three?"
"For now."
He leans back in his chair, blond hair brushing the collar of his suit, and looks at you the way nobody else in the room would dare to — not the careful, filtered attention people give a stranger, and not the reverent, distant kind people give a stage. Direct. Unhidden. The look of someone who has decided, somewhere in the last ten minutes, that pretending not to look is no longer worth the effort.
It is going to be a very long night.
You have always known when someone is performing. The body tells the truth eventually — a missed count, a held breath, a pair of dark eyes lingering half a second longer than they should.
Across the table, Park Jimin smiles as though he has nothing to hide.
You know better.
The problem is that, judging by the way he is looking at you, so does he.
And somewhere underneath the conditions you're about to lay out, underneath the seven years and the seven emails and the dress you'll never admit you wore for him, is the quiet, inconvenient fact that you have not finished deciding which one of you is actually winning tonight.
You place your water glass down.
“For the first month, you personally attend every rehearsal connected to the resident company’s inaugural program.”
Jimin’s smile remains.
Author's Note
OMG OMG OMG!! here we have it friends 🖤 the first part of DLAMLT — Jimin's story, in this wonderfully chaotic universe of The B-Side Series. if you're new here, hi!! hello!! come sit, grab a cookie from the back, let me tell you a story
so this is part of a whole collection i'm writing for all seven members, and this is the FOURTH one to be published. we've got What Happens When You Fall, which is Namjoon's (slow burn, medical setting, will absolutely ruin you in the best way), and The Real Thing, which is Yoongi's (a fake dating premise that stopped being fake approximately five minutes in) — both of those are complete!! and i'm currently posting The Space Between Us, which is Jin's (marriage, distance, learning how to come back to someone — that one's going to take its time and it's going to be worth it)
and now: Jimin's
yes, you can absolutely read each story as a total standalone. but they are all interconnected, bc i am apparently a madwoman standing in front of a corkboard with red string connecting seven different men's love lives into one universe and i regret nothing
WITH THAT BEING SAID — if you're not new here, come here, let me kiss your forehead, thank you thank you thank you for following me down every single one of my unhinged rabbit holes. i mean it
confession time: i have discovered that i enjoy writing jimin an EMBARRASSING amount. i am already bias wrecked. send help. actually don't send it, i am having way too much fun over here and i refuse to be saved
also i need to formally go on record that writing dance scenes might be the single hardest thing i have ever done as a writer. and i say this as someone who wrote an entire fic with real orthopedic surgical accuracy in it. bones? fine. tibias? no problem. but describing MOVEMENT, making choreography feel alive on a page instead of just "and then she did a spin" — dear god. have mercy on me. it's humbling in a way very few things are humbling
this was supposed to be a small teaser and i ended up writing the entire first chapter instead, so. that happened. the next part is coming soon, but there's a full schedule you can check HERE for what's dropping when
and if you want to be added to my permanent taglist — you are so welcome here, just send me a DM or drop a comment and i'll add you 🖤
okay i love you all go read about these two idiots who hate each other so much they wrote each other seven emails about it
Tag list: @whoisbts @sexytholland @btsevxn @kacythecarat @granataepfelchen @goawaysha @unknownbeknowst @joonmonjagi @cherryblossom1234567890 @blamgyuuuu @swagtimemachinecherryblossom @leftmensh @mikrokookiex @busanbby-jjk @jungkook97l @singularitypromise @angelarin @cherrycheolie @proudnoona @leeknowsbigtoe @pleasantheartsworld @lobbera @pinklasagna04 @idk-what-myurl-shouldbe @genu7 @jkwritez
premise: logan tries to find the right place and the right time to apologize to you. but before he has the opportunity to talk with you, he learns why you're back in the state.
category: enemies (exes) to lovers, some fluff in the middle, heavy angst
word count: 4.2k
content/trigger warnings (these are spoilers, but for your own wellbeing, please please please read this): mention of hospice, parental sickness (cancer). the next part is going to be much heavier. please do not read if any of these topics are triggering for you. please lmk if there are any other warnings that i have missed.
author/context notes: thank you guys again for the engagement on this series! i realized how disorganized my taglist was, and i counted how many people asked to be tagged...118 accounts. i can't even begin to express how honored i feel. thank you so much for reviving my love of writing again. i've been in a slump for so long and it feels so fucking good to be passionate again about my longtime hobby. and if you want to be added to the taglist, you can comment on this post or message me! AND because i got my taglist disorganized, i forgot to tag some of y'all in earlier parts, so i'm tagging you again in these parts from now on (so sorry about that). also, if i previously tagged you in an earlier chapter and now you do not want to be tagged anymore, please lmk. if you don't, i will assume that you still want to be tagged. ALSO if i forgot to tag you, PLEASE lmk! i might have either misspelled your account or forgot to copy and paste it from my notes. i've had a lot of asks to be on the taglist, so i broke it down in the comments below. i don't know WHY tumblr can't allow me tag more than 5 accounts per comment, so if someone knows how to bypass that, please lmk. not proofread as of 07/11/26.
important note: someone on tuesday, 06/30 sent me an ask requesting to be added to the taglist and i didn't write down their account name before replying. their account name started with a K. i apologize and please let me know if i forgot to add you! (also, if you didn't read the trigger warnings, please go back and read them).
Garrett wastes no time in questioning Logan as soon as the party ends.
“So, why were you talking to Y/N earlier?”
Logan’s movements fully halt, and he stops his hand from picking up another red solo cup from the floor. Everyone else in the house also freezes, heads turning to eagerly listen to whatever Logan has to say. Ever since the boys stood as eyewitness to his cruel behavior towards you a few weeks ago, they now have no idea what to expect from Logan.
Right now, he feels like a foreign specimen placed under a microscope for his friends to closely scrutinize. Surprisingly, he believes that he actually deserves it.
“I was gonna apologize,” Logan says quietly, eyes scanning over the streamers lying on the ground. “But Kendall interrupted us.”
For a while, everyone stays quiet, as if they’re absorbing Logan’s words, before Dean breaks the silence.
“Really?” He scoffs, blue eyes narrowing towards Logan, but he drops the judgy tone when seeing the look on Logan’s face. “Uh…well, that’s interesting.”
His reply irritates Logan, who just goes back to picking up trash and shoving them forcefully in the garbage bag. Luckily, everyone else notices the sudden change in his demeanor, so Tucker suggests that they step out and start tidying up the backyard.
Dean and Beau follow him out, but Garrett stays behind, leaning against the arm of the couch. He doesn’t even continue picking trash from the floor. He just watches at Logan with crossed arms.
Garrett’s stare only unnerves Logan even more.
“G, what do you want to say?” Logan sighs, garbage bag falling onto the floor as he rakes his hands through his hair. “What, do you not want to ‘poke the bear’ now or something? Just fucking say it.”
Sometime over the past few weeks, John quickly became aware of his friends’ newfound sentiment of him. It didn’t take a genius to detect their frustration. One time, he opened up the kitchen cupboard to find that someone had finished his cereal without telling him. And when he calmly asked his roommates if they’d finished the box, Dean retorted with an incredibly jackass answer.
“Shit, guys. I don’t think we should tell him who ate from his precious little cereal box. We don’t wanna accidentally poke the bear and make us his prey.”
John immediately stepped out of the kitchen before he could punch the fuckass smirk off of Dean’s face at seven thirty in the morning.
But in this moment, Logan’s surprised by the apparent lack of animosity in Garrett’s expression.
“Nothing, Logan,” Garrett states, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know, man. I guess I wanted to make sure you two were alright.”
Both Logan and Garrett have somewhat repatched their relationship. When Logan admitted that he wasn’t fully over you, Garrett knew that his best friend was being sincere. Now, he knows that Logan is actively trying to let go of his pride.
“I mean, we’re definitely not alright,” Logan groans, his body dropping dropping onto the lounge chair across from Garrett. “Is it bad to say that…I don’t know, that I’m kind of glad that I didn’t apologize to her tonight? She was pretty drunk. It doesn’t feel right to have that conversation while she’s not sober.”
“Dude, that’s the most sane thing you’ve said in fucking ages.”
For the first time in a while, Logan lets out a small, but genuine laugh, which elicits a slight smile out of Garrett.
“So, I’m not going crazy anymore?”
“I fucking hope not,” Garrett quips, and Logan feels a tiny, featherlight weight being lifted off his chest. It feels good to finally joke around with his best friend.
He hates that his friends are treading lightly around him. But in a twisted yet ironic sort of fashion, the feeling is mutual. Logan himself is also walking on eggshells around his friends, because these past few weeks have turned him into a person that he no longer recognizes in the mirror.
Because every time you were brought up in a conversation, his skin would burn to a hundred degrees, regardless of the context. Whenever you were casually mentioned, even in the most neutral way possible, his mouth immediately shriveled up, and he always had to excuse himself from the room.
Anything and everything would trigger Logan, transporting him back to the night when you stared into his eyes and declared, with a ghastly level of certainty, that you had stopped loving him.
“When do you want to apologize to her?”
“Before the semester ends, at least. I don’t know where to meet her, though,” Logan admits, gnawing on his bottom lip. Initially, he planned on speaking with you after one of your home meets, but he doesn’t want to startle you.
You also haven’t been attending some of your competitions, which admittedly sets off a few alarms in his mind. You were never one to miss this many of your meets. In high school, he diligently attended as many meets as he could’ve, and he knows how seriously you take your craft. You were even selected for the Olympic trials in junior year.
However, Logan knows your “high school Y/N” better than “Briar University Y/N.” He doesn’t know how much he has missed over the past two years, and despite failing to process his hostility for the majority of that time, the lack of insight into your life has killed him.
Who knows how much you have changed since then?
“When working on our group project, Y/N told me that she’s still living at her old house in Munsen,” Garrett brainstorms out loud, his hand rubbing behind his neck. “I would suggest that you go there, but I don’t know if that’s going to be too much.”
The same one-story, brick walled bungalow with the tattered rocking chair on the front porch? The same house with your dad’s flourishing vegetable garden, along with the gazebo lined with fairy lights?
The same house where John planned his proposal to you?
His stomach painfully churns when the image of your house pops in his head. There’s no way that he could meet with you there.
“Yeah, I don’t think that’d be good for either of us,” Logan says with a crack in his voice that Garrett definitely hears. “Too much history there. But I really need to think of a place soon. I need to apologize for how I behaved towards her recently…and how I acted to her a few years ago, too.”
The sudden confession surprises both Logan and Garrett. The latter notices Logan’s downturned eyes and the deep frown on his face, and pushes himself off the arm of the couch, stepping closer towards his best friend.
“John, if you ever need to talk about what happened, I’m here,” Garrett asserts, voice rougher than usual. “You’re always welcome to talk to me about what she did.”
And Logan, failing for the millionth time this semester to control his emotions, lets out a mournful chuckle, feeling that familiar aching pressure on his heart.
“It’s not about what she did, actually. It’s about what she didn’t do.”
The following night, he dreams of you.
He swears on his mother’s life that he genuinely felt you lying down next to him. But unlike his other dreams, you were in his current full-size bed, and not his dingy childhood bedroom. Unlike what he initially believed, you were his present, and not his past.
“I’m sorry for everything,” You had whispered into his ear, your left palm tenderly brushing over his cheek. He shamelessly leaned into your touch, his face finding shelter in your hand. “I was stupid and I should’ve told you earlier. I hated walking away from you that night.”
Logan had instantly wrapped a protective hand around your waist, pulling you impossibly close to him. He felt your heartbeat vibrating against his chest. He wanted to physically imprint that sensation on his body, marking himself as yours for life.
“Don’t worry about that, Y/N,” He murmured, moving his lips to your neck and relishing in the way you held your breath each time his kisses landed on your skin. “We’re together now. That’s what matters.”
Your signature playful grin had surfaced yet again, and Logan smiled when seeing the light in your eyes.
“So, I guess that means we have some missed time we have to make up for, huh?”
“Oh, I think I like the sound of that,” He saw the goosebumps trailing down your arms when his raspy voice tickled your skin. The teasing look in your eyes only spurred him on even more.
“I’m sorry, you ‘think’ you like the sound of that? Wow, so are you not sure—”
Logan had pressed his mouth to yours, savoring the sweet moan that emerged from your throat. He had no idea how long he stayed with his lips on yours, and he forced himself to pull away.
He had the audacity to smirk at how breathless you became.
“Baby, I’m pretty damn sure.”
He wakes up shortly afterwards, hands grasping his sheets as he searched for you. His eyes dart around his room to find a trace of you. Maybe he could find one of your diving one pieces, or your Padmé costume, or even a hair tie. Anything would suffice.
After a couple of minutes of searching for you in vain, Logan’s head slumps into his palms, elbows digging into his knees. He pulls at his hair as he chastises himself, wondering why he thought you would be in his bedroom of all places at 2:30 AM on a Monday.
His body suddenly carries himself to his closet, and once he opens the door, his eyes fall upon the cardboard box below him. Your full name, written clumsily by Logan with a black sharpie, stares right back at him, practically taunting him to just open the box.
With trembling hands, he rips a part of the cardboard.
He sees the small velvet box nestled cozily in the corner.
No.
Logan fiercely shoves the box away from him, shutting his closet door with a “thud” so loud, it could’ve awoken his roommates.
With erratic breaths and weak legs, he forces every muscle in his body to return back to his bed, desperately wanting to go back to sleep without dreaming of you.
But he automatically reaches for his phone, and naturally, as the self-proclaimed masochist that he is, he types your number on his keypad. Even though he immediately deleted your contact after you broke up with him, he still knows your phone number like the back of his hand. The ten digits are forever engraved in his brain. Hell, he memorized it as soon as you agreed to go on a date with him on the first day of ninth grade. And six years later, he continues to carry your number with him like a security blanket he refuses to go of.
Now, the number on his screen glares at him. He analyzes every digit, eyes squinting over the 508 area code that he also shares in his number.
The screen fades to black, showing a the logo of a dead battery. He makes no move to charge it.
On the Friday before Thanksgiving break, Tucker invites everyone over for a chill Friendsgiving before his roommates and friends leave Hastings to spend the break with their families. When Logan hears that Tucker invited you, he feels an overwhelming sense of both relief and dread. He finally has an opportunity to speak with you.
“You’re cool with Y/N now?” Tucker casually asks as he pulls some freshly baked bread from the oven, immediately swatting Dean’s hands away. The four roommates are around the kitchen island, assisting Tucker with his chef duties.
Logan stills on the counter, his knife pausing in place on top of the cutting board. But surprisingly, he recovers quite quickly.
“I guess. I want to make amends with her, at the very least,” He confesses, instinctively waiting for Dean to retort back at him. Shockingly enough, the blond only nods at him.
“That’s good. She’s a great person to talk to,” Garrett says, elbows leaning on the counter. “But, Kendall told me that Y/N hasn’t been hanging out with her and the rest of the team for the past few weeks. I don’t know, I guess I’m surprised that she agreed to come to Friendsgiving.”
That piece of information also unsettles Logan. In high school, you were the one dragging him to social events, repeatedly convincing him to let loose and “just have a little fun, John.” Even with your family struggles, you always said “yes” to every invite, always ensuring someone’s birthday party or pre-game into your busy schedule. To this day, Logan doesn’t know how the fuck you balanced it all.
“If there’s anything that this past year has shown me, it’s that life is so fucking short, Johnny. I never want to take anything for granted,” You had explained to him at a party your classmate had thrown to celebrate the end of the tenth grade school year. “It’s up to ourselves to make the most out of our shitty lives. How else can we continue to keep on living?”
“Wow, babe, you should put that on a Hallmark card,” He had joked, taking a sip of his beer. He waited for you to give him a smartass response. But the sincerity in your voice proved him otherwise.
“I mean it, John. I’m sick of surviving. I’m only sixteen and I just want to live. And I have the best person by my side to do it with.”
Your words completely melted him.
Logan still holds a lot of admiration for you. A pit grows deeper in his stomach after hearing how much you have changed since then.
“She’s been going to her meets, though. Right, Garrett?” Tucker asks, beginning to slice the bread. Logan still hasn’t picked up his knife yet.
“Yeah, she has. She’s gone to all of them in November, so that’s good.”
“It’s not like her to have missed this many in a row,” Logan mutters quietly to himself, forgetting that he isn’t alone in the kitchen. Garrett slides closer to him.
“It’s definitely strange, but it seems like she’s back on track. We haven’t been to her meets in a while, though. There’s one coming up against Eastland after the break.”
“Oh, we’re definitely going,” Dean chimes in, swiftly stealing a slice of bread when Tucker’s back is turned away. “Beau also told me that there’s some Olympic coaches going to that meet in particular. Something about selecting divers for the Olympic trials.”
“If she’s selected, then it’ll be her second time making it to the trials,” Logan says, allowing himself to feel some sort of pride for you. “She wasn’t selected for the Olympic team that year, but she was only sixteen.”
“Still, that’s impressive as fuck,” Dean emphasizes, and for maybe the first time in their years of knowing each other, Logan finally agreed on something with Dean. “We should go.”
“Are you going to bring Allie with you as well?” Garrett smirks at the blond, and Logan feels that familiar, wonderful sensation of satisfaction crawling up his spine whenever Dean blushes in front of the guys.
He stumbles over his words for a good minute, and Logan’s smile only widens. He missed engaging in this banter with his roommates, especially when the banter comes at Dean’s expense.
“I mean, I don’t know if that’s appropriate,” Dean shrugs, beginning to walk away from the kitchen. “I asked Y/N out. I don’t know how Allie would feel knowing we’re going not to see the other divers, but to see Y/N specifically.”
“Bro, I cannot believe those words fell out your mouth,” Garrett laughs, shaking his head at Dean. Logan joins in on the laughter, and he’s secretly proud of himself that he didn’t freak out at the mere mention of Dean asking you out several weeks ago.
“Yeah, I think we entered another dimension or something,” Logan quips, to which Dean responds by raising both of his middle fingers.
Meanwhile, Tucker stands near the cutting board, clearly frustrated with how Logan just abandoned his incredibly simple task of slicing the carrots.
“Gentlemen! Get back to work, for fuck’s sake. Our guests are arriving in two hours,” Tucker yells at them, and before turning back towards the counter, he narrows his eyes at Dean. “And blue eyes, I know your greedy ass stole a fucking slice from my Sourdough loaf.”
Logan spends the following two hours submitting to Tucker’s demands, scouring his closet for a decent shirt to wear, and pacing his room at a hundred miles per hour. He’s been waiting to talk to you, to apologize to you, but he can’t seem to get any of his thoughts together. He wrote some of his thoughts down on a notepad, but scratched every single one of them out.
Y/N, I don’t think I’m completely over you.
When Dean said that he wanted to ask you out, I debated on slicing his head open with a guillotine. I still might. Just give me the word.
I’m so fucking sorry for how I treated you. That was so fucking fucked up. I’m such a fuck up. But you fucked me up first—
Yeah, Logan was clearly struggling on how to word his apology in a way that was fair both to you and to him. He wants to acknowledge the hurt he caused you while also tending to his own wounds.
“Where the fuck is everybody?” He hears Tucker shout from downstairs. “People are coming over now, so you better get your asses down—oh fuck, someone’s at the door.”
Logan’s heart drops when hearing Tucker’s last sentence, glaring at himself in the mirror. His hair is messy. His shirt is wrinkled. His eyebags are atrocious.
But he would hate to keep you waiting downstairs, so he pulls on a simple flannel and heads down before Tucker could yell at him again.
His chest pounds with an unbearable ache as he walks down, preparing himself to see you for the first time since Halloween.
But amidst everyone, he doesn’t see you.
“Logan! What’s up?” Kendall goes to give him a side hug, which he reciprocates, but his eyes are locked on the front door the entire time.
“Hey, Kendall. Wasn’t Y/N coming with you guys?”
“Oh, um,” She stutters, which increases Logan’s anxiety tenfold. “She called me an hour ago saying she had to take care of an emergency, and that she’ll try to make it later.”
“Shit, that doesn’t sound good,” Dean says from behind her, pointedly looking at Logan to gauge his reaction.
Logan tries to keep his face from falling, but he fails, miserably. Kendall notices, and tilts her head at him.
“Um, was there something you needed to talk to her about?”
His eyes widen, and he begins to stumble over his words, because while all of his roommates know about his past with you, he still doesn’t know if Kendall is in the loop as well.
“Yeah, it’s kind of a personal matter,” Logan finally manages to say, voice dropping at the end of his sentence. Luckily, Kendall doesn’t persist, only giving him a certain look that he can’t understand.
Thirty minutes pass, and you still haven’t showed up. Logan is trying his best to engage in the conversations on the couch, but he often wanders off mid-sentence, his head occupied with thoughts of you.
Why is she not here?
When he ambles towards the kitchen to grab a much-needed bottle of beer, his body freezes when seeing Garrett and Beau huddled closely together, whispering intensely.
He swears he hears your name.
“Everything good here?”
His voice clearly startles both of them as they jump apart from each other, fervently shaking their heads.
Logan clears his throat. “You sure? Also, when did you get here, Beau?”
“Oh, I just came here a bit before the girls to help Tuck with the cooking,” The brunet quickly clarifies, eyes wandering over the place. Garrett’s glancing at the ground, which confuses Logan even more.
“G, what’s going on?”
“It’s nothing,” Garrett contends, using his captain voice. Logan’s hands feel numb as he grips the kitchen counter.
“Are you sure? Because I swear I heard—”
“Jesus, Logan, it’s nothing. Drop it,” Garrett repeats with a stony look in his eyes, walking out of the kitchen. Logan exchanges a look with Beau, who only raises his hands in defense.
Tucker’s voice abruptly booms across the house as he announces that “y’all, dinner is finally fucking ready.”
Everyone clusters around the dining room table, commenting and praising Tucker at the absolute fierce he’s prepared. Garrett and Beau join in on the conversation, but Logan’s still glaring at both of them. Unfortunately, the two boys ignore his stares. He taps his fingers restlessly on his plate.
What is going on?
Everything begins to fall apart before dinner even starts.
As Nour is scrolling on her phone before eating, she gasps loudly, and everyone whips their heads towards her.
“Oh my God,” She mutters under her breath. Lexi, another one of your diving teammates, glances at Nour’s screen, and her eyes widen in response. “Holy shit.”
Garrett and Beau visibly stiffen, shoulders as rigid as boards. Sweat slowly drips down on Logan’s neck, despite it being almost winter in Massachusetts.
“What’s happening?”
Nour looks up from her phone, voice shaky as she tries to reply to Logan. “Y/N—”
“No,” Garrett asserts, drawing in a sharp inhale from his nose. “Don’t say anything.”
“Say anything about what?” Logan snaps at Garrett, fingers still trembling.
“It’s none of our business,” Beau states in a calmer voice, trying to ease some of the tension. “Guys, just stay off of Instagram.”
Naturally, Logan reaches for his phone, which Garrett swipes from his grasp. Logan’s jaw drops before his hands curl into fists.
“Garrett, if you don’t fucking tell me what’s going on, I swear to God—”
“Okay!” He yells, pinching the bridge of his nose. Garrett then grabs his arm, and turns to the rest of the group. “I’m talking to him privately. Beau, update the others.”
Everyone at the table ogles at the two of them. Logan doesn’t see them, though, because Garrett drags him upstairs. As soon as the door shuts in Garrett’s bedroom, Logan tears himself off of Garrett’s grasp, face practically murderous.
“You have to talk to me privately? Are you guys scared of my reaction or something? I thought we were fucking past that—”
“John, shut up and listen to me,” Garrett spits out, hands pressed on his hips. “This is serious. We were going to tell you after dinner, I swear.”
Logan backs away until his back forcefully hits the door, his chest heaving. He leans his body against the wood and his fingers dip crescents into his scalp.
“Just tell me, G.”
“We know why she’s back here.”
Logan’s breath escapes him, his right hand clutching the doorknob. The finality in Garrett’s voice terrifies Logan more than the words he uttered.
“Her dad has cancer.”
The ringing in Logan’s ears fades, leaving him stuck in a nauseating silence.
Oh my God.
“Again?”
Logan’s reply drains the color out of Garrett’s face. “What do you mean ‘again?’”
There’s no way.
And when Logan’s grip on the doorknob loosens, his best friend rushes to clutch his shoulders before he hits the ground.
“John, what do you mean by ‘again?’”
His bottom lip is shaking uncontrollably, and he blubbers as he tries to get the words out.
“The summer before tenth grade. He, um…he had pancreatic cancer. Stage III,” The words come out as a whisper as Logan’s head hangs down, and if Garrett wasn’t actively holding his best friend right now, he wouldn’t have heard him at all. “But, he…God, he pulled off a miracle recovery. He was in remission. He was doing great.”
Garrett remains quiet as he watches the tears swarm violently down Logan’s cheeks, noticing how he shakes his head “no.”
I’m such an asshole.
“I guess it came back and got worse,” Garrett mutters, his grip unwavering on Logan’s shoulders.
Suddenly, Logan lifts his head back up, bloodshot eyes meeting Garrett’s.
“Wait,” He gasps, trying to get just a sliver of air, and whimpers miserably. “Why do you know this? How do you know this?”
Garrett draws his lips into a thin line, his hand letting go of Logan to drag a hand over his face.
“Yeah, that’s the reason I wanted to tell you after dinner,” He explains, clearing his throat. “Before I show you, I want to you to know that we’re handling the situation. We reported the post and some tech specialist in Beau’s frat is working to take down the post as quickly as possible—”
Logan’s veins are about to burst from his neck.
“What post?”
Garrett sighs, unlocking his phone and showing Logan a screenshot of an Instagram post.
Logan immediately spots the “Munsen Hospice Center” sign at the top of the building. He recognizes you outside of the building, pushing a wheelchair with your dad inside it.
The scream he lets out is loud enough for the whole neighborhood to hear.
You come into a routine at the shop. Until the health inspector comes. And shit hits the fan.
Word Count:
4,030
Warnings:
Cursing, blood, slight violence
The shop was packed as you weaved and bobbed around groups of customers throughout the front.
You can hear Richie taking orders behind you as you take on the duties of running food out to customers and cleaning up after them.
Even amid the stress of keeping as many customers as possible happy, your smile remains, and you nod and converse with some of them as politely as you can.
Over the past few days, you’ve even had repeat customers who knew your smile by heart.
An older man named Bobby, a middle-aged woman named Linda, and a little girl named Kimmy.
Those three were your favorites.
They didn’t mind when your Southern mannerisms slipped; no matter how many times Richie tried to get it through to you, it still came out sometimes.
Bobby was currently the one you were talking to as you served a nearby table.
“How have you been, Mr. Bobby- enjoy your food.” You smile at the customers before turning and collecting the trash on the table in front of Bobby. You carefully stack the plates and set them onto the seat before grabbing the rag you kept attached to your apron, wiping the crumbs and grease.
“Good, Angel. Say, they not workin’ ya’ too hard? I’ll give ‘em a piece of my mind if they are.”
You chuckle softly in response. The customers even started picking up on your nickname from Richie, especially since he would have to yell it out over the gaggle of customers during a rush.
You barely even heard your real name anymore, but… You didn’t mind.
“No, Mr. Bobby. I’m being treated just fine.” You put the rag back on your apron and grab the plates from the seat, balancing them on one hand while the other gently pats Bobby’s shoulder when you pass by him, “Enjoy, Mr. Bobby!”
“Only cause it’s from you, Angel!”
You smile over your shoulder at the older man before making your way towards the kitchen, passing behind Richie as he argues a little with a customer.
“These prices are outrageous!”
“Pay ‘em or leave, fucker!”
You roll your eyes slightly at the interaction while pushing the door open, ‘Corner!’ leaving your lips as you do so to head back to Manny and Angel, smiling at the two dishwashers when you place the stack of plates into the dirty dish bucket.
The two grin back.
“Hands! Somebody fucking answer me!”
And a bell dings.
Your eyes snapped over towards where Carmen was, a small sound escaping you as you instantly began to make your way over towards him. You must’ve missed his call while you were talking to Bobby.
“I’m here! Sorry, Carmen!”
You take the plate from the pass, glancing over at the ticket for whom it should go, giving one last look and an apologetic smile to Carmen. He grabs a paper wrap for another sandwich, looking at you through his lashes as his hands move on autopilot.
His voice instantly quiets.
“Thanks, Peaches.”
Before he turns and talks to Marcus, his voice rises back to that same loud tone he used when trying to control the pass. Even when the others ignore him.
You watch for only a second longer before turning and heading to the front, keeping the sandwich balanced in one hand while the other nudges Richie out of the way. He always got enthralled in the stories he told, and that included using his whole body to tell them.
“Behind, Richie.”
“Fuck! Scared the shit outta me, Angel.”
“Wouldn’t have scared you if you were paying attention.”
Your smile stretches as you barely miss Richie’s hand reaching for you, walking quicker towards the customer, hearing Richie’s sarcastic laughter behind you.
“Very funny, Angel!” He calls out to you.
And you just look over your shoulder, grinning at him in response before turning back to the customer and asking if they need anything else.
—
The tables were a mess by the time the shop closed, covered in grease and sauces and crumbs. You tried to clean throughout the day, but there was only so much you could do during service, being the only server.
While wiping the tables with a clean rag you had dipped in your solution of bleach and hot water, you heard the muffled conversations of everyone in the kitchen, knowing they too were cleaning at Carmen’s orders. Richie was being loud, as usual.
Your eyes glance over towards Ebraheim, watching for a few moments as he tries to mess with the ice cream machine that you never really noticed was there.
Wait… y’all served ice cream?
Brows furrowing in slight confusion, you watch as the man huffs before making his way to the kitchen after the machine does nothing.
“The ice cream machine is broken!”
You hear Ebraheim say to everyone from the door frame before turning and heading back towards the machine, with Richie soon following after him, a few things in his hands.
As the two begin to mess with the ice cream machine again, your focus goes back to the tables. You had a long way to go.
—
One by one, the others clocked out using their punch cards.
You had just finished mopping the front, the tables having finally been cleaned and the floor as clean as it was going to get.
Carefully pushing the mop bucket into the kitchen, you notice how quiet it is now that nobody is there, your eyes glancing over the empty kitchen before it freezes on Carmen gripping onto a small detergent bucket and a clean rag.
He froze at the sight of you, too.
“Shit, Peaches. You’re still here?”
He sets the bucket onto an empty milk crate, keeping his gaze locked on you even as he does so.
In the back of your mind, you find yourself liking his voice when it isn’t loud like during service. When it was soft, just between the two of you. But you quickly will the thought away as you adjust your grip on the mop handle.
“I just finished with the front.”
You glance between him and the bucket, instantly understanding what he was doing.
“Want me to help?” You offer softly.
Carmen looks at you, really looks. He takes in the way you hold the mop bucket, the way you constantly adjust your stance from being on your feet all day, the tired look in your eyes that he could tell you were trying to hide.
“Thanks, Peaches. But I can’t pay you overtime.”
You just give him a look, a silent thing that shows him you’re planning something. Before he can say anything, you push the mop bucket off towards the sinks and then move towards the punch clock, grabbing your little card and clocking out.
Carmen’s brow raises when you place your card back into its slot, turning to face him again while placing your hands on your hips.
“You don’t need to be here any longer.” You say with a soft smile quickly beginning to tug at the corner of your lips, “So… tell me what to do.”
Carmen stood frozen for a few silent seconds, staring at you and your offer with a confused gaze. Here you were, offering your free time… just to help him.
He gulps down the feelings that began to bubble in his gut.
“Yeah, um, okay. I’ll wipe the counters and appliances while you sweep.”
You nod, accepting the task while heading over towards the broom. Carmen watches you for a bit, noting how willing you are to do overtime without pay. He easily brushes it aside in his mind, telling himself that you would have done it for anyone, that was just who you were.
The gentle brush of the bristles against the ground and the dripping of the cloth in the water soon fill the once silent kitchen, your bodies move in tandem with each other, even through the hush.
After you finished sweeping and Carmen finished wiping everything down, you knelt beside each other on the floor, rough cloths in your hands as you each scrubbed at stained spots on the floor.
Your eyes occasionally glance over at his form, trailing over his arms and the way his muscles move with each scrubbing motion. As your eyes move to look at his face, expecting the focused gaze in his eyes that you had seen before, your heart jumps a little to find his eyes staring at you instead.
Now that focused gaze, those furrowed brows, were aimed at you instead of the spot on the floor that he had been scrubbing.
You feel the heat instantly rush to your cheeks, quickly shifting your attention back to the spot on the floor, your scrubbing intensifying as embarrassment floods through you at the fact that you had been caught.
You barely hear the hum of a chuckle that escapes him.
Deciding to keep your eyes to yourself for the remainder of the scrubbing, the time goes by quicker now that your heart and mind are racing.
You couldn’t believe that you had gotten caught staring at him. You just hoped the embarrassment wasn’t obvious on your face.
It wasn’t long after the whole ordeal that Carmen called it for the night, sitting back on his heels as he glanced down at the floor, somewhat cleaner than when it had started. His movement causes you to follow, your eyes finally drifting up to meet his after staring at the floor for so long.
“Alright, Peaches. It’s late enough. Go home, get some rest.”
He stands with a grunt, using the nearby station to help steady himself before reaching out his right hand towards you to help you up. You stare between his hand and his eyes for a few seconds before gently taking his hand, also making a small sound.
Kneeling for too long was not the best idea.
Your hands linger together for just a few seconds too long before Carmen slowly slips his hand away to instead run through his curls, a nervous twitch to his lip.
“Thanks for your help again, Peach.”
“It’s no problem at all.”
Your smile is soft, reassuring as you grab your things, body aching to be in bed after the day you had. The silence in the kitchen only lasts for a few moments before Carmen speaks up again, having frozen in the doorway of the office.
“You live nearby?”
Your eyes look away from your locker, instead focusing on his form as he stares at you with his hand on the back of his neck. He looked nervous, as if the question had left him before he truly had to think about it.
“Yes, sir. Just a block or two, not too far.”
There it was again, that same tingle at the base of his spine that he quickly pushed away. His eyes follow you as you make your way towards the back door.
“Okay. Yeah, um… night, Peaches.”
“Goodnight, Carmen.”
You give him one last smile, a gentle thing, before turning and heading out the door, closing it softly behind you.
And Carmen? He just stands there like a fool, the proposition of walking you home coming to his lips just a bit too late.
—
“Angel, put on a pot!”
“Already on it, Richie!”
You place the coffee pot under the spout, flicking on all the buttons like Richie had shown you to do on your first day, hearing it whir to life before you. As the slow trickle begins to start, your gaze turns to look at Richie, who is preparing the sauce bottles after getting the cash register ready.
Marcus had joined the two of you in the front, observing since he had already finished his prep for the day.
Your attention is suddenly drawn to a lady who enters the shop. She’s dressed very professionally, unlike the clientele that you're used to serving.
“Um… Richie?”
The man looks over at your call, taking in the woman as well before making his way to stand beside you. Marcus decides to call out as Richie moves.
“Yo, Carm!”
Richie’s gaze remains on the lady in front of you, who is standing just as professionally as she is dressed.
“Listen-”
“Yo.”
Your eyes look over at Carmen when he walks from the kitchen to the front, Sydney following behind him.
“Yo. I can handle this myself, cousin. I got this.”
Richie holds out a hand to Carmen, your eyes instantly turning worried as you look back up at the man beside you.
“Richie, I really think Carmen-”
“I got it, Angel, promise.”
He doesn’t even look at you when he says it, his gaze remaining on the professional lady.
“So… you’re not Ron.”
“Ron’s gone. Gone gone”
Is all the lady responds with, and you feel your worry at the situation only growing as you glance over towards Carmen and Sydney, the latter giving you a confused shrug as you move to stand beside her while Carmen stands closer to Richie.
“Ron’s dead?” Marcus’ voice is full of shock.
“Who is Ron?” Carmen’s voice is full of confusion.
The lady’s gaze moves from Richie to Carmen.
“My partner, Ron Pager. He passed away. I’m running his routes now.”
Richie’s head leans back slightly, a thing he did when something frustrated him, but the lady only continued to speak
“Nancy Chore. Chicago Board of Health. I’m here to inspect the property.”
“Okay, Nancy, hi. I’m Carmen Berzatto. I’m the owner.”
Carmen and Nancy shake hands; beside them, Richie’s hands are on his hips, and he gives a slight shake of his head.
“He’s the owner’s brother, actually. He’s also dead.”
Your brows shoot up at Richie’s words, leaning forward a little to shoot him an incredulous look, which he pointedly avoids.
“He doesn’t look dead.” Nancy glances between Carmen and Richie.
“No, no, I’m not dead. My brother’s dead.” Carmen clarifies.
As the conversation continues, you lean your hip against the counter, crossing your arms against your chest, keeping your gaze on the three conversing.
“I’m very sorry to hear that.” “Thank you.”
Richie quickly budges himself into the discussion, staring down the lady as if she owed him money.
“Yeah, I’m sorry for your loss, too. Can I, uh, see some kind of identification?”
Nancy just scoffs, pulling out her badge to show to him and Carmen, only for Richie to respond with:
“Interesting.”
You could feel the frustration practically beginning to boil up in Carmen, the proof in the slight twitch of his eyebrow.
“Is it? It’s interesting. What’s interesting about that?”
“It’s an interesting logo on the badge-” Richie tries to defend himself, but Carmen quickly cuts him off.
“Nancy, you need anything, just find us. Make yourself at home. Okay? Thank you.”
“Thank you,” Richie mumbles.
Your eyes follow as Carmen turns to head back into the kitchen, barely missing the quick glance he sends your way before his gaze snaps back in front of him.
While Carmen calls out for Tina and Ebraheim, Richie’s eyes follow Nancy as the woman walks behind Carmen into the kitchen.
“No funny business, Ms. Chore.”
“You too.”
Nancy quickly fires back, which causes a sarcastic huff of a chuckle to escape Richie.
Once Nancy is out of sight, you stare deliberately at Richie, who quickly holds his hands up in surrender at the look in your eyes before turning and ignoring it by going back to prepping the sauce bottles.
“You’re like a child sometimes.”
Your hum of words is soft, the insult having no true heat behind it as you go to wipe down the counter one last time. Richie gives a slight chuckle at your words, this one sounding more real than the one he gave to Nancy.
Who… quickly returns.
You pause as she places something onto the counter, your eyes widening at what you can only describe as disgusting.
She says something to Richie that you can’t make out, but his next words are loud enough that you’re sure they hear him in the kitchen.
“Oh, my God. That’s some fucking ass shit!”
Mostly everybody had filtered to the front at Richie’s annoyed yelling, your eyes remaining locked on whatever Nancy had brought in from the kitchen as you stood beside Richie.
“Does anybody know how dangerous this is?”
Carmen soon storms into the front right as Nancy finishes her question, Sydney following right behind.
“Yo! What’s going on? What’s dangerous?”
You make eye contact with Carmen as he makes his way to stand beside Nancy, the look of pure disgust on your face a new sight to see, and you gesture over towards the thing on the counter.
You already knew you would be scrubbing that spot multiple times over.
“It wasn’t dangerous,” Richie begins, “Ms. Chore, until you pulled it out.”
Nancy ignores Richie, looking over towards Carmen instead.
“I discovered a large hole in the tile. Looks like a former gas line next to the stovetops. Not only was it not properly dry-walled and caulked, but someone clogged the hole with napkins and then proxied over it with some kind of plastic.”
“Don’t look at me.” Richie holds up his hands slightly, but that only causes you to look over at him with a mixture of confusion and disgust.
“Did you?” You mouth at him, but Richie just shakes his head while keeping his hands up.
Nancy just continues.
“Grease seeped into the napkins and the proxy became unproxied.”
“What does that mean?” Carmen glances between Nancy and the napkin-grease abomination.
“A potential cross-contaminate. Additionally, no hot water in the hand station.”
Both Richie and Sydney suddenly explode into an explanation, Sydney getting upset at Richie for talking over her. But it quells instantly when Nancy begins talking again.
“Health code states any sink near a prep area needs to deliver instant hot water to prevent the spread of bacteria-”
Carmen begins to rub his head in frustration, your eyes shifting from the disgust at the abomination still on the counter to worry as you glance over him.
“I haven’t even delivered the big one yet.”
“There’s a big one?” “There’s more?”
You and Fak both speak at the same time, your eyes glancing over at each other before looking back at Nancy with confusion in your eyes.
“W-What is the big one?” Carmen asks, though he’s unsure if he truly wants to hear the answer.
“Someone left a pack of cigarettes on the stovetop near the burners.”
Nancy places the pack of cigarettes down onto the counter, your eyes taking them in before shifting over towards Richie, noticing him beginning to feel his pockets. The look on his face instantly turns guilty when he feels how empty they are.
Oh, Richie.
“Not only very dangerous, but also a potential contaminant.”
“Motherfucker.” Carmen grits through his teeth at the older male.
“You can say that again.” Nancy laughs incredulously.
“Motherfucker!” The tone in Richie’s voice instantly clues you in to how guilty he felt, but Carmen, you could tell, didn’t feel the same sentiment.
“Don’t actually say it again, you fucking idiot!”
Richie suddenly turns and goes to get in Carmen’s face, causing you to quickly take a few steps back towards where Sydney was standing.
“You’re about to get fuckin’ power-washed, cousin!”
“Unfortunately-!”
Nancy quickly interrupts the growing argument between the two, your eyes glancing nervously towards Sydney, who returns with the same look.
“These violations leave me no choice. I award you a C.”
Everybody practically blows up at the rating: Richie repeating the word ‘no’, Sydney looking out the window in shock, and you just looking at Carmen.
Like the other day, boiling near the lip, just an inch from exploding.
Richie takes a step towards Nancy, practically begging her to let him caulk the hole, but nothing changes the older lady’s mind as she shoves the rating paper into Carmen’s hand while Richie turns to yell at Fak.
Your eyes move to follow her as she walks out, shoulders deflating every so slightly before your gaze moves back over to Carmen, finding his lips pursed in frustration.
But you freeze at the sight in his eyes.
Those stunning blue, clouded in utter hatred for the man he was following with his eyes: Richie.
“Carmen-”
You try to softly voice, not knowing what he was going to do next, just that it wasn’t going to be pretty.
But it doesn’t matter; Carmen is already advancing towards Richie.
“You wanna bitch at me? You wanna run this place, you fucking slob?”
Carmen points at Richie’s face, who quickly retaliates at the sudden onslaught of aggression by pushing him back towards you and Sydney.
“How do you know they’re not your cigarettes?!”
The yelling only continues, amping up quickly between the two men. You and Sydney quickly shove your way between them, knowing that some serious damage could be done if you didn’t stop it.
Sydney goes to push Richie’s chest, while you do the same for Carmen.
The two of you duck to try to miss their hands when they reach over you to try to get each other, but one of Carmen’s nails manages to catch the side of your temple during his reach, your head jolting to the side a bit. An instant sting of pain appears, but you ignore it as Marcus comes over to try to help keep Carmen away from Richie.
“Alright!”
You hear Carmen yell as the situation slowly dies down between them, the two no longer trying to go at each other’s throats.
While Carmen tells Richie about going to the hardware store to get some caulk, you step to stand near Marcus as Richie and Sydney soon join the conversation.
Your eyes watch as Carmen tells Sydney to take Richie to the hardware store when the man tries to get out of it using his suspended license.
After reluctantly agreeing, but only on the condition that they would take his car, Richie and Sydney soon make their way towards the back of the restaurant, Carmen stepping forward once they’re out of the way to grab the sign with the shop’s grade on it.
His fingers tighten their grip on it right as the Ballbreaker game cabinet starts repeating itself over and over.
“Fak, fix that fucking sound. Fix that fucking sound. Please fix that fucking sound!”
“I will fix it. Fak always fixes it.” Fak tries to reassure in hopes of quelling some of Carmen’s anger, “The kids come in, they break it- what happens? I fix the balls. Fak always fixes the balls.”
“Fix it!” You hear Carmen yelling from the other room.
You don’t hear Fak’s next words, though, because Marcus is suddenly in your face, a worried look in his eyes as he stares at your temple.
“Angel, you're bleeding!”
“What?” Your brows furrow in confusion at his words, before flinching when a folded napkin is pressed against your temple by Tina.
“Shit, Angel. He must’ve got you good.”
Your hand comes up to touch right under where Tina was holding the napkin, feeling something wet and warm against your fingertips. When you pull them away, your breath hitches slightly at the red coating them.
“I didn’t… even know I was bleeding.”
Tina grabs your wrist, moving your hand to where you would hold the napkin instead of her, leading you towards the restroom in the kitchen to where the first-aid kit is held.
“Come on, let’s get you patched up. Maybe you’ll get a cool scar.”
You chuckle softly at Tina’s attempt to help cool the situation, following after her as the others watch before slowly getting back to their morning tasks.
Like they always did after huge blow-ups in the shop.
In the other room, Carmen hears the entire conversation even through his anger at Richie and the health inspector. His grip on the paper only tightens as he begins to search for tape, glancing down at his right hand as the word ‘bleeding’ echoes in his mind, and sure enough, on the tip of one of his nails.
synopsis; you were his secret in 2016, until loving him became dangerous and one lie changed everything.
pairing: 2016!jungkook x reader / 2026!jungkook x reader
genre: idol au, secret relationship, angst, slow burn, heartbreak / second chance romance eventually
divider: @uzmacchiato
By the time your shift ended, Seoul had already turned blue with evening.
Not pretty blue, not the kind people wrote songs about, but the tired kind that sat between buildings after sunset and made every window look colder than it was. The air outside the café smelled like rain, roasted chestnuts from a street cart nearby, and the burnt sugar left on your sleeves after six hours of making drinks for people who ordered like the world would end if their iced americano had one wrong cube of ice.
You pushed through the back door with your bag hanging from one shoulder, your hair smelling faintly like coffee no matter how many times you tied it up, and your phone buzzing in your pocket before you even made it to the sidewalk.
Without even looking, you already knew who it was.
Mina: don't go home
Mina: come to hongdae
Mina: there's people dancing and it's actually good tonight
Mina: also i need moral support because i saw my ex with his new girl and i refuse to look lonely
You stopped walking, stared at the messages, and let out a laugh so tired it barely counted.
you: i just got off work
you: my feet hate me
you: and ur ex doesn't care, u shouldn't either
Her reply came fast.
Mina: he cares
Mina: he looked at my story yesterday
Mina: that's basically a "let's get back together"
You rolled your eyes and kept walking toward the bus stop as you typed.
you: seek help
Mina: seek me in hongdae
Mina: pls
Mina: i'll buy you tteokbokki
That was how you ended up on a bus to Hongdae with sore feet, a half-dead phone, and the kind of hunger that made you angry at everyone standing too close to you.
You told yourself you would only stay for thirty minutes. That was the usual lie people always told before Hongdae swallowed the rest of their night.
The streets were already crowded when you arrived, full of students, couples, buskers, tourists holding shopping bags, and groups of friends standing too close together while pretending they were not trying to be seen. Music came from every direction at once. A ballad from one corner, a rap song from another, someone's guitar near the subway exit, then the heavy beat of a dance track cutting through all of it from farther down the street.
Mina found you near a convenience store, waving both arms like she was directing an airplane.
"You look dead," she said as soon as you reached her, her eyes scanning your face like she had expected you to magically recover on the bus ride.
You adjusted your bag on your shoulder and gave her a flat look. "You said there would be food, so I came."
"There will be food," she said quickly, already reaching for your wrist before you could escape.
"You said tteokbokki."
"Yes, yes there will be tteokbokki."
"That doesn't sound honest."
Mina pressed one hand to her chest like you had offended her personally. "But it is honest."
You stared at her, but she grabbed your wrist before you could turn around. "Just come. They're doing dance covers over there, and I swear one group did BTS earlier."
You let her pull you into the crowd, mostly because arguing with Mina in public took more energy than walking.
The closer you got, the louder the music became, bass vibrating under your shoes, cheers rising whenever someone landed a cool move. People had formed a loose circle around the dancers, with their phones lifted in the air, and their faces lit by the screens.
You stayed near the back at first, but Mina, of course, pushed forward.
Still, you remained where you were, with your arms crossed, bag pressed against your side, watching a group of boys in black sweats and others in jeans practice formation before the song restarted. They looked a little nervous, laughing too much, and checking each other's positions. One of them fixed his cap, meanwhile another wiped his palms on his jeans.
Then the opening beat of "Boy In Luv" hit the speakers, and the crowd screamed.
You knew the song, even if you were not the kind of fan who memorized every little detail, but it was impossible not to know it by then. Your classmates played BTS videos during lunch, Mina had gone through a phase where she insisted she was "casually interested" while knowing every member's birthday, and the song had followed you through cafés, shops, buses, and every corner of Seoul until parts of it lived in your head against your will.
The dancers started, and they were actually very good. Not all perfect, but good in a way that made people stop walking. Their shoes scraped against the pavement, the movements making their jackets swing with every sharp turn. A few girls near the front screamed the lyrics. Mina turned around once just to mouth, See? at you like she had personally trained them.
You were about to make a face at her when your eyes caught on someone standing a little farther from the center of the crowd, but closer to where you stood by steps.
A boy stood near the trees lining the sidewalk, frozen in place in a way that made him noticeable even though he did not seem to be trying. He wore a long black coat that fell loosely around him, dark pants cuffed above shiny black shoes—the whole outfit simple, but strangely sharp under the Hongdae streetlights. His hair was dark and soft across his forehead, long enough to shadow his eyes whenever he looked down, and there was something quietly tired about his face that did not match the whole scenery around him.
Most people in the crowd were moving somehow, between lifting phones, whispering, cheering, leaning around each other to see.
But he did none of that, he just watched, and for some reason, that made you want to look at him longer than you meant to.
Maybe it was because he looked close to your age but carried himself like someone trying to keep all his thoughts in one place, or maybe it was because the lights from the shops caught the side of his face whenever he lifted his head, softening the line of his cheek and making him look like a boy who had wandered into Hongdae because he needed air, and at the same time, like someone who did not belong in this scene for some odd reason.
You looked away before he could catch you staring at him like a creep.
Mina shoved herself back to your side a minute later, breathless and dramatic, with one hand clutching your sleeve while the other pointed toward the dancers. "They're super good, right?"
You tilted your head, pretending to think about it longer than necessary. "They're okay."
Her mouth fell open. "You're so annoying."
"You’re the one that asked," you said, shrugging.
"They're literally dancing in public. Have respect." Mina nudged your shoulder, still half-watching the performance like she was scared to miss one second.
"I respect them for it, they’re good. But I'm just not gonna scream like someone is proposing to me."
Mina leaned closer, lowering her voice suddenly. "Okay, don't freak out." That immediately made you suspicious, quite the opposite of what she had just told you.
You turned your head slowly toward her. "Why would I freak out?"
"Because I think that's Jungkook."
You blinked. "Who?"
She gave you a look so offended it almost made you laugh, her hand tightening on your sleeve. "BTS Jungkook."
Your eyes moved before you could stop them.
The boy in the black coat was still standing a few steps away, still watching the dancers, but now that Mina had said it, your brain started putting pieces together too quickly. The big-round eyes, the hair falling over his forehead, the young, but soft-looking face you had seen before on your friends' phone screens. The way people around him were slowly beginning to notice him, one by one, like the news were now spreading through the crowd before anyone really said it out loud.
"I don't know," you said, even though you clearly had caught on.
Mina gripped your sleeve harder, leaning so close her whisper brushed your ear. "I'm telling you, that's him."
"Then don't stare, he's going to think we are stalking him."
"I'm not staring," she said, while absolutely staring.
"You're staring with your whole face."
"I'm observing him. You rarely see BTS in the streets."
"You look insane right now."
Before Mina could answer, two girls near the front turned around at the same time. One of them froze, and the other's eyes widened, a hand flying to her friend's arm. You saw the moment where recognition passed between both of them like electricity, and definitely the boy saw it too, because his body changed instantly like instinctively he tensed a little.
Obviously not enough for everyone in the crowd to notice it, but enough for you to see it from where you stood. His shoulders straightened slightly, and his gaze dropped for half a second before he looked back up with a polite smile, as if he had already accepted that the quiet moment he came for was clearly over.
The girls whispered to each other, excited but unsure still. Meanwhile, the dancers kept on going, despite all of this, and for a few seconds, nobody really do anything about the fact that Jeon Jungkook was standing casually there.
Until, one of the girls approached him carefully, phone held against her chest instead of pointed at his face. You could not hear everything over the music, but you saw the way she bowed a little, and the way he leaned down slightly to listen, then he lifted one hand in a small gesture that seemed almost apologetic.
Mina whispered, "Oh my god, it is him."
You looked at her quickly. "Don't even start"
She lifted both of her hands a little, offended. "I didn't say I was going to do anything."
"I know what you were thinking."
"I wasn't even thinking."
The song ended, and the crowd exploded into cheers. Jungkook clapped too, quietly, hands meeting only a few times before he lowered them again. There was something almost careful about it, like he did not want to take attention away from the people performing, but he was Jeon Jungkook, so attention found him anyway.
A few fans gathered around him, not too many yet. He smiled politely, a little shyly, while people tried not to shake too much beside him. He leaned in for photos without making it awkward, his dark hair falling close to one eye, his face bare and soft under the streetlights.
He looked younger than you expected, not like an idol though, just young in a way that made all the noise around him feel slightly too much for someone his age.
At least from your perspective you wouldn't be able to handle it.
Mina whispered, "He's taking pictures," her voice suddenly softer, like saying it too loudly would jinx the moment.
"I can see that," you said, though your eyes had not exactly moved away either.
"He's so nice."
You glanced at her and noticed the way she was holding her phone against her chest like she was physically restraining herself from approaching him too or tearing up in excitement. "You're about to cry."
"I'm not."
"You look like it."
"No I don't, I'm just happy to see him." Mina shot you a glare, but she was too busy staring to make it convincing.
You should have kept watching like everyone else, but instead, you noticed a coffee cup in Jungkook's hand.
It looked nearly empty considering how he was holding it, the cardboard sleeve crushed slightly between his fingers. Then, someone bumped him from behind while trying to get closer, and the last bit of liquid inside splashed over his hand.
He flinched and because your body had been trained by too many café shifts to react to spilled drinks like a trigger, you reached into your bag without thinking and pulled out the napkins you always stole from work just in case something like this happened. In your head though, typically, it was Mina who spilled liquids not Jeon Jungkook.
"Here," you said, stepping forward and holding them out before you could talk yourself out of it.
The girl beside him looked at you first looking a bit confused and annoyed, then he did.For one second, Jungkook only stared at your hand, then at your face then back at the napkins. "Thank you," he said, taking them carefully. His voice was surprisingly softer and quieter than you had expected.
Up close, he looked even more tired, not ugly tired, or bored tired, but the kind of tired that sat behind someone's eyes after too many days of being pulled from one place to another.
Despite the situation, he smiled at you, polite and small, like thanking a stranger for napkins was somehow important enough for someone like him to do properly.
"Jeez, you’re bleeding attention everywhere," you said before you could stop yourself earning a strangled sound from Mina behind you.
Jungkook blinked, napkin still pressed loosely between his fingers. "What?"
You nodded toward the growing group of fans pretending not to gather around him while absolutely gathering around him.
"You came here to watch people dance, no? Not become the performance." For a moment, you thought you had said too much, or sounded too rude.
Then his eyes curved, and the smile that appeared on his face was small, surprised, and almost helpless.
"I didn't mean to," he said, looking down at the coffee on his fingers as if that might hide the smile.
"Ah yes, famous people never do."
His fingers paused around the napkin, making you instantly regret saying that, not because it was mean, at least not to you, but because his face changed in a way you could not read. Then he looked at you again. "I'm not that famous."
Mina coughed behind you awkwardly, but you ignored her. "You're famous enough for her to forget how to breathe," you said, pointing vaguely at Mina without turning around.
"I'm breathing," Mina hissed, her voice sharp with embarrassment.
"You're coughing like you’re choking."
Jungkook laughed, real enough that it changed his whole face. The tiredness around his eyes loosened for a second, and suddenly he looked exactly like what he was: a young boy in a long black coat, standing under Hongdae lights, possibly just trying to organize his thoughts and feelings that the world had already started making too heavy for him.
A fan nearby looked like she might collapse from witnessing it and Mina grabbed the back of your jacket in warning, probably trying to communicate with her fingers that you needed to stop speaking to him like he was some random guy blocking the sidewalk.
But that was the thing, he did look like a random guy. A very tired, young, and famous one. A boy standing in Hongdae with coffee on his hand, watching strangers dance to a song that belonged partly to him and partly to everyone screaming it back.
He looked at the dancers again as another group began setting up, his gaze following the boys as they checked their formation. "They're so good," he said with a small smile.
"They are," you answered, glancing back at the dancers too.
"They work hard."
You glanced at him, noticing the serious way he said it, like he could see every hour of practice behind each move. "You sound like a teacher."
His eyes moved back to you, amused. "Do I now?"
"A little."
"That's bad?" he asked, one eyebrow lifting slightly.
You shook your head before thinking. "Nah. It's cute." The word slipped out too casually for you to catch it.
Jungkook went silent, and even Mina went silent at that too. Then, slowly, his ears turned pink.
You looked away first, pretending to watch the dancers because suddenly the pavement was very interesting and your mouth had become your worst enemy.
"I didn't mean cute like that," you said, clearing your throat.
He was smiling now. You could hear it before you saw it. "Oh. How did you mean it?"
"Like..." You searched for an excuse and found nothing useful, your eyes darting between the dancers, Mina, and literally anything that was not his face. "Like an old man."
His smile widened. "You think I'm cute like an old man?"
"No," you said quickly, turning back to him with a frown. "I think you sound like one."
"That's way worse, oh God."
"It's honest."
He laughed again, and this time you understood why the fans around him looked so helpless about it. Because it changed his whole face in a way that made him seem less far away than he probably should have been. For half a second, the noise around you softened. The crowd, the music, Mina's fingers still digging into your jacket, the people whispering his name, all of it moved somewhere behind you.
Then someone asked him for another photo. The moment closed, and he turned back to them with an easy politeness that looked practiced but not fake, leaning slightly so he could fit into the frame. You stepped back, suddenly aware that you had been standing too close to someone people were waiting to reach. Mina quickly dragged you away by the sleeve.
"Are you crazy?" she whispered, her eyes wide as she pulled you back into the thicker part of the crowd.
"What?" you asked, even though you already knew what she meant.
"You just called Jungkook cute like an old man."
"I panicked, okay?"
"You?" Mina pointed at you like you were on trial. "Panicked? You basically bullied him."
"I gave him napkins though."
"You told him he was bleeding attention."
"Because he is."
Mina stared at you like she was trying to decide whether to be horrified or proud. Behind you, the crowd cheered again, you turned your head once.
Jungkook was still there, but he was looking past the fans for a second, eyes moving over the people around him until they found you, it was brief. So brief you could have pretended it did not happen.
But then he lifted the napkins slightly, like a small thank you from across the crowd, and you, because you were tired and hungry and apparently committed to making questionable choices that night, lifted your hand back.
Not a full on-wave, it was barely on. Mina saw it and gasped like you had accepted a marriage proposal. "Shut up," you said immediately, turning away from the crowd before she could start.
"I didn't say anything."
"You are dramatic as hell."
"I have a right."
"You have a weird disease."
"Yeah," Mina said, falling into step beside you with a grin too pleased for your comfort, "and it's called witnessing destiny."
You groaned and started walking toward the food stalls before she could make it worse.
You thought about tteokbokki, your sore feet, the homework waiting for you at home, and the fact that tomorrow morning you would still have to wake up early like your life had not brushed against someone else's for five strange minutes in the middle of Hongdae.
Still, when you reached the end of the street, you looked back once, and there he was, watching the dancers again.
Long black coat, his dark hair over his eyes, and the spilled coffee cup still in one hand. The crowd still aware of him, but not yet impossible.
Mina bought you tteokbokki after that. You made sure she did, since you were literally starving.
The two of you ended up standing near a street stall with paper cups in your hands, steam rising between your faces while the sauce burned your tongue badly enough to make your eyes water. You kept eating anyway, shoulders slightly hunched against the evening air, because your stomach cared more about being full than being comfortable.
Mina, unfortunately, had not stopped looking at you. You felt her stare from the side before you even turned your head. "What?" you asked, poking at a rice cake with your toothpick while trying to sound more annoyed than tired.
Mina narrowed her eyes, her own cup held close to her chest like she had completely forgotten she was supposed to be eating from it. "You're acting too normal."
"Well, yes. It’s called eating," you said, lifting the rice cake toward your mouth like that explained everything.
"You just talked to Jeon Jungkook." Mina leaned closer as she said his name, lowering her voice even though the street was too loud for anyone to care.
"I gave him napkins." You chewed carefully, keeping your eyes on the food instead of her face.
"You called him cute."
"Like an old man." You pointed your toothpick at her, because somehow that felt like an important detail to defend.
"That makes it worse." Mina's mouth fell open a little, and she looked genuinely stressed on his behalf. "Why would you say that to him?"
You looked down at your tteokbokki, stirring the sauce around like the answer might be hiding in it. "I told you already, that I panicked."
"You did not panic." Mina let out a short laugh, shaking her head. "You looked him in the face and bullied him."
"I helped him first." You lifted your eyebrows at her. "That should cancel out the bullying."
"It doesn't." She took a bite, still watching you while she chewed, her eyes bright with the kind of excitement that made you want to walk away before she built a whole story from nothing.
You sighed and shifted your weight from one sore foot to the other. "It was five minutes, Mina."
"Five minutes is enough for a first impression," she said, pointing her toothpick at you like she was making a serious argument.
"It was not a first impression." You wiped a little sauce from the edge of your cup with your thumb, frowning at how sticky it had gotten. "It was me handing napkins to someone who spilled coffee."
"And making him laugh."
"People laugh when things are awkward."
Mina tilted her head, studying you more closely. "So you admit it was awkward."
"It was obviously awkward." You looked at her then, unable to stop yourself from sounding defensive. "A crowd was staring, you were wheezing behind me, and I accidentally called a famous person cute like an old man."
"I was not wheezing," Mina muttered, but she looked away too quickly for it to be convincing.
"You were basically losing air like a balloon."
"I was trying my best."
"You were embarrassing."
"You're the embarrassing one." She nudged your shoulder with hers, but her grin came back a second later, too pleased to be offended for long. "but still, he laughed."
You rolled your eyes and took another bite, mostly so you would not have to keep responding to that.
The truth was, it had been strange. Not in whatever Mina was probably already naming it in her head, just strange.
It was strange to see someone you had only ever seen through phone screens standing under streetlights like any other boy your age. Strange to watch people recognize him slowly, one by one, until the air around him changed. Strange to hear him say he was not that famous while a small crowd gathered close enough to prove him wrong. But strange did not mean important, at least, not to you.
Mina kept talking while you finished your food, her words tumbling out between bites.
"He looked tired though," she said after a moment, her voice softer this time as she glanced back toward the direction you had come from.
"You think?" you asked, following her gaze only briefly before looking back at your cup.
"Of course. Poor boy, so young and has been working since the age of fourteen." Mina's expression shifted, the excitement dimming into something more thoughtful. "He smiled and everything, but yeah. He looked tired."
You nodded once, because that part was hard to argue with. "He's working," you said, pushing a rice cake around the bottom of your cup. "People look tired when they work."
Mina looked at you with a small frown. "You say that like you're fifty."
"I do feel fifty." You straightened your back a little, wincing when your feet reminded you how long you had been standing all day.
"You're eighteen, Y/N."
"My feet make me feel like I'm fifty."
That made Mina laugh again, louder this time, and the conversation finally loosened away from him. She started complaining about her ex, then about her classes, then about how the tteokbokki was too spicy even though she was the one who chose the stall. You listened with half your attention, answering when you needed to, letting the city noise fill the spaces between you.
By the time you left Hongdae, your phone was nearly dead, your jacket smelled like smoke from the grill, and your bag felt twice as heavy as it had when you arrived.
Mina walked with you to the bus stop, still too awake for someone who had spent the whole night being dramatic.
"Text me when you get home," she said, stopping beside the bus sign and pulling her cardigan tighter around herself.
You glanced at her. "Don't start sending me edits of him at three in the morning."
"I wasn't going to." Mina looked offended for exactly one second before her face betrayed her.
"You were."
"I might send if Instagram blesses me with some."
"You're sick, no."
"I'm supportive of him."
"You're unemployed in the head." You stepped closer to the curb when your bus appeared down the road, headlights turning the wet pavement pale.
Mina gasped softly, pressing a hand to her chest. "You're so rude and mean after being fed."
"I'm mean because I'm so tired."
When the bus finally pulled up, you climbed on and found a seat near the window. Mina stood outside with both hands wrapped around the strap of her bag, still smiling like she had seen something much bigger happen than what had actually happened.
"Don't dream about Jungkook," you called through the glass once the door shut, knowing she probably could not hear you clearly anyway.
Mina cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted something back. You could not hear it over the engine, but from the shape of her mouth, you were pretty sure it had the words old man in it.
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling a little when the bus pulled away, and after that, the ride home was quiet.
Seoul looked different from the bus window after Hongdae. The bright streets slowly thinned into quieter roads, convenience stores glowing on corners, apartment windows lit in scattered squares, and people walking home alone with their shoulders curled inward against the cold. You leaned your head against the glass, your body was finally realizing how exhausted it was.
For most of the ride, you thought about practical things.
- Whether your phone would survive long enough for you to text Mina.
- Whether you have enough money on your transit card for tomorrow.
- Whether your uniform shirt would smell too much like coffee if you wore it one more time before washing it.
- Whether the landlord would notice if the rent came two days late.
- Whether anyone back in Daegu had tried calling while your phone was silenced.
Hongdae already felt far away by the time your stop came. Folded into the kind of night you knew you would be telling as a funny story later and Mina would make it bigger every time she repeated it, and you would correct her every time because that was how the two of you worked.
Your building was quiet when you reached it. It was the kind of place people passed without looking twice, narrow and plain, with old stairs that made too much noise no matter how carefully you climbed them. The hallway always smelled faintly like detergent, dust, and someone's instant noodles from behind a closed door.
You unlocked your door as quietly as possible, slipped off your shoes, and stepped inside. No one had left the light on, no one had cooked for you, and no one called from another room to ask why you were late.
Your place was exactly how you had left it that morning: a small bed pushed against the wall, a folding table covered in textbooks and receipts, a half-dry uniform shirt hanging near the window, and a cup of convenience-store instant rice sitting beside two unopened packs of seaweed.
Independent sounded better when people said it from the outside, but inside, it mostly meant you ate dinner alone and learned how to stretch money until it felt personal.
You dropped your bag beside the bed, plugged in your phone, and sat on the floor while the screen struggled back to life. For a second, you just stared at the black screen, waiting.
Part of you expected missed calls, but the other part of you hoped there were none. And when your phone finally lit up, there were no calls from home, just Mina. A lot of Mina, actually.
Mina: I FOUND PICS
Mina: HE REALLY WAS THERE
Mina: THE NAPKINS ARE HISTORICAL NOW
Mina: wait
Mina: omg
Mina: I THINK UR HAND IS IN ONE OF THEM
You stared at the screen, too tired to react properly.
Then you opened the photo she sent.
It was blurry, taken from somewhere behind the crowd, but there he was under the Hongdae lights, long black coat, dark hair falling over his forehead, head slightly lowered as he accepted napkins from someone just outside the frame.
You could not see your face, only your hand, your sleeve, and the edge of your bag. Nothing important enough for anyone to notice.
you: that could be anyone
Mina replied before you could even put the phone down.
Mina: but it's not anyone
Mina: it's napkin girl aka u
You stared at the nickname for a second, then made a face at your screen.
you: never call me that again
Mina: too late
Mina: history with an idol named u
You locked your phone and tossed it onto the bed.
For a while, you sat there in the quiet room, listening to the distant sound of traffic outside your window and the faint hum of the mini fridge near your desk. Your room always sounded bigger at night, which was funny because it was barely big enough for you and your bad decisions.
On the folding table, your textbooks sat open beside a receipt you had been avoiding since morning.
Behind them was a small photo you had brought from Daegu, half-hidden under a notebook because looking at it too often made you feel too many things at once. So, you did not pick it up, you didn't need to. You knew the faces in it better than anything in Seoul.
You’d told yourself leaving home would make breathing easier. Sometimes it did. Sometimes it just made the silence louder—and, to be quite frank, it was sad too.
Summary: You convinced yourself you were the exception to his rule. But when Allie Hayes crashes into his life, you realize you were never playing the long game—you were just warming the bench.
Angst / Hurt-Comfort
Warnings: not proofread, angst, explicit language, sexual references, heartbreak.
A/N: I am so, so sorry it took me over a month to post this request! My finals lasted for almost a whole month and I was so stressed I couldn't even exist. And then right after that, I went to visit my parents in my hometown, and then I had to move apartments and it was absolute chaos. I feel so bad for making you guys wait this long. But I really hope you enjoy this fic! Now that the chaos is over, I will be back with more fics. Anyway. Feedback is much appreciated. Take care of yourselves and lots of love!
Words:
Playing with fire is for amateurs. Fucking Dean Di Laurentis? That was like striking a match in a room full of gasoline.
Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis. Christ, even his name was exhausting.
Every girl with a pulse at Briar U knew the deal. He was the hockey team's resident golden boy. A walking, talking wet dream with a trust fund, an eight-pack, and these devastating, smoky green eyes.
He was also the undisputed king of casual hookups. Dean always got what he wanted. And ninety-nine percent of the time, that meant someone female, flexible, and completely gone before the morning coffee finished brewing. You knew the rules. You were well aware of the track record. You knew exactly what you were getting into when you let him slide his hands under your shirt.
But human beings are fundamentally stupid, hopelessly optimistic creatures. Somewhere between late-night poli-sci study sessions and lazy Sunday mornings drinking coffee in Garrett’s kitchen, you managed to convince yourself you were the exception to the rule.
It started out platonic enough. You were just another fixture in the hockey house, a girl supposedly immune to the legendary Di Laurentis charm. At least, that was the bullshit lie you sold him.
But then the sarcastic banter started to shift. It bled into lingering touches. The heavy weight of his warm palm resting flat against your lower back. His whiskey-rough voice murmuring filthy jokes in your ear over the thumping bass at Malone's.
When you finally crossed the line, it wasn’t just a quick, meaningless fumble on those god-awful couch cushions. It was supposed to be a one-time thing. An itch scratched. But one time turned into two, and two turned into a dangerously comfortable routine.
It didn't feel like a hookup. It felt... significant. Intimate.
The mornings were what really screwed you over. Instead of the awkward, panicked rush to grab your clothes and sneak out before the rest of the house woke up, he wouldn't let you leave.
He would just groan, reach out with a heavy arm, and drag you right back against his bare, sculpted chest. He'd tangle his legs with yours, press a soft, lingering kiss to your spine, and mumble, "Stay. Just five more minutes, baby doll".
In those rare, unguarded moments, stripped of his usual cocky swagger, you didn't feel like a temporary distraction. You felt devastatingly permanent.
That was the trap. That was how you justified the blurred lines. You told yourself you weren't just another notch on his bedpost because you were more than that. You were his best friend.
You were the one he bitched to about Frank O'Shea, the hardass defensive coordinator who was dead-set on making his senior year a living hell. You were the one who knew the actual scores of his LSATs. You listened to him vent about his looming Harvard Law future.
To the rest of Briar, Dean was still playing the field. But to you? It felt like an exclusive, unspoken secret.
You’d find yourself staring at the ceiling of your dorm room at two in the morning, your heart doing a pathetic, frantic little backflip every time your phone buzzed with a filthy, late-night text from him.
I’m not a puck bunny, you’d tell yourself, stepping over his discarded Timberlands in the hallway. We have a real connection. He just needs time to pull his head out of his ass.
God, you were a fucking idiot.
You fell for him. Hard, fast, and entirely without a parachute.
You fell for that cocky-as-sin grin. You fell for his surprisingly sharp intellect. You fell for the rare moments when he’d look at you like you were the absolute only girl in the crowded room.
You spoon-fed yourself the delusion that it was only a matter of time. Surely, the playboy would eventually wake up and realize the girl he actually wanted was already right there, sitting next to him on the couch.
You thought you were playing the long game. You didn't realize you were just warming the bench.
The illusion didn't just shatter; it exploded in your face, piece by agonizing piece the weekend Allie Hayes crashed at the hockey house in full-blown crisis mode.
She was nursing a broken heart over her ex, hiding out in Garrett's empty bedroom. Logan had even fired off a group text explicitly warning Dean to keep his dick in his pants.
You thought you were safe. Allie was Hannah’s best friend. She was the definition of off-limits.
But since when did Dean Di Laurentis ever give a shit about the rules?
For weeks, their hookups were a heavily guarded secret. Allie was adamant about keeping everyone out of their business, preferring to keep it strictly under wraps.
But you knew Dean better than that. You noticed the subtle, damning little details.
You saw the dark, purplish hickey blooming on his neck the morning after she stayed over. You noticed the way he was suddenly glued to his phone, staring glassy-eyed at the screen while he waited for her to text him back.
And then Dean dragged you into the kitchen, his green eyes burning with a frustrating mix of panic and utter exhilaration.
"I'm screwed," he whispered, leaning back against the counter. "I hooked up with Allie."
Your stomach plummeted straight to the linoleum. "What?"
"It's a secret, so keep your mouth shut," he warned, raking a hand through his blond hair. "But I can't get her out of my head. I even sat through this terrible French soap opera called Solange just to hang out with her".
He said it with a laugh. A helpless, ridiculously besotted laugh.
Then he started dropping the nicknames. Baby doll. Allie-Cat.
The exact same lazy, affectionate nicknames that used to make your own stupid heart flutter.
You had to stand there, plaster a supportive best-friend smile on your face, and listen to the guy you were hopelessly in love with talk about falling for someone else. It felt like taking a slapshot straight to the ribs without any padding.
The absolute worst part was that you couldn't even openly hate her. Allie was so frustratingly sweet, completely oblivious to the fact that she was actively destroying you. There was no villain here. Just you, completely alone in your grief.
So you just... faded out.
You started taking your coffee to go. You hauled your ass to the campus library to study instead of camping out at the guys' kitchen island. When Dean tried to rope you into his usual flirty banter, you shot back short, clipped answers and kept your eyes glued to your textbooks.
You honestly thought you were doing a bang-up job of acting like a ghost.
But you forgot who you were dealing with.
"She's fine, Dean. Leave her alone," Tucker's drawl echoed in the hallway one afternoon.
You froze, your hand hovering over the doorknob.
"She's been dodging me for weeks, Tuck," Dean argued, sounding genuinely frustrated. "I just want to see what's wrong."
"What's wrong is that she's swamped with midterms. Give her some space." Tucker smoothly stepped into Dean's path, effortlessly acting as your own personal human shield.
You backed away, your chest tight with unshed tears. Tucker knew. John Tucker noticed absolutely everything.
Logan, on the other hand, was far less subtle.
A few nights later, while Dean was busy sneaking into Allie's dorm room, a loud knock rattled your door.
It was Logan and he didn't bother waiting for an invitation. He just pushed right past you, armed with two pints of Ben & Jerry's and a pair of plastic spoons.
He took one look at your pathetic, red-rimmed eyes and let out a heavy sigh.
"You look like absolute shit," Logan stated, tossing a pint of your favorite kind onto the mattress.
"Thanks. You really have a way with women," you croaked, wiping furiously at your wet cheeks.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, dropping his massive frame onto the edge of your bed.
"No."
"Cool." Logan popped the lid off his ice cream like it was just another Tuesday. "Then we won't talk about it. Put on a movie."
He sat next to you in comfortable silence, eating his ice cream while you let the tears finally fall.
The boys knew.
They saw exactly what Dean was too hopelessly blind to see. And they were quietly circling the wagons to protect one of their own.
It was a chaotic victory party at the hockey house, and the bass rattled the floorboards. You were standing by the kitchen island, forcing a laugh at something Fitzy was saying, doing your absolute damnedest to pretend your heart wasn't actively bleeding out all over the linoleum.
Then, a large, familiar hand wrapped around your bicep.
You spun around, the breath catching in your throat.
Dean's jaw was set in a hard line. His blond hair was a tousled mess, and those smoky green eyes were flashing with a volatile mix of frustration and hurt.
"We need to talk," he demanded, his voice dropping an octave to cut through the pounding music.
Before you could even object, he was pulling you through the kitchen. He shoved open the sliding glass door and dragged you out onto the back patio. The frigid spring air immediately bit at your bare arms, but at least the bass was muffled out here.
"What the fuck is going on with you?" Dean demanded.
He crossed his arms over his broad, perfectly sculpted chest.
"You’ve been ghosting me," he accused. "And tonight, you completely walked away when Allie said hi. What is your problem?"
The sheer, blinding oblivion of the man was staggering.
"I don't have a problem, Dean," you lied, fighting to keep your voice perfectly even. "I'm just busy."
"Bullshit."
He stepped closer, crowding your space until that familiar, spicy cologne wrapped around you. It made your chest physically ache.
"You’re my best friend," he pushed, a rare edge of desperation bleeding into his tone. "We used to tell each other everything. Now you won't even look at me."
He ran a hand through his hair, looking genuinely distressed. "Allie thinks you hate her. And I'm starting to think you hate me."
"I don't hate Allie," you whispered. Your hands were shaking so violently you had to cross your arms to hide them. "And I don't hate you. But things change, Dean. You're... you're with her now."
"So?" He threw his hands up in the air. "Garrett and Logan have girlfriends, and you still hang out with them! Why am I the only one getting frozen out?"
The absolute unfairness of it snapped whatever fragile restraint you had left.
"Because Garrett and Logan weren't fucking me, Dean!"
The words ripped out of your throat before you could swallow them back down.
Silence slammed onto the patio, heavy, suffocating, final. The only sound left was the muffled vibration of the music inside the house.
Dean froze.
The anger instantly drained from his perfectly chiseled face. It was replaced by a devastating, agonizingly slow realization.
His green eyes widened as he stared at you.
You could practically see that pretty head of his piecing together the timeline, the sudden distance, the lame excuses. The way the rest of his teammates had been subtly shielding you from him for weeks.
"You..." Dean started, his voice dropping to a horrified whisper. "Wait. You..."
"Don't," you choked out.
You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, feeling like you might actually shatter. The humiliation burned the back of your throat like acid.
"Just don't say it, Dean. I knew the score. I knew who you were. It's my own stupid fault for catching feelings while you were just getting your rocks off."
"Baby doll, I didn't—" He reached out, his hand actually trembling as he stopped inches from your arm. "You're my best friend," he whispered, his voice cracking, looking at you like you had just betrayed him. "You're the one constant I have. I swear to God, I never would have touched you if I knew it would ruin this."
It was the final nail in the coffin. He didn't regret breaking your heart; he regretted crossing a line that jeopardized his own comfort. The physical intimacy that meant everything to you had meant absolutely nothing to him.
The sliding glass door screeched on its track as it was abruptly shoved open and Garrett Graham stood in the doorway.
His broad shoulders blocked the light from the kitchen, his dark eyes flicking from your tear-stained face to Dean’s horrified expression.
As the team captain, Garrett knew exactly when a play was going south.
"Step back, D," Garrett ordered.
His voice wasn't yelling, but it carried a lethal authority that left zero room for argument.
"G, this is between us," Dean pleaded, looking utterly panicked. "I just need to fix this."
"You can't fix this tonight, man. Open your damn eyes and give her some space."
Garrett stepped out onto the patio. He gently placed a warm, solid hand on your back. He didn't look at Dean again. He just looked at you, his expression softening into total empathy.
"Come on," Garrett murmured. "Let's get you out of here."
You didn't fucking dare to look back at Dean. Because if you looked over your shoulder and saw him standing on that patio—frozen, horrified, looking at you with pity instead of love—you would actually shatter into a million jagged pieces.
Garrett's palm on your back was a steady, grounding weight. He bulldozed a path right through the swarm of drunken frat boys and puck bunnies. He didn't stop until the heavy front door slammed shut behind you.
The freezing air hit your lungs like crushed glass, and you finally let out a ragged, ugly sob.
"I've got you," Garrett murmured. His voice was surprisingly gentle for a guy who spent his life smashing people into the boards.
Tucker was already waiting by Garrett's Jeep in the driveway. Because of course he was. John Tucker always knew exactly where he needed to be.
He took one look at your face, immediately shrugged out of his heavy winter coat, and draped it over your trembling shoulders as he opened the back door of the Jeep and guided you inside.
"G, you driving?" Tuck asked quietly.
"Yeah. Let's get her out of here."
The interior of the Jeep smelled like rich leather and cold winter air. You curled into a miserable, pathetic ball in the backseat, pulling Tucker's massive coat around you like a suit of armor. You squeezed your eyes shut, but it did absolutely nothing to stop the hot tears tracking down your cheeks.
Garrett started the engine, the heater roaring to life. He shifted the car into drive, but before pulling out of the driveway, his dark eyes met yours in the rearview mirror.
"You want me to go back in there and kick his ass?" Garrett asked. His tone was deadpan and entirely serious. "Because I will. Logan is probably already tearing him a new one, but I'm more than happy to take a swing."
A wet, broken laugh scraped its way out of your throat. "No. Don't punch him. It's not... it's not his fault he didn't fall for me, G."
"It's his fault for being a blind, selfish idiot," Tucker corrected from the passenger seat. "He led you on, whether he meant to or not."
You rested your forehead against the cold glass of the window, watching the hockey house disappear into the darkness. The brutal reality of it was settling deep into your bones, heavy and hollow.
It was over.
Whatever messy, undefined, agonizingly beautiful thing you had with Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis was dead. He was going to move on with Allie Hayes, and you were going to have to figure out how to exist in a world where you weren't his favorite secret anymore. You had to go back to being just a friend.
It was going to hurt like a fucking bitch. You were going to have to mourn a breakup for a relationship that never technically existed.
But as Garrett reached back to adjust the vents so the warm air hit you directly, and Tucker quietly turned up the radio to drown out the heavy silence, a tiny, fractured piece of your heart clicked into place.
You hadn't won the guy. You had lost the golden boy to the blonde girl with the broken heart.
But looking at the two massive, fiercely protective hockey players guarding your front seat, you realized you hadn't lost everything. You had played with fire, and yeah, you'd gotten burned. But you had walked out of the ashes with a family.
john logan x f! reader | part i, part ii, part iii
premise: you miss a couple of classes and meets, and your absence becomes increasingly apparent. garrett invites you to the boys' halloween party, and you have an unexpected encounter with logan.
category: enemies (exes) to lovers, more fluff in this one than usual, still ends with angst
word count: 5k
content/trigger warnings: cursing, random man being creepy and intrusive at the party towards reader, mention of hospice. lmk if there are any other warnings that i missed.
context/author notes: we're about halfway through the series (it will have 7-8 parts). you get the tiniest hint of foreshadowing about their breakup, and you get a little bit more info at the very end about why she's back. thank you guys so, so much for reading. i appreciate every single like and reblog and comment. y'all are all so amazing, and i hope you enjoy this part. and if you want to be added to the taglist, you can comment on this post or message me! also, if i previously tagged you in an earlier chapter and now you do not want to be tagged anymore, please lmk. if you don't, i will assume that you still want to be tagged. ALSO if i forgot to tag you, PLEASE lmk! i might have either mispelled your account or forgot to copy and paste it from my notes. i've had a lot of asks to be on the taglist, so i broke it down in the comments below. i don't know WHY tumblr can't allow me tag more than 5 accounts per comment, so if someone knows how to bypass that, please lmk. not proofread as of 07/03/26 (i will proofread all of my shit this weekend i promise).
important note: someone on tuesday, 06/30 sent me an ask requesting to be added to the taglist and i didn't write down their account name before replying. their account name started with a K. i apologize and please let me know if i forgot to add you!
This particular dive feels rougher than usual. When your body first makes contact with the water, waves of shock jolt and jump through your veins. But you welcome the pain, allowing the harsh resistance of the water to engulf you while your limbs sink to the bottom of the pool floor. In a way, the pain actually grounds your mind, giving yourself a much needed reprieve from your daily mental torment.
Because when you’re under the water, time stops. It practically freezes, and your mind goes numbingly silent. And as you plummet towards the floor, you leave behind everything and everyone. You forget about the history essay that you haven’t even started. You forget about the nightly drives to the hospice center. You forget about John and the sheer furor raging a storm in his brown eyes that you love—no, that you used to love.
John.
His indignant face bursts in like an intruder in your mind. Suddenly, your survival instincts remember that you’ve been underwater for a while, and that you can’t breathe.
I lied, John. I never stopped loving you. I’m still in…
You don’t allow yourself to finish that thought as you break through the surface, gasping for air. The choked breaths scratching your throat are the only sounds you hear, and you remember that you’re the only one in the Aquatic Center.
And that it’s past 11:00 PM. Probably.
After regaining your breath, you swim towards the ladder on the edge of the pool, tightly gripping your callused hands on the metal bars to pull your body back onto the surface. And as you’re drying yourself off with your shammy, the faint click of a door opening and closing sends panic throughout your body.
You can’t think of anyone else who would be here at this hour. On a Thursday.
However, you recognize the face approaching you, and his unexpected presence relieves some of the alarm bells ringing through your head.
“Uh, hey,” You say nervously, still wringing out the water and chlorine in your hair as the hockey player approaches you. “What are you doing here?”
“Kendall told me where you’d be,” Garrett shrugs, slipping his hands into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels.
You raise your eyebrows at him in confusion, and his lips contort into an “O” shape once he registers the puzzlement on your face.
“Oh, Kendall and I know each other. We used to…like, see each other, I guess?” He winces, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “She’s also a big hockey fan. She comes to a lot of our games and supports us, even when I acted kind of like an asshole towards her.”
“Wow, hockey players being assholes. I would’ve never thought,” The words tumble from your mouth before you could stop them, but Garrett smirks at your deadpan voice. “Seems to be a trend these days.”
“Oh, for sure. You should research the correlation between hockey players and assholeness.”
“I’ll pitch the idea to my stats professor,” You joke, and the both of you chuckle, and your chest lightens a tiny bit before an awkward silence comes along. After all, Garrett still didn’t answer your question.
Luckily, he reads your mind.
“Um, I wanted to check in on you. We didn’t get to talk after we finished our work,” He explains, alluding to the fact that you left the groupchat as soon as you submitted the project.
Your throat closes up when hearing his words, and you can only bring yourself to nod as you look down at the floor. You knew you had to take yourself off the groupchat. You were clearly imposing on John’s life. You were imposing on everyone’s lives.
“I still have your contact saved, but you haven’t responded to my messages. Or to Beau’s. But in any case, I wanted to talk to you in person,” He continues, but your eyes still fix themselves on a misplaced tile near the side of the pool. “I wanted to thank you, for everything.”
That sentence makes your head lift up. No, you must have surely misheard what he said. Why would he thank you?
“Uh, for what?”
“You were super helpful in the project. Seriously. Beau and I never understood a single word from Professor Rezkin’s mouth, and we never made the time to go talk to the TA about all the shit we didn’t understand. But you explained everything so clearly. And you were always so patient whenever we screwed something up. I know how to write a semi-decent literature review because of you,” Garrett adds with a laugh. “You definitely carried us. And I didn’t want to say all of that over text. I wanted to tell you face-to-face. So, thank you, Y/N.”
As usual, you feel the familiar pressure of tears sitting behind your eyes, the same tears that emerge whenever you receive a genuine compliment. You hurriedly blink them away before giving him a small smile.
“I appreciate it, Garrett. But you and Beau also put in a lot of effort,” You bite your lip, preparing yourself for what you’re about to say next. “And I really appreciate you guys meeting with me virtually after, um…”
“After Logan slithered his way from Hell and swapped identities with fucking Lucifer? Yeah, I don’t blame you for not wanting to meet us in person. God, he was such a maniac.”
Your eyes widen with every sentence, completely shocked with the level of Garrett’s exasperation. You never thought he would talk about his best friend that way, especially to you of all people. Shouldn’t Garrett view you as an enemy in his eyes?
“Yeah. I mean, he has every right to be mad at me. I just…wasn’t expecting that.”
“Trust me, none of us were. And that’s another reason why I wanted to speak with you in person, Y/N. I was rude when I first met you, and you didn’t deserve that. I’m really sorry.”
Well, you’re even more shocked by that apology.
You realize just now that you never received a formal apology from Garrett about his own behavior. You remember how small and insignificant you felt under his gaze in the private study room. And you certainly remember the startling question he asked.
“Why are you back here?”
However, you never expected an apology from Garrett. Your ex’s comments hurt way more than any of Garrett’s words.
“I thought you were ‘staying away from me,’ huh?”
The fact that Garrett Graham, an acquaintance whom you only met a few weeks ago, is apologizing to you before your ex-boyfriend is fucking comical.
“Thanks, Garrett,” You say quietly, fiddling with the loose threads of your shammy. “I mean, I understand why you’re wary of me, though. You’re his best friend, and my breakup with John was horrible.”
“Sure, but I don’t think you’re intentionally bothering or pestering him. You’re keeping your distance, which is all you can do,” Garrett counters, still somehow coming to your defense. “It was just a coincidence that we ended up in the same group project together. And also, I’m not wary of you.”
You scoff, playfully raising your eyebrows at him. “I’m not sure I believe that.”
“Well, I’m not wary of you anymore,” He clarifies, raising his palms in surrender. “And I shouldn’t have been in the first place. That was unfair to you.”
Giving him a tight-lipped smile, you nod, not knowing what else to say.
You haven’t exactly processed what Logan said to you. You don’t even have the time to process your ex’s words in the first place.
What happened that night at his house was not even the worst thing that happened to you this semester. And everything is only going to get worse.
“Um, I’m gonna head out. I’ve been here for hours. Thanks for stopping by,” You rush your words, starting to turn away from him to walk towards the lockers.
Maybe that’s an abrupt way to end the conversation, but for your sake, you don’t think you can talk to Garrett anymore without thinking about Logan.
“Oh, wait a second! I also wanted to see if you are down to come to our Halloween party at the house this Saturday,” Garrett calls out, and your body freezes as you halt your steps. “I’m pretty sure Kendall told you about it, right?”
Yup, Kendall did inform you about the Halloween party. A few days ago, she sent a photo of the flyer in the groupchat you have with your teammates, and everyone instantly texted her back, saying that they were “sooo excitedddd” to attend the party. When you didn’t respond, Kendall texted you personally, checking to see if you were planning on going, and that the girls would love for you to pregame with them.
Though these past few weeks have been absolutely horrendous, you somehow managed to form a solid friendship with Kendall. You still hang out with the rest of your teammates, but you see Kendall more often than the others. You appreciate all of the study sessions, coffee dates, and late night drives that you spend with her.
And if it were any other party, you would go. In fact, you’ve been waiting to go to a party. You haven’t gone out at all this semester, and you deserve to have a fun night.
But you can’t go back to that house.
“Yeah, she did,” You reply to him, preparing to give the same answer that you gave to Kendall. “I’ve been busy, though, and I want to unwind a bit this weekend. So I’m sorry, I can’t go.”
“You sure? There’s no pressure, obviously, but we would love to have you. I know Beau definitely wants to catch up with you. We haven’t seen you in class for a bit. We’ve also been coming to your home meets so that we could see you, but you were absent in the past three ones, right?”
Right again, Mr. Graham.
Also in the past month, you have spent several nights over at the hospice center, and you have forgotten to let people know about your absence. After missing practice for the third time, Coach Alvarez pulled you into her office, bluntly warning you that if you have another unexcused absence again this semester, she will consider suspending you from the team.
Her tone scared the absolute shit out of you, and finally, you knew you had to tell someone about your home life, and about why you came back to Briar.
“You won’t tell anyone, right?” You pleaded with her as your nails dug into your skin. “Please, Coach, I can’t have anyone know.”
“Of course not, Y/N,” She relieved you in a tone so gentle that you thought you were dreaming. She took her hand out for you to hold, which you graciously took.
“I’m sorry that you’re going through this. And you shouldn’t go through it alone. I won’t tell anyone else about it, I promise. But I do encourage you to talk with the Dean of Student Affairs. If you explain your situation to them, they can grant you some Emergency Absences. Your professors will have to abide by those rules, and they wouldn’t know the specifics of your situation.”
You nodded, and when she squeezed your hand tighter, you broke down in tears.
Other people have certainly noticed your absence. Briar’s weekly student newsletter has even reported on it. An editor had asked students attending the meets about the diver they most looked forward to seeing, and the responses overwhelmingly titled in your favor.
And apparently, Garrett has also observed your decline in attendance.
“I would love to catch up with Beau, too. I just…” You stop, wondering how to phrase the next part. “With all due respect, I don’t feel comfortable coming to your house.”
Garrett’s expression is completely unfazed, as if he was expecting that response.
“That’s totally fair, and I don’t want to push you. I just wanted to let you know that we’d love to see you,” He reassures you, but the ease on his face quickly drops when he mutters the next few sentences. “And for your information, we all confronted Logan for how he treated you right after you left our place. We don’t condone his behavior at all. He also told everyone that you were his ex-girlfriend, but he didn’t elaborate.”
The floor feels unsteady beneath your feet. “So, you guys all know about our relationship?”
But the question you’re implicitly asking is different. So, you guys still want to see me?
“We do. We don’t know what happened, but that’s between you guys. I understand that you don’t want to see Logan, but if you choose to come to the party, we’ll have your back. And if he acts out, we’ll lock him in up his room. Put him in his kennel.”
You laugh when hearing his assurance, and your heart swells at the sincerity in his tone. “Like a dog?”
Garrett smirks, confidently nodding his head. “Precisely.”
You think that your eardrums rupture as soon as you enter their house.
Somehow, after enduring some of the most incessant pleading from your teammates, you decided to go to the boys’ Halloween party. Even though Kendall’s puppy dog eyes were particularly persuasive, it was the conversation that you had with Garrett two days ago that ultimately led you to put on some white bike shorts and a tank top to form a makeshift Padmé Amidala costume. Nour was kind enough to lend you some holsters and toy guns to complete your outfit. And honestly, with all of the shit you’ve suffered through these past few weeks, you’re excited to have a fun night out with your teammates. You desperately needed a break.
Luckily, the house is packed to the brim, so you don’t see your ex-boyfriend immediately. And, if the universe finally decides to grant some of your wishes, you hope that you never see him at all tonight. A girl could only dream.
“Shot time!” Kendall hollers, and suddenly she’s dragging you to the kitchen, leading you through hordes of Briar students. When you stop by the kitchen counter, you hear a friendly voice call out your name.
“Y/N!” Tucker blurts out, wearing what you can only guess to be an Indiana Jones costume. “I’m glad you made it! Garrett told us that you weren’t sure about coming.”
“Yeah, I just…had some reservations, I guess,” You shrug, vaguely alluding to what happened last time you were in this house.
Tucker gives you a reassuring nod, whereas Kendall’s looking at you with puzzled eyes. Her focus then quickly deviates to the vodka in front of her, and she begins to pour some shots.
“Understandable,” Tucker says, and you’re thankful that he doesn’t air out your business for the other partygoers to hear. “It’s been a stressful semester. But we always host a Halloween party, no matter how busy we get.”
“Amen,” Kendall chimes in, giving both you and Tucker some shots. “And you guys deserve to throw a party after finally getting a win. Those losses were painful to watch. I don’t know what was up with fuckin’ Logan, but I’m glad he got his head back in the game.”
Your body involuntarily freezes at her words, and Tucker notices. As you stare into your shot glass, you have no idea what to respond, but Tucker fills in the silence.
“Yeah. It’s been a rough few weeks for him, I guess,” He responds with a grimace. “But hey, we’re back now. And I’m gonna drink to that.”
“Hell yeah!” Kendall yells, and you chuckle as she pushes her tiara back, still maintaining her Princess of Genovia costume. “It’s shot o’clock, baby!”
“Whoa! Who’s taking shots without me?” A familiar voice shouts through the kitchen, and your heart warms when seeing his matching Zoolander costume with Dean. “Y/N! You’re here!”
“In the flesh,” You can’t help but smile when Beau stumbles on his feet and clumsily goes to hug you. Already, you can tell that he’s definitely a few drinks in.
“Dude, I never got to thank you for all of your help with that fuckin’ project. You rescued us from what would’ve been a shitshow.”
“They were always complaining about that class,” Dean jokes, his long wig about to fall off at any moment. You can’t take him seriously in his Hansel costume. “I’m just glad I don’t have to hear any more complaints now.”
You laugh with the rest of the group. “Where’s Garrett?”
“Sucking Hannah’s face, per usual,” Dean rolls his eyes, before going to mock Garrett. “‘Oh, she’s just my Philosophy tutor, guys.’ Shitty ass liar. Makes me sick.”
Kendall had told you that Garrett was seeing a girl named Hannah. After everything you heard from your teammate about Garrett’s love life, you’re surprised that he seems serious about his ‘Philosophy tutor’. But even though he was an asshole to you in the beginning, you now know deep down that he was a genuinely nice person.
“Jesus, can we take a shot now?” Kendall sighs impatiently, and the whole group raises their glasses, and you gladly take your shot with them, chuckling when the vodka spills all over Beau’s costume.
The rest of the night goes quite smoothly. After you catch up with Beau in the kitchen, you mingle with Kendall the majority of the time, before Garrett sees you from the air hockey table and gestures for you to come over, a short brunette by his side.
“This is Hannah,” He motions between the two of you, and she smiles at you while shaking your hand. “And this is Y/N, aka the Sociology G.O.A.T.”
“It’s so nice to meet you! I’ve always wanted to go up to you after your meets,” She says enthusiastically, and you can’t help but blush at her comment.
“You’ve been to my meets before?”
“Of course! All of Briar was talking about you when you transferred here in August. I’ve also wanted to finally meet the person that helped him go from a C- to a B in Rezkin’s class,” She jokes, and the smile that Garrett gives her is so full of love.
The three of you talk before going over to the dining table to play some beer pong with some other students and hockey players. You’re on a team with Garrett and Hannah, and at some point in the game, you forget that your ex even lives here.
When you throw the winning shot, you then hear a fanfare of whistling and clapping.
“Awesome shot,” A tall man to your left smirks at you, and you awkwardly smile back, trying to figure out if you knew this guy at all.
“Thanks. It’s been a while since I played.”
“Really? You looked like a natural. I need you on my team next time,” He winks, and you try your best not to cringe at his tone. When you turn to look on your right, you realize that Garrett and Hannah have disappeared into the crowd. Fuck.
“Uh, sure,” You hesitantly shrug, at a loss for words. “I’m sorry, have I met you before?”
“No, we haven’t met. I’m Tom,” He introduces himself, and you don’t miss how his eyes scan your body. “I’ve been to every single one of your home meets. You’re a fantastic diver. When I heard that Briar’s diving team was coming tonight, I knew I had to pull up.”
You try to ignore the sirens wailing in your hand, so you grip your palms on the table, trying to subtly dart your eyes around the room to find someone who could get you out of this situation.
Tom keeps on talking.
“I remember reading about you in high school. You grew up in Munsen right? You were some sort of child prodigy. You won first place eighteen times in a row back in 2021. That meet against Arlington was legendary.”
Shit, you don’t even know that statistic yourself. You can’t help but wonder how much this guy has researched about you, and your stomach immediately twists into knots.
“Oh, yeah, I don’t even remember that meet,” You respond with the fakest smile known to man, before you try to turn away to go to the living room. “Um, it was nice to meet you—”
A rough hand wraps around your wrist.
“Whoa, what’s the rush, Y/N? We’re not done talking. We haven’t even talked about why you’re back here,” Tom’s eyes darken and fixate onto your face, and when you register his last sentence, you stumble over your words.
“I-I’m sorry, what? What did you just ask me? That’s none of your business.”
“Oh, come on, Y/N. Now’s not the time to be fucking coy,” He laughs as if he’s told the funniest joke in the world, and your knuckles whiten against the table. “Why would someone transfer to Briar after winning almost every meet at Berkeley for two years straight? After being trained by former Olympic athletes? That’s absurd. You’re hiding something.”
His words hit you like a slap to the face, and you’re left completely dumbfounded. Your mouth dries up as you try to snap back at him, but your mind goes blank, surrendering to Tom’s line of questioning.
Wow, Y/N. You can’t even defend yourself? What’s wrong with you?
“Just admit it. You’re not telling us something. What is it?”
Right before the tears could fall down your cheeks, a voice you unfortunately know all too well joins the conversation.
“Tom! What’s up? It’s been ages, man.”
A firm hand clasps onto Tom’s shoulder, practically jolting the man away from your body. You’re certain that your eyes are deceiving you. They must be.
Because not only is this person helping you out of an alarming situation, but he is also conveniently dressed as Anakin Skywalker. Of course he is.
“Hey, Logan. Yeah, it’s been a while,” Tom replies back in an incredibly dull voice, his tone lacking all the enthusiasm that it had thirty seconds ago. “I didn’t think I’d see you.”
“Well, you’re in my house, aren’t you?” John grins at the man as if it’s physically hurting him, his jaw visibly clenching. Your eyes widen when you notice the death grip that he has on Tom’s shoulder.
Finally, he turns his head and lays his eyes on you. Your legs feel impossibly heavy, as if they’re about to fall to the ground in any second.
“Y/N, you wouldn’t mind if I borrow this guy for a convo real quick, right?” John asks, voice eerily controlled.
“Actually, Y/N and I were in the middle of—”
“Not at all,” Your breath shakes as you interrupt Tom, trying your best to keep your own voice as level as your ex’s. “Please, go ahead. Take your time. Catch up.”
After dating Logan for four years, you knew all of his facial expressions. Even though the two of you haven’t seen each other in two years, you still know his tells. And unfortunately, you recognize the angry look at on his face. It’s the same one you saw a few weeks ago when rushing out of his house.
But, fortunately for Tom, John has the decency to be somewhat restrained, holding himself from unleashing his full wrath.
“Ah, you’re the best,” Your ex still has the most dangerous of smiles on his face, and he begins to drag Tom away by the shoulder, walking towards the living room. “Come on, man, I’ll get you a beer.”
You waste no time in running away.
The night air feels refreshing on your skin. Pop music continues to play in the background. You vaguely recognize the lyrics to “Teenage Dream” playing in the background, hearing all the partygoers sing along in unison.
You have no idea how long you’ve been sitting out here. You’re not sure if you even want to go back inside. As much as you want to dance with Kendall and down more shots with Beau, there’s no way you can continue to keep up a façade. You also snagged a vodka bottle from the kitchen before heading outside, and now, the bottle is almost entirely empty.
You shouldn’t have come to this party. If only Kendall’s puppy dog eyes weren’t so powerful.
Sighing, you fish another cigarette out of your pack. As you look down at the pack, you see that it’s almost done. It was full when you first came to the party.
Ever since you started to compete professionally, you’ve been met with intrusive questions, especially from men. You thought you grew used to them. But there was something so cruel about Tom’s presence that he quickly suffocated you, leaving you with no room to breathe.
And after that interaction, you’re not sure if you’re more shocked at Tom’s questions, or the fact that John, out of all the people in that house, came to bail you out. You wonder how much he overheard before stepping in.
You take a drag out of you cigarette, hazily staring at the moon above. You don’t hear the sound of a door closing behind you.
“When did you start smoking?”
Somehow, you don’t jump at the sudden presence of a voice. And surprisingly, you don’t jump when hearing his voice in particular.
The chuckle that falls from your lips is devoid of any humor. He pauses in his footsteps, giving you enough space.
“You want the fake answer or the real answer?”
Clearly, the alcohol has lowered your inhibitions. And as he stutters, you can tell that he didn’t expect that reply.
“Uh, I don’t know. Whichever one you’re most comfortable with, I guess.”
You clumsily stand up, cigarette still clad in your left hand as you wipe off some grass on your shorts with your right hand. You stare down at the ground, involuntarily letting out some giggles, as if this situation was fucking hilarious.
“Fake answer? Uh, I just started tonight,” You leisurely walk over to him, still refusing to look him in the eyes. “But the real answer? Ever since we broke up, actually.”
Logan carefully scans your face, brown eyes looking at you with an emotion you can’t quite pinpoint.
His silence unnerves you. Looking at his Anakin costume only makes it worse.
“Why are you talking to me, Logan?” You whisper, and the name feels so unfamiliar in your mouth. You’ve always said John, never Logan. You look up to see the color drain from his face immediately.
When you think that you detect a hint of concern in his eyes, that’s when you know that the alcohol has taken over.
He opens and closes his mouth a few times, and you’re beginning to think that you will die of impatience if he won’t answer you soon. But before you could turn away, his voice holds you in place.
“Tom’s a dick. He shouldn’t have pestered you like that,” Logan mutters, looking down at his fists that he keeps clenching and unclenching. His breath hitches as he fixes his gaze back onto you. “I kicked him out afterwards.”
You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief, because why would he do that? Why would your ex-boyfriend, the guy who openly berated in front of his friends just weeks ago in house, help you out?
“Okay,” You mumble, not knowing what else to say to him as you throw your cigarette to the ground. “Cool, I guess. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Listen, Y/N, I’m really—”
Your focus breaks when someone opens the front door and urgently calls your name.
“Y/N! Nour’s been throwing up and wants to leave. We’re gonna Uber back to my place,” Kendall tells you from the porch. Her suddenly eyes lock onto Logan’s body, confused as to why he’s standing so close to you. “Is everything good here? What’s going on?”
“All good,” You blurt out, using every muscle in your body to move your wobbly legs towards Kendall. Judging by the shocked look on Kendall’s face, you figure that Logan is watching your every move. But he remains silent as you go to the front door, and you see your other teammates hold Nour’s body steady.
“Uber’s a minute away,” Kendall mutters, and you help to safely get Nour’s body down the steps of the porch.
Garrett suddenly walks out as well, Hannah right by his side. He calls out to your group, telling all of you to get home safe. And as you get into the Uber, you briefly overhear remnants of his conversation with Logan. You’re pretty sure Garrett asks him something along the lines of “What did you say now?” but the car drives off before you could make out a response.
The rest of the night consists of watching over Nour, making sure she drinks enough water and that she sleeps on her side. Kendall graciously let all of you stay the night at hers. Though, she keeps on glancing over at you to check if you’re okay. She hasn’t asked about why you were talking with Logan out there, but you could tell she was curious. Luckily, as the solid friend she is, she doesn’t pry.
After she wishes you a good night, you try to fall asleep on her incredibly comfortable couch, but you can’t help but wonder what Logan was going to tell you.
“Listen, Y/N, I’m really—”
Your mind explores all the possible options. Was he really angry? Really upset? Really sad? Those are the only combinations that make sense to your inebriated brain at the moment.
Whenever you close your eyes, you see him in his stupid Anakin robe, pulling Tom away from you.
You stay up the entire night.
And you realize that you haven’t slept at all until your phone buzzes with a text that completely wrecks you.
(6:14 AM) Jennifer/Dad’s Night Nurse: Y/N, I’m sorry for texting you so early in the morning. But you should come over as soon as possible. He got worse overnight.
