"they are," you insisted, wrinkling your nose as you snipped a model’s head clean off his body. "all of them."

"not all boys are gross," yoongi said from where he was lying on his stomach by the door, flipping through a comic book. he didn’t even look up, just turned the page like this was a casual debate he was only half-invested in.

"yeah, they are," you shot back.

"you’re marrying me," he said simply, like that settled it.

"i am not." you stuck your tongue out at him.

"guess i’ll just have to marry you instead, then," he said, propping himself up on his elbows and smirking.

"ew," his sister said.

"yeah, ew," you agreed.

yoongi just laughed, flipping another page with a half lazy smirk.

you were thirteen when you stopped idolizing yoongi and started seeing him for what he was—your best friend's older brother.

maybe it happened gradually, in the way he stopped lingering in doorways or teasing you when you and his sister whispered in her room. maybe it happened all at once, the day he turned eighteen and left like it was the easiest thing in the world. either way, by the time you realized, it was already too late.

he was gone. not gone gone, but whisked away into adulthood like it had been waiting for him just beyond the front porch. he stopped coming home as much, stopped letting his sister drag him into your sleepover games or chase him down the hall when he stole a hair tie off her wrist.

"he's so annoying," his sister huffed one day, flopping onto her bed after yet another unanswered text. "it's like he thinks he's too cool for us now."

you just hummed, staring at your phone screen, at a group picture taken last summer—the three of you, arms slung over each other's shoulders, sun in your eyes and sand stuck to your knees.

maybe he did think he was too cool for you now. maybe he was right.

he would come home every summer, but those summers were never actually spent at home. you'd catch two-minute glimpses of him before he’d run off to some party or to skate with the other boys.

sometimes, you’d see him in the kitchen, rifling through the fridge for something to eat before disappearing out the back door. other times, it was in the driveway, slamming the car door shut while some guy leaned on the hood, waiting for him to hurry up.

"yoongi," his mom would call after him. "you just got here!"

"i know, i know," he’d say, already halfway down the front steps.

he never looked back, not even when his sister rolled her eyes and mimicked his voice under her breath, making you laugh.

but sometimes, if you stayed up late enough, you’d hear him come back. the rattle of the doorknob, the creak of the stairs. the sound of his skateboard dropping to the floor just outside his room.

once, when you were sixteen, you caught him on the front porch lighting a cigarette.

"that’s bad for you," you said, stepping outside.

he glanced over his shoulder, barely reacting. "so’s fast food, and i don’t see you giving up mcdonald’s."

"that’s different."

"not really." he took a slow drag, blowing the smoke into the warm night air. then he looked at you properly for the first time all summer, eyes flicking down like he was seeing something new. "you got taller."

"yeah," you said, crossing your arms. "it happens."

he huffed a little laugh, pressing the cigarette to his lips again. "guess it does."

the first time yoongi sees you drunk, you’re seventeen.

his sister’s sleazebag of a boyfriend had invited the two of you to some rager in his backyard, and—against your better judgment—you both went. one drink turned into three, cheap booze and cruisers passed around like candy, and before you knew it, everything was a little too funny, a little too bright, and walking in a straight line became a distant memory.

yoongi had to be called to pick you up.

"she’s fine," his sister slurred into the phone, waving you off when you giggled at absolutely nothing. "we’re both fine. just hurry up."

he showed up fifteen minutes later, standing in the middle of the chaos with a look of absolute disinterest, like he’d rather be anywhere else. some guy slapped his shoulder on the way out, muttering something about taking a shot, and yoongi ignored him completely.

"we’re not even that drunk," his sister insisted when he found you both slumped together on the back steps.

"yeah?" yoongi scoffed, hooking his hands under your arms and hauling you up first. "you can barely keep your eyes open."

"neither can you," you mumbled against his shoulder, words slurring together as he steadied you.

"that’s because it’s two in the morning," he said, half-dragging, half-guiding you toward his car. "come on, let’s go before i have to deal with any more of these idiots."

you blinked up at him once you were in the passenger seat, head lolling against the window. "you’re kind of mean."

he rolled his eyes, reaching over to buckle you in. "and you’re kind of wasted."

you frowned. "i was having fun."

"i’m sure you were." he shut the door with a sigh, rounding the car to help his sister next.

you don’t remember much else. not the drive home, not the way you leaned your head against the seat and mumbled something about how he smelled like mint and cigarette smoke.

but you do remember this—yoongi didn’t laugh at you that night. didn’t tease or call you a lightweight like you thought he would.

he just drove you home, silent, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

the first time yoongi brings home a girlfriend, you’re eighteen.

it’s the middle of july, hot enough that even the a/c struggles, and you and his sister are sprawled across the couch, flipping through a stack of magazines you found buried in her closet. it’s a slow, lazy afternoon—until the front door swings open, and yoongi walks in with her.

she’s blonde. tan. wearing a rhinestone-studded tank top that says JUICY in bubble letters across the front. her white miniskirt is just barely hanging on, and her lip gloss shines like it was applied with a paint roller.

his sister freezes first, fingers tightening on the magazine in her lap. you feel it a second later, the way the air in the room shifts.

"who’s this?" his mom asks from the kitchen.

"this is sena," yoongi says, arm slung low around the girl’s waist.

"hi!" she chirps, all smiles. "it’s so nice to finally meet you guys!"

his sister leans in, voice low. "she looks like she’d be on girls gone wild."

you press your lips together, flipping a page. "swear i’ve seen her in hustler."

yoongi hears. of course he hears. his head snaps toward the both of you, eyes narrowing in warning. his mom’s hard look follows right after, the same one she gives when the two of you are this close to getting grounded.

but the girlfriend just giggles, leaning into yoongi’s arm like she didn’t just hear you indirectly call her a porn star.

"yoongles, they’re so funny!" she coos, poking his cheek with a manicured nail.

his sister chokes. you slap a hand over your mouth. yoongi just closes his eyes for a long, long second, re-evaluating every decision that’s led him here.

his mom sighs. "well, sena," she says, ever the gracious host, "do you want something to drink?"

sena beams. "oh my god, totally. do you guys have diet pepsi?"

yoongi’s sister makes a strangled sound and bolts up the stairs before she completely loses it. you barely manage to keep it together long enough to watch sena drag yoongi toward the kitchen, still giggling, still calling him that.

as soon as they’re out of earshot, you grab your phone and text his sister, only two words:

yoongles. help.

there were many girlfriends after that. a new one almost every two months.

some were blonde, some were brunette, some had the same rhinestone-studded tank tops and miniskirts, and some wore ripped jeans and band tees like they were too cool for the rest of the world. none of them lasted.

yoongi was home a lot more now, at twenty-three, taking a break from college. no one really knew if it was temporary or if he was done for good, but he never said much about it. just shrugged whenever his mom asked and said something about needing time to figure things out.

whatever figuring out he was doing, though, it didn’t stop him from sliding right back into old habits. back to the skater boy that left his dirty socks in the living room and took too long in the bathroom.

"he’s so annoying," his sister groaned one morning, kicking at a pair of his sneakers abandoned by the front door.

"you’ve said that every year since you could talk," you muttered, flipping through the tv channels.

"yeah, and he gets more annoying every year."

you hummed, pausing on mtv cribs.

yoongi was still asleep upstairs, last night’s girlfriend long gone, leaving behind a stray bobby pin on the coffee table and the faintest trace of vanilla perfume in the air.

it was always like this now. he’d crash at home for a few months, fill the house with girls and late-night cigarette smoke, and then disappear again just when you started getting used to him being around.

but for now, he was here. twenty-three, aimless, and completely unaware that yoongles had officially become a household joke behind his back.

your first boyfriend comes into your life at nineteen.

he’s nice. polite. a little vanilla, but sweet in the way that boys who don’t know how to be anything else are. he opens doors for you, remembers your coffee order, and always texts you good morning and good night.

"you’re so going to marry him," yoongi’s sister teases one night, sprawled across her bed with a bag of chips between you.

"right?" you giggle, flipping through a magazine. cosmo, this time. ten ways to know he’s the one.

"he’s so boring," yoongi mutters from the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed.

you and his sister share a look before bursting into laughter.

"he’s nice," you correct, tilting your head at him. "you wouldn’t know what that looks like."

yoongi rolls his eyes. "you’re gonna be miserable in a year."

"you’re just mad i actually found someone who wants to date me."

he scoffs, but doesn’t argue. just watches as his sister steals another chip from the bag and nudges you with her elbow.

"remember when you were five and promised to marry him?" she grins, jerking her thumb toward yoongi.

you wrinkle your nose. "i was a kid."

"still happened," yoongi says, so annoyingly smug about it.

"doesn’t count," you shoot back.

his sister nods, backing you up. "yeah, childhood delusions don’t count."

"whatever," yoongi mumbles, pushing off the doorframe. "don’t come crying to me when you realize i was right."

he disappears down the hall, and you roll your eyes, turning back to your magazine.

"he’s so weird," you say.

his sister snickers. "he’s so jealous."

"he's so gross," you say, wrinkling your nose as you pop a chip into your mouth.

"right?" his sister snickers, shoving another handful into hers. "like, who even says that?"

you shake your head, flipping another page in your cosmo, but your mind is still half-stuck on it—on the way yoongi had leaned against the doorway, arms crossed like he was so sure you’d regret dating someone who was, for once, actually nice to you.

like he knew something you didn’t. like he thought it was funny.

it wasn’t. it was weird. he was weird.

and yet, later that night, when your boyfriend texts you something sweet, something corny and cute, you hesitate before answering.

because suddenly, yoongi’s voice is stuck in your head.

"you’re gonna be miserable in a year."

weird. so weird.

your first heartbreak comes later that year, getting dumped after refusing to put out.

it’s not dramatic. no screaming, no public fight. just a quiet, awkward conversation in the front seat of his car, parked outside your house.

"i just think we’re in different places," he says, hands tight around the steering wheel, like he’s bracing for impact.

"yeah," you say, voice flat. "guess so."

and that’s it. he drops you off and drives away, and you stand in the driveway for a full minute before going inside like nothing happened.

his sister is the first to find out.

"that asshole," she huffs, throwing a handful of popcorn at the tv like that somehow avenges you. "i always knew he was too polite. like, fake polite. like one of those guys who probably tells people he’s a feminist but still reads playboy mags."

you groan, flopping onto her bed. "he does not have playboy mags."

"bet he does."

you let out a weak laugh, staring at the ceiling. you’re not going to cry. not over him. it’s just—it sucks.

the next person to find out is, unfortunately, yoongi.

he’s home when it happens, freshly twenty-four and still lounging around like he has nowhere better to be. you don’t tell him, obviously. his sister does, loud and unfiltered, while you sit at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal and pretend not to care.

"she got dumped," she announces, stealing a spoonful from your bowl.

yoongi, who’s digging through the fridge, snorts. "called it."

"fuck off," you mutter, shoving cereal in your mouth so you don’t have to say anything else.

but yoongi just leans against the counter, watching you with that same smug expression, like he’s been waiting for this.

"should’ve married me when you had the chance," he says.

you glare. his sister wheezes.

"oh my god, you’re so gross," you groan, pushing your chair back. "i’m leaving."

"good," yoongi calls after you. "don’t come crying to me!"

you flip him off over your shoulder. his laughter follows you all the way up the stairs.

you do, in fact, go crying to him.

a full year later, the night his sister leaves for college with a hug, a promise to call you every day, and an assignment to take care of yoongi for her.

you were the wrong person to choose for said assignment.

because first of all, who takes care of yoongi? no one. the man is self-sufficient to a fault, fueled by nicotine and whatever questionable food he picks up at the convenience store at ungodly hours. and second, you have your own life to deal with. your own problems.

like the fact that, hours after his sister’s car disappears down the street, you’re inexplicably, overwhelmingly sad.

the house is too quiet.

the realization hits you all at once—your best friend is gone, off in some dorm room, making new friends, starting a new life, and even though she swore you’d always be her person, it doesn’t change the fact that she’s not here anymore.

so you do what any emotionally stable, well-adjusted adult would do.

you cry about it.

and—because you’re terrible at making good decisions—you cry about it in yoongi’s room.

"you’re so dramatic," yoongi mutters, handing you a tissue as you curl up on the floor beside his bed.

"am not," you sniff, blowing your nose miserably. "you just don’t get it."

"i get it," he says. "i just don’t think it’s worth ugly crying over."

"fuck you."

he smirks, sitting back against the headboard, lazily flipping through a notebook. "not even gonna buy me dinner first?"

you throw the tissue box at him.

he dodges, barely, but there’s amusement in his eyes when he glances down at you again, tapping his pen against his knee.

"she’ll be fine, you know," he says, voice quieter now. "you will too."

you don’t say anything, just sniffle again, swiping at your damp cheeks.

a beat passes. "you can stay, if you want."

you blink. yoongi never offers things like that.

he doesn’t meet your eyes, already scribbling something down in his notebook. "just don’t—" he cuts himself off, sighs. "don’t cry on my floor all night, okay?"

you huff, curling deeper into yourself. "no promises."

he rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t tell you to leave.

somehow, you end up in his bed.

you don’t really know how it happens—maybe you got tired of the floor, maybe yoongi got tired of hearing you sniffle—but at some point, you end up curled against his side, face smushed into his hoodie, still crying like some pathetic, abandoned child.

"jesus," he mutters, hand hovering awkwardly over your back. "you’re actually so annoying."

"you offered," you croak, voice muffled against his chest.

"yeah, well, i take it back." but he doesn’t move you. doesn’t shove you off or complain when your fingers clutch at the fabric of his hoodie because you need something to hold onto.

instead, he sighs—long, put-upon—and lets his hand drop against your back, an awkward, barely-there pat.

it’s dumb. the whole thing is dumb. you’re an adult now, and your best friend is literally a phone call away, and yet here you are, crying like a baby in yoongi’s bed.

but he doesn’t kick you out. doesn’t make fun of you like he normally would. just lies there, letting you fall apart on his hoodie, his hand never moving from your back.

"yoongi?" your voice is small, choked.

he shifts, chin resting against the top of your head. "what?"

"thanks."

he exhales sharply, and for a second, you swear you feel him smile.

"whatever," he mutters, voice softer than it should be. "go to sleep."

and—because it’s yoongi, because he’s warm, because his hoodie smells like laundry detergent and cigarette smoke and home—you do.

when you’re not sleeping in your best friend’s bed, you’re sleeping in yoongi’s.

it’s not on purpose. at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

the first time, you’d been too exhausted to go back to your own room. you’d fallen asleep curled up against his side, and when you woke up in the morning, he was already up, sitting at his desk, acting like you hadn’t just drooled on his hoodie all night.

the second time, it was his fault.

"you’re just gonna cry in my room again anyway," he’d said when he saw you hovering by his door, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands like some kind of orphaned child. "just get in bed and shut up about it."

so you had.

and then it just...kept happening.

some nights, you still slept in your best friend’s bed out of habit, curling up under the same floral-patterned blanket you’d both been using since you were kids. but most nights, you ended up in yoongi’s instead.

"this is getting weird," he’d grumbled one night when you crawled under the covers beside him, poking at his ribs until he moved over.

"then kick me out."

he sighed. "too much work."

and that was that.

there were rules, though. unspoken ones.

you didn’t talk about it. not in the morning, not when his mom raised an eyebrow at the way you emerged from his room stretching, not even when your best friend teased you over the phone.

("ew, you’re sleeping in yoongi’s bed?" she’d laughed. "have some self-respect.")

you didn’t cuddle. you weren’t like that. yoongi kept to his side, you kept to yours, and that was that.

and, most importantly—it didn’t mean anything.

because if it did, then you’d have to admit that something had shifted. that somewhere along the way, the teasing, the eye-rolls, the years of bickering had stopped feeling so familiar, so easy, and had started feeling like something else entirely.

and you weren’t ready for that. not yet.

the first time you realize something’s changed, it’s at a party.

it’s one of those loud, hazy, sticky summer nights, the kind where the air is thick with humidity and the scent of cheap beer and cigarette smoke clings to your clothes before you’ve even stepped inside.

you don’t know why you came. maybe because your best friend begged you to actually go out for once, or maybe because you knew he would be here.

yoongi isn’t hard to find. he’s never hard to find.

he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, lazily sipping from a red cup, one arm draped over the back of some girl’s chair. she’s pretty—they always are—laughing at something he just said, leaning into him like she wants to be the next one.

you tell yourself you don’t care. that you’ve seen this before, that it means nothing, that you have absolutely no reason to feel the way you do right now.

but then he looks up.

his eyes find yours across the room, and something in his expression shifts—just barely, just enough for you to notice.

and just like that, you’re somewhere else.

somewhere months ago, slipping under his blankets, stealing his warmth on cold nights. somewhere in the early mornings, waking up to the sound of his deep, slow breathing before slipping out of his bed unnoticed.

somewhere you shouldn’t be.

but you’re here now, in a room full of people, and he’s still looking at you.

you swallow, breaking eye contact first, pushing past bodies and slipping outside.

you don’t run, exactly, but it feels like you do.

the air is cooler out here, quieter, and you take a slow breath, pressing your hands to your flushed cheeks.

and then—"running away?"

yoongi’s voice. behind you.

you turn, and he’s standing in the doorway, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other still holding his drink.

"no," you say too quickly. "just needed air."

"bullshit." he steps closer, the warm glow from the porch light casting soft shadows across his face.

you roll your eyes. "why do you care?"

"i don’t," he says, but he doesn’t walk away. doesn’t leave you alone like he should.

he just watches you, like he’s trying to figure something out.

and then—"you look good."

your breath catches.

it’s stupid, it’s so stupid, because he’s probably said that a hundred times to a hundred different girls, but this time it’s you.

and it feels different.

"you’re drunk," you mutter, arms crossed.

"not really."

you don’t know what to say to that.

so you say nothing, looking away, looking anywhere but at him.

but then—his fingers graze your wrist.

just barely. just enough.

and suddenly, it’s very clear that something between you isn’t the same anymore.

the first time you kiss yoongi, it’s his birthday.

he’s turning twenty-seven. his hair is still bleached, the pale blonde grown out a bit at the roots, and he looks different now—older, sharper—but somehow still the same yoongi you’ve always known.

there’s no party. no drunken celebration or crowded apartment full of strangers. just a quiet night at home, the way his mom prefers it. the way he prefers it. dinner, cake, a movie. the whole family—plus you, of course.

his mom had gone to bed hours ago. his sister was passed out on the couch, curled up in the same blanket she’d been buried under for most of the movie.

and you’d just wanted a drink of water. but when you turn around, glass still in hand, he’s there. leaning against the counter, watching you with that lazy, unreadable expression.

"where’s my present?" he asks.

you blink. "you already opened my present."

it’s true. you’d given him a new set of headphones, something he’d offhandedly mentioned needing months ago, and he’d actually smiled when he unwrapped them. a real one.

but now he just hums, stepping closer. "not that one."

"what—"

and then he cuts you off with a kiss.

it’s soft, at first. hesitant, testing. but when you don’t pull away—when your breath catches, when your fingers tighten around the glass still in your hand—he presses in deeper, tilting his head, lips parting against yours like he’s been waiting for this.

you don’t know who moves first. don’t know if you drop the glass or if he takes it from you, if you step closer or if he pulls you in.

all you know is that it’s him. yoongi.

his hands on your waist, the faint scent of birthday cake and cigarette smoke clinging to his hoodie, the way he exhales so softly against your lips before pulling away just enough to look at you.

yoongi lifts you like it’s nothing.

hands firm at your waist, he hoists you up onto the counter, slotting himself between your legs before you can even catch your breath. the cold marble is a shock against your bare thighs, but the warmth of his hands is hotter, grounding, spreading heat everywhere.

you’re wearing an oversized band tee—his band tee. he notices. his fingers slip beneath the hem, just barely, thumbs brushing slow circles over your skin.

"you’re such a thief," he mutters, mouth ghosting over yours, not kissing you yet, just lingering.

"you gave it to me," you breathe, blinking up at him.

he huffs a soft laugh, lips twitching. "you stole it."

"and yet, you never asked for it back."

he hums, tilting his head. "maybe i liked seeing you in it."

you don’t have a chance to process that, because then he’s kissing you again. deeper. slower. hungrier. you don’t even realize your hands are in his hair until you feel the strands slipping through your fingers.

yoongi groans, low, deep, and the sound goes straight through you.

his hands tighten on your thighs, pressing you closer, and you feel it, the way his fingers tremble, just a little, like he’s holding back.

you don’t say anything. just pull him in, legs wrapping around his waist, fingers tugging him even closer.

"yoongi," you murmur against his lips after a moment, breathless, dazed, hands still tangled in his hair.

"mm?" he hums, mouth trailing, kissing along your jaw, slow, lazy, like he has all the time in the world. and maybe he does. maybe you do.

except—

"your sister is in the living room," you remind him, voice barely above a whisper, fingers tightening against his hoodie.

he stills, and there’s a beat of silence. then he groans, low and frustrated, forehead dropping against your shoulder.

"you have the worst timing," he mutters, his hands gripping your thighs, debating whether or not to just pretend you didn’t say anything.

you laugh, breathy, threading your fingers through his hair. "we’re in your mom’s kitchen," you point out. "next to the fridge. literally anyone could walk in."

he huffs, pulling back just enough to look at you—really look at you. your lips are swollen, your shirt is crooked, still drowning you. and suddenly, he wants. wants to stay here, wants to ignore reality, wants to kiss you until the sun comes up.

but you’re right.

(you’re always right, and it’s so fucking annoying.)

he sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. "fine," he grumbles. "you win."

you grin. "i always do."

he rolls his eyes but doesn’t deny it, stepping back, hands slipping from your thighs way too slowly, like he doesn’t really want to let go. "come on," he mutters, offering a hand. "before you ruin my life even more."

you take it, hop down, straighten your shirt, and try not to laugh at the way he adjusts his way too obvious boner when he thinks you’re not looking.

"hey, yoongi?" you say as he leads you out of the kitchen.

"what?"

you smirk. "happy birthday."

his eyes flick to you, and something shifts again, something deep, something you don’t have a name for yet. then, his mouth quirks into something almost fond, and he squeezes your hand before finally letting go.

"thanks, brat."