Nami

Your last real relationship was four years ago. After that, it’s just been a string of dates that never really turned into anything.

The plan was simple: focus on yourself, your career, travel the world.

This was not in the plan.

At least your career is thriving. And you are traveling the world. And maybe that’s how you justify it.

Because somehow, you start to understand why Tiff and Bina and Angel agreed to something like this with the other boys. The work is stressful, the hours are insane, and this arrangement takes the edge off in a way nothing else really does. There’s something about being in the same place at the same time a little too often that makes whatever this is with Yoongi… convenient. Easy.

That’s why it works. Theoretically.

You’re focusing on yourself. Your well-being. And if that well-being happens to come in the form of a chemical-induced haze on the regular—dopamine, not drugs—then so be it.

There’s an easy, unspoken rhythm to it now. Between rehearsals, Yoongi glances at you from across the room. A tilt of his head. You follow. In the evening, a text from him. Midnight. Sometimes as late as 2 or 3 a.m. when he’s still buzzing from adrenaline or when he can’t quite figure a track out. You’re out the door and into his lap.

It’s always him. You don’t really initiate. You don’t have to. Not when he seeks you out first and gives it to you all night.

⊙⊝⊜

Yoongi is a generous lover. This to say, he is a munch. 

Now you get why he sings about giving good head every chance he gets. That tongue technology. Feeling the high waves coming. That salt in his tongue. Yeah, that’s your salt on his tongue.

Yoongi knows what to do to make your toes curl. How to pull pleasure out of you like no lover has before. Maybe it’s because of the secrecy, the risk. It heightens everything. Mostly you know it’s him. He’s clocked the hours to up his dick game. There are times you’re bothered by it. There are times you don’t care.

He’s mapped the places in your body that fall apart with his touch. Makes sure he does it again. And again. That’s what keeps you coming back for more.

The part that always gets you though is that brief moment of clarity after the act. The way he pulls you in after like it’s the right thing to do. You know it’s bare minimum. It doesn’t mean anything at all.

But for that stretch of time, danger looms. When your brain conjures a different version of you and him. A version where you’re allowed to ask questions like why he cut his hair. Why he doesn’t eat more. How his cat is doing. Why he keeps pressing on his shoulder like that-Is his past injury bothering him again? Is he gonna do another marathon?

You swallow all of it down. Because those aren’t your questions to ask. They belong to the people Yoongi loves. Jimin, for one. Not you.

Despite the many things you want to say in between the moment you come and the moment you go, you stop yourself because that’s not your role in his life. 

Whatever this is has rules. Unspoken, but clear. You’re a big girl. You’ve come to terms with the fact that this doesn’t extend beyond closed doors and dim lights. That this is temporary. A placeholder until he finds something real and true and worth risking his idol life for.

So you draw your own lines for your own good.

You don’t stay the night. Not once. You leave before things can settle into something softer, something harder to walk away from in the morning.

You don’t let him clean you up, either. Never. The first time he brings you a washcloth, you take it from his hand with a muttered I got it, like it’s nothing. Like you don’t want the care. Like you don’t need it.

Every now and then, a casual baby slips from his lips because he must know exactly how much it gets to you. You’re not his baby, you know that, so you never call him anything sweet. It should be enough for him that the world calls him SUGA.

And kissing. None of that. Let him take, let him unravel you however he wants. Just not your kryptonite.

The rules keep you grounded. You hold the line firmly where you can, even if sometimes things feel like they are starting to blur.

Yet, there are moments when they do blur in your favor.

When he’s with you, breath uneven, composure slipping in ways not many get to see. When his hands tighten their grip on your hair as he struggles to stay grounded. When his eyes—usually so guarded, so distant—roll to the back of his head as you give him bliss. When he calls you that one word in a voice so strangled and desperate, and punctuates it with please as you have his warm and heavy cock wrapped tightly around your fingers and he chants your name and curses over and over before white blooms across your skin.

That’s the power you have. It does something crazy to you. Because for all the secrecy, all the restraint, all the careful distance you keep, you know this much is yours. 

This version of him that comes undone in your hands. Pretty. Putty. It’s enough for now.

[Busan, SK, June 2026]

“Ughhh…”

You’re backstage, in one of the new costumes created for Festa, and this frickin’ zipper won’t—

“Hold still.”

You know the voice, and you don’t even argue. Yoongi steps behind you, tugging the zipper up in one smooth motion, the back of his hand brushing your spine in the process.

“You could’ve cut your skin,” he lightly scolds you with an eyebrow raise.

“Thanks,” you say, not meeting his eyes, ignoring the thump in your chest.

Down the hallway you hear a gaggle of noise and spot some of the dancers congregating by the catering table. You should probably join them and get something to eat, too. Though you’re feeling kinda…

“Nervous?” Yoongi asks.

“What?”

“You seem stressed.”

You don’t even realize you were showing it. “…maybe a little.”

Yoongi nods once like he’s satisfied that he read your mood. “Why?”

“Uh, my family is watching today.”

“Really?” His eyes widen. “Did you ask to seat them in the suites?”

“Oh, there’s no need for that. They should be okay in the 300s.”

Yoongi plucks his phone from his back pocket and starts tapping away. You don’t even know if he heard you or anything, but suddenly he’s furiously texting someone, fingers flying across the screen.

Since he seems distracted, you decide to bounce.

“I’m gonna go.” You jerk a thumb behind you. “I have to meet with Seung Eun to orient some of the… anyway, bye.”

Yoongi lifts his head and nods absently, before going back to whatever has him occupied.

⊙⊝⊜

Your phone rings and your sister’s goofy smile fills your screen. You swipe to answer it immediately. “Hey…”

“Unnie!!” There’s an unmistakable tone of delight in her voice. “Yo, the seats were amazing! Thank you for the upgrade!”

You pause mid-step, phone pressed to your ear. “…upgrade?”

“We got moved to the sky suite,” your sister gushes. “There was a buffet and everything. It was so cool!”

You stop walking entirely now, trying to piece it together. “Huh.”

Your sister is none the wiser about your confusion, still gushing about her experience. “We even met V, J-Hope, and RM!” She continues, sounding a little breathless. “Eomma introduced herself to RM. She thanked him for helping with her surgery. He was so nice, unnie. And so hot.”

Ah. That tracks.

Namjoon.

Of course it was him. Now you’re not surprised because you might have mentioned this to him one time. Honestly, you can’t remember. But he’s a generous soul. Does thoughtful things and he never expects anything back. Who else would have done this for you anyway.

“That’s great,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “I’ll thank him later.”

“I couldn’t really find you though,” your sister adds sheepishly. “All the dancers looked the same.”

You laugh. “That’s kind of the point.”

“You should come home when you can, okay?”

“How are things with eomma and appa?”

“They still haven’t killed each other.” She chuckles wryly and something pricks at your chest. 

“Were they at least happy today?”

“So happy,” she assures. “I’m proud of you, unnie. We are all proud of you.”

Your heart feels like it expanded two sizes. “...Thank you.”

“Come visit when you get back from tour, okay?”

“Yeah… I should be able to after US. We’ll have a short break.”

“Okay. I miss you.”

“Miss you, too.”

You say your goodbyes as you reach Yoongi’s door, still feeling a little frayed around the edges. It seems to be the case anytime you speak to your younger sister these days, who is literally the best person in your life. You wish you could tell her your worries, but she already has enough to deal with at home.

You sigh deeply, trying to reset yourself before you lift your wrist to knock.

Yoongi has asked you to come over that night and there wasn’t really any reason for you to say no. You still had some surplus energy you wouldn’t mind burning off. And it should take your mind off things. 

He tells you he just wrapped up a Weverse live with the members and you suspect his body is still high from all of the adrenaline and excitement from today.

One thing about Yoongi is that he always knows exactly where to put all that restless energy.

By the time he’s done with you, your thoughts have gone blissfully quiet, your body boneless beside his.

The room is quiet except for the steady rhythm of your breathing, bodies still warm, the sheets a mess around you.

You’re staring up at the ceiling when he speaks. “Did your family enjoy the show?”

You turn to him, brightening instantly. “Yeah. They loved it. I was on the phone with my sister on the way up.”

Yoongi smiles, soft and pretty in the afterglow. “Your dad must’ve liked the unlimited beer in the sky suite.”

You grin. “I think he did. They really appreciated being there.”

“You’re wel–”

It clicks then. “Oh shit.” You sit up suddenly, clutching the sheet to your chest. “I forgot to text Joon.”

“Namjoon-ah?”

“Yeah,” you say, already reaching for your phone. “To thank him for doing that for my family. That was really thoughtful of him.”

You don’t look at Yoongi.

You don’t see the way his expression stills. Flattens.

He watches you for a second longer, something stormy settling behind his eyes. Then he sits up, reaching for the shirt draped over the chair.

“I need to sleep.” He says as his head pokes through the tee.

You glance up from your phone, blinking as realization hits. “Oh. Yeah, of course.” You take it as your cue, slipping out of bed without question.

This isn’t new. This is how it usually goes.

“Sorry,” you mumble, already gathering your clothes. “I’ll get gone.”

He shrugs lightly. “It’s fine.”

You don’t think anything of it. He doesn’t really kick you out per se. But you guess in the few times you’ve done this, he’s figured out you never stay so he doesn’t expect you to.

You dress quickly and head out the door mumbling a goodbye. He doesn’t say anything back.

⊙⊝⊜

You’re walking down the hallway when Namjoon’s reply comes through.

You smile, opening the message.

Namjoon: Your family was so nice. I’m glad to finally meet your eomma. She looks healthy. Namjoon: Wasn’t me though. You should have told me they were coming and I would’ve arranged for it.

You read the last bit again. Confused.

Wait, so if it wasn’t him…

The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime.

You step inside slowly, thumb hovering over your screen uselessly.

Before it closes, your eyes lift to the door at the end of the corridor, thinking of the man behind it.

Oh.

Your stomach drops.

Could it be…?

You type before you can overthink it.

You: Was it you?

No reply comes.

⊙⊝⊜

Until a week after, where a u free tonight? graces your thread and you’re up and out the door in a green hoodie you copped from the Goyang tour kick-off. It seems like ages ago now, you think, as you pull some loose threads on the sleeve, but it’s really the comfiest thing ever.

You’re back in Seoul now. There’s two weeks of rest and rehearsals before flying out again. Seoul feels strangely still compared to months of constant movement, but it’s nice to come back to this pace after being crazy-busy.

This is the first time Yoongi has messaged you outside the tour bubble, and the fact that he wants to meet at his actual house sends a strange little thrill through your chest.

The lobby of his high-rise is massive, luxurious, infinitely more intimidating than your condo complex. You half expect security to arrest you, but the moment you say your name at the desk, the concierge nods immediately and sends you up without a problem. Still, maybe you should have dressed up a bit? Ah, it’s useless thinking about that now. Yoongi probably just has a random tee and his favorite sweats on anyway.

When you get to his room at the penthouse level, you press the doorbell on the digital screen. The door swings open not five seconds later.

See, Min Yoongi is a menace.

A white ribbed tank clings tightly to his toned chest, biceps completely exposed, the slim-cut brown trousers tapering perfectly against his narrow waist. He smells so good, too. Soapy and musky from having just showered, hair combed back showing his fresh new undercut.

Damn. Okay.

Yoongi chose violence tonight.

“Hi,” you say stupidly, suddenly hyperaware that this is the first time you’ve seen him outside of HYBE, arenas, and hotel hallways. 

(Except Hannam. But you don’t talk about that.)

Yoongi leans against the frame barefoot. “Hi,” he echoes, quieter, stepping aside to let you in.

His apartment is exactly what you imagined and somehow not at all.

Minimal. Clean lines. Classy. Smells nice. Huge windows wrapping around the open plan layout of his spacious living room, connecting to the kitchen towards the farther side of the room.

“Wow,” you mumble, toeing your shoes off near the entrance. “This is where you live…”

Yoongi snorts softly behind you. “Shut up.”

“Wae? I haven’t even said anything!”

A tiny smile pulls at his mouth as he watches you slowly wander further inside, your fingertips brushing lightly over the back of the couch as you take everything in.

You stop near one of the framed photos on the shelf. “You decorated this yourself?”

“Mm. Mostly.”

You glance around once more, genuinely impressed. “It feels very…”

“Go ahead,” he sighs. “Make fun of me.”

“No, I was gonna say warm.” You look around once more before teasing lightly, “Like a rich man in a K-drama lives here.”

“The lead or the second lead?”

The question catches you off-guard, but makes you grin. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters!”

“They’re not usually both rich, you know.”

“But what if they both are?” He shrugs, still waiting for the answer. “So?”

“Lemme think.” You consider it, making a show of surveying the space like you’re a reality show judge. “The Pinterest touches. I dunno ‘bout those…”

“What do you mean?”

“Yankee candle in Fresh Laundry. Bottle of Rose on the counter with two wine glasses.” You point accusingly. “Succulents.”

The place kinda looks a bit showroom-y, like he got the model unit from the realtor. But there are obvious traces of him everywhere. A pair of ear buds lying on the coffee table outside of its case, shelves of vinyls from many years of collecting, a Spotify plaque for D-day hanging on a wall beside some other accolades, a cat scratching post on the corner.

The one thing making this place feel the most like a K-drama set though is the man standing in front of you right now. In that fit. So fucking handsome. Looking at you with those stupidly hopeful eyes like your opinion of his apartment matters way more than it should.

Hands twitching faintly at his sides, Yoongi seems to be combusting for praise tonight, so you give it to him. It’s the truth anyways.

“Lead guy.”

His mouth twitches. “There it is.”

You smile softly as you watch him pour the wine. The sweet tang of the rosé glides across your tongue, cool and refreshing down your throat while Yoongi leans against the kitchen counter, watching you over the rim of his own glass with far too much satisfaction.

Like he’s pleased you like it here. Like he’s pleased you’re here.

“C’mere,” he mutters eventually, nodding toward the living room.

You follow him deeper into the apartment, eyes trailing after the broad line of his shoulders as he strolls toward the massive couch like he doesn’t realize how unfair he looks in soft pants and that stupid tank top.

He gestures casually toward the sofa. “Sit befo—”

Before he can even finish the sentence, your hands are on him.

“You have no idea how hot this is,” you inform him seriously, shoving lightly at his chest.

“Yah—”

He drops onto the couch with a startled laugh, and you immediately climb into his lap, your knees sinking into the plush cushions on either side of his thighs. His palms slide instinctively up your bare legs, settling at your waist before dipping lower, squeezing at your ass like he can’t decide where he wants to hold you most.

“Why are you wearing this?” you accuse, tugging lightly at the neckline of his tank.

“Why are you wearing that?” he accuses back.

You blink innocently. “Wearing what?”

“That.” He gestures vaguely toward your mouth, already looking annoyed. “The lip thing.”

Oh. You smile slowly. “You like it?”

“Hate it,” he deadpans immediately.

Which means you’ve already won.

You drag your bottom lip between your teeth before licking over the stain deliberately, just enough for it to catch the light, glossy and wet.

“Mm,” you hum. “Tastes good, too.”

Yoongi’s tongue presses against the inside of his cheek. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

His hands tighten slightly on your waist. “You know what.”

You tilt your head, pouting playfully now. “No, I don’t think I do.”

His gaze drops to your lips again like he can’t help it. Like he’s actively losing a battle with himself.

“Y/N,” he warns.

You lean closer on purpose, close enough for him to smell the sweet strawberry tint on your mouth. “What?”

He exhales slowly through his nose, eyes darkening in that way you’ve become very familiar with. “I need to fuckin’ do something with my mouth.”

“Is that your way of asking if you can kiss me?” You laugh softly, pleased with yourself, as you deliberately grind down against his length, just once. “You’re so romantic.”

A groan. A slap on your ass. Then a long, suffering sigh. “What if I say please?”

“Oh wow, big bad Agust D wants to say please?”

“Y/N.”

“You know you can’t kiss me, Yoongi.”

Another sigh. Deeper this time, just like the slow drag of your clothed cunt against the ridge of his cock.

His head tips back slightly against the couch like he’s asking the universe for patience while your smile grows impossibly smug.

“Fuuuuck,” he curses. “You’re evil.”

“Just suck on my tits. I don’t care.” 

His brow quirks. “You don't care?”

You shrug dismissively.

You don’t know it then, but he bookmarks that as a challenge. Not for tonight, though. He’s already so worked up. 

“Lie back,” he smacks your ass again and maneuvers you towards the couch cushions, already halfway peeling your shorts and panties off your legs.

“Show me your tits. Wanna see them while I eat you out.”

You comply, promptly pulling the zip of your hoodie down, showing you’re bare underneath. His eyes bug out temporarily before he shakes his head and drops his gaze between your legs.

He presses his lips to the soft inner flesh of your thigh, inching up to your core. He switches to the other leg, pressing butterfly kisses there to drive you insane.

Then, his tongue darts out to part your folds, gently, shallowly, wiggling it as if to make room.

Your hips arch off from the cushions, chasing his wet muscle immediately. But he holds you down, soft thighs locked against strong arms as he tsks a warning for you not to squirm too much.

He lifts his head and grits, in mock seriousness. “Can I have my meal in peace now?”

God, what the fuck is he saying? No matter, it got you clenching around nothing.

Yoongi lowers his chest further where you’re spread open for him. The warm air from his nose tickles your skin before letting his lips touch yours.

What he does next tracks, because he’s a little shit. 

Yoongi makes a show of making out with your puffy lips as if it was your mouth. You prop yourself on elbows to watch him do it, applying the faintest pressure before pulling it with a gentle suck. He licks and suckles noisily and you whine as his tongue snakes between your slit to flick against your clit. Just the first swipe almost breaks you. 

Yoongi doesn’t really talk much when he gets into a flowstate. Not before he props a pillow behind your head because he knows you love this show. 

“Watch…” he instructs, before your eager nod makes him smirk.

He keeps it soft, steady at first, his fat tongue sliding up and down your aching nub. He takes his time with this, just gives you maddeningly slow, torturous flicks at a glacial pace. The heat pools low on your belly, gradually increasing in intensity as he shakes his head against your mound, tongue zig-zagging against your clit. 

You run your fingers through his short hair, scratching his scalp. He purrs when you do that and the vibration makes you shiver.

This is the view you retrieve from your mind palace on nights you’re alone. Yoongi’s dark hair and even darker eyes between your legs. 

Fuck. He’s so insanely good at this. He moves lower to lap at the trail of juices leaking from your hole. You moan helplessly when he fucks you shallowly with his tongue, the sharp tip breaching your entrance but just barely.

“God… Yoongi, what the fuck?”

As if he wants to drive you even more insane, he adds pressure to your clit with his thumb and you’re just moaning and panting haplessly now, mind going numb.

Just when you’re about to—

Of course, of fucking course, he pulls back. You tip your head back, chasing the breath that has left your lungs.

“Look at you, baby.” Yoongi admires how his spit and your juices make your pussy all shiny and pretty. Eyes full of stars, he breathes out, “this perfect fuckin’ cunt…”

“Yoongi,” you squirm, biting your lip as he continues to just ogle at you. “Stop teasing…”

“Okay, okay…” he chuckles, giving your clit one quick swipe.

Yoongi takes your hand on the back of his neck and swallows two fingers, wetting the pads. He bites it playfully before telling you to “play with your tits...”

You pluck at your right nipple, swirling his spit around it before pulling it taut and releasing it with a jiggle. You didn’t realize your eyes fluttered shut until you feel the moist heat of his mouth envelop your other nipple, sucking at it greedily to force your eyes open.

“You ready to come?” he mumbles against your chest, kissing the sweat off your sternum.

“Please…” you scratch the tufts of his hair behind his ear, earning you another deep groan as he nuzzles his cheek against the softness of your tits.

He trails gentle kisses down your body as he goes back to his previous position. And you gasp when he does the thing for you. The finishing move. It’s when he sucks your clit in between his soft, pink lips and the tip of his tongue circles it while inside the warmth of his mouth.

“I love it when you do that… shit…” 

His brows are furrowed while he hums against you, still suckling like he’s addicted, even moaning indulgently for you.

“Yoongi, please. Don’t stop…”

And just like that…

“Not yet.”

He smirks as he withdraws just enough to look you dead in the eye before stuffing two fingers right through your cunt without warning.

“Fuck!” you cry out, walls clamping tight at the intrusion.

God his fingers. They’re moving so fast and it feels impossible. You’re too close to hold back.

“Not yet,” he snarls, fingers moving rapidly in and out of your sopping hole now. “Not until I say so.”

Everything feels fucking lit. Your skin is burning up, electricity running up and down your veins.

But this is where he likes to play, because Yoongi enjoys edging you. Works you up, but forces you to control yourself as if it doesn’t take every ounce of willpower not to explode. He’s a fucking problem.

“Don’t act like you don’t like this,” he mutters, almost to himself, as he watches you tremble. “I know you do.”

You loathe to admit that you like that sadistic grin on his face when he knows you’re close, but even better, the tiny tilt of his brow when he finally tells you to let go.

Your fingers curl against his bicep, grounding yourself as you start to grind against his fingers. You meet his every thrust, the noisy squelches of your pussy filling the room. You’re writhing, desperate, mouth hanging open to take every ounce of pleasure seeping into your bones and dribbling down your thighs.

There’s something glinting in his eyes when he asks. “You let anyone else see you like this?”

You’re still hyperfocused on rocking against him.

“Answer me,” he says, adding a third finger now as he scissors your gummy walls open.

You roll your eyes, even as your pulse races. “You’re the only one stupid enough to deal with me.”

That seems to satisfy him.

“Good,” he smirks. “Come for me.”

Your brain seems to respond to his voice because suddenly you’re shuddering as your orgasm racks your body, spine bowing towards him, while he continues to piston his fingers inside, your cunt weeping violently in surrender.

His fingers slow, helping you ride out the wave. You sink back into the couch cushions, smiling a little dopey as you stare at the ceiling above.

“I’m not done with you…”

“I’m not done with you, either,” you reply, more breath than your actual voice, still heaving from your release.

He grins all big and cocky, licking your juices clean off his bony digits and you feel another twitch right in the spot where he just left.

You move to stand up, jelly legs still a little wobbly. He catches you by the ass, and you shove his cheeky face back, giggling.

An equal opportunity lover he maintains, but you suspect deep down he’s an ass man.

Yoongi licks his bottom lip while you shrug off the hoodie, eyes on him. He looks chuffed as hell as he palms his crotch, the stiff one underneath the thin material already making itself known.

“Pants off,” you say sweetly, sliding your hands from your sides to cup the underside of your breasts.

A sharp inhale mixes with the shuffle of pants and briefs as it joins your hoodie in a messy puddle.

Yoongi is big. You already know he packs a wallop, but it still surprises you every damn time.

He tugs at the velvety shaft languidly, a tiny bead of white pooling at the tip.

You bite your lip, heart racing, as you watch him spread his cum around his cockhead with his thumb.

The grin he has on his naughty, just one corner lifted up, eyes shining with mischief. “Sup?”

The fucking audacity.

So tonight, you decide to lean into every unfair advantage your years of dancing gave you. You know exactly how to move your body to elicit the right reactions and bring Yoongi to his demise.

You turn around, gathering your hair on one side, then glance at him from over your shoulder as you throw your ass back, just once. Okay, maybe twice.

Yoongi groans appreciatively. “You’re so sexy. So fuckin’ sexy.” He combs his hair back, eyes glued to the soft jiggle of your behind as he gives his cock a few more pumps.

You spank your bum playfully, a pretty shade of red blooming on your skin, before spreading your cunt open for him as you bend forward.

“Holy fuuuck.” Yoongi slurs. “I gotta–”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, just presses his face against your ass so suddenly that you almost tip forward if he wasn’t gripping your hips. Then, you feel him trail his tongue from your glistening hole and up towards the rim. That makes your knees buckle but thankfully he catches you by the waist and plants your ass firmly against his cock.

Yoongi’s already so hard against you and that just makes you want to tease him a bit more. You shift a little so his thick cock sits snug between your cheeks. He huffs a satisfied chuckle at the feeling, rutting up once to stuff himself even deeper into the soft squish of your ass.

You hook one hand around his neck, pulling him forward to kiss the underside of his jaw, tasting his clean sweat as you move your hips in a slow swivel.

“Fuckiiiin’ hell…”

The groan you pull from his throat with each calculated roll gets lower and a little more wrecked with each pass. But when you drag your tongue slowly along the shell of his ear, the sound he lets out is downright nasty. A low, desperate rumble that went straight to your pussy.

Wetness spreads along his cock as you continue to rub against him, a little faster, panting sweet sighs against his ear. You flick your warm tongue along his lobe again, licking along the cartilage before capturing it inside your mouth.

“A-ahhh,” Yoongi chokes out a shudder like he was caught off-guard. “Shit, baby, that’s…”

“You like that?” You hum and continue to lick and suckle, the sensual noises making his dick twitch. It’s the first time you pulled this move on him and you’re satisfied with his reaction. 

Hands sliding up to make your breasts spill from his hands, he grits. “I think you need to get fucked hard.”

“Can you do that for me, Yoon?” you mewl as he pinches your nipples between his calloused fingertips, pleasure pricking at your chest. “You wanna fuck me hard?”

“You know I do.” he rasps, voice an octave lower. “Bend over the arm rest, baby.”

You rearrange yourself on his utterly debauched couch as he rolls a condom on himself that he grabs from behind a lamp like he has it at the ready. You can’t even clock him for that because you’re desperate to have him inside you.

Thighs still burning from your little performance, you rest your weight on your belly.

Yoongi stands behind you, lining himself up on your entrance as he lets his fat cock be swallowed inch by inch.

“Fuck, baby. It’s so tight.” he groans, as your pussy flutters all over him.

You moan when he finally pushes himself to the hilt, crescent shapes blooming on the soft skin on your waist.

“Yoongi…” You call his name like a broken plea.

His pelvis bounces against your ass as he thrusts his dick in and out of you at a ruthless pace. There’s no show build up here, just a quick ascent to the top. You claw at the cushions finding something to grip as he slams against you, rough and unrestrained, and you’re reduced to a wailing mess.

He bucks his hips even harder, faster, working himself stupid. You know he’s fucking gone, you can feel it.

“Touch yourself, baby. Fuck, I’m so close…”

You slip your index between your battered cunt, your clit so slippery it doesn’t take much for you to reach your peak for a second time.

You rub quick finger eights and reach cloud nine even quicker, shaking as you cum, your walls pulsing against his cock.

“Where?” he asks when he knows you’ve finished.

“Back.”

He slips out of you so fast, and before you can whine at the sudden emptiness, you feel the warm ropes of Yoongi’s gooey cum splash against your spine as your name leaves his lips.

[Madrid, June 2026]

You should have known that of all the girls it would be Rei who clocks you first.

You’ve barely stepped out from behind the dim green room partition when she narrows her eyes at you. You shift your slightly twisted top and wince as it chafes against your too-sensitive nipples.

After challenging Yoongi with making you come from just nipple stimulation, you found yourself on top of spare music equipment as he decided to grant your wish like some fucked-up genie.

Behind you, he walks out a beat later.

Rei’s lips part, then press into a thin line.

“Wow,” she mutters, low enough that only you hear. “He looks like an evil king.”

You look at Yoongi over your shoulder—and yeahhhh. There’s no denying what just happened. His lips are red, slightly swollen, and his hair? God. You shouldn’t have tugged that hard. It’s sticking out every which way.

“I know Mujin don’t do hair like that,” Rei comments.

You’re still mute, refusing to meet her eyes as she falls into step beside you.

“You doing hair now, sweets?” Rei teases. “I didn’t realize glam was short-staffed.”

“I’ve no clue what you’re talking about,” you say quickly, already walking faster.

She cackles, not convinced in the slightest. But it’s fine. If there’s one person you can trust here it’s Rei.

“Adios, mamacita,” she calls out as you round the corner to find the nearest bathroom.

⊙⊝⊜

Rehearsal runs late. But the minute it’s over you return your eomma’s call.

Your dad and your mom got into a fight.

Something about his pension. Something about the trash. Something about him never listening to her needs.

Rei looks over to you, a silent question if she should hang back. The hotel is 10, maybe 15 minutes on foot, so you wave a dismissive hand. You don’t want witnesses to this. Not for this. You can make your way back easily. You just need to get through this phone call.

You let your mom spill her guts to you. You know love is there. But you also know how something can be real and still not work.

At some point, your legs just give out. You’re slumped on the floor, the base of your spine against the worn walls of the dance studio as you control your breathing. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.

Your heartbeat hasn’t fully come down yet, still knocking against your ribs, and this news isn’t doing you any favors.

By the time the call finishes, your skin is no longer tacky with sweat, but your limbs still feel heavy. You think about what your mom said. Not everything, just the last part. That love isn’t always enough. 

You drag a hand down your face, pressing your palms into your eyes until you see white. After a few minutes, you push yourself up, roll your shoulders. You don’t want to cry over something you can’t control.

You’re locking up behind you when you see him.

Yoongi’s leaning against the wall like he’s been there a while, arms crossed loosely, gaze unfocused as he chews on the skin on his bottom lip. 

“You waiting for someone?” you ask, keeping it light, like your pulse is not racing.

“Mm.”

“…who?”

This time he looks at you properly. Just for a second. You look away, not wanting to show him truths buried beneath your lids. You dig through your bag for your pepper spray, something to keep in hand for the walk back to the hotel.

“Don’t worry about it.”

You scoff softly. “Okay.”

As you start heading out, he pushes off the wall like he’s been waiting for that exact moment, falling into step beside you like it was always the plan.

“My car’s still outside,” Yoongi says, like you should already know what that means.

You hesitate for half a second. But your tired legs are screaming hallelujah as you follow him out.

⊙⊝⊜

Inside the SUV neither of you says anything at first. Personally, you don’t know what the hell you’re doing here. Maybe he wants to fuck in the car? You really don’t know…

You glance over to where he’s seated. The city moves outside in streaks of gold and shadow, streetlights slipping across his profile in intervals. He also looks worn, tired. 10% battery life. 

So you let your head fall back against the seat, eyes half-lidded, letting your body finally start to come down from everything.

“Is it okay if we stop somewhere?” he asks when the driver nears the hotel cul de sac.

You turn your head slightly. “Where?”

“Place I heard about.”

You study him for a second. “What if I say no?”

There’s no hesitation. “Then it’s a no.” He sounds serious.

“Relax. I’m kidding.” You huff out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Just pretend I’m not here, I’m wiped.”

He leans over and presses a small button on your armrest, the recliner whirring quietly as it tilts back, letting you sink into the seat a little more.

“Thanks,” you mumble, curling a little to the side away from him, so you can watch the view from outside.

⊙⊝⊜

Tucked into a narrow street, the shop is easy to miss. You never would have gone here not with how small it is, how unassuming. It’s like a Spanish deli. A butcher shop and a little restaurant rolled into one.

You step inside and the smell hits you. Salt, cured meat, something rich and fatty and indulgent, layered over the faint tang of wine and old wood.

Yoongi steps towards the till, pointing to something in the menu. You don’t hear what he communicates except for the faint “Gracias.”

You couldn’t help but snicker at how he said it so cutely.

“I got this for us,” he says, showing you a picture of an open sandwich called bocadillo de jamon.

You raise a brow. “You ordered for me?”

He smirks playfully. “Got a problem with it?”

“Why do you keep bossing me around?”

He shakes his head, a tiny grin playing in his lips, before he tsks. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

“Wha—“ a puff of air escapes your gaping mouth. How dare he.

⊙⊝⊜

Back in the car, the wrappers crinkle softly between you as you take the first bite, grease soaking faintly through the paper, the taste immediate and overwhelming in the best way. It’s salty, rich, and so indulgent.

“Wow,” you gush. “This is so fuckin’ good.”

He nods, a lump on the side of his cheek as he chews thoughtfully.

You glance at him. “You been there before?”

“No,” he says simply. “But it was on the Michelin Bib Gourmand.”

Honestly, you have no idea what that means. But Yoongi is always researching random shit, his knowledge running weirdly deep in ways that constantly catch you off guard, so you assume it’s basically the equivalent of five stars on Yelp.

Yoongi tells the driver to head back to the hotel, but not before he also hands the man a sandwich of his own.

Then, he reaches into the bag and pulls out two tiny bottles of red wine, twisting one open with ease before handing it to you. 

“Yay,” you smile, oddly delighted by the unexpected treat.

You glance back toward the little jamon spot as the car pulls away, the warm glow of the restaurant fading slowly into the Madrid night. “That’s the kind of place you see in movies, y’know?” you muse lightly. “Somewhere people accidentally fall in love on the first date.”

Yoongi takes a slow swig of wine, thumb swiping across his bottom lip afterward. He doesn’t reply with words. Just a tiny wine-stained smile.

You take another crunchy bite of your sandwich then take your phone out to snap a quick pic. God, it’s amazing.

“What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks after a while.

“It’s my off,” you say, leaning your head back again. “So, nothing. Sleep. Maybe walk around if I feel like being a human. I know the girls wanna hit the beach.”

He nods. “Mm. You like the beach?”

“Sometimes. You?”

“Nah, I hate water.”

You smirk. He is never beating the catman allegations. “You got plans tomorrow?”

“Sleep,” he laughs.

You snort softly. “Of course.”

The rest of the ride is quiet after that. You part ways at the lobby drop off, where you go down, while the driver takes the private entrance for him as per protocol.

But later, in your room, the silence feels different. You catch your reflection in the mirror as you take the day off with a makeup wipe. 

Your mom’s voice echoes faintly in your head. You sigh. You need to call her back in the morning. See if she changes her mind.

You peel your lashes away, letting your eyes revel in relief for a second.

You lick your lips and still taste the wine, the salt. You remember the quaint restaurant. 

And Yoongi. The way he waited for you outside the studio. The softness in his face inside the car. The baby-sized bottle of red. Then shake your head lightly.

Was it a–? No way. 

That couldn’t be what it felt like. 

That couldn't have been a date.

A/N: Hehe <3

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You told him to come up.

Not with those words exactly — you were in the car outside your building, the studio still warm in your memory, and you looked at him and he looked at you and you said stay and that was the whole of it. He did not need more than that. He never has.

The elevator was not a neutral space.

This is worth noting. The elevator was not a space where two people stood at a reasonable distance and waited for their floor. The elevator was where his hands found your waist and your hands found his collar and by the time the doors opened you were both slightly less composed than when you entered and had made no decisions about fixing this.

The hallway required a brief pause.

Brief.

The code on your door required more concentration than it normally does, which is a new problem, because normally the code is automatic and tonight Yoongi has his mouth at your neck and both hands at your waist and is not helping, he is in fact the opposite of helping, and you mistype the code once, then again, and say his name in a tone that means stop and means don't stop simultaneously and he makes a sound against your skin that suggests he has understood both meanings and found them equally satisfying.

The door opens.

He walks you through it.

He closes it behind you.

And then your back meets the door and he kisses you and he is — smiling.

Not the almost-smile. He is actually smiling, against your mouth, in the way of someone who cannot help it, who has decided something and is so pleased about having decided it that the composure has simply given up for the evening.

Min Yoongi.

Giddy.

You pull back to look at him.

He looks back, still smiling, slightly out of breath, his hands on either side of your head against the door. The controlled exterior nowhere in evidence. The managed surface completely offline. Just him — warm and present and unreasonably, unguardedly happy in a way that you understand, looking at it, is rare. That most people never get to see. That he saves for a very short list of things and has apparently decided, tonight, to spend freely.

You are on that list.

You have always been on that list.

You kiss him again.

He makes a sound against your mouth that is almost a laugh.

You are not filing anything.

You are not filing anything ever again.

You are just — here.

Both of you. Finally.

He set his bag down by the door. He takes off his jacket. He is looking at you across the small distance between you with the focused patience of someone who has waited a very long time for something and is now, finally, in the room with it.

No performance.

No management.

Just him.

You take a breath.

"Seven days," you say.

He looks at you.

"It took us seven days," you say. "Out of twelve. Seven days to figure out we weren't pretending."

Something moves in his expression.

"Seven," he says.

"Seven," you confirm.

"Out of twelve."

"Out of twelve."

He looks at you.

You look at him.

The laugh starts somewhere in your chest and arrives before you can do anything about it — real and warm and slightly helpless, a laugh that looked at the full picture of the last three and a half years and found it both devastating and completely, specifically ridiculous. He makes a sound that is not quite a laugh and is more than the almost-smile — something that starts in his chest and gets into his face before he can stop it.

"We are so bad at this," you say, between laughs.

"We got there," he says.

"Eventually."

"Yes."

He kisses you again.

"Seven days," you say, against his mouth.

"Stop counting," he says.

"I'm going to count," you say. "For the rest of our life I'm going to—"

He kisses you again.

You stop counting.

This is different.

This is what you need to understand first — that this is categorically, structurally, fundamentally different from every time before. The fundraiser. The practice room. The kitchen floor. The office couch. The supply closet.

All of those were real. You know that now. But they were real the way things are real when they are happening underneath layers of other things — the pretending, the filing, the three and a half years of managing the distance. Real but contained. Real but unnamed.

This is named.

This is both of you having said the true thing and standing in it with nothing between you, and the difference is — it is a difference you feel in your chest before you feel it anywhere else. Something that has been careful for a very long time becoming, suddenly and completely, not careful at all.

He is not holding back.

This is the thing you notice first and keep noticing — that the version of him that exists when he is not performing anything for anyone and is not managing anything for anyone and has finally, finally decided to stop holding back is — he is—

He kisses your jaw. Your throat. He finds the place under your ear that he has located before and returns to it like he has been thinking about returning to it, and you make a sound, and he makes a sound back — low, satisfied, the sound of a man who has been paying very close attention and is pleased with what the attention has revealed.

"You make that sound every time," he says, against your skin.

"I do not," you say.

"You do." His mouth moves. "Here." He bites, lightly, and you make the sound. "See."

You grab his shirt.

He is not sorry about this.

He is, you are understanding, not going to be sorry about anything tonight.

You make it to your room.

Eventually.

The path there involves the hallway wall and the doorframe of your office and at some point a decision about the kitchen that gets reconsidered, and by the time you are in your room the clothes have made their own way to the floor — his jacket somewhere near the entrance, your top somewhere in the hallway, the rest of it surrendered in increments that neither of you planned or accounted for.

He is in front of you now and you are looking at him and you think: oh.

Min Yoongi wears clothes that are too big for him. This is known. This is documented. The oversized hoodies and the baggy sweats and the everything-several-sizes-larger-than-necessary that has always read as comfort, as aesthetic, as a man who has decided the clothes are not the point.

The clothes, you are now understanding, were doing a great deal of concealment.

He is not small.

He has never been small.

What he is, standing in your bedroom in the low light, is — the word sculpted arrives and you set it aside because it is insufficient. His shoulders. The line of his chest. The way the muscle moves under his skin when he breathes, when he reaches for you, when he runs a hand through his hair — all of it, every line of him, milky and warm in the lamplight, the kind of body that makes you understand viscerally that this man has been performing on stages since he was a teenager and that it has left its evidence.

You are staring.

He notices you staring.

He says nothing about it.

He almost smiles about it.

"Stop," you say.

"I didn't say anything," he says.

"You were about to," you say.

"I was going to say," he says, crossing the remaining distance, "that you should stop thinking and—"

He does not finish the sentence with words.

His mouth finds the valley of your chest instead — warm, unhurried, the wet press of his lips moving with the patience of someone who has decided there is no rush and intends to prove it. You feel it everywhere. The specific warmth of his mouth against your skin and the specific coolness of the air around it and the contrast of those two things is doing something to your breathing that you are not managing well.

Then he sucks, through the lace, deliberate and precise, and the sound you make is not something you planned.

He lifts his head.

He smiles.

It is not the giddy one from the door. That one was warm and helpless and new. This one is older — the smile of a man who already knew and is simply pleased to have been right. For a half second he looks almost like himself, the Yoongi who sits on floors and keeps camomille plants alive and lets a nine year old tell him his beanie is ugly.

Then his fingers hook into the fabric.

He pulls it down.

The cold air arrives and you shiver and he looks at you and the softness is gone.

What is there instead is feline — there is no other word for it. The dark eyes, the unhurried patience, the slight curve at the corner of his mouth that is not quite a smile and is not quite something else. A cat who has found exactly what he was looking for and has decided, having found it, that there is absolutely no reason to hurry.

He is going to toy with you first.

You understand this.

You are going to let him.

He looks at you like he already knows this too.

"Hi," he says.

Quiet. Conversational. Like he is greeting something he has been thinking about.

You stare at him.

"Yoongi—"

"Hi," he says again, to your chest, with the same tone, and then his mouth descends and you stop staring and stop thinking and stop doing most things that require voluntary cognitive function because Min Yoongi, who wears clothes three sizes too large and says approximately fourteen words per social interaction and has the resting composure of a man who has made his peace with the entire world — is taking his time.

He has always said he would.

He meant it.

His mouth latches onto your nipple — sucking first, then the edge of his teeth, so deliberate, so precise, like he has been thinking about exactly this and is executing the thought. Your hands go to his hair immediately, before you have decided to put them there, fingers threading through it, pulling slightly, and you think distantly that you wish he had kept it longer because you need something to hold onto and there is not enough of it and he is not helping you with this problem, he is in fact making it considerably worse.

His free hand moves.

Slow. Unhurried. Down your stomach, over the waistband, settling over the fabric of your underwear with the patient certainty of a man who knows exactly what he is doing and has decided to do it thoroughly.

He applies pressure.

Just that. Just his hand, just the pressure, just him looking up at you from where his mouth is still doing what it is doing, watching your face with the dark attentive eyes of someone who is running an experiment he already knows the results of.

You are embarrassingly, undeniably wet and he can feel it and you can feel him feel it and the sound that comes out of you is not planned and cannot be recalled.

Your knees go.

Not dramatically — just the simple physics of too much sensation arriving at once, your body making a decision your brain was not consulted on.

He notices immediately.

He always notices everything immediately.

He stops.

Both hands find your thighs — hooking underneath them, lifting, the easy strength of it doing something to your nervous system that you are going to be thinking about later — and he walks you back the few steps to your bed and sets you down on it with a care that is almost gentle and is also entirely deliberate, the care of someone handling something he has decided is precious and intends to keep.

He looks at you.

"I've got you, doll" he says.

You are going to think about that later too.

"I've got you," he says, against your temple. "I'm not letting you go. Not again."

His voice is low and certain and you know that he is not talking about this moment. Not just this moment. He is talking about the eight months and the kitchen floor and the three and a half years of almost and all the distance he put between you and all the distance he is done putting between you.

Not again.

Two words.

A promise.

You pull him closer.

You try to kiss him.

Min Yoongi has other plans.

He has a reputation to uphold — a man of very few words and very specific expertise, and right now the expertise in question has nothing to do with words. He trails his mouth down your chest, your stomach, his hands moving ahead of him, touching and caressing with the unhurried thoroughness of someone who has decided this is the task and intends to complete it properly. Down and down until his fingers find the hem of your underwear and he stops.

You watch him think about it.

You actually watch the thought form — the brief, considering pause of a man deciding between two options, both of which he finds equally appealing, which are: take his time, or abandon taking his time entirely and simply consume you.

He chooses.

The fabric tears.

He looks up at you with an expression that is almost sheepish and is entirely unapologetic — because he has done something slightly unreasonable and has assessed the situation and decided he is not sorry about it.

"I'll buy you more," he says.

You do not reply.

Because Min Yoongi has hooked both arms under your thighs and put his face between your legs and whatever pace he was keeping before is completely gone. He is done taking his time. He has taken his time, he has been taking his time since a supply closet and a confessional and a studio with children's drawings on the walls, and he is now doing the opposite of taking his time with a focused enthusiasm that is — the word that surfaces is dedicated, the word that surfaces after that is devastating.

He licks and sucks and finds every place that makes you say his name and stays there until you say it differently, and when you do he pushes two fingers in without stopping and the combination of his mouth and his hands and his other hand at the inside of your thigh, caressing the sensitive skin there with an attention that says I notice everything, I have always noticed everything — it builds fast and breaks faster and you come with your hands in his hair and his name in your throat and your back off the bed.

He lifts his head.

The look on his face is devilish.

There is no other word for it. Satisfied and dark and entirely, shamelessly pleased with himself — a man who has just proven a point and knows it and is not performing modesty about it.

He gets up from the bed.

He pulls his boxers down.

You—

You have been with this man before. Twice. The first time was dark and you were both somewhere between drunk and desperate and fully clothed and the second time was your desk, behind you, not enough time to look. This is the first time you see him. All of him. In the warm light of your bedroom, standing at the end of your bed, fully and unapologetically himself.

Gorgeous is insufficient.

He is looking at you.

He knows what you are thinking — of course he knows, he always knows, and he is for the first time you have ever witnessed completely shameless about it.

He wraps a hand around himself.

Slow. Deliberate.

His eyes on you.

"I've thought about this," he says, his hand moving in a slow, unhurried stroke, watching your face watch him. "Specifically."

You swallow.

"How specifically," you manage.

"Very." He puts one knee on the bed. His eyes are doing the thing, fully deployed, the melted dark of them landing on you like a hand. "Since the Flower Room."

"That was three and a half years ago," you say.

"Yes," he says, and the yes contains everything — the lamp and the plant and the notebook and all the languages that were not the one you needed, all of it distilled into one syllable said by a man who is done waiting and is kneeling over you now, his hands finding your hips, pulling you down the bed toward him until you are exactly where he wants you.

"Yoongi," you say.

"Mm."

"Stop talking and—"

"No," he says.

You stare at him.

He looks back — unhurried, certain, the expression of a man who has waited three and a half years and has made a very specific decision about how tonight is going to go and is not accepting input on the matter.

"I have things I want to say," he says. "I'm going to say them."

He lines himself up.

He pushes in.

The bedframe finds the wall.

Your vision does something.

And he says them.

All the things he has been saving — not the fast-talking version, not the running-out-of-breath version, but the low deliberate version, the one that exists when he has decided something matters enough to say it slowly. Against your throat. Your jaw. Your ear. Your name said the way he says it when something is serious enough to require the most accurate word.

He says: you are the most real thing I have.

He says: I have been in love with you since a doorway in late autumn and I will be in love with you from every city the tour takes me to and I will text you when I land, every time, wherever I am.

He says: I should have said this three and a half years ago.

He says your name.

Just that.

Your name, in his voice, in the room that is yours, in the warm light.

And you say his.

And you mean everything it contains.

Afterward, you are in your bed and the city is outside doing what it does and the apartment is warm and quiet and everything that has been building for three and a half years has finally, completely arrived.

He is on his back.

You are beside him.

You are both looking at the ceiling.

"Seven days," you say.

He makes the sound that is his version of a laugh.

"Three and a half years," he says. "And seven days."

His hand finds yours. He does not make a thing of it. He just — holds it, the way he holds things he has decided about.

"I'm leaving for the tour in a week," he says.

The thing that has been sitting in the room with you. Said, finally. Plain.

"I know," you say.

"Six months," he says. "And the days before I leave are packed. Schedules, press, the members, and I—" He stops. Starts again. "I just found you. I mean — I've always had you but I just — we just—" He exhales. "I want to make it up to you. I want to make the week count. I'll clear whatever I can clear, I'll make sure that every day before I go we have—"

"Yoongi," you say.

He stops.

"I know what my boyfriend does for a living," you say.

He goes very still.

A pause.

A significant pause.

He turns his head to look at you.

You look back at the ceiling.

"Say that again," he says.

"No," you say.

"Say it again."

"I won't."

"You can't take it back," he says. "No take backs. You said it."

You look at him.

He is looking at you with an expression that is trying very hard to be composed and is not composed at all — the ears already going, both of them, the full set, and underneath the composure something that looks like a man who has just received something he has been wanting for a very long time and is not sure what to do with his face about it.

"You," you say, slowly, with great ceremony, "are my boyfriend, Min Yoongi."

He grabs your face with both hands.

He kisses you.

When he pulls back he is still holding your face and he is looking at you with the real smile — the one his father said was the real one, the one that only comes out when he is not performing anything for anyone.

"Yes," he says. "I am yours." A pause. "And you are mine." Another pause. "This time for real."

"This time for real," you agree.

He kisses you again.

"I still have to leave," he says, against your temple. Quieter now.

"I know."

"Six months is—"

"Long," you say. "Yes. And you're going to have the time of your life while I'm here managing Seojun's tempo opinions alone, which is a lot to ask of one person, I want you to know that."

He makes the sound.

"I'm kidding," you say. "Mostly." You pause. "I expect pictures. And treats. And updates. Every city." You pause again. "Wait — are you going to Mexico?"

He looks at you.

"You need to find a tienda and buy me pulparindo," you say. "It's this tamarind candy. It comes in a little red packet. You're going to think it looks wrong and then you're going to taste it and you're going to understand."

"Okay," he says, with the tone of someone filing this under important.

"And Madrid," you say, sitting up slightly, warming to this. "There's a churrería on Calle del Pez — it has been there for sixty years, possibly longer, the sign looks like it has survived multiple governments, and the churros are the kind of thing you eat and then sit quietly for several minutes because your understanding of what food can be has shifted fundamentally."

He is looking at you.

"And London," you say. "My mother's friend runs a Korean fried chicken restaurant in New Malden — it's a whole neighborhood, actually, very Korean, you'll feel at home — and her chicken is better than anything you will find here and I will die on that hill and I am aware of where here is."

He is still looking at you.

The expression on his face is soft and warm and entirely focused — the way he listens to things he finds worth listening to, from the inside out, all of it.

"Have you lived in all those places," he says.

"Most of them," you say. "For various amounts of time. My mother had opinions about geography."

"You never told me that."

"You never asked."

"I'm asking now," he says.

You look at him.

"I moved a lot," you say. "Growing up. Different cities, different countries, sometimes different continents. It was—" You stop. "It was a lot of things. Some of them good."

He is quiet for a moment.

Then: "Come with me."

You look at him.

"To some of them," he says. "The ones you know. Show me the churrería. Show me the chicken place in New Malden. Show me wherever you grew up, wherever you liked, wherever you have memories that I don't know about yet." He looks at you. "Dani can handle center operations. You have other teachers. Come with me to your favorite places."

You look at him.

You think about this.

You think about being seen — about cameras and fansites and the very public nature of Min Yoongi existing in the world and what it would mean for you to exist in that world beside him.

"If we're seen together—" you start.

He thinks for a moment.

"I'll find a way," he says. Simple. The tone of someone who has decided something is possible and is not asking for a debate about it.

You look at him for a long moment.

"I'll think about it," you say.

He raises an eyebrow.

He makes the sound. The real laugh, almost.

"It'll be fun," you say. "Probably."

"Probably," he agrees.

"And the candy—"

"I'll find the candy," he says.

"And the churros—"

"I'll find the churros."

"And you'll text me when you land," you say. "Every time."

"Every time," he says. "I know."

He pulls you back down.

You settle against him — his arm around you, your head at his shoulder, the city outside doing what it does, Tang somewhere at the foot of the bed having reasserted his position.

His hand moves in your hair.

Slow. Absent. The way he traces things when he is not deciding what to think yet.

"The pulparindo," he says, after a while.

"Yes," you say.

"It comes in a red packet."

"Little red packet, yes."

"And it looks wrong."

"It looks a little wrong," you admit. "But you'll understand when you taste it."

A pause.

"Okay," he says.

You smile into his shoulder.

His arm tightens around you.

Just slightly. Just enough.

You close your eyes.

The days before the tour have a specific quality to them.

Not sad, exactly. Not the countdown-of-a-bad-thing. More like the way the last hour of a very good day feels — you are still in it, still present, still here, but you are aware of its edges in a way you were not earlier, when it felt like it might just go on.

Seven days.

You know how to count seven days now. You have practice.

He picks you up from the center every evening.

This is not discussed. It simply becomes true — you finish your last session, you lock the Dragon Room, you say goodnight to Dani who says goodnight back with the specific serenity of someone who has been waiting for this particular development for a very long time and is choosing not to comment on it, and Yoongi is outside. In the car. Two minutes early, always two minutes early, which you have decided to simply accept as a fact about him rather than continue remarking on.

Sometimes he comes inside first.

Sits on the floor of the Flower Room while the Wednesday group runs their rehearsal — back against the wall, legs crossed, going nowhere. He has decided this is worth his time. He is giving it his time.Jisoo sits beside him — her wrist in its cast, unable to play, which you have noticed costs her more than she lets on. She watches the other kids with the expression of someone who has opinions and is exercising restraint about sharing them.

Yoongi, beside her, is also exercising restraint.

You can tell because his face is doing the thing it does when he has something to say and has decided not to say it — the slight tightening, the controlled neutral, the look of a man watching Park Nari approach the violin as though it has personally wronged her and intends to address this through volume.

You stand in the doorway and watch them watch the rehearsal.

At some point Jisoo says something quietly.

At some point Yoongi says something back.

Neither of them looks at each other. They are both watching the rehearsal with the expressions of people who are not discussing it at all.

Park Nari reaches the difficult passage.

Jisoo winces.

Yoongi closes his eyes briefly.

"She's getting better," Yoongi says, quietly, in the tone of someone trying very hard to be generous.

"Mhmm," Jisoo says, in the same tone.

A pause.

"Better than what," Jisoo says.

"Better than last week," Yoongi says.

"Last week she made Seojun cry," Jisoo says.

"She's getting better," Yoongi says again, with the conviction of a man who has committed to a position and is staying there regardless.

They both watch Park Nari navigate the passage with the focused energy of someone who has decided that technique is a suggestion and passion is the real instrument.

"I could play it better," Jisoo says quietly.

The words come out matter-of-fact and then land differently than she intended — you see it happen, the slight change in her expression afterward, the way she looks at her cast. Just for a moment. Just a flicker of something that is not the seventy-three year old soul but the twelve year old child, the one who lost her parents at eight and got her cast signed by her center friends and has been coming here every week because this is the one place where the music is hers.

She can't play.

Her wrist is in a cast and she cannot play and she is twelve years old watching other kids do the thing she loves most and she is trying very hard to be philosophical about it.

Yoongi looks at her.

He does not say anything.

He reaches over and picks up a marker from the floor beside them — thick, black, the kind the kids use for projects — without saying anything about it, without making it a gesture.

He takes her cast.

He draws.

It takes about forty seconds. You cannot see what he is drawing from the doorway but you watch his face while he does it — focused, slightly entertained with himself, the expression of someone executing a small idea and finding it satisfying.

He finishes.

He caps the marker.

He holds her arm up so she can see.

Tang. On her cast. Rendered in Yoongi's hand — small, round, deeply unimpressed with everything, one ear slightly higher than the other, signed in small precise letters at the bottom: Min Yoongi.

Jisoo looks at it.

She looks at him.

"I could sell this," she says.

He rolls his eyes.

She laughs — the real one, surprised out of her, the twelve year old laugh, not the seventy-three year old one. He almost smiles. They both look back at the rehearsal.

Park Nari has reached the passage again.

They both wince simultaneously.

"Getting better," Yoongi says.

"Getting better," Jisoo agrees, without conviction.

You stand in the doorway and watch him — this man who stood on a stage last week in front of sixty thousand people and is now sitting on a floor drawing a cat on a twelve year old's cast because he noticed she was sad about it and did not make a thing of the noticing.

You do not hide that you are watching anymore.

He knows.

He has always known.

He does not make it a thing.

Dinner with his family almost every night.

His father at the head of the table, the card game inevitable, the Daegu accent surfacing more frequently now — you have noticed this, the accent getting thicker as the visit draws toward its end, like the city he came from reasserting itself as Seoul releases its hold. You find it, every time, the most Yoongi thing about him. The thing that came before everything else. The thing that stayed.

His mother refills your glass before you notice it is low.

Haerin has started smiling at things. Small, unpracticed smiles, the expressions of someone discovering that faces can do this — Jihoon is unreasonably moved by every single one and Eunji has stopped pretending she is not photographing all of them.

One evening — day nine, after the card game, in the specific warmth of the apartment after dinner when everyone is settled and full and nobody wants to be the first to say the evening is ending — you say it.

You put down your tea.

You look at the table.

"I want to say something," you say.

The table looks at you.

"I'm sorry," you say. "For the pretending. For sitting at this table for twelve days under—" You stop. "I want you to know that everything I feel for your family is real. It was always real. The other thing—" You stop again. "I'm sorry."

A pause.

His father laughs.

Not politely. Not the small one. The real one — full, surprised, the laugh that gets into his eyes, the one that is exactly his son's when something catches him completely off guard.

"Kid," he says, when he has recovered enough to speak, "the only two people in this room who thought you weren't in love with each other — were the two of you."

You stare at him.

"We had a bet," Jihoon says, with the energy of a man who has been waiting to say this for days.

"Yes," the aunt says, from the corner where she has been very quietly drinking her tea and waiting for exactly this moment. "And you all owe me a hundred thousand won each."

The table erupts.

His mother has her hand over her mouth. Eunji is making no attempt to hide her delight. Jihoon is shaking his head with the expression of a man who lost money on this and has complicated feelings about it. His father is still laughing, the Daegu in it thick and warm and real.

You look at Yoongi.

He is looking at you.

Both of you are the exact color of the Dragon Room door.

Both of you. The full set. Down to the ears.

"How long," you say, to the table, to anyone who will answer.

"Since the first dinner," his mother says, pleasantly. "He looked at you when you weren't looking at him and I thought: oh. There it is."

"I said two weeks," Jihoon says. "I was wrong. I paid up."

"I said six days," his father says, with great satisfaction. "I won."

You look at his father.

His father looks back at you with eyes that are his son's eyes, warm and knowing, the look of a man who cheated at cards and taught you how to cheat at cards and has apparently also been running a separate operation regarding your love life since the second course of the first dinner.

Then his aunt sets down her tea with the energy of a woman who has been waiting for her moment and has decided it has arrived.

"And you," she says, pointing at you with the confidence of someone who has earned this. "Pretty boy over there, don't think that because your face is on the television and you are very rich you get to forfeit your debt."

The table looks at her.

"Auntie—" Yoongi starts.

"I made a different bet," she says, to the room, with great dignity. "I knew what has happening on the first day. When everyone else was betting on timelines, I bet something else entirely."

"What did you bet," Jihoon says, leaning forward.

"I bet," she says, "that she loved our Yoongi just as much as he loved her."

The table goes quiet.

Not the card game quiet. Something warmer than that.

You look at your hands.

You feel, in your chest, something that does not have a clean word — the specific warmth of being known by people you have not known long enough to deserve being known by, of being included in something before you had earned the inclusion, of a family that decided you were theirs before you had decided anything about yourself.

Yoongi is looking at the table.

Both ears. Full set. Pink from the shell down.

"So," his aunt continues, "you owe me a hundred thousand won." A pause. "And Mrs. Oh as well. She said the same thing. I checked with her this morning."

"You called Mrs. Oh—" Yoongi starts.

"I called Mrs. Oh," his aunt confirms.

The table erupts.

The table laughs again.

You are laughing too, despite yourself, despite the Dragon Room door situation, despite the fact that you have been very thoroughly and publicly known for this entire visit and somehow managed to not notice.

Yoongi is laughing.

The broken-at-the-edges version, the one that is also crying a little, the one you have catalogued and loved and will keep.

His father watches him.

His expression, above the laughter, is the one you have seen before — the one that counts things. Good moments. Full rooms.

You look at him.

He catches you looking.

He winks.

You look at your tea.

You are going to miss him.

You are going to miss all of them.

This is not a thought you were prepared to have, and you have it anyway, and it sits in your chest quietly and you let it.

A routine forms in the days before the tour.

Not discussed. Not planned. Simply true, the way things become true when they are actually right.

Dinner with his family. The walk to the car. Him saying he will drop you off, you saying that is fine, both of you being extremely bad liars.

He does not drop you off.

He comes upstairs.

Every night, in the warm dark of your apartment, he makes love to you like someone who is memorizing something they will be without for six months — every sound, every moment, all of it filed with the same care he has always given to things he has decided matter. And every night you show him — not with words, because you have always been better at the other languages — exactly how real your feelings are. How long they have been real. How thoroughly you are done lying to yourself about them.

You are both, it turns out, very bad at dropping each other off.

You are both, it turns out, very good at this.

The lounge at Goyang Stadium is not what you expected.

You are not sure what you expected — something more utilitarian, more infrastructure, more this is where people wait. What it actually is, is warm and well-appointed and full of people who belong to the kind of life that includes private lounges at concert stadiums. Company artists you recognize from album covers and variety shows. Industry people with lanyards and the specific focused energy of people who are here for work and also very glad to be here. A table of food that is actually good, which you know because you have eaten approximately none of it and are aware of this as a failing.

The view is extraordinary.

Floor to ceiling windows looking out over the stadium — sixty thousand seats filling as you watch, the wave of it, the specific energy of a crowd assembling itself into something larger than its parts. The stage below. The lights above. All of it visible from the lounge in a way that makes it feel both close and impossible simultaneously.

You are standing at the window.

Jisoo is beside you.

Her wrist is in its cast, elevated at the angle Minho specified. She is looking at the stadium below and she is — not memorizing it exactly, not cataloguing it the way she catalogues other things. Something else. Her eyes are moving over the stage, the production setup, the light rigs and the sound equipment and the infrastructure of something this large, with the expression of a girl standing at the edge of a world she did not know existed and finding that it fits the shape of something she has been carrying around inside her without a name for it yet.

You have seen this look before.

Not on Jisoo. On the kids who come to the center for the first time and pick up an instrument and go very still because something has clicked into place that they did not know was missing.

Oh, you think. There it is.

You file it. Not to ignore — to protect. You will talk to Jisoo's sister first, before you say anything to Jisoo, before you mention HYBE's training program or what Yoongi could do with one phone call, before any of it becomes real enough to hope for and therefore real enough to lose. You will do it carefully, the way you do everything for these kids — with both hands, without rushing, making sure the door is open before you tell anyone it exists.

But later.

Tonight, Jisoo gets to stand at a window and watch a dream take shape without knowing yet that it is hers.

Her sister stands beside her — quieter, tireder, but here. You know a little of her story from Jisoo, the way you know most things about your kids — in pieces, offered carefully, the details that surface when trust has been built over time. The architecture internship that finally came through. The three jobs that became two and then one as things slowly, slowly started to go right. She was barely an adult when their parents died and she became, overnight, the only thing standing between Jisoo and a world that does not make space for children who have lost everything. She has been holding that position ever since, without complaint, without asking anyone to notice.

You notice.

Jisoo is funny and old-souled and sharp and loves music the way very few people do — and she is all of those things because someone made sure she had the space to become them. Someone worked three jobs and showed up and kept the lights on and let Jisoo be a child even when she herself did not get to be one.

You look at her watching her sister.

The tiredness is real. So is everything else in her face.

She is a good kid, you think, raising a good kid.

"Stop doing the thing," Jisoo says.

"What thing," you say.

"The finger thing," she says. "You count people when you're anxious. There are three of us. You don't need to count."

You look at your hand.

You are doing the finger thing.

"I'm not anxious," you say.

"You're doing the thing," she says.

"I'm fine," you say.

"You're fine," she agrees, in the tone of someone who finds this characterization generous but is choosing not to say so.

You look at the stadium.

Fifty thousand seats.

Him, somewhere beneath the stage, probably doing the thing he does before concerts — the quiet version, the interior running at full speed while the exterior idles. You know this. You know what he looks like before he performs. You know what he looks like after. You know the face underneath the face and the version that exists when nothing is required of him and the way his ears go pink when something catches him off guard and the specific sound of his laugh when it escapes before he can stop it.

You know him.

"Everyone is here," Jisoo says.

You look at her.

"Who matters," she says. "Is here."

She says it with the serenity of someone who has already made peace with the evening and is simply waiting for it to begin — twelve years old and seventy-three simultaneously, the old soul in the too-big cast with the Tang drawing on the side.

"Okay," you say.

"Good," she says.

She goes back to cataloguing.

Jin's wife finds you before you find her.

This is, you are learning, simply how she operates — she is the gravity of any room she is in, the person things orient around without being asked to, and she pulls you into a hug before you have fully registered that she is there. Both arms. The real kind. The kind that does not ask permission because it already knows you need it.

She holds on for a moment longer than a greeting requires.

You let her.

"I am so glad," she says, close to your ear, "that you are finally happy."

You pull back. You look at her.

"He came for drinks with the members last week," she says, with the expression of someone delivering information she has been saving. "Got properly drunk. Which he never does. And said—" She pauses for effect. "That he was so glad he didn't fuck it up."

You look at her.

"He did fuck it up," she says, pleasantly. "A bit. But I'm glad he got there."

"Me too," you say.

She beams.

Then she looks at something over your shoulder and her expression shifts into the specific warmth of a woman who has been waiting to make an introduction."Come," she says. "There are people you need to meet."

There is a woman standing near the monitor with a cup of something warm, wearing jeans and a white shirt under a coat and a cap pulled low. The clothes are simple, almost deliberately so, but there is something about the way she carries herself — the ease of someone who takes up exactly the right amount of space, no more and no less, like she was simply born knowing how much room she was allowed.

She laughs when Jin's wife starts explaining the story of how you and Yoongi got together.

"I have heard this three times," she says, "and it gets more dramatic with every telling."

"It was dramatic," Jin's wife says, without apology.

"It was," you confirm.

The woman looks at you with warm, curious eyes.

"You built the music center," she says. Not a question.

"Yes."

"Yoongi talks about it," she says. "All the time. The kids, the work, the—" She pauses. "You. He talked about you all the time. Tae used to say—" She stops. Smiles. "Never mind what Tae used to say."

"What did he say," you say.

"That Yoongi talked about the center the way people talk about home," she says.

You look at her.

You think about yellow walls and the Dragon Room and Seojun's sign above the door and a lamp in the corner of the Flower Room that nobody asked for and that was always yours.

"Yeah," you say, quietly. "Yeah, I think that's right."

Jin's wife, who has been listening to this with the expression of a woman who finds all of it deeply satisfying, grabs your arm.

"Okay but wait," she says, "you need to hear how she and Tae got together because I cannot — it is literally the plot of a romantic comedy, they didn't know who the other one was, there is a baby goat involved—"

"There was one goat," the woman says, with great dignity.

"A baby goat," Jin's wife says. "We need to get together and properly talk. All of us. I need you to hear this story."

You look at the woman.

She looks back with the expression of someone who has accepted that the goat is always going to be part of the story and has made her peace with it.

"I'd like that," you say.

"Good," Jin's wife says, satisfied.

You look at her.

"How did you and Jin meet?" you ask.

She smiles.

Not the strategic smile — the real one, the warm one, the one that belongs to someone who is thinking about something they love.

"He stole some bread," she says. "And my heart. The same day." A pause. "Fifteen years later, here we are." She looks out at the stadium, at the stage being prepared below, at sixty thousand seats filling with people who have been waiting four years for this night. "I've watched them go through so much," she says, quieter now. "All of them. The good years and the hard ones and everything in between. And now—" She stops. Looks back at you. "Now they're finding their people. One by one." Something in her face settles into something warm and certain. "I'm so glad to be here for this part."

You look at her.

You think about fifteen years of knowing seven men before the world knew them. Of being there for the hard years. Of making cookies that taste like everything is going to be okay and showing up at music centers and sewing labels into wedding dresses and holding this whole found family together with both hands while never once making it about herself.

"I'm glad you're here too," you say.

She squeezes your arm.

"Now," she says, brightening, "the goat story. You need to hear the goat story."

She is already there when you turn around.

Standing near the wall, talking to a crew member, and the first thing you notice is not what she looks like but how she exists in the space — the way her body is always doing something even when it is doing nothing, a constant low-level awareness of itself, every shift of weight landing with a precision that does not feel practiced so much as deeply, completely internalized. You have seen this quality before, in people who have spent years training their bodies to be instruments. She is one of those people.

She notices you noticing.

She gives you a small nod.

You give one back.

"That's Jiminnie's dance company director," Jin's wife says, appearing at your elbow. "She's been helping choreograph part of the show. She's been here all week."

"She's good," you say.

"She's extraordinary," Jin's wife says, with the specific conviction of someone who knows the difference.

On the monitor, the sound check feed shifts — Jimin crosses the stage, says something to the choreographer, runs a section of movement.

You glance at the woman near the wall.

She is watching the monitor.

Her face does something.

Just for a second. A flicker — something that moves through her expression and is gone before it fully arrives, managed quickly, put away. But you saw it. The particular quality of someone seeing something they are not allowing themselves to see directly.

You know this look.

You have been making this look for three and a half years.

You realize you are staring.

Jin's wife realizes you are staring at the same moment.

"Don't," she says pleasantly.

"I wasn't going to—"

"Don't ask," she says.

She looks back at you with a smile that says: yes. I know. We all know. They are exactly like you two were, possibly worse, and I have been watching it happen for longer than either of them realizes.

She says none of this out loud.

She does not need to.

"Okay," you say.

"Good," she says.

You look back at the woman near the wall.

She has returned to her conversation with the crew member. Composed. Present. The flicker completely gone from her face, the surface held exactly where she wants it.

You understand this.

The seats are just outside the lounge — arranged in a private section, close enough to the stage that the sound will hit you first before you hear it properly, far enough back that the cameras sweeping the crowd will not find you unless they are looking. You settle into yours.

Yoongi's family arrives as the venue fills.

His mother spots you first. A small wave — warm, contained, the two of you in silent agreement about what public means right now. His father beside her, moving carefully. His aunt already scanning the stadium like she is conducting a survey and intends to cover every section. Jihoon and Eunji with Haerin in the carrier, Haerin asleep and has decided that sixty thousand people is not a sufficient reason to wake up.

You wave back.

Small. Careful.

There are cameras everywhere. Industry people with lenses. Fan accounts with equipment. The specific infrastructure of sixty thousand people documenting an event in real time. You are not ready — not for this, not yet, not the public version of the thing that is still so new and so yours that making it visible feels like opening a window on something that needs a little more time indoors first.

Namjoon's relationship is public now — the doctor, the announcement, the internet processing it with the specific frenzy of something it has been speculating about for months. Jin and his wife will be next, you think. The announcement. Times are changing for all of them, the private things becoming public one by one, the world expanding to include what has always been true.

You are not ready to be next.

Not yet.

Soon, maybe.

You look back at the stage.

The woman sitting beside Jin's wife is dressed like someone who thinks carefully about what she wears — not for an audience, for herself, the difference visible in the way nothing is performed about it. Her glasses. The tip of her nose slightly red, the kind of red that comes from crying recently and collecting yourself afterward, the effort of the collecting still present if you know what to look for.

She is holding Jin's wife's hand.

On her other side, the choreographer. Also holding her hand. Her eyes are on the stage feed, not on the woman beside her, but her grip says everything her eyes aren't — firm, present, not going anywhere.

You look at this arrangement.

Two people holding one person up from either side.

You have been on the receiving end of this kind of love — not the dramatic kind, not the kind that announces itself, but the quiet kind, the kind that shows up and holds on and does not make a thing of holding on.

You do not ask.

You sit with the warmth of it for a moment instead.

Minho arrives twelve minutes before the concert starts.

You hear him before you see him — or rather you hear the reaction, the specific ripple of a room noticing something, and you turn around and he is there in a white BTS t-shirt with RM across the back in large letters, a Dodgers cap, lightstick in hand, and the purple light-up headband with BTS 💜 ARMY in silver letters that you last saw at Gwanghwamun and apparently he owns and wears with commitment on top of his cap.

He spots you.

He points at the headband.

He mouths: "I've had it for years."

You press your lips together.

You lose the battle in three seconds.

He makes his way over, settles into the seat beside you with the ease of someone who belongs wherever he decides to be, and looks at the stage feed on the monitor.

"He looks good," Minho says. Conversationally.

You look at the monitor.

Yoongi is on the stage feed doing a last sound check, moving through it with the focused economy of someone who is already somewhere else in his head — already in the concert, already in it.

"He does," you say.

Minho is quiet for a moment.

"I'm glad," he says. "That you're happy. Finally."

You look at him.

This man who loved you for a year and a half with the patient, generous love of someone who knew, somewhere underneath, that he was not quite the right answer but stayed until you both knew it fully. This man who has his own person now — someone you have not met yet, someone who makes him look, you have noticed, like a person who has finally found somewhere to put all that capacity for care. This man in a BTS t-shirt with Namjoon's name on the back.

"Minho," you say.

"Mm."

"I'm sorry," you say.

Not I'm sorry for how things ended. Not the surface version. The real one — the one that has been sitting in you since a restaurant and a mint green dress and a man who looked at you across a table and said go because he already knew.

"I'm sorry," you say, "that I couldn't give you what you deserved. That you were patient with me for so long while I was—" You stop. "While I was lying to myself. You knew. You always knew. And you stayed anyway because that is who you are, and I took that for granted, and I—"

"Hey," he says.

You look at him.

His face is warm. No residue of anything — no hurt, no bitterness, no complicated accounting. Just Minho, who processes things cleanly because he learned how, who decided a long time ago that loving people well means releasing them when releasing them is the right thing.

"Some people," he says, "are just meant for each other. And the people who love them get to be in the room when they figure it out." He looks at the monitor. "I was in the room." A pause. "That's not nothing."

You look at him.

"It's not nothing," you say.

"No," he says. "It really isn't."

His phone starts going.

His phone goes off.

He looks at the screen.

Something happens to his face — small, quick, schooled almost immediately. But you saw it. The thing that happens when someone you love contacts you and you are not prepared for how glad you are about it. You have seen this look on him before, in a hospital corridor, when you mentioned a certain orthopedic surgeon.

You look at the contact name on his screen from the corner of your eye.

My Least Favorite Person 🩺

You look away.

"You should get that," you say.

"I'm going to get that," he says, already answering, "but say hi first—"

He turns the phone around.

She is in LA. It is four in the morning there — you do the math automatically, the habit of someone who has always tracked time zones — and she is awake, which means she stayed up for this, which means she has been awake since approximately whenever the concert started and has been watching the livestream with the focused attention of a woman who is both the head physician of the LA Dodgers medical team and someone with a very personal interest in the ankle health of one specific performer currently on stage in Goyang.

She is in what appears to be her living room, no scrubs tonight, her hair down, a mug in her hand, and the expression of someone trying very hard to appear casual about watching seven men she loves perform together for the first time in four years at four in the morning in Los Angeles.

She is not succeeding at casual.

"Hi," you say.

"Hi," she says. Then immediately: "How is he walking? Any compensation on the left side? Because I watched the sound check footage and I—"

"He's fine," Minho says.

"He's compensating slightly," she says.

"He's fine," Minho says.

"That is not a medical assessment—"

"He is fine," Minho says, "and he is on stage and you are going to watch the livestream and trust me because I am his doctor BEST-friend and I am telling you he is fine."

She looks at him through the screen with the expression of one medical professional assessing the confidence of another and finding it adequate but not airtight.

"Fine," she says.

"Say hi to everyone," Minho says, and turns the phone.

She sees Jin's wife, who waves with both hands. The woman with the cap, who nods warmly. Jisoo's sister, who gives a small wave. Jisoo herself, who waves with her whole arm. The woman with the glasses, who lifts a hand. The choreographer beside her.

You.

"Hi," she says, to all of you.

"Hi," everyone says back.

The phone sweeps slowly across the section — Seoul at a stadium at night, LA at four in the morning, all of it in the same frame for one moment. Jin's wife. The woman with the cap. Jisoo and her sister. The woman with the glasses and the choreographer beside her. Minho in his light-up headband. You.

All of you together In the same place.

Your chest does something that you do not have a clean word for, yet. But you have a feeling you will very soon.

The lights go down.

He said he would come to you after.

He comes.

You are in your apartment. You have been in your apartment for forty minutes, changed out of the concert clothes, made tea you have not drunk, sat on the couch with Tang who has installed himself on your lap with the dedicated permanence of an animal who has decided this is where he lives now and is not reconsidering.

You are not thinking about anything specific.

You are thinking about everything simultaneously.

The rain, three years ago, standing under an awning with your hand over your mouth thinking everyone who burns that bright does. The rain tonight, sixty thousand people standing in it without leaving because some things are worth standing in the rain for.

The first time he came to the center, a black beanie like arriving somewhere they did not expect to find interesting and finding it interesting anyway.

The lamp.

The plant.

Seven days out of twelve.

Everyone is here. He found you.

Your door opens.

He is completely soaked.

Concert clothes — dark, soaked through, his hair doing what his hair does when weather has won the argument, water running off him onto your floor. He has not stopped to change. He has not stopped for anything. He came from the stage to here, in the rain, in the state the rain left him in.

He is standing in your doorway.

He is looking at you.

You look at him.

You look at the floor, which he is making a mess of.

You look at him again.

The lobby is marble, you think. The lobby is marble and the elevator is smooth and quiet and I stood under his awning once in a mint green dress thinking everyone who burns that bright does, and then I walked to my car, and then I drove home, and then I cried.

That was then.

This is now.

He is standing in your doorway drenched in rain and looking at you like you are the only thing in the room worth looking at, which is what he has always done, which you have always known, which you spent three and a half years filing under things you were not going to examine directly.

You are done filing.

You cross the room.

You kiss him.

He is soaking wet and he is making a mess of your floor and he tastes like rain and he kisses you back with the full attention of someone who has been on a stage in front of sixty thousand people for two hours and has been thinking about this the entire time.

"You're making a mess of my floor," you say, against his mouth.

"I know," he says.

"You should shower first," you say.

He pulls back.

He looks at you.

"Come with me," he says.

The shower is warm.

This is, you think, the most ordinary extraordinary thing — standing in warm water with him, the rain washed off, the concert washed off, all of it washed off until it is just the two of you in the steam and the quiet. His hands in your hair. Your hands at his jaw. The specific ease of two people who have stopped managing the distance and are simply close.

He washes your hair.

You did not ask him to.

He does it anyway, his hands careful and unhurried, and you stand with your eyes closed and your back against his chest and think: this is what it looks like. This is the real thing. Not the grand gestures — this. The lamp and the plant and the hair and the text me when you land.

The ordinary things made extraordinary by the fact that he means them.

All of them.

Always.

Afterward, in your bed, in the warm dark of your apartment, with Tang reinstalled between you because he has opinions about sleeping arrangements and nobody asked him and he does not care — you are both looking at the ceiling.

His hand finds yours.

He traces something on your palm. Slow, absent, the way he traces things when he is thinking without deciding yet what he is thinking about.

You look at your phone.

"Jin's wife started a groupchat," you say.

A pause.

"You have a groupchat," he says.

"It's called Very official business, and I did not name it and I am not taking questions about who did."you say.

He makes a sound.

"Tae's person," you say, reading, "is very cool, by the way. She has promised to bring puppies to the center. The kids are going to lose it completely."

"Mm."

"Jin's wife," you say, and you pause because there is a lot to say about Jin's wife and you are not sure where to start. "I already knew her. From the center. But tonight was—" You stop. "How does one person have that much energy. She introduced me to everyone, she knew exactly who needed what, she made sure Jisoo was okay, she held someone's hand, she told me the bread story, she tried to tell me the goat story—"

"The goat story," he says, recognizing this immediately.

"There's a goat," you say.

"There is a goat," he confirms.

"She acts like an older sister," you say. "To all of us. Like she has always been that. Like she decided at some point that this was her family and she was going to take care of all of them and she has just — never stopped."

Yoongi is quiet for a moment.

"She has," he says. "Always been like that. Since before I knew what to make of it." A pause. "Noona is one of the most remarkable people I know." He says it simply, the way he says things that are true and have been true for a long time. "You have to be something extraordinary to match Jin-hyung's energy for fifteen years and still have anything left."

"He does have a lot of energy," you say.

"He has so much energy," Yoongi says, with the fond exhaustion of someone who has been adjacent to that energy since he was a teenager and has made his peace with it. "She matches it. Every time. I don't know how she does it. I have never known how she does it."

You think about her in the lounge tonight — the hugging and the introducing and the bread story and the goat story and the hand-holding and the fifteen years of showing up.

"I'm glad she's in this," you say. "Whatever this is. All of us."

"Me too," he says.

"Hoseok-ssi's—" You pause. "Person. Is also in the groupchat" Another pause. "And the choreographer. The one who's leading Jimin's dance company now." You look at the ceiling. "She's also coreographing something for you, I think."

"Mm," he says, which means yes.

"She and Jimin," you say.

"What about them," he says, carefully.

"I think," you say, "that she is absolutely in love with him. Even if they both pretend otherwise."

He is quiet for a moment.

"We know something about that," he says.

"We know everything about that," you say.

He makes the sound that is his laugh.

"The girl doctor friend—" you say. Yoongi Chuckles at the nickname that somehow stick.

"She sent a very detailed medical message about what to watch for with Namjoon's ankle. Very thorough. Very specific." You pause. "She's also donating a signed Shohei Ohtani jersey to the center's fundraiser."

"How does she have a signed Shohei Ohtani jersey," he says.

He knows exactly how she has a signed Shohei Ohtani jersey. You can tell by the specific quality of the question — not genuinely curious, more like a man who is aware of the answer and has feelings about the answer and is choosing to express those feelings as a question.

"She works with the Dodgers," you say.

"I know she works with the Dodgers," he says.

"So."

"So," he says.

A pause.

"It's going in the auction," you say. "We're going to fund the new equipment room. I'm going to send her a very nice thank you note."

He is quiet for a moment.

"I could get you VIP tickets," he says. "For our concert. For the auction."

You look at him.

He looks back with the expression of a man who has made a reasonable counter-offer and would like it to be considered on its merits.

"That's very generous," you say.

"It's a good offer," he says.

"It is," you say. "It's a great offer." You pause. "It's just not a signed Shohei Ohtani jersey."

He looks at you.

You look back.

You see the exact moment it lands — the slight tightening, the expression of a man who has just been told his VIP concert tickets have been measured against a baseball player's jersey and found comparable but not superior.

You start laughing.

He looks at the ceiling.

"The equipment room thanks you," you say, between laughs.

"Mm," he says, to the ceiling.

"And Jisoo's sister," you say, softer, "somehow got added. She was there today and everyone loved her immediately."

He is quiet.

"She's doing okay," you say. "Jisoo's sister. It's hard. She works so much. But she's — she's doing it. She loves Jisoo so much."

"I know," he says.

You show him what you were actually looking at.

Not the messages. The picture thread — hundreds of them, from the concert tonight, fan photos and fancams and crowd shots and signs held up in the rain. You scroll through them together, both of you slightly laughing at some, both of you quiet at others, the specific warmth of seeing something you were inside from the outside.

And then you find it.

A fan sign.

White poster board. Black letters. Simple. Held up by someone in section twelve, in the rain, surrounded by sixty thousand people.

"YOONGI MARRY ME." You read it and start laughing.

It is a real laugh — surprised and warm, the kind that gets into your eyes, the kind that has been coming more easily lately, since a supply closet and a chamomile plant and seven days out of twelve.

"Oh my god," you say, between laughs. "Look at this one—"

He stops tracing circles on your palm.

"What," you say.

He is looking at the sign.

He is looking at it with the expression of a man whose internal processing has encountered something unexpected and is handling it in real time, which for Yoongi means going very still and very quiet while the interior runs at high speed.

"Yoongi," you say.

"Say that again," he says.

You look at him.

"The sign," you say. "I was reading the—"

"Say it again," he says.

You look at your phone. At the sign. At him.

"You are not," you say, slowly, "taking a fan sign as a formal proposal."

"You said it first," he says. "Technically."

"I was reading a sign—"

"You said the words," he says. "In this bed. To me."

You stare at him.

Something is happening in his expression that you recognize — the thing that happens when Min Yoongi has decided something and is now simply communicating the decision. Not impulsive. Not unserious. The opposite of unserious. He is not surprised by the question. He has been thinking about this. You can tell — the lack of hesitation, the way the words arrive already formed, like they have been waiting for a reason to come out and the fan sign just handed them one.

"I can have a venue by Monday," he says. "I can ask my parents to stay one more day. When did you say your mother was coming back from Alaska?" He pauses. "And my cousin is going to hate me but—" Something moves through his face. "God, you looked so beautiful in that dress."

You look at him.

"Yoongi, you are not serious." you say.

"I have never been more serious about anything in my life," he says. "Unless—" A pause. The smallest pause. "Unless you don't want to. Which is fine. I just—"

You laugh.

You cannot help it — it comes out of you warm and real and completely, you laugh and you reach for him and you kiss him in the middle of the laugh which means the kiss starts slightly wrong and becomes completely right, and he makes a sound against your mouth that is also almost a laugh.

"Normal people date first," you say.

"When have we been normal," he says.

You pull back.

You look at him.

Min Yoongi. In your bed. In your apartment. His hair doing what hair does when it has lost the battle with a shower. Tang between you, deeply unimpressed with the emotional register of the evening. A ring he does not have yet. A tour that starts in a week.

You think about the natural sign.

Cancel everything.

Play it true.

"Get me a ring," you say, "and I'll think about it." A pause. "Pretty boy."

Something happens to his face.

The ears go pink.

Both of them.

The full set.

Then he smiles — the real one, the private one, the one his father said was the real one, the one that only comes out when he is not performing anything for anyone and something has gotten past every defense he has.

You have gotten past every defense he has.

You always have.

He kisses you.

Later — much later, in the warm dark, with Tang asleep between you and the city outside doing what it does and the tour a week away and a ring not yet but I'll think about it sitting in the room between you like a fact that has been agreed upon without being signed yet — you think:

You have never been good at lying to yourself.

For three and a half years, you tried.

You called it friendship. You called it complicated. You called it the piano guy and filed everything else under things you were not going to examine directly.

And then one Tuesday in March his name appeared on your personal phone and his opening line was I need a favor and you said yes — because you always say yes, because you feel things fully and say them when they need to be said and build things out of them when you can, because the feeling was never the problem, the feeling was always the material, and you have always known how to work with it.

You just needed the right project.

The right person.

The real thing.

"Yoongi," you say.

"Mm," he says. Asleep, almost.

"Min Yoongi" you say.

A pause.

"Mm," he says again. An acknowledgment. The sound of someone who knows what they are being called and does not object to it.

"I love you," you say.

A longer pause.

His hand finds yours in the dark.

"I know, I love you too, doll." he says.

The full version — I know, I have always known, I have been knowing it since a Wednesday in late autumn in a room next to the one where you first played for me, and I love you too, and I have loved you too, and you know that, and we are here, and this is real.

All of that.

From a man who has always known what to do with two words.

You close your eyes.

Tang purrs.

The city does what it does.

You are not pretending.

You have never been good at lying to yourself.

This, finally, is not a problem.

This — the lamp and the plant and the ring that is coming and I'll think about it and the tour and the text me when you land and the seven days out of twelve — this is what it looks like when you stop.

The natural sign.

The note played true.

The real thing.

The end. 🎹

author's note 🎹

I finished it.

I can't quite believe I finished it, but I did, and I need to tell you something before I say anything else — I almost didn't.

These past few weeks have been hard. Really hard. There were days I looked at this story and thought about closing the tab and not coming back. About letting it be unfinished. About walking away from something I love because I didn't have enough left in me to keep going.

And then you would send an ask. Or leave a comment. Or reblog something with a tags that made me laugh or cry or both. And somehow — somehow — that was enough to make me open the tab again.

So this chapter is yours as much as it is mine. You kept me here. You kept this story alive when I was ready to let it go. I don't know how to thank you for that except to say: I know. I see it. Every single one of you.

The silent readers too. The ones who have never sent an ask or left a comment but have been here every time. I see you. You matter just as much.

This epilogue is a love letter. To this universe. To these characters who have been living in my head and my heart and my 2AM conspiracy sessions. To the found family that built itself one story at a time and is now, finally, in the same room.

I gave you a glimpse of what's coming and what has become — all the stories living together, all the threads connecting, all the people finding their way to each other across this city that keeps folding in on itself.

It's okay if you only read this one. It's okay if you read them in the wrong order or skip around or come in somewhere in the middle. Every story is its own. Every story stands alone.

But if you read them all — if you follow every thread all the way through — I just want to say thank you. For staying. For caring about these people the way I care about them. For letting this universe mean something to you.

Jin's story is next. I'm already writing it and I am so happy about it I cannot be normal. That's all I'll say for now.

Thank you for reading me.

Thank you for being here.

I'll see you in the next one. 🖤

— Ria The Real Thing — Complete Part of The B-Side Series

This is yours. Every word of it. 🖤

That change… finally became visible. Not something big, not something that instantly turned everything warm—but clear enough for you to notice without having to look for it.

Min Yoongi started to… smile. Not often. Not wide. But enough. And every time it appeared, you couldn’t deny one thing—it was sweet. Too contrasting with all the coldness he had shown all this time.

And that was exactly what made you more uneasy. Because a change like that… is never simple.

That morning, as usual, you stood in the kitchen. Cutting ingredients, adjusting the heat, tasting the food with full focus like you always did.

But today… you weren’t alone. Yoongi sat in the living room. Not just passing by. Not just showing up briefly. He was really sitting there. Quiet. Watching.

You could feel his gaze even without looking directly. You held on for a few minutes. Trying to focus. Trying to ignore it. But eventually, you gave in.

“What are you doing there?”

You glanced over slightly, brows furrowed.

“Usually you come down when the food is ready.”

Yoongi didn’t answer right away. He leaned back casually, his eyes still on you. “Just felt like it.”

That answer was light. Too light.

You let out a soft sigh. “It’s distracting.”

Not harsh. But honestly. He instead… smiled a little. “Then don’t look.”

You went quiet for a moment. Then retur to your cooking. But now… you were aware. Every movement you made was being watched. And that… made you uncomfortable. Not because you were scared. But because you knew—if this continued, the boundaries you kept… could slowly disappear.

In the following days, the pattern kept repeating. You came. Cooked. And Yoongi… was already there. Sometimes sitting. Sometimes standing near the kitchen. Sometimes pretending to be busy with his phone, but clearly his eyes kept drifting back to you.

And you—remained the same. Professional. Neutral. Keeping your distance. Even though inside… you were starting to feel something you couldn’t ignore.

Meanwhile, outside the house—Yoongi’s life started moving again. BTS was preparing for a comeback. Practice schedules became packed. Studio, meetings, choreography rehearsals, recordings—everything filled his days again.

And there… that change also started to show.

“Hyung, why are you smiling to yourself?”

Taehyung’s voice came with a small laugh. Yoongi immediately looked away.

“I’m not.”

“Liar,” Jimin added, stepping closer. “You’ve been different lately.”

“Different how?” Yoongi stayed flat.

“More… alive?” Jimin shrugged.

Yoongi didn’t answer. But his hand had already picked up his phone. Checking the time. Once. Twice. Repeatedly.

“Hyung, do you have somewhere to be?” Namjoon asked from afar.

“No.”

“Then why do you keep checking the time?”

“Just because.”

But it wasn’t just because. Not at all. Because even when they finished practice and someone suggested—

“Let’s eat, we haven’t eaten since noon.”

Yoongi immediately answered without thinking. “I’m going home.”

“Hey, eat first,” Jimin said.

“No, I’ll eat at home.”

“You’ve been eating at home a lot lately,” Taehyung narrowed his eyes. “You’re usually the laziest.”

Yoongi just grabbed his jacket. “Someone cooks.”

The sentence slipped out just like that. And instantly made a few heads turn.

“Who?” Jimin asked, curious.

Yoongi paused for a moment. Then—“Someone.” Short. Cut off. Leaving no room to continue. And that only made them more suspicious.

Meanwhile, at home—you didn’t know any of that. You only knew one thing—minutes before he usually came back, everything was already prepared. And somehow—lately, the timing was always perfect. As if he was really paying attention.

The door opened. Yoongi walked in. His gaze immediately went to the kitchen. To you. And there was one small second—where his expression… changed. Lighter. Calmer.

“You’re done?”

“Yes.”

You still answered briefly. Not lingering. He sat. Ate. Without comments. Without criticism. And you stood there, like always—but now, you could feel something different. Not just from him. But from yourself too.

Because even though you kept telling yourself—this is just work. It shouldn’t be more. The truth was—the more days passed, the harder it became to pretend that everything… was still that simple.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Those days went by… too quietly. But not a comfortable kind of quiet. More like a quiet that held something unfinished.

In Min Yoongi’s mind, your words kept looping—

We need to keep our distance. You don’t belong in my world.

He tried to ignore it. Really tried.

Went back to practice schedules, to the studio, to the routines that used to be his escape. But strangely, now even in the middle of all that… his thoughts kept returning home. To the kitchen. To you. To the little things he never used to think mattered. And the more he tried to hold back—the clearer it felt.

He couldn’t.

Not because he was stubborn. But because that feeling… was already there. And it didn’t leave. So he stopped fighting it. Not in a big way. Not with something that forced things immediately. But… slowly. Carefully. Like someone who didn’t want to ruin something he hadn’t even had yet.

At home, that change started to be felt. You were still the same. Still keeping your distance. Still speaking only when necessary. Still standing on the line you drew yourself.

But Yoongi—started getting closer. Not directly. Not obviously.

That day, you were cooking as usual when you felt someone standing near you. Closer than usual. You didn’t turn right away.

“What are you doing?”

“You can see it yourself,” you replied.

Your tone stayed flat. He didn’t leave. Just stood there. Watching. Seconds. Minutes.

“Are you tired?”

That question… was simple. But different. You paused for a moment. Slightly surprised.

“I’m fine.”

He nodded slightly. Didn’t push. Didn’t continue. But also… didn’t leave.

Another day, you almost dropped a bowl because your hand was a little slippery. Before you could react—his hand caught it first. Reflex. Fast. Close.

The distance between you… was too narrow for those few seconds. You immediately pulled your hand away.

“Yeah, thank you.”

Short. Stepping back again. Like always. But Yoongi didn’t say anything. Just watched. And realized—every time he moved closer, you always stepped back. And that… didn’t stop him. It made him more careful. Slower. More… consistent.

Another night, when you finished cleaning the kitchen and were about to leave—

“Have you eaten?”

You stopped. Turned. “Yes.”

“Liar.”

You frowned slightly.

“I saw you haven’t eaten.”

You went quiet for a moment. Not expecting him to notice that much. “I’ll eat at home.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Then—“Just take some here.”

You looked at him. “I’m paid to cook, not to eat.”

“Just take it.”

His tone wasn’t forcing. But didn’t leave room to refuse. You hesitated. A few seconds. Then finally… took a little. Not because you wanted to.

But because you… were tired of rejecting small things like this. And that—was a small mistake that started opening something bigger.

In the following days, things like that kept happening. Small. Almost invisible. But consistent.

He didn’t force conversations anymore. Didn’t look for big reasons. He just… was there. Near you. In a way you couldn’t reject without seeming excessive. And without realizing it—you started to… not always step back. Not always. Sometimes you stay. Sometimes you didn’t move away immediately. Sometimes you let the conversation last a little longer. And that was enough. To slowly change everything.

One afternoon, you were sitting for a bit after finishing cooking. Tang-ie was sleeping on your lap, the house quiet as usual. Yoongi sat across from you. Not speaking. Just watching.

“Why do you keep looking at me?” you finally asked.

He didn’t answer right away. A few seconds. Then—“Am I not allowed?”

You sighed softly. “You’re weird.”

He smiled a little. And again—that same smile. The one that made your chest… uneasy. Not because you didn’t like it. But because you knew—if you started liking it. And that was what you had been avoiding from the beginning.

“You said we should keep our distance,” he said softly.

You stiffened slightly. “Yes.”

“But you’re still here.”

That sentence… didn’t sound like an accusation. More like… a confession. You didn’t answer right away. Because you knew—he was right.

If you really wanted to keep your distance—you would have left from the start. But you didn’t. And that… was something you didn’t want to admit.

“You too,” you replied quietly.

He smiled faintly. And this time… no one responded. Just a different kind of silence. Closer. More honest. And for the first time—you felt something you had been holding back… starting to waver. Not because you were weak. But because he—was no longer pushing you. No longer hurting you. He just… stayed there. Slowly. Consistently. And somehow—that was much harder to fight.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The weekend came, and for the first time in the past few weeks… the house in UN Village felt truly empty.

There were no small footsteps in the kitchen. No warm aroma of food that was usually there even before he truly realized he was hungry. No you.

Yoongi stood for quite a while in the living room, staring at the neat kitchen—too neat. Nothing was wrong, but that was exactly what felt strange. He opened the fridge. The ingredients were still there. But nothing felt… “ready.”

He closed it again. Let out a sigh. And for the first time, he truly realized—not just the food he had been waiting for every day.

That night, he sat on the sofa, phone in hand. The screen was open on a chat. Your name. He stared at it for quite a while. Typing. Deleting. Typing again.

Then finally—

Yoongi: What did you use… for what you cooked yesterday?

Sent. A few seconds. No reply. He frowned slightly.

A few minutes later—his phone vibrated.

You: Which one?

Your reply… short. Like always.

But enough to make the corner of his lips lift slightly.

Yoongi: The soup.

You: Oh. Just standard.

He stared at the screen. “Just standard” to you… but not to him.

He typed again.

Yoongi: How do you make it?

You paused for a few seconds when reading that. Honestly—it was strange. Not because of the question. But because of… who was asking. Min Yoongi. And he… texted you.

You let out a small sigh before replying.

You: You want to cook?

Yoongi: Maybe...

The answer was short. But you could imagine him sitting alone in that house, trying to… fill something empty.

And somehow—that made your chest feel a little warm. That night, your chat wasn’t long. But enough. Enough to make you realize—he was really… looking for you.

Saturday passed. And without you realizing, there was one person who was busier than usual—not in the studio. Not in practice. But on Instagram.

Yoongi opened your profile. Scrolling. Slowly. Not in a rush. Looking at simple photos—coffee, books, corners of a table, small things he had never thought about before. Then—your story appeared. You were sitting in a café, a cup of coffee in front of you, a book open. Simple. Calm. And somehow—he watched it until the end. Not once. Several times. As if that… was enough to make his Saturday feel a little better.

Sunday came. And he automatically opened Instagram again. Looking for the small circle at the top of the screen. Your name. Not there. He waited. A few hours. Still nothing. His brows began to furrow. Strange. This shouldn’t be a problem. But—it felt like… something was missing.

Finally, he opened the chat again. Without much thought—

Yoongi: Where are you?

Sent.

You, who were at home, reading a book as usual, saw that notification and… stopped. You stared at the screen for a few seconds. It still felt strange. Him. Who used to not even really acknowledge your existence—now… asking where you were.

You typed slowly.

You: At home

A few seconds. The reply came quickly.

Yoongi: Not going anywhere?

You smiled faintly.

You: No

Yoongi: Why didn’t you update?

You paused. Then let out a small sigh.

You: Why are you paying that much attention?

Silence on the screen for a few seconds. As if he just realized… he was too obvious. Then—

Yoongi: It’s nothing

Short. But you knew—that wasn’t “nothing.” You stared at the screen a little longer. And for the first time—you felt something… different. A feeling you had been trying to suppress from the beginning.

You were also starting to get used to his presence. To that routine. To the fact that every day… he was there. And now—two days without it—it actually felt different. Slightly. Subtle. But real. You took a slow breath. Typed again.

You: Have you eaten?

This time, you were the one asking. Yoongi looked at that message. And for a few seconds—he just stared. Then the corner of his lips lifted slightly.

Yoongi: Not yet

You closed your eyes briefly. As if trying to hold something back. But in the end—you still replied.

You: Don’t eat late.

Simple. Nothing more. Nothing less. But enough to make something inside him… feel warm again.

And in two different places—you both sat quietly with your phones. Trying to convince yourselves—that this was still within limits. Still safe. Still… just normal. When slowly—you both were starting to realize. Nothing was truly “normal” anymore.

Monday came faster than usual. Or maybe… it just felt different.

In the big house in UN Village, Min Yoongi was already awake earlier. There was no clear reason—no important schedule that morning. But he was already standing in the kitchen, opening the fridge, then closing it again.

Empty. Not because there was no food. But because you weren’t there yet. He glanced at the clock. Still too early.

He clicked his tongue softly, then sat on the sofa… but not really sitting calmly. His hand opened his phone several times, then locked it again. His foot moved slightly, restless without realizing it.

“Strange,” he muttered softly.

Even he realized it himself. He was waiting. And that wasn’t something usual for him. When the sound of the door finally came—he immediately turned.

You walked in as usual, taking off your shoes, unaware that someone had been watching you since the very first second.

“Morning.”

You greeted briefly. Yoongi stood up from the sofa, too quickly to look casual.

“Yeah… morning.”

You paused for a moment. Looked over. Something was different. His expression… lighter. And somehow—that made your heart feel a little uneasy too.

“You’re already here?” you asked.

“Yeah.”

“That’s rare.”

He shrugged. “Just woke up.”

An answer that… didn’t really explain anything.

You nodded slightly, then went straight to the kitchen like usual. But that day… you could feel something. That gaze. Again. And this time… clearer.

You tried to focus. Cutting ingredients. Adjusting the heat. But a few times you unconsciously grabbed the wrong spoon, or paused too long in one spot.

“What’s wrong with you?”

His voice suddenly close. You turned. He was already standing not far from you. Closer than usual.

“Nothing.”

“You grabbed the wrong salt.”

You immediately looked at your hand. True.

You clicked your tongue softly. “Yeah.”

He smiled a little. And that—made you even more unfocused.

“Don’t look,” you said softly.

He raised a brow. “Why?”

“It’s distracting.”

He chuckled softly. And that sound—rare. Warm.

“Now I want to look even more.”

You held your breath for a moment. Then returned to your cooking, trying to ignore the feeling that was starting to… become unstable.

That day passed quickly. And without realizing—the sky turned dark. Rain fell. At first softly. Then heavier.

The sound of water hitting the window was loud enough to make the house feel smaller… closer.

You stood near the door, looking outside. “It’s raining.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi replied from behind.

You sighed softly. “I’ll wait until it stops.”

A few minutes. It didn’t stop. It got heavier. You looked at the clock. It was already quite late.

“I’ll just go home,” you said finally, taking your bag.

Before you could open the door—Yoongi’s voice stopped you.

“Don’t.”

You turned.

“The rain’s too heavy.”

“I can—”

“I’ll drive you.”

Immediate. No pause.

You went quiet.

“No need,” you said quickly. “I can order—”

“No.”

His tone was firm. Not harsh. But clearly… not leaving room to refuse.

“I’ll drive you.”

You hesitated. A lot. But seeing the rain outside… and seeing his expression—you didn’t have many reasons left. Finally, you nodded slightly. “Okay…”

A few minutes later, you were already sitting in his car. And somehow—that felt far more nerve-wracking than it should have been.

The car interior was warm. Quiet. Only the sound of rain and the engine running softly. Yoongi drove with one hand, focused on the road. And you—you couldn’t help but notice.

The way his hand held the steering wheel. The way his jaw tightened slightly when concentrating. The way he occasionally glanced at the rearview mirror. Simple. But… handsome. Too handsome. Even though he was just wearing casual clothes. Your heartbeat became more irregular. You quickly turned your gaze to the window. The rain outside looked blurred. As if trying to calm yourself.

A few minutes passed. Silent. Until finally—

“Sorry.”

His voice was soft. You turned. He was still focused on the road. But his voice… serious. “For everything I’ve done.”

You didn’t answer immediately.

“The way I talked to you,” he continued. “The way I treated you.”

His hand tightened slightly on the wheel. “I know it wasn’t right.”

Silence. Only the sound of rain.

“I’m not asking you to answer now,” he continued softly. “I’m also not asking you to believe me right away.”

You looked at him. Quiet.

“But I’ll fix it,” he said. “Slowly.”

He took a breath. Still not looking at you.

“I’ll make you see it yourself… that I’m serious.”

That sentence—wasn’t big. Not dramatic. But precisely because of that—it felt more real. You looked down slightly. Your heart was still beating fast. Not because you were scared. Not just because you were awkward. But because… you were starting to believe him. A little. And that was the most dangerous part. Because you knew—if you started believing… you might not be able to keep your distance like before.

The car stopped in front of your house. The rain was still falling. You didn’t get out immediately. Just sat for a moment. Looking ahead. Then softly—

“Okay.”

That was all. A simple answer. But enough to make Yoongi finally turn to you. And in between the sound of rain—something had finally changed. Slowly. Surely. And this time—neither of you was really trying to hold it back anymore.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

That night should have ended… in the parking area in front of your house. It should have been after you got out of the car, after you said that soft “okay,” everything returned to normal. But it didn’t.

Because a few minutes after you got to your room—your phone vibrated. Min Yoongi’s name appeared on the screen. You stared at it for a few seconds. It still felt strange. Still unfamiliar. Then you opened it.

Yoongi: Are you in your room?

You immediately smiled a little. Simple. But… warm.

You: Yes

The reply came quickly.

Yoongi: Okay.

That was it. You thought it ended there. But a few seconds later—

Yoongi: Is it still raining?

You let out a small sigh. Strange. Not important. Especially since you were in the same city. Why ask about the same weather? But you still replied.

You: Yes

Yoongi: Don’t go out again.

You paused. Staring at the screen. Why were you listening to him?

You: Okay

And since that night—your chats… didn’t stop. Never anything important. Sometimes completely random.

Yoongi: If yesterday’s soup is reheated, does it still taste good?

You: Depends how you reheat it.

Yoongi: If I do it wrong, will it taste bad?

You: Yes.

Yoongi: …

You even laughed softly by yourself in your room.

Or—

Yoongi: You almost dropped the spoon earlier, right?

You: You pay a lot of attention.

Yoongi: Just normal.

“Just normal,” he said. Even though you knew—it wasn’t normal. The following days changed without you realizing.

Every time you got home— “Have you arrived?”

Every night— “Don’t stay up late.”

Every morning— “Are you awake?”

Small things. But consistent. And more dangerously—you always replied. Without realizing. Without being forced. The walls you built so high—slowly… cracked. Not because he broke them. But because you yourself… started opening them.

The next Monday, you stood in front of his house door in UN Village. Your heart—wasn’t normal. Even though this wasn’t your first time coming. But now… it felt different.

You opened the door. Walked in. And as if it was already routine—he was there. Sitting casually in the living room. Turning when you entered. And—smiling.

“You’re late.”

You immediately stopped in place.

“I’m… like usual.”

“No,” he said casually. “Today you’re two minutes later.”

You frowned. “You counted?”

He shrugged. “Just felt like it.”

You immediately walked to the kitchen, pretending not to care. Even though—your cheeks were already getting warm.

That day, as usual, you cooked. And as usual—he was near you. But this time… closer.

You stood in front of the upper cabinet, trying to reach a glass that was a bit too high. Before you could grab it—his hand was already above you. Taking the glass. His body close. Too close. Your breath hitched.

He handed the glass to you. “Here.”

You took it quickly. “Thank you.”

Then immediately stepped back one step. Reflex.

Yoongi saw that. And… smiled slightly. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What?”

“Like you’re avoiding me.”

You immediately busied yourself at the sink. “No.”

“You clearly are.”

“No.”

He stepped a little closer again. “Are you scared?”

You immediately turned quickly. “I’m not scared.”

“Then?”

You went quiet. No safe answer.

He leaned slightly, bringing his face closer—not too close, but enough to make your heart completely lose control. “Nervous?”

His voice was soft. Almost like a whisper. And that—was dangerous. You immediately stepped back again. “Ugh… you’re annoying.”

He chuckled softly. And again— that sound made everything more unstable. “You said you’re not scared.”

“I’m not.”

“But you stepped back.”

You glared at him—or at least tried to look annoyed. When in reality—you just… didn’t know what to do.

“Are you going to help or annoy me?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Help by annoying.”

You held back a smile. Hard. Too hard.

Days like that kept repeating. Small things. Close. Warm. And without realizing—you started waiting for it.

Waiting for him to be in the living room. Waiting for his texts. Waiting for the little things you used to avoid. And that—that was what scared you the most. Because you knew—you were no longer fully in the same place as before. And he—never stopped getting closer. Slowly. Consistently. As if he truly intended… to not let you drift away anymore.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The following days felt… too light for something you were initially afraid of. The changes in Min Yoongi were no longer something small you had to search for. Now… they were clear. And that was exactly what made you even more uneasy. Because he was no longer just “there.” He was truly… getting closer.

That day, you were standing in the kitchen, trying to reach something from the top shelf. Your fingertips almost touched it—but not quite. You lifted yourself slightly on your toes. Still not enough. And before you tried again—two hands suddenly appeared on either side of you. Holding the edge of the counter. Trapping you between his body.

You froze instantly. Your breath caught. Yoongi stood right behind you. Close. Too close.

“What are you doing?”

His voice was low. So close to your ear. Then you turned your body around.

“I… I’m getting that,” you answered, your voice softer than you realized.

His hand moved past your head, grabbing the item you meant. But he… didn’t step back right away. Still there. Still close. Your heart—was already a mess. You could feel his breath. Warm. Slow.

And somehow… everything felt like it stopped. You swallowed slowly. Then—without realizing—you closed your eyes. For a split second. You thought… he would—

And suddenly—a soft laugh was heard. Close. Warm. “What are you doing closing your eyes?”

You immediately opened them. Your face heated up instantly.

“I—I didn’t—”

Before you could finish—he leaned a little closer—and… He gently patted your head.

You completely froze.

Yoongi stepped back slightly, still with a faint smile on his face. “Cute.”

You couldn’t respond right away. Your heart felt… too loud. Too fast.

“Ugh… what are you even doing,” you muttered softly, trying to sound annoyed but clearly failing.

He chuckled again. And this time… didn’t try to get closer again. As if he knew—that was enough. No need for more. No need to rush. And that—was what made everything feel more real.

Since that day, you couldn’t act normal anymore. Every time he was close—you got nervous. Every time he spoke—you became too aware of his tone. Every time he looked at you—you had to pretend you didn’t notice. Even though you did. Everything.

And Yoongi—clearly knew. But he didn’t push. Didn’t force. He just… stayed there. In the same way. Slow. Consistent.

That night, when you finished working and were getting ready to go home—you grabbed your bag as usual. “I’m heading home.”

“I’ll take you.”

Direct. No pause.

You let out a small sigh. “No need, it’s not raining.”

He was already standing, taking his car keys. “I’ll take you.”

“Aren’t you tired?”

“No.”

His tone was casual. But clear. Not something you could refuse. You finally gave in. “Okay…”

In the car, the atmosphere felt… different than before. Not awkward. But not entirely relaxed either. More like—you both knew something had changed. And neither of you wanted to say it first.

Yoongi drove like usual. Focused. Calm. And you—once again couldn’t help but notice.

His hands on the steering wheel. The side profile of his face. The way he occasionally glanced at the road with sharp but calm eyes. And without realizing—you smiled a little.

“What?”

You snapped out of it. “Nothing.”

He glanced briefly. “You smiled.”

“I didn’t.”

He smirked slightly. “Liar.”

You turned toward the window. Trying to hide it. Even though—it clearly didn’t work.

A few minutes later, the car stopped in front of your house. You unbuckled your seatbelt.

“Thank you.”

You were about to get out—but his voice stopped you. “You’re coming tomorrow, right?”

You paused. Turned. The question was simple. But the way he asked—it wasn’t.

“Yeah,” you answered softly.

He nodded slightly. Didn’t say anything else. But his gaze—was enough. And as you got out of the car, walking toward your house—you could feel one thing becoming clearer every day—you were no longer just trying to hold on. You were starting to… fall. Slowly. Without realizing it. And this time—no one was really trying to stop it anymore.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

That morning, you still came. Like usual. Even though… it didn’t fully feel usual. Your steps were slightly slower as you entered his house. You still took off your shoes, still went straight to the kitchen, still tried to do everything as if nothing had changed.

Even though your body felt heavy. Your head slightly dizzy. And you knew… you weren’t really fit. But you still came. Because this was your job. And you didn’t want to look weak.

Tang-ie greeted you as usual, but this time you only managed to pet him briefly before opening the fridge. Cold. Too cold.

You stood in front of the fridge a little longer than usual, trying to focus on the ingredients—but your vision was slightly blurry.

“What’s wrong with you?”

Min Yoongi’s voice came from behind. You immediately closed the fridge.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

You tried to sound normal. But you didn’t turn around. And that was already suspicious enough.

Yoongi stepped closer. “You look pale.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“You look pale,” he repeated, softer.

You took a breath. “Just lack of sleep.”

You started taking ingredients, trying to ignore him. But your hands trembled slightly as you held the knife. And before you could start—Yoongi immediately took it from your hand.

You were startled.

“Sit.”

You shook your head immediately. “No, I can—”

“Sit.”

His tone was firm. Not loud. But… not something you could argue with.

“I’m paid to cook,” you tried again.

He looked at you. For a while.

“And I said sit.”

Silence. A few seconds. You exhaled softly. And for the first time—you didn’t resist. You walked to the sofa. Sat down. Still feeling uneasy. Still feeling guilty.

Meanwhile in the kitchen—Yoongi stood. Alone. Looking at the ingredients you usually handled so easily.

He stayed still for a moment. Then… started. His movements weren’t as smooth as yours. Not as fast. But enough. He remembered. The way you cut. The way you cooked. The small things that all this time… he had been paying attention to.

Meanwhile, you on the sofa—at first still tried to sit upright. Waiting. Holding on. But your body… wasn’t that strong. Your head felt heavy. Your eyes slowly closed. And without realizing—you fell asleep.

Yoongi finished cooking. Not perfect. But decent.

He wiped his hands, then walked to the living room. And stopped. You were asleep on the sofa. Your position slightly tilted, your hands folded at your side, your face looking… tired. Paler than usual.

He stood there. For a few seconds. Watching. No intention to wake you up. No heart to do it.

He walked closer. Slowly. Sat beside you. Still silent. Just watching. And somehow—his chest felt… strange. Not tight. Not light either. More like… something he couldn’t explain.

A few seconds later—without you realizing—your body moved slightly. A reflex. Searching for comfort. And slowly… you leaned against him. Your head fell onto his shoulder. Warm. Close.

Yoongi froze instantly. For a moment. But he didn’t move. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t stop it either. He just… stayed still. Letting it happen. Slowly, he adjusted his position slightly. Shifting his shoulder so you’d be more comfortable. His hand moved hesitantly—then stopped. Not touching you. But close enough. As if ready… if you needed it.

Tang-ie climbed onto the sofa, sitting near your feet, looking for a moment… then staying still too. The room was quiet. Calm. And for the first time—there was no distance you forced. No boundaries you held. There was only you… asleep on his shoulder. And him—who didn’t want you to wake up too soon.

Yoongi stared straight ahead. But his mind… was full. About you. About everything that had changed. About how without realizing—you had already become a part of this place. And maybe—part of him too.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

You slowly woke up. The living room lights were already dim, leaving only a soft, warm glow. For a few seconds, you stayed still… trying to remember where you were. Then you realized—earlier, your head had been resting against something warm. And now… you had shifted slightly.

You turned your head. Beside you, Min Yoongi was asleep. His position slightly tilted, one arm folded at his side, his face looking… much calmer than usual. No cold expression, no distance. Just… peaceful.

You stayed quiet for a few seconds. Strange. All of this felt… too different from when you first met. You glanced at the table. The food. It's already cold. And somehow… your chest felt warm. He cooked. For you.

You took a slow breath, then moved a little closer. “Yoongi…”

Your voice was soft. No response. You hesitated for a moment, then lightly touched his arm.

“Yoongi… wake up.”

He let out a small groan, his brows slightly furrowed, then slowly opened his eyes. For a few seconds… he looked confused. Then—his focus landed on you.

“You’re awake…” his voice was still hoarse.

You nodded slightly. “Yeah. Sorry… I fell asleep.”

He immediately sat up, almost reflexively. “How are you? Still dizzy?”

The question came quickly. Too quickly. You were a little surprised.

“I’m better now.”

He looked at you for a moment, making sure. Then nodded. “Good.”

You glanced at the table. “The food… is already cold.”

He looked too, then immediately stood up.

“I’ll heat it.”

You were about to stand as well, but he stopped you right away. “Just sit.”

His tone wasn’t harsh. But… clear. You finally stayed still. Sitting. Watching him in the kitchen. His movements still weren’t as smooth as yours. But now… there was something different. He was serious. Focused. As if it mattered. And somehow—that made your chest feel… strange.

A few minutes later, the food was warm again. You both sat at the table. Facing each other. And for the first time—eating together like this felt… very different. No comments. No criticism. No rigid distance. Just—warm. Quiet. But comfortable.

You took a bite. And without realizing—smiled. He noticed immediately.

“What?”

You shook your head slightly. “Nothing.”

But—it tasted good. Not perfect like your cooking. But… enough. And more than that—there was effort in it.

After finishing, you stood up slowly. “I’m going home.”

He immediately stood too. “Who’s at home with you?”

You paused slightly. “No one.”

His brows furrowed instantly. “No one?”

“Yeah.”

He stayed quiet for a moment. Clearly didn’t like that answer. Especially seeing your condition today.

“You… should just stay over.”

You turned quickly. “What?”

He hesitated a little now. But continued. “Just stay here. You’re sick.”

You were completely blank for a few seconds. Then… you almost laughed. “That’s absurd.” Direct. No filter.

Yoongi went silent. And for the first time… he seemed aware. “Yeah…”

He rubbed the back of his neck slowly. “It’s… kind of unreasonable.”

You held back a smile. The situation was awkward. But also… funny. In the end—he still grabbed his car keys. “I’ll take you home.”

And you didn’t refuse. In the car, the atmosphere wasn’t as tense as before.

Lighter. Closer.

When you arrived at your house—you got out. “Thank you.”

“Yeah.”

He was still sitting there, looking at you. “Go rest right away.”

“Yeah.”

You went inside. Closed the door. And a few seconds later—your phone vibrated.

Yoongi: Are you in your room?

You smiled.

You: Yeah.

A few minutes—

Yoongi: Take your medicine.

You: Okay.

Then again—

Yoongi: If you feel dizzy again, tell me.

You even let out a small laugh. It was obvious. He was worried. And honestly… it was cute. But also warm.

You went to your room, took a quick shower, trying to freshen up. And without realizing—you left your phone for quite a while.

When you came out—the screen was full of notifications. Several messages. And one… video call. You froze instantly.

“…Seriously?”

Your phone vibrated again. Video call. From Min Yoongi. You hesitated. A lot. But finally—you answered. His face appeared right away on the screen. Hair slightly messy, still in casual clothes, his expression… clearly worried.

“Where were you?”

Straight to the point. No small talk. You almost laughed.

“I was showering.”

He paused for a moment. Then let out a breath. As if he could finally calm down.

“You didn’t reply.”

“You even video called?”

“I was worried something happened.”

Simple. Honest. And that… made your chest feel warm again.

You looked at the screen. Strange. Everything felt strange. But also… comfortable.

“I’m okay.”

He nodded slowly. Still looking at you. As if making sure himself. And you realized—the wall you built… was almost gone. Not because you gave up. But because he—never stopped trying.

“Yoongi…”

You called softly.

“Yeah?”

You hesitated for a moment.

“I’m still scared.”

Honest. He went quiet. Didn’t answer right away. Then—“I know.”

His voice was softer than usual.

“I’m not asking you to stop being scared immediately.”

Silence.

“But I’m serious,” he continued. “I’m not playing around.”

His gaze was steady. Not avoiding. “I’ll prove it.”

You looked at him. Quiet.

“And if you want… we can try slowly.”

He paused for a moment. Giving space. “Together.” That word… fell softly. But it was enough.

And for the first time—you didn’t pull away immediately. Didn’t shut yourself off. You just… stayed there. With feelings you could no longer hide.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

You stayed still for quite a while after the call ended. Min Yoongi’s words kept echoing in your mind—slowly… together. It felt warm. But also scary.

You sat at the edge of your bed, taking slow breaths a few times. This wasn’t a small decision. This wasn’t just “trying things out.” You knew… once you took a step forward, you wouldn’t be able to pretend nothing happened anymore.

Your phone was still in your hand. You stared at the blank screen for a few seconds. Then finally—you typed.

You: Yeah… let’s try.

You stared at the sentence before sending it. Your heart beating faster. Then—send.

Not even a few seconds later—a reply came. Not long.

Yoongi: Wait.

“Wait—?”

What you didn’t know, he was already on his way when you hadn’t replied earlier. He was that worried. A few minutes later—the doorbell rang. You froze instantly. Your heart dropped. Slowly… you walked toward the door. Peeked. And there he was. Standing in front of your house, wearing a hoodie, a mask—but still—you knew it was him.

You panicked right away. Quickly opening the door, pulling him inside.

“Yoongi, are you crazy?!” you whispered quickly while closing the door. “What if someone sees?!”

He took off his mask slowly.

His gaze went straight to you. Serious.

“I can’t say this through chat.”

One sentence. And the atmosphere shifted instantly. Quiet. Tense. Too close.

You stood in front of him, still a little shocked, still trying to process—but your eyes couldn’t leave him.

“If you said you want to try…” he continued softly, “I don’t want it to be halfway.”

Your heart started racing again.

“I also don’t want you to think this is just… temporary,” he added.

There was no joking tone. No hesitation. Just… serious. You swallowed slowly.

The atmosphere in the living room became too tight, too full of something unspoken but already felt.

“If you trust me,” he said again, softer now, “I’ll also do my best.”

You looked at him. Quiet. And somehow—this time you didn’t step back. Not like before. Yoongi took one step closer. Slowly. Giving you time… to step back if you wanted. But you didn’t. And that was already your answer.

His hand lifted, hesitating for a moment… then touched your cheek carefully. Warm. Gentle. Your heartbeat went out of control.

“Can I?” he whispered.

His voice was low. Close. You didn’t answer. But you didn’t move away either. And that was enough. He leaned in. Slowly. And when his lips touched yours—everything felt… still. Soft. Warm. Not rushed. As if he was really making sure you were comfortable. And that—only made your heartbeat even more uncontrollable.

Your hand, without realizing, gripped his shirt slightly. Pulling him closer. And from there—everything changed. No longer just hesitation. No longer just “trying.” But something… both of you felt. Close. Real. And impossible to stop.

That night felt long. And too fast at the same time. You didn’t know exactly when you moved. When your steps led toward the bedroom.

When you stopped thinking. What you knew—was that night, you didn’t hold back anymore. Everything felt… warm. Close. And real. Without force. Without the hesitation that used to be so big.

Just two people—who finally stopped hiding from what they felt. Time passed without notice. And when everything settled—what remained was unsteady breathing… and a silence that felt comfortable. Not awkward. Not unfamiliar. Just… close.

Yoongi stayed there. Didn’t leave. As if he never intended to. And you… didn’t ask him to. That night, for the first time—you didn’t feel the need to keep your distance.

Morning came slowly. Light slipped through the curtains. You woke up gradually. Warm. That was the first thing you felt. Then you realized—there was an arm wrapped around you.

You froze for a moment. Then slowly… turn your head. Min Yoongi was still asleep. Close. Very close. His face calm, his breathing steady, and his arm… still holding you like last night.

Your heart started beating again. But this time—not from fear. More like… something warm spreading slowly in your chest. You stayed there. Not moving. Not pulling away. For the first time—you didn’t try to run. And maybe—that was the beginning of something truly new.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

That morning came slowly, softly, with light slipping through the gaps in your bedroom curtains. You woke up first. And the first thing you saw—was Min Yoongi. Asleep beside you. Close. Too close for something you once thought was “impossible.”

You stayed still. Watching his face. His hair slightly messy, his breathing calm, his lips slightly parted—and for the first time, you saw him… without all the layers he usually showed the world. No coldness. No distance. Just… him.

And you really didn’t expect—him to be in your bed. Yours. Not in his luxurious villa. Not in a place full of distance. But here. Close. Real. Without realizing it, you smiled softly.

“Morning…” you whispered, even though you knew he wasn’t awake yet.

But he was. A little. His eyes still closed, but his hand moved, instinctively searching for you. Then—finding you. His arm wrapped lazily around your waist, pulling you slightly closer.

“I don’t want to wake up yet…”

His voice was hoarse. Heavy. Still half asleep.

You let out a small laugh. “You have to wake up.”

“Don’t want to.”

And before you could say anything else—his hand moved slowly, brushing against your thigh casually, like a reflex that was too comfortable.

You immediately tensed a little. “Yoongi…”

“Yeah…”

“Wasn’t last night enough?”

The words slipped out faster than you expected. He paused for a moment. Then—eyes still half closed—the corner of his lips lifted slightly.

“Not yet.”

His answer was casual. Too casual. And that instantly made your heart race again. Before you could move away—he had already pulled you closer. His kiss this time felt different. Still soft. But more certain. More… knowing. Not rushed, but clearly not hesitant. And you—who were still trying to hold back—immediately lost your rhythm again.

That morning moved slowly. Warm. Filled with small pauses, soft laughter, breaths colliding, and touches that were no longer awkward. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. Just two people—who finally let themselves… be close.

After everything settled, the two of you stayed there for a while. Quiet. Calm. And this time… you didn’t feel the need to run from the feeling.

“Is it enough now?” you asked softly.

He chuckled lightly, still with his eyes closed. “More or less.”

You lightly hit his arm. “Hey.”

He smiled. And you realized—you liked seeing that. Getting out of bed felt… lighter than usual.

The two of you eventually went to the kitchen. Still with a slightly awkward but… warm atmosphere. You started preparing a simple breakfast, but Yoongi immediately took over part of it.

“You just sit.”

“I’m already better.”

“It’s fine.”

His tone was casual, but still… protective. You finally sat on the chair, watching him. And again—strange. Seeing him in your kitchen. Cooking. In your house. Like this.

“Where are you going later?” you asked.

“Practice.”

“Oh.”

He nodded. “All day at HYBE.”

You nodded slowly.

“So you don’t need to cook today.”

“So nice,” you mumbled.

He chuckled softly. Your breakfast was simple. But it felt… enough. After that, Yoongi got ready to leave. Before stepping out, he paused in front of you. Looking. As if making sure of something.

“Take care of yourself.”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

And before you realized—it, he kissed your forehead. Brief. Warm. Then he left.

That day, in the practice room—Yoongi tried to act normal. Like usual. Focused. Professional. But… his phone was never far.

During breaks—the screen lit up immediately. Your chats.

Yoongi:  What are you doing? Have you eaten? Are you at home?

Jimin glanced from the side. “Hyung… are you in love?”

Yoongi immediately looked up. “What are you talking about.”

“You check your phone every five minutes.”

From afar, Taehyung chimed in. “Seriously, you’re so different now.”

Yoongi didn’t answer. But the corner of his lips… lifted slightly. And that was already enough of an answer.

On the other side—you read his messages. One by one. And without realizing—you smiled. Because now—it wasn’t just him who changed. You did too. And this time—you both knew—this was no longer something that could be called “temporary.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

In the practice studio, Yoongi tried… to look normal. His movements were the same. Focused. Professional. Not talking much like usual. At a glance—nothing had changed. But if you looked longer… it was obvious something was different. He checked his phone more often. Smiled to himself more often. And most noticeably—he looked… impatient.

“So weird,” Jimin muttered while watching from afar.

“Why?” Taehyung asked.

“Hyung looks like he’s waiting for something.”

Taehyung narrowed his eyes. “Or… someone.”

Meanwhile, Yoongi pretended not to hear.

Even though… It was true.

Since morning, his messages to you hadn’t stopped.

Yoongi: Don’t sleep yet tonight. I’ll finish pretty late. Wait for me.

And you—who initially only replied briefly—slowly got pulled in too.

You: Aren’t you tired? Practicing all day and still going out?

The reply came quickly.

Yoongi: I want to.

One word. But enough to make you pause… then smile to yourself.

Practice felt longer than usual. Every break, Yoongi checked his phone. Every time it almost ended, he looked at the clock. And when finally—

“Alright, that’s a wrap for today.”

He stood up immediately. Fast.

“Wait, want to eat first?” Jimin asked.

Yoongi grabbed his jacket right away. “No. I’m tired. I want to go straight home.”

Taehyung smirked. “Tired… or in a hurry?”

Yoongi only glanced briefly. “Tired.”

But the way he left the room—was too fast for someone who was just “tired.”

Outside, he got into his car. And before the engine fully started—a message was already sent to you.

Yoongi: I’m on the way.

You, who were almost asleep, immediately sat up from your lying position. Your heart—felt strange. Different from usual. The minutes felt longer than they should. Until finally—another notification.

Yoongi: I’m outside.

You almost stood up immediately. Quickly grabbed your bag. Check yourself briefly—then go out. And when you opened the door—the car was there. Dim lights. Engine running. And him—waiting.

You got into the car. And before you could say anything—Yoongi immediately looked at you. “Finally.”

His tone… relieved.

You smiled softly. “You look like you’ve been waiting forever.”

“I have.”

Short. Honest. And that immediately made your cheeks warm.

The car started moving. Not to any particular place. No clear destination. Just… driving around. Because you both knew—going somewhere crowded was too risky.

So your world that night—was just that car. City lights. And roads that kept moving. The first few minutes were quiet. But not awkward. More like… enjoying it.

Until—suddenly Yoongi’s hand moved. Searching for yours. And holding it. You immediately turned. Your heart—shot up.

“You’re driving…”

“I can.”

Casual. As if it was nothing. Even though it wasn’t for you. His hand was warm. His grip not too tight. But enough to make you… constantly aware. You tried to focus outside the window. Failed. Because you were too aware—your hands were still connected.

“You’ve been quiet,” he said.

“So have you.”

“I’ve been looking at you.”

You immediately turned quickly. “Watch the road.”

He chuckled softly. “Yeah.”

But his grip… didn’t let go. The car kept moving. City lights passing one by one. And in the middle of it all—you both… felt like you had your own world.

“Are you tired?” you asked softly.

“Tired.”

“Then you still went out?”

He glanced briefly.

“Because of you.”

Direct. No hesitation. And that—was too honest. You immediately looked down slightly. Unable to hold back your smile. Unable to stop your racing heart either.

“I feel guilty,” you muttered.

“Don’t.”

He lifted your hand slightly. Still holding it.

“This… is better than resting.”

You didn’t reply. Because you knew—if you spoke now, your voice wouldn’t be steady.

A while later, the car stopped on the side of a quieter road. City lights are still visible. The atmosphere is calm. And for the first time—you were truly still. No distractions. No reason to look away. Just… the two of you.

Yoongi turned. Looking at you. Longer than usual. And you—didn’t look away right away. Your heartbeat sounded too loud in your own ears.

“Are you still scared?” he asked softly.

You paused for a moment. Then—“Still.” Honest.

He nodded slightly. “It’s okay.”

His hand is still holding yours. Warm. Steady. “I’m here.”

That sentence was simple. But enough. And inside that car—on that quiet night—you both smiled softly. With the same feeling—light. Nervous. And… blooming, like teenagers falling in love for the first time.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The car finally slowed down. The rounds that had felt too fast… had to stop eventually. The lights in front of your house were already visible, and somehow—this time, the atmosphere felt different. Heavier. Yoongi turned off the engine.

But neither of you got out right away. Your hands were still intertwined. Neither of you wanted to let go first. Silence. Just the sound of the engine fading and the distant city in the background.

“We’re here,” you said softly.

“Yeah.”

But neither of you moved. You turned slightly. So did he. And for a few seconds—you just looked at each other. As if both of you knew… you didn’t want this moment to end.

“Tomorrow…” Yoongi started.

You waited.

“…you’re not coming over, right?”

You smiled a little. “Yeah. It’s the weekend.”

He nodded slowly. His expression shifted slightly. Not obviously sad… but enough for you to feel it. Heavy. And somehow—you felt the same. Thinking about not seeing each other for two days… felt long.

“What if I come to your place?” he suddenly asked.

Direct. No hesitation. You immediately turned. “What?”

“We’ll just stay in. Not going anywhere.”

His tone was casual. But clearly… serious. Your heart immediately grew restless again.

“Yoongi…”

You hesitated. A lot. “That’s risky.”

“We’ll be careful.”

You shook your head slowly. “What if someone sees?”

He stayed quiet for a moment. You continued. “I’ll just come to your place instead.”

He looked at you. Slightly surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

You took a slow breath.

“UN Village is safer, right? Security is tight, outsiders can’t just get in.”

He immediately nodded. Without thinking. “Okay.” Quick. Almost too quick.

You even laughed softly. “You didn’t even think about it first?”

“No need.”

His answer was casual. But clear. “I actually prefer you coming over.”

You looked down slightly. Unable to hide your smile. “You…”

He leaned a little closer. Still in his seat. But enough to make the distance feel smaller again.

“You’re coming tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Promise?”

You looked at him. Then nodded softly. “Yeah.”

And that was enough. His smile appeared again. That one. The one that always made your heart race for no reason.

“I’ll be waiting.”

You slowly opened the car door. Got out. But before you could really walk away—his voice called.

“Y/N.”

You turned. He was still in the car. Looking at you. And without many words—he just smiled slightly. But this time—it was different. More… clear. More warm. More honest. And somehow—that was enough to make your chest feel full.

You smiled back. Then went inside. Meanwhile in the car—Min Yoongi leaned back in his seat for a moment. Looking ahead. And for the first time in a long while—he was truly… impatient for the next day.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The next day, you really came. Your heart still… refused to cooperate. Even though this was already a decision you both made. Even though you already knew this would happen. Still—your heart raced.

When you entered the villa in UN Village, the atmosphere immediately felt… different. Not like a workday. No “work” rhythm. No pressure. Just—Yoongi. Already waiting.

Min Yoongi stood in the living room, casual, wearing a light hoodie, his hair slightly messy—and when he saw you walk in, his expression immediately changed. More alive.

“You came.”

His tone was light, but clearly… happy.

You nodded slightly. “Yeah.”

You glanced toward the kitchen.

“The ingredients—”

“No need.”

He cut you off immediately. You turned.

“I already ordered food.”

You frowned. “Why?”

He walked a little closer. “I don’t want to waste time.”

That answer… was too honest. And it instantly made your cheeks warm.

“You usually take a long time in the kitchen,” he continued casually. “Today… I want you here.”

Your heart—immediately lost its rhythm. You tried to act normal.

“Ugh… you.”

He just smiled slightly. And without many words—you were both already sitting on the sofa. The TV was on. But honestly—neither of you was really watching.

Yoongi sat close. Too close. His hand slowly pulled you a little—and before you realized it—you were already leaning on his shoulder. Quiet. Comfortable.

His arm wrapped loosely around you. Occasionally brushing your arm softly. And you… didn’t refuse. Didn’t pull away. Just… stayed there. Enjoying it.

“This is better than going out,” you muttered softly.

“Yeah,” he replied immediately.

“You’re afraid of getting caught?”

You nodded slightly. “Very.”

He lowered his head a little, his voice softer. “Me too.”

You turned slightly. “You?”

He nodded. “But not because of me.”

You stayed quiet.

“Because of you.”

That sentence—instantly made your heart drop again.

Before you could respond—

Knock knock.

Both of you froze instantly. Reflex.

Yoongi immediately looked toward the door. So did you. Your heart shot up.

“Did you order something else?” you whispered, panicked.

He shook his head. “No.”

Knock knock.

Clearer. More real. You looked at each other. And in one second—panic.

Yoongi stood up immediately. “You… just sit normally.”

“Normally how?!”

He was already walking to the door. And when it opened—you both knew… this wasn’t a normal situation.

His mother. Standing at the door. Holding a small bag.

“I just stopped by for a bit—”

She paused. Looking inside. Looking at you. You immediately stood up. Your heart—completely chaotic.

“Auntie…”

You bowed slightly, nervous. She looked at you. Then at Yoongi. Then back at you.

“Oh… you’re here?”

Her tone wasn’t angry. But clearly… surprised. “Aren’t you usually here on weekdays?”

You opened your mouth. Not knowing what to say. “Yeah, I—”

“She…”

Yoongi suddenly spoke. You turned instantly.

“Has… extra work.”

You froze. What?!

His mother frowned. “What kind of work?”

Yoongi paused. Clearly… unprepared. “…just… work.”

You immediately looked down, holding yourself back from reacting. That was… absurd.

His mother looked at both of you. Silent for a few seconds. Then—nodded slowly.

“Oh… I see.”

Her tone was… odd. Like she didn’t fully believe it. But also didn’t want to push further.

“I just came to drop this,” she said, handing over a bag of bread. “I won’t stay long.”

“Yes, Auntie.”

You were still a bit nervous. Yoongi stood beside you, slightly too close… without realizing it. His mother noticed. Briefly. And a small smile appeared on her face. Not too obvious. But enough.

“Alright, I’ll go now.”

“Yes, Auntie.”

The door closed. And once it fully shut—you both went silent. For a few seconds. Then—you quickly turned to Yoongi.

“Extra work?”

He looked at you. Then—laughed softly.

You immediately covered your face for a moment. “Oh my God…”

“You were about to say what?”

“I didn’t know!”

The two of you finally… laughed. Softly. But relieved. Yoongi walked closer, pulling you gently into his warm embrace, then pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

Meanwhile outside—his mother walked away from the house. With a wide smile. Wider than before. She shook her head lightly.

“That kid…”

Her tone was warm.

Because it was obvious—her son had been lying. And just as obvious—he was in love. Especially—with you. And that—made her happier than anything.

← Part 1 | Part 3 →

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Author Notes: Wow! I have to release this part earlier than I expected because it turns out so many people enjoyed this story and somehow it reached 500 likes so quickly. I honestly thought I’d be posting Part 2 around the end of June. Maybe because quite a lot of people reblogged it, more people found it and pressed the like button faster.. I hope you like this part too. Don’t forget to leave a like, reblog, or comment on which part you liked the most.

But it just so happened to be expired; which you did not know. 

You had no doubt in your mind that Mr. Han had everything to do with the call that resulted in the closing of your bar, so he could take away the last straw to break you down completely. 

Thankfully, the bar didn't have to be permanently closed. It just couldn't open again before you paid for the new permit and then some more for a new inspection. 

Which, at this point, could mean the same thing. 

So you told Mina, Sana and Mrs. Kim that you were very sorry about everything and that they should probably start looking for new jobs. You were doing the very same thing at this very moment, alone in your apartment, sitting on the floor because that felt more like home than if you were on the couch. 

You weren’t scared of working hard or trying out new tasks, you were just… Severely under qualified for anything that paid well enough for you to survive while paying Mr. Han's growing fees. 

Mrs. Kim had texted you an hour ago, suggesting you try to apply for the clerk position at the CU where her husband worked at, which was across the street from the bar, but you knew everyone in that area had seen Mr. Han regularly dropping by, so you doubted you'd get hired. 

No one messed with Mr. Han. 

Only you, apparently. 

And to make matters even worse, the landlord had been coming around knocking on your door from hour to hour, his tone becoming more and more impatient as he said:

“I know you're in there.” he'd sounded more tired than annoyed the last time. “If you can't pay this month's rent by the end of it, I'll need you to find somewhere else to live.” 

You never answered, because what could you say to that? What empty promises would be good enough to save your ass for another four weeks?

You stayed in the dark, because not only did it save you some power bill money, you liked the soft light from your scented candle, and the landlord wouldn't be able to see it from underneath the doorframe. 

Maybe he wouldn't come back until the next morning. 

But then there was a new knock at your door and you were sure the landlord wouldn't give up until he drove you to madness. 

When your phone started buzzing in front of you at the center table, your heart skipped all the beats when you saw the saved contact name and you laughed softly under your breath, because of course he'd be calling you right now. 

Eh, what's one more person being disappointed with you?

“Please, not tonight, Tae.” you said as you picked up the call because at least he deserved that. “You can yell at me tomorrow, okay?”

“Open the door, hustler.” 

Your heart slammed to a full stop in your chest.

For a second the world went completely silent except for the low, familiar rumble of his breathing on the other side of the door. Taehyung was here? After everything, after you’d ripped both your hearts out this afternoon trying to do the ‘right thing’? You were so sure you’d never see him again, much less tonight, not like this–

You pushed yourself off the floor, phone still pressed tightly to your ear like it might disappear if you let go, like this could still be some cruel joke. Bare feet padded across the cold wooden floor and your hand shook as you reached for the lock.

The moment you opened the door, the hallway light spilled in and there he was.

Freshly showered, dark hair still damp and messy from the helmet of his bike, a few strands falling over his forehead. He wore simple dark jeans and a black Celine shirt that looked stupidly expensive, probably worth more than your overdue rent, and somehow he still managed to look like the safest place in the world. You hadn’t seen him in maybe six hours, and already your memory had failed him. No picture in your head had ever done justice to how beautiful he was. 

Your hand dropped slowly, phone slipping away from your ear.

“I meant what I said about the yelling, Tae.” you almost pleaded, voice thin and cracked. There was no fight left in you tonight.

But Taehyung didn’t look angry, he looked tired… and scared. Like he was holding his breath, waiting for you to slam the door in his face again. He lifted the pizza box between you like a fragile white flag:

“And I meant what I said about the cheap ramen you keep eating.”

His voice was quiet and rough around the edges, the fear bleeding through just enough for you to hear it. He was terrified you’d take the pizza and send him away anyway.

You stood there for half a second, heart aching so badly it felt bruised, then stepped aside without another word. You couldn’t send him away twice in one day. 

Taehyung stepped inside without hesitation, moving through the tiny entryway as if he already knew the shape of your apartment by heart; not that there was much of it to learn. He headed straight for the little kitchen area just off to the right after taking off his sneakers, his presence filling the small space in a way that somehow made it feel less empty instead of overcrowded. 

You lingered for a second longer at the door with leftover nerves as you peeked out into the hallway to make sure your landlord wasn’t still lurking nearby. When you saw no one, you quickly closed the door and turned the lock, the soft click sounding far too loud in the quiet.

By the time you turned around, Taehyung had already set the pizza box on the narrow kitchen island and flipped it open. He didn’t say anything about the darkness, about how the only light came from the few scented candles flickering on the center table and the windowsill, casting soft golden pools across the worn surfaces. 

The warm, savory smell of melted cheese and greasy wonderfulness rose up between you, and your stomach gave a loud, traitorous grumble. You hadn’t eaten anything since Minseok’s hot dog back at the camp earlier that day, and of course Taehyung knew that too without having to guess too hard.

You moved closer, stopping on the opposite side of the tiny island, the small barrier between you feeling both necessary and ridiculous at the same time. Taehyung lifted the lid fully, revealing the pizza split neatly in half; one side bulgogi, the other plain cheese. And without any ceremony, he picked up a slice and took a bite, chewing quietly like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Something in your chest loosened, just a little. You reached out and took a slice from the meat side, the crust still warm against your fingers. It was fresher than you expected, the cheese pulling in soft, gooey strands, definitely not something that had been strapped to the back of his bike for the ride over. 

The realization settled over you slowly: he must have ordered it from downstairs when he arrived, waiting there in the entrance until it came so he could bring it up warm. The thought was so quietly thoughtful, so full of care you hadn’t earned, that the first bite became difficult to swallow past the sudden tightness in your throat.

You both ate quietly, each taking two slices, one bulgogi, one cheese, while your eyes kept drifting toward each other only to slip away the moment they met. 

The silence pressed against your skin and you hated it most of all. Conversation had always come so easily between you, light and teasing and warm, and now this careful distance felt unbearable. 

All you wanted was to step around the small island and stand close enough that your arms might brush, but after everything that had happened today, even this moment felt like more than you had any right to hope for. 

Maybe you were dreaming, curled up on the couch just a couple of meters behind you, imagining the whole thing. 

You could have eaten more, the pizza was warm and comforting and delicious, but the thought of the conversation waiting for you made your appetite shrink. So you paced yourself, taking smaller bites until your second slice was gone. Eventually you slipped away to the tiny counter behind Taehyung and turned on the faucet, the sudden rush of water sounding far too loud as you washed your hands.  

“Thank you for the pizza.” you murmured after you were done cleaning up, realizing only then that you hadn’t said it yet.  

“Thank you for not kicking me out.” there was a small smile on his lips when you glanced back, soft and tentative. 

Taehyung turned as well, washing his hands in the same sink. You passed him the tea towel without a word, your fingers brushing for the briefest second. Once he dried his hands, the question finally slipped out, quiet and heavy:  

“What are you doing here, Tae?”  

He exhaled slowly. “I heard about what happened at the bar. Mina called Ji-hoon hyung while I was still in the room.”  

“Oh.” the word fell small between you. 

One more piece of your mess that Taehyung already knew about, too. Great.  

“I’m really sorry.” he said, and the sincerity in his voice didn’t feel like pity, it felt like he was hurting with you, which somehow hurt more. “Do you know who gave the police the tip?”  

You nodded, gaze dropping to the counter. “Only one person comes to mind.”  

“I thought so.” his voice softened. “What are we–”  

A sharp knock at the door cut him off mid-sentence.  

You pressed a finger to your lips, eyes wide, while your other hand reached quickly for his arm, wrapping gently around his wrist before he could speak or move toward the door. 

Taehyung froze, brows pulling together in a frown. Another knock echoed through the apartment, sharper this time, and then footsteps slowly retreated down the hallway again, just like they had been doing all evening. Only when the sound faded completely did your shoulders drop, just a fraction. 

You kept hold of his wrist, not brave enough to take his hand, and gently pulled him with you toward the living room, putting a little more distance between you and the entrance in case the landlord was still listening at the door.

“Who was that?” Taehyung asked, voice low and full of concern.  

“My landlord.” you admitted softly, because there was no point in hiding anything from him anymore. “He’s been trying to kick me out. But if he can’t find me, he can’t serve me the notice.”  

“Yn.”  

Your name sounded heavy and wrong coming from Taehyung’s mouth like that. You offered him a sad little smile as you lowered yourself onto the couch. 

“I’ll figure it out.” you swallowed around the tennis-ball-sized lump in your throat. “I always have.”  

Taehyung watched you for a moment, then respected your words for now. He sat down beside you on the couch, leaving enough space that your knees didn’t brush, but his warmth still reached you anyway; soft and comforting, like summer mornings when you were small and the only worry you had was what to eat for breakfast.  

“Now will you talk to me?” he asked quietly, turning so his side rested against the back of the couch, fully facing you.  

“Tae…” you let out a small, shaky breath, but he didn’t let you finish.  

“Because I don’t believe you just had a sudden change of heart after everything that happened today.” he continued, gentle but insistent, like this is what he came here to talk to you about and since you let him in, he would say his piece. You shifted to face him too, folding your legs beneath you. “If you’re really not into me, I’ll understand that and leave you alone. But you’ll have to tell that to your eyes, because I still see the way you look at me.”  

“Of course I’m into you– How could I not be? But this is pointless.” you confessed, the words slipping out before you could stop them. You kept your gaze lowered, unable to meet his. “When all of this is over, you’ll pack your bags and go back to Seoul, back to your real life with the members. You’ll have more options and–”  

Your voice cracked. You had to close your eyes for a moment, forcing the tears back down. Taehyung waited patiently, and after a few heartbeats you felt the lightest touch, just the tip of his finger gently caressing the front of your knee, so soft it almost didn’t feel real.  

“And I’ll still be here…” you continued, voice barely above a whisper, finally brave enough to look at his face. “Stuck to a responsibility that isn’t even mine, but that keeps me from following you. So can you respect my decision?”  

“I could, if those words were actually yours.” he said with a small, pained smile, eyes scanning yours carefully. “You see, someone else told me something surprisingly similar to all of that recently. Pointless? More options?”  

You bit down on your tongue, realizing too late that you had echoed Namjoon’s words almost exactly. Thinking clearly had never been your strongest suit when Taehyung was this close.  

“What else did he say to you?” when you stayed quiet, Tahyung added: “Please tell me so I can reassure you against all of it.”  

“He didn’t say anything I didn’t already know.” you answered, crestfallen. “And that you know too, Tae. You can’t tell me you believe this could be forever.”  

“I don’t see why it can’t be.”  

“You leave in seven months.” you reminded him, the truth sitting heavy between you. “I’m promised to someone else.”  

“You were sold to someone else.” he corrected gently, something dark and troubled flickering across his face. “And I already told you– I’m not going to let that happen.”  

Another knock came at the door, louder and sharper than before, and you jumped, heart leaping into your throat. Embarrassment flooded through you so fast it flushed your entire face with heat. You rubbed both hands over your face, frustration and bone-deep exhaustion mixing together until you felt like you might finally crumble.

“Fucking hell.” Taehyung muttered, already pushing up from the couch, obviously fed up.

“Tae.” You reached for him, fingers brushing uselessly against his arm, but he was already moving toward the door with purpose.

“Let me handle this.” his tone left no room for argument, steady and final.

And honestly, you didn’t argue. 

You were too tired, and some small, worn-out part of you was simply giving up. You stayed on the couch and watched as he unlocked your door and stepped outside, catching only a brief glimpse of the old man who owned the building before the door clicked shut behind him. You were alone again in the dim, candle-lit apartment, but the mood was all wrong for the cozy vibes it usually brought.

You could hear the landlord’s voice, low and muffled, but none of Taehyung’s. He wasn’t the type to raise his voice anyway, and somehow that made the waiting even worse. You sat there restless, biting at your nails and shifting on the couch, knees drawn up tight as the minutes stretched.

It couldn’t have been more than five minutes, yet it felt like ages before the door opened again and Taehyung stepped back inside like nothing had happened at all. You were already on your feet the moment he appeared.

“He won’t be bothering you again for a while.” Taehyung told you calmly.

“What did you say to him?” you asked, arms wrapping around yourself like they could hold you steady.

“That’s between me and him.” he answered, voice gentle but still final. “And you don’t get to hustle me about it.”

The familiar nickname was in there somehow, wrapping around you like a warm blanket, and you didn’t have the strength to push it. You didn’t let yourself think too hard about what he might have done, about Tae possibly paying your overdue rent with money that probably felt like pocket change to him. 

Instead you sank back onto the couch, the wave of relief so big and sudden that it pressed heavily against your chest. Your hands came up to cover your face as you tried to steady your breathing, slow and shaky.

Taehyung moved without hesitation, dropping to his knees on the floor right in front of you, the motion so fluid and earnest it made your heart ache. His hands gently pulled yours away from your face, holding them carefully so you had no choice but to look at him.

“Now you listen to me.” he said softly, eyes steady and flicking between yours. “I don’t make empty promises. And if I’m telling you I’m not walking out on you… it’s because I’m not.”

You did what he asked and simply listened, because his hands were still holding yours, because he was right here on his knees in front of you and he hadn’t left. The warmth of his skin against yours made it impossible to pull away. You gave him the smallest nod, barely there, and that was all he needed to continue.

“Namjoon-hyung is wrong, this isn’t pointless. Not to me. And I know you don’t think like that either.” Taehyung said, firm but gentle. His thumbs drew slow, soothing circles against the back of your hands, grounding you, keeping you from spiraling further. “I don’t care about other options. I’m not going to be depressed after a breakup… because that’s not going to happen.”

“I can’t leave, Tae.” you sniffled, voice cracking.

“Not right now,” he murmured, leaning in a little closer, his gaze never leaving yours. “But you will.”

“Kai won’t let me.” the words slipped out heavy with fear and exhaustion, carrying the weight of years you didn’t want to think about.

“I’ll figure that out too.” he promised softly. One of his hands left yours so he could reach up and tuck your hair gently behind your ear, his fingers lingering. “I can’t do anything right now because of this stupid enlistment, but I have a good company behind me. Powerful. With more connections than you might think. I don’t just mean money, my name holds a lot of weight.”

“Which is exactly why you shouldn’t be getting involved with me.” you whispered. Still, you couldn’t help leaning your cheek into his palm, pressing into the warmth, trying to memorize the feeling in case this was the last time he ever touched you like this.

“Sucks to be you,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting into a small, crooked smile. “Because I already am.”

Your own smile came reluctant and shaky. “You steal hearts and catchphrases, huh?”

Another small piece of your soul clicked back into place just from seeing him smile, from the simple fact that he was still here and you loved him. 

Taehyung shuffled closer on his knees until he was right between your legs. He rested his hands on the couch on either side of you, caging you in, but it didn’t feel trapping like everything else in your life. It felt like being held, even though he wasn’t touching you.

“I’m asking you to trust me.” he continued, voice low and steady. “I can buy us time now, and then when I’m off, we can fix this properly.”

“I’m not accepting your money, Tae.” you shook your head quickly. “Even if Mr. Han would let me buy myself back, I wouldn’t sell myself to you either.”

“That’s not what’s going to happen, hustler.” he said, his hands turning to rest warmly on the sides of your thighs, grounding and sure. “I’m already talking to some lawyers about your situation, because this debt isn’t yours. You shouldn’t have been dragged into it in the first place.”

“I still was.”

Then, careful and quiet, Taehyung added: “I also have a detective looking for your uncle.”

“You what–” surprise jolted through you, eyes widening.

“They have a few leads, too.” Tae continued gently. “If we find your uncle, the lawyers can force the debt back onto him where it belongs.”

“I’m not throwing my uncle into the sharks to save my own ass.” you shook your head slowly, caught between the desperate want to reach for the way out he was offering and the stubborn values that felt like the only thing no one could ever take from you.  “That would make me the same as him. I’m not like that.”

“I knew you’d say that. But that’s not what’s going to happen.” Taehyung murmured, reassuring. His hands slid a little higher on your thighs, thumbs still moving in those slow circles. “With your uncle back, we can tie the collateral to something tangible, to his assets. The bar will be the collateral, not you.”

You were trying to follow, but it still felt hazy. “Why would that work now? Even if my uncle comes back and signs the bar over to Mr. Han, Kai still wants me. Why would he take the bar instead?”

“Because the moment Kai tries to put a finger on you, this becomes a human trafficking threat.” Taehyung said, like he’d spent hours going over these very questions with his lawyers already. “Then we can file a protection order and a criminal complaint. We get the police involved on our terms.”

The words settled deep in your chest, heavy and bright at the same time. It could actually work… If he was really telling the truth about the lawyers, the detective, all of it, if no one got hurt in the process. For the first time in so long, you let yourself believe him. You let yourself agree.

“Why does this sound too good to be true, Tae?” your final walls were crumbling, eyes filling with salt water.

“Because you’re used to people walking out on you, hustler.” he said softly. “Not people making a point to stay.”

The first tear slipped down your cheek, then the second. Taehyung rose up on his knees, fitting himself against you as you finally let go. 

The last time you let anyone see you cry was at your father’s funeral, refusing to show any weakness that could be used against you after feeling so alone in the world. But now you had Tae, and the quiet, messy sobs that shook your whole body weren’t stopping. 

He held you through every single one, arms wrapped securely around you, one hand gently cradling the back of your head. Taehyung didn’t try to shush you, he didn’t tell you to stop. Tae simply held you, steady and warm, like nothing you showed him could ever scare him away.

And in that moment, you didn’t feel like you were breaking apart anymore. You felt seen, supported and loved. Like for the first time in years, you were being given something, instead of it being taken from you.

-

-

The warm glow of the bedside lamp bathed your bedroom in a soft golden light. 

For tonight, you didn’t have to worry about the power bill anymore, so you left it on without guilt, refusing to turn on the white ceiling light that always made everything feel harsh. 

You were sitting cross-legged on the edge of your bed when you heard the small sounds from the hallway, Taehyung finishing up in the bathroom after using the spare toothbrush you’d given him.

“I’m in my room.” you called softly, a smile already tugging at your lips.

Taehyung followed your voice and appeared at your doorway, stepping in and pausing for a moment. You watched, endeared, as his curious eyes moved around the room the same way yours had wandered through his military dorm earlier that day. Was that today? Or did it already count as yesterday? 

It felt like so long ago now, after everything that had happened, that your sense of space and time were thrown off.

“Dammit.” he said, pointing at your light green headboard with a playful pout. “I thought that would be butter yellow.”

You laughed, surprised by how easily the sound came even after all the crying. “You pictured my headboard?”

“Amongst other things.” he shrugged, the corner of his mouth lifting as he slowly walked further into your space.

You let him look around. You were patient, because this was you, the real you; the swimming competition medals pinned to the wall, the delicate string of fairy lights draped along the windowsill, the old polaroids of your early teenage years taped to the mirror, the scattered makeup on your dresser, even the pile of fuzzy socks next to the hamper. 

Not the debts, not the unpaid bills or the people you’d let down. This.

Taehyung turned around to face you fully after taking it all in, and the way he looked at you made something warm bloom in your chest. Because it hadn’t changed at all, not once.

“Thank you for staying with me tonight.” you tilted your head as you finally stopped running from his gaze. “Are you sure you won’t get in trouble?”

“Not at all.” he laughed, low and easy, pushing away from your dresser and walking over to you. “But you’re worth the risk.”

You smiled, teasing. “Just say you want to sleep on a real bed for once.”

He sat down beside you on the mattress, reaching out to press his palm against the soft bedding, testing it with a gentle push. It didn’t creak, it didn’t hurt your back like the thin one in his dorm.

“And here I was thinking you’d send me to the couch.” he tried to sound innocent even though his eyes were sparkling with amusement.

“First of all, I don’t think you would fit on my couch.” you pointed out, and he laughed because he knew it was true. You leaned in a little, voice growing softer, more honest. “And second… the last thing I want tonight is to have you even a room away.”

Taehyung’s laugh faded into something quieter as he leaned in until his nose brushed yours, voice low and warm against your lips.

“I was trying really hard to behave tonight, I swear. This is not why I said yes to staying over…” his gaze dropped to your mouth, then slowly back up. “But you keep looking at me like that.”

“How am I looking at you, Tae?” you asked sweetly, blinking slow and innocent, even though you both knew exactly what you were doing.

“Like you’re about to hustle me already.” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Not tonight.” you shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips. “I do want to take care of you, though.”

Your hand slid onto his thigh, inching higher with purposeful slowness. You leaned into his body, breathing him in, the clean scent of his skin mixed with the faint trace of your toothpaste on his lips. Taehyung’s breath hitched as you pressed closer.

“You’ve been so nice to me all this time…” you whispered, lips brushing along the column of his neck, placing a soft, open-mouthed kiss there. “And I haven’t kept the promise I made over the phone, did I?”

“W-what was that again?” his voice stuttered beautifully when your mouth lingered on his neck, teeth grazing lightly.

You smiled against his skin, letting your hand travel higher until you cupped the growing hardness beneath his pants.

“I still want you in my mouth, Tae.” you breathed, squeezing gently. “Can I finally have it?”

Taehyung let out a shaky exhale, one hand instinctively sliding into your hair as his hips twitched toward your touch. The air between you felt electric now, thick with want from the both of you, which felt both natural and surprising at the same time.

Taehyung’s fingers tightened gently in your hair, tilting your head just enough so he could kiss you. 

The moment your lips met, everything turned electric. The kiss was urgent in the way you both had been holding back for hours, but still lazy and exploratory, like you were learning each other all over again even though you already knew exactly how to drive one another crazy.

His tongue slid against yours, slow and deep, coaxing the softest moan from your throat. You answered by sucking his bottom lip into your mouth, savoring the way he tasted, a little minty from the toothpaste, completely him. The kiss grew wetter, more sensual, tongues stroking and teasing in a rhythm that made heat pool between your legs. 

You could feel every little hitch in his breath, the way his hand flexed in your hair, the quiet sound he made when you tilted your head and kissed him even deeper.

All the while, your hand never stopped moving. You palmed him over his jeans, squeezing and rubbing with slow strokes, feeling him grow thicker and harder under your touch. He was getting so hard so fast it made you dizzy with want.

Taehyung moaned into your mouth, low and broken. The sound was so pretty it made you squeeze him a little firmer. He tried to keep kissing you, but he couldn’t anymore, his head fell back with a heavy exhale, lips parted, eyes half-closed as he gave in to the feeling of your hand.

That was your cue.

You slipped off the bed and settled on your knees between his spread thighs. Taehyung looked down at you, breathing hard, one hand reaching out to cup your cheek tenderly. His thumb brushed across your bottom lip.

“This is still something you want, right?” he asked, voice already rough, clearly remembering this would be your first time doing this. You nodded right away, eyes locked on his. “Thank god.” 

He laughed, soft and relieved, the sound melting into a groan when you smiled up at him.

The little laugh that escaped you was full of nerves and excitement as you reached for the waistband of his jeans. You worked the buttons open and started tugging them down his hips and Taehyung lifted his hips to help you, watching every movement with dark, hungry eyes.

“Will you tell me if I do it wrong?” you asked, a little shy but mostly eager. “Or show me how you like it?”

“‘course, baby” he rasped, already sounding completely fucked out, and you hadn’t even touched him properly yet. His hand stayed gentle on your cheek, thumb stroking your skin like you were something precious. “I’ll show you everything.”

You stayed on your knees between his spread thighs, heart beating hard in your chest. With gentle hands, you finished pulling his jeans down his long legs, then pushed the fabric aside on the floor. His boxers were next. You hooked your fingers into the waistband and tugged them down carefully, slowly, savoring the moment you’d finally see all of him.

When his cock finally sprang free, heavy and flushed, you froze.

Because fuck.

Taehyung was bigger than you’d imagined even after feeling him through his clothes; thick, girthy, curving slightly upward, the head already glistening. The sight of him made your mouth water instantly.

Taehyung let out a low, smug chuckle, tilting his head as he watched you stare, knowing what was going through your mind. His voice was cocky, dripping with amusement and arousal as he teased:

“It’s not even in your mouth yet and you’re already drooling, huh?”

Your cheeks burned, but you couldn’t look away. 

“You’re so big…” you breathed, genuinely impressed, almost overwhelmed. “I don’t even know how…”

Taehyung didn’t move to rush you or push you. Instead, he watched you with that dark, predatory tilt to his head, eyes half-lidded, lips parted. You could see the way his chest rose and fell a little faster, the way his cock twitched under your gaze, but he kept his voice gentle when he finally spoke again.

“You can start by touching it, baby.”

His tone was soft, but you could hear the strain underneath, the clear want threading through every word. One of his hands came down to rest lightly on your cheek again, thumb stroking your skin in slow, soothing circles, even as his other hand flexed against the bed like he was trying not to grab you.

Your fingers were gentle at first, almost tentative as you wrapped your hand around the base of his cock. He was heavier and thicker than anyone you’d ever held, for sure. Your fingertips barely met around his girth, and the realization sent a fresh wave of heat through you. It seemed they kept coming.

You explored him slowly, learning. Your thumb brushed over the smooth, flushed head, spreading the bead of precum that had gathered there, then dragged back down in a lazy circle. Taehyung’s breath hitched. You tried a gentle twist just beneath the head and his thigh tensed hard beside your shoulder.

Encouraged, you started stroking him properly with long, languid, upwards strokes, letting your palm glide over every inch of him. Tae was so responsive... Every time your thumb pressed against that sensitive spot right under the head, his stomach tightened, the muscles flexing beautifully under golden skin. Low, breathy sounds kept slipping from his throat, and the more vocal he got, the bolder you felt.

After a few slow strokes, you leaned in and pressed your lips to his inner thigh, savoring the smooth, heated skin. You could smell him here too, clean skin, faint soap, and something unmistakably masculine that made your head spin. You kissed higher, open-mouthed and unhurried.

“Don’t be a tease, hustler…” Taehyung moaned, the words rough and desperate.

“I like touching you, ‘s all,” you mumbled, voice sweet and a little shy.

Still, you brought your face closer, letting your warm breath fan over his cock. You wanted this, you wanted to try, even if you took your time and figured it out as you went. You knew he wouldn’t be upset if you decided it wasn’t for you.

So you started simple.

You pressed a soft kiss to the underside of his length, right at the base, then dragged your lips slowly upward. He was so long that halfway up you had to smile against his skin, almost laughing at how far you still had to go up.

Taehyung let out a breathless chuckle, though the sound was strained. He was watching you with dark, tortured eyes.

“At least you’re having fun…” he rasped, looking like it was taking everything in him not to buck up into your touch.

You kept kissing along his length for a moment longer, working up your courage, then parted your lips and carefully took the tip of his cock into your mouth.

The first feeling was… strange. Definitely not bad, just new for you. He was so warm and heavy on your tongue, the skin silky soft over hardness. You had been lowkey terrified he might taste bad, but he didn’t. It was a clean, slightly tangy taste; skin and precum, but still nothing unpleasant. The unfamiliar fullness in your mouth made your cheeks flush hotter.

The moment you closed your lips around him, Taehyung let out the most beautiful moan, low, rough, and completely unguarded like he hadn’t been able to be when you were at the dorm. The sound shot straight between your legs and made you want to hear it again. And again. And then some more.

You focused on the head first, swirling your tongue around it slowly, exploring. When you licked right beneath the ridge, right where you’d felt him twitch earlier in your hand, his hips jerked and another deep moan spilled from his throat.

“Fuck… just like that, baby.” he breathed, voice raspy. His hand stayed gentle in your hair, not pushing, just resting there. “Use your tongue a little more on the head… yeah, like that. Good girl.”

The praise and the way he told you exactly what he liked made heat flare in your stomach. You found it ridiculously hot, the way he was guiding you so softly, so patiently. You wanted to please him more than anything, so you obeyed instantly, swirling your tongue with more confidence, licking every spot that made his thighs tense or his breath catch.

Taehyung’s head tipped back for a second before he looked down at you again, eyes dark and hazy.

“Suck a little harder on the tip… not too much. Just– ah, yeah… just like that.” his fingers flexed gently in your hair. “You’re doing so well already. Look at me, hustler.”

You lifted your gaze while keeping him in your mouth, lips wrapped prettily around the head, tongue still moving. The eye contact made his cock twitch hard against your tongue.

“Shit.” he groaned, the sound wrecked. “You have no idea how pretty you look right now.”

You kept working the head with your tongue, sucking a little harder like he’d told you, and Taehyung’s moans were getting deeper, prettier. You were starting to enjoy this more than you ever expected, the weight of him on your tongue, the way his sounds filled the quiet room, the feeling of power every time his hips twitched because of something you did.

“Use your hand too, baby.” he rasped, voice rough with want. “Stroke what you can’t fit… yeah, just like that. Squeeze me a little more– fuck, good girl.”

You wrapped your fingers around the base and started pumping him in time with your mouth, squeezing the way he liked. The combination made his abs clench hard, thighs trembling on either side of you.

Taehyung’s hand tightened in your hair, giving it a gentle tug. The light pull sent a spark of heat through you and you moaned around his cock. He hissed sharply at the vibration.

Tae’s other hand came down to caress your cheek, thumb stroking tenderly even while his voice stayed wrecked.

“Think you can bob your head for me, baby?” he asked, breathing hard. “Or do you want me to help?”

You pulled off him with a wet pop, surprised by how slick and shiny his cock looked now, covered in your spit. You kept stroking him with a closed fist, twisting your hand around the head as you answered, a little breathless:

“Can you show me how?”

Taehyung looked like he was losing his mind. His cock throbbed hard in your hand, leaking more precum that you used to make your strokes smoother and wetter.

“Come here,” he murmured. Tae held both sides of your face gently but firmly, guiding you back to his cock. “Open for me, baby. Relax your jaw… tongue flat against the bottom– that’s it.”

You parted your lips again and he slowly guided your head down, helping you take more of him into your mouth. He was careful, patient, but you could feel how much he was holding back.

“Just like that… nice and slow,” he praised, voice thick. “Hollow your cheeks a little when you come back up– ah, fuck, that’s good.”

He started guiding you properly then, moving your head up and down in a steady rhythm, showing you exactly how he liked it. Every time you did something right he rewarded you with a broken ‘that’s it’ or a soft ‘good girl’ that made you moan around him.

You were getting wetter by the second, completely lost in the feeling of him filling your mouth and the way he was teaching you. And Taehyung… he was falling apart, head tipped back, lips parted, breathing ragged as he watched you take him deeper with every careful stroke of his hands.

You grew bolder with every stroke of his hands guiding you. Soon you were moving on your own, bobbing your head with more confidence, taking him deeper each time. You couldn’t fit all of him, he was simply too big, and this was your first time giving head, but you still pushed yourself, sliding him toward the back of your throat just like you had with his fingers earlier today.

The wet, filthy sounds filled the room: soft slurping, the occasional gag when you took him too deep, and the quiet, desperate moans vibrating around his cock. You swallowed around him, throat tightening, and Taehyung’s grip in your hair suddenly turned firmer.

“Fuck– baby, I’m gonna cum,” he warned, voice strained and urgent. “Show me those tits–”

It was the only warning you got, the only you needed.

You pulled off him quickly, spit connecting your lips to his glistening cock for a second before you yanked your pajama shirt over your head and tossed it aside. The cool air hit your bare breasts just as Taehyung wrapped his hand around himself and started pumping fast.

He came with a deep, broken moan, the prettiest sounds you’d ever heard from him. His baritone voice dropped even lower with pleasure as thick, heavy ropes of cum painted your chest. He kept stroking himself through it, groaning your name under his breath while pulse after pulse landed warmly on your breasts, some of it already dripping down your skin.

Taehyung looked completely wrecked, chest heaving, eyes dark and hazy as he stared down at you, at the mess he’d made, at the way you were still on your knees looking up at him with flushed cheeks and shiny lips.

“Shit…” he breathed, still catching his breath, a lazy, satisfied smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

“Was that good?” you asked softly, still on your knees, hands resting on his warm thighs as you looked up at him.

Taehyung was breathing hard, chest rising and falling, a light sheen of sweat on his skin. His cock had softened just a little after his orgasm, but it was still heavy, thick, and far from fully soft. 

He let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh. “Was that really your first time giving head? ‘Cause I almost can’t believe that.”

“I swear.” you smiled, proud.

Your gaze dropped to your own chest, streaked with thick white lines of his cum. Curiosity got the better of you, as usual, so you dragged a finger through one of the streaks, playing with it, spreading it messily over your skin. Then you brought the finger to your mouth, slipping it between your lips and licking it clean.

The taste was different than you expected, sticky, slightly salty, heavy on your tongue, but still not bad. You hummed thoughtfully, deciding you could definitely get used to it.

When you looked back up at Taehyung, the expression on his face made your breath catch.

He looked completely fucked-out… and absolutely feral. Hungry. Eyes dark, pupils blown wide, like he was two seconds away from devouring you whole.

“You better come up here right now, hustler.” he growled, voice low and rough.

You giggled, the sound light and giddy, and reached for your discarded pajama shirt. It wasn’t the best option, but it was what you had at hand. You quickly wiped your chest clean, then pushed yourself up on slightly wobbly legs.

Taehyung stood too, towering over you the second he was on his feet. Without a word, he grabbed the hem of his own shirt and started pulling it off. You helped him, eager hands sliding over his skin as you tugged the fabric up and over his head, finally getting rid of the last piece of clothing between you.

You took a small step back so you could really look at him.

Taehyung stood completely naked in the soft glow of your lamp, and the sight of him stole whatever air was left from your lungs. His skin was beautifully tanned, smooth and glowing, stretched tight over the strong, thick muscles he’d built from months of hard military training. Broad shoulders, powerful chest, narrow waist, thick thighs, every single part of him looked like it had been hand-carved with care. He was breathtaking.

Your eyes drifted lower, because of course they did, how could they not? His cock hung heavy between his legs, still glistening from your mouth, already starting to fill and thicken again. 

You wanted to playfully ask him to turn around so you could admire his ass too, but the thought made you bite your lip and stay quiet. Instead, you stepped closer again. 

Your hands rose to his shoulders first, sliding slowly down the firm muscle. From there, your palms traveled over his chest, brushing across his peaked nipples and Taehyung’s breath hitched. You leaned in and pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to his pectorals, feeling the warmth of his skin against your lips.

Your fingers kept moving lower, careful when they passed over the faint bruise on his ribs. His stomach tensed under your touch as you traced every ridge of his six-pack, then followed the soft line of fine dark hairs that led downward from his belly button. His cock twitched visibly as your fingers got closer.

Taehyung slid one big hand to the back of your neck and pulled you into a deep, hungry kiss that caught you by surprise. His tongue met yours instantly, slow and filthy, tasting himself on you. His free hand settled on your side, right below your breast, fingers splayed wide as he tugged your body flush against his.

The kiss grew hotter, his fingers tangled tighter in your hair and gave it a firm tug, exactly the way he’d already learned you liked. A needy moan spilled from your mouth into his. Tae smiled against your lips, then let his other hand move up to cup one of your breasts, squeezing the soft flesh. His thumb brushed over your nipple, still slightly sticky from his cum, flicking it gently, then rolling it between his fingers until your knees felt weak.

Your back arched into him as you kissed, pressing your bare chest against his. The height difference felt even more noticeable now that you were both barefoot and standing, and he had to bend down to reach you properly, and something about that made you throb.

Your hand found his cock again, gently cupping the heavy weight of him before stroking slowly, coaxing him back to full hardness. You weren’t even close to being done, which you both clearly agreed on.

Taehyung moaned into your mouth, the sound deep and needy. He kissed along your jaw, then pulled back just enough to look down between your bodies, watching your hand drag lazily up and down his length.

“I fucking love how you touch me.” he groaned, eyes fixed on the way your fingers moved. “Can never get enough of this.”

“Good thing I love touching you.” you whispered, lips brushing his. “You look so big in my hand…”

Taehyung mumbled something incoherent when your hand slipped lower, gently cupping and massaging his balls. His whole body trembled.

“Such a fucking hustler.” he breathed out, finally grabbing both of your wrists and pulling your hands away from him. His eyes were squeezed shut, chest heaving.

You let out a quiet, proud little giggle. “I also love how easy it is to make you cum.”

Taehyung’s eyebrows twitched as he tried to pull himself back together. 

“You try going without a single touch for months,” he gritted out. “And then meet the love of your life who just so happens to be really good at this.”

The words landed deep inside your chest, soft and warm. You didn’t think it was a slip of the tongue either, because Taehyung was intense, but he was also honest. He wouldn’t say something like that if he didn’t mean it, even in the heat of sex.

Completely unaware of the way his words had affected you, he gently turned you around so your back faced the bed. He walked you backward until your legs hit the mattress, then hooked his fingers into the waistband of your sleep shorts and slowly pushed them down your legs. He knelt in front of you as he did it, pressing a soft, lingering kiss right below your belly button.

“Lay down for me, yeah?” he looked up at you, eyes dark and full of hunger. “My turn to have a taste.”

You fell back smoothly onto the mattress, scooting up until your head and shoulders rested against the fluffy pillows. Your heart was racing as you watched Taehyung stand at the edge of the bed for a second, tall and beautiful, before he climbed over you.

His cock brushed hot and heavy against your lower stomach as he crawled up your body, then he leaned down and kissed you; quick, but deep and breathtaking, tongue sliding against yours like he couldn’t help himself. Then he started moving lower.

He nosed down your sternum, your navel, and the soft skin of your stomach, gently pushing your legs apart with broad hands.

“You know your neighbors well?” he asked suddenly, voice low and amused.

You frowned, still dazed. “Just the nice old lady to the right… Why?”

Taehyung shrugged, a wicked little smile playing on his lips as he settled comfortably between your spread thighs. 

“Let’s hope her hearing isn’t as good as it used to be.” he pressed a slow kiss to your inner thigh. “‘cause I’m about to make you scream.”

“Oh, sh–”

The rest of your words died in a broken whine the second his mouth was on you. Taehyung didn’t tease, which you were expecting. He went straight in with broad, slow licks of his flat tongue, dragging it all the way up your pussy in long, delicious strokes that made your back arch off the bed. He licked you like he had all the time in the world, wet, warm, and confident, focusing on every inch of you. He swirled around your clit with the tip of his tongue, then flattened it again to give you those heavy, pressure-filled licks that made your thighs shake.

Oh, he was good. Really good. And you were in big fucking trouble. 

Taehyung alternated between long, lazy strokes and tighter circles around your swollen clit, humming softly when your hips jerked. Every time you clenched hard around nothing, he pressed his tongue firmer against you, like he could feel exactly how desperate you were getting. The wet sounds of his mouth were filthy and loud in the quiet room, mixing with your increasingly uncontrolled moans.

You had always been vocal during sex, but never particularly loud. Taehyung was quickly changing that.

Every broad lick, every swirl of his tongue around your sensitive bundle of nerves pulled louder and needier sounds from your throat. Your fingers tangled in his dark hair, hips rolling against his mouth as pleasure built fast and heavy in your core.

He groaned against your pussy, the vibration shooting straight through you, and you couldn’t hold back the loud, shaky moan that escaped you.

“More… Tae, please…” you pleaded, voice shaking with desperation.

Like he had only been waiting for you to beg, Taehyung pulled his mouth off you. You didn’t even have time to whine at the loss before he lifted his hand to his lips, spit onto two fingers, and brought them down hard, slapping your soaked cunt with a wet, filthy sound.

The sudden pressure on your swollen clit, combined with how dirty the act felt, pushed you over the edge instantly. A small, surprised orgasm crashed through you as you pulsed and clenched, letting out a broken moan. It wasn’t a big one, but it still left you trembling. Taehyung smirked, clearly pleased with himself. 

“And I’m easy, huh?” he teased, voice low and smug.

“Shut up.” you moaned, still breathless and fluttering.

“So mouthy.” he shook his head, amused, before pushing those two wet fingers deep inside you in one smooth thrust.

You cried out at the sudden fullness. He didn’t give you time to adjust, Tae started fucking you with them right away, deep and precise, while you were still pulsing.

He looked absolutely gorgeous between your legs, lips swollen and shiny from eating you out, dark hair messy from all your pulling, eyes blown wide and dangerous. His fingers worked you open beautifully, stretching your pussy while your wetness dripped down his hand and onto the sheets.

“Again.” he instructed, voice rough. 

Then curled his fingers upward, pressing perfectly against that sweet spot inside you like he’d already memorized your body.

You were crying now, actual tears of pleasure, when he added a third finger. The stretch burned so good, then his mouth was back on your clit, sucking hard while his fingers pumped and curled relentlessly.

“Oh god– Tae–”

The orgasm hit you like a freight train.

It was loud, messy, and overwhelming. Your whole body shook as you gushed around his fingers, soaking his hand, his wrist, and the sheets beneath you. You didn’t even understand what was happening at first, it was wetter than it had any right to be, but it felt so fucking good you couldn’t stop moaning and twitching through it.

Taehyung groaned against your clit, refusing to pull away, milking every last second of your orgasm until you were a trembling, whimpering mess. You were still shaking, thighs trembling, when the realization hit you:

You just squirted.

It was the first time it had ever happened to you. Your eyes widened in genuine surprise, cheeks burning, but not from embarrassment, just pure shock.

Taehyung, on the other hand, looked incredibly cocky and proud as he slowly pulled his fingers out of you, watching the way you were still dripping onto the sheets.

“Fuck… that was so hot.” he murmured, voice low and satisfied.

He reached down to the floor, grabbing your discarded pajama shirt, and used it to gently clean his chin and chest first, then carefully wiped between your legs and along your inner thighs. His touch was so soft and attentive it made your heart squeeze.

He climbed up your body, kissing a slow trail up your stomach and between your breasts, whispering sweet, dirty praise against your sweaty skin.

“Never made anyone squirt before.” he admitted between kisses, lips brushing your collarbone. “But it makes sense it happened with you.”

You smiled, still a little dazed, as he settled beside you. He half-covered your body with his own, throwing one thick leg over yours, caging you in. One of your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders while your fingers lazily dragged your nails up and down his back and sides.

“I think your deaf neighbor heard you.” he teased with a soft laugh.

You giggled, drunk on him and the afterglow even if that shouldn’t be funny at all. 

“I think the whole building did.” you paused, then added playfully, “You might have to pay my landlord more than what you already did.”

Taehyung opened his mouth, then froze as your words registered. He looked both a little sheepish and concerned, realizing that yeah, you knew what he’d done and how he could get the landlord off your back so easily. 

“I didn’t want to offend you.” he said quietly, scared you might be upset.

“I’m not.” you assured him, lifting your hand to caress his cheek. “Not tonight. Not right now.”

Maybe tomorrow, when your head was clearer, you’d feel strange about it. Maybe you’d feel cheap or like you owed him something. But right now? You just felt taken care of. Like someone had finally thrown you a life vest while you were drowning. For once, you could breathe.

“Damn, I should have made you squirt sooner.” he joked, but his smile was incredibly soft.

“Yes, you should.” you agreed with a breathy laugh. “But now come here and let me taste it.”

Taehyung hummed, shifting higher so your faces were close again. He hovered just above you, not closing the distance, making you work for it. You didn’t mind at all.

You slipped your fingers into his messy hair and pulled him down a little, sticking the tip of your tongue out to lick his parted lips with small, coy flicks. Then you pushed your tongue into his mouth, tasting yourself on him, a little sweet, a little tangy. He finally leaned down the rest of the way, covering your mouth with his in a slower, deeper kiss.

This one was softer than before, but just as sensual. You breathed each other in, tongues sliding lazily, his hand gently cupping the side of your face. Taehyung was clearly giving you time to come back down from the two intense orgasms, holding you like you were something precious.

Your breathing grew heavier, your pussy was already throbbing again, aching for more, and you started squirming under him without meaning to. You didn’t want to sound greedy, so you stayed quiet, but of course Taehyung noticed everything. He smiled into the kiss, then pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and knowing.

You turned your face away, embarrassed that you still wanted more so soon. Taehyung chuckled softly and leaned down, pressing his mouth to your exposed throat. He took a little bite of the sensitive skin there, making you gasp.

“Why are you getting shy on me again?” he teased, lips brushing your neck.

“I don’t wanna be too much.” you admitted quietly. “Others have complained before.”

“They sound like assholes.” Tae’s hand splayed possessively across your ribs, pulling you closer. “You’re mine now. You can be as much as you want.”

The words melted you. You nodded, letting the insecurities slip away before they even settled, finally allowing your body to ask for what it craved. And judging by how rock hard his cock was, pressed hot and heavy against your side the entire time, he wanted it just as badly.

“There’s also something you should know.” he mumbled, bringing his mouth to your ear. His voice dropped lower. “I like it rough, hustler.”

“Fuck…” you moaned.

And then he asked: “Think you can handle that?”

“I know I can handle you.” you looked him straight in the eyes, conviction burning in your gaze. “I want all of you.”

Taehyung hummed in approval. He moved to climb fully on top of you, kissing along your jaw before catching your bottom lip between his teeth. You parted your legs for him immediately, letting him settle between them. His cock brushed against your soaked pussy, the thick head sliding through your wetness. Both of you made soft, needy sounds at the contact.

Then he stopped. “Shit… Please tell me you have condoms here.”

“Bathroom, bottom drawer.” you breathed. “I’d be polite and go get it, but I can’t feel my legs.”

Taehyung laughed and kissed your cheek sweetly before climbing off the bed. You watched shamelessly as he walked away: broad shoulders, the strong lines of his back marked with red scratches from your nails, the dip of his waist, those perfect dimples at the base of his spine, and god, his ass was even better than you imagined.

You sat up a little, waiting as you heard him rummaging in the bathroom.

“Check the expiration date!” you called, suddenly a bit worried.

“We’re good.” he replied, already walking back in as he ripped the foil packet open with his teeth. “They’re a little smaller than the ones I usually get, but I’ll make it work.”

You snorted at the casual flex, but you couldn’t deny it, he really was a lot bigger than anyone you’d been with before. You watched, mesmerized, as he rolled the condom down his thick length with those long, pretty fingers.

“That should not have looked as hot as it did.” you told him honestly.

Taehyung laughed, the sound warm and bright, as he walked back to the bed. He was fully hard, cock heavy and ready.

“Turn around for me, hustler.” he ordered, voice low and commanding. It made your heart drop in the best way. “Let me see that ass.”

You turned around right away, getting on your hands and knees for him. Taehyung climbed onto the bed and knelt behind you, the mattress dipping under his weight, but it still didn’t creak, which you knew he appreciated.

“Arch that back for me.” he said, his voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “That’s it… You’re so good at doing what you’re told, huh?”

His hands roamed up and down your thighs and over the curve of your ass, squeezing the soft flesh hard enough to make you moan. 

“Spread your legs, baby.” he told you. “Let me see this fucking pussy.”

You obeyed instantly, widening your knees. Taehyung pressed a firm hand between your shoulder blades, guiding you down until your cheek rested against the mattress, ass up high for him.

“Will you tell me if I’m too rough on you?” he asked, voice serious and careful even through the heat.

You nodded quickly, but he wasn’t satisfied. Taehyung made that clear when his full palm came down hard on your ass with a loud smack, the sting sharp enough to make you jolt and cry out.

“I need words, hustler.” he said, gripping your hips and pulling you back into the exact position he wanted.

“Do your worst.” you breathed. “I can take it, sir.”

Taehyung let out a dark, affected laugh behind you. “Oh, you have no idea what you just got yourself into.”

His fingers returned to your pussy, slipping inside easily to check how wet you still were, how stretched. He hooked the digits, collecting your slick, then stroked it over his condom-covered cock, making himself nice and slippery. You felt him scoot closer, the thick head of his cock brushing up and down your folds, nudging your swollen clit before sliding all the way up to your entrance.

He pressed against your hole teasingly, just enough for you to feel the stretch, then pulled back and dragged the head up to your tighter hole, rubbing slow circles there too.

Your next breath came out shaky as your hands grabbed your sheets.

“Shit, I can see you fluttering all over, baby,” he groaned. “Bet you’d let me fuck you everywhere, huh?”

“At the same time.” you mumbled, so lost in pleasure your eyes were fluttering shut.

Taehyung cursed under his breath, clearly affected by your answer. He lined himself up again, the thick head of his cock pressing against your soaked entrance. He gripped both sides of your hips firmly and pushed in with one long, steady thrust, stretching your walls around his considerable girth.

You winced at the initial burn, but it melted almost immediately into deep, overwhelming pleasure. He stopped once he was fully buried inside you, hips flush against your ass, letting you feel every inch of him.

“You’re taking it so well… fuck.” he groaned, voice rough with restraint from holding back. “Squeeze this pussy around me– shit, just like that.”

Tae stayed completely still, buried to the hilt. The fullness was almost too much, your lips were parted, face scrunched in pleasure as your walls fluttered and clenched harder around him, trying to suck him even deeper.

“That’s it.” he praised, hands kneading your ass. “Take what you want. Let me see this sweet little pussy swallow me whole.”

You started moving then, pulling your hips forward and then slamming back onto his cock, fucking yourself on him. The wet sounds filled the room as you rocked back and forth.

You watched Taehyung over your shoulder, his eyes fixed on where your bodies were joined, his jaw clenched.

“Cute.” he said, the word a little mocking, a little fond. “But if you’re done playing… I’m ready to fuck you for real now.”

“Oh, yes, please.” you begged, voice already shaky.

Taehyung’s grip on your hips tightened, holding you firmly in place so you couldn’t move. Then he started fucking you, slow, but brutally hard and deep. Each roll of his hips drove his thick cock all the way inside you, the head kissing the very end of you with a heavy, blunt pressure that made your toes curl and your breath catch.

You felt so full it was almost overwhelming, like he was rearranging you from the inside out. Every slow, punishing thrust made your walls flutter and squeeze around him, the wet, obscene sound of your pussy taking him echoing in the quiet room. Your eyes were already watering from the intensity alone.

He kept that devastating rhythm for a few more strokes, letting you feel every single inch dragging along your walls, before he shifted. Taehyung planted one foot flat on the mattress beside your knee, using the new leverage to drive into you harder and faster.

The change was immediate and devastating.

Now he was fucking you with real power, hips snapping forward with sharp, relentless force. The new angle let him hit even deeper, pounding against that perfect spot inside you over and over until your whole body jolted forward with every thrust. Your arms gave out and your cheek pressed harder into the mattress, drool slipping from the corner of your parted lips as broken moans poured out of you.

Tears were streaming down your cheeks now, not from pain but from the sheer overwhelming pleasure of being completely wrecked by him.

Taehyung groaned low behind you, one hand coming down hard on your other ass cheek with a loud, stinging smack.

“Fuck, listen to this sloppy little cunt.” he growled, voice rough and filthy. “Taking every inch. Been dying to ruin this pussy since the day I met you.”

Another hard spank landed on the same spot, the sting blooming hot across your skin. Then his hand soothed over the mark, rubbing gently as he hushed you softly, almost tenderly. 

“Shhh, I know, baby… I know it’s a lot.” he cooed, which somehow made it worse while making it better. “But you’re gonna take it all for me, aren’t you?”

You could only sob and nod against the sheets, completely lost in the feeling of him absolutely wrecking you.

Taehyung pulled out of you slowly, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness. Your body felt limp and boneless, but he handled you with ease, strong hands lifting and turning you exactly how he wanted. You let him move you without resistance, clenching around nothing as you watched the display of his strength.

He positioned you on your back with your head near the edge of the bed and your feet toward the headboard. Then he was on top of you again, pushing your legs wide apart and sliding back inside your soaked pussy in one smooth thrust.

Your hands flew to his shoulders, then slid up to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his damp hair. Both of you were breathing hard and choppy. You were clenching around him hard before he even started moving again.

“Got tired of looking at my ass?” you asked quietly, a little breathless and teasing.

Taehyung smiled crookedly, eyes dark. “Your face is pretty nice to look at too.”

He leaned down and kissed under your eyes, gently brushing away the tears still clinging to your lashes. The tender gesture felt so caring and hot at the same time that you smiled and clenched hard around him again.

Tae pressed his body flush against yours, one hand holding your jaw firmly. His thumb swiped across the corner of your mouth, spreading the drool over your chin and lips, making an even bigger mess. Then he pushed his thumb into your mouth. You took it immediately, sucking on it while looking straight into his eyes.

“You’re so addicting.” he groaned, hips rolling once before stopping again, buried deep. “I can’t fucking get enough of you.”

You hollowed your cheeks around his thumb, bobbing your head once as you sucked. Taehyung gasped, groaning low:

“You suck cock once, and now you’re a tease?”

You pulled off his thumb with a wet pop and smiled up at him. “Just needed to try yours. Now my life has changed and I want it all the time.”

Taehyung’s eyes darkened with raw possessiveness you weren’t expecting. His fingers flexed around your jaw. 

“Glad you like it so much, hustler,” he growled. “‘cause that’s the only cock you’ll have from now on.”

“As long as my cunt is the only one you’ll have too.” you shot back, swiveling your hips to grind on him. “And my mouth. And my virgin little asshole–”

Taehyung cursed sharply, clearly shocked and extremely turned on by the filthy words coming from you. You loved that reaction, he was the only person who ever got to hear this side of you.

Then he was kissing you, sloppy and wet, at the same time he started fucking you again, this time with slow, deep rolls of his hips. It felt even better than the rough pace from before, hitting every sensitive spot inside you. 

Your thighs wrapped tightly around his waist as he kept that sensual rhythm, kissing you messy and deep, full of little moans and gasps shared between your mouths.

Taehyung kept that slow, deep grind, rolling his hips in a sensual rhythm that made you feel every thick inch of him dragging along your walls. Then he pulled back from the kiss, pushing himself up on one arm. The position made his bicep bulge and a thick vein stand out along his forearm, the sight so unfairly attractive it made you clench around him again.

His eyes roamed all over you; your flushed face, your chest rising and falling, your soft stomach, and especially where your bodies were joined. The look in his eyes was pure love mixed with raw obsession, and you knew you were staring back at him the exact same way.

Suddenly he glanced sideways, cursing under his breath. His hips stuttered, like he’d almost lost control for a second.

Tae’s hand, still gripping your jaw, turned your face toward the side he was looking at. That’s when you saw it, the big mirror on the other wall perfectly reflected both of you from this angle. You could see everything: your messy hair, tear-streaked cheeks, swollen lips shiny with spit, and the way your bodies fit together so beautifully. You could even see the clear handprint mark he’d left on the side of your ass.

You had no idea how he could find you beautiful like this… but at least he was the one who made you look like this.

Taehyung lowered his body again, but kept your face turned toward the mirror. When you tried to look at him directly, his grip on your jaw tightened, holding you there.

“I want you to see how pretty you look when you cum for me, yeah?” he murmured hotly against your cheek, eyes locked with yours in the reflection. “Then maybe you’ll understand why I’m so fucking crazy about you.”

Taehyung started fucking you again, deep, hard, and relentless, but still with those slow, sensual rolls of his hips that made his pelvis grind perfectly against your swollen clit with every thrust. The pleasure was overwhelming. You both stared at your reflection in the mirror, completely mesmerized by the sight. 

You could really see everything like this: the way his thick cock disappeared inside you and slid back out, shiny and glistening with your wetness, stretching you open so beautifully.

Your hands roamed desperately over his chest, feeling the flex of his muscles, the heat of his skin, touching everywhere you could reach as he drove into you again and again.

“I’m gonna cum, Tae.” you whimpered softly, voice breaking.

Your tits started bouncing with the increasing pace as he fucked you harder, chasing your release. Taehyung’s eyes stayed locked on your face in the mirror, one hand sliding down to wrap firmly around your throat, squeezing with the lightest pressure, holding you there possessively.

“Cum for me, hustler.” he growled, voice low and rough. “All over my cock.”

The command, combined with the relentless grind against your clit and the sight of him fucking you so deep in the mirror, pushed you over the edge.

Your orgasm crashed through you hard and sudden. You cried out, walls clenching and fluttering wildly around his thick length as you came, soaking his cock.

Your whole body shook, thighs tightening around his waist, nails digging into his chest while you watched yourself fall apart in the reflection, mouth open, eyes glassy, tears still clinging to your lashes.

Taehyung groaned deeply, the sound vibrating against your throat as your pulsing heat dragged him over with you. His hips stuttered, thrusts turning sloppy and desperate for a few more strokes before he pulled out with a wet sound. He quickly ripped the condom off, wrapping his hand around his cock and stroking himself fast.

With a broken moan that sounded almost pained, he came hard. Thick, hot ropes of cum painted your stomach and chest in heavy spurts, some of it landing on your tits and dripping down your skin. He kept stroking himself through every pulse, eyes fixed on the mess he was making of you, breathing ragged and shaky.

Taehyung leaned down, pressing soft, lingering kisses along the side of your neck where his fingers had been, right over the faint marks he’d left. His sweaty hair tickled your nose and you let out a tired little giggle, the sound surprising even you.

He smiled against your skin, collapsing beside you. Taehyung slid one leg between yours and folded one thick arm under his head to use as a pillow. You were aching all over in the best possible way, your body deliciously sore, skin still marked with his handprints and streaks of his cum across your stomach.

For a while, you just lay there catching your breath, faces close, staring at each other in comfortable silence. Taehyung’s fingers traced lazy patterns through the mess on your stomach, dragging his cum around like he was drawing something.

“What are you doing?” you asked, half weirded out, half too tired to actually care.

“Writing my name.” he beamed, completely serious.

You burst out laughing and weakly batted his hand away. “You’re such a weirdo.”

Your laughter slowly faded into soft smiles. Your eyes were growing dangerously heavy, but you fought to stay awake, content to just stare at him like this. You didn’t know when he’d be allowed to sleep outside the base again, so you wanted to memorize every second.

“Tae…” you started softly. He hummed, already looking at you with those warm, patient eyes. “Did you really mean what you said?”

“Which part?” he asked lazily, completely unaware of the storm in your chest.

“The part where you’re not leaving,” you admitted, voice small even though you were scared of what his answer might do to you.

Taehyung’s expression softened. He shifted a little closer, brushing his nose against yours.

“I am leaving, hustler.” he said gently. Your stomach dropped, then he continued, voice steady and sure: “But I’m bringing you with me.”

-

-

“I’m going crazy here, hustler.” 

Taehyung sighed against the phone in his ear, already laying in his bed and under the covers of his creaky bed, but the lights of the room were still on, so his hyungs didn’t mind he was still talking to you. Minseok was listening to music on his contraband MP3 player –the old school kind–, Woo was above Minseok reading a book on evolution, and Ji-hoon was on the bunk above Taehyung’s, being annoyed that Tae got to the phone first. 

“I’m not gonna make it.” Taehyung said, hating that his pillow felt even more uncomfortable now that he’d tried out yours.  

“Don’t be dramatic, Taetae.” your voice was sweeter than he remembered, your laugh like the most beautiful melody. “It’s only been two weeks, four days and… Two and a half hours.” 

That made him smile. “Oh, good, you’re as insane as I am with all of this.” 

“Of course I am.” you were smiling on the other side, and Taehyung clenched because this damn phone was so old he couldn’t even video chat you to see it. “But I also know I brought this on myself.” 

“We both did.” he nodded, agreeing. “But I won’t be grounded forever.” 

Taehyung wasn’t exactly allowed to sleep out of the military base just because he wanted to, he wasn’t even supposed to have left the base after the summer festival; and he knew all that when he sneaked out and went over to your apartment so he could talk to you and find out just exactly what happened for you to walk away from him like that. 

And he didn’t regret doing any of it, because now it meant he got you back, and you trusted his word that would never give up on you. Even if it meant Taehyung lost all privileges and time off for a whole damn month. Which meant he couldn’t see you for that long. 

“Just another week.” Taehyung said, to himself as much as he wanted you to hear it.  

“I really hate this.” you mumbled on the other side of the line and Taehyung knew you’d be pouting. He’d be kissing it right now if you were here. “But at least you get to call. Tell Ji-hoon he’s really nice for letting you use his hidden phone.” 

Taehyung pulled his legs from the thin, scratchy blanket and kicked the wood planks of the bed above him, making Ji-hoon complain with an annoyed ‘yah, shibal–’.

“Hyung, my girl is saying thank you for letting me use your phone.” Taehyung relayed the message immediately, proud of himself for being the maknae and the menace in this room. 

“Your g– dude, she has a name, you know?” Ji-hoon complained, like Taehyung’s love annoyed him when he couldn’t move past the friends-with-benefits label with Mina. 

Taehyung grinned regardless. “That’s her name.” 

“Yeah, then tell your girl she has five minutes with you, because I need to use that phone too.” Ji-hoon said through a whisper shout, so no one outside the room could hear. 

But you still caught it. “Noooooo! Don’t go–” 

That was when Taehyung heard it; a loud, sudden noise on your end, something mechanical, an overlapping of voices, too loud for him to hear you properly anymore. As far as Taehyung knew, you were supposed to be home, but that noise might as well mean you were in a club, or in a stadium during a concert. 

“What is that noise?” he asked, already sitting up straighter, the thin blanket pooling around his waist.

“Ugh, not again.” you raised your voice so he could hear you over it. “That’s my TV.”

“That loud?” he was fully sitting up now, feet swinging off the bed.

“Yeah, it turns on by itself in the middle of the night sometimes. It’s really annoying.” you sounded normal about it, but something in Taehyung’s gut twisted. “Hang on, let me go turn it off.”

“Hustler, wait–” his voice was calm and firm, but you were already moving. The line went muffled for a second.

Taehyung waited with his heart on his throat, and then the TV noise cut off abruptly. For half a heartbeat Taehyung relaxed, picturing you turning it off with a huff and pulling the plug out of the energy outlet.

Until your scream tore through the phone, raw, terrified, blood-curdling.

It was followed by the sound of something crashing, furniture scraping, and then… silence. The worst kind. 

Taehyung’s blood turned to ice in his veins and his heart slammed against his ribs so hard he could feel it in his throat. He was already standing, bare feet on the cold concrete floor, ready to run out of the room in his pajamas and get on his bike to go after you.

“I’m telling you, boss, there’s no one here.” a male voice came through the line, calm but irritated.

“I swear I heard her talking to someone.” a second voice answered, closer to the phone.

“We haven’t seen anyone else come in here in maybe two weeks.” the first man said. “I told you she was alone.”

Taehyung didn’t recognize the voices, but he was listening to every single word, training kicking in even as panic clawed at the edges of his mind. Behind him, Minseok had already pulled one earbud out, noticing something was wrong. Ji-hoon and Woo were also climbing down from their bunks.

“Where do you want us to take her?” the first voice asked. “Are we going straight to the airport?”

“Not tonight.” the second man’s voice was closer now. “Kai is waiting for her at the basement.”

Taehyung’s playful grin from seconds ago vanished the instant the line went dead. The fear hit him like ice water, but he swallowed it down hard, forcing his voice to stay steady as he turned to the three faces now staring at him from the middle of the room.

“They have her.” Taehyung said, direct and firm. “Kai and the sharks.”

The shift in the room was immediate and efficient as soon as the words left his mouth. Minseok was already pulling his pajama shirt over his head, Ji-hoon’s expression hardened, Woo moved with optimized productivity. All four of them slipped into training mode without a word, the same focused energy they carried during surprise overnight drills. 

Their uniforms were already in the strategic spots they were forced to keep them, easy reach, always ready, and for the first time Taehyung didn’t mind the rigid system at all. This was the most stressful situation he had ever been in, because it was you. He had no idea where you were, if they had hurt you, if you were scared–

Taehyung stopped the thoughts cold, pulling his emotions back the way he had been trained to do. His hands stayed calm as he shoved his legs into his black pants.

“They are taking her to the airport tomorrow.” Taehyung continued, voice leveled. “But tonight they are going to a secondary location.”

“Let’s go.” Minseok said, already dressed.

“Okay, where are we going exactly?” Ji-hoon asked as he laced his own boots. “Do we actually have a plan? Because Yn is a civilian, we can’t just start a rescue mission with our assets. The captain will tell us to call the police–”

Taehyung understood his friend meant well, protocol was protocol. But now was not the fucking time for ‘what ifs’. Taehyung wouldn’t even hesitate if this was Mina and Ji-hoon wanted to go to hell on earth to find her.

But that was the difference, Ji-hoon didn’t love Mina the way Taehyung loved you.

“We’re not going to the captain,” Taehyung said simply, socks on and pushing his black boots onto his feet. “We’re going to Lieutenant Jung.”

“Leut– have you lost your mind?” Woo looked genuinely terrified. Lieutenant Jung was the last person they should go to with something like this.

If you weren’t you. 

“He knew her father.” that was all Tae had to say for the room to go quiet for half a second as everyone remembered exactly who you were. Suddenly the three of them were on board.

“What else did you hear?” Ji-hoon was moving faster now, the first one out the door once they were all dressed in black. “Where do we start?”

“They are taking her to the basement of her building–” Tae started, but Ji-hoon stopped walking.

“Wait, what did you hear exactly?” Ji-hoon turned, hands landing on Taehyung’s shoulders. “Did you hear them mention her building at all?”

“Not tonight. Kai is waiting for her at the basement.” Taehyung recited the words exactly.

“She’s not in her building anymore.” Ji-hoon’s eyes moved quickly, thinking hard. “I know The Basement. It’s an old underground warehouse on the east side– used to be a major drop point for the drug scene a few years back. Supposed to be shut down. I didn’t know Han and Kai had anything to do with that side of things, but it makes sense. Their connections go deep.”

“Are you sure it’s the same one? Because we won’t have another shot like this.” Taehyung was already calculating their chances in his head.

“I don’t know for sure… but it’s the only lead we’ve got.”

-

-

Well. Fuck. 

As you sat in the middle of a dusty room full of old boxes that may or may not be hiding illicit drugs or the dead bodies of shark’s enemies, you made a mental note to yourself that you would never ever say that things ‘couldn’t get worse’. 

Because when you’d already lost your bar, your uncle hadn’t been located by the country’s best detectives, and you hadn’t seen Taehyung in weeks, you had now been kidnapped like an idiot. 

That wasn’t to say only idiots were kidnapped, far from that, but you weren’t meant to be a victim. You were a hustler, you should have been more attentive, you should have noticed how the door of your apartment was no longer locked by the time you made it to the living room, you should have seen the shadows of the men hiding behind your counter when you turned the TV off. 

And, god, you wished you hadn’t given them the pleasure of hearing you scream. 

There was an ache at the side of your head where you were positive a bump was already forming. You were still wearing your sleep clothes, which thankfully were sweatpants and an oversized shirt, and not the skimpy little shorts and top you picked when Taehyung went over last time, because those would not have been practical tonight. Your elbows were scrapped, and the soles of your bare feet were burning a little from being dragged around until you were placed on this uncomfortable folding chair. To make matters worse, the zip ties placed around your wrists, bounding your arms behind your back, were way too tight and would start cutting off your circulation in a couple of hours. You could break free from them with a little struggle, sure, but if you were right about this whole thing and who brought you to this abandoned space in the first place, then you needed to act like the weakest person in the building. 

You might be the smallest, you might be unassuming, but you refused to be the weakest. You just didn’t want people to know that yet. 

The sound of a heavy metal door creaking open made you freeze. You looked over your shoulder, but you were yet to figure out where the entrance of this room was. You heard steps next, then Kai stepped into your line of sight, unsurprisingly and anticlimactic, but you still made sure to widen your eyes. 

He looked almost relieved to see you, like this was some long-awaited reunion rather than a kidnapping. His eyes moved over you slowly, taking in the oversized shirt, the sweatpants, the way your arms were pinned behind the folding chair; with the way his eyes were on you, you might as well be naked. A small, almost tender smile touched his lips.

“There you are.” he said softly, voice gentle in a way that made your stomach turn. “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time.”

“Kai–” you breathed out, feigning surprise, a frown between your brows. 

“I told you I’d come get you.” Kai continued, circling around you like a shark. You had to bite your lips to point out the irony of it all. “You didn’t have to make it so hard on yourself.”

You shook your head, tone a little desperate: “Wait, no– I still have time, your dad said–”

“Sorry, sweetheart, dad is off the game now.” he told you, and that sent a real shiver down your spine because his words didn’t leave anything to second guess. “He was making me wait too long and I was losing patience.” 

“What?” you swallowed dryly.  

“I didn’t like that someone else was getting too close to my favorite girl, so I had to speed things up, didn't I?” Kai was in front of you again, crouching down in front of you. “It also didn’t have to be this way, but I must say, you look rather pretty all tied up.” 

“I’d look prettier without a concussion.” you said, to keep him talking and because the side of your head was pounding.  

“Did my men hurt you?” he sounded genuinely concerned, you’d have to give him credit. Kai held your chin, turning your face this side and that to inspect you like you were something new he just bought and wanted to check was in good condition. “I told them not to.” 

“I guess your men don’t listen to you as well as they did to your dad.” you said, pulling your face away from his hand, but the jolting movement made your forehead throb. “You should really fix that if you’re gonna be the new big shark in town.” 

“I always like this about you, you know? Ever since school, you had a bit of a bite.” Kai clinked his teeth like he was taking a bite of the air, making you cringe. He stood up then, looking down on you. “I knew I’d be the one to tame it out of you eventually.” 

“Is that what you think is gonna happen?” you challenged, if you probably shouldn’t. 

“You’re tied up in front of me, aren’t you? You’re mine now, baby, and nothing is taking you from me.” he grinned, touching the side of your face with the back of his pointer finger. “By this time tomorrow we’ll be on our way to sunny California, where your little soldier boy will never find you.” 

You swallowed, because that was a development you didn’t see coming. Kai was planning on taking you out of the country? Shit… That meant actual kidnapping and taking you across the world where you didn’t know anyone and you didn’t even speak the damn language! 

Hustler. 

Taehyung’s voice was in your head. He’d tell you to focus, to stop panicking, because that wouldn’t help you right now. Your father would tell you the same thing, so you settled your heart.

At least until you heard Kai’s next words: 

“Although I am hoping he somehow comes for you, I think it would be rather fun if the last thing he sees is you at my feet.” 

“Sorry to break this to you, Kai, but no one will be coming.” you didn’t have to fake the tremble in your voice, when the threat he was hinting at actually hurt that soft, most vulnerable spot inside you. “You really need to get new men to tell you things, because Taehyung and I are done.” 

Another lie you had to tell, because if by any chance in the universe Taehyung could somehow guess where you were taken, you could sidetrack Kai into not expecting an attack. Because you knew Taehyung would never think you hung up the call without saying goodbye, and maybe it was a good thing you screamed, in the off chance he heard you. 

Another good thing you didn’t plan on, was the fact Taehyung was grounded and couldn’t leave the military base, so for the last almost three weeks you hadn’t been seen with him, which meant Kai could believe you were done and Tae was no longer a threat. 

“We broke up weeks ago.” you could buy yourself some time. 

“Pity.” Kai looked genuinely surprised by your words, not fully sold on it, but like he didn’t have any proof to disagree, so you knew someone had already reported Tae’s absence to him on some level. “We still have to cleanse you, though. I know he touched you and I can’t have something used, can I?”  

“Huh?” you blinked. Cleanse? 

“It won’t hurt much, I promise.” Kai smiled with his teeth, a look you did not like to look at for too long. Then his fingers ever so gently traced down your arms, leaving bad shivers at their wake. “Just a few little cuts, enough for the bad blood to come out, and pure blood to replace it.”

You sucked in a breath, like you could already feel the blade pressing to your skin and cutting you deep.  

“You’re a psychopath…” you whispered, the fear in your stomach too real for you to pretend it didn’t exist.  

“Oh, I won’t be doing it myself, baby.” he said, as if that made anything better. “The Shaman will be here in a few hours. You’ll be a virgin again by the time he’s done.” 

“Oh you’re absolutely insane–”

The word had barely left your mouth when Kai’s hand cracked across your face, sharp and sudden. The slap snapped your head to the side, the sting blooming hot across your cheek as the metallic taste of blood filled your mouth where your lip had split against your teeth. For a second the room spun, your ear ringing, but you forced your eyes back to him, refusing to cower even as fear coiled tight in your stomach.

“And you will learn to speak to me with some respect.” he greeted, that fake gentleness no longer there.  

“Sir?” a second voice came from somewhere at your back, and you knew it belonged to one of the men who took you tonight. 

“What?” Kai rasped, without taking his eyes from you. 

“Your mother is on the phone…”

“Ah, of course. I haven’t had time to deal with her yet.” Kai’s shoulders loosened and his finger was back to the cheek he just slapped, caressing it like nothing happened. “And our guest?” 

“The shaman is on his way, sir.” 

Kai nodded. “Tell him to hurry up.” 

-

-

The fluorescent lights in Lieutenant Jung’s cramped office hummed overhead, casting sharp shadows across the metal table. Taehyung stood at one end, shoulders squared, jaw locked tight as he stared down at the printed satellite images and floor plans of the old warehouse complex. The paper still carried the faint chemical smell of fresh ink. 

His heart hammered against his ribs, but his hands stayed perfectly steady on the edge of the table.

Fifteen soldiers filled the room, his core SDT team, plus a handful of trusted men Lieutenant Jung had quietly pulled in. They stood at attention, faces focused, the air thick with the low hum of readiness.

Lieutenant Jung leaned over the maps, older eyes sharp despite the late hour. He wasn’t going into the field with them, age and rank had kept him behind a desk for years now, but his voice carried the same calm authority it always had when he spoke.

“Main entrance is too exposed,” the lieutenant said, tapping the east side of the plan. “Minseok, you take your subunit on the loading dock. Quiet entry. Suppress any guards before they can raise an alarm.” His finger moved to the next section. “Ji-hoon, your team comes in through the south ventilation shaft. It’s narrow, but you’re the smallest and fastest. Clear the lower level and secure every exit.” He looked at Woo. “Woo, your subunit takes the west stairwell as backup. You support Taehyung’s primary breach team and cover any runners.”