Nami

You pushed open the heavy rooftop door and stepped into the cool evening air. It had only been three weeks since you moved to Seoul, but every day still felt like a whirlwind... too noisy, too busy, too fast for you to keep up with.

The brutal critique from Professor Kim today was your final straw.

“Surface level,” he’d said in front of everyone, tapping your paper with two fingers like it personally offended him. “You’re describing the notes, but where’s the soul behind the artistry? This is music, not a textbook summary.”

Your cheeks still burned at the memory.

The rooftop was quieter than the streets below, the hum of traffic distant. You walked to the far corner railing, gripping the cool metal, and breathed in the night air... cool, laced with cigarette smoke, champagne and distant rain.

A few meters away, a man leaned against the railing, alone.

Black hoodie, dark hair falling slightly over his eyes, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. He looked relaxed, like the chaos of the city didn’t dare touch him.

You didn’t recognize him.

Just another stranger in a city full of them.

You closed your eyes and let the breeze hit your face, trying to push the day away.

“Rough night?” His voice was low, slightly raspy.

You opened your eyes.

He was watching you now, cigarette paused halfway to his lips.

“Yeah,” you admitted, managing a tired smile. “More like a rough three weeks. I’m new here. University’s kicking my ass.”

He gave a small nod, like he understood more than you expected. “New city hits different. Everything feels too sharp at first. Been there.” He took a slow drag, then exhaled smoke away from you. “You look like you came up here to escape, not drink.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Yeah... I just needed air that doesn’t smell like cheap instant ramen and stress sweat. My dorm’s basically a shoebox.”

He smirked faintly, turning more toward you. “I get that. Myself Yoongi.”

“I’m Y/n,” you said, offering your hand.

His grip was warm, steady, calloused fingertips brushing yours a second longer than necessary.

“Nice to meet you, Y/n.” His eyes... sharp but strangely soft, lingered on your face. “So what’s got a new-in-town university student looking like the world ended?”

You hesitated, then shrugged. “I am doing my Masters in Music Theory. Today my music analysis professor tore my paper apart in front of the whole class.”

“He said it was too surface level. I spent days working on it—talking about song structures, rhythms, and how some artists use music to express their inner feelings. But he said I only scratched the surface. That I didn’t really understand the feeling behind the art.”

Yoongi’s eyebrows rose slightly. He flicked ash over the railing. “Music class, huh? What exactly were you writing about?”

You leaned your elbows on the railing beside him, the words spilling out easier than they should with a stranger. “I picked a few underground producers and how they use simple, soft sounds to express feeling alone even when they’re surrounded by millions of people in the city... I thought it was decent. Guess not.”

He was quiet for a moment, studying you. “Most people write about the big names. You went underground. That’s already more interesting than half the shit professors read.”

You glanced at him, surprised. “You know about music?”

A soft, almost amused huff escaped him. “A little.”

Something about the way he said it, made you smile genuinely for the first time all day. “Okay, Mr. ‘A Little.’ What’s your take then? Because I’m clearly missing the soul or whatever.”

Yoongi turned fully toward you now, resting his back against the railing. The city lights painted faint shadows across his face.

“Music isn’t just about the notes or the beat. It’s about the empty spaces between the sounds. Sometimes leaving silence says more than adding more noise. A lot of producers just follow what’s trending. But the really good ones put their real feelings into the track. They make you feel something even when no one is singing.”

You stared at him, caught off guard by the quiet intensity in his voice. “That’s… actually really good. My professor said something similar but made it sound like I was too stupid to get it.”

“Maybe he’s just a bad teacher,” Yoongi said with a small smirk. “Or maybe you were nervous writing it. Happens when you’re drowning in a new city.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “God, yes. Everything’s overwhelming. The buses make no sense, my roommate’s never in the dorm except sleep time, and I miss my mom’s cooking so bad I almost cried over convenience store kimbap yesterday.”

He chuckled—a low, warm sound that settled in your chest. “Kimbap hits different when you’re homesick. What’s your favourite dish?”

The conversation flowed so easily it surprised you.

You told him about home, about the pressure of being the first in your family to study abroad, about how music had always been your comfort but now even that felt academic and cold.

Yoongi listened without interrupting, occasionally nodding or adding quiet insights that made you feel seen.

At one point he lit another cigarette, offering you one.

You declined.

“You don’t smoke?” he asked.

“Not really. I came up here to clear my lungs, not fill them.”

“Fair.” He paused, eyes tracing your face more openly now. “You’ve got this look… like you’re carrying the whole damn city on your shoulders already. It’s only been three weeks.”

Your voice softened. “Feels like three months. I don’t know anyone here. I just… keep messing up.”

“You’re not messing up,” he said, quieter. His gaze dropped to your lips for a split second before returning to your eyes. “You’re figuring things out... and adjusting. That takes guts.”

The air between you shifted.

The casual conversation suddenly felt heavier, warmer. You became aware of how close you were standing—barely a foot apart now.

The way his hoodie sleeves were pushed up, revealing pale wrists and delicate veins. The subtle scent of his cologne mixed with cigarette smoke.

“So…” you said, trying to keep your voice steady, “what do you do, Yoongi? Since you seem to know a lot about music.”

He smiled... small, almost secretive. “I make it. Produce, mostly.”

“Oh? That’s cool. Are you any good?” you teased, not catching the weight behind his words.

His eyes darkened with amusement. “Some people think so.”

The charged tension thickened. He stepped a little closer, voice dropping lower. “You really don’t know who I am, do you?”

You shook your head, heart picking up speed. “Should I?”

“No,” he said, almost relieved. “It’s… refreshing. Most people who know me, come at me with expectations.”

The way he looked at you now wasn’t casual anymore. It was slow, deliberate. Like he was seeing you... really seeing you. Your tired eyes, the way your hair moved in the breeze, the nervous way you bit your lip.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmured.

You blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah... You.” He reached up, almost absentmindedly brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered near your jaw. “Talking like this. Looking like that. Making me forget things like I came up here to be alone.”

Your breath caught. The city noise faded further into the background. “And what else are you forgetting right now?”

“That I usually don’t do this.” His thumb grazed your cheek, feather-light. “Don’t talk this long. Don’t want to keep talking.”

Heat pooled low in your stomach. “Then what do you want to do?”

Yoongi’s eyes flicked to your mouth again, darker now. His voice was barely above a whisper, rough around the edges. “I want to know what you sound like when you’re not stressed. When you’re not thinking about papers or buses or homesickness.”

The air felt electric.

You could smell the faint tobacco on his breath, feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“I’m not usually this forward,” you breathed, even as you leaned slightly into his touch.

“Neither am I.” His lips curved into a half-smirk. “But something about you up here, looking like you need someone to pull you out of that head of yours… it’s doing things to me.”

You swallowed. “Yoongi…”

“Tell me to back off and I will,” he said seriously, though his fingers stayed near your face. “But if you don’t… I’d really like to kiss you right now and see if the rest of the night can get better than this conversation.”

The rooftop, the city, the terrible day—all of it narrowed down to the charged space between you two. Your heart hammered as you looked up at him, the mysterious producer who somehow understood exactly what you’d been feeling.

Your voice came out shaky but certain. “Then stop talking and do it.”

He exhaled sharply.

His hand slid properly to your jaw as he leaned in, slow enough for you to change your mind, close enough that you felt his breath mingle with yours.

The first brush of his lips was soft... testing.

Then deeper, hungrier, as you responded. The cigarette scent mixed with something distinctly him, and the kiss tasted like possibility in the middle of your chaotic new life.

When he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing uneven, he whispered, “Stay a while longer. I’m not ready to let you disappear back into that city yet.”

Then he kissed you again. The kiss deepened instantly.

Yoongi’s hand cupped your jaw more firmly as he tilted his head, sliding his tongue along your bottom lip. You parted for him with a soft sigh, and he took the invitation greedily.

The kiss turned wet, hungry—tongues meeting, tasting, exploring. A low sound rumbled in his chest as he stepped forward, backing you up without breaking the kiss.

Your back met the cool concrete wall in the shadowed corner of the rooftop, tucked behind a tall wooden partition where the string lights barely reached. It was dark enough that no one from the main seating area could see you clearly.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your lips, voice rougher now. “You taste even better than I thought.”

Before you could answer, his mouth was on yours again—deeper, messier. Wet kisses, lips sliding, tongues tangling. He pressed his body against yours, one thigh slipping between your legs. You gasped into his mouth as his hand slid down your side, gripping your waist.

“Yoongi…” you whispered breathlessly when he pulled back just enough to kiss along your jaw.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear.

“Don’t stop,” you managed, fingers threading into his dark hair.

His mouth claimed yours again.

This time the kiss was filthy... wet sounds filling the small space between you as he sucked on your tongue, then your bottom lip. His hands grew bolder. One stayed at your waist while the other slowly travelled down, slipping under the hem of your skirt.

You shivered as his fingers traced the back of your thigh, moving higher. He teased the edge of your panties, fingertips brushing the lace lightly, making your breath hitch.

“Soft,” he whispered against your neck, placing open-mouthed kisses there. “You’re so fucking soft.”

His fingers continued teasing, stroking along the fabric, pressing just enough to make you squirm against him. You grabbed a fistful of his hoodie, steadying yourself as he leaned in and kissed you again.

His tongue curled against yours while his fingers slipped under the edge of your panties, tracing your skin without going further.

“Shit, you’re getting wet already,” he murmured against your mouth, voice low and dark. “Just from kissing?”

You shivered, cheeks burning. “It’s… been a long day. And you’re really good at this.”

He chuckled softly. His fingers kept teasing, pressing the thumb against your clit, rubbing in lazy circles that made your knees weak.

“Yoongi—ah…” you moaned quietly into his mouth.

He groaned, pressing his hips into you. “Say my name like that again.”

You were just about to when...

Your phone vibrated aggressively in your skirt pocket, cutting through the haze. You pulled back, breathing hard, lips swollen and shiny.

“Shit... shit,” you cursed under your breath, fumbling for your phone. The screen showed “Roommate – Mina” flashing.

You answered, still pinned against the wall with Yoongi’s hand still under your skirt.

“H-Hello?”

“Yah! Where are you?!” Mina’s voice came through, half worried, half scolding. “It’s almost 11:30. The dorm main gate closes in like 35 minutes. You’re always back before me. I thought something happened!”

You closed your eyes, trying to steady your breathing.

Yoongi watched you with dark, amused eyes.

“I’m sorry, I’m out. I’ll be back soon. I just… lost track of time.”

“Lost track of time? You? Miss Always-Early? Who are you and what did you do tto my roommate?” Mina teased. “Just hurry, okay? Warden is extra strict this week. You know she’ll make a huge scene if you’re late.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m leaving now. Thanks for calling.”

You hung up and let out a heavy sigh, leaning your head back against the wall. “Fuck.”

Yoongi slowly pulled his hand from under your skirt, straightening your clothes for you with surprisingly gentle fingers. He took a small step back, giving you space, though his eyes were still dark with want.

“Curfew, huh?” He smirked softly. “Didn’t know I was making out with a responsible university student.”

You laughed breathlessly, fixing your hair. “Very responsible, clearly. I’m so sorry. I have to go. My roommate just reminded me the dorm gate locks soon. If I’m late, the warden will make a huge drama and probably call my parents. I usually get back before her, so she got worried.”

He nodded. “Alright. Don’t get in trouble because of me.”

You quickly fixed your skirt, cheeks flushed. “I’m really sorry. This was… I didn’t expect tonight to go like this at all.”

“Neither did I,” he said, voice low. A small smirk played on his lips. “But I’m not complaining.”

Before you turned to leave, you hesitated. “Wait—can I have your number? You know… in case I need advice on my research paper. About the whole ‘soul in music’ thing my professor said I missed.”

Yoongi’s lips curved into a small, genuine smile. He took your phone from your hand, typed in his number, and saved it under “Yoongi (Rooftop Producer)”.

“Here. Text me anytime. Even if it’s not about music.”

He took your hand, pulled you closer gently, and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. “Goodnight, Y/n . Get dorm safe.”

“Goodnight,” you whispered, heart still racing.

You started walking toward the exit, legs a little unsteady. But after a few steps, you stopped. Something pulled you back. You turned around and walked quickly to him again.

Yoongi looked confused, tilting his head. “Forget something?”

You didn’t answer with words.

You rose on your tiptoes, and pressed a sweet, quick kiss to his cheek.

“Goodbye, Yoongi,” you said softly against his skin, then pulled back with a shy smile.

You turned and practically ran toward the stairs, skirt fluttering, heart pounding.

Behind you, Yoongi stood frozen, one hand touching the spot on his cheek you’d just kissed. His ears were bright red, a faint blush spreading across his usually composed face.

He let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh and muttered to himself, “…The hell was that? Cute little tease.”

For the first time in a long time, Min Yoongi didn’t know what to do with himself.

A few days later...

In a dimly lit studio at his apartment, Yoongi sat hunched over his mixing desk, headphones around his neck. The soft glow of multiple monitors illuminated his face. He was tweaking a beat when his phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen.

A new message from an unsaved number.

You: Hey Yoongi, it’s Y/n from the rooftop the other night. Sorry for texting so randomly. I was working on my research paper again and remembered what you said about “soul in the silence.” Do you have any quick thoughts on how producers create emotional depth with minimalism? I don’t want to bother you though.

A small smile tugged at Yoongi’s lips.

Yoongi: I was waiting for you to text.

He watched the typing bubble appear and disappear before your reply came.

You: Really? I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me. Yoongi: Hard to forget someone who kissed my cheek and ran away like that. So… is it just about the paper? Or can we chat regardless? You: We can chat regardless. I’d like that.

Over the next few weeks, the chats flowed easily, turning into something that brightened both your days.

Most evenings, after your classes and his studio sessions, the conversation would start with your paper but quickly drift into everything else.

You told him about your struggles adjusting to Seoul, the chaotic university days, and how much you liked the Suga tracks your professor played in lectures.

You: Today my professor played another Suga track in class as an example of emotional minimalism. The way the piano feels so lonely but powerful at the same time… I don’t know how he does it. I’m still so new to the Korean music scene. I only know a few names my professor mentions. Yoongi: Suga, huh? You like his stuff? You: Yeah! The professor says he’s a genius at producing. He doesn’t always show up in public, right? Always low-profile. Just focuses on the music. I respect that a lot. Makes the art feel more pure. Yoongi: …Yeah. He’s pretty private. Glad you like it though. You: I’m still learning everything. Being new in Seoul is exhausting lol. Today I got lost again trying to find the right subway line. Ended up in the completely wrong area and had to take a taxi back. I miss home so much sometimes. Yoongi: I remember those days. I was the same when I first moved here. You’ll get used to it. Want me to send you a list of good places to eat near your university? Real food, not just convenience store kimbap. You: You’d do that? That would be amazing. I’m surviving on instant ramen too much. Yoongi: Consider it done. Also… how’s the paper going? Still surface level? You: Getting better thanks to you. You explain things in a way my professor never could. You’re really good at this. Yoongi: I’ve been doing it for a while. Happy to help.

Another night, late:

You: It’s 1 AM and I’m still editing this section. I feel like crying. Why is university so hard? Yoongi: Hey, breathe. Send me the paragraph if you want. I’ll read it. You: You sure? You’re probably busy. Yoongi: I’m in the studio but I’ve got time for you. Send it.

You sent the text.

Ten minutes later he replied with thoughtful feedback... gentle but honest, pointing out where the emotion was missing and how to bring it out.

Yoongi: You’re not surface level. You just need to trust your own feelings more when you write. Music is personal. Write like you’re telling me about it on the rooftop that night. You: How are you so sweet? I barely know you but talking to you makes everything feel lighter. Yoongi: You make it easy to be sweet. You’re genuine. That’s rare.

The conversations grew longer and more frequent.

Good morning texts. Late night voice notes from him humming a melody he was working on. You sending him pictures of your messy desk or the rainy view from your dorm window. He would reply with short voice messages in his low, raspy voice that always made your heart flutter.

Then one evening, after almost five weeks of constant texting:

Yoongi: You free this weekend? You: Yeah. Most Probably. Yoongi: Come over to my place. I’ll help you with the paper properly. Better than texting back and forth. I have a proper studio setup here. We can listen to tracks and break them down together. No pressure.

You stared at the message, biting your lip. Your heart raced.

You: Your apartment? Is that okay? Yoongi: Yeah. It’s quiet here. No one will bother us. We can order food, work on your paper, and just… talk like we do. I’d like to see you again. You: I’d like that too. Really. It’s just I keep thinking if I am bothering you more than I should. Yoongi: Don’t be... So, Saturday morning? 10 AM? I’ll send you the address. We can work while the sun’s still gentle, and I’ll make sure you get to your dorm with plenty of time before curfew. You: 10 AM sounds perfect actually. Thank you for offering this. You’ve been such a big help already. Yoongi: I’ve been looking forward to seeing you. Don’t worry about anything. Just bring your laptop and that pretty smile from the rooftop. You: You’re going to make me blush through the phone… See you on Saturday!! Yoongi: Can’t wait, Y/n.

He set his phone down, leaning back in his chair with a soft, genuine smile and something warm and fluttery in his chest that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

In your dorm, you hugged your pillow, grinning at the screen, already thinking about what to wear and feeling both nervous and excited for the weekend.

The connection that started with a charged kiss on a dark rooftop was slowly blooming into something sweet, comforting, and full of quiet affection.

Saturday morning, your eyes fluttered open at 6:15 AM... way earlier than your usual weekend schedule. Sunlight filtered softly through the thin dorm curtains, and for a moment you just lay there, heart already beating a little faster than normal.

Today was the day.

You were going to Yoongi’s apartment.

You sat up, rubbing your face, a mix of nerves and excitement bubbling in your stomach. After brushing your teeth and taking shower, you stood in front of the small closet you shared with Mina, staring at your clothes.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered to yourself, pulling out a simple cream sweater and black jeans. You tried it on, turned left and right in front of the mirror, then frowned.

“Too casual… I look like I’m going to the library.”

Second outfit — a soft lavender blouse with a light cardigan and a skirt. You checked the mirror again, tilting your head.

“Cute… but maybe too soft? I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.”

Third outfit. Fourth. By the fifth change, you were standing in a fitted white t-shirt tucked into high-waisted jeans, with a soft oversized beige cardigan slipping off one shoulder.

You turned slowly, checking every angle.

Mina, who had been pretending to sleep, finally groaned and sat up in her bed, hair messy, squinting at you with one eye open.

“Yahhh… what is going on?” she asked, voice still raspy from sleep. “It’s not even 8 AM on a Saturday. Are you sick? Did the world end?”

You froze mid-twirl, cheeks already warming. “I’m… just getting ready.”

Mina raised an eyebrow, fully awake now.

She propped herself up on her elbows, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. “Getting ready? For what? You never wake up before 11 on weekends. Usually I have to drag you out of bed like a corpse. So who is he?”

You avoided her eyes in the mirror and smoothed down your cardigan again. “No one. I mean… it’s just a study thing.”

“Study thing?” Mina laughed, sitting up fully now and hugging her knees. “With the mysterious rooftop guy? The one who made you come back to the dorm with swollen lips and red cheeks that night? Don’t lie to me, Y/n.”

You turned around, biting your lip. “Okay… fine. Yes. I’m going to his place this morning. He offered to help me with my music research paper. He knows a lot about music.”

Mina’s eyes sparkled with delight.

“Ooooh~ So the mysterious rooftop guy enters again! You only gave me crumbs that night, you know. You came in all flushed and breathless, and when I kept asking, you just mumbled something about ‘a really good make out with a stranger on the rooftop.’ I’ve been dying for details ever since!”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Minaaa, stop. It wasn’t just that… We talked a lot too. He’s really nice. And smart. The way he talks about music… it’s different from my professor. He actually gets it.”

Mina wiggled her eyebrows. “And he’s hot, right? Because your face right now is telling me he’s more than just ‘nice.’ You’ve changed outfits like five times already. I counted.”

“Four… maybe five,” you admitted with a shy laugh, glancing back at the mirror. “I don’t know what to wear. I want to look cute but not like I’m trying too hard. What do you think of this one?”

You did a small spin.

Mina tilted her head, studying you.

“Hmm… It’s good. The cardigan makes you look soft and approachable. But maybe add that little silver necklace you have? The one with the tiny star. It’ll draw attention to your neck… in case he wants to kiss it again,” she teased.

“Yah!” You threw a pillow at her, laughing. “We’re just working on my paper today. Nothing else.”

“Sure, sure,” Mina said sarcastically, catching the pillow. “That’s why you’re up at 8 AM vibrating with excitement. Tell me more about him. You said he’s a producer? Is he famous?”

You sat down on the edge of your bed, fiddling with the hem of your cardigan.

“He’s… I don’t know, lowkey? He doesn’t act like he’s a big deal. We’ve been texting almost every day since that night. He helps me with my paper, listens when I complain about the city, and sends me food recommendations. He even sent me a voice note humming a melody he was working on. His voice is so… deep and calming.”

Mina clutched her chest dramatically. “Oh my god, you’re whipped already. And you made out with him on the rooftop? How was it? Was it hot? Tell me he’s a good kisser at least.”

Your face burned as memories flashed—the dark corner, his hands under your skirt, the wet kisses.

“It was… really good,” you admitted quietly, smiling despite yourself. “Like, really good. Intense. He pinned me against the wall and I completely forgot about everything. Then you called about curfew and I had to run.”

Mina squealed and kicked her legs under the blanket. “I knew it! That’s why you were so red and out of breath when you got back. And now you’re going to his apartment? Alone? On a Saturday morning? Babe, this is not just about the research paper anymore.”

You laughed nervously, standing up to check your reflection one more time. “It’s mostly about the paper… but yeah, I like talking to him. A lot. He makes me feel less alone in this city.”

Mina’s teasing softened into a warm smile. “I’m happy for you. You’ve been so stressed since you got here. Just be careful, okay? And text me when you get there and when you leave. If he turns out to be a weirdo, I’ll come rescue you along with my boyfriend.”

“Thank you,” you said, walking over to hug her quickly. “I will. Wish me luck?”

“Good luck with your ‘paper’,” she said, grinning. “And if you come back with swollen lips again, I want full details this time. No more hiding!”

You grabbed your bag, laptop, and notes, heart fluttering as you headed for the door.

“You are thinking too much. It's just about paper... today. Promise.”

As you left the dorm, Mina called after you, “Yah! Wear the lip tint! The pink one!”

You smiled to yourself the entire way, nerves and excitement mixing together. Saturday morning had never felt this bright.

Around 10:02 AM, you stood outside the modern apartment building, nervously adjusting the strap of your bag. The building looked expensive but understated—exactly the kind of place you imagined someone quiet like Yoongi would live.

After taking a deep breath, you pressed the doorbell for his unit.

The door opened after a few seconds.

Yoongi stood there in a simple black hoodie and grey sweatpants, his dark hair slightly messy like he’d just woken up not too long ago. His eyes softened the moment they landed on you, and a small, genuine smile curved his lips.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and warm. “You made it.”

“Hi,” you replied, suddenly shy. “I’m not late, am I?”

“Not at all. Come in.”

He stepped aside, letting you enter.

His apartment was beautiful... minimal, clean, with large windows letting in soft morning light. The living room had a low couch, a few plants, and records displayed neatly on the wall. But what caught your attention most was the open door leading to his studio.

“Want to see my workspace first?” he asked, noticing your curious gaze.

“Yes, please. I’m really curious.”

He gently guided you inside the studio.

The room was soundproofed, filled with warm lighting. Two large monitors, a massive mixing desk covered with knobs and faders, multiple keyboards, a beautiful vintage piano in the corner, few guitars and shelves full of headphones and equipment.

“Wow…” you whispered, eyes wide. “This is incredible, Yoongi. It feels so… professional.”

He smiled, eyes tender and soft. “It’s my little cave. I spend most of my time here. Sit wherever you want.”

You glanced around at all the instruments, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Do you actually know how to play all of them, or are they just here for studio aesthetics?”

Yoongi chuckled softly, the sound warm and low as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I love learning new instruments in my free time. It keeps me inspired. I’m definitely good with the piano and guitar though.”

Your eyes landed on one of the acoustic guitars resting on a stand. It looked well-loved, the wood smooth and slightly worn.

“That one’s beautiful,” you said, pointing at it. “Can you tell me about it? And… would you teach me a little? Even just the basics?”

His smile grew, soft and genuinely pleased. “Yeah? Come here.”

He picked up the guitar with practiced ease, settling on the edge of the couch and patting the spot beside him. You sat close as he placed the instrument in his lap.

“This is one of my favorites,” he said, gently strumming a few soft chords that filled the studio with warm, rich sound. “It’s got a nice warm tone, not too bright.” He adjusted your posture a little, guiding your hands. “Here, put your fingers like this for A minor chord.”

For the next few minutes, Yoongi patiently showed you the Open Chords, the easiest for beginners, his voice quiet and focused as he corrected your finger placement and demonstrated how to strum smoothly.

His shoulder brushed yours, and every time you managed a decent sound, his eyes crinkled with quiet pride.

“Not bad,” he murmured, clearly enjoying himself. “You’ve got good hands for it.”

You laughed, a little flustered but happy. “I think I’m mostly just following you.”

He played a short, gentle melody after that... something soft and soothing... his fingers moving effortlessly across the strings while he occasionally glanced at you, explaining what he was doing.

The intimate atmosphere in the studio wrapped around both of you as the music lingered in the air. Eventually, he set the guitar back on its stand and turned to you, eyes warm.

“See? You’re already learning,” he said with a small, affectionate smile. “We can do more of that later if you want.”

You both settled on the comfortable couch in the studio. You pulled out your laptop and notes while he made two cups of coffee and set one in front of you.

For the next thirty minutes, you actually tried to focus on your paper. He leaned close, shoulder brushing yours, pointing at your screen as he explained certain production techniques.

“See here,” he said quietly, his breath warm near your ear. “When you talk about emotional minimalism, it’s not just removing sounds. It’s about creating tension with what you don’t play. Like leaving space for the listener to feel something.”

You nodded, trying to ignore how good he smelled. “That makes so much sense. My professor never explained it like this.”

He smiled, eyes lingering on your face a little longer than necessary. “You’re catching on fast.”

Eventually, the research talk slowed.

Yoongi leaned back, studying you with soft eyes.

“So… tell me something,” he said gently. “Why did you choose to do your Masters in music theory? Most people come for performance or production. What made you pick theory?”

You sipped your coffee, thinking for a moment before answering honestly.

“I’ve always loved music, but I want to understand it deeply. Not just how it sounds, but why it affects us so much. The psychology behind it… how certain chord progressions can make someone cry, or how rhythm can calm anxiety. I want to learn that so I can eventually write my own lyrics and compose them. I’ve tried a few times, but…” you laughed self-consciously, “they’re not very good. They feel childish compared to what I hear in lectures.”

Yoongi’s expression turned incredibly soft.

He shifted closer, his knee brushing against yours.

“I’d love to read them someday,” he said quietly. “If you’re comfortable sharing. I promise I won’t judge. I started the same way — writing really bad lines before I got better.”

“Really?” You looked up at him, surprised. “You’d actually want to read my messy lyrics?”

“Of course.” He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering on your cheek. “I like the way your mind works. The way you talk about music. It’s honest. That’s rare.”

The atmosphere grew warmer, more intimate. You could feel your heart fluttering as he kept looking at you like that.

Yoongi took a slow breath, as if deciding something important. He gently took your hand, playing with your fingers.

“Y/n… there’s something I want to tell you. I’ve been thinking about it for a while. I didn’t want to say it over text. That’s one of the reasons I asked you to come here—face to face.”

You blinked, suddenly a little nervous. “What is it?”

He gave your hand a reassuring squeeze, his thumb stroking your skin.

“I told you I’m a producer. But I didn’t tell you my full name… or my stage name.” He paused, eyes steady on yours. “I’m Suga. The one your professor keeps playing in class. The one you said you really like.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly open. “Wait… you’re Suga? The Suga?”

He nodded, a small, almost shy smile appearing. “Yeah. I produce under that name. I don’t show up publically much—I prefer staying behind the scenes, letting the artists I work with take the spotlight. That’s why you didn’t recognize me.”

“Oh my god…” You let out a breathless laugh, covering your mouth. “All this time I was telling you how much I like Suga’s music… and it was you. Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

“I didn’t want you to treat me differently,” he said honestly, voice soft. “When you didn’t know who I was on the rooftop, it felt real. You talked to me, not the name. I liked that. A lot.”

He leaned in a little closer, eyes warm and sincere. “But I also didn’t want to keep hiding it from you. These past weeks talking to you… they’ve meant something to me. I want this to be honest.”

Your cheeks flushed deeply. You squeezed his hand back, feeling a rush of warmth in your chest.

“I can’t believe this… I’ve been fangirling over your music in my paper and you’ve been helping me with it the whole time.” You laughed softly. “This feels surreal.”

Yoongi’s smile grew, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Is it a good surreal?”

“Very good,” you whispered.

He brought your hand up and pressed a gentle kiss to your knuckles, then another to the inside of your wrist, making your heart skip.

“I really like you, Y/n,” he said quietly, voice husky but full of affection. “Not just helping with your paper. Talking to you every day… it’s become my favorite part of the day. I wanted you to know the real me before this goes any further.”

You felt butterflies explode in your stomach. The morning light made his features look even softer, and the way he was looking at you made everything feel warm and safe.

“I like you too, Yoongi,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Suga or not… I like you.”

He let out a relieved breath and rested his forehead gently against yours for a moment, eyes closed, a fluffy smile playing on his lips.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I was hoping you’d stay a little longer today. We can work more on your paper… or we can just talk. Or I can make you something quick for breakfast while you tell me more about those lyrics you’re scared to show anyone.”

You laughed softly, your nose brushing his. “I think I’d like all of that.”

A few months had passed since that first studio visit, and your relationship with Yoongi had become the softest, warmest thing in your life.

You and Mina had moved into a small rented apartment near campus at the beginning of next semester.

No more strict dorm curfews.

Both of you were in relationships, and the freedom felt amazing.

Yoongi was still the same quiet, low-profile producer, but with you he was incredibly affectionate—always pulling you into his lap when he was working, leaving sweet kisses on your forehead, cooking for you when you stayed over, and sending you voice notes in his raspy morning voice.

Despite the six-year age gap, things never felt awkward.

The intimacy between you both had grown naturally, and you’d already shared several beautiful, passionate nights at his apartment.

The first time you stayed over at his place, it was your third month of dating. You had come over after a long day at university.

“You didn’t have to cook,” you said, watching him from the kitchen island.

“I wanted to,” he replied softly, chopping the vegetables. “You’ve been working hard on that paper. Let me take care of you tonight.”

He had cooked dinner for you like a proper gentleman — delicious kimchi jjigae, perfectly grilled mackerel, and side dishes he prepared earlier.

You sat at the kitchen counter watching him, heart fluttering the entire time. He set the dishes on plate and placed in front of you.

“You know... you really cook so well,” you said, eyes wide as you took a bite. “I used to think producers only knew how to order takeout.”

Yoongi smirked, sliding more food onto your plate. “I lived alone for too long. Had to learn or I would’ve starved. Eat well, baby.”

After dinner, he worked in his studio for a bit while you kept him company, sitting comfortably in his lap. His arms were wrapped around you as he clicked through tracks, occasionally asking for your opinion.

“You smell nice,” he murmured against your hair at one point, making you smile.

Later, he gave you one of his hoodies to wear. It was big and cozy, reaching mid-thigh on you. You felt adorable in it.

When it was time to sleep, you both stood side by side in the bathroom brushing your teeth. He kept glancing at you in the mirror, eyes soft.

“You look cute with foam on your lips,” he teased, bumping your shoulder gently.

“Yah, focus on brushing!” you laughed, nudging him back.

Once you were both done, he led you to his bed and pulled you into his arms under the soft blankets. He wrapped himself around you from behind, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder.

“Let’s just cuddle and sleep, okay?” he whispered softly. “I don’t want you to feel any pressure.”

You nodded at first, but after a few peaceful minutes, your playful side emerged. You slowly intertwined your fingers with his.

Then you turned around slightly and tangled one of your legs with his, rubbing your foot against his calf. Finally, you started tracing his jawline with your fingertip, moving slowly and seductively.

Yoongi’s breath hitched.

“Y/n…” he warned, voice low. “I said let’s just cuddle and sleep. You’re playing a dangerous game right now.”

You bit your lip, still feeling bold.

You traced lower, down to his neck, pressing a tiny kiss there.

He stayed still for a few seconds, clearly trying to control himself. Then suddenly, he moved.

In one smooth motion, he turned you onto your back and hovered above you, hands on either side of your head. His gaze had completely changed... dark, intense, and full of hunger.

You instantly became shy.

The boldness from a minute ago vanished as you looked up at him, cheeks burning.

“W-we should sleep now…” you mumbled, trying to turn your face away.

Yoongi gently caught your chin, turning you back to face him.

His eyes were soft but burning.

“You were so brave just now, teasing me like that,” he said, voice husky. “Tracing my jaw, rubbing your leg against mine… and now you’re getting all shy when I actually do something?”

You covered your face with your hands, embarrassed. “I was just… testing your patience a little.”

He let out a low chuckle, pulling your hands away so he could see your flushed face.

“Testing my patience?” He leaned down, brushing his lips against yours teasingly. “Baby, I’ve been losing my mind for the past ten minutes trying to behave. You have no idea what you do to me.”

He kissed you slowly at first, then deeper, pouring all his restrained desire into it. His body pressed against yours as one of his hands slid under the hoodie, caressing your bare waist.

“You were bold a second ago,” he whispered against your lips, smiling. “Where did that confidence go, hm?”

“It disappeared when you looked at me like that…” you admitted shyly, voice barely above a whisper.

Yoongi’s expression softened with affection even as heat flared in his eyes.

“Cute,” he murmured, kissing the tip of your nose, then your lips again. “Don’t worry. We’ll go slow. But only if you want this tonight.”

“I want it,” you whispered, finally looking into his eyes again. “I want you, Yoongi.”

That was all he needed.

But every once in a while, a different side of him came out.

A much hungrier, filthier side.

And you liked that side even more.

Like that another night, it started innocently enough after dinner at his place. You were both on the couch, full and relaxed, when a simple goodnight kiss turned into a slow, deep make-out session.

His hands roamed lazily under your shirt at first, then suddenly gripped your waist harder.

Before you knew it, he had pulled you onto his lap, kissing you like he was starving.

The kiss grew messier, wetter.

You were grinding against him when he suddenly growled against your lips, flipped you over, and pulled your hips up so you were on all fours on the couch.

“Fuck, look at you,” he had muttered, voice dangerously low.

He yanked your shorts and panties down in one go, positioning you right in front of the full-length mirror leaning against the wall.

You watched through the reflection as he rolled on a condom. His eyes were dark with lust, jaw clenched with restraint. He rubbed the head of his cock slowly between your folds, teasing your entrance, coating himself in your wetness.

“Yoongi…” you whimpered, pushing back against him desperately.

He let out a low, amused chuckle, still rubbing his thick cock up and down your slick folds, deliberately avoiding pushing inside.

“So impatient,” he murmured, voice rough. “Look at yourself in the mirror, baby. Look how wet you are for me.”

You moaned softly, aching and empty, every slow drag of his cock against your clit making you tremble.

He kept teasing... rubbing, pressing just slightly against your entrance, then pulling back, until you were whimpering and gripping the couch.

Only when you whispered a shaky “Please…” he finally gripped your hip with one hand. His other hand slid up your back and wrapped firmly around your throat—not choking, just possessive... tilting your head so you couldn’t look away from the mirror.

Then, with one smooth, deep thrust, he buried himself inside you completely.

You gasped loudly.

Yoongi leaned over your back, lips brushing your ear as he started fucking you hard, his rhythm punishing.

“Look how pretty you look taking me,” he growled, voice rough and filthy. “Eyes on the mirror, baby. Don’t look away.”

That night he was uncharacteristically rough and vocal—whispering the dirtiest things in your ear while making you watch yourself fall apart.

It left you shaky, breathless, and glowing for days afterward.

One lazy morning, you were sitting at the small dining table in your pajamas, at your rented apartment, sipping tea while scrolling through your phone.

Mina walked in, still half-asleep, and smirked the moment she saw you.

“Morning, miss glowing,” she teased, pouring herself coffee. “You stayed at Yoongi’s last weekend, and your face still has that ‘I got properly loved’ look.”

You laughed, cheeks warming. “Shut up.”

Mina grinned mischievously and sat across from you. “So… be honest. You’ve been dating a whole ass producer for months now. Don’t tell me you still haven’t been railed in the studio?”

You choked hard on your tea, coughing as some of it went down the wrong pipe.

“Mina!” you wheezed, eyes wide.

“What?” she said innocently, but her eyes were sparkling.

“I just read this fanfic about studio sex with a producer and now I can’t stop thinking about it. Girl, you’re literally living the fantasy. He has that expensive studio with the fancy couch and dim lights… and you’re telling me nothing has happened there yet?”

You hid your face in your hands, mortified but laughing. “We’ve done it at his place… multiple times. But the studio feels… I don’t know. Too professional? I keep overthinking it. What if he thinks it’s weird?”

Mina rolled her eyes. “Babe. He’s a guy before a producer. Trust me... the moment you walk in there wearing nothing but one of his hoodies, ‘professionalism’ is the last thing he is going to think about.”

You bit your lip, her words sinking in.

That night, it was ovulation week and your hormones were making you bold.

You texted Yoongi that you were coming over.

When you reached his apartment, he greeted you with a soft kiss and went back to work on a track he was finishing. You told him you’d take a quick shower after your long day... something completely normal now after months of dating.

After showering, you stood in front of his closet, heart racing.

You picked out his favorite oversized black hoodie—the one that reached mid-thigh on you, and slipped it on.

Nothing underneath.

No panties. No bra. Just the hoodie.

You walked into the studio barefoot, the hem of the hoodie brushing against your bare skin with every step.

Yoongi was sitting at his mixing desk, headphones half-on, focused on the screen. He glanced up when you entered and smiled warmly.

“Hey, baby,” he said, voice soft. “Shower felt good?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, walking closer. “I stole your hoodie again. Hope you don’t mind.”

“You know I never mind,” he replied, eyes flicking over you affectionately. “You look cute in it. Come here.”

He patted his lap.

You walked over and sat sideways on his thigh like you usually did. His arm wrapped around your waist naturally as he went back to tweaking the track.

For a few minutes, everything felt normal. He played a part of the beat for you, asking for your opinion. You gave feedback while subtly shifting in his lap.

“You okay?” he asked after a while, noticing you seemed a little restless. His hand rubbed your thigh gently. “You’re moving a lot tonight.”

“I’m fine,” you said innocently, leaning back against his chest. “Just like being close to you.”

He kissed the side of your head, completely unaware.

You turned slightly, letting the hoodie ride up a little higher on your thighs as you “adjusted” again. His hand that was resting on your bare thigh stilled.

Yoongi paused the track.

“Wait…” His voice dropped lower.

His fingers slowly traced higher under the hem of the hoodie. The moment they met nothing but warm, smooth skin, his whole body tensed beneath you.

Then he felt it—the unmistakable warm, wet patch slowly forming on the front of his grey sweatpants where your bare core was pressed against him.

“Y/n,” he said slowly, voice suddenly much lower and rougher, almost strained. “Are you… not wearing anything under this?”

You bit your lip, heart racing with excitement and nervousness as you looked at him over your shoulder.

“Maybe…” you teased, voice sweet. “Is that a problem?”

His eyes darkened instantly.

He ran his tongue over his bottom lip, breathing out a soft laugh.

His hand squeezed your thigh tighter as he shifted slightly underneath you, clearly feeling the wetness now soaking through his sweats.

“Fuck, baby…” he groaned softly, eyes darkening. “You’re sitting on my lap with no panties on and you’re already wet? You’ve been dripping on me this whole time?”

His free hand came up to grip your waist, fingers digging in just enough to show his growing restraint.

“You little tease,” he muttered, voice husky with both amusement and arousal. “I thought you just wanted to wear my hoodie like always… but you came in here bare and soaked? How long have you been planning this?”

You smiled shyly, turning more to face him, which only pressed your wetness harder against the growing bulge in his sweats.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” you admitted, running your fingers along the collar of his hoodie. “Mina kept teasing me about how I’m dating a producer and still haven’t done anything in the studio… and guess I got curious.”

Yoongi let out a breathy chuckle, but his eyes were burning now. He slid his hand further under the hoodie, cupping your bare ass as he pulled you closer.

“So you decided to come in here, fresh out of my shower, wearing nothing underneath my hoodie… and sit right on my dick like a good girl?”

He leaned in, lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “You’re going to ruin my sweats, baby. You feel how wet you are? You’re making a mess all over me.”

You shivered at his words, cheeks burning but loving the way his voice had changed... still soft with affection, but now laced with clear hunger.

“Are you mad?” you asked playfully, even though you could feel him getting harder beneath you.

“Mad?” He laughed lowly, pressing a wet kiss just below your ear. “No. But you’re not leaving this studio anytime soon looking all innocent like this.”

His fingers traced teasing circles on your bare skin, dangerously close but not quite there yet.

“You really want to do this here?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, his gaze flicking between playful and intense. “Because once I start, I’m not going to be gentle with you, baby.”

You smiled, heat pooling between your legs at his words. You reached up and slowly traced his jaw with your fingertip, dragging it seductively down to his neck.

“Good thing I’m ovulating then,” you whispered, voice breathy and teasing. “Gentle is the last thing I want tonight.”

Yoongi’s breath hitched.

He stared at you for a second before letting out a deep, amused chuckle that sounded almost sinful.

“Fuck… you’re going to be the death of me.” He leaned in and bit your bottom lip lightly before pulling back.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined this. Sitting here working late nights, thinking about bending you over this mixing desk… or fucking you against the piano… or having you ride me right in this chair.”

His hands slid under the hoodie, gripping your bare ass as he continued, voice rough, “That’s why I put condoms in every fucking drawer in this apartment now. Kitchen, living room, bedroom… and yes, even in the studio. I can literally fuck you on every surface of this place and I’ve thought about all of them.”

Your eyes widened in surprise, a shy but thrilled laugh escaping you.

“Yoongi!” you gasped, playfully hitting his chest. “You’ve been planning this?”

“Planning? Baby, I’ve been dreaming about it,” he admitted, eyes gleaming. “Now stop teasing and show me how wet you really are.”

He shifted you slightly so you were straddling one of his thighs properly, your bare, soaked pussy pressed directly against the soft fabric of his grey sweatpants.

The warmth of his thigh felt incredible against your sensitive skin.

“Ride it,” he commanded softly, hands guiding your hips. “Ride my thigh and make a mess all over my sweats like the needy little thing you are.”

You moaned softly at his words and started moving.

Slowly at first, grinding your wet folds along the firm muscle of his thigh. The friction was perfect, and the way your slick was already coating his pants made obscene wet sounds with every roll of your hips.

“Fuck… look at you,” Yoongi groaned, eyes locked on where your pussy was sliding against him. “Soaking me already. Such a messy girl.”

He pushed the hoodie up to your neck, exposing your breasts. His hands immediately cupped them, squeezing roughly before his thumbs flicked over your hardened nipples.

“Ah— Yoongi…” you whimpered, grinding harder.

“That’s it, baby. Use my thigh,” he praised, voice low and filthy.

“Look how desperate you are, humping me like you can’t get enough. My pretty little girlfriend came in here with no panties just to get fucked in my studio… so fucking hot.”

He leaned down and took one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking hard while his other hand pinched and rolled the other one.

The mix of rough and wet felt electric.

You cried out, moving faster on his thigh, the wet patch on his sweats growing bigger with every glide.

“Mmm... fuck, you taste so good,” he growled against your breast, sucking harder before pulling off with a wet pop. “These pretty tits are mine. Say it.”

“They’re yours—” you gasped, riding his thigh faster, the pressure building quickly between your legs.

“Louder, baby. Tell me who this wet little pussy belongs to while you ruin my pants.”

“It’s yours, Yoongi... ahh!” you moaned loudly as he bit down gently on your nipple, then soothed it with his tongue.

He leaned back slightly to watch you, one hand still playing with your breasts, pinching and tugging while the other gripped your hip, helping you grind harder.

“You’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he murmured, voice dripping with lust and affection.

“Riding my thigh like a desperate filthy girl but still blushing so cutely. I love this duality in you, baby. My sweet university girl in public… and my filthy little girl in my studio.”

Your breathing grew ragged.

The combination of his filthy words, the rough treatment of your nipples, and the perfect pressure on your clit was pushing you close to the edge.

“I’m... I’m gonna cum—” you whimpered, grinding faster, your wetness now completely soaking through his sweats.

“Cum for me then,” he growled, sucking your nipple into his mouth again, harder this time. “Make a bigger mess on me, baby. I want to feel you dripping down my thigh.”

He pinched your other nipple sharply and that was all it took.

You came hard with a loud cry of his name, your body shaking as waves of pleasure crashed over you. Your hips stuttered against his thigh as you rode out your orgasm, leaving a shiny, wet patch all over his grey sweats.

Yoongi groaned at the sight, finally pulling his mouth off your nipple with a satisfied smirk. He kept rubbing slow circles on your hips as you came down, pressing soft kisses along your collarbone.

“Such a good girl,” he whispered tenderly, the duality hitting you hard again — filthy one second, soft and loving the next. “Look at the mess you made… my dirty little ovulating princess.”

You collapsed against his chest, breathing heavily, a shy smile forming on your lips as you nuzzled into his neck. His hand rubbed slow, soothing circles on your back, but the wicked smirk on his lips told you he wasn’t nearly done.

“I can’t believe I just did that…” you mumbled, embarrassed but glowing.

Yoongi chuckled and kissed the top of your head, wrapping his arms around you. “And we’re just getting started, baby.”

Before you could respond, he lifted you effortlessly and placed you on the edge of his mixing desk. The surface was cool against your bare ass, various knobs and faders pressing into your skin. He pushed the hoodie all the way up to your neck again, fully exposing your body to his hungry gaze.

“Spread your legs for me,” he said softly, voice laced with command.

You obeyed, parting your thighs.

Yoongi stepped between them, eyes dropping to your soaked pussy. He let out a low groan at the sight.

“Fuck… look at this pretty mess,” he whispered, running two fingers through your dripping folds. “You’re still so wet. My greedy girl.”

You shivered at his touch, already sensitive. “Yoongi…”

He leaned in and kissed you deeply, tongue sliding against yours as he slowly pushed two fingers inside you. You gasped into his mouth at the stretch, your walls clenching around his thick digits.

“That’s it,” he breathed against your lips. “Take my fingers, baby.”

He started moving them slowly at first, curling them just right to hit that sweet spot inside you. The wet, obscene sounds of his fingers pumping into your soaked pussy filled the studio.

“Oh my god—” you moaned, gripping his shoulders.

Yoongi pulled back slightly to watch your face, his eyes dark with lust.

“You like that?” he asked, voice husky. “You like getting fingered on my mixing desk like a good girl?”

He picked up the pace, fucking his fingers into you harder while his thumb found your swollen clit and started rubbing tight circles.

“Answer me, baby.”

“Yes— fuck, yes I like it,” you whimpered, hips rolling to meet his hand.

He smirked, clearly pleased. “Good girl. Look at you… sitting on my desk with my hoodie pushed up, legs spread open just for me. So fucking perfect.”

His fingers curled again, pressing firmly against your g-spot with every thrust. The pleasure built rapidly, especially with how sensitive you already were from your previous orgasm.

Yoongi leaned down and took one of your nipples into his mouth again, sucking hard while his fingers kept their relentless rhythm. He released it with a wet pop and looked up at you.

“You’re clenching so tight around my fingers,” he groaned. “You gonna cum again for me already? So soon?”

“I can’t help it—” you gasped, head falling back. “You feel so good…”

He added a third finger, stretching you more as he pumped faster.

His thumb pressed harder on your clit.

“That’s right, baby. Make a mess on my desk too. I want this entire studio to smell like your pussy by the time I’m done with you.”

Your moans grew louder, echoing softly in the soundproofed room. Yoongi watched you intently, his free hand coming up to gently grip your jaw so you’d look at him.

“Eyes on me when you cum,” he ordered, though his voice was still full of affection. “I want to see how pretty you look falling apart on my fingers.”

The combination of his filthy words, the perfect angle of his fingers, and the intense eye contact pushed you over the edge again.

“Yoongi... I’m cumming—!” you cried out.

Your second orgasm hit you even harder.

Your thighs shook as you clenched violently around his fingers, a fresh gush of wetness coating his hand and dripping onto the mixing desk. Yoongi kept fucking you through it, slowing his movements but not stopping, drawing out every wave of pleasure.

“Fuck, that’s my girl,” he praised, voice thick with pride and lust. “Look at you soaking my desk… such a good, messy baby.”

He finally slipped his fingers out of you gently and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean while maintaining eye contact. The sight made your stomach flip.

“You taste even better when you’re ovulating,” he said with a wicked little smile.

You were still panting, legs trembling as you tried to recover. Yoongi stepped closer, wrapping his arms around you and kissing you softly this time—sweet and tender, a sharp contrast to how rough his fingers had just been.

He rested his forehead against yours, brushing your hair back gently.

“You okay, baby?” he asked, voice now soft and caring. “Not too much?”

You shook your head, smiling breathlessly. “No… I want more.”

Yoongi chuckled lowly, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Good. Because I still have so many plans for you tonight.”

Yoongi kissed you deeply for a moment longer, then gently lifted you off the mixing desk. Your legs were still shaky, so he carried you bridal-style over to the large, comfortable black couch in the corner of his studio.

He laid you down carefully on your back, the soft cushions sinking under your weight. The oversized hoodie was still bunched up around your chest. He pulled it down a little to cover your stomach.

“Stay right here, baby,” he said softly, brushing damp strands of hair from your forehead. “You came so hard twice already. Let me take care of you for a while.”

He reached over to the small side table and grabbed a bottle of water, unscrewing the cap before holding it to your lips.

“Drink,” he ordered gently. “You need it.”

You took a few sips, still breathing heavily. Yoongi watched you with soft, loving eyes, his thumb stroking your cheek.

“Good girl,” he praised quietly. “How are you feeling?”

“Really good,” you whispered, smiling up at him. “But little sensitive…”

He chuckled and leaned down to kiss your forehead, then your nose, then your lips.

“You’re doing so well for me tonight. My pretty, needy baby.” He kissed you again, slower this time. “Just relax for a bit. I’m not rushing.”

After a couple of minutes of him gently rubbing your thighs and kissing your neck, your breathing finally evened out. Yoongi’s hand started sliding higher again, teasingly stroking the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

“Think you can handle more?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded, biting your lip. “Yes… I want you.”

He smirked and moved down your body, settling between your legs on the couch. He spread your thighs wide, exposing your glistening pussy to his hungry gaze.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned. “Still so wet and puffy for me.”

Without another word, he leaned in and dragged his tongue slowly up your slit, collecting every drop of your wetness.

The moment your taste hit his tongue, he groaned deeply, like he’d been craving this for days.

He didn’t stop there.

Yoongi buried his face completely between your thighs, drowning himself in your pussy. He pressed his nose against your soaked folds and inhaled deeply, sniffing you with raw hunger before letting out a long, satisfied “Mhhhhmmmm…” that vibrated straight through your core.

The sound was filthy and needy, almost animalistic.

“God, baby… you smell so fucking good,” he growled against your pussy, voice muffled. “Especially when you’re ovulating. So sweet and wet… I could suffocate in this pussy and die happy.”

You whimpered loudly, your fingers tightening in his hair as he dove back in.

“Yoongi—!”

“Mhmm,” he hummed against you, the vibration sending sparks through your body. “You taste so filthy good, baby. Especially when you’re like this.”

He didn’t tease for long.

He ate you like a man possessed—messy, greedy, and completely lost in you.

His tongue licked broad, slow stripes before flicking rapidly over your swollen clit. He sucked your folds into his mouth, then moved back to your clit, alternating between gentle sucks and harsh flicks.

Every few seconds, he’d press his face deeper, nose rubbing against your clit while his tongue pushed inside you, fucking you with it. He kept making those sinful “Mhmmmm… mmmph—” sounds as he devoured you, like your taste was driving him insane.

“Oh my god... Yoongi, that feels so good,” you whimpered, your hands flying to his hair.

He pulled back just enough to speak, lips shiny with your juices.

“Yeah? You like when I eat this pretty pussy?” He licked a long stripe up your folds again. “You get so much wetter when you’re ovulating. I could stay here for hours.”

He pushed two fingers back inside you while his tongue focused on your clit, curling his fingers perfectly against your g-spot. The wet, sloppy sounds of him eating you out filled the studio.

“Fuck... right there,” you cried, hips bucking against his face.

Yoongi groaned in response, the sound vibrating against your core. He sucked harder on your clit and pumped his fingers faster.

“You’re dripping down my chin, baby. Making such a mess on my couch. My dirty little girl.”

Your thighs started shaking around his head. “I’m... I’m gonna cum again... Yoongi please—”

But every time you got close, every time your thighs started trembling and your moans got higher, he would slow down or pull back just a little—edging you cruelly while still burying his face in you.

“Not yet,” he whispered against your soaked folds, placing a soft kiss on your clit. “I want you to fucking throb for me.”

Then he dove back in even harder—sniffing, licking, sucking, and groaning like he couldn’t get enough. His fingers pumped faster while his tongue flicked relentlessly over your clit.

“Mhhhhmm… fuck, I love this,” he groaned, the vibrations making your eyes roll back. “I could eat you for hours like this. My favorite fucking meal.”

Your legs were shaking uncontrollably around his head. You were so close it hurt. “Yoongi, please— I’m so close, please don’t stop...”

He hummed deeply again, the sound vibrating right against your clit as he sucked harder and curled his fingers perfectly.

This time... he didn’t stop.

If anything, he went harder—sucking your clit with wet, obscene noises while his fingers fucked you relentlessly.

“Cum on my tongue, baby. Let me taste you,” he growled against your pussy.

Your third orgasm crashed over you violently.

You cried out his name, thighs clamping around his head as you gushed on his tongue. Yoongi moaned loudly, licking up every drop like it was his favorite thing in the world, not stopping until you were twitching and whimpering from overstimulation.

He finally pulled back, lips and chin glistening.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and crawled up your body, kissing you deeply so you could taste yourself on his tongue.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he whispered against your lips. “I could eat you out all night.”

You were panting, eyes glassy with pleasure. “Yoongi… I need you inside me. Please.”

He kissed you again, softer this time. “You sure, baby? You’ve already come three times.”

“I want you,” you begged, pulling at his hoodie. “I need you to fuck me.”

Yoongi chuckled and reached into the drawer of the side table next to the couch, pulling out a condom.

He quickly pushed down his sweatpants and boxers, his hard cock springing free. He was painfully hard, the tip already leaking. He rolled the condom on while watching your face.

“Come here, baby,” he said, voice thick with need.

He pulled you into his lap so you were straddling him on the couch. He lined himself up and slowly sank you down onto his cock, both of you moaning loudly at the feeling.

“Fuck… so tight,” he groaned, burying his face in your neck. “You feel incredible.”

He gave you a moment to adjust before starting to thrust up into you, hands gripping your ass under the hoodie. The pace was deep and steady at first, but quickly grew rougher.

“Ride me, baby,” he encouraged, voice rough. “Use my cock. This is what you wanted, right? Getting fucked properly in my studio?”

You moaned, rolling your hips as he thrust up to meet you. The sound of skin slapping and your combined moans filled the room.

“Yes— God, yes,” you gasped. “Feels so good, Yoongi…”

He pulled the hoodie off you completely, tossing it aside so he could see all of you. His hands roamed everywhere—squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples, gripping your waist as he fucked you harder.

“That’s my girl,” he growled, looking up at you with pure lust and affection. “Look at you bouncing on my cock so prettily. My perfect girl.”

He suddenly flipped you onto your back on the couch, pushing your legs back toward your chest and thrusting deep.

“Want to fuck you properly now,” he panted, pounding into you with strong, rhythmic strokes. “Want you to feel every inch.”

You cried out with every thrust, nails digging into his back. He kissed you messily, swallowing your moans while driving into you harder.

“Cum for me one more time, baby,” he whispered hotly against your ear. “Want to feel you squeezing my cock when you cum.”

Between his deep thrusts and filthy praises, you shattered again, clenching hard around him as your fourth orgasm ripped through you.

Yoongi followed right after with a deep groan, burying himself to the hilt as he came hard inside the condom, hips stuttering against yours.

He collapsed on top of you, both of you breathing heavily and covered in sweat. After a moment, he lifted his head and kissed you softly, sweetly—completely different from how he’d just fucked you.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips, voice gentle. “You’re amazing.”

You smiled tiredly, running your fingers through his damp hair. “I love you too… even if you just ruined me for any other couch.”

Yoongi laughed softly and nuzzled into your neck, still buried inside you. “Good. Because we’re definitely doing this again.”

It was a special alumni event at your university—a panel discussion on “The Future of Music Production in Korea.” The auditorium was packed with students and faculty.

You had come because your professor practically begged the class to attend, saying it would be beneficial for your research paper.

You were sitting near the middle when the three guests walked onto the stage.

Your heart nearly stopped.

There, in a simple black blazer over a white t-shirt, was Yoongi. Standing casually between two other men... RM and J-Hope.

Your eyes widened in complete shock.

No way…

He had mentioned last night that he had a “surprise” for you today, but you never imagined this.

The moment the MC introduced them, the auditorium erupted.

“Suga!!! Oh my god, it’s really him!”

“RM! J-Hope!”

Girls in the front rows started squealing, some even standing up to take photos. You watched in stunned silence as dozens of phones went up, flashing lights everywhere.

Yoongi looked slightly uncomfortable with the attention but gave a small, polite bow along with his friends.

Your professor leaned over from the row behind you. “See? Even Suga rarely comes to these events. This is historic!”

You could only nod, still speechless.

After the panel ended, you received a text from Yoongi.

Yoongi: Meet me behind the old basketball court in 10 minutes... It's the same place I used to hide during my student days.

You slipped out of the auditorium, heart racing, and made your way to the secluded spot behind the basketball court—a quiet, shaded area with an old bench surrounded by tall trees and bushes.

Hardly anyone came here.

Yoongi was already waiting, leaning against a tree. The moment he saw you, his entire face softened into that fond smile you loved so much. Before you could speak, he pulled you into a warm hug, burying his face in your hair.

“You sneaky bastard,” you laughed against his chest, still in disbelief. “You studied here? And you never told me?”

He chuckled, kissing the top of your head. “You were surprised, huh?”

“Surprised?” You laughed against his chest. “Yoongi, I almost had a heart attack! I had no idea you studied here!”

He chuckled, pulling back to look at you. “I graduated six years ago. I’ve been invited every year with Namjoon and Hoseok, but I always said no. This time… I had a reason to come.”

You smiled up at him, feeling warm all over. “Me?”

“You.”

You pulled back slightly and looked up at him, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“So you’re really a big deal, huh?” you teased, poking his chest. “All those girls screaming for you in the auditorium… I almost got jealous.”

Yoongi raised an eyebrow, a playful smile on his lips.

“Does it matter?” he asked softly, cupping your face.

You shook your head, smiling sweetly.

“No… It doesn’t matter at all. I love you, Min Yoongi. Not Suga... the famous producer. I fell for the guy who made me feel seen in foreign city on that rooftop bar, guy who made me coffee at 10 AM and helped me with my surface-level paper.”

His eyes softened with pure affection. He leaned in closer, nose brushing against yours.

“Good answer,” he whispered.

You grinned and continued teasing, voice playful, “But those girls were really going crazy for you back there. Some of them looked ready to climb the stage.”

Yoongi let out a low laugh, his arms tightening around your waist.

“Does that matter too?” he asked, tilting his head.

You pretended to think for a second, then stood on your tiptoes, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Nope,” you said confidently. “Because even if hundreds of girls go crazy for you… you only go crazy for me.”

Yoongi’s smile turned fond and slightly shy. “You’re damn right about that.”

The air between you shifted.

He leaned in slowly, capturing your lips in a soft, sweet kiss that quickly grew deeper. His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you flush against him as the kiss turned heated. You sighed into his mouth, fingers threading through his hair.

Just as his tongue brushed yours and things were getting very nice—

“Heyyy! Caught you!”

You gasped and suddenly pulled back from the kiss, eyes wide.

J-Hope’s cheerful voice rang out from behind Yoongi.

“Namjoon-ah, I told you we’d find him here! This was always his secret spot back in the day!”

RM’s deep voice followed, sounding amused, “Oh… but he’s not alone.”

Yoongi groaned, closing his eyes for a second before turning around, still keeping one arm around your waist.

J-Hope stood there with a massive grin, while RM looked surprised but clearly entertained, dimples on full display.

J-Hope let out a loud whistle. “Ooooh~ So this is why you finally agreed to come back to campus after avoiding it for years? Interesting…”

Yoongi sighed, ears turning slightly pink. “You two are so annoying.”

You hid your burning face in Yoongi’s shoulder, completely embarrassed at being caught.

Yoongi gently rubbed your back and spoke calmly, “This is Y/n. My girlfriend.”

RM’s eyes widened in pleasant surprise. “Girlfriend? Wow. Nice to meet you, Y/n. I’m Namjoon.”

J-Hope bounced over with a bright smile, offering you a hand. “And I’m Hoseok! But you can call me Hobi. So you’re the mysterious girl who finally dragged this grandpa out of his cave, huh?”

You laughed shyly, shaking both their hands. “It’s really nice to meet you both. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Only good things, I hope,” RM said, glancing at Yoongi with a teasing smirk. “Because this hyung barely talks about anything except music… and apparently now you.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide his small smile. He kept you tucked protectively against his side.

“She’s the reason I came,” he admitted quietly, looking at you with soft eyes. “She studies here. Post Graduation in Music Theory.”

Hobi’s jaw dropped dramatically. “Wait— she goes to our university?! And you didn’t tell us? This is huge!”

RM chuckled. “Looks like our Yoongi-hyung is properly whipped.”

You giggled, glancing up at Yoongi who was now fully blushing.

“I’m not whipped,” Yoongi muttered, but the way he gently kissed your temple right after completely betrayed him.

Hobi clapped his hands together excitedly. “This is adorable. We need to get dinner together soon! All four of us.”

“Only if you two behave,” Yoongi warned, but there was no real threat in his voice.

You leaned into him, feeling warm and happy as you watched the three friends bicker lightly. Yoongi’s hand found yours, fingers intertwining naturally.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he said, gently tugging you closer. “You two go back. I still have twenty minutes before I need to be anywhere.”

J-Hope winked. “Use your time wisely~”

As the two walked away, still laughing and teasing, Yoongi turned back to you and rested his forehead against yours.

“Sorry about them,” he murmured.

You giggled, wrapping your arms around him. “I like them. And I like that I finally know more about your past.”

He kissed the tip of your nose. “There’s still so much more I want to show you.”

You smiled, heart full. “I can’t wait, Suga sunbaenim.”

Yoongi groaned playfully and pulled you into another sweet kiss.

"You've become spoiled." "By who?" She turns slightly in his arms and looks up at him. The answer is obvious, Yoongi stares back for a moment before finally finding the phone and silencing it.

The room falls quiet once more, neither of them says anything. Then, very carefully, he places her phone back on the nightstand, wraps both arms around her again, and pulls her against him with unmistakable determination.

"Yoongi." “No” Yoongi mutters as he shuts his eyes, going back to the very cozy and comfortable position they were in. It’s like this most morning, neither of them is a morning person but are responsible adults that wake up at 7 am. “Honey we have to start getting ready” ___ mumbles against his chest but Yoongi just snuggles closer. 

“We have a trip to leave for, and with my dad involved you don’t want to be late” ___ talks as she lifts her head to take a good look at him, “I don’t even know how we agreed to this” Yoongi’s voice is thick, still a bit hazy from a good night’s sleep. 

“I know how, our mother’s divided and conquered, making each of us agree to it individually so that our combined brain couldn’t say no to this” ___ speaks as Yoongi loosens his grip around her. "Our combined brain isn't a thing," Yoongi says. 

"It absolutely is a thing.""It's not."

"You have the common sense and I have the social skills." ___ comments like it’s the most sane thing in the world and Yoongi chuckles, his face dropping back into her shoulder. "Should we just say that some work came up for me?" he mumbles, his voice muffled against her skin as he presses a series of absent-minded kisses along her shoulder blade. "Something unavoidable. A last-minute meeting. A studio emergency. A national crisis."

"A national crisis?" "I don't know. I'll figure something out."

"And abandon me with the parents, your brother and sister-in-law and their new baby and Sunhee all alone in a cabin?" ___ asks as she pushes him back enough to properly look at him, immediate outrage colouring her expression. "You'd abandon your gorgeous, beautiful, kind, smart and hot girlfriend like that?"

Yoongi studies her seriously for a moment. "You forgot humble." ___ chuckles as she pulls back completely this time, standing up as she dramatically ties a robe around her. "Hey," Yoongi protests immediately, pushing himself up onto one elbow. "You can't just leave me in the bed like this."

"Watch me." "We have an unspoken mutual understanding about extra five minutes of cuddling every morning." ___ picks up her toothbrush without a shred of sympathy. "That sounds like something you made up." 

“It absolutely isn’t yesterday morning you made me late for a meeting  because you wanted to cuddle” Yoongi says once he takes a long sip of his water. “You were late because you got distracted by me in a pencil skirt and we just had to have sex” ___ talks to him through the mirror as she watches Yoongi walk towards her, his hands snaking around her.

Years of dating have done nothing to reduce the frequency with which he finds reasons to touch her. ___ catches his reflection in the mirror as he rests his chin on her head. His hair is still messy from sleep, his eyes half closed, his expression carrying the distinct look of someone who has not yet accepted that the day has officially begun.

"You're supposed to be getting ready." ___ comments with a mouth full of toothpaste, “I am getting ready, I need the morning cuddling to recharge myself for the day” Yoongi whines and ___ can’t help but smile. She had feared this once, early on. That the freshness of it would fade for him. That someone who lived as large and publicly and exhaustingly as he did would eventually find ordinary mornings with her ordinary. But he just seems to have settled deeper into it somehow, like he's been growing roots she can't fully see.

"Baby, come on." She spits, rinses, turns in the circle of his arms to face him properly. His eyes open slightly more, tracking her. "I want us to be on time." ___ asks as her hands reach up to fix his hair, almost as long as her bob from years ago.

“We can save time and shower together” Yoongi suggests with a smirk which earns him a soft smack on his chest, “None of this around our parents, last time you kissed me good bye and my parents tried to give me the sex talk at the ripe age of 32” He presses his lips together. His eyes are doing the thing where he's trying very hard not to find something funny and failing at a foundational level. 

"How about this," she says, her hands settling against his chest, "I get in the shower while you make us amazing coffee, and then you get ready because you're quick, and we leave on time." She punctuates it with a soft kiss, which is her first mistake, because his arms tighten around her immediately, pulling her closer with the certainty.

Their lips stay touching, barely, the kiss not quite ending. "I'm not always quick," he murmurs against her mouth. Her fingers find their way into his hair, combing through it slowly, and he makes the quiet sound he makes when something feels good, low and unhurried, his forehead tilting down toward hers.

The bathroom is warm, the coffee isn't made, they are going to be late. She lets herself melt for exactly one more moment, her fingers curling at the nape of his neck, his arms solid around her, the morning quiet and warm and entirely unconcerned with their schedule.

Then she pulls back, firmly with genuine resolve. "Coffee," she says. "Now. Go." He exhales slowly through his nose, the long suffering exhale of a man being asked to do something deeply unreasonable. His arms drop as he steps back.

"Fine," he says. "I love you" He turns toward the door with great reluctance, pausing at the frame to look back at her over his shoulder, hair still a disaster, eyes still half asleep, wearing the expression of someone filing a formal complaint with the universe.

She points at the kitchen. He goes, he can’t believe how whipped he is, how he’s planned this entire trip just to propose. 

“Sunhee, you got the dress? You have to make sure that she wears that only” Yoongi whispers in the car as ___ steps out to get them some more water, or rather forced to get water. "I have the dress," Sunhee confirms from the back seat, with the calm of someone who has been briefed extensively and takes her responsibilities seriously. "I have the dress, the earrings, the shoes. I also have backups of the earrings because I know her."

"Good." Yoongi nods rapidly. "Good, good, good-" "Yoongi-ya." His mother's voice booms suddenly from the car speaker, loud enough that both he and Sunhee flinch. She is apparently coordinating from the other vehicle. "We've confirmed with the decorator. The florals will be set up by four. Everyone on the guest list has confirmed."

“And you stuck to the guest list? I don’t want any random relatives there” “We stuck to the guest list, only 20 people other than us have been invited” Mrs Lee speaks and Yoongi can hear how she’s been crying, hopefully out of joy.

"Aunty," he says carefully. "Are you okay?" A brief pause, a soft sound that she tries to disguise as clearing her throat. "I'm perfectly fine," she says, with great composure. "I'm just very happy."

"I'm not crying," Mrs. Lee says firmly, to someone in the car with her. "You cried at breakfast," Mr. Lee says and there’s some laughter on their end. Yoongi roped in everyone in their family to help with the proposal, he wanted it to be just right for ___. Was it the wisest decision, definitely not, the mother showed up crying happy tears today, but they’re all also very excited. 

“Guys I just need you to keep this going till tomorrow evening, ___ can’t know-” “Dad, do you guys need more water?” ___ interrupts Yoongi as she knocks on the other car, all he hears is his mother yelp before he hastily disconnects the call. 

“Why are you guys so, mom are you okay?” ___ asks her mother out of genuine concern who’s currently trying to even out her breath. “I am fine, it’s just the altitude” Mrs Lee dismisses her daughter, “We’re still in Seoul” 

She gets in, pulls the door shut, and sits for a second. "Baby." She turns to Yoongi. "I don't think my dad should be driving. They're all acting so weird, should I go over there and drive them?"

"What-" Yoongi starts. "Your mother was also acting strange this morning, are they all sick? Did something happen that nobody is telling me?" Her brow furrows with genuine concern now, the kind that means she's started running through possibilities. "Is everyone okay? Is this an intervention? Am I being intervened?"

"Nobody is being intervened," Yoongi says. "You've been weird all morning too." ___ adds turning to Sunhee in the backseat. "I'm a surgeon, ___. I'm always a little weird." "That's fair," ___ concedes, which buys approximately four seconds before she turns back to Yoongi. "Yoongi."

"Mm." "Look at me." He looks at her. Fully, directly, with the particular stillness he reserves for moments that require absolute composure. She searches his face the way she always does, that quiet careful reading she's gotten very good at over the years.

He holds very still and thinks about nothing. He thinks about the weather. He thinks about the coffee he made this morning. He thinks about absolutely anything except the ring sitting in his jacket pocket approximately thirty centimeters from her hand.

"You're sure everyone is fine," she says. "Everyone is fine," he says. She looks at him for one more long moment. "Everyone is just excited for the trip," Sunhee offers from the back, which is both true and the most dangerous thing she could have said.

___ goes very still. "Excited how," she says slowly. "It's just a weekend trip, why would anyone be-" "I meant relaxed," Sunhee says immediately. "Everyone is just relaxed. Looking forward to a relaxing weekend. Very normal amount of relaxation."

"Right," ___ says. Yoongi pulls out of the car park before she can follow that thread any further. In the back seat Sunhee opens her phone and stares at it with the focused intensity of someone who almost just blew the entire operation and knows it.

He drives, he breathes, he does not touch his jacket pocket. One more day, he thinks. Just one more day.

“If their engagement party is this small, I can’t even imagine what size the wedding is going to be” the proposal and wedding discussions are in full swing, that’s all they can talk about.  

“It’s a proposal today, a wedding in six months and grandchildren in a year” Mr Lee adds with a big smile, ___ is his pride and joy, and the only child, he can’t wait for this next chapter of her life. “Yoongi says that they’ve discussed it all, when they’re going to have kids, how many,” Mr Min adds and the mothers exchange a look.

It is the kind of look that contains an entire conversation. The kind that has been building since an afternoon over barley tea and good plates and twenty photographs, since a sweater recognized across a kitchen, since two women who missed their calling as matchmakers watched something they quietly arranged become something neither of them could have fully imagined. 

The car goes quiet for a moment, the comfortable kind, the kind that has too much warmth in it to need filling. "Six months for the wedding might be ambitious," Mrs. Min says eventually. "I was thinking spring," Mrs. Lee says immediately.

"Spring is perfect." "The venue near Hannam-" "I was thinking the same venue" "It's beautiful in April" "We should call them Monday"

"She hasn't said yes yet," Mr. Lee points out, mildly, from the driver's seat. Both mothers turn to look at him. "She's going to say yes," they say, in unison, with the absolute certainty of two women who have never once doubted this outcome.

Mr. Lee faces the road again. "Just noting the order of events," he says peacefully, and says nothing further.

The cottage is just as ___ remembered, the November chill just right for the place, there’s already an outdoor bonfire going. She looks at the hills going soft in the fading light. At Sunhee, who has gotten very busy with her bag, and Wonik, who is studying the treeline with suspicious intensity, and both sets of parents who’ve gotten very busy with getting dinner together.

Something moves through her chest, quiet and enormous and not entirely nameable. "This is really beautiful," she says softly. His hand presses gently at her back. "Come on," he says. "You're cold."

She is, she hadn't noticed until he said it. She lets him walk her toward the warmth of the bonfire, his hand steady at her back, the voices of their family carrying across the cold air behind them, and she thinks distantly that she has been trying to prepare herself for this feeling for months now.

The food and drinks are flowing in no time, the kind of dinner that stops being about eating and becomes about something else entirely, the warmth of it, the noise, the particular happiness of people who love each other and don't get enough evenings like this.

Everyone is beyond full and nobody stops eating. The drinks are refilled before glasses are empty. Wonik is in the middle of a story that keeps getting interrupted by his own laughter. Both mothers have migrated to the same end of the table and are deep in a conversation that Yoongi is choosing not to investigate. Mr. Lee is attempting to explain something to Mr. Min using a napkin as a diagram.

"She is so precious," he says softly, his hand moving in a slow careful arc across her back, the size of it covering most of her. "I can't believe she's six months already." He shakes his head slightly, careful not to disturb her. "She was so tiny when Sejin-hyung first sent the pictures."

"She still is tiny," ___ says from beside him, watching Hana's face in the firelight. "She's grown," he insists, quietly, with the authority of someone who has been tracking this very seriously. "She's a baby, Yoongi."

"A bigger baby." He adjusts his arm slightly, cradling her closer on instinct, and Hana sighs, a small sound, entirely content. Something in his expression does something ___ doesn't have a word for yet, soft and unguarded and slightly undone, the look of a person being trusted completely by something very small and finding it more than they were prepared for.

___ watches him for a moment. The firelight on his face. The careful way he holds her. The fact that he has barely moved from this spot for forty minutes and doesn't appear to have any intention of changing that.

"You're good with her," she says softly. He glances at her sideways. "She's easy." "She's not easy, she screamed for twenty minutes in the car."

"She was tired." He looks back down at Hana, adjusting the blanket over her with two fingers, gently, so gently. "She just needed to be held."

"Yoongi," she says quietly. "Mm." “Should we have one too? Get started today?” ___ speaks lightheartedly, and Yoongi freezes not expecting this. “I thought it wasn’t a conversation for another two years?”

"I'm just saying." She gestures at Hana, at his enormous careful hands, at the general situation. "Look at you, you’re ready to be a dad” she reaches over to take a long sip of her drink, while Yoongi looks down, the small baby in his arms, if he could freeze time, he would because he’s not ready for Hana to grow even a centimeter. 

“I’ve always been nurturing,” “Yes and you know how to fix everything in our house, and you make cheesy dad jokes, you take such good care of me” ___ speaks softly, resting her head against his arm. “I don’t make dad jokes, I am funny and we’re not ready to be parents, we’re still very stupid people sometimes” Yoongi notes as he looks across the table, watching as now the mothers have also been introduced to the tissue diagram. 

“Very stupid people who buy expensive vases, where does all my art go when we have children?” ___ asks with genuine curiosity. “I mean I’ll love my children, but my collection will be older than they are” she continues and Yoongi laughs, they always go into these hypothetically, thinking and over thinking about them.

“We’ll probably need a bigger place, you’ll have to continue going on tour, mister, make us more money” ___ jokes not so lightly, there is an impending tour that starts next year, she’s not ready yet, emotionally at least. 

“For the tour, I had this idea, why don’t you come with, travel with me, collect pieces from the places we visit,” Yoongi suggests, well he’s been thinking about it long and hard, going away for so long after being engaged is going to be difficult. 

“It’s a lot to ask, but you could come at least for Europe and South America, you've been wanting to do more studio visits abroad. It doesn't have to be the tour following me around." He glances at her. "It could just be you, doing your work, in the same cities I happen to be in."

The fire crackles beside them. Hana sighs in her sleep. "Yoongi," she says softly. "It's a lot to ask," he says immediately, before she can be gentle about it. "I know it's a lot to ask. You'd be working around my schedule and I know how much you hate working around anyone's schedule-"

“Yoongi” ___ stops him, a firm hand on his thigh, “I’ll come, of course I’ll come” she adds softly. He knows that if their positions were reversed, if she were the one leaving for six months to chase a dream she'd spent her entire life building, he wouldn't even let her finish asking before agreeing.

That is simply how this works now. Somewhere along the way, compromise stopped feeling like sacrifice and started feeling like love. "Really?" The question is so genuine that it makes her chest ache a little. "Really," she says, smiling. She knows how much Yoongi loves music.

She knows what happens to him when he performs, the way entire arenas disappear and somehow become intimate, the way he comes alive under stage lights despite spending years insisting he prefers quiet rooms and small circles of people. She knows what creating means to him, what performing means to him, what the fans mean to him.

The lake beyond the cabin reflects fragments of firelight and moonlight together. And despite the ring hidden away and the proposal waiting patiently for tomorrow evening, despite the months of planning and secrets and coordination that brought everyone here, Yoongi finds himself thinking that this might be his favourite part.

Sitting beside her while she casually rearranges her future to make room for him as though it isn't even a difficult decision. As though there was never any question about choosing each other.

The day started as usual, slow breakfast, watching a movie while endlessly bickering about the plot, driving into the city for a big family lunch and now this. Impromptu family portraits that Wonik offered to take. Everyone had changed into nicer clothes after lunch, partly because photographs had been mentioned and partly because both mothers possessed an almost supernatural ability to make adults obey dress codes without ever directly issuing instructions. 

 ___ in a soft silk dress that goes up to her ankles, the heels Yoongi insisted on, the solid solitaire studs he gifted her for their first anniversary, smelling faintly like Yoongi because they couldn’t help but kiss when he first saw her. 

__ wore a soft silk dress that brushed her ankles whenever she moved, elegant without being overly formal. The heels had been entirely Yoongi's idea.  She was also wearing the small solitaire studs he'd gifted her on their first anniversary.

The first truly serious gift, the kind that had left her speechless for nearly an entire minute. They caught the afternoon sunlight now whenever she turned her head. “Hey handsome” ___ mutters to Yoongi as the Min parents pose away. 

Yoongi was conflicted about a three piece suit with a tie, but he only plans on getting engaged once, the pearlish stripes on his suit completely match her dress, his arm around her waist, glancing sideways every other second, making himself believe that she is real, very real.

All the family adds to the pictures one by one, standing together for a group picture, a family picture. Hana is smiling brightly, freshly awake from her nap, everyone smiling so widely, happily.. Truly happy, the specific kind that doesn't need anything added to it.

Yoongi feels her lean into his side slightly, her hand finding the one he has at her waist, fingers threading through his. “Let’s take a few for the couple in the garden” Wonik suggests pointing to the other side of the veranda. 

Yoongi laces his fingers through hers without much asking, already moving, already pulling her gently away from the group before she's fully processed the suggestion. She follows, because she always follows when he takes her hand like that, certain and unhurried, like he knows exactly where they're going. "Where are we-" "Just here," he says.

She's confused, mildly, in the pleasant way of someone being led somewhere by someone they trust completely. The noise of the group fades behind them as they round the side of the veranda, the November air cooler here, quieter, the last of the evening light sitting low and golden over the hills.

And then she sees it, not bouquets, not cut flowers arranged in vases the way she might have expected, the way anyone might have expected. Potted plants. Dozens of them, arranged with the careful consideration of someone who listened, really listened, over years of conversation. Trailing vines and small flowering things and the particular kind of greenery that belongs in a home rather than a ceremony, that looks like it has a future rather than just an occasion.

She stops walking, her hand goes still in his. "Yoongi," she says softly. Not a question, just his name, the way she says it when something has caught her somewhere too deep for a complete sentence.

"You always say cut flowers make you sad," he says, from beside her, his voice quiet and even, the voice he uses when he's saying something he's thought about for a long time. "That they're already dying when you get them."

___ did say that. Once, early on, offhandedly, the way you say things you don't expect anyone to file away. She turns to look at him. He's already looking at her. Not sideways, not adjacent, not the careful almost-eye-contact she spent the early months learning to read. Directly, fully, the way he looks at her now when he has decided there is nothing left to be careful about.

His free hand moves to his jacket pocket and her breath catches. "I've been trying to figure out how to do this for months," he says, and his voice is steady but she can hear the underneath of it, the particular quality of a man who is not nervous about the answer but is nonetheless undone by the size of the moment. "I had a whole speech. I wrote it down." A small breath. "I lost it somewhere around the third draft."

She lets out a sound that is almost a laugh and almost something else entirely. He looks down briefly, then back up at her, and there it is, the ring, catching the last of the evening light in his hand, and she was right, she knew she was right, it is not too flashy, it is exactly her, it is so exactly her that her eyes fill immediately and she does nothing to stop them.

“I love you, more than I ever imagined, more than I’d ever allow myself to believe, you bring so much joy to me, my life, my family” Yoongi stops for a brief moment, trying to even his breath after he looks across to see his parents who’re already crying. 

"You're funny," he says, and his voice has found its footing again, warm and certain. "Kind. Smart. So charming." His thumb moves slowly over her knuckles. "You can talk your way into any room and flirt your way out of almost anything and somehow make both look completely effortless."

She laughs, wet and unguarded. "You bring skills I've always lacked," he continues, quieter now. "The kind I didn't even know I was missing until you just, had them. All of them. Naturally." A small breath. "And you have me so whipped."

"Honey-" "I'm not even ashamed of it," he says, with complete sincerity. "I'm just. Alarmed, sometimes, by the depths of it." His brow furrows slightly, like he's still genuinely processing this information about himself. "It's an unreasonable amount to feel about one person."

She presses her lips together hard, the tears coming faster now. "If you asked me," he says, softly, "I would make time stop. I would go back to the exact moment we met in that elevator." 

He pauses, and something in his expression shifts, opens, becomes the most unguarded she has ever seen him in all the years of learning his face. "I would do every single part of it again. All of it. The tour, the distance, the fights, the falling in love." His voice drops. "All of it, if it ends here. With you." 

Yoongi reaches over, wiping a few tears, gently cradling her head, "You forgot hot," she says, mid tears, her voice completely steady, like she's been waiting to say it.

He breaks, the laugh that comes out of him is the biggest she has ever heard from him, sudden and completely helpless, his forehead dropping forward against hers, his shoulders shaking, and she's laughing too now, properly, through the tears, the two of them undone in the middle of what was supposed to be a serious moment and somehow is more perfect for it.

He lifts his head. His eyes are wet at the corners, she notices, and she doesn't say anything about it because she loves him and also because she knows he'll deny it. Yoongi doesn’t waste any time getting on his knee, looking at her for a second too long like he’s trying to imprint this memory into his brain. 

"___," he says finally, just her name, in that particular way, the way that has meant something specific since an elevator and twenty photographs and a jacket that was never really about a jacket. "Will you marry me?"

The garden goes completely quiet. The man who has been, from the very first sideways glance in a basement parking lot, so much more than she was prepared for. 

Her yes comes out on a breath, soft and immediate and completely certain. "Yes." She shakes her head slightly, laughing again, the tears coming fresh. "Yes, of course yes, was there ever any doubt-"

He's already standing, already reaching for her, the ring on her finger before she's finished the sentence, and then his arms are around her and his warm lips on hers before he can even remember to breathe.

She kisses him back with everything she has. Her hands find his face, his jaw, her fingers curling against him like she needs something to hold onto, and he obliges, his arms tightening around her waist, pulling her closer in the way he does when he's finished being sensible about things.

Yoongi pulls back just enough to breathe and then doesn't go far, his forehead against hers, his eyes still closed, both of them just breathing for a moment in the quiet of the garden. ___ kisses him again, softer this time, her thumb brushing along his jaw, and he sighs into it, his hands spreading warm at her back, unhurried now, like they have all the time in the world.

They eventually turn around, ___ still in Yoongi’s arms as she waves her hand, excitedly showing off her ring as they walk closer. More people are around now, friends, the members, aunts and uncles, the excited mothers who can’t stop crying, everyone they love is here. 

"Fiancé," ___ practices, quietly, to the room, to herself, turning the word over like she's checking the weight of it.

Yoongi cheeses so hard it's almost alarming. The full smile, unstoppable, the kind he usually reserves for moments when nobody is watching. He pulls her closer into his lap without any pretense, his arms coming around her from behind.

"Fiancé," he repeats, and the way he says it makes her melt back against his chest immediately, all her bones making a collective decision to stop working.

"It sounds different out loud," she says softly. "Good different?" "Very good different." She turns the ring slowly on her finger. "How do you feel?" he asks quietly. Not insecurely, just wanting to know, the way he asks things he actually wants answered.

She looks down at the ring. At his arms around her. At the room that smells like the cottage and the bonfire and faintly like his jacket.

"I'm so happy," she says, simply, because it's true and he deserves the uncomplicated version of it. "I'm so, unreasonably, embarrassingly happy." He makes the quiet sound against her hair that means he is too. The one that isn't quite a word but doesn't need to be.

"Fiancé," she says again, softer this time. His arms tighten once. "Keep going," he murmurs, "I like it."

She smiles at the ceiling. "Fiancé." "Mm." "My fiancé." He buries his face in her hair and says nothing, which is the loudest answer in the room.

They return to the party after a few too many minutes. The mothers have stabilized, relatively. Hana is being passed around like the smallest, most beloved parcel.

"You know," Wonik says, settling into the chair beside the fire with the tone of someone about to say something that will not leave the group alone, "technically speaking, you're already married."

___ looks at him. "We're engaged, Wonik, we just did the thing-" "You own property together," he says, counting on his fingers. "You have a pet."

"Tangie is Yoongi's-" "Tannie prefers you and you buy his food," Sunhee says pleasantly. "That's joint custody at minimum" she continues and ___ smiles flatly at her friend making a very good point. 

"You have a joint investment portfolio," Namjoon adds with a big wide grin. "He made me do that-" ___ exclaims slightly, hitting her fiance on the chest. 

"You argued for forty minutes about a vacuum," Jimin adds from across, with the delight of someone who has been waiting to contribute. "A specific vacuum. With strong feelings."

"The suction capacity was relevant-" "You have a shared calendar," Namjoon cuts off Yoongi, the smug smile still there. The fire crackles, someone snickers. Yoongi, beside her, says absolutely nothing, which means he agrees completely and has the self preservation not to say so. 

The friends continue with the teasing, what’s even more fun for ___ is hearing every small detail that went into planning this engagement. They just sit and talk over shared drinks, days like these are for that.

“Now I know Yoongi was very strict about no gifts, but I had to get something,” Mrs Lee says as she hands the newly engaged couple a red velvet box.  ___ takes it, glancing at Yoongi once before opening it.

Inside, nestled against the velvet, are two rings. Simple, warm, exactly right. She lifts one carefully and turns it toward the firelight, and there it is, engraved on the inside band in small careful letters, today's date.

"Just an early wedding gift," Mrs. Lee says softly, and ___ laughs, barely choking back the tears, her thumb running over the engraving like she needs to confirm it's real.

"In the olden times," Mrs. Lee begins, her voice steady and warm, "the engagement was closely followed by a wedding. There weren't engagement rings, not the way there are now." She pauses briefly, her hands engulfing ___’s hand with an engagement ring. "So my great grandmother gave my grandmother engraved wedding bands as a gift of approval."

"Now," Mrs. Lee continues, softer now, looking between ___ and Yoongi with the expression of a woman delivering something she has been carrying carefully for a long time, "you both might take your sweet time planning your wedding. There will be some discussion in finding the right date." The faintest smile. "Knowing our families, there will be considerable discussion." Mrs. Min makes a sound that is not quite a denial.

"But I wanted to give you this as an early gift," Mrs. Lee says, "so you remember today." She pauses, and when she continues her voice carries something quieter underneath it, something that has clearly been thought about long before tonight. "People often forget that there's a marriage waiting for them after the wedding."

"The wedding is one day," she says simply. "Marriage is everything after it. And I wanted you to have something that reminds you of that. That the two of you chose each other before the venue and the flowers and the dress." Her eyes find ___'s. "That it started here. Like this." 

It’s all too overwhelming, and before ___ can overthink this a bit more, Yoongi is softly pulling her in a corner.

“Are these signs, should we just get married today?” ___ spits it out, whispering it like saying it out loud would break the illusion or something. “We’re spiraling, but it makes total sense doesn’t it?” Yoongi adds with agreement that doesn’t help ___ at all.

“We can’t, we don’t have an officiant or anything. Also because it would be an insane thing to do” Yoongi mutters as he wipes some sweat, feeling hot on a November night. “We can’t, it would be totally insane but also make complete sense, Namjoon could officiate, he just did officiate another wedding weeks ago” he continues and ___ rapidly shakes her head.

“Babe it would be totally insane” ___ repeats not so convinced. She looks at him. Properly, fully, the way she looked at him in the elevator the first time the pieces assembled themselves, the way she looked at him outside her building when she suggested an experiment, the way she has been looking at him ever since, like he is the most specific and unrepeatable thing she has ever encountered.

He looks back at her with the exact same expression. She is trying to find the rational argument. It is somewhere in there. She can almost locate it. "Everyone we love is here," she says softly, thinking out loud now, the whisper dropping even lower. "Right now. All of them."

"All of them," he confirms quietly. "That never happens."

"It really doesn't." "And we have the rings." She looks down at the velvet box still in her hand. "Two sets of rings. We have an ordained Namjoon-"

"Who is right there," Yoongi points out, unnecessarily, because Namjoon is indeed right there, approximately four meters away, laughing at something Jimin said, entirely unaware that his evening is about to change significantly.

___ looks at Yoongi for a few seconds longer. Not thinking anymore, not really. Just looking at him, reading the face she has spent years learning, checking for the thing she needs to find.

It's there, it's been there the whole time. "Are you sure?" she asks, very quietly. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't look away, doesn't do any of the careful deliberating she fell in love with watching him do. "I've been sure for a long time," he says. "The date was always going to be whenever you were ready."

She exhales, something in her chest settles with a finality that feels less like a decision and more like an arrival. “Okay, then turn around, you can’t see me on our wedding day” ___ speaks as she pushes Yoongi away, who can only laugh at all this.

"Darling, I proposed to you approximately two hours ago," Yoongi fights back, stumbling slightly from the push, which had genuine force behind it. The pilates she started as a joke is apparently not a joke anymore.

"Turn around," she repeats. He turns around, still laughing. "I cannot believe," he tells the cottage wall, "that this is how this evening is going."

"Okay." Her voice shifts into something more focused, the tone she uses when her brain has made a decision and is already three steps ahead. "I'm going to find Sunhee. You go find Namjoon and Jimin because we need Jimin's brain on this." A pause. "Then come find me at the aisle."

"We don't have an aisle-" "We'll make one," she says simply. "Go." He hears her heels on the stone, moving away, already gone.

Things move quickly once they've decided. Faster than either of them expected, which perhaps shouldn't be surprising given that the people they love have been coordinating a proposal for months and apparently the skill transfers seamlessly to an impromptu wedding.

Jimin takes point immediately, which is exactly why she asked for his brain. Within ten minutes he has quietly briefed the group, managed the mothers before they could reach a volume that would alert anyone not yet in the know, and somehow produced a playlist from his phone that he insists is perfect and nobody has the time to argue with.

___’s parents find her in their bedroom and close the door behind her without being asked. They don't say anything for a moment. Just looks at their daughter standing in the soft lamplight in her silk dress, rings on her fingers, eyes still slightly bright from the proposal, and something moves across her face that is too large for words.

Her mother's hand comes up to her mouth. Her father stands very still, the way he goes still when something is too large to move through quickly, and just looks at her with the expression he has worn at every significant moment of her life. Her first gallery show. Her first time leaving for a trip alone. Every arrival and every departure.

He has always looked at her like she is his greatest achievement and his greatest pride and the thing he is most afraid of losing all at once. "Hi," ___ says softly, because someone has to start.

Her mother laughs, wet and immediate, crossing the room in three steps and folding her into her arms the way she has since ___ was small. ___ goes into it completely, her chin on her mother's shoulder, eyes closing. "My baby," her mother murmurs, into her hair. 

Her father waits, he opens his arms, and ___ walks into them the way she has her entire life, without thinking, without hesitating. "Dad," she says, muffled against his shoulder. “I know you two have always wanted a big wedding for me-” ___ is cut off almost immediately by her father.

“___ all we’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy” She opens her mouth. He continues, quietly, "Not a specific kind of happy. Not a happy that looks a particular way or happens in a particular venue in April with flowers your mother and Mrs. Min have been arguing about for six months." The corner of his mouth moves.

Her mother makes a sound behind them that confirms the April venue discussion has been very real and very ongoing. "You are so happy, ___. Every time I see you with him." He exhales slowly. "That's all it was ever about." She nods, not trusting her voice.

"Now." He straightens slightly, composing himself , "A big wedding would have been lovely, but this?" He glances toward the window, toward the bonfire light and the sound of their people settling into place, Jimin's soft playlist drifting through the walls. "This is more you."

She laughs, wet and sudden. "It's completely insane." "It's completely you," he corrects, warmly. "Which has never been the same as insane." He considers this. "Usually."

Her father offers his arm, unhurried and steady. "Shall we?" he says.

"Don't let me cry through the whole thing," she says as she holds her father tightly.  "No promises," her father says, and his voice wavers just slightly on the last word, which tells her everything about how he's actually doing. She squeezes his arm once.

"Okay, Yoongi, snap out of it before you spiral more!" Jin's hands land on his shoulders, firm and immediate, the grip of a man who has managed this particular human through a significant number of life events and knows exactly how much force is required.

Yoongi is pacing. He has been pacing for approximately four minutes, which for him is the equivalent of a full breakdown. "Hyung, we're being totally stupid aren't we," he says, to Jin, to the garden, to the general concept of his own decision making. "This is not going to-"

"Snap out of it." Jimin materializes on his other side, "You love her. She loves you. This is happening."

"We decided this forty minutes ago-" "Great decisions are made quickly," Jin says, with great authority.

"That is not true-" "Yoongi." Jin speaks as he looks Yoongi square in the eyes,  the way he has since they were young, direct and without ceremony. "Look at me."

"Do you want to marry her?" "Yes, obviously, that's not-" "Do you want to marry her tonight?" A pause, shorter than it should be. "Yes." "Then what," Jin says, releasing him, straightening his suit jacket with two efficient tugs, "is the problem."

"Nothing, and you better not ruin this for us or for you." Mrs. Min's voice comes softly from one of the chairs, and every man in the vicinity goes slightly still.

She is sitting with the particular composure of a woman who has been through a great deal of emotion this evening and has arrived, finally, at something quieter on the other side of it. She looks at her son with the expression she has worn at every significant moment of his life, every stage, every milestone, every time he has done something that reminded her of exactly who he is.

"Mom-" Yoongi starts. "Let me finish," she says, gently but firmly. He closes his mouth. "Is this the shotgun wedding I imagined for you?" she says. "No.", The corner of her mouth moves. "Mrs. Lee and I had very strong feelings about the decor"

"But." She stands, slowly, and crosses to him, and takes his face in her hands the way she has since he was small, her thumbs against his jaw, tilting his face down toward hers. "You are marrying the love of your life. Tonight. Surrounded by every single person who loves you both." Her voice holds, just barely. "And that trumps everything else. It trumps all of it."

Yoongi says nothing. His jaw shifts slightly beneath her hands. "You deserve her," she says quietly. "You deserve the love you feel for her. And you deserve the love she has for you, which is" she stops, collects herself, continues, "considerable. And patient. And exactly what I always hoped someone would feel for you."

She smooths his lapel with the same two efficient tugs Jin used, and then looks at him one final time.  The quiet that follows is the warm kind. Yoongi looks at his mother for a long moment. Then he leans down and presses a kiss to her forehead, brief and certain, the way he does things when words aren't enough and he knows it.

She pats his cheek once and turns back to her chair with great composure. "Someone get me a tissue," she says, to no one in particular, and sits back down. 

The garden has already started to come together around them. What began as a proposal venue only a few hours earlier has somehow transformed into a wedding venue through a combination of family determination, questionable decision-making, and an overwhelming refusal from everyone present to let practicality interfere with romance.

The flowers intended for the engagement have been rearranged and redistributed across the lawn. Strings of lights weave through the trees overhead, casting everything in a soft golden glow as evening settles over the cabin. Blankets have been draped across chairs against the November chill, and candles appear to be multiplying every time somebody looks away for more than a minute.

“If everyone can please take a seat, we will be starting with the ceremony soon” Jimin announces to the small crowd of family and friends. Namjoon calls out eventually as he makes his way forward. "Everybody sit down before they change their minds" 

People begin settling into the mismatched collection of chairs. The evening has grown cooler now, the last traces of daylight disappearing behind the hills as the lights overhead become brighter against the darkening sky. Yoongi stands near the edge of the lawn with his parents beside him.

“Are you nervous son?” his father asks softly, and Yoongi chuckles before he can even answer, “A little, am I supposed to be?” he asks candidly. “Yes, because this matters to you” his father answers briefly as his eyes trail off, watching his wife walk towards them. 

For a moment they stand there together, the three of them, while the garden settles around them. Guests continue taking their seats, conversations growing quieter with every passing second, the excitement slowly giving way to anticipation.

The music begins again, soft enough to blend into the sounds of the evening, and almost immediately Jimin appears with the focused determination of a man who has appointed himself wedding coordinator despite nobody technically assigning him the role.

"Okay, everyone is seated. We are doing this properly," he announces, pointing toward the aisle before anyone can object. "Min’s, you're up first." Yoongi laughs incredulously, shaking his head as Jimin begins directing people with alarming confidence.

He catches sight of familiar faces as they pass, friends and family smiling back at him, some openly emotional, others looking entirely too pleased with themselves for helping facilitate what will undoubtedly become a family story for decades. 

His mother reaches for his hand briefly, squeezing it once before letting go, while his father rests a hand against his shoulder for a moment, the gesture carrying more affection than either of them would ever comfortably put into words. 

The aisle empties as he turns around, standing right by Namjoon who flashes him a quick smile and for the first time all evening, Yoongi finds himself looking toward the cabin door, waiting for the woman who is about to become his wife.

The soft Hawaii wind sways them softly as ___ sighs back into Yoongi’s chest as they stare at the vast ocean. “It’s so beautiful” she murmurs as Yoongi continues to rub circles around her waist. “It is” Yoongi murmurs as he plasters a big kiss on her cheek.

It only took them four months to plan a honeymoon after the quick wedding, and the destination was pre decided, Hawaii. The trip came right as they registered their marriage, let their parents throw them a big reception in the city and Yoongi made an announcement on his Instagram, he kept it simple, a lovesick picture from their wedding day.

"Mr. and Mrs. Min," A concierge appears at their elbow with the quiet efficiency of someone trained never to look like an interruption. "My apologies for the wait. Your Villa is ready." Yoongi just nods, his hand steady at her waist as they follow him inside. The suite is everything the pictures promised and somehow still more than that, all warm wood and white linen and floor to ceiling glass looking straight out at the water. 

“It’s gorgeous” ___ comments the second the concierge is done talking their through the Villa’s details. “It is, and as a congratulations for your wedding, we’ve arranged for complimentary couples massages for today, please let me know what time would work for you” the concierge says and ___’s eyes drift to her nametag, not remembering her name. 

“And as a congratulations on your wedding, we've arranged complimentary couples massages, just let us know what time works best for you," the concierge adds, and ___ glances at her nametag. "Thank you, Sarah, but I think my husband has already arranged something for us." The word husband comes out easily, which still surprises her sometimes, she almost instinctively intertwines her hands with his.

Sarah smiles, and then her eyes drift to Yoongi for just a second too long, the particular kind of recognition she's trying to be professional about and not quite managing. "Of course, Mr. Min. We're huge fans, by the way. If there's anything at all you need during your stay."

Yoongi thanks her politely, the practiced warmth he has for these moments, and Sarah excuses herself with one last smile that is maybe thirty percent for ___ and seventy percent for him. ___ watches this with great patience.

"She was a fan," ___ observes pleasantly, the moment the door closes. "She was doing her job," Yoongi mumbles, still a bit groggy as he goes back to hugging ___, his hands back on her warm stomach. "She was doing her job for you specifically." ___ talks pointedly as she turns around, her hands at the nape of his neck.

Yooogi lips twitch with a smirk as he looks down at ___, she has the expression of someone making a completely reasonable observation, which makes it worse somehow. He presses his lips together. "Are you jealous?" he frames it as a question knowing he is right because ___ immediately digs her nails into his hair.

"I was just making an observation," she says, turning back to face the ocean, the strap of her tank top slipping off her shoulder in the process. Yoongi smiles and kisses her shoulder, his teeth grazing her skin softly, unhurried, like he has no intention of stopping anytime soon. "I'm madly in love with you," he murmurs against her skin, his voice low and warm. "I don't even notice anyone else."

His hands travel upward slowly, one cupping her breast, the other running along her waist, her ribs, back again. She doesn't answer immediately, just takes a slow breath as his fingers graze her nipple, soft and deliberate, until she melts back deeper into his chest with a quiet moan.

"I only want to love you," he murmurs between kisses pressed along her neck, her jaw, her shoulder. "Only want to touch you. I only want to kiss you." He turns her around gently, her back now to the ocean and her face tipped up toward him, it’s the same smile, the smile that makes almost everything not matter to him. 

There isn’t much talking as ___ lunges forward to kiss him very desperately as his hands picking her up almost instantly, he walks toward the bed without breaking the kiss, his hands secure and warm, and she goes willingly, fingers digging into his hair. 

They have nowhere to be, no schedules, no flights, no timezones working against them. It takes her a moment to register that fully, the specific luxury of it, and when she does she slows down slightly, her hands stilling against his chest.

He notices immediately, the way he notices everything about her. "You okay?" his eyes are immediately filled with worry when it takes her a second too long to answer. 

"We have nowhere to be," ___ mutters like this is only occurring to her, Yoongi can’t help but chuckle as he sits down on the bed, her cradling in his lap

He looks at her for a second, hen he reaches up and moves her hands gently from his shirt, takes his time with the buttons himself. "I know," he says quietly. "So stop rushing." Her hands find his face instead, thumbs brushing along his jaw, and he lets her, eyes on hers, unhurried. Outside the glass the sun is beginning its slow descent toward the water and the light coming through, casting a golden light to the room, warm and golden and entirely unconcerned with them.

"Wanna fuck Mr Min?," she asks softly as he pushes off his, standing against the blinding light as she rids all the clothes off her, The smile that comes over his face is the unguarded one, the full version, “Yes please Mrs Min” He barely finishes the sentence before she captures his lips again, her hands at his jaw, pulling him back down to her.

He walks her backward onto the bed, following her down slowly, his hands running the full length of her like he's in no particular hurry, like he wants to take stock of her in this light specifically, warm and golden and completely his. She arches into his touch, fingers curling into his shoulders.

"You're staring," she murmurs, "You’re gorgeous" he adds, and dips his head to press a kiss just below her collarbone, then lower, his hands spreading warm at her waist. She exhales slowly, her fingers finding their way back into his hair. 

Outside the villa the sun keeps sinking toward the water, unhurried, the two of them equally so, the whole long week stretching out ahead of them with nowhere to be and nothing to interrupt it. For the first time in as long as either of them can remember, there is genuinely nothing else.

It's day four of the honeymoon when they both desperately need something familiar. They have a few Korean options nearby but settle on an ox bone soup place without much debate, ___ has been craving it for days and Yoongi knows better than to suggest otherwise.

"This is exactly what I needed," she sighs, taking the last of her rice and mixing it into the broth for the final few bites, the particular satisfaction of someone who has been waiting for this specific thing.

Yoongi chuckles softly, phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, reaching over without looking to wipe a grain of rice from her cheek. "She's great, we went on a hike today so we're both a little exhausted," he continues into the phone, and then simply eats the grain of rice off his thumb like that's a completely normal thing to do.

"The pictures look so beautiful. Are you happy, son?" Mrs. Min asks. Yoongi looks up to find ___ very focused on her bowl, chasing the last of the broth with great dedication. "Very much," he says, and means it simply. "Honey, should I order more rice?"

She mutters a no between bites without looking up. "Can I talk to her?" Mrs. Min asks and he hands the phone across the table without ceremony. ___ takes it, swallowing quickly. "Hi Mrs. Min," she says cheerfully and Yoongi goes back to eating, the hike having taken everything out of both of them.

"Mrs. Min? You're Mrs. Min too now, we've talked about this. It's just mom," Mrs. Min says warmly, and ___ gently bites her lip. They have had this conversation several times now, in varying degrees of seriousness.

"I know, I'm still getting used to it," she says, watching her husband eat quietly across the table, his eyes down, giving absolutely nothing away. “It’s fine, take your time, but not too long”  Mrs Min adds with a teasing tone. 

"A few packages of yours arrived at the apartment, I left them in the guest room when I came to water the plants," Mrs. Min continues, and Yoongi can feel ___'s eyes drift from the phone call to the rest of his food. He constructs the perfect spoonful without looking up, broth and meat in the right ratio, and holds it out. ___ takes the bite immediately, still listening to his mother, like they have been doing it for years.

"And you were right, your neighbour downstairs is definitely an actor, he was very deliberately not making eye contact with me in the lobby," Mrs. Min continues, delivering this with the gravity of someone who has been sitting on the information and is very pleased to finally release it.

"I knew it," ___ says, pointing at Yoongi across the table. He raises his eyebrows. She's been saying this about the neighbour since they moved in, with the conviction of someone whose instincts are never wrong about these things and knows it. "Yoongi didn't believe me."

"Maybe you should listen to your wife," ___ starts, and stops mid sentence when another spoonful appears in front of her face, Yoongi holding it out with complete nonchalance, eyes elsewhere, like he's barely aware he's doing it. 

"I always listen to you," Yoongi says pleasantly. "When have I not?" "That is true," ___ concedes, which costs her nothing because it's accurate. There's a quiet on Mrs. Min's end that has too much warmth in it. "You two," she says finally, softly, the words carrying something that isn't quite a complete sentence and doesn't need to be.

"What?" ___ asks. "Nothing. I'm just very happy." A small pause, and then with the casual precision of a woman who has been waiting for the right moment, "A happy honeymoon is what leads to children, so extend your vacation by all means if you come back with some good news."

"Mom!" ___ stutters, the word slipping out entirely on its own, propelled purely by embarrassment. She's been getting this from her own mother for weeks now and apparently the other one has coordinated.

Yoongi looks up from his bowl, mildly puzzled, trying to read the situation from her face alone.Mrs. Min, to her credit, lets the stutter settle for exactly one second before she says, very softly, "You called me mom."

___ closes her eyes briefly. "I noticed." Yoongi mouths what across the table. ___ shakes her head at him, which tells him everything. He reaches over and takes his phone back gently. "Mom, let us breathe, we just got married."

"I'm just saying," Mrs. Min says serenely, "the timing would be lovely." "Goodbye mom," Yoongi says, and hangs up before she can agree with herself any further. He looks at ___ as he sets the phone down. She's already looking at him with the expression of someone who has just survived something and needs a moment. 

"Don't take her too seriously, we decided to wait two years," Yoongi reassures her as he flags down the server. He waits for a response but gets only a soft nod, and then the server is back with the bill and the card machine and the moment passes.

They did decide to wait two years. It was a logical, sensible conversation that they had like two logical, sensible adults, enjoy the marriage first, travel, sleep in, be selfish with their time for a little while longer. ___ had agreed completely and meant it.

She still means it, mostly. The emotional tug is a recent development, and she's fairly certain Hawaii is to blame. Four days of Yoongi with nowhere to be and nothing pulling at him, which means four days of him at his most himself, unhurried and attentive in that quiet way of his, remembering exactly how she takes her coffee, reapplying sunscreen on the back of her neck without being asked, looking at her in the golden late afternoon light like she's the most interesting thing in any room he's ever been in.

And then there's the fitted t-shirt situation, which is frankly unreasonable and she feels she should be able to raise it formally somewhere. She watches him tap his card against the machine, easy and unbothered, and thinks that he's going to be a terrifyingly good father and that two years is simultaneously the right call and a very long time.

She doesn't say any of this. She picks up her bag and stands up. "Ready?" "Yeah," he says, and holds the door open for her, reaching for her hand almost immediately once they're outside, the recent clinginess of a man who has apparently decided that being married means he needs to be touching her at all times. She lets him, fingers threading through his.

"What is it? You've been quiet," he says, and then, reading her correctly as he always does, "I'll talk to my mother about all this." "Are you sure we should wait two years?" ___ interrupts as they get back into the car, the question coming out more plainly than she'd intended. "It's not like I'm getting any younger."

"Don't say that," Yoongi says quietly, the lightness leaving his voice. "I'm just being practical." she adds and Yoongi sighs, sinking deeper into the seat. A discussion like this, at this hour, after a full day of hiking, can easily spiral if they're not careful and they both know it. 

"You're only thirty three ___, that’s young-” "It is, but I'm also not twenty five. What if I have fertility issues already? What if we can't conceive? We should have really discussed this in more detail before we got married," ___ rambles, and he recognises the particular quality of it, not an argument, just nerves finding the nearest exit.

Yoongi is quiet for a moment. "Have you been worried about this for a while?" She opens her mouth and closes it. "Not actively. It just, it comes up sometimes." He reaches over and takes her hand in the dark of the car, not saying anything immediately, just holding it. The villa lights come into view ahead of them, warm and familiar after four days.

"We can see a doctor when we get back," he says simply. "Both of us. Get everything checked, know exactly where we stand." He glances at her. "Then we decide together, with actual information. Not just fear."

___ looks at him for a second. This is the thing about him that still catches her off guard sometimes, how quickly he moves from emotion to solution without making her feel dismissed. "Just like that?" "Just like that," he says. 

"We're not waiting two years because it's a rule. We're waiting because we thought we wanted to. If that's changed, it's changed." The car stops but neither of them moves immediately. "I'm not pressuring you, am I?" ___ asks softly.

Yoongi takes a deep breath. "___, we're married. We're supposed to talk to each other, we're allowed to have a change of heart. But I also don't want us making decisions out of fear, that's not a good place to start something like this."

She nods slowly, looking down at their hands. "You're right." "I usually am," he says, and she laughs despite herself, the tension in the car loosening slightly. He squeezes her hand once. "Let's make a deal. We enjoy the rest of this honeymoon, we go home, we see a doctor together and we know what we're actually working with. Then we have the real conversation."

"And if everything is fine?" "Then we decide what we want, not what we originally planned." He looks at her steadily. "Plans change. That's allowed." She's quiet for a moment, and he lets her be, the way he always does when she needs to sit with something before she can respond to it properly. 

"Okay," she says finally, "Okay," he repeats, and brings her hand up briefly, pressing his lips to her knuckles in that quiet way of his that says more than most people manage with full sentences. "Now can we please go to bed, my legs are still dead from that hike"

Hawaii is long forgotten the second they get busy with their lives, the professional ones they'd set aside for a while. It happens quickly the way it always does, ___ with a string of artist trips planned, Yoongi and the members deep in the final stretch of the album. Two months pass and the memory of salt water and nowhere to be becomes something distant and warm, the kind of thing you reach for briefly before the next schedule pulls you forward.

Yoongi sits in the conference room, the album played back so many times now that he hears it in his sleep. They're close, a few decisions away from done, which somehow makes the disagreements harder.

"Love Song should be the title," Hoseok says, with the conviction of someone who has been saying this for three days. "It's the kind of song that pulls people in immediately."

Jimin nods. Namjoon and Yoongi say nothing, which in this room means they're thinking something different and choosing the right moment to say it.

"The intro is too soft for a title track," Namjoon starts carefully. "That's the point-" Hoseok begins. Yoongi's phone lights up on the table. He glances at it, ___. He picks up without excusing himself from the conversation, which the members clock immediately. "Hey, you land?"

Her voice on the other end is wrong. Too quiet, slightly unsteady, the particular quality it gets when she's running on no sleep and something else she hasn't named yet. "I'm outside. I know you're in a session, I just, can I come up for a few minutes? I just need to be there with you."

“Of course, where are you?” Yoongi asks, trying his best to manage his sudden panic, there are knocks on the door before ___ can answer. Mr Shin and her standing on the other side, Yoongi is across the room before anyone says anything. She lets out a long breath the second he reaches her, like she'd been holding it since Hong Kong. He takes the carry on from her without a word, his other hand finding the small of her back, steering her gently inside.

"Sorry," she says quietly, to the room, to no one specifically, her voice still not entirely even. “Can we talk, just us, we’ll only be a few minutes” ___ tells the members who nod rapidly with support. Yoongi just shuts the door behind them as he leads them to their studio. 

“Baby what’s wrong? You’re scaring me” he mutters as the door to his studio shuts, finally just them in his dimly lit studio. "I don't think it's wrong, I just," she stops, pressing her hands together, "I needed you to be here when I, oh god." She laughs, slightly hysterical, pacing the small room in a way that tells him her brain has been going like this since somewhere over the Pacific.

"Hey." He steps in front of her, stopping the pacing simply by being in the way. "Whatever it is, just say it." She looks at him, then at her carry on, then back at him. "I might be pregnant." The words come out in a rush. "I picked up tests on the way here because I needed you to be there when I took them and I didn't know where else to go and the flight was fourteen hours and I've been sitting with this the whole time and I just-"

"Okay," he says, very quietly, very steadily, she stares at him. "Okay?" "Okay," he says again, and takes her hand. "Where are the tests?" It's quiet in the small studio bathroom, ___ doing what needs to be done and setting the tests by the sink before burying herself in Yoongi's chest, both of them standing in the dim light waiting.

"I was so nauseous the whole time in Hong Kong," she starts, the rambling returning now that the worst of the telling is over. "And my client made a joke, he said maybe you're pregnant, because I couldn't be in the same room as the chicken they'd ordered, and I laughed it off but then I realised I'm three weeks late and I just." She exhales. "I couldn't think straight after that."

Yoongi runs his fingers slowly through her hair, a weak attempt to calm her down that is equally a weak attempt to calm himself down, and she can feel that in the way his hand isn't quite steady. "Three weeks," he says, more to himself than to her.

They stand like that, not looking at the tests, not yet, her face pressed into his shirt and his chin resting on top of her head, the timer on his phone counting down quietly on the edge of the sink. "We had a plan," she mumbles into his chest. "We had a fertility appointment next week for god's sake."

"___," he starts and the timer goes off. Neither of them moves for a second. Then Yoongi pulls back gently, just enough to reach past her, and picks up the test. She watches his face instead of looking herself, the way she has always read difficult information through him first, and she sees it immediately. The particular stillness that comes over him, the jaw shift, the eyes going soft in a way she has only seen a handful of times.

"Yoongi." He looks at her, and his expression does something completely unguarded, something she doesn't have a word for yet, the look of a man whose entire chest has just quietly rearranged itself. He turns the test toward her.

Three positive tests, ___ stares at it for a long moment. Then her eyes fill, fast and immediate, and she doesn't try to stop them. "Oh," she says softly, which is the only word that comes.

He pulls her back in without saying anything, his arms wrapping around her fully, and she feels him press his lips to the top of her head and stay there, breathing slowly, his whole body exhaling something enormous and quiet into her hair.

"Oh my god, can we get an emergency sonogram, should we call Sunhee-" she starts, pulling back, the shock giving way to the part of her brain that needs to do something immediately.

"Hey." His hands come up to her face, gentle and certain, tilting it up toward his. "Breathe first." "I am breathing-" His thumbs brush along her jaw, and she feels some of the frantic energy in her chest settle slightly under his hands. "We can call Sunhee. We can get a sonogram. We can do all of it." He looks at her steadily. "But first just, be here for a second."

She looks at him, really looks at him, and sees it again, that quiet undone expression from when he turned the test toward her. "Are you happy?" she asks softly, because she needs to hear it plainly.

He lets out a long breath, the kind that carries something too large for a single exhale. "I'm terrified," he says honestly. Then, quieter, "I'm so happy I don't know what to do with it. I love you, every day more somehow."

"Okay," she says, her voice catching, "because I love you too, I just, I can't believe I'm..." she stops, laughs softly at herself for not being able to finish the sentence, the word still too large to say out loud in this small bathroom. "We're going to be parents."

"We are," he says, like he's trying it out, seeing how it sits, "You're going to be a dad." Something shifts in his expression at that, something she files away carefully, the particular look of a man genuinely blindsided by his own feelings. "Yoongi."

"Give me a second," he says quietly, which is the most honest thing he could say as he gets very emotional, the more he think, the more he spirals internally, "We need to get you home. Did you drink coffee today? Can you drink coffee? Oh god, did you eat enough protein on the flight, airline food has no-"

"Yoongi." "The carry on, I'll take the carry on, you shouldn't be-" "I just found out thirty seconds ago, I think I can still carry my own bag-" "You've been carrying it since Hong Kong, that's hours, that's not-" He stops himself, runs a hand through his hair, exhales slowly. 

She watches him do it with the expression of someone trying very hard not to find this completely adorable. "Sorry," he says. "I'm spiraling." "A little bit," she agrees kindly.

"I just need to." He gestures vaguely at nothing. "Do something." "I know." She takes his hand, steadying him the way he steadied her few minutes ago, the two of them taking turns at it. "I’ll call Sunhee first. She'll tell us exactly what we need to do and in what order and it'll give your brain something to work with."

He nods, already reaching for her again, it’s been a heavy couple minutes but he can find a second to kiss her, his eyes brimming with tears almost immediately. She reaches up and wipes carefully beneath his eye with her thumb, and he lets her, which is how she knows exactly how undone he actually is. "We're going to be okay," she says quietly.

"I know," he says. "I know we are." He exhales slowly, pressing one careful kiss to her forehead, then straightens, collecting himself with visible effort. "Call Sunhee."

"Twins?" Jimin, Namjoon and Hoseok exclaim in unison as Yoongi finishes rambling, the three of them staring at him from across the studio sofa with varying degrees of shock on their faces.

They'd had the first sonogram that morning. Sunhee had pulled strings, gotten them in quickly, held ___'s hand through the initial panic and then looked at the screen with the particular stillness of a doctor trying to stay professional about something that is not professionally neutral. "So," she'd said carefully, "there are two heartbeats"

___ had gone completely silent. Yoongi had said what three times before Sunhee showed them both. "Twins," Jimin repeats, slower this time, like the word needs a second pass. "A month along, both healthy, and yes, twins," Yoongi confirms, running a hand through his hair. 

"And I couldn't freak out because ___ was already freaking out and someone had to be reasonable and I was reasonable for two hours and now I need to not be reasonable for a few minutes."

"Two children, Namjoon. Two, at once, in Seoul, with our apartment, the studio visits she has planned through spring, our album rollout-" He stops. "I need to call my accountant."

"You don't need an accountant, you need to breathe," Hoseok says. "I need both." Yoongi sits down heavily on the sofa. The members are quiet for a moment, looking at him with the collective expression of people who are extremely happy for someone and are also watching that someone have a mild crisis in real time.

Jimin puts a hand on his shoulder. "Hyung." "What." "Twins," he says, and smiles so widely it takes up most of his face. "You're going to have twins."

Yoongi looks at him for a long second. Something in his expression cracks open slightly, the panic giving way to something underneath it that has been there since the sonogram, since he saw two heartbeats on a screen in a small room with his wife gripping his hand hard enough to lose circulation. 

"Where is ___?" Hoseok asks, handing him a bottle of water.

"At the office cancelling her upcoming work trips because apparently she can't fly right now and Sunhee broke that news with very little warning and ___ took it better than I expected which actually worried me more." He uncaps the water, takes a long sip. "Where is Jin hyung? He has children, he's done this, he knows the order of operations. Do I need to set up two separate trusts? Is that something I do now? Are they individual trusts or-"

"Hyung," Namjoon says carefully. "I'm just asking." "You're spiraling and financial planning." "That's not what I'm-" He stops and exhales. "That might be what I'm doing." Jimin takes the water bottle from him gently before he crushes it. "Jin hyung is in Jeju until Thursday," Hoseok offers. "But I can call him."

"Call him," Yoongi says immediately. "You also have google," Namjoon notes. "I've been googling since the sonogram and that was a mistake, do not google twins pregnancy complications, I'm begging you, I made that mistake for the both of us already." this only makes the spiral worse and Jimin softly kicks Namjoon for that.

"Okay," Jimin says, redirecting with the practiced ease of someone who has been managing this particular human for over a decade. "We have the photoshoot tomorrow morning. So how about until then you go home to your wife and actually take care of her instead of sitting here catastrophizing at us?"

Yoongi looks at him. Then at the others. Then at his phone which Jimin still hasn't given back. "She said she was fine," he says, but he's already standing. 

"Go home hyung," all three of them say, in varying tones but with identical intention. He goes, pausing only to take his phone back from Jimin, who releases it with the expression of someone making a calculated decision. Yoongi is halfway down the hall when he turns back briefly. "Don't tell anyone."

"Obviously," Jimin says. "Not even Taehyung-" "Go home," Jimin says, pointing toward the exit with great finality, and Yoongi goes.

Yoongi does return home, with groceries that he’s gotten approved by Sunhee, it’s going to be a busy nine months for Sunhee as well. He swipes through his phone, calling her and it rings inside their bedroom. 

___ is deep asleep, her breathing evening out as she stays still, Yoongi noticing his shirt she chose right away. He tiptoes around the room, and gets into bed beside her with the careful movements of someone trying not to disturb anything. She stirs anyway, turning toward him automatically the way she always does, her eyes barely open.

"You came home," she murmurs. "Jimin kicked me out," he says, and pulls her in gently, her back to his chest, his arm settling warm around her middle, careful, more deliberate than usual. She notices, of course she notices.

"I went on the internet and with twins I'm going to get so massive honey, like the pictures I saw-" "I think for the sake of this pregnancy we should both abstain from googling anything and just bother Sunhee directly," he says, and she laughs despite herself, the sound still slightly frayed at the edges from the day.

"For now we just need to focus on you being happy and healthy. Now that you're up, should I make you dinner? From today, lots of folic acid, iron rich foods, actual protein, no more freeballing with meals-” but all I want right now is a cheeseburger” ___ mutters and almost immediately the arms around her are gone. 

“I’m going to make one, well two, three? As many as you want”

“How do we tell our parents? Our dad’s are going to be chill, but the mom’s” ___ is huddled over a counter with a massive blanket while Yoongi eats, she has no heart to tell him that’s she’s losing her appetite by the second. 

“I don’t know, I am scared of what they’d do” Yoongi talks distractedly as he hands her a glass of water. ___ pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders, looking down at the glass of water, then back up at him. She should tell him about the appetite situation. She will, in a minute. "Should we tell them together? Separately? Do we call or do it in person?"

"In person," Yoongi says immediately. "Definitely in person. My parents would never forgive a phone call for something like this." "So we have them over."

"Together or separately?" he asks, which is a real question because both options carry significant risk.

They look at each other, "Separately," they say at the same time, which means they've both already imagined what the two mothers in the same room simultaneously receiving this information would look like and have made a sensible decision.

"I think we call your parents for lunch, give them the news and then immediately schedule my parents for dinner so there's no gap, because whoever finds out first is not going to sit on it for more than twenty minutes," ___ says, with the certainty of someone who knows exactly which mothers she is dealing with.

"That's smart," Yoongi says, plating the burgers with carrot sticks and celery alongside because fries would be pushing it, day one and all. 

She pulls the plate toward her, picks up the burger and takes one bite and then sets it back down, which he notices immediately but says nothing about, just slides the glass of water closer to her hand. "Is this what having twins is like, making sure each feels loved and constantly-" she stops, gesturing vaguely at nothing, trying to locate the end of the sentence.

"Equally attended to?" Yoongi offers, "Yes." 

Yoongi goes away for work in the ninth month, a single schedule he'd specifically asked to be kept clear, one that got filled anyway with the particular inevitability of things that happen despite everyone's best intentions. He's in the car from the airport now, Jimin beside him, the message from Sunhee sitting open on his phone.

"Hyung, you're going white," Jimin says. "We're almost there." "I know." Yoongi presses his hand against his forehead, elbow on the window, trying to breathe with some regularity. His leg won't stop moving. "I know, I just, I specifically asked for January to be clear, I said it in every single planning meeting-"

"I know." "I was very clear" "You were," Jimin agrees, with the tone of someone who is going to say whatever keeps this man functional for the next twenty minutes.

The hospital corridor is busy in the contained way hospitals always are, and Yoongi moves through it too quickly, Jimin half jogging to keep up. He follows the directions Sunhee sent, rounds the corner toward the right wing, already bracing himself, already trying to locate some version of calm he can walk in with.

He pushes open the door and to his surprise ___ is watching something on the television mounted to the wall, blanket pulled up, expression entirely unbothered. Both mothers are seated quietly on either side of the room, hands folded, posture suggesting they have been gently but firmly told to stay calm and are doing their best.

“Honey? I thought your water broke, why are you still here?” Yoongi asks as he comes closer, doing his best to detect any signs of discomfort. "Because I'm not dilated enough yet, we still have a few hours-" she says, which is when both fathers walk in behind Yoongi, carrying the collective anxiety he'd brought through the door and then some.

"We got you ice chips, coconut water, a banana and a yoghurt," Mr. Lee announces, setting everything down on the bedside table with great care. "There's also fruit available at the nurses station, oatmeal, applesauce," Mr. Min adds, slightly breathless, "and the nurse mentioned popsicles, she said you can have a popsicle, what flavour would you like, I'll go back-"

"Dads," ___ says, addressing all three of them with the calm authority of someone who has been managing people's emotions through her own discomfort for several hours already. "If I need anything I will ask you. There is no need for any of you to be panicking. I am the one who is going to be pushing two children out of me, so I am going to need some peace and zen in this room, please." 

The fathers migrate to the sofa with the quiet compliance of men who have been correctly identified and redirected, and Jimin finally steps forward from where he's been wisely staying out of it near the door.

"You're going to be running that household with an iron grip, aren't you," he says, and Yoongi laughs despite himself, still slightly pink from the reprimand. "Someone has to," ___ says pleasantly.

"Fair enough." Jimin leans down and kisses her cheek. "Good luck with the pushing." He straightens, considering something. "Should I go find Sunhee and flirt with her a little, make sure she's in a good mood for the delivery? I feel like I should contribute something to this situation." He's already moving toward the door. "You know what, I'm going to find her anyway."

"Jimin come back here," ___ says, modulating between wanting to raise her voice and maintaining the zen she just instructed everyone else to have. Jimin comes back, to his credit, with the expression of someone who knows he's walked into something.

"You and Sunhee and your little situation," she continues, keeping her voice low and even, which is somehow more effective than if she'd raised it. "Having your fun, hooking up with my best friend and thinking she's not going to give me every single detail."

"She tells you things?" Jimin asks, with genuine alarm. "She tells me everything, Jimin, we've been friends for twenty years." Yoongi is very glad he is holding her hand and not standing where Jimin is standing. "I'd say it's more than just fun-" Jimin starts carefully.

"Then ask her to be your girlfriend," ___ says, the instruction delivered with the same calm authority she used on the fathers few minutes ago. "You either ask her properly or you leave her alone entirely. No more avoiding your feelings and having-" she lowers her voice another register, acutely aware of the four parents seated six feet away on the sofa, "-crazy sex behind our backs while she pretends she's fine with the arrangement."

Jimin opens his mouth. "I thought we were just, it's not an arrangement exactly, it's more like we have the sex without the dinner part that usually comes before it," he says, and even as the words leave his mouth the realization is visibly arriving, crossing his face in slow stages like a weather system moving in.

"Jimin," ___ says patiently. "That's," he stops, "That's just dating but worse isn't it." "That's just dating but worse," she confirms. Yoongi looks at the ceiling with the expression of a man choosing not to be involved in this at all, which is the correct choice and he knows it.

"Today?" Jimin asks finally, gesturing at the general situation, the hospital room, the monitors, the parents on the sofa. "What better day," ___ says. "I'm literally bringing new life into the world, it's a very good omen." She settles back against her pillow with great finality.

"Jimin, do the right thing," ___ says, with the particular finality of someone closing a topic. "Or I will call your mother and I will have some very strong words to share with her. I do not care that you're a multi millionaire BTS member."

"Yes ma'am," Jimin says immediately, with the energy of someone who believes this threat completely and has no interest in testing it. He's out the door before anyone can say anything further.

Yoongi watches her with the expression he gets when she's done something that he finds both slightly alarming and deeply attractive and doesn't know what to do with that information given the current setting. "Now," she says, taking a sip, "is Jungkook downstairs or not, because his ex called me a week ago and I have things to say to him."

From the sofa, both mothers look up with identical interest. "Absolutely not," Yoongi says, "you are not mediating Jungkook's relationship situation while you are in active labour."

"I'm in early labour, there's a difference, I have hours-" A contraction moves through her then, quiet but visible, her hand tightening around his. She breathes through it steadily. "Okay," she concedes quietly. "Jungkook can wait." "Thank you," Yoongi says, and doesn't let go of her hand. 

Their new home is swarming with people, the kind of warm chaos that comes from too many people who love each other in a space that is finally big enough to hold them. Yoongi had been quick about the house, once it became clear that their Seoul apartment was not going to survive twins, he'd found the place in nearby within two weeks, which ___ maintains is the fastest he has ever made any decision in his life including proposing.

"This is Jihan," Yoongi emerges into the living room with the particular confidence of a man who has spent three months learning how to carry two babies simultaneously, "and this is Jihee." One on each arm, both of them blinking at the room with the vague suspicion of people who have just woken up somewhere loud.

The room does what rooms do when two very small people enter them, every conversation stops. "Oh my god," Jimin says, from the sofa, already standing. "They're so tiny," Hoseok says, which earns him a look from ___, who appears from behind Yoongi looking like someone who has not slept properly in three months but has made her peace with it.

"They were smaller," ___ shares with a soft look in her eyes. "Can I-" Jimin is already crossing the room with his hands out, the question mostly rhetorical. "Wash your hands first," Yoongi and ___ say at the same time, without looking at each other, with the synchronized exhaustion of two people who have been saying this to every person who has come within three feet of their children for months.

Jimin goes to wash his hands. Taehyung is already behind him, then Hoseok, a quiet orderly queue forming with surprising efficiency given the general chaos of the evening.

Jungkook hangs back slightly, watching Jihan in Yoongi's arm with an expression that is doing several things at once. "Hyung," he says quietly. "He looks like you."

Yoongi looks down at his son. "You think?" "Around the eyes," Jungkook says, and something in his voice is soft in a way he's not trying to manage.

"Jihee has his frown," ___ adds from beside him, accepting Jihee back from Yoongi's arm and settling her against her chest with the ease of something practiced. "She's had it since day one. The nurses thought something was wrong. She just looked annoyed."

"She was annoyed," Yoongi says. "She came out second." The twins are eventually passed to the grandfathers, the two people who other than their parents can hold them without either of them immediately deciding the situation is unacceptable. 

"How are you two holding up?" Namjoon asks, dropping onto the sofa beside them. "Twins haven't broken you yet?" ___ looks at Yoongi, Yoongi looks at ___. The look lasts approximately one second too long. Namjoon reads this immediately. The couple might have gotten into a big argument about something insignificant right before the guests arrived. 

"Well I clearly touched an open wound," Namjoon says, rubbing the back of his neck. "We've been fighting more," ___ says, because she's never seen the point in being anything other than direct with Namjoon. "It's a lot more work than we expected. And not just a lot more, twice as much. Twice everything."

"Twice the feeds, twice the crying, twice the not sleeping" Yoongi adds. "We haven't slept properly in three months," ___ says, and the way she says it is very calm and also contains the entirety of what three months of not sleeping properly actually feels like.

Namjoon is quiet for a moment, which is the right instinct. "I'm not going to offer solutions because I genuinely don't know what this is like," he says, standing. "But talk to Jin hyung at some point tonight. He's done this." He looks between them once more with the expression of someone who loves them and knows when to leave well enough alone. "Now I'm going to go meet my niece and nephew."

"Wash your hands," they both say. "I know," he says, already heading toward the kitchen. ___ watches him go and then lets the sofa hold her for a moment, the party moving around them, voices and laughter and the particular warmth of a house full of people who showed up. Yoongi is still beside her, shoulder against hers, neither of them moving.

"We should talk about this morning," he says quietly as he brings his arm around her shoulder, bring her closer, "We should," she agrees as she folds up her feet and leans against his chest. 

Neither of them starts immediately, across the room Mr. Min is now showing Jihee the window with the same enthusiasm Mr. Lee had shown Jihan the ceiling light earlier, and Jihee is tolerating this with the expression she was born with, vaguely unimpressed, entirely her father's daughter.

"I know you said no full time help," Yoongi says quietly, his eyes fighting sleep and losing slightly, "but we need a nanny. I feel like we haven't had a single moment that's just us since they arrived." She doesn't argue, which tells him she's already been thinking the same thing and was waiting for one of them to say it first.

"And," he continues, quieter now, the party noise covering them adequately, "we haven't had sex since they arrived and I know you don't feel like yourself right now, I know that." He pauses, choosing the words carefully the way he does when something matters. "But you grew two human beings and then pushed them both out and I need you to know that is genuinely the most incredible thing I've ever watched anyone do. You have never been less attractive to me than you think you are right now."

She's quiet for a moment. He watches her process it, the particular way she receives a compliment she actually needed, not deflecting it immediately, just sitting with it. "That was a very long way of calling me sexy," she says finally.

"I was being thorough," he says, "because I really, really need to have sex with my wife." He adds the last part quietly enough that it stays between them, his head dropping to rest on top of hers. She laughs, soft and genuine, the first one that's reached her eyes all evening. "We should get a nanny," she says. "We're so fixated on doing everything ourselves that we're not taking care of each other at all."

She pulls the blanket from the back of the sofa over both of them without ceremony. "I thought it meant we were failing at being parents" "We're not failing," he says. "We're just two people who had twins and didn't ask for enough help."

"It feels like failure sometimes." "It's not." His hand finds hers under the blanket. "We're doing the most, ___, don't for a second think we're failing." She's quiet for a moment, looking across the room at her father, who has somehow gotten Jihan to sleep against his chest without moving a muscle, wearing the expression of a man who has discovered a superpower.

 "I just thought it would feel more natural by now," she says softly. "Everyone talks about how instinctive it all is and I'm still googling things at 3am and second guessing every decision."

"I googled whether babies can sense tension last week," Yoongi says. She turns to look at him. "What did it say?" "Nothing helpful." She laughs quietly. "My point is," he continues, "we're both doing that. All of it. Together. That's not failing, that's just what this looks like from the inside."

She leans into him a little more, the blanket warm, the party a comfortable noise around them. "I love them so much it's frightening sometimes," she says, almost to herself. "I know," he says. "Me too." His thumb moves slowly over her knuckles. "The frightening part means we care enough. That's not a bad sign."

She doesn't say anything for a moment, just sits with that, letting it settle somewhere it needed to go. Across the room Jihee is being passed carefully from Mrs. Min to Jin, who accepts her with the practiced ease of a man who has done this many times and knows exactly how to hold something this small and this important.

"We're good parents," Yoongi says quietly, like he's deciding it as he says it. "We're good parents," she repeats, trying it out and it doesn't feel like a lie. That's something.

Jihan is about two steps away from a painting when Yoongi swoops in and lifts him with one arm, the motion practiced and swift, the motion of a man who has been doing this for weeks now and has developed genuine reflexes around it. Jihee has his other hand in both of hers, holding on with the particular grip of a child who has decided she is in charge of this situation.

The twins can walk and that is all they want to do. Walk, and touch things, and walk toward things they should not touch. Last week Jihee walked directly across Yoongi's back at seven in the morning because he wouldn't get up, planting each small foot with great deliberateness, entirely unbothered by his protests.

"Okay, listen," Yoongi says, crouching down to Jihan's level while keeping one hand firmly on Jihee's, addressing his ten month old children with complete seriousness. "We need to look put together for mom tonight. This is not our home, so we are not touching anything, we are not walking into anything, and Jihan, specifically, we are not going anywhere near the art."

Jihan looks at him with the expression he was born with, vaguely considering, not yet convinced. "This show is important," Yoongi continues. "Mom worked on this before you two arrived and she's been working on it since and tonight is a big night for her so we are going to be good."

Jihee pats his knee agreeably and Jihan looks back at the painting. "Jihan." Jihan looks at him, the kids do understand what he says, at least to some degree. "No."

It had taken ___ longer to get back to work than she'd planned, longer than she'd wanted, the guilt of it pulling in two directions at once, the wanting to be home and the wanting to be here, in a gallery, doing the thing she spent years building. The show had been pushed twice. She hadn't complained about it once, at least not out loud, though Yoongi had seen it on her face on the difficult days and said nothing, just made sure the coffee was ready and the nanny's schedule was covered.

Tonight the gallery is full and warm and exactly as she'd imagined it, and she is across the room talking to a collector with the particular ease of someone back in their element, and Yoongi watches her from a safe distance with one child on his hip and one attached to his hand and thinks that she looks like herself again, fully, in a way that makes something in his chest loosen with quiet relief.

___ notices the leather jacket right away, the thing that started it all, a flash of memories come back to her as Jihee makes a determined attempt to pull the collar sideways while Yoongi adjusts it back without breaking his conversation with Namjoon.

Something moves through her chest, quiet and enormous. She excuses herself from the collector mid sentence, politely, with the promise of a follow up, and crosses the room. "Hi honey," ___ whispers as she appears at Yoongi's side, Jihan immediately latching onto her leg with both arms, the greeting of a child who has decided this is his preferred anchor point.

"Hi baby," Yoongi's voice is soft as he reaches over and pulls her in for a quick kiss, his lips lingering just above hers, not quite done, until Jihee plants a firm hand on his face and pushes with the casual authority. 

___ laughs against his mouth. "Are they all sold?" Yoongi asks, pulling back and removing Jihee's hand from his face gently. "Because I wanted to buy the one Jihan kept reaching for earlier. I think he has good taste." "Yoongi, that's a three million dollar painting."

"And our son likes it." "He also likes putting his hands in Tang's water bowl." "His taste is varied," Yoongi says, entirely unbothered. "It's a sign of a complex palate." She looks at him for a moment with the expression she reserves for when he's being completely serious about something she cannot tell if he's joking about. He looks back at her with complete straightness, “What? Something to remember the kids first gallery showing?”

Yoongi is a sentimental soft father, he walks the line of spoiling and parenting his children very dangerously, but he strikes the balance somehow. He’s saved so much so far, ___ wonders what’s going to happen when they start bringing home hand painted trees.

"I actually asked the artist to commission something for us," she says, and leads him through the gallery to a small rectangular oil painting hung near the back, away from the main collection, slightly apart, like it was always meant to be found rather than displayed.

Yoongi goes still when he sees it. It's his birthday, the artist has captured it exactly, the particular quality of that afternoon light, warm and slightly gold in an oil painting. Jihan on Yoongi's shoulders, both hands gripping his father's hair, Yoongi's hands steady at his ankles. ___ turned up toward Yoongi, Yoongi bent down toward her, mid kiss, neither of them paying attention to anything else. And Jihee in ___’s arms, face completely and without any apparent regret, in the birthday cake.

Yoongi looks at it for a long moment without saying anything. "The artist worked from the photo," ___ says quietly beside him. "I sent it to her in March and it just got ready." He nods once, slowly, still looking. Jihan, from his position attached to ___'s leg, spots the painting and points at it with one finger, recognizing something without having the words for what he's recognizing yet.

"That's you," Yoongi tells him, crouching down. "And that's your sister." He points at Jihee in the cake. "Very accurate." Jihee, as if sensing she is being discussed, looks at the painting and then looks away with something close to a smile.

Yoongi straightens up and looks at ___ and she can see it, the quiet undone expression that he still hasn't learned to hide from her after all this time. "Thank you," he says, and his voice is rough at the edges in a way he's not trying to manage.

"Happy late birthday," she says softly and Yoongi pulls her in with his free arm, careful of Jihan still attached to her leg, and presses a kiss to her temple and stays there for a moment. 

The house is quiet and warm, which is new. Not the middle of the night quiet, not the held breath quiet of two sleeping children, but a genuine, sustained, mid-morning quiet that stops Yoongi in the hallway for a moment because he can't immediately locate the source of it.

He's been in the US for three weeks. He's jet lagged in the particular way that makes everything slightly unreal at the edges, and he's been moving on autopilot since the airport, the car, the front door. He picks up a small shoe near the entrance automatically, then a stuffed animal from the hallway, then pauses because there are no other sounds. No small feet. No Jihee's running commentary on everything she encounters. No Jihan's focused, determined silence that always means he's doing something he shouldn't.

He checks the living room. The playroom. The kitchen, where there are dishes drying and a half drunk cup of coffee on the counter that has gone cold. 

He finds ___ in their bedroom, firmly, completely, and entirely asleep. Diagonal across the bed in the way she only sleeps when she has it entirely to herself, one arm over her face, dead to the world. He sits on the edge of the bed and puts his hand on her shoulder gently. "Hey."

Nothing, "___." She makes a sound that is not a word and it’s his cue to talk, "Where are the kids?" A long pause settles as ___ tries her best to wake up, barely moving, "My mother picked them up, they’re going to stay with my parents for the weekend," she says finally, into the pillow. 

"Why though?" Yoongi asks, crawling into bed beside her. That wakes her up. Not all at once, but enough. She moves the arm from her face and looks at him with the particular stillness of someone confirming they heard correctly. Because it is not like Yoongi to forget things. It is especially not like Yoongi to forget this specific thing.

"Why though," she repeats, very evenly. He looks at her and it clicked almost instantly, he made the entire group move around their schedule just to be back for this weekend, "___-" "No, it's fine," she says, sitting up with great composure, pulling the blanket around herself. "You've been travelling. You're tired. It's completely fine."

"It's our anniversary," he says immediately as he reaches for her, he’s way too tired and jetlagged, he can feel his brain lagging. 

"Is it?" she asks innocently, not even looking at him as she throws the blanket aside. "Is it our third wedding anniversary that my husband has already forgotten about? I mean, it serves me right for marrying a musician. You're busy making albums, you're on tour, you're flying around the world. Of course that's all much more exciting than remembering your wife."

She swings her legs over the side of the bed with far more dramatics than necessary, making a show of sighing as she stands. "Baby, I am so sorry, it just completely slipped my mind." "Don't 'baby' me, Min Yoongi."

She turns towards him with the most offended expression she can manage, folding her arms tightly across her chest. "Our anniversary, and here I was going around town looking for the perfect gift for you while you probably don't even have anything for me, do you?"

"Oh?" she narrows her eyes suspiciously. "Well, don't you dare tell me you invested in stocks for me again because I will actually try to kill you."

"It was a diversified portfolio." Yoongi adds matter of factly and ___  stares at him for exactly two seconds before pointing an accusing finger at him. "You see? This is exactly what I'm talking about."

He lets out a tired laugh, rubbing both hands over his face before pushing himself upright, his hair sticking up in every direction, "___, come on," he groans. "I literally moved the entire tour schedule so I could be home this weekend."

He reaches for her again, this time managing to catch the sleeve of her robe before she slips away. "I just forgot for, like, five seconds." Her eyes widen dramatically at that, "Oh," she gasps. "So you do agree that you forgot."

"No, that's not what I..." Yoongi starts, leaning against the bathroom doorframe while she pretends to ignore him, smiling ever so slightly through the mirror as she reaches for her toothbrush.

It takes him another second, "...Holy fucking shit."

"What?" "You were fake mad." "I have no idea what you're talking about." "You were fake mad." He lets out a long breath, pressing a hand against his chest. "I genuinely thought I'd fucked up. I swear to God, for a second I thought you were going to leave me."

She snorts, "It was three minutes." "It felt like a year." He shakes his head dramatically. "The thought of losing you, Jesus Christ, I think I'm having a heart attack." She instinctively takes a step towards him before he ruins it with the smile he can no longer hide.

"Oh my God," she laughs, shoving his shoulder. "You're almost thirty-seven, Yoongi. You can't fake having a heart attack." "Hey, I'm not that old," he mumbles, catching her wrist before she can turn back to the sink. "Besides, I'm in the best shape of my life."

He slips both arms around her waist from behind anyway, pulling her back against him until she relaxes into his chest without thinking twice. His chin finds her shoulder while one hand absentmindedly rubs slow circles against her stomach, the other reaching around her for his toothbrush.

"You really scared me," he admits quietly, his voice softer now, she catches his eyes in the mirror, the teasing disappearing from her face. “I didn’t mean to, you’re usually on top of stuff like this so I just wanted to have some fun” ___ muffles with a mouth full of toothpaste.

“I am, and I do have a gift, and it’s not stock, but I did invest some more” Yoongi adds and ___ rolls her eyes at the last part, He laughs under his breath before the two of them fall into the comfortable silence of finishing brushing their teeth, shoulders bumping every so often in front of the sink that somehow never felt quite big enough for the both of them.

As soon as she sets her toothbrush down, she barely has a second to react before a pair of familiar hands slides beneath her. "Yoongi!" ___ squeals as he effortlessly lifts her off the floor, one arm hooked beneath her knees, the other around her back.

"What happened to thirty-seven?" he asks, unable to hide the grin spreading across his face and she instinctively loops her arms around his neck, laughing as he adjusts her higher against him.

“Honey your shoulder” "Darling it’s fine, I've also been looking forward to doing this for three weeks." The confession slips out so casually that she stops laughing. He'd been counting down the days until he'd be home, until he could wake up beside her instead of in another hotel room, until he could hold her without a screen between them.

She smiles, brushing a hand through the messy hair at the back of his head, "I missed you too." "I know." Yoongi answers confidently as he walks them back to the bed. 

She shakes her head fondly before leaning down the last few inches herself, their lips meeting in an unhurried kiss that tasted faintly of mint and home. He holds her a little tighter, reluctant to put her down now that she is finally back in his arms, and when they eventually pull apart, he rests his forehead against hers for a moment longer.

"Happy anniversary, I love you so so much" he whispers against her lips, ___ smiles, her thumb brushing over his cheek. "Happy anniversary, I love you so so so much too"

“Oh this is also a special concert for me because it’s my children’s first BTS concert” Yoongi shares softly and the crowd erupts into cheers immediately. “They're wearing those tiny protective headphones,” Jimin adds from beside him, unable to hide his grin. “The twins are ridiculously cute.”

“They are,” Yoongi agrees immediately. The other members burst out laughing at how quickly he answers. “I think we're all really grateful that we're still doing this,” he continues, looking out across the crowd. “Obviously it's not as extensive as it was when we were younger. We all have different priorities now. Most of us have spouses, some of us have children, and we've built lives outside of this.”

Several members nod, “But being able to come back here, stand on stage together and still see all of you after all these years...” He pauses, glancing at the members beside him. “It's something I don't think any of us take for granted.” The crowd cheers loudly and he takes a deep breath as his eyes look around for his family, they should be up there in the box.

“As Yoongi hyung said, we’re glad to be back, we hope Army loves our new album and we hope you enjoyed the tour, let’s start with the last song!” Namjoon yells the last part as the rest of the group spreads out, singing and greeting the fans.

The final bows take longer than expected. By the time BTS finally disappears backstage, the stadium is still buzzing with energy, thousands of fans slowly making their way home.

"Where are ___ and the kids?" Yoongi asks Mr. Shin as they make their way towards the green room, pulling his in-ears free as his eyes instinctively scan the hallway. Before Mr. Shin has the chance to answer, the dressing room door swings open.

Jungkook walks in first with Jihan sitting proudly on his shoulders, tiny protective headphones hanging around his neck while his small fingers remain tangled in Jungkook's curls. Every few seconds he gives another experimental tug, earning nothing more than an exaggerated groan.

"Buddy," Jungkook laughs. "I need at least some of my hair."

Behind them, Jimin walks in with Jihee happily holding onto his pinky finger, the little girl swinging their joined hands between them as she chatted away about something only the two of them seemed to understand.

The moment they spot Yoongi, both twins light up, "Appa!" Jungkook barely has time to crouch before Jihan is scrambling down, Jihee letting go of Jimin's hand just as quickly as they both run towards their father.

Yoongi kneels instinctively, laughing as they collide with him at full speed, the kids are immediately talking about the concert, about the fireworks, their father on stage and Yoongi can’t help but laugh, kissing the tops of both their heads before looking around the room.

"Where's your mother?" “___, Sunhee and Ara have been gossiping for the last ten minutes and keep telling shut up to each other every two minutes, why is it making me nervous” Jimin shares as his eyes dart outside the room.

Almost as if summoned, the sound of laughter carries down the hallway before ___ appears around the corner beside Sunhee and Ara, the three of them still completely engrossed in their conversation.

"I'm telling you," Sunhee says between laughs, "he absolutely knew." "He did not," Ara argues. "He did." "He didn't." ___ shakes her head, "You two are impossible." Only then do they realize they've reached the dressing room. 

"There they are," Taehyung says, throwing his hands into the air. "The gossip club has finally arrived." "We heard that," Sunhee replies as she finally gives Jimin the kiss he’s been looking for, they need to stop fighting before concerts

"I wanted you to." Taehyung replies as he gags to the camera, playing it up for the documentary camera.

Ara laughs, shaking her head as she walks over to Jungkook while ___ makes a beeline for Yoongi and the twins, immediately crouching beside them.

"Did you two behave?" she asks, smoothing Jihan's hair where the headphones had flattened it before straightening Jihee's hoodie. The twins nod at the exact same time, both staring up at their mother with matching wide eyes that almost always meant they were trying to look especially convincing. They might have been four now, talking from sunrise until long after bedtime and insisting they are "big kids," but standing in front of their mother like this, they still looked impossibly small.

"They were perfect," Jimin says proudly, an arm settling comfortably around Sunhee's waist. "Honestly, I think they were better behaved than Jungkook." "I heard that," Jungkook replies, feigning offence.

Before the argument has a chance to grow legs, Namjoon claps his hands together. "Okay, before we find something else to argue about, can we please get dinner?" he asks, already reaching for his jacket. "I am starving."

"You say that after every concert," Jin laughs. "And every concert, I'm right." No one argues with that.

The group slowly begins filtering out of the green room, managers discussing reservations while the members naturally slip back into conversations that had been continuing for years. The documentary crew follows a respectful distance behind, cameras still rolling as they capture the end of another tour.

The second the twins hear the word dinner, they're gone. "Race you!" Jihan yells before taking off down the hallway, Jihee squealing as she immediately chases after him.

"Hey!" ___ calls after them. "No running!" Neither child even pretends to slow down, "They're definitely sugar high," Yoongi says, watching them disappear around the corner. Jungkook raises both hands innocently.

Their eyes stay on the kids till Namjoon is holding each twins hand, “Hey, remember your first BTS concert?” Yoongi asks as his hand comes around her, practically walking out as he hugs his wife, the documentary crew still filming them from a few steps behind.

“2019-” “No ___, the one that I invited you to” he whines and ___ laughs out loud, “My second bts concert, I was tired and had a massive crush on a cute man” She glances up at him, the corners of her mouth lifting. 

“The same man you asked out on a date as an experiment, god ___ you really had a massive crush on me didn’t you?” Yoongi teases and ___ chuckles sarcastically, “Oh I was the one that was down bad? You were the one who texted me asking about a jacket, you didn’t even have any moves”

“Oh I had moves, my move was to invite you to a BTS concert," he repeats with charming overconfidence. "Then I sat back and watched you fall hopelessly in love with me." She laughs so hard she has to lean into him, his arm instinctively tightening around her waist to keep her close. 

"So..." she says, looking up at him. "Mission successful?" "Oh, very much so." He answers without hesitation, "I won." She shakes her head, still smiling.

"You are unbelievably full of yourself." "And yet..." Yoongi cups ___’s face with one hand, brushing his thumb across her cheek before leaning down to kiss her.

It isn't hurried or dramatic.It's the kind of kiss that comes after years of shared mornings, long tours, quiet nights, anniversaries, children, arguments they never remembered, and choosing each other every single day in between.

When they finally pull apart, he rests his forehead against hers with the same smile he'd worn the first time she'd ever looked at him like that. "I'd still invite you to that concert," he murmurs. "I know." 

"I'd still ask about the jacket." She laughs softly. "I know." "And I'd still fall in love with you." For just a second, neither of them says anything.

"Appa," Jihan groans from beside the car, "we are hungry" Jihee nods seriously and ___ bursts into laughter as Yoongi sighs dramatically, finally pulling away.

"See?" he mutters. "No respect." "You've raised honest children." Yoongi smiles, reaching for ___’s hand one last time before opening the car door for her. "I suppose that's another mission accomplished."

His absolute favorite way to start the day is waking you up with his head between your thighs. Gently parting your legs in the soft morning light and going down on you until you're a trembling, gasping mess before you've even had coffee. He loves the taste of you mixed with sleep.

Yoongi loves eating you out, hes trained for this. He will take u in any position— on his knees, sitting on his face, from behind— he will eat it, just pls tell him.

He has a thing for watching you come on his cock, then pulling out immediately after and finishing all over your stomach or tits. He likes to think of it as a territory marking. and he'll do it with this possessive, dizzy look in his eyes, moaning your name as he stripes your skin with his cum.

He loves it when you're messy. If you're on top and you ride him hard, he'll grip your hips and growl, “That's it, make a mess for me. Get your pretty pussy all messy on my dick.” He gets off on the visual and the slick, wet sounds.

Praise is filthy in his mouth. It's never just “you're pretty.” It's “Look at you, taking my cock so well. Such a good fucking girl for me, aren't you? Perfect little thing.” He says it right against your ear, voice gravelly and low.

But he flips to degradation so smoothly it makes your head spin. One moment it's “good girl” the next, his hand is tight in your hair, pulling just enough to sting as he thrusts up into you. “Just a greedy little thing, aren't you? Can't get enough. You'd take it all day, wouldn't you? My used-up girl.”

He's a big fan of overstimulation. When you're oversensitive and shaking after coming, he won't stop. He'll hold you down, pinning your hips, and keep thrusting, whispering, “One more, come on. I know you can give me one more. Squeeze my cock again with that tight little cunt.”

He loves making you say what you want in the dirtiest terms. He'll have you pinned, his thumb rubbing slow circles on your clit, and he'll ask, “What does my girl need? Use your words.” And if you mumble it, he'll stop. “Louder. Tell me you need my cock in your slutty little pussy.”

He has a praise kink for himself too, but only from you. When he's feeling subby and needy, he'll lay his forehead on yours and guide your hand to his cheek. “Tell me Im doing good,” he'll whine, moving his hips so slowly into your wet pussy. And you'll stroke his cheek and whisper all the filthy things hes doing to you, praising him for how hard hes fucking you, how deep hes going inside of you. He comes hard just from hearing it, his thrusts loses rhythm, whimpering mess.

He has a thing for your underwear. He'll pick out what he wants you to wear, the laciest, most delicate things, just so he can tear them off you later. Or sometimes he'll just push them aside instead, fucking you through the fabric until it's soaked.

The ultimate for him is when you're so fucked-out you can't move, and he has to take care of you. He'll bring you water, feed you bits of food, and tuck the blankets around you, all while wearing that soft, sleepy smile. You're his beautiful, well-used mess.

He gets a thrill from you using him for your pleasure. On days when he's more submissive, he'll tell you, “Just ride me, use my cock until you're satisfied. Don't worry about me.” And he'll lie there, hands gripping the sheets tight, watching you take what you need from him, which in turn drives him wild.

Yoongi has a borderline obsession with u calling him by his name. He needs u to say Yoongi, If you're being quiet, he'll slow his thrusts to an agonizing grind, his forehead against yours, and rasp, “Say it. I need to hear it.” And when you finally break, whimpering his name, it unleashes something feral in him. His rhythm turns punishing, his grip bruising, his eyes black with a possessive high. “Again,” he demands, voice shredded. “Louder. Let the whole neighborhood know who's fucking you this good.” He'll fuck you through your climax, chanting “Say my name, keep moaning my name” until you're sobbing it, a broken mantra against his hot mouth. But it's the quiet times that really gets him—your sleepy morning mumble or a soft sigh during a cuddle—that makes his chest feel tight. He collects every time you say it. To him, from your lips, it's proof he's yours. ㅤ♡ྀི

A/N: this is an apology for not posting in a while lmfao, i wanted to post sfw and nsfw in same post bcuz hes just so gentle and hot, I couldn’t just show his filthy side.

Hope yall enjoyed!!

— chapter ten

“One, two, three—kimchiii!”

“Kimchiiii…”

“Aigoo, the two of you are really cute together!” your mom chirps as she hands your phone back after snapping the photo.

“Congratulations again, Yoongi-ah. Are you sure you don’t want to come with us to Jeju?” she adds, her attention shifting warmly to him.

Your boyfriend offers a shy smile, politely declining your mom’s invitation for what feels like the nth time over the past couple of weeks.

“Just let Y/N know if you change your mind. We’d love to have you there… so we can have our own private time without this ladybug hogging us,” your dad chimes in teasingly.

Today marks your graduation as a senior high school student. You’ve been in an exclusive relationship with Yoongi for over four months now, that being said, you’ve already met each other’s parents.

From the very beginning, Yoongi has been nothing but respectful, polite, calm, and collected around your parents. Because of that, they’ve had no reason not to approve of him as your boyfriend. In fact, your mom absolutely adores him. Beyond being the first guy you’ve ever introduced to them, what truly won them over was how gently and consistently he takes care of you. As an only child with often-busy parents, that means more to them than anything.

And to you… it means everything.

These past few months have been the happiest you’ve ever been, and your relationship with Yoongi is the biggest reason why. He’s always there for you, especially during the times you felt like you were losing your mind over college entrance exams. He would stay up all night with you while you reviewed piles of thick textbooks, quietly keeping you company just in case you break down or needed someone to hold you together.

Earlier in your relationship, Yoongi shared his plans to take a gap year. He wanted to build a stronger portfolio for his music before applying to college, aiming to get into the university of his dreams. Naturally, he plans to major in music. You can see it clearly—Yoongi has a creative mind that seems to breathe life into anything related to it.

And as his girlfriend, you support him wholeheartedly.

You encourage him to seize every opportunity that comes his way during his gap year. You remind him to go the extra mile, to never box himself in, to explore, and to nurture his craft.

You promise to stand by him, no matter what. And he promises the same.

“Alright, you two enjoy the rest of your day. Make sure to let us know if you’ll be coming home tonight, Y/N,” your mom says, hugging you and Yoongi goodbye.

You wait for them to get inside the car before walking toward Yoongi’s parents, who have been waiting for him. They’ve invited you over for dinner for a small celebration—something you would never turn down, especially since his mom cooks the best local food, given that she owns a restaurant.

You and Yoongi sit at the back of the car on the way to his house. You watch him quietly as he gently circles his thumb over your hand, spacing out while staring outside. You’ve noticed that Yoongi has been a little quieter than usual these past few days—maybe even a week. If you told anyone, they’d say Yoongi has always been quiet, but you know better. You know he’s actually a yapper, especially when it comes to you.

Your mind drifts back to what happened a week ago, when you were hanging out in your room. You were reading a book while he strummed a few chords on the guitar you gifted him, trying to piece together a melody for a song he’d been working on.

Then his phone rang.

He excused himself to answer it, and after a few long minutes, he came back. He was smiling—but nervously. You tried asking what it was about, but he just shrugged and said it was related to what he’d been working toward, which you knew meant building his portfolio. You didn’t push further, because you’re used to him telling you everything eventually. You figured maybe it wasn’t good news, and he just needed time to process it before talking to you about it.

That very same day, the sex felt different. It’s very intimate, much more intimate than before—so much so that it was hard to forget. You remember how he took his time, tracing your body, kissing your lips, your neck, your skin—every part of you—so slowly. You can still remember the way he buried himself deep inside you, not rough like you were used to, but gentle, unhurried. He didn’t curse, didn’t let out a single swear word no matter how good it felt. Instead, he whispered soft affirmations, almost like he was worshipping you.

It was intimate, and you felt loved.

After that day, nothing seemed to change. Everything felt normal between the two of you—still happy, still secure. But lately, you’ve been noticing him spacing out more often. It’s not alarming, not enough for anyone else to point out, but as someone who spends every day with him, it’s noticeable.

Your train of thought were cut off when the car slows down in front of his house. He carefully guide you out and walks inside together holding hands.

During dinner, his parents are asking about your plans for college which somehow makes you a little uncomfortable because you know that they are against Yoongi taking a gap year. But you didn’t fret, you came prepared. You answer their questions politely, and when it naturally drifts off to Yoongi’s “poor” decision as they say, of taking a gap year and choosing music, you make sure to point out that taking gap year is normal and a wise decision if you are aiming to enter your dream university, and every now and then you make sure to point out that being in the world of creatives pays good money. You tried your best to respectfully burst the bubbles in their heads that there’s no money in art. Because it’s true, if it’s done right, and you managed to get your way to the top, art can pay tons of money. Luckily, his brother consistently backing you up all throughout the conversation. At the end of dinner—impressed by how smart you sounds, Yoongi’s father reminds him to not be stupid of letting you go ever which makes you a blushing mess.

You are lying in Yoongi’s bed when he gets out of the shower.

“Can I stay the night?” you ask.

Yoongi grins playfully, “You don't have to ask, you know that right?”

“Mm-hmm, just wanted to make sure my boyfriend is up for it.” you tease.

“Cute.” he chuckles.

“So, what you say—can I borrow a t-shirt so I can shower?”

You are already on your feet, flipping through his cabinet to search for your favorite white t-shirt, and when you found it, you catch Yoongi looking at you with full admiration. His eyes are sparkling, lips slightly curling a smile.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing, just—my mind is already picturing the day where we’ll share, you know—everything.” he replies, voice soft and sincere.

If it's other guy, you’ll probably bolt through the door as fast as you can and say it's too early in your relationship to be thinking about those kind of things but it's not just any other guy—it’s Yoongi.

The guy who can make your heart flutter even with the simplest gestures, the guy who always meant what he says, the guy who can make you feel loved even without saying it out loud. The guy who takes care of you physically, mentally, and emotionally. The guy who makes you think of what your future house would look like with him in it.

It may sound insane and rash, but you’re totally seeing yourself settling with him. Not today, or next week, or next year, but soon.

“Now you're being sappy with me. What about I take a shower, then I’ll cheer you up?” you tease, snaking your arms around his neck.

“Yah! I’m being serious, don't make fun of me.” he pouts.

“—but fuck sappy hours. I will never turn down your offer. Hmm, cheering me up? Is that so?”

“Mm-hmm,” you hum in response, eyebrows wiggling as you press a soft kiss on his lips.

“Can you text my mom and tell I’ll stay here tonight?” You pull away from Yoongi and retreat to the bathroom for a shower.

— chapter eleven

The white T-shirt you borrowed from Yoongi had long since been abandoned on the floor. Your lips move against his in a rush, messy and hungry pace, as you straddle his lap in nothing but your underwear. Yoongi cups the back of your neck, pulling you closer, pressing you deeper into the kiss. His tongue sweeps inside your mouth, drawing a muffled whimper from your lips.

You can feel him hardening between your thighs, and you roll your hips subtly, testing, teasing. The friction makes your breath hitch.

Slowly, you slide off his lap, breaking the kiss. You settle between his legs, your knees lays flat on the floor as Yoongi leans back on his hands, watching you.

Your hand finds his bulge, palming him through the fabric, feeling him grow under your touch. When you tug at the waistband of his pants, Yoongi lifts his hips slightly, helping you pull them down. The fabric pools around his feet, leaving him exposed, his cock flushed and heavy in the cool air.

Your grip is soft at first, almost curious, as your fingers wrap around his shaft. Your thumb brushes over his slit, spreading the pre-cum that beads at the tip. Then your tongue follows—warm, slow—circling the head, tasting him. It’s salty, but he tastes so good.

Yoongi lets out a strained groan, like it almost hurts. His hand flies to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, gripping a little tighter when you take him into your mouth in one smooth motion. Your lips seal around him, sinking deeper until you feel him press against the back of your throat.

You don’t stop. You push further, despite the gag that rises in your chest. By the time he’s fully sheathed in your mouth, Yoongi is a wreck—cursing under his breath, voice breaking.

Slowly, you pull back, releasing him with a soft pop. When you glance up at him, he looks undone—eyes glassy, chest rising and falling, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips.

“Jesus, baby… that’s so good.”

Your hand wraps around him again, steady at his base, as you lean in to drag your tongue along the underside of his length. His cock twitches against your nose.

Just as you’re about to swallow him in again, Yoongi stops you, his grip tightening gently.

“Hold on, baby—wait. I’m not gonna last if you keep doing that,” he exhales. “Let me take care of you.”

A slow grin spreads across your lips at how uncomposed he is, a clear evidence that he’s losing his mind.

You rise to your feet and reach for the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head before tossing it somewhere across the room. Then you slide your panties down your legs, letting them fall just as carelessly to the floor.

Climbing back onto his lap, you settle over him again.

The moment your wet heat brushes against his cock, the friction sends a sharp wave through you. You let out a soft, unsteady moan as you instinctively grind down, your body reacting before you can think. Yoongi’s hands grip your hips tightly, his head falling back slightly as he hisses at the contact.

“Tonight’s all about you, baby.” you whisper as you grab his hard cock and line it against your heat.

Slowly, you sink down on him earning a ragged moan from the both of you. Your nails embed on his shoulders as you slowly sink deeper, feeling every vein and twitch against your soft warm walls. Yoongi is nothing different, his grasp on your hips tighten, eyes shut, and strings of low grunts are spilling endlessly out of his lips.

You pause for a moment when you bottom out, his twitching cock is sheathed all the way inside you. You can feel your walls flutter, the stretch is familiar yet still overwhelming. You press your forehead against his as you look him in the eye and he returns it.

His eyes are screaming desire, lust, worry? at the same time. When Yoongi opens his mouth to say something, you swivel your hips making him shut his eyes at your wake. His nails dig deeper in your hips, the kind where bruise will surely follow. Your breath falters as you continue grinding on top of him, his cock swiping every inch of your sensitive spots.

“Y-you sure about this?” he chokes.

“I’ve been thinking about this too much lately.”

Since the night in the cabin, you and Yoongi had shared incredible sex on the daily which made you question yourself a couple of times if the numbers are normal for a couple at your age. This time though hits different. Sure, you’ve taken control multiple times, rode his cock until you milk him dry but this is something new because for the first time, you’re doing it without a protection— no latex, no rubber in between. And as if the incredible sex with him can get better, you’re not ashamed to admit that this is phenomenal.

“You need to pull out of me when I— god! you feel so good— I-I don’t think I can pull out, baby. You need to do it yourself, kay?” Yoongi manage get his words out despite of losing all coherent thoughts with how delicious this new sensation is.

“Can I say something?” you ask before adding speed to your pace grinding.

“Sure, but you need to stop with the clenching because I’m really really close.”

“I started taking birth control three weeks ago.”

Yoongi flutters his eyes open, staring directly onto you with his dark gaze and appreciation glimmering on his brown orbs. Those eyes.

“You don’t have to do that, I don’t want you to do anything out of pressure.”

“Relax, I got myself checked first. And I wanted to do it for us, I’m more than willing to—fuck! fuck!” you shove your face in the crook of his neck, unable to finish your sentence when his cock brush against your g-spot, making you quiver with immensible pleasure.

Yoongi flips you so your back lay against the mattress while he hovers on top of you. With his swift hands, he lifts both of your legs on his chest, basically folding you in half as he rut himself without restraint. Your body moves half inch higher after each thrusts. Your toes curls involuntarily while he fucks you harder than he ever did before.

You cup both of your breasts in attempt to maximize the glorious sensation radiating all over your body then suddenly a jolt of sting spreads on your face when Yoongi’s palm meets your soft cheeks.

“Do it again, baby, please” you beg, tears brimming the side of your eyes.

Another slap landed on your cheeks earning a sultry moan from the mixture of pain and pleasure, and without realizing it, you come undone. Hot fluid gush out of your hole, covering Yoongi’s dick that’s pushing in and out of you relentlessly. An obscene wet noise coming from your dripping pussy getting destroyed flood the four corners of his room. You can’t help but clench, and clench, and clench, clamping your walls around his cock as you ride your high which sends Yoongi to his peak.

With a little hesitation pooling on his chest, Yoongi spills his release inside of you—all of it, burying himself as deeper as he could while he fiddles with your fingers.

Your eyes flutters as you watch him ride his orgasm before collapsing on top of you, snuggling against your warm embrace.

God, you’re so in love.

— chapter twelve

There is an extra skip in your step as you carry your luggage into the house. You spent the last five days at your grandmother’s home in Jeju with your parents as a graduation gift vacation, but no matter how breathtaking the places you visited were, your heart could not wait to return to Daegu and back to the love of your life.

A grin that had been plastered on your face since this morning was nowhere near fading. Yoongi slept early last night, saying he was tired from his day, and when you woke up this morning, his good morning message was the first thing you saw on your phone. After that, though, he had been radio silent all day.

Normally, you would already be pouty and upset by now, but you knew better. The thought that Yoongi might have something special prepared for your return had kept you in a good mood the entire day.

You send him a text while lying on your bed.

Hey, I’m home. Dinner together?

When the message goes unanswered for five minutes, you send another.

Busy? I miss you, please come over and hug me. I’m starting to forget your smell.

Another five minutes pass with nothing, so you send another text, and then another, until the third turns into a string of unanswered messages.

Don’t ignore me, Yoongi!!

Sorry, are you really busy?

I’m starting to think you’re breaking up with me or something.

Kidding…

Press one for proof of life.

Hey, it seems like you’re really busy. Kk, don’t want to be the annoying girlfriend. Text me when you’re available.

Yoongi, I know I said I wouldn’t be annoying, but you’re making me upset right now. It’s been four hours since I got back, and you haven’t replied since this morning. What’s up? I’m worried.

His lack of communication suddenly kills your appetite, enough for you to skip dinner altogether. You don’t know how long you stare at your phone waiting for his reply before you eventually fall asleep.

The next morning, you jolt awake. Your hands scramble through the sheets looking for your phone, hoping Yoongi’s reason for being radio silent all day yesterday would be enough to keep you from getting upset.

Instead, disappointment crashes over you when you see there isn’t a single text from him.

You make your way downstairs with a tiny bit of hope that your boyfriend is in the kitchen making breakfast, something he had done a couple of times ever since you introduced him to your parents. But the whole house is quiet. Not a single person is in sight. Your parents have already gone to work, leaving you completely alone.

You pick up your phone and dial his number as you get dressed. You are a patient woman, but everything has its limits. Whatever Yoongi is planning, a surprise or whatever the fuck it is, is not worth this kind of cold treatment.

Your eyebrows pinch together when the anger clouding your brain is suddenly replaced with genuine worry at the operator’s voice on the other line.

“I’m sorry, the number you dialed is unavailable and cannot be reached. Please try your call again later.”

Within minutes, you are outside hailing a taxi. He better have a good reason for turning off his phone, you think as the taxi drives toward his house.

You stand in front of his gate for God knows how long. There’s an uneasiness swelling in your chest that makes you hesitate to knock.

Yoongi isn’t like this, you tell yourself.

He knew you were coming home yesterday. You told him that before he went to sleep. You replay the days you spent in Jeju, but everything had seemed normal. You texted each other every single day, telling one another how much you missed each other. Before bed, he would call and listen to your stories about the places you visited.

No matter how hard you try, you cannot think of a single reason that would make him act like this.

If he were planning a surprise for you, he would never go an entire day without communication. No, Yoongi would never do that. He had been blowing up your phone since the moment you left for Jeju, constantly all over you ever since you started dating.

You know something is wrong.

Just as you are about to knock, you hear a voice behind you.

“Y/N?”

You turn on your heels to find Yoongi’s brother standing there, holding a plastic bag full of vegetables.

“Hey, is Yoo—”

“Already missing Yoongi?” he cuts you off with a sheepish grin.

Your brows furrow.

“Come on in. How long have you been here?”

You step inside while he holds the gate open for you.

“Not that long. Is Yoongi here?”

Jay, Yoongi’s brother, suddenly stops in his tracks and looks back at you with a frown, concern flickering across his face.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Uh… he hasn’t replied to my texts since yesterday. I tried calling him this morning, but his phone was turned off, so I decided to stop by and see if he’s okay.”

“Y/N… he didn’t tell you?”

Your stomach drops.

“Tell me what?”

“Yoongi moved to Seoul two days ago. He got accepted into a training program.”

“For what?”

“To become an idol.”

A loud, piercing ring fills your ears. Your vision blurs red, and for a second, it feels like your lungs stop working altogether.

You don’t know what to say.

Is this a prank? Is he joking?

No.

Jay’s face is nothing but serious. You can tell he is not messing with you.

You have no idea how long you stand there staring at him, or how long you remain silent. Your brain only seems to start functioning again when Jay lifts his phone to his ear. The line rings endlessly.

“Yoongi, what the fuck?” Jay snaps once the voicemail picks up. “Y/N is here. Talk to her.”

He ends the call after leaving the message.

Then he looks at you carefully.

“You want his new number?”

“No.”

— chapter thirteen

It’s been three days since you found out that Yoongi left for Seoul without saying anything to you. You have no idea how to process such heartbreak simply because no one ever warned you that this type of breakup could happen to you. Yes, you call this a breakup since everything the two of you built together vanished the moment he ghosted you for his dreams.

Right… his dreams.

You should’ve seen the signs. For all the months you’ve been together, you haven’t heard him talk about his future with you in it. Not when every promise of getting off in his bed followed through.

The past few days have been hell, and it doesn’t improve much. You haven’t been getting proper sleep and barely eat. You refuse to tell your parents what really happened, but you know they already have an idea.

Another wave of pain tingles through your brain. You’ve been having migraines from crying these past few days, and today is no different. Although now, you’re crying for two reasons. One, because your boyfriend abandoned you like a piece of trash, and two, because you just tanked your interview at SNU.

Your college entrance interview was set earlier today, and your brain just shut off. Your confidence immediately flew out the window the moment they started asking questions. You couldn’t even speak properly, and you swear the interviewer noticed that you were one thread away from crying. There’s no way you passed that interview, so your chance of studying at your first-choice school is zero at this point.

Who wants to go to Seoul anyway?

Did Yoongi ever anticipate that you’d pass SNU? If so, why did he go to Seoul without telling you? He’s not stupid enough to forget that if you ever decided to go to SNU, there would be a chance you’d see him, or at least be in the same city as him.

Rivulets of tears stream from your eyes to your ears because of your own thoughts. You can think of a hundred ways to work around your relationship while studying in the same city as he chases his dreams of becoming an idol.

I guess I am not important enough to make it into his plans for the future. Just another thing at his disposal. A piece of ass he decided to leave in Daegu because idols are prohibited from dating during their first few years. Of course, no one wants a loophole that could sabotage his climb up the ladder of his career.

Your heart shatters into a million pieces once more as those truths cloud your brain. How could he leave you like that? How could he pretend and say he misses you and can’t wait for you to come back, only for you to return to him running away from everything you built together?

No, he didn’t run away. He disappeared because you were that easy to dispose of.

You log into your social media account and visit his page. He rarely uses social media, so you’re not sure what you’re even looking for. When there’s nothing to scroll through on his feed, you click the message button and send a voicemail.

Hey, I just wanted to know why you left. Please call me when you get this.

Just once. One more try at saving the sinking ship because God forbid you love the man who made you feel unimportant enough to leave without saying goodbye. Despite your resolve, your heart is more than willing to forget everything he’s done if he’ll just say he’s sorry.

8 months later

Your walk is a little wobbly as you try to get out of the BBQ pub with your friends beside you, giggling over something you can’t even remember. Your college friends think it’s best to celebrate your birthday, which falls on a Friday night, by stuffing yourselves with good meoksal and getting hammered. That’s how you end up face-fuck drunk with a bunch of wild nerds.

You look at one of your friends trying to hand you a cigarette.

“You know I don’t smoke,” you say in refusal.

“Oh, c’mon, Y/N! Just try it so you don’t end up looking like a goody-goody among your friends.”

“No, thanks!”

“Yah! Stop pushing Y/N. This bitch has never smoked in her life. You don’t stand a chance,” your other friend chimes in, making the other walk away from you in defeat.

You just chuckle as you watch your friends drag on their cigarettes not too far from where you stand.

Only if you knew…

When Yoongi left you eight months ago, you tried your best to move on with your life no matter how hard it was. That includes everything that reminds you of him, and smoking is the first thing. It’s weird that the most common vice in the world reminds you of the person you both love and hate. You still get misty-eyed every time you see, hear, or smell something that reminds you of him. It’s been months, eight fucking months. You entered college, made new friends, developed new hobbies, and yet you still haven’t moved on.

How could you, though, if you have no idea where to start?

Your poor heart was shattered into a million little pieces left scattered on the floor, and no matter how much you want to fix everything, you don’t know where to begin. You don’t know which pieces to pick up first. Your confidence, trust, and happiness were ripped away from you. You don’t know what needs healing because everything inside you seems broken. It comes to the point where it hurts both emotionally and physically.

Your drifting thoughts are cut off by your phone buzzing in your pocket. You look at the caller ID and it says, “Seoul.”

You have no idea what you were thinking when you saved this phone number with the +82 area code. The call is coming from Seoul.

It’s not the first time this number has tried to call you.

The first time starts six months ago. When the number calls for the first time, you don’t answer. Then the next day it calls again while you’re in class, and once again you let it ring. That same night, when you’re about to sleep, your phone rings again with the same number calling. Without thinking much of it, you answer, but the line is silent.

No matter how many times you say, “Hello? Who’s this?” there’s nothing. Not even breathing can be heard.

After a few minutes of staying on the line, you suddenly feel your cheeks becoming wet with your own tears. The silence comforts you in some way. The tightening in your chest is easier to bear when your mind forces you to believe that the person on the other line is someone you’re hoping for. The first call lasts a little more than thirty minutes, with you sobbing while the other side remains silent.

And just like clockwork, the same number calls you twice a month, every 9th and 21st. You’re delusional enough to think the caller chooses those dates because they’re yours and Yoongi’s birthdays, or at least that’s what your brain tells you to justify answering the calls over and over again.

The first four calls are just you crying on the other line. By the third month, you start sharing things that happen to you during the past few days. It doesn’t even matter that you never get a response back. You’re just happy to do so, like you’re updating the ghost from your past.

But there are a few things you refuse to touch on. First, you never mention the breakup or your attempts to move on from the pain you’re dealing with. Lastly, you never address the other person on the line as Yoongi, because, honestly, it’s a reach. Still, there’s a part of you that believes he’s on the other end because hell… who else would call you from Seoul?

You answer the call without batting an eye.

“It’s my birthday,” you start, your voice so small it’s almost a whisper.

As expected, the other line is just pure silence.

“I’m with my friends. We’re out drinking to celebrate me. God, it feels so long since the last time I felt celebrated. Am I happy? Maybe. You know what, I know what you’re thinking. You think I’m drunk, but I’m not. I mean, yes, I am, but I’m sober at least when I see you calling…” you let out a breathy laugh.

“I think I’ve said this before to someone… someone I used to know. I tried to convince that person that I wasn’t drunk, but I was, and it led me to… k-kissing him. It’s cute. Not the kiss, but him. He’s cute. I always find him cute and charming and God, what am I saying?” you pause only to hear nothing on the other end.

“And then an unfortunate series of events starts happening. Spoiler alert, it doesn’t end well, at least not for me. I made a mistake… no, not a mistake. Yeah, because you don’t want mistakes to happen again. If… if I ever got another chance, I would do it all over again. I would still kiss him that night in my house. I would still go to his— I would still stand in the crowd and watch him perform like he fucking owns the stage. But I wouldn’t go to Jeju after graduation… that… I want to change that. I would refuse to go even if I had to fight my parents because nothing feels right when I come back. I would also probably push him to tell me what that phone call was about, the one he received one afternoon at my house. I… I feel like it has something to do with everything. If I had only forced him to talk to me about it, maybe… maybe I wouldn’t feel like I want to… die,” you whisper the last word before pausing to stop yourself from weeping.

“Fuck, I can’t do this. Not anymore.” Your eyes blur from the stream of tears falling down your cheeks as you look up at the glowing neon sign across the road.

“I’m standing in front of our favorite place. I wanted to bring my friends here because I wanted karaoke on my birthday, but earlier I realized I fucking hate this place because it’s one of the places where I felt special. The food is delicious, and I love the ambiance it radiates, but I fucking hate how this place reminds me of the person I used to…” A sob escapes your lips as you feel the familiar sting jab at the center of your heart.

“Stop calling me. This is the last time you’ll ever get to contact me. I’m changing my number first thing in the morning. Yoongi… just let me go, please. I need to heal.”

You press the red button on your screen to end the call before collapsing onto the sidewalk with nothing to cling to except your weeping, broken heart.

— chapter fourteen

10 years later

It's been twenty minutes since you parked your car in the crowded parking lot of your high school, yet you still can't bring yourself to get out. Your forehead rests against the steering wheel as you try to steady yourself. You shouldn't be feeling this way. It's been ten years. You've moved on, you've healed, and visiting your old campus shouldn't be enough to drag old ghosts out of their graves.

Keep telling yourself that.

With a sigh, you lift your head and pull your keys from the ignition. The diamond ring on your finger catches the sunlight as you do, the sparkle almost mocking. You're getting married in a few months. The possibility of running into Yoongi at an alumni homecoming event shouldn't scare you this much.

There's a reason you never told your fiancé about tonight. A reason you made sure he couldn't offer to come with you. Why you did that, you honestly don't know.

Your heartbeat picks up as you approach the school gates. The familiar pathways welcome you with memories you never asked to revisit. Each step feels like retracing old footprints, following a version of yourself that no longer exists. Your chest tightens as you remember the countless mornings Yoongi walked beside you on this very path and the afternoons he waited to walk you home. It would've been nice if you'd ended up with him. That would've been a story worth telling your future children someday. The kind of love story people smiled at when they heard it. Not the one where you met Jun at a frat party during your sophomore year of college.

No. Pull yourself together.

You love your fiancé, and you're marrying him because he loves you back.

The event goes smoothly enough. There is still no sign of Yoongi, but his name drifts through conversations every now and then as people speculate whether he'll show up. Tonight marks the tenth anniversary of your graduating batch, and while the event is meant to bring former classmates together, it's also a fundraiser for the school's music and arts program for students with special needs. As always, the school proudly reminds everyone that its biggest sponsor over the years has been none other than SUGA of BTS.

A small smile tugs at your lips.

SUGA.

The stage name Yoongi chose.

You excuse yourself midway through the program under the pretense of using the restroom, but instead of heading toward the brightly lit hallway where the ladies' room is located, your feet carry you in the opposite direction. Before you know it, you're lifting the faded NO TRESPASSING sign out of the way and reaching for the rusty steel handle behind it. Without giving yourself a chance to reconsider, you slip through the old gate and are immediately greeted by a feeling so familiar it steals the air from your lungs.

You switch on your phone's flashlight and sweep the beam across the back of the school. The place feels smaller now than it did ten years ago. Maybe everything seems smaller when you've spent a decade growing around the memories attached to it. A painful ache settles in your chest as you walk forward, your gaze automatically drifting upward to the windows of your old classroom. For a split second, it feels as though you've been transported back in time.

Your vision has long since blurred with tears, but the first one finally spills down your cheek when you push past piles of rotting desks and overgrown weeds and step into the small hidden corner that used to belong to you and Yoongi.

Your eyes immediately find the concrete bench tucked away in the corner.

If that bench could talk, would it be disappointed to know that you and Yoongi never found your way back to each other?

Would the old tree standing a few feet away mourn with you if it knew how badly he broke your heart?

Time has changed almost everything about this place, yet the bench and the tree remain untouched. They stand exactly where they've always stood, silent witnesses to a love that once felt permanent. They heard every conversation you shared with the boy you loved. They watched stolen glances turn into lingering smiles, watched shy touches become warm embraces, watched innocent affection grow into something that consumed you whole. Standing here now, you find yourself wondering if they would grieve with you if they knew how the story ended.

The tears come harder after that.

You hate yourself for it.

After all these years, you're still standing in the ruins of a memory, crying over a boy who left.

You know better than this. You know you shouldn't be feeling this way. You're getting married in a few months. You're happy. You love your fiancé, and you're excited to build the life you've always dreamed of with him.

So for the last time, you reach into your bag and pull out the one thing you've kept hidden away for ten years.

A white lighter.

When Yoongi left, you threw away everything that reminded you of him. The photos, the letters, the gifts, the promises. Everything except this.

The lighter he gave you after carefully scratching both your initials onto its glossy surface.

Your thumb traces the faded engraving.

Y.G ♥ Y.N

The letters are worn with age, but they're still there.

Just like the memories.

Carefully, you place the lighter on top of the concrete bench and stare at it for a long moment. It looks strangely small sitting there alone, abandoned beneath the tree that once sheltered your secrets. Maybe that's fitting. Maybe some things are meant to remain in the places where they belonged.

Before your courage can fail, you turn around.

You don't look back.

Not at the bench.

Not at the tree.

Not at the lighter.

You make it all the way to your car, forcing yourself to swallow every remaining tear before climbing inside. Then you start the engine and drive away from the school, away from the memories, away from the version of yourself that spent years wondering what could have been.

And when you finally make it home, the lights are still on.

Jun is waiting for you.

Just as he always does.

— chapter fifteen

You nervously play with the ring on your finger as you pass by the huge buildings scattered along the busy highways of Seoul. Streetlights illuminate your face as your heart rate goes crazy by the second.

This is your first time in Seoul.

Ironic to think, actually. You're this big corporate girl who works for a company mainly situated in the biggest cities of your country and overseas, yet you haven't visited this city before, and you know the reason why.

Three years ago, you were offered a position at the office tucked away on the outskirts of Yongsan, complete with a huge salary, benefits, and housing. But you refused, saying that you weren't ready to leave your parents in Daegu, as well as your boyfriend then, fiancé now.

But who were you kidding anyway?

You knew that you were afraid to reside in the same city as the guy who broke your heart ten years ago, who was rarely even in the country to begin with.

In the last ten years, without much resolve, you've watched Yoongi's career climb to its peak. Who would've thought that the guy who used to make mixtapes sold for next to nothing would become one of the most sought-after producers and artists internationally?

And to see him reach his dream together with his friends, you cannot help but think that he left you for the best.

That all the heartbreak and relationship trauma etched into you were worth it.

All these years, you thought that March in Daegu was the worst, seeing all his posters and murals in every corner of the streets to celebrate his birthday. But clearly, you were wrong about that too, because March in Seoul is by far the worst of the worst.

Lamp posts are dressed in his posters, establishments wave his mini billboards, and bus stops and subway stations are littered with his pictures just for his birthday.

Your mind goes back to the first and last time you celebrated his birthday together. You haven't thought about it in years, but now you're curious to know whether he still has the guitar you gifted him, or if he left it behind in his house in Daegu.

Or maybe he discarded it long ago.

A bitter smile crosses your face when the image of him looking so happy while receiving the damn guitar passes through your mind.

"We're here," the taxi driver announces as the car halts in front of the hotel arranged by your company, which will be your home for the next twelve days.

Your suitcases are hauled out of the taxi, and the hotel staff welcome you and help you settle into your suite.

While lying in bed, you question yourself about how you ended up here tonight.

The answer is simple.

Your company has received one of its biggest contracts in the last decade.

As per your Regional Manager, Nabi, a very famous artist wants to commission your company to collaborate on a product that will soon hit the market. A food product wrapped around a public figure's name is not uncommon nowadays, but this one is different.

The identity of the artist has remained within the corners of the corporate offices and was never mentioned in any of the documents linked to this project that you've seen so far.

The anonymity is due to the significance of the project and, according to your boss, the artist and their company don't want anything leaking to the public before it is even greenlit.

Therefore, the stockpile of NDAs scattered throughout the corporate office makes sense.

Nabi should've been the one in your position right now, but with her being eight months pregnant, she decided not to stay far away from home, even if this project could mean a huge bonus and an instant promotion.

And you, being the Team Lead Researcher and one of the company's most valuable employees in the last five years, were chosen to replace the most qualified candidate.

You check yourself one last time in front of the mirror before heading out to start your first day of work in Seoul.

Your first agenda is to meet the team from your company based in Yongsan, the people you'll be working with throughout the entirety of this project.

Then you're scheduled for an afternoon meeting with the client's team and maybe, as stated in the email last week, the artist will be present if there are no conflicts in their schedule.

The morning meet-and-greet goes great.

You are officially working with a team of six, including yourself, and the awesome thing about all this is that you'll be working with people within your age bracket, along with a few who are younger.

Which only means one thing.

All the ideas that will flow through your vision board will be nothing but trendy and timely, and you're looking forward to it.

Your company has arranged an exclusive car service at your disposal at any given time, as long as it's connected to this project, which is a huge relief since you're not familiar with the roads and highways of Seoul.

The car stops in front of a massive, luxurious building, prompting everyone to get out.

A staff member is already waiting at the car bay to welcome and escort your team inside. But before you can even lift your head toward the tall façade of the building to see the huge illuminated sign, the name and logo written on the employee's ID catch your eye.

And with that, your blood runs cold.

There's no way.

No fucking way.

Your head snaps upward so fast to double-check that your vision isn't playing tricks on you. If it were possible to get whiplash from how aggressive your movement was, you'd have it by now.

There, right in front of your eyes, you read:

HYBE.

It is the company that handles BTS.

That handles Yoongi.

Min Yoongi.

Fuck.

There is no way, right?

Your mind is everywhere while your heart is doing somersaults as you drag your feet behind the others.

You try to psych yourself up, reminding yourself that aside from BTS, there are plenty of artists and groups under this company who are also internationally famous.

There is no way BTS would release some food collaboration.

No.

They're bigger than that.

Right?

Your attention snaps back to reality as each of your team members starts setting up their laptops and iPads.

You haven't even realized that you're already sitting in one of the chairs at the long table stretched across a mid-sized meeting room, with a projector set up at the far end beside the door.

An employee from HYBE, whom you assume is taking the lead on the client's side of the project, starts rambling words you can't seem to understand.

Your focus isn't in this room.

Your heart hasn't calmed down since arriving.

There's a faint ringing in your ears, and your hands are becoming clammy.

Out of habit, you start fidgeting with your engagement ring.

You keep twisting it around your finger as if it's helping you calm the fuck down.

The rest of your team starts lightly clapping, accompanied by enthusiastic and excited expressions.

The Group Leader Researcher on your team nudges you lightly with her elbow, a wide grin plastered across her face.

"Huh?" you ask, looking at her in confusion.

"She said we'll be meeting the artist today because they happen to be free for the rest of the day," she whispers.

And with that, a loud commotion starts flowing through the hallway.

Overlapping conversations and noise can be heard inside the meeting room through the fully open door.

You scan the hallway, following the origin of the noise.

Your eyes fixate on the first person to appear at the end of the corridor.

With his blinding smile, you immediately recognize Hoseok.

Fuck.

Trailing behind him, your gaze lands on a face with pale skin and the softest eyes you've ever seen in your life.

Yoongi.

Your breath hitches.

No.

You stop breathing altogether.

You want to look away, but you can't.

It's been ten years since you last saw him in person.

You want to laugh at yourself for being struck by how much his appearance has changed over the years when you've literally been seeing his pictures everywhere since he debuted.

His eyes land on you as he walks through the door and, damn, you notice how he stops in his tracks.

How his eyes widen ever so slightly.

How his mouth parts just a little.

An expression passes over his face that you can't recognize.

Guilt?

Sadness?

Longing?

You cannot read him.

And God forbid, you want to know exactly what thoughts are running through his mind right now.

Is he expecting to see you?

Is he delighted?

Shocked?

Upset?

In your peripheral vision, you know that Hoseok and Namjoon are looking at you too, but your attention remains locked on the man whose eyes are fixed on yours.

Your team members stand and start shaking hands with the seven overly famous artists who have just entered the room.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

Taking the deepest breath of your life, you do your best to compose yourself and, without hesitation, sneakily remove the shiny engagement ring from your finger and tuck it deep inside your pocket before shaking hands with the first man you ever loved.

a/n. SURPRISEEEEE! the original three-parter series will be having a part four! (look at that) 

a lot has happened to me in the two-ish months, some of which causes the delay of the part three. i also experienced the worst writing slump this year 😭 while i appreciate all the people who are asking when's the next update, i also feel a little guilty with how long this has been taking.

so, i did my best to deliver something because i love you all so much!! 🥹 i know this update is a little shorter than the previous ones, but really, i wanted to give something out (that's the reason why we will be having part four mehehe)

anyways,

as always, please let me know your thoughts! 💗 comments, suggestions, constructive criticisms are much welcome and appreciated. 

i wanted to hear your thoughts, opinion(?), anything especially on this update. and i just hope you like it as much 🫶🏻🫶🏻

WHAT'S NEW FOR PART FOUR?

i am changing my writing style (hope it's an upgrade, not a downgrade) i've been meaning to, since i am really eager to be better at writing, and also, WE WILL BE HAVING YOONGI'S POV!! how exciting is that? 👀

You have learned most of what you know about patience from things that cannot be hurried. You have also learned it from fifteen years of Kim Seokjin, which amounts to approximately the same education.

There is also a sugar work technique — unforgiving, not widely taught, will burn you if you do it wrong — where you pull hot caramel until it turns translucent and it looks like spun glass, like something that should not exist, and you have about four minutes before it sets and after that it is whatever shape it decided to be. 

You either made the thing you meant to make or you didn't. 

The timer is not a suggestion. Cameron, your right hand at the bakery, has burned it twice. You have told him the same thing both times: the problem is not the heat. The problem is that it looks perfect a full thirty seconds before it's ready. You will think you caught it in time. You will think, standing there watching it, that everything is fine.

And then it tips. And then it's burned. And then you have a lesson instead of a dessert.

Do not let it tell you it's fine just because it looks fine.

The stainless prep table in the back of your bakery is cold against your palms.

You know this because your hands are flat on it, braced, and your husband has his mouth at your throat and his hands in your hair and the specific relentless focus he is currently applying to taking you apart against your own equipment is the clearest indicator you've had in three weeks that something, underneath all of this, is... wrong.

But you don't know exactly what.

The memory surfaces the way it always does in this light — the yellow-low warmth of a kitchen after hours, the particular smell of broth and sesame and something sweet underneath, and the fact that your bakery at midnight smells nothing like your parents' restaurant and yet somehow always takes you back there.

You were nineteen. Working the floor between semesters, which your father considered a perfectly complete education in itself.

"Why pay someone else to teach you what three generations of this family already know?" he had said, gesturing at the restaurant with the pride of a man who had built something real with his hands and genuinely could not understand why that wouldn't be enough for everyone.

You hadn't answered him, because the honest answer was: because I want to make things that have never existed before, and this place already knows exactly what it wants to be. The culinary school brochure was under your mattress. Your dad thought your mom had thrown it away. Your mom had not thrown it away.

You loved your parents' restaurant. You also knew, with the particular certainty of someone who was the youngest in your family and therefore had significant experience identifying the difference between what a room expects from you and what you actually want — you knew it was not where you were going to stay.

But you were there that Tuesday. Apron on, order pad in hand, when the door opened and all seven of them walked in.

You had grown up with three older brothers. Loud was not a condition that alarmed you.

Loud was a Tuesday.

These seven were a specific kind of loud — young and hungry and slightly chaotic, the energy of people who are working toward something they can feel but not quite see yet, and the wanting of it is coming out of them sideways. They took up a table that was technically for four. Nobody mentioned this. The tallest one with the soft eyes had already knocked over a water glass and caught it before it landed. The one in the beanie was arguing with two others simultaneously about something that seemed to involve a choreography count. One of them — round-faced, the youngest-looking, enormous eyes — was reading the menu with the concentration of someone defusing something.

You went over.

Seven heads turned.

You noticed him before you noticed the rest of them.

That was not typical. Three older brothers and a restaurant full of people every night had cured you of most things, boys included. The others were cute — young and bright-eyed and fidgety, the kind of fidgety that comes from having somewhere to be and trying not to show it. But they were boys. And then there was him.

He was the same age as you, maybe — that was your first thought, because he had the kind of face that stopped you mid-step on a street, the kind that made you do a small involuntary recalculation of what you'd been planning to do next. Broad shoulders. Easy posture. Already looking at you when you arrived at the table.

You realized, approximately two seconds later, that you were staring.

He was smirking. Slow, unhurried, completely shameless — not mean about it, just aware, comfortable letting you know he'd noticed.

You looked down at your order pad. Composed, you thought. Immediately.

"What can I get you?" you said.

He held your gaze for exactly one beat longer than necessary — and then something shifted, just slightly, a flicker behind the confidence, there and gone before you could name it. Not embarrassment. Something closer to a decision being made quickly.

"Galbitang," he said. "Three bowls."

Three bowls. Seven people.

He said it easily, the smirk still mostly in place, but his eyes did a thing — a quick, almost imperceptible thing, like he was already aware of what you might be counting and was very much hoping the face would be enough of a distraction.

It was a decent attempt.

You wrote it down without comment. Around the table, shoulders dropped. A breath or two released. The youngest-looking one stopped gripping his menu. They had been braced for something — you could see it in the way they all exhaled at once, the way nobody quite looked at you — and you understood immediately. They'd counted the money before they came in. They'd made the calculation. They were hoping you wouldn't say it out loud.

You didn't say it out loud.

You were walking back to the kitchen when the laugh hit you — big, uncontained, the kind of laugh that happens to a room and not just in it — and you glanced back without meaning to.

He was laughing at something the beanie one had said with his whole body like he'd never learned to do it any other way. And then, as if he felt it, he looked up. Directly at you. And the laugh didn't stop — it just shifted, got a little more deliberate, and he raised an eyebrow.

You looked away first.

You told yourself that meant nothing.

Your mother noticed them before the food was ready.

This was how your mother operated: she noticed everything and responded to what she noticed through portion sizes. It was her primary language. A table she liked got served more food than they ordered. A table she didn't like got the correct amount and no more. The galbitang came out in three bowls that were, conservatively, large enough to concern you from a logistics standpoint, and then she kept going — banchan arriving in waves, small dish after small dish, the pickled cucumbers and the braised potatoes and the japchae and something she pulled from the back that wasn't even on the menu today.

"Eomma," you said, in the kitchen, watching her plate. "They ordered three bowls."

"They're eating seven," she said, not looking up.

"We can't —"

"From the house," she said. Which meant: I have decided this and it is not a discussion. "Good kids. Look at them."

You looked at them through the pass. The youngest-looking one had stopped reading the menu and was now taking a photo of the food with a phone he was holding very carefully, the way people hold things they are afraid of dropping. The one with the silver earrings was dividing one bowl into smaller portions with the practiced efficiency of someone who had done this before. The tall one with the mohawk was explaining something to the one next to him with enormous hand gestures, and when the banchan started arriving his face did something very genuine and unguarded, something that looked like relief.

"Good kids," your mother said again, and went back to the kitchen.

The banchan was not from the house. You knew this because you knew every dish your mother kept back there, and at least two of those plates had been intended for the dinner service. She had decided, somewhere in the thirty seconds of watching them, that they needed it more.

He came to the counter to pay.

You watched him gather the bill from the table — watched him do it in a specific way, lifting it before anyone else could reach for it, saying something that made the one with the silver hair roll his eyes and the youngest-looking one grin.

"Aish — hyung's got it," he said, loud enough that you heard it from across the restaurant, and the resulting cheer from the table was completely disproportionate to what had happened.

He came to the counter. Up close he was more — more everything, really. The kind of face that was slightly unfair, and he seemed to be aware of this in the comfortable way of someone who had made peace with an advantage early and stopped thinking about it.

Then he put a card on the counter.

Black. The kind that didn't have a limit printed on it because people who carry them don't need to see the number.

You looked at the card. You looked at him. You didn't say anything.

He looked, for approximately half a second, like he was going to explain it. Then he didn't, which was the right call.

You processed the payment.

"Thank you," he said. And then: "This place is great."

"It's been here for thirty years," you said.

"I can tell. It tastes like — " He paused, searching. "Like someone actually cares what you think of it."

You looked at him.

"What's your name?" he said.

"Y/N," you said.

"Seokjin," he said.

"I didn't ask," you said.

He laughed — the real one, the full-body one, surprised out of him — and you felt it land somewhere in your chest and told yourself firmly that was not relevant information.

His eyes went to the small shelf behind you where you kept the things you made yourself, separate from the restaurant menu. Your bread. A few pastries. Things that had no business being in a galbitang restaurant, which your father had mentioned, and which you had responded to by putting up a small handwritten sign that said baked fresh daily and continuing to make them.

"You sell bread here?" he said.

"I make it," you said.

"You make it," he repeated, like this was interesting to him specifically. His eyes moved along the shelf. "What's that one?"

"Pain au chocolat."

He looked at it. He looked at you. "Can I—"

He looked at the pain au chocolat for a moment, then at you.

"I'll take it," he said.

You put it in a small paper bag and slid it across the counter. He reached for it and then — instead of picking it up like a normal person — grabbed the top of the bag between his teeth, both hands occupied tucking his wallet back into his pocket, and the move was so casually, effortlessly ridiculous that you almost missed the way his eyes cut back up to yours.

He caught you watching his mouth.

The wink was slow. Unhurried. The full deployment of someone who had done this before and knew exactly what it did.

And something in you went: oh, so that's how it is.

You tilted your head. Let your eyes drop — deliberately, slowly — to his lips. Held it there just long enough to be a statement. Then looked back up.

The wink died.

The color started at his neck and moved fast — ears, jaw, the tips of his cheekbones going pink so quickly it was almost impressive. He turned. Walked toward the door. Clipped the edge of a chair on his way and grabbed it before it fell, not looking back, not stopping, the back of his neck still completely red.

The door closed behind him.

You laughed out loud — surprised out of it, genuine, the kind that happens before you decide to. So the flirting was a performance. The confidence was real but the landing wasn't, not when someone gave it back to him, and he was something, he was truly something, and you were still smiling when you turned back to the counter and found approximately six things that needed doing.

You didn't know it then — you were still laughing, still turning back to the counter, still recalibrating — but when you glanced up a moment later, all six of them were already through the door.

All six.

The seventh was still inside.

He was by the door, beanie pulled low, hands in his pockets, and he was looking at you with an expression that wasn't performing anything at all. Just looking. The kind of looking that doesn't know it's been caught yet.

Your mother came out from the kitchen with a rag and a expression that missed nothing.

He noticed her notice him.

The embarrassment was immediate and total — he dropped his eyes, ducked his head, and was out the door before you'd fully processed that he'd been there. No smile. No wink. Just a boy in a beanie who had stayed one second longer than the rest of them and then left like the floor had shifted under him.

You stared at the closed door for a moment.

"Good kids," your mother said, already collecting plates from their table, not looking up. There was barely anything left — seven people, three bowls, everything she'd sent out from the house, gone. "They'll come back."

You picked up a side dish someone had finished down to the last drop of sauce.

"Maybe," you said.

They came back the next Tuesday. And the one after that.

It had been bothering you since three in the afternoon and you couldn't put your finger on why.

Not the pastry — the pastry was coming along, a brown butter tart with a black sesame base that Cameron had declared a masterpiece-in-progress before leaving at six, which was high praise from a man who considered his own opinions definitive. The pastry was fine. The pastry was actually almost there, which you knew because you'd been staring at it for two hours making very small adjustments and it kept getting better, and that was not the problem.

The problem was your husband.

Specifically: the version of your husband you'd seen this morning, which was the loud version, the full-performance Jin, the one who took up every available inch of the kitchen doing a bit about the coffee machine that had made you laugh hard enough to spill yours, who had kissed you on his way out with the energy of a man auditioning for the role of World's Most Charming Person, who had said something so absurd on his way through the door that you'd still been smiling about it on the drive in.

You knew that version of him better than almost anyone.

You had also, from approximately the third Tuesday he walked into your parents' restaurant, understood that it was a version. Not fake — he was genuinely funny, genuinely warm, the performance and the person were not so far apart that it was a lie. But the real him was quieter. Calmer. The one who sat on the kitchen counter at midnight not saying anything in particular and didn't need to. The one whose humor settled into something dryer and more offhand when he stopped performing it. The one who looked at you sometimes like you were a problem he was very glad to have.

You had clocked him at nineteen across a restaurant counter and you had never unclocked him since.

So when Kim Seokjin was being very, very funny, you paid attention to what he was being funny about. And this morning he had been funny about everything, which meant he was thinking hard about something, and whatever it was he hadn't offered it yet and you hadn't asked because you knew the shape of him well enough to know when to wait.

You piped a clean line of sesame cream and told yourself to leave it alone for tonight.

Three knocks on the back door. His rhythm. You'd know it in a coma.

You looked at the clock. 11:43.

You unlocked the door.

He leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, and looked at you with the expression that had been making you recalibrate since you were nineteen years old.

"My wife is in here," he said. "I saw the light."

"Your wife is working," you said, and left the door open behind you, which he correctly interpreted as an invitation.

He came in. Looked around. Looked at you. His eyes went to the tart on the counter with the focused attention of a man who has located something he wants and is deciding on his approach.

"Don't," you said.

"I haven't done anything."

"You're thinking about it."

"I'm thinking about a lot of things," he said, moving toward the testing station with the casualness of someone who believed if you moved slowly enough it didn't count as stealing. "I'm a complex person."

"Touch that tart and I will end you."

He stopped. Pivoted smoothly. Looked at you instead. "Can I touch you?"

"That's a completely different conversation."

"I'm very good at conversations." He was in the kitchen properly now, the way he always was in your kitchen — taking up all the available space without appearing to try, gravitating toward wherever you were standing the way he always had, since before either of you had acknowledged it was a thing he did. He stopped next to you and looked at the tart with what was almost respect. "What is this one?"

"Brown butter, black sesame, miso caramel."

"When's it going on the menu?"

"When I decide it's ready."

"It looks ready."

"It looked ready an hour ago too. I'm not rushing it."

He made a sound that was not agreement and not disagreement and was mostly just him being in your space, which was, you were aware, entirely intentional. You piped another line. He watched. This was also a thing he had always done — watched you work with the patient, genuine attention of someone who found it interesting and wasn't performing the finding.

The quiet lasted about forty seconds, which was about as long as he ever let a quiet last when he was avoiding something.

"So," he said, in the voice he used for announcements.

"So," you said.

"I'm here on official business."

You looked up at him. He was trying not to smile, which meant he was about to say something ridiculous. You knew this. You braced accordingly.

"The members know," he said. "We agreed there's never going to be a right time. There's always another album, always another tour, always something." He paused. "So I thought —" another pause, pure theatre, he was absolutely milking this — "that tonight is a very good night for someone to put a bun in the oven."

You stared at him.

"You're in a bakery," he said, gesturing around at your bakery. "You put buns in the oven. Professionally. It's practically in your job description." He tilted his head. "I'm here to assist."

"You," you said, "are unbelievable."

"I'm also," he said, closing the remaining distance between you with the confidence of a man who knew exactly how this was going to go, "the only one here who can help you with this particular recipe."

"That is the worst —"

"I know."

"— the absolute worst —"

"I know." His hands found your waist. "Is it working?"

You looked at him. The full Jin. The loud, funny, charming, completely shameless face that you had seen through at nineteen and loved every day since — and underneath it, right now, something that was just him, just Seokjin, quieter and more certain, looking at you like you were the only fixed point in whatever was going on in his head tonight.

Something is wrong, you thought. And then his mouth was at your throat and your hands were flat on the prep table and you thought: I'll ask him later.

The thing about Kim Seokjin — the thing that had taken you approximately three weeks to understand at nineteen and which had never stopped being true — is that he contained multitudes, and those multitudes were fully operational in every context, including extensively, this one.

He was loud. He had always been loud. The kind of man who said exactly what he wanted in a voice that suggested he had never once been embarrassed about wanting it, who would tell you in specific and unambiguous terms what he was going to do and then do it, who had weaponized the sound of his own voice in ways that should be illegal and were definitely immoral and which you had absolutely zero complaints about.

He was also — and this was the part that got you every time, still, ten years in — completely undone by you. You knew exactly what it took. You had always known. And there was a particular satisfaction in being the person who could take someone that large and confident and shameless and reduce him, through targeted application of what ten years had taught you, to something considerably less composed.

It was genuinely one of your favorite hobbies.

His mouth was warm at your throat and his hands were at your waist and you had approximately four things on your mental list for tonight that were not this, and then he did something very specific with his mouth and the list evaporated.

"I still have work," you said, into the air above his head.

"Mm," he said, which was not an acknowledgment, it was a noise he made when he was not listening and knew you knew he wasn't listening and had decided this was fine.

"The tart needs —"

"The tart is fine."

"You haven't even tried it."

He pulled back just enough to look at you. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached sideways, picked up the testing spoon off the station, and ate what was on it. His expression shifted — the eyes closing briefly, the specific unguarded reaction he had to food you made that he had never once been able to fake and had never tried to. A sound escaped him that had no business occurring in a professional kitchen.

"The tart," he said, setting the spoon down, "is incredible and it's done and you know it's done."

"That's not —"

"You've been here since seven AM."

"I open at seven, I get here at —"

"You've been here since six," he said. "Cameron told me."

You made a mental note to speak to Cameron about loyalty.

Jin's hands moved from your waist to the prep table on either side of you, not caging, just — present, the way he was always present, filling up the available space until there was just him and you and the low hum of the proofing oven and the city outside not knowing any of this was happening.

"Hi," he said, quieter.

Not the Jin voice. The other one.

"Hi," you said.

He looked at you for a moment — really looked, the way he did when he wasn't performing anything, when it was just the two of you and the late hour and ten years of knowing each other down to the bone. Something in his face was tired in a way that the loud morning version had not let you see. Something that had been running underneath the bit about the coffee machine and the kiss on your way out and all the very funny things he'd said today that had kept you from being able to put your finger on it until now.

There it is, you thought. There's the thing.

You didn't say it.

You reached up and pushed his hair back off his forehead, the way you had done ten thousand times, and he leaned into it without thinking, the way he always did, like your hands on him was a reflex he'd stopped being able to help a long time ago.

"You came all the way here," you said.

"You were here," he said. Simply. Like that was the complete explanation. Like it was.

He kissed you then — not the throat thing, not the performance, just a kiss, slow and certain, the kind that had nothing to prove and knew it. You kissed him back. His hands came up off the table and found your face, tilting it up toward his, and you felt him exhale against you like something released.

You would ask him later. You would ask him tonight, on the drive home, or tomorrow in the kitchen, or whenever he was ready to put it down and let you see it. You knew how to wait. You had always known how to wait for him to find the door.

But he had come here. At 11:43 on a Tuesday he had gotten in his car and come to where you were, because that was what he did, had always done, since he was a boy with a loud laugh and a black card he was slightly embarrassed about who kept finding reasons to come back.

You pulled back just enough to look at him.

"There's never going to be a right time," you said.

Something in his face shifted. "No," he said.

"Another tour. Another album."

"Always," he said.

"So." You held his gaze. "We decided."

The tired thing in his face didn't go away. But something else came up alongside it — warm, certain, the real smile, not the performance one — and he said, "We decided," and kissed you again and this time it was not slow, and his hands moved, and yours did too, and the brown butter tart sat finished and ignored on the counter behind you while the proofing oven hummed and the city outside carried on without you.

He walked you back until your hands hit the cold prep table.

"I have been working on that table all day," you said, against his mouth.

He looked at you.

The look said: and?

"Seokjin —"

He lifted you onto it like the objection was a formality you were both observing out of politeness, and you decided, comprehensively, that it was.

The prep table was cold.

You registered this distantly, the way you registered things when Kim Seokjin was looking at you like that — as information, present but not particularly relevant, filed somewhere behind the much more immediate fact of his hands and his mouth and the ten years of accumulated knowledge he was currently applying to making you forget you had ever cared about anything else.

"Hi," he said again, against your jaw. Lower this time.

"You already said that," you managed.

"I like saying it." His mouth moved to your throat. "Hi. Hi. Hi." Each one punctuated, deliberate, working down. "My wife is so —" a sound escaped him that was not a word, more like something that had outrun language — "I cannot believe you're real."

"Seokjin —"

"Ten years," he said, into your collarbone. "Ten years and I still —" he pulled back enough to look at you, and his face was the undone version, all that careful loudness gone quiet — "every single day I think, that's my wife. She chose me. She keeps choosing me." He shook his head slightly. "Insane. You're insane. I love you."

"I love you," you said. "You're also insane."

"Deeply," he agreed, and kissed you.

His mouth had been the problem since the beginning. Since a Tuesday afternoon in your parents' restaurant when he'd grabbed a paper bag between his teeth and looked up at you and you'd had to actively reconstruct your own personality. Ten years later and you were still reconstructing. You had made peace with this.

He kissed like he did everything else — with his whole self, no reservations, the kind of kiss that made it very clear he had nowhere else to be and nothing else he'd rather be doing. His hands moved to the knot of your apron and he pulled back just enough to look at you with the specific question that he had asked with his eyes approximately ten thousand times and would apparently never stop asking with his eyes despite the fact that the answer had not changed once.

"Yes," you said, before he could.

He grinned. "I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was," he agreed, and your shirt was gone.

He took off your apron first.

His hands found the knot at your back without looking, unfastening it with the ease of someone who had done it enough times that his hands knew the way without being asked. Which he had. Which they did. He dropped it somewhere behind him without checking where it landed and moved to your shirt next, and then your bra, and he was — as he had always been, infuriatingly, consistently — extremely good at this, the kind of good that came from ten years of dedicated practice and genuine enthusiasm, and he did not hide how pleased he was about it, not even a little.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your jeans.

"Wait," you said.

He looked up.

"Don't you think it's a bit unfair," you said, "that you get to have me completely naked in my own kitchen while you're still fully dressed?"

He took one step back.

You missed the heat of him immediately and absolutely did not say so.

He placed one hand on his chest, a gesture of theatrical gravity, and said: "Mrs. Kim." A pause for effect, because he was Kim Seokjin and he would always pause for effect. "Do you have any idea how much people would pay to see all of this?" He gestured at himself, a slow top-to-bottom motion that managed to be simultaneously ridiculous and completely justified. "So." The eyebrows went up. "What are you offering?"

You stared at him.

"Seokjin," you said. "I swear to God I will go home right now if you don't take off that hoodie."

He laughed — the real one, loose and warm — and closed the distance between you again. "So bossy," he said, and reached behind his head, grabbed the back of the hoodie, and pulled it off in one motion.

You did not hide your face.

You had decided, approximately the first time you'd seen him like this, that hiding your face was a battle not worth fighting. Ten years had not changed the situation. If anything ten years had made it worse, which should not have been possible and yet here you were, doing the same involuntary recalculation you'd been doing since you were nineteen.

He noticed. He always noticed. The smile that crossed his face was slow and warm and only slightly smug, which for him was restraint.

"Now," he said, stepping back into your space, hands returning to your waist, voice dropping into the register that had also been causing you problems since you were nineteen. "Can I please fuck my wife in peace?"

"Yes," you said. "But you're helping me clean and disinfect this entire surface afterward."

"I promise." He kissed the corner of your mouth. "Babe."

"Don't call me —"

He kissed you properly and the objection dissolved, which he had been counting on, which you were aware he had been counting on, and which you allowed because some things were simply not worth fighting and this was one of them.

His hands moved. Yours did too.

The jeans went.

"Insane," he said again, quieter. Then his mouth was at your collarbone and moving down and you stopped thinking about much else.

His hands found your waist and moved lower, and his fingers — his infuriating, talented, completely unreasonable fingers — found exactly where they were going with the confidence of ten years of detailed research, and you made a sound that you would be taking to your grave.

He pulled back to look at your face.

The expression he was wearing should have been illegal. Satisfied didn't cover it. It was the expression of a man who had just been proven right about something he had never doubted, which was worse, which had always been worse, because Kim Seokjin confident was one thing but Kim Seokjin vindicated was something else entirely.

Two fingers, deep, moving at a pace that was specifically, deliberately calibrated to undo you, and the worst part — the part you would never say out loud and he would never need you to say out loud because he already knew — was that it was going to work embarrassingly fast. It was always embarrassingly fast when he touched you like this, had been since the beginning, something about the combination of his hands and that look on his face and the ten years of him knowing you so completely that your body simply stopped pretending it had any resistance left.

He knew this.

"There she is," he said.

"Don't," you said.

"My wife," he said, to no one in particular, the way he sometimes narrated his own life when something was going well. "Look at her."

"Seokjin, I swear to god —"

"I'm looking," he said. "I'm allowed to look. You are my wife and you are beautiful." His hands moved and you inhaled sharply and his expression got worse, more satisfied, more devastating. "Hi," he said again, softly, watching your face. "Hi, love."

"Stop saying hi —"

"Tell me to stop and mean it."

You didn't tell him to stop.

"I'm not doing anything," he said. His fingers moved and your head dropped back and he made a soft sound that was almost reverent. "Look at you." Quieter now, the smugness folding into something warmer underneath. "All this time and you still —" the fingers curled and the sentence you were going to say became a sound instead and he exhaled slowly like he was the one coming undone. "God, I love you. I love you so much. You have no idea —"

"Seokjin —"

"Tell me." The pace shifted and your grip on his shoulders tightened and he watched your face like it was the only thing in the room. "Tell me."

"I love you," you said, because it was true and because he asked and because with him it had never been a thing you needed to think about, just the most accurate sentence you knew. "I love you, don't stop, I love you —"

"I know," he said, soft and certain, lips at your temple. "I know. I've got you." His thumb moved and you stopped being able to form words entirely. "I've always got you."

He found the bowl of brown butter cream on the counter behind you — your testing bowl, the one Cameron had declared magnificent, the one you'd been adjusting for two hours — and dipped two fingers into it, and looked at you.

"Don't you dare," you said.

The look on his face was slow. Unhurried. Completely without shame.

He spread it in a slow, deliberate line down your throat, across your collarbone, lower, and then followed it with his mouth, and the sound he made when he tasted it — the same sound as the testing spoon, the genuine unguarded one, except layered now with something else entirely — dissolved what remained of your ability to form complete thoughts.

"Perfect," he said, against your skin. "It's perfect. It's done. Put it on the menu."

"I hate you," you breathed.

"No you don't." His mouth moved. "You love me. You tell me all the time." Another movement. "Tell me again."

"I love you," you said, because you did, because it was simply the truest thing and always had been and you had never seen the point in withholding true things from him. "I love you, you absolute menace, I love you —"

"Again," he said.

"Seokjin —"

"I like hearing it." His mouth found a place that made you grip the edge of the table. "Again."

"I love you," you said, and it came out wrecked, and he made a sound against you that meant he knew exactly what he'd done and was not remotely sorry.

He was loud.

He had always been loud. This was not new information — you had known this since approximately month two, which was also when you had understood that the shameless confidence was real and not a performance, that Kim Seokjin in private was if anything worse than Kim Seokjin in public, which was saying something, which had taken some adjusting to, which you had adjusted to completely and then some.

He talked. He had always talked, told you what he wanted in a voice that suggested the wanting was the most natural thing in the world, said your name the way he said everything — like it was worth saying properly, like he had decided early that he was never going to be embarrassed about any of this and had fully committed. He told you you were beautiful approximately four times in the span of ten minutes with the sincerity of someone saying it for the first time every time, and you believed him every time, which was its own kind of problem.

And then you got your hands on him and he came apart and that — that was the other thing about Kim Seokjin, the thing that lived on the other side of the loudness and the confidence and the complete shamelessness — he was undone by you specifically, had always been undone by you specifically, in a way that was clearly involuntary and clearly had not decreased in ten years and clearly was not going to.

The whimper that escaped him when your hands moved was soft and genuine and did something devastating to your chest.

"Hey," you said.

"Don't," he said, into your hair. "Don't say anything."

"I wasn't going to say anything."

"You were going to say something smug."

"I was going to say I love you."

A pause. His arms tightened around you.

"Oh," he said. Quieter. "Okay."

"I love you," you said.

"I love you," he said, muffled, face pressed to your hair. "I love you so much it's genuinely embarrassing. Ten years and it's worse. It just keeps getting —" your hands moved and the sentence dissolved into something that was not words.

You smiled against his shoulder.

"I know," you said.

"Okay," he said, at some point, pulling back to look at you with the focused attention of a man who has made a decision. "We had a plan."

"We had a plan," you agreed.

"The bun."

"The oven."

"Exactly." He looked extremely serious. He was not serious. "This is important work we're doing."

"Critical," you said.

"For the family."

"For the future."

"Jungkook," he said, "is going to be so annoying about being an uncle."

You laughed — surprised out of it — and he caught it with his mouth and kissed you and it went from warm to not warm very quickly and then his hands were moving with considerably more intention and you stopped thinking about Jungkook entirely, which was the correct outcome.

He had always been thorough. The kind of thorough that made you understand, every time, that he was paying attention not just to what worked but to you specifically, the particular inventory of ten years — what made you gasp, what made you say his name, what made you grip his shoulders and forget what you'd been planning to say. He kept all of it. He used all of it. And periodically he looked up at your face with an expression that was equal parts wrecked and wondering, like he was still, even now, slightly amazed by the whole thing.

"You're looking at me," you said.

"I'm always looking at you," he said.

"We're a little busy."

"I can multitask." His mouth curved. "I'm very talented."

"You're very —" he did something and the word dissolved.

"What was that?" he said.

"Don't be smug."

"I'm not smug," he said, doing it again. "I'm appreciative. There's a difference."

There was not a meaningful difference. You chose not to say this because you had lost the ability to construct the sentence.

Afterward, the bakery was very quiet.

You were both on the floor — not planned, the floor had simply been where you ended up, which had happened before and would happen again — and he had his back against the cabinet and you were against him and his arms were around you and neither of you was saying anything, which with Kim Seokjin meant something, because Kim Seokjin always said something.

His hand moved slowly up and down your arm.

"Hi," he said, into your hair.

You laughed. "Hi."

"My wife."

"Your wife," you confirmed.

A long pause. His chin rested on top of your head. Outside, Seoul was doing its late night things, indifferent and ongoing, and in here it was just the two of you and the hum of the proofing oven and the brown butter tart on the counter that was definitely done and definitely going on the menu.

"I love you," he said. Not performing it. Just saying it, the way he said true things — like it was simply the accurate word and he saw no reason not to use it.

"I love you," you said.

His arms tightened slightly. You felt him breathe.

Something is wrong, you thought. The thought that had been sitting with you since three in the afternoon, patient, waiting. You were going to ask him. You were going to find the right moment and knock on whatever door he'd been keeping closed and wait for him to open it, because that was the shape of you two, had always been the shape of you — you knocked, he opened, eventually, in his own time, and you had never once not been let in.

But not right now.

Right now his arms were around you on the floor of your bakery at half past midnight and he was warm and present and here, which was the thing about him, the most load-bearing thing — when it mattered, he came. He had always come. Since he was a boy who kept finding reasons to come back to a restaurant two streets from the old Big Hit building, he had always found his way back to where you were.

"Come home," you said.

"Yeah," he said. "Let's go home."

Neither of you moved for another five minutes.

You were doing your skincare when he started talking.

This was normal. Jin talked the way some people breathed — continuously, naturally, without apparent need for a response, though he always wanted one. You had learned in year one that the correct approach was to keep doing whatever you were doing and answer from wherever you were, and over ten years this had evolved into its own domestic language, conversations held across rooms and through walls and with one of you occasionally disappearing entirely into a closet and still being expected to participate.

You were in the bathroom doorway, toner in hand, and he was on the bed in the specific horizontal position of a man who had decided the day was over and his body was no longer taking requests.

"They are so hopeless," he said, to the ceiling. "All of them. Completely hopeless."

"Mm," you said.

"Jimin." He said the name with the gravity of a diagnosis. "Babe. He built an entire dance center. Curated the whole program. Handpicked every collaborator himself." A pause. "Handpicked her himself. And now he's walking around telling everyone he doesn't know why management assigned him this particular choreographer and she's very challenging to work with."

You looked at him over your shoulder. "He handpicked her?"

"He sent three emails," Jin said. "I saw them. He cc'd me by accident on the second one."

You turned back to the mirror. "He's going to be insufferable about this."

"He's already insufferable about this. He spent forty minutes yesterday explaining to me why their working dynamic is strictly professional." Another pause. "He had a presentation."

"A presentation."

"Slides."

You pressed your lips together.

"And Namjoon —" Jin's voice shifted slightly, the way it always did when he landed on something that was funny and also not. "The Girl-Doctor Friend. Two years, babe. Two years of whatever that was and she just — stopped. Ghosted. Nothing."

"I know," you said, quieter.

"He's fine. He says he's fine." The ceiling received this information. "He is not fine."

"He'll get there."

"He will. He just —" Jin exhaled. "He falls so completely. Like, all the way. It's a lot to watch."

A small silence. You moved on to moisturizer.

"Taehyung," he said, recovering his momentum. "You know what's happening with Taehyung."

"I know what's happening with Taehyung."

"I'm not going to say anything about Taehyung."

"Very wise."

"I'm just going to say that the situation is —" he made a sound that was not a word but communicated clearly — "It's a whole thing."

"It's always a whole thing with him."

"Always." He shifted on the bed. "Oh. Oh, babe. You don't even know about Yoongi."

You turned around. "What about Yoongi?"

He sat up slightly, propping himself on his elbows, with the expression of a man about to deliver news of significant quality. "He told his parents he's dating someone."

You waited.

"The director," he said. "Of the music center. The one with the — he told his parents they're together."

You stared at him. "They're not together."

"They are not together."

"Seokjin."

"I know."

"He told his parents —"

"He told his parents." He fell back against the pillow. "I don't know what happened. I don't know what he was thinking. She agreed, apparently, which — I don't know what she was thinking either."

"Oh my god." You turned back to the mirror because you needed a moment. "He is going to blow that up so badly."

"Spectacularly," Jin agreed, with a fondness that meant he was also terrified for him. "I give it two weeks before someone cries."

"Two weeks is generous."

"I'm a generous person."

You laughed. He smiled at the ceiling.

"And Jungkook," he said, with the energy of someone saving the best for last. "Our Jungkook. The baby. You've seen him lately?"

"I've seen him."

"The Harley."

"I know."

"The tattoos."

"I know, Seokjin."

"The —" he gestured vaguely at his own face to indicate piercings.

"I have eyes," you said. "I've seen him."

"He looks like someone's bad decision," Jin said, "and I mean that with my whole chest as a compliment." He paused. "I thought I was going to be the fun uncle."

You looked at him in the mirror.

"I had plans," he said. "I was going to be so fun. The cool uncle. The one they call when they can't call their parents." He shook his head. "It's going to be Jungkook. It was always going to be Jungkook. I've been replaced by a man with a motorcycle and I haven't even —" he stopped. Recalibrated. "We haven't even started yet."

"We started tonight," you said. "Technically. In my bakery."

"We did," he said. "On your prep table."

"Which you're helped me disinfect."

"Which I absolutely helped you disinfect." A beat.

"How is Hoseok doing?" you said. "Actually doing."

Jin was quiet for a moment. Not the thinking kind of quiet. The kind where he already knows the answer and is deciding how much of it to hand over.

"Not good," he said.

You looked at the ceiling.

"He's trying," Jin said. "You know how he is. He turns it into work, into movement, into — he keeps going. But underneath all of that." He stopped. "Not good."

"Yeah," you said.

A beat.

"How is she doing?" he asked.

You exhaled slowly. "She's not doing any better. And I don't know what to do to help. I keep trying to find the thing and there isn't a thing and it's —" you stopped. "It's hard to watch."

Jin turned toward you in the dark. "Hey," he said, gently. "You can't walk their path for them."

"I know."

"I mean it. You're going to break your own heart trying to fix something that isn't yours to fix." His hand found yours again under the covers. "They have to find their way through it. Same as everyone does."

"Same as we did," you said.

"Same as we did," he said. A pause that was almost a smile. "And we were not any better, let's be honest."

"We were terrible," you said.

"Terrible," he agreed. "Fifteen years we've known each other. Ten together. And those first five —" he made a sound that was part laugh, part something more complicated. "A disaster. Genuinely. I don't know how either of us survived it."

"You were so stubborn," you said.

"You were also stubborn."

"I was waiting for you to figure it out."

"I was —" he paused, reconsidering. "Okay. I was also stubborn." His thumb moved across your knuckles. "The point is, nobody could have helped us through that either. It had to be us. It was always going to have to be us."

You thought about Hoseok. About her. About the particular specific sadness of two people who hadn't found their way to each other yet and didn't know if they were going to.

"I just want them to be okay," you said.

"I know," Jin said. "Me too."

A small silence.

"We turned out okay," he offered.

"We turned out okay," you agreed.

"Better than okay." Another pause, lighter now, the register shifting the way it always did with him, the pivot from real to fond that had always been his way of saying: I've got you, we're okay, come back. "Look at us. Matching pajamas. A Mortgage."

"You did buy us matching pajamas."

"I absolutely did. Last Chuseok. You said they were ugly."

"They were ugly."

"They were couple pajamas," he said, with great dignity. "That's the point. The ugliness is the point." He shifted beside you. "And you wore them."

"You made me."

"You wore them three times after that when I wasn't even home."

You said nothing.

"I have evidence," he said.

"Good night, Seokjin."

He laughed, soft and real, and pulled you slightly closer, and you went, because you always went, because after fifteen years you had stopped pretending you needed convincing.

"Do you really think we're ready?" you said, into the dark.

He turned his head toward you. You could feel it rather than see it.

"I think," he said, carefully, "that I want what you want. If you feel ready, we try. If you don't, we wait." A pause. "I'll wait as long as you need."

You looked at the ceiling.

"I want to try again," you said.

Not we should try. Not I think it's time. Try again. The words landed in the room and he let them, didn't push on what they carried, just received them the way he received things that mattered — completely, without flinching.

"Okay," he said.

"I really want to."

"Okay," he said again, softer. "Then we will." His hand found yours under the covers. "And we're going to have a lot of fun trying." The eyebrows were audible even in the dark. "A lot of fun. Extensively. With great dedication to the cause."

"Good night, Seokjin."

"I'm just saying. The work ethic alone —"

"Good night."

"Weekly minimum, at least. Maybe more. I'm very committed —"

"Seokjin."

"I love you," he said, switching registers without warning the way he always did, dropping from the bit straight into the true thing underneath it, clean and simple and completely meant.

You squeezed his hand.

"I love you too," you said. A pause. "Are you okay?"

The question sat in the dark between you.

He was quiet long enough that you felt it — the shape of something he was turning over, deciding whether to set down or carry a little longer. You knew that silence. You had memorized that silence.

He turned toward you. Kissed you softly, once, his hand coming up to your face in the dark.

"I'm fine," he said, against your mouth. "I will be fine." Another kiss, slower. "I'm just tired, love. The comeback, the schedules, the press — it's been a long stretch." His thumb moved along your jaw. "And I'm going to miss you. When tour starts. I'm already missing you and I haven't left yet."

You put your hand over his.

"Okay," you said. "Get some sleep."

"Yeah," he said.

He kissed your forehead.

"See you in the morning," you said.

"See you in the morning," he said.

He was asleep before you were. Or he was performing it. You lay in the dark next to him and listened to him breathe and thought about caramel, and the thirty seconds where it looks perfect, and the thing underneath the tiredness that he wasn't ready to say yet.

You were going to wait.

But not much longer.

You were almost there — that last soft edge before sleep, the city outside faded to a low hum, his arm warm and heavy across your waist — when he said it.

Quiet. Half-formed. The kind of thing that comes out when the body is already letting go of the day and the guard comes down with it.

"—don't know if I have anything left to give them."

You stilled.

"Seokjin," you said.

Nothing.

You turned over carefully. He was asleep — fully, genuinely asleep, face slack and unguarded, the tiredness that had been living underneath the whole day finally visible now that there was no performance left to hold it back. His breathing was slow and even. He had no idea he'd said it.

You lay there in the dark and looked at him for a long moment.

There it is, you thought. There's the thing.

You didn't sleep for a while after that.

The tart was perfect.

You knew it the moment you cut the first slice — the black sesame base holding clean, the miso caramel exactly where it needed to be, the brown butter coming through on the finish the way you'd been chasing for two weeks. You stood alone in the bakery at six forty-seven in the morning and ate a slice at the counter and felt, for about ninety seconds, like everything was fine.

Then Cameron arrived and you remembered that it wasn't.

He came through the back door already talking, coat half off, the specific morning energy of someone who had been awake and enthusiastic for longer than was reasonable. He stopped when he saw the tart. Walked over. Looked at it the way he looked at things he had been personally rooting for.

"Tell me that's what I think it is," he said.

"Try it," you said.

He grabbed a fork. Tried it. Put the fork down. Looked at you with an expression that was genuinely moved.

"You got it," he said. "You actually got it."

"I got it."

"Okay." He clapped once. "Okay! It's going on the menu. This week. I'm making the sign myself, don't try to stop me."

You laughed despite yourself. "You're not making the sign."

"I'm making the sign," he said, already moving toward the prep station with the energy of someone who had decided. "I have a vision. It involves calligraphy. You're going to love it."

"Cameron —"

"You're going to love it," he said again, warmly, finally, the way he said things he had already decided were true. He pulled on his apron and looked at you properly for the first time since walking in, and his expression softened slightly. "Hey. You okay? You look a little —"

"I'm fine," you said. "I'm good. Just didn't sleep great."

He nodded, easy, not pushing. That was the thing about Cameron — he knew when to and when not to, had always known, which was one of the many reasons you had hired him and one of the many reasons you were glad every day that you had. "Okay. Well. We have a big day so you're gonna need to be at least seventy percent operational by nine."

"I'll be operational."

"The sesame delivery is at nine. And —" he paused, reaching for the order folder, and when he looked up his whole face had changed. "Did you see the Jeong confirmation come through last night?"

You had. You'd seen it at half past eleven, standing in your own bakery with flour on your wrists, and you had stared at it for a full thirty seconds before the reality of it landed.

"I saw it," you said.

"A hundred and twenty guests," he said. "Passed appetizers, full dessert station, centerpiece cake, custom theme." He looked at you. "This is the biggest thing we've done."

"I know."

"The client is —" he stopped, because you had both agreed not to say the name out loud until after the public announcement, a professional courtesy that you were finding genuinely difficult — "significant. Like, very significant."

"I know," you said again.

"So we're going to be —"

"Insane for ten days."

"Insane for ten days," he agreed. "But we're going to be so good." He said it with complete conviction, the kind that wasn't performing confidence but actually had it, and something in you settled slightly because Cameron had never once told you something was going to be okay and been wrong about it. "We've got this. You've got this. This tart alone — if we put this on the dessert station they are going to lose their minds." He pointed at it. "You made that. You've been making things like that your whole life. This is going to be incredible."

You looked at him.

"Thank you," you said, and meant it fully.

"Obviously," he said, and went back to the prep list. "Now. Do you want to go through the order schedule or do you want me to do it while you —" he glanced at you — "take a minute?"

"I'm fine," you said.

"Sure," he said, very gently. "But if you needed a minute, like, your office is right there and I have everything out here completely handled."

You looked at the office door.

"Five minutes," you said.

"Take ten," he said, already turning back to the counter. "I'll start the sesame dough."

You sat down in your office chair and did not do anything for a moment.

The order folder was on the desk. Your phone was in your pocket. Through the wall you could hear Cameron moving around, the familiar sounds of the bakery starting its day, and normally that sound settled you completely, the rhythm of it, the proof that the thing you had built was real and working and yours.

Right now it was just sound.

—don't know if I have anything left to give them.

You had lain awake for a long time after that. Watching the ceiling. Listening to him breathe. Running it back the way you ran recipes back when something wasn't working — looking for the step where it had changed, the moment the thing you thought you were making became something else.

He had been funny this morning. Genuinely funny, the eggs and the spatula and the joke that had made you inhale your coffee, and you had laughed because it was funny and because you loved him and because for twenty minutes the kitchen had been exactly what it always was. And then you'd tried — carefully, casually, just you seemed tired last night — and he'd pivoted so smoothly you'd almost missed it. Almost.

You knew that move.

You had watched him deploy it on interviewers and managers and members and his own mother, the joke arriving precisely when the real thing was getting close to the surface, the laugh like a door closing gently but firmly in your face.

He had never once used it on you before.

That was the part you kept coming back to.

Not what he'd said — though that sat in you heavy and unresolved, the image of him asleep with that half-sentence hanging in the air between you, don't know if I have anything left. But the fact that this morning, for the first time in ten years, he had used the bit on you. Had looked at you across the kitchen and chosen funny over honest and walked out the door.

Like he didn't trust you with it yet.

Or like he didn't trust himself.

You pressed your fingers to your eyes. Breathed.

The sesame dough wasn't going to make itself and you had a catering event in ten days that required you to be completely present and you were going to be completely present because that was what you did — you showed up, you made the thing, you did not fall apart in your own office at seven fifteen in the morning over a half-sentence your husband had said in his sleep.

You were also, under all of that, very scared.

Not of him. Never of him. Scared of the space. The thing you'd been feeling at the edges for weeks and not looking at directly, because looking at it directly would make it real, and you had both been so busy and so full and so fine — or performing fine, which until very recently had felt like approximately the same thing.

What if it wasn't fine.

What if the house being full and the laughter and the late nights at the bakery and all of it — what if underneath all of that something had been quietly, without either of you noticing, going wrong.

And underneath that thought, softer and more private, the one you hadn't said out loud to anyone: you wanted this. The baby. You had wanted it for longer than you'd admitted, even to yourself — had wanted it through another tour and another album and another press cycle and every time someone said there's never going to be a right time you had nodded and agreed and privately thought I know, I know, but I still want it, I want it so much. You had dreamed about it in a way that had nothing to do with timing or logistics, just the simple wanting of it. A life that was already full, fuller still.

You were ready to try again.

The word landed quietly in your chest. Again. Like it always did when you thought it. Like it carried something you weren't ready to put down yet.

You were ready.

You just needed your husband to be okay first.

Your phone buzzed.

Minji: lunch today yes or yes, I have things to tell you and also I need to eat something that isn't a chicken nugget my children are feral

Sooah: lunch. I have news. Not bad news. Weird news. Come.

You looked at the ceiling.

You typed back: yes. 12:30. I have things too.

You put your phone in your pocket. Stood up. Smoothed your apron.

Tonight, you thought. I'm asking him tonight. And he's going to answer me.

You went back out to the bakery.

"Okay," you said. "Let's go through the order schedule."

Cameron looked up from the dough. Looked at your face. Smiled at you — warm, real, no bit in it.

"Let's go," he said.

You had learned most of what you knew about patience from things that could not be hurried. Dough that needed its time. Caramel that looked perfect thirty seconds before it burned. A boy with a loud laugh who had taken five years to say the thing he'd been saying with everything else since the beginning.

You knew how to wait.

You knew how to watch.

What you did not know — what you were only now beginning to understand, standing in the bakery that he had built for you, in the life that you had built together, with his half-sentence still sitting unresolved in the back of your chest — was how to wait when it was him you were waiting on.

When it was the space between you that needed closing.

You picked up your piping bag.

You got to work.

hey. hi. hello. long time no see.

surprise — i'm back 🍞

okay so. i have been sick. genuinely, properly, miserably sick. it was a whole thing. i won't go into the details but i will say that my sister was approximately forty-eight hours away from physically confiscating my laptop and i think she was right to threaten it. i needed to rest. i actually rested. i did not open a single document for the days i needed to recover and it was the hardest thing i have done in recent memory.

and then today i sat down. and i started writing. and i finished this. at a completely unreasonable hour. and i thought — you know what, i'm posting it. right now. tonight. because i finished it and i'm happy and i missed you guys so much.

i know it's late for most of you. i'll repost tomorrow morning so nobody misses it. but i just couldn't wait.

i am so happy to be back. i am so happy to feel like myself again. and i am SO happy to finally be giving you this story because this one — this one is really special to me.

the space between us is doing something none of the other stories in this series have done yet. it's not about falling. it's not about finding each other for the first time. it's about two people who have been choosing each other for ten years and know each other so completely — so deeply, so fully — that she can tell when he's performing fine. she can see the seam. and the story is about what happens when the space opens anyway. quietly. slowly. the way it always does when you stop paying attention.

i love this. i love them. and i love jin so much it's genuinely embarrassing. his older brother energy, the way he holds everyone together and makes it look easy, the way he cares so deeply about the members that he would do anything for them — i really wanted to write a story that was worthy of him. funny and warm and a little chaotic on the surface and then you look closer and your heart is on the floor.

so yeah. this is going to be a fun ride. a wild ride. a messy, emotional, occasionally filthy ride. i am so excited for you to read it.

thank you for every single message and ask while i was gone. i saw all of them. i will be answering them over the next few days. they genuinely made me feel so loved when i was feeling so terrible and i am so grateful for every single one of you.

okay. i'm done being sappy. go read.

welcome to jin's story 🍞

— ria

curious about a character or a story? want to know more before it drops? → ask me anything

want to know the second a new part goes up? → join the taglist — permanent or fic-specific | click here

"Your turn," you snap without meaning to one morning.

Yoongi arches a brow at you, unfazed. "No, I showered yesterday."

You roll your eyes. "You showered for three minutes yesterday.”

He shrugs. "It still counts.”

By Thursday evening, you're tired and annoyed. Work was gruelling and you desperately need a relaxing shower.

You peel your clothes off in the bathroom, stepping out of the day's exhaustion. Reluctantly, you turn on the faucet and wait a few minutes.

“Maybe I'll get lucky,” you mutter.

The second you stick your hand beneath the spray, you hiss and yank it back.

“Jesus Christ!”

It's ice cold, searing into your skin.

You stare at the stream for a moment.

It stares back.

"You know what?" you tell it. "I don't even like you.”

You step in anyway because a miserable shower is better than no shower.

You instantly regret it. Every muscle in your body locks up as the water hits your skin, fast and unforgiving. You let out a sound between a gasp and a curse as you fumble for your shampoo bottle.

“This is ridiculous,” you gripe, already lathering it between your palms. You move quickly, washing your hair like you're being timed.

The shampoo barely has a chance to sit before you're rinsing it out. Cold water runs down your back and you shudder, teeth chattering.

"This is exactly how people die," you declare as you turn the showerhead away from you.

By the time you're scrubbing body wash across your arms, you've mentally drafted three separate complaints for the plumber. You don't even hear the bathroom door open over the rush of water and your own muttering.

What you do hear is a familiar chuckle, low and warm.

You pause, sponge halting over your elbow.

"You better be laughing with me," you say, not even turning around.

"I'm trying," Yoongi says. You can hear the grin in his voice.

You glance over your shoulder. He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you suffer.

The smug, handsome bastard.

You scoff at him. "You think this is funny?"

"A little,” he admits lovingly.

You glare at him through the glass shower door. "Get out."

"No."

"Yoongi."

His grin widens. "You're making the exact face Holly makes when we give him a bath."

You curse as you run the stream over your body, soap suds swirling colorfully down the drain.

"You know what?" you say. "I hope it's freezing when it's your turn."

"It was freezing this morning,” he replies calmly.

You huff indignantly. "Good."

He sighs, but affection flickers across his face as he looks at you. "You really do look miserable.”

“Wow. Romantic,” you deadpan.

He laughs quietly, pushing off the doorframe. “You know I love you.”

Whatever snarky comment was brewing dies on your tongue. You immediately look away as color blooms on your cheeks, staring at the tile instead. You feel ridiculous. You've been married for years. You share a house, a dog—hell, you've even talked about what your future kids might look like. Yet those three words still manage to catch you off guard.

A pleased smile tugs at the corner of Yoongi's mouth. “Cute.”

“Shut up,” you say to the floor instead of him. You blindly reach for the faucet, fingers slipping around the wet handle.

“Oh, come on.”

As you continue your struggle, you hardly hear the rustle of fabric behind you.

“Need any help?” Yoongi suddenly asks.

Your jaw tightens in annoyance. “No, obviously not,” you start, sarcastic and fed up, “I'm doing fi—”

Your voice dies the moment you turn around.

Yoongi has abandoned his shirt on the counter, his belt already unfastened and hanging loosely from his hips.

“Oh.”

Yoongi glances down at himself, then back at you. One eyebrow lifts suspiciously.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly, trying very hard to act normal. Your face prickles with heat, sparing you some relief from the chill.

You fail the moment he slips off his jeans and boxers in one go.

Your eyes immediately betray you as they flick down, then back to his face, then back down again.

A laugh escapes Yoongi as he steps closer.

"My eyes are up here, sweetheart.”

You snap your gaze upward. “I know.”

Yoongi merely hums, disbelieving, and steps into the shower without another word.

The second he reaches for you, you go willingly.

His arms slide around your waist from behind, pulling you back against him, and the contrast nearly makes you groan. Every inch of him feels warm compared to the freezing water pelting your skin.

"You're freezing," he murmurs.

"No kidding,” you reply, already melting against him.

A quiet laugh rumbles through his chest. His hands move slowly over your arms, rubbing feeling back into them. The gesture is absentminded, something he's done a hundred times before.

You let your head fall back against his shoulder and close your eyes. For the first time all evening, you stop thinking about the water heater and work and everything else going wrong.

Your world dissolves into the steady rhythm of Yoongi's hands and his chest pressed along your spine.

"Sweet girl," he says softly.

You can't stop the smile that pulls at your lips. He presses a kiss to your damp hair.

“Pretty girl,” he adds, almost like an afterthought.

You crack one eye open. That one gets you.

“Don't,” you warn him, but the fight drains from you as his hands drift lower to settle on your hips.

Yoongi's hands are slightly rough, fingers calloused from playing guitar, but the touch still makes your heart flutter.

You shouldn't be this flustered. He's touched you like this plenty of times.

And yet, when his thumbs sweep slowly across your hips, you stop paying attention to the water's assault around you.

You turn in his arms, meaning to say something capable of salvaging what remains of your dignity.

But you find him already watching you, attentive and adoring. The same look he had on your wedding day.

Heat spreads through your chest at the memory.

A droplet of water slides from his hair and down his face, catching on his bottom lip.

Without meaning to, you follow the swipe of his tongue across his lip.

Yoongi's mouth twitches in amusement when he notices.

“Oh, now who's staring?”

You catch yourself, giving a small, flustered shake of your head. “Pffft. Not me.”

He taps your side thoughtfully. “You're cute when you get shy. Did you know that?”

Before you can think of a comeback, he reaches up and brushes a strand of hair away from your face. His knuckles graze your cheekbone, wet skin sliding together.

You don't even realize you're leaning in until Yoongi closes the distance.

The kiss starts soft, but it never stays that way.

Your hand slides to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair and tugging lightly.

Yoongi makes a content sound against your mouth, his hand sliding from your hip to the small of your back. He pulls you closer until the space between you disappears, and your breath catches as your pelvises brush together.

Your mouth moves languidly with his, then a little more insistent when you chase him the moment he tries to pull back.

He huffs out a laugh. “Thought you were mad at me.”

“I am,” you insist.

Yoongi makes a face like he doesn't believe you for a second.

He's probably right.

The bathroom fills with the sound of rushing water and the occasional bump of elbows against the shower wall. You lose track of how long you're standing there trading kisses, interrupted only by pauses to breathe and roll your eyes at whatever ridiculous thing he's just whispered.

You hardly register him guiding you backward until your shoulders meet the cool tile wall. The contact makes you flinch, and Yoongi only laughs softly, pressing his lips soothingly to your cheek.

“I've got you,” he whispers.

And when his hand cups your jaw to meet your mouth again, you believe him.

The water doesn't feel so cold anymore. Maybe it's the heat Yoongi leaves behind on your skin as his hands wander, or it's the broken moan that leaves you when he cups your breasts.

Whatever it is, it's definitely Yoongi's fault.

“Feel better?” he eventually murmurs when you're clutching desperately at his shoulders.

Your knees nearly give out at the sincerity in his voice. God, you got lucky with him.

“No,” you lie, though you're ten times hotter now, pleasantly so.

Yoongi tilts his head. “No?” His thumb rolls slowly over your nipple, teasing.

Your hands tighten on his shoulders, and that's all the answer he needs.

“Mm. Sure, baby” he says, trying his best not to sound too smug. “Glad I could help.”

You nod weakly as your heart does little flips in your chest.

“I think…” You trail off shyly, fingers tangling back in his hair, “...the water heater should break more often.”

Yoongi smiles against your temple as he kisses you there. “Yeah? So I can hold you and keep you warm like this?”

He gives you a gentle squeeze, his solid chest pressing against yours. You let out a startled little squeak at the contact, drawing a laugh from him, his head tipping back slightly.

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?”