🌼

eokjin :

- There is a thing about being graceful during sex, I think he might stick to that thought of traditional flexibility with his FS, like bending them in the right position that might make them feel good

- Foodplay, marking etc, he’s a eater on everyday possible with them

- he either likes to manhandle them or letting them do all the work sometimes (like "bounce on my cock while I enjoy the view")

- rough sex (like putting all his weight into his thrusts) so like « power » play if you know what i mean

- once again a "lazy card" so yeah I think that he likes letting his FS do all the work in bed

- he likes to try new things in bed, he’s not totally closed on it

Yoongi :

Okay I got a lot of things I understood everything.

- one of the biggest things for him and his FS is some type of « voyeurism » he likes the fear of getting caught during sex, so it is both a kink of not making any sounds to not get caught and the contrary lmaoo

- also I might see him fucking with music on

- he hate virginity play, like he doesn’t see the appeal to "deflorate" someone, he’s above that

- outdoor play (like the card of decorating your home reversed, this man is definitely fucking in his studio)

- cross dressing (take it the way you want) might also be makeup degradation (like ruining someone makeup during sex by kiss, cum etc)

- sex on a bright place, he doesn’t want to fuck without any luminosity, he likes to see his partner face during sex.

I sadly had to rewrite hoseok and namjoon part thanks tumblr so if I seem a bit dry starting there it’s normal

Hoseok :

- Hard dom play, he likes to put his FS in their place

- he likes 100% serious sex, he’s super into his hard dom role, so don’t expect him to laugh etc

- dumbification (he likes to make his partner lose their mind)

- he likes to try new things in bed, he’s not into kink shaming

- mouth-gag or cheating kink or cuckholding kink or 3 of them at the same time (don’t get angry at me for it lmaoo)

- he is a brat tamer and he looooves strong people (once again he takes pleasure putting people in their place)

- once again dumbification

- orgasm control

- he HATES getting called daddy during sex, he really makes a difference between getting called master and daddy

- once again cheating of cuckholding kink…

Namjoon :

- he might be into light bondage maybe even into suspension but I balance more towards simple bondage

- mutual masturbation or masturbating in front of the other I might see him FaceTiming his fs to masturbate together when he’s far away

- he wants his partner to be 100% submissive he doesn’t like to fight too much to correct bratty behaviour

- bored sex, likes doing it when none of him and his FS have anything to do

- no marking for him

- one again doesn’t like too much brattiness coming from his FS, he doesn’t like to fight during sex #peaceandlove

- he see sex as some type of ritual, like a connection of two souls, two bodies, he doesn’t take sex lightly so not a big fan of one night stands

- quiet sex, might also be choking the other during sex

Jimin :

I got a lot of cards wow

- first of all I think he don’t like hurting his partner in any way possible during sex

- hate sex might not be literal but his FS might make him jealous ajd next thing you know Jimin is destroying them in bed lmaoo

- orgasm control

- marathon sex he might do it all night if he feels the energy for it

- choking like I got quiet sex for others with this card but for jimin i think it is mostly choking the other

- brat taming/pet play

- rough sex and once again “angry” sex

- sucking each other dry, he really like getting blowjobs and cumming inside

- overstimulation

- manhandling like being put in full Nelson (ifykyk)

Taehyung :

Finally some new cards

- blindfolds, sex in the dark type of guy he likes to focus on other sensations by restraining his vision

- cockwarming, I could easily portrait him playing a game while his fs is sitting on his dick

- bored sex (for me it comes in pair with the cockwarming, he likes casual sex while doing something else)

- orgasm control

- okay so the card talk about black magic etc so I interpret it as “he might like taboo things in sex” if anyone can lighten me on it feel free

- overstimulation/overwhelming sex, he likes sex time when both of them feels like their bodies are just two messy and oversensitive things.

Jungkook :

- angry sex, resolving conflicts in bed lmaoo

- power sex, he put a lot of puissance into his thrusts during rough sex

- like yoongi he is an anti virginity play

- but in a addition of the anti daddy kink card I think that jungkook might have a bit of a mommy kink, the last card in reverse also talk about cycle etc (like ovulation period etc) so yeah i put a coin on mommy kink/noona kink

- cockwarming, and he also like bush, having a strong erection etc

- no marking for him

- but even if he don’t like getting bitten he LOVES body paint, cumplay, covering each other bodies with paint or body fluids

| ❛ week one ❜ |

You've danced before; there’s nothing alien about that. Rigorous hours training, perfecting your art before mirrors hundreds upon hundreds of times before. There’s nothing particularly new about having to do it again. 

Except for the audition. Not just an audition, but the audition. The big one. The one that could change your future, give you that start in the career of your choosing and elevate you onto one of the biggest stages in dance. It’s the role your heart desires, a lead in a contemporary theatre production combining acting and dance.

The audition is three months away and every casting agency professional who has seen your work had told you some version of the same thing. ’Your presence is strong, you connect emotionally, your expression is fluid and believable…’. Then comes the smile accompanied by the one word you have come to loathe hearing —but— ‘Your movement needs work, you’re not quite there yet, just a bit more practice…’. 

The part you are aiming for would demand more than decent movement. You’ll need confidence, fluidity, control and perfection. So here you are, outside the Moonlight Dance Studio. A six-week intensive course of extra training and sacrificing weekends, and six weeks of being humbled.

You nearly turn around before you even reach the door, and it’s more than nerves. The glass door reflects your expression, which is questionable. You push it open anyway and are greeted with a reception area that is permeated with the lingering scent of coffee and roses. Light classical music plays from somewhere deeper inside the building, but you can’t place the tune. 

The receptionist, a stern middle-aged woman who has her hair pulled tightly back in a chignon bun glances up at you. “Can I help?” she asks in a polite, formal tone.

You gather yourself together and give her your best smile. “Yeah, hi. I’m here for the course?”

She studies you for a beat. “The six-week intensive course?”

You nod. 

She offers you a clipboard and a smile you can tell she’s had to exercise many times before. “Sign in here, please,” she tells you.

A few minutes later, you're following directions down a hallway lined with framed photographs that display moments captured from competitions, performances and workshops. There are students posing beside trophies and press clippings, even some impressive looking awards. 

You reach the end of the hallway and stand at the entrance to the large dance studio and peer in curiously through the small window at the door. A voice sounds out first. “You started the count too early.” The voice is calm, not loud or abrasive, or even too stern, but you watch as every person in the room immediately takes notice and listens. 

You step into the studio and immediately feel the room's attention pulled toward the man standing before the wall of mirrors. Standing at the front of the studio, he looks impossibly composed, dressed simply in loose black sweatpants and a fitted black t-shirt that contrasts against his pale skin and hugs the lean muscle of a dancer's physique. Lean shoulders, toned arms, and a narrow waist shaped by years of relentless training. 

His honey-blonde hair is tied back in a loose knot at the nape of his neck, and soft strands have escape to frame his face, brushing against his eyes whenever he tilts his head. Under the bright studio lights, his skin seems almost luminous, his features delicate yet striking. High cheekbones, full lips, and sharp, expressive eyes that sweep across the room with quiet focus, while a small, unreadable smile plays about his mouth. 

Even at rest, he carries himself with fluid elegance, every shift of his weight graceful enough to resemble choreography. There's an effortless grace in the way he stands, relaxed but impossibly poised, as if even stillness were part of the choreography. Beautiful is the first word that comes to mind, yet it hardly captures the magnetic pull of his presence that seems to quiet every whisper.

"Again," he repeats with a clap of his hands. 

Just then you realise who he is. You’d looked him up before joining, he’d been recommended to you by someone at the last agency you visited and had come with glowing reviews. He’d done national competitions, professional choreography, ran guest workshops and now owned his own elite dance studio. It was an impressive list of credentials. 

Park Jimin. 

What the internet didn't properly communicate was his presence, because the room seemed to be orbiting around him. 

Jimin notices you standing near the door and for a moment his eyes meet yours. Warm bourbon brown, but sharp and attentive. You shuffle on the spot awkwardly, expecting some kind of acknowledgment. 

"You’re here for the class?" he asks simply. 

You seem to have lost all ability to speak, and fumble around muttering a series of incoherent gibberish. 

Jimin smiles, and it almost takes your breath away. "Come in,” he tells you, gesturing broadly with his arms. “We were just warming up.”

He doesn’t sound unkind or welcoming either, just very professional. You hurry inside, deciding that it’s just right for now, not exactly over-keen on being the centre of attention amongst strangers.

“The changing rooms are back there if you need to change,” Jimin says. 

You give him a tight smile, aware of at least twenty pairs of eyes on you as you walk brusquely through the room towards the back. “Uh, no, I’m already… I don’t need to change.”

"Okay,” he says slowly. “Any bags and things can go over there,” he says slowly, pointing to a small area to your left where you see other belongings placed. 

You make your way over and deposit your bag down by the ballet barre, before taking off your hoodie and placing it on one of the benches. The space smells nostalgic, like aged wood and earthy, powdery rosin mixed with hairspray and worn leather. It’s a scent that makes you feel at home instantly. 

“What’s your name?" Jimin asks when you return to your spot. 

You tell him, and hear him repeat it once, as if getting familiar with the number of times he would have to use it. Then he indicates toward an empty spot in the formation. "Jump in there, Y/N."

There’s no introduction or speech; you aren’t being eased into anything. It’s an immediate start, thrown into the deep end. You knew you weren’t coming here for an easy ride; you’d paid through the teeth for a place. 

If intensity was what you were after, you had gotten it because thirty minutes later, you're questioning every life decision that brought you here. Your lungs hurt, your legs ache, you’re out of breath and most especially, your pride stings uncomfortably. Everyone else seems to understand choreography at a terrifying speed, while you are still mentally buffering at speeds the internet a decade ago would be ashamed of. It was borderline humiliating.

Jimin pauses the music. "Again." A collective groan fills the room, but he ignores it. "You're all better than that."

One student points accusingly. "We've done it ten times now!” he grimaces. 

"Well, one more won't kill you,” Jimin retorts. 

The exchange earns laughter, and Jimin smiles. Oh, that smile. It’s an eye smile and it’s dangerous. That smile changes everything. It’s so sudden, bright and boyish. Completely different from the focused instructor you've been watching. The room visibly softens around it, and you immediately understand why students keep coming back.

Then he turns serious again and the smile disappears as if it was never there. "Positions everyone,” he calls. “Let’s go— from the top again.”

By the end of the session, you are beyond exhausted. You hadn’t had this much of a workout in forever. Students gradually begin leaving and you collect your water bottle, trying not to think about how badly you performed. Your confidence arrived here relatively healthy but has since currently deceased. RIP confidence. 

You make it halfway to the door before you hear your name. You stop and turn to see Jimin standing beside the speaker system. For one terrifying second you think he's about to tell you not to come back, but instead, he gestures toward the mirror.

"Can I show you something?" he asks. 

"Uh…" you stutter. Very eloquent. "Sure."

The studio is mostly empty now. It’s just you and him, and a handful of students gathering their things. You walk back over slowly. Jimin studies you for a moment as if he’s analysing you, piecing something together. 

"You've done theatre,” he states. It isn’t a question, more an observation. 

You blink. "How did you know?"

"From your posture."

You don’t really understand his answer. "What does that mean?"

He smiles slightly. "The way you perform, it’s sort of outward."

"I don't know what that means either."

Jimin laughs, a soft sound that feels delightful to your ears. You wouldn’t mind bottling up that sound and keeping it for down days. 

"I mean you're projecting emotion before the movement exists,” Jimin explains.

You frown. "I thought that was a good thing."

"It is." He takes a step closer, close enough that you catch the faint scent of clean laundry and something citrusy. You take a deep breath. "But dancing isn't acting." His voice softens. "Sometimes you're trying to tell the audience what you're feeling before you've felt it yourself."

You think about what he’s saying and realise that it makes complete sense, which is a little annoying. You tut to yourself gently; almost unaware you have. 

"Yeah, I get that reaction a lot,” Jimin says, the way he somehow had managed to read you, along with his confidence in that answer catches you off guard. He laughs, his eyes crinkling. It’s a small detail but it’s noticeable. You like it. You suspect there will be many of those.

"Try something." He moves beside you, facing the mirror and raising one arm slowly. "Don't perform it." You copy him. "Just do it."

You repeat the motion.

"Once more.”

You do so. Then again, and again, and again. Then something changes, barely but enough. The movement seems to smooth out, become more effortless, more in sync. You find your expression not leading the motion or following it, but joining it automatically, as if you can feel the extension of your hand. 

"There,” Jimin says. “You see that now?” 

You glance at him, biting back a smile. "What?"

His grin appears. "You can feel it now, right?”

You hate that he's right, because you can. 

| ❛ week two ❜ |

You don't expect him to remember your name next week. The studio is busy, people come and go, and you assume you'll blend into the crowd. Then Saturday arrives and you walk through the studio doors, ready for your body to be put through its paces all over again. 

"Morning, Y/N."

You nearly trip. Jimin stands near reception holding a coffee mug.

"Morning."

He nods as if it's completely normal, as if he didn't just remember someone he'd met exactly once. You continue toward the studio, trying not to think about it, and failing immediately.

The class is somehow harder this week. Your body aches, and even your brain aches too. The choreography becomes increasingly complicated. At one point, Jimin pauses the music mid-routine.

"Y/N."

You freeze, and everyone around you stills too. You prepare for public humiliation, wincing. Jimin walks over like a cat. "You keep anticipating."

"Anticipating?" you echo. 

"You're thinking about the next move before finishing the current one."

"Yeah, sorry,” you say. “That sounds like me."

A few students laugh, and Jimin does too. “Remember what we practiced last week, how you need to abandon the thoughts and just let yourself feel every motion until it flows naturally.”

Then he demonstrates the sequence a couple of times, breaking down every transition. He doesn’t make you feel stupid or that you’re falling behind. He’s patient and kind, just teaching, wanting you to get it right. 

The realization sneaks up on you that he’s good at this. Not the dance element, that went without saying— but the understanding of people. Identifying where they were struggling and knowing how to reach and remedy them. It’s unexpectedly attractive, but you decide not to get consumed by those kinds of thoughts. 

You cross your arms. "You're enjoying this,” you tell him. 

His smile widens. "Maybe a little." 

Despite your efforts not to, over the next couple of hours, you begin noticing things. How Jimin stays after class answering questions, how he remembers everyone's goals and celebrates improvements, or how he teases students without making anyone feel small and works even harder than everyone else in the room.

Worst of all, he’s so easy to talk to. It starts accidentally, a conversation about theatre maybe, then music or favourite performances before moving onto terrible auditions and embarrassing stories. Each interaction between actual dance lasts only a few minutes, yet somehow you find yourself looking forward to them even more than you should. Eventually at the break, you fill him in on the main reason you had signed up for his dance class, telling him all about the forthcoming role you had in your sights the past couple of months. 

That evening class runs late. Rain pounds against the windows and most students leave quickly. You linger behind gathering your things and Jimin is stacking equipment near the wall.

"Are you still planning to audition?" he asks. 

You glance up. "Of course."

"Are you confident?”

“Not at all,” you sigh. "I stupidly watched videos from the previous few year’s auditions."

"That wasn’t your best plan."

"No," you confirm morosely. 

He nods. "Let me guess, you fell apart?”

"More comparison spiral really,” you reply. “I don’t know why I do it to myself.”

"It’s brutal,” he says. “I get it.”

You sit on the floor, too tired to stand. Jimin drops down beside you to share the same stretch. You both sit there quietly, and it feels surprising there isn’t any awkwardness given that you’ve known one another for less than a month. 

"You know," Jimin says eventually, "I almost quit dancing."

You look over immediately. "What?" you say in disbelief. “No way!”

His expression turns amused. "That's usually the reaction I get,” he says. "It was years ago now."

“Why?” you exclaim, still trying to process his admission. 

He shrugs. "I got tired."

"Tired of dancing?"

"Tired of turning everything into a measurement." His gaze drifts toward the studio mirrors. "Better than this person, worse than that person, successful enough, not successful enough."

The honesty catches you off guard. It’s so raw and real, and you find yourself listening carefully. "So what happened?" you ask. “How did you get out of that mentality?”

A small smile appears. "I remembered why I started."

You wait for more, but Jimin chuckles quietly. "That's not the profound answer you expected, huh?"

"It really isn't."

"I started because I loved it." His eyes meet yours, simple and direct. “And when I remembered that then things got a lot easier."

Something warms in your chest, because it does feel like he understands your problems. You become aware of how close he's sitting, and how warm his shoulder looks beneath the fabric of his shirt, and how sweet he can be during conversations like this.

Jimin stands first and offers a hand. You take it. His grip is warm and firm, holding onto you for just a fraction longer than needed. Perhaps it was your imagination. That was entirely possible, probably likely and definitely safer. You release his hand and he picks up his bag.

"You'll be fine at the audition,” he tells you. 

You snort. "That's not based on evidence."

“Yes, it is,” Jimin responds. 

"How?"

But he just smiles and heads toward the door, leaving you standing there. "Because you keep showing up no matter what I put you through," he says. “You aren’t a quitter, I know it.”

Before you can answer, he's already walking away. For the first time since joining the course, the impending audition isn't the thing occupying your thoughts when you leave the studio. 

It's Park Jimin.

| ❛ week three ❜ |

By the third class, you can’t pretend to yourself any longer that you’re attending simply for the audition. Although the audition remains terribly important, you are growing increasingly infatuated with the ethereal looking cutie that was teaching your class. 

You still have the audition date highlighted in your phone and marked in a huge red circle on the calendar that hangs just outside your bedroom. You spend every spare hour you have practicing scenes and dialogue in your apartment, recording yourself repeatedly until you're sick of hearing your own voice. 

All of that hasn’t changed, but what has changed is the fact that Saturday mornings no longer feel like an obligation. They feel like something you look forward to, which is a very specific problem. A Park Jimin-shaped problem.

You come to the realisation as you stand in front of your wardrobe for an embarrassingly elongated amount of time. You tell yourself that you aren’t hoping to catch Jimin’s attention or impress him one bit. All you’re doing is simply deciding what to wear. The fact that you reject almost ten different outfits before settling on one is completely unrelated —irrelevant.

You arrive at the studio five minutes early and find the door already open. What strikes you first is that the music you can hear drifting through, a little louder than it is usually, isn’t the up-tempo, energetic type of track used for class. It’s softer, more classical. Intrigued, you peek inside.  

Jimin is alone, doing stretches. He doesn’t notice you straightaway and because he doesn’t, you have the chance to see something you don’t normally. Him away from teaching or performing, but just him, the man. The morning sunlight spills through the windows, highlighting him as the music emits from the speaker near the mirror. His long blonde hair is tied loosely back, several strands already escaping around his face as he begins to move. 

It doesn’t seem like choreography, or any particular dance he’s practicing, it’s just following the music wherever it leads him. Just movement. Your eyes remain fixated on him. It’s beautiful. When Jimin talks about loving dance, this is what he means. It isn’t the competitions or achievements, not how many trophies he had or being the best person in the room. It’s just this.  

The music ends and he glances toward the mirror finally, seeing your reflection standing in the doorway.

"Do you plan on charging admission?"

You jump, startled out of your near hypnosis. "Oh my God!" you exclaim, mortified suddenly at having been caught out. 

His grin appears immediately. "You've been standing there a while."

"I wasn't spying,” you tell him hurriedly. 

"You were definitely spying,” he says with a laugh. "You looked emotionally invested."

You walk into the room. "I—” but nothing is forthcoming that can possibly explain anything without looking like some obsessive stalker. “I’m sorry,” is all you can manage. 

"No, you aren’t,” Jimin says, his response coming confidently and quickly. 

Annoyance flashes in you, which must transcend to your face, because for a moment he looks taken by surprise. But then he chuckles, the sentiment evaporating. “Good morning, Y/N,” he says simply. 

Dance teacher Park Jimin is back. 

"Morning,” you reply. 

But you can’t quite ignore the feeling of warmth that has started to spread in your chest when he smiles back at you. 

The class starts ten minutes later and immediately becomes one of the hardest sessions yet.

By the end, everyone's exhausted —including Jimin. You notice it today; the slight fatigue beneath his eyes, the way he drinks almost an entire bottle of water between demonstrations and how from time to time, he presses a hand against the back of his neck when he thinks nobody's paying attention. 

He is human, you think, the realisation strangely comforting.

After class, just as you and the other students begin gathering your things to leave, Jimin approaches you. 

"Y/N." You look up to see Jimin checking something on his tablet. "You got a minute?"

Your heart starts to do that racing thing it had started to do whenever he was close enough. "Sure, what’s up?"

He gestures toward the centre of the room. "You keep losing confidence halfway through the turns."

You groan. "I know. It’s that one move, that transition that I can’t seem to get down,” you say. “Don't remind me."

"Okay,” he says thoughtfully. “Come over here."

His words shouldn't affect you in the way that they do, but your mind and body seem totally unresponsive to logic. You walk over without protest. 

Jimin sets his tablet aside. "Show me.”

You attempt the sequence and the turn goes wrong as it had done all through the earlier runs, exactly as predicted. Your face flames. "Fuck!" you mutter under your breath. 

Jimin arches an eyebrow. "You’re tensing up too much right before you lean into it," he analyses. 

"Yeah, because I'm afraid that I’m going to mess it up,” you explain. 

"Which causes you to mess it up,” he concludes. 

"You’re ruthless,” you tell him. 

His mouth twitches, you can tell that he’s trying not to smile. “It’s true, Y/N,” he says. “I’m not here to lie to you.”

You try and tell yourself that you hate when he does that, but who are you fooling? 

"Do it again,” he instructs, smile fading as quickly as it had appeared. “Don’t overthink your movement. Let your body guide you.”

You try again. It’s better, but far from perfect. Jimin nods in a sort of semi-approval, "You’re getting closer."

"I'll take it," you mumble. 

Not everyone was born with Park Jimin’s perfect dance genetics, the kind where everything he did seemed effortlessly graceful. In comparison, you felt like a bumbling oak tree. 

"You shouldn't settle for less than you can achieve," he chides. 

"What?" you reply in disbelief. Surely he wasn’t expecting Park Jimin levels of dance from you. You were only a few sessions into the class. 

"You should be aiming for better than basic compliments, Y/N,” Jimin says, eyes searching your face with a strange expression. “I can see you have natural talent; you just need to believe in yourself more.”

The statement catches you off guard. Not because it's demanding or patronising, but because of how sincere Jimin sounds. Like he genuinely believes that somehow you are capable of being even better than the best you could do so far. 

You don’t quite know how to react, so you just shoot him a quick smile and dart off before he can rope you into more practice.

“I’ll see you next week,” Jimin calls after you. “Keep practicing. I believe in you.”

The next week becomes unexpectedly chaotic. Work runs late and your schedule becomes ridiculous. Your high school friend cancels plans for dinner on Wednesday night, and your landlord sends an email that somehow creates three new problems. By Thursday, you're completely exhausted, and by Friday, you're wondering if you'll even make it through Saturday's class.

Saturday arrives in the blink of an eye after a sleepless Friday night and just when you think things couldn’t get any worse, they get worse. Halfway through rehearsal practice, you completely blank. It’s not just a mistake or a missed step, it’s a total and complete mental shutdown.

The music continues and everyone else around you keeps moving, but you're standing there like someone unplugged your brain. You can’t even get yourself out of it. This was just fantastic. 

The music stops abruptly. Your face burns, and you immediately want the floor to open and swallow you whole. A few students glance over but nobody says anything which somehow feels worse.

You look toward Jimin, waiting for disappointment, but his face only shows concern as he calls for the class to take a break. Nobody moves, because it’s so uncharacteristic for Jimin to call a break at any point before the scheduled breaktime. 

"What?" one of the student asks.

"Ten minutes,” replies Jimin. “Go.”

The room erupts in gratitude, and everyone scatters. Water bottles appear and conversations begin in all four corners of the room. Some people leave for a bathroom break, and finally, you seem to have regained your ability to move. But before you can escape, Jimin walks over in your direction, stopping just in front of you.

"Is everything okay?" he asks, worry in his tone. 

You laugh, a short, frustrated sound. "No."

You surprise yourself with how quickly you seem able to be truthful with him. You were usually very private and guarded about personal things, and the last person you would have expected to be feeling like you could confide in about anything non-dance related was Park Jimin, your dance teacher. 

His expression softens, and you quickly try and backtrack, suddenly feeling shy and awkward in front of him. You know how quickly he tended to notice things. "I'm just tired,” you say. 

Jimin pulls a face. "Come on, Y/N,” he says. “That's not all it is."

You look away, trying to hide your eyes which would reveal too much, but unfortunately, that confirms his suspicion. He sighs and then nods toward the hallway. "Walk with me."

It turns out that the studio has a small terrace up on the room which you hadn’t even noticed before. Why would you? You could barely see anything past Park Jimin most weeks. You follow Jimin out through the doors, watching as the expanse of the city stretches out beyond the railings. Blue skies greet you, with barely a cloud overhead, but the air is cooler than it is inside. 

Jimin leans against the railing, and you take the space beside him, standing close enough to talk, but far enough to avoid thinking about it.

"Bad week?" he asks quietly. 

You scoff. "Is it that obvious?"

"I’d say so,” he says immediately, as if there’s no doubt about it. 

Something about that makes your stomach flip, and you try and focus on the skyline with a sigh. Jimin waits patiently, as if he knows you just need a few moments before you can unburden yourself. 

"Everything feels important lately,” you say. "The audition, work… I don’t know. I guess it’s all getting a bit much.”

“Mm, I see,” Jimin says. 

You glance at him. "That’s helpful."

"Is it?” he says. 

The smile finally appears —mission accomplished. You roll your eyes, then sigh again. "I just keep thinking if I don't get this role—"

The words trail off but Jimin waits patiently, doesn’t push or rush you, not trying to fill any of the silent gaps simply because they exist. 

"If I don't get it," you continue, "It’s going to feel like I’ve wasted so much time."

Jimin considers your words for a beat. "Do you know how many auditions I failed?" he says eventually. 

You snort. "Thousands?"

"It was a lot."

"Hundreds?" you venture half-heartedly. 

You can’t even imagine who in their right mind wouldn’t give him a pass, even if his audition consisted of him swishing his hair around and not much else. He was probably just trying to make you feel better, he had probably never failed a single audition in his life. 

"Maybe not hundreds, but at least twenty or so,” he tells you. 

Your eyes widen. "What?"

He chuckles lightly. "You looked surprised."

"I am,” you say emphatically. “I don’t believe you. You make it sound like failing is normal. How can it be when you’re so good? I’ve got no chance if you’ve failed before."

"Y/N, everyone has to fail sometimes,” he replies. “It is normal.” His gaze shifts toward the skyline. "Nobody likes admitting that part."

For a moment, he seems somewhere else, remembering. "I got rejected that many times I started recognizing the waiting rooms."

"What does that even mean?" you ask, still stunned. 

"It means I'd walk in and think, “Oh, it’s this place again,” he says. “I’d have only been in there a couple of days earlier for a different audition.”

The image makes you smile. "So what kept you going?"

Jimin shrugs. “I don’t know, I was stubborn I guess."

"That's it?"

"I was extremely stubborn."

You can’t help but laugh. "Well, that part at least sounds believable."

"It’s true,” he says, and then he points at you. “That’s what I want to see, more of that smile. Okay?”

You can barely believe how effective he is, because the class goes much better after that. When it ends, you realize that you don't want to leave. You want to stay and talk, exist in the same room for a little longer. This could become a dangerous habit. 

You force yourself to leave anyway because you're a responsible adult —mostly.

The following Wednesday, your phone buzzes as you sit in the small café by your offices. It’s a message from an unknown number. You frown. This better not be one of those damn spam texts you think as you open it up. 

This is Jimin. You left your notebook 

Your heart immediately forgets how to function as you stare at the screen, and then at the notebook sitting on your coffee table. Now you’re confused. Your notebook is right here. You compose a message back hurriedly. 

No, I definitely didn't

Three dots appear. Pink, butterflies on cover? 

Not mine

There’s a short period where nothing happens and just as your heart starts to sink with disappointment, the three dots appear and you hold your breath. Another message arrives. 

OK. Sorry to disturb. See you next week. 

You get caught in two minds as to whether he was trying to end the conversation, and then you begin to contemplate if you should send a message back. You don’t feel quite ready to end this interaction, even if it wasn’t about dance. The urge to text back is so compelling that you’ve already composed and sent the message before your sensibility or shyness can kick in. 

You’re not disturbing. Please don’t worry. 

Several seconds pass and you’ve once more started to give up on all hope he might message back. But the three dots which are now starting to become like your salvation reappear. 

That’s sweet. Thank you 

You grin like a cheshire cat, your toes curling over what really was probably nothing at all. The man was probably being nice, and right as you were positively spangling with excitement, was likely praying that you didn’t text back. 

Your own negativity brings you down quickly in an epic comedown, and you close the message window up, shoving the phone back into your purse. What was wrong with you anyway? You had the audition to focus on; you were already halfway through the classes. You couldn’t be getting sidetracked with mooning over your dance teacher just because he’d been nice to you. He probably felt sorry for you. 

The whole reason you were in the class was to prepare for the damn audition. Not to sit around daydreaming about someone who probably didn’t look at you that way anyway, waiting and hoping like a silly teenager on the off chance that he would message you. 

Tears of humiliation and frustration burned at the back of your eyes. You had allowed yourself a naïve, stupid moment of fantasy —so why did it feel like so much more than that? You brush at your eyes angrily, wishing that Park Jimin had never text at all. 

The pinging of your phone has you all in a strange but excited panic. You dive into your purse like someone possessed to retrieve it, scratching yourself on something hidden in there but barely noticing as you fish it out and scramble to unlock it. It’s Jimin again, and your heart soars back up. 

Is this week any better for you? 

You squeal. It’s a question. A fucking question. And questions need answers, it’s an invitation to send another message. He could easily have worded that differently if he didn’t want a response. Hope the week is better, have a good week, something that didn’t prompt you to actually reply. Giddy in your renewed excitement, it takes you a couple of attempts to type your response without typos. 

Yes, thanks. I’ve been practicing too. 

You forget how to breathe the moment you send it, your coffee sitting going cold as you wait for those three magic dots with so much hope you can practically taste it.

Good to hear. I’m expect perfection this weekend then. 

You don’t message back, you had to have some restraint and dignity, and besides, his message didn’t really give any prompts. But for some reason, you spend the next ten minutes smiling at your phone.

The messages don't become frequent, which is probably for the best. Over the next few days, Jimin sends a rehearsal video and a reminder about class which is on a group chat. He does text you directly with a link to a performance that he says is useful guidance. You watch it and agree. Some of the dancers you see are intimidating as hell they’re so good. 

On Friday, he actually sends what seems to be a terrible joke. It’s so bad you can’t help but laugh. But the most notable thing is that his name has started to appear regularly on your screen —enough that you begin thinking about him outside studio hours.

It feels significant and rings a million alarm bells inside your head, none of which your heart listens to. 

| ❛ week four ❜ |

the fourth session arrives, and the course is officially more than halfway finished. You hate that realization. Six weeks had seemed long when it started, but now it feels alarmingly short.

Class ends late and everyone leaves gradually, but you linger behind, still practicing again.

The mirrors reflect your frustration as you repeat the sequence and miss it. You repeat it once more but still miss it.

"You're doing the angry thing again,” Jimin calls from the corner where he’s gathering equipment. 

You glance over. "I'm not angry."

"You look it."

You sigh. "I’m never going to get selected if I can't even get this part right,” you whine. 

He walks over, long blonde hair falling across his forehead, black t-shirt with the sleeves pushed up. It’s hard not to imagine the body underneath. A crimson blush rises to your face, and you immediately try and focus on literally anything else.

"Show me,” Jimin says. 

You do so, relieved to do something that prevents you from trying to pry your eyes away from him. Jimin watches you intently, then nods when you finish. “Try it again.”

You repeat it and he asks you to repeat it a third time for him. This time he steps closer to you, much closer. Before you can react, his hand lightly catches your wrist, just enough to stop your movement. Your breath catches, but he is unblinking, concentration etched into his beautiful features. It’s so unfair. 

"Here,” he says, his voice calm, focused entirely on the dance, while your pulse has other priorities. "You’re rushing this transition."

He guides your arm through the movement slowly. The correction is innocent and professional, entirely reasonable. Your brain responds by forgetting every language you've ever learned.

"Feel the difference?" he asks. You manage a slightly nervous nod. "Good."

His hand releases your wrist. The contact lasts maybe a second, maybe less, yet somehow your skin remembers it long afterward. This was getting ridiculous. 

A little while later, you're both leaving the studio at the same time which is something of a rare occurrence. The evening air is cool and the street glows with city lights. Jimin locks the front door behind him.

"You heading straight home?" he asks. 

You gesture toward a nearby café. "I promised myself coffee first."

"Nothing to eat?" Jimin ventures, stretching out his hand to look at his watch. “It’s been a long day."

The truth was that you hadn’t even thought about food. Ever since Jimin had had you in that hold, you hadn’t been able to get it out of your mind. The way he had felt against you, the scent of him, the danger of his proximity. The whole thing had you in a chokehold. 

“Uh… I hadn’t really thought about it,” you reply. 

He considers your response for a moment. “You didn’t have anything except that banana earlier,” he tells you. “It’s not enough. You need sustenance.”

He moves towards you, placing a gentle arm at your shoulder. “Come on,” he says. “I’ll join for you that coffee.”

He starts walking and you realise that you’re just letting him guide you down the street. "Wait,” you say. “You’re going to have coffee?" 

It was a well-known fact that Park Jimin hadn’t wasted time in telling the students as far back as in the first week that he didn’t believe coffee did anything good to a dancer’s body. He’d glared pointedly at the numerous iced americanos to go that sat on the sides and shook his head. Coffee as he put it was a treat, not a requirement.

"Yes, Y/N, I’m going to have coffee,” Jimin said. “If that’s the only way I get to make sure you have something to eat, I’ll make an exception just this once.”

You’re too stunned to respond. 

The café is only a few minutes away. It’s small and homely, and surprisingly today it’s mostly empty. He waits patiently as you look up and scan the menu on the board behind the counter for something easy to eat, preferably something that wouldn’t get anything stuck in your teeth or make any kind of mess, a task far harder than you had anticipated. It isn’t helping that your stomach has now started to growl as the scent of fresh bread, hot bungeo-ppang and strong expressos fills your nostrils. 

Jimin eyes you curiously. “Nothing taking your fancy?” 

You clear your throat and take a chance, your eyes squeezing shut and reopening to see whatever sticks out at you first. You decide on a croffle with ice cream and a dalgona coffee, trying not to think about the certain sugar rush coming your way soon. Jimin settles on gimbap and a yuja-cha. He chooses a table for two by the window and even pulls out your seat like a true gentleman. 

“You didn’t get coffee,” you say, picking up a napkin and placing it on your lap, checking whether the table had enough spare napkins in case of accidents. Preparation. 

“No,” he grins. “I’m more of a tea person.” He leans in over the table, his eyes sparkling. “Besides, what would you think of me if I started abandoning my own principles, hm?”

You know the answer to that. He’d still be as stunning as he was now. “I’m sure I’d overlook it just this once,” you say instead. 

He laughs. “I need more people like you around me.”

Seated directly opposite him, you notice just how warm and friendly his eyes are. They seem to intoxicate you every time he catches you with that gaze, like a siren beckoning you to drown in the sea. 

You have to pinch yourself under the table to will yourself out of the clutches of them, your attention turning to stare out of the window while you wait for your food to arrive. Jimin’s phone rings but after checking the display, he doesn’t answer it. You can’t help but wonder why. Was it a girlfriend he didn’t want to speak to in front of you, or was he just being polite because he had company. You hope it’s the latter, but Jimin’s expression doesn’t give anything away. 

Your order doesn’t take long, the server bringing everything to the table at one go. You hadn’t realised just how hungry you were until you see Jimin’s bulgogi gimbap. You should have got that too. Your croffle looks pretty too, but the ice cream is what really makes you want to wolf it down. 

“This looks amazing,” Jimin says, reaching for his chopsticks. “Have some.”

He pushes the tray towards you, and your mouth actually waters a little. But you decline, deciding that if you had one taste of it, you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from finishing all of them, or worse yet ordering more for yourself and looking like a total glutton. 

“Go on, try one,” Jimin cajoles, picking one up between his chopsticks and holding it out to you. 

You open your mouth to protest, to say no, but Jimin has already anticipated you, and he shakes his head, the chopsticks nearing you a little more. “At least have a bite,” he tells you, his full lips in a pout. “For me.”

It’s a full-on assault on your heart, leaving no room for refusal. You sigh with a little shy smile and obediently open up your mouth. Jimin grins broadly, popping the gimbap in with a satisfied hum. “There,” he says. “That wasn’t so bad now, was it?”

You bite into the gimbap which is every bit as delicious as it looked. Jimin watches as you chew. “Good?” he asks. 

You nod, swallowing down, and praying to whatever Gods were listening or watching that nothing had gotten stuck in your teeth. You reach for your dalgona coffee and sink down a quick sip, forgetting completely about the fact that it was still piping hot. 

“Fuck!” you hiss, setting it back down on the table and blowing inwards, your tongue stinging. 

“Careful,” Jimin chides. “Surely coffee isn’t that good that you have to drink it at lava-like temperatures.” He gets up quickly and fetches a water from the barista, returning to you and passing it over. “Here, have some of this.”

“Thanks,” you say gratefully. 

So much for not making any kind of embarrassment of yourself in front of Jimin. What next? You would find out you had a massive piece of seaweed lodged between your front teeth? You shudder in horror at the thought. Hurriedly you uncap the bottle and drink a chug some down. 

“You okay?” Jimin asks. 

“Yeah,” you reply, trying not to sound as mortified as you felt. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he reassures you, tucking into his gimbap. “It happens. I’ll just try and forget whatever came out of your nose!”

“My nose —what?” You’re about to have a full on freakout, hands flying up to cover your face. 

He laughs. “Relax, I’m just messing.” 

“Not funny, Park Jimin,” you say, slowly bringing your hands back down, but only after you’ve carefully felt all around your face. Just in case he wasn’t kidding. 

“It is a bit,” he says cheekily. “Your face was a picture.”

“Ha, ha,” you say, shooting him your most fakest sweet smile. 

“Uh-oh,” Jimin says mischievously. “Did I go too far? My bad, I forgot how you ladies can get about these things. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted,” you tell him, taking a bite of your croffle. “You want some?”

“Mm, I’ll try some ice cream if you don’t mind,” Jimin replies. 

“Sure, be my guest.”

He digs into one corner and takes out a spoonful, bringing it to his mouth. He savours it slowly, eyes closed, as if waiting for every single tastebud on his tongue to experience it. You fight to push back the mental image of how he might look in a more intimate setting. 

“Mm, yummy,” he says finally, eyes opening and catching you looking right at him. 

For a beat nobody says anything, but something passes between you in that moment. Something you hadn’t felt until then, that you want to bottle and keep forever. It’s exciting, like that thrill you get just before something you had anticipated for so long was about to happen. 

“Everything okay with your order?” comes the voice of the server, and the moment passes. 

Jimin answers her, giving her a quick smile that doesn’t reach his eyes like it does usually. Perhaps he had felt it too and was just as annoyed as you at the inopportune interruption. She quickly melts away, leaving you and Jimin exchanging quick, slightly awkward glances. 

“So,” Jimin begins, blowing softly into his tea. “How did you find today’s class?”

You talk about just dance at first, how you feel the class is going for you and whether there were any areas you needed extra help with. Conversation evolves into your training before turning professional, and about your love of music and theatre. Little by little, you find yourself opening up, talk going as far as to cover various childhood stories that slip out with ease. The minutes drift by effortlessly, disappearing impossibly, wrapped in a barrage of memories. 

But the talk isn’t just confined to things about you. Jimin too shares about himself, and you find yourself learning that he is absurdly competitive during board games, he still overthinks choreography every time, he sometimes sleeps at the studio when schedules become overwhelming, and he laughs the hardest at stupid jokes. He tells you that he also notices a lot more than he lets on, something you were rapidly finding out.

At some point, you stop seeing him as Park Jimin, your dance teacher. You start seeing just Jimin, the man sitting across from you who fidgets with his teacup while he talks, whose eyes brighten when he’s talking about something he loves, and who remembers details you mentioned weeks ago. You notice how he asks questions and takes an interest in your life, and in you, and genuinely listens to the answers you provide. 

The realization sneaks up on you quietly. You like him. Not like a harmless crush or attraction, or even respectful admiration. You genuinely like him as a person, and somehow that's far more terrifying, because when the café finally closes and you step outside together, everything feels different. 

The distance between you feels noticeable when he sees you into a taxi. The goodbye feels too short, and when Jimin smiles and tells you that he’ll see you next Saturday, it sounds less like a routine farewell and more like something you'll be looking forward to for the next three days.

It’s a problem because as your car pulls away and you watch Jimin disappear down the street, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, blonde hair catching the glow of passing streetlights, you realize that you were worried about the six weeks ending because of the impending audition. 

Now you're worried because of him, and that wasn’t something you could have ever seen coming the day you walked into his studio. 

| ❛ week five ❜ |

You spend the entire week pretending everything is normal when it isn't. it’s far from normal. The problem is that once you admit something to yourself, it's impossible to un-know it. Before the coffee shop, you could explain things away. You admired Jimin, respected him and enjoyed talking to him. All of that was technically true.

Now, though? Now you've sat across from him for three hours discussing everything from terrible first jobs to the performances that changed your life. Now you know how his face lights up when he's excited, you’ve seen the specific smile he gets when he's trying not to laugh, you are aware of how he remembers the kinds of insignificant details most people forget immediately.

And unfortunately, you've realized that seeing him has fast become one of your favourite parts of the week.

There isn't a convenient way to file that information away, so you do what any reasonable person would do —you avoid thinking about it.

Spectacularly unsuccessfully.

Saturday arrives eventually, and the studio is already busy when you get there. Music echoes through the hallway and students move between rooms. Someone is laughing near reception, and others are engaged in lively conversations and warm-ups. 

You spot Jimin immediately and tell yourself that you weren’t looking for him. It’s hardly the point. He's standing near the front desk talking with one of the instructors. His long blonde hair is loose today, and he’s wearing a black zip-up hoodie. He holds a bottle of red liquid in one hand and his phone in the other, his face animated as he explains something to the other man. 

He looks up suddenly and sees you. He smiles, and it feels different to the smiles he gives everyone else. It’s one that’s becoming alarmingly easy to recognize. "Morning,” he greets you. 

Your breath stalls for a moment, but you walk over slowly. "Hey."

The other instructor glances between the two of you and excuses himself, leaving you and Jimin standing there. An awkward silence threatens that isn’t uncomfortable exactly, but just aware. Different from before, at least for you.

"How's the scene work going?" he asks.

You blink. "You remembered that?"

"Of course,” he says, looking at you as if it would be strange if he hadn’t. “It’s important to you, isn’t it?”

You stare for half a second and then look away before he notices how much that affected you.

"Uh, yeah," you manage. “It’s going well.”

"That’s great." His gaze lingers briefly, before he nods towards the studio. “Come on, let’s get started."

Class begins with partner work, which immediately causes chaos. Nobody likes partner work, but everyone claims otherwise. They're lying. Partner work exposes every weakness you have.

Balance, timing, trust, coordination —all of it. 

Students begin pairing off and you move toward a friend from class. Suddenly you hear hurried footsteps behind you. 

“Actually—." You turn to see Jimin looking at the group roster. "You've got me."

The room immediately erupts into titters. “Isn’t that favouritism?” somebody calls from the back. The tone is light and playful, but your face burns red regardless. You didn’t want to be seen as the teacher’s pet, or for either you or Jimin to be the subject of gossip. 

Jimin doesn't even look up. "If any of you want her turns, be my guest." Silence fills the room and nobody volunteers. "I thought so."

The room dissolves into laughter. You, meanwhile, are trying to ignore the fact that every single pair of eyes are on you and your knees can barely hold you up. You’re in trouble now. 

The routine itself isn't even remotely romantic. It’s contemporary choreography, technical and demanding, and focused on connection and weight distribution. The problem is that connection and weight distribution require frequent touching. And while you've danced with people before, you've never danced with someone you're actively trying not to think about, which turns out to be much harder when that someone is Park Jimin. 

"From the start." 

Jimin steps into position and you mirror him. His hand settles lightly against your shoulder blade. Professional and steady, nothing more. However, your body traitorously decides this is significant.

"You keep anticipating,” Jimin says. 

"You say that every week,” you grumble, a little tetchy and unnerved. 

"Because you keep doing it."

"Maybe that's just who I am,” you retort. “Maybe I can’t help it.”

His eyes narrow, and then his serious expression dissolves into a smile that takes away your every frustration for a moment. "You'd be exhausting in chess,” he says softly. 

"Chess?” you echo. “I don’t play chess.”

"You seem the type who would plan twelve moves ahead,” he tells you. “I guess I’ve had a lucky escape.”

You want to argue, but the reality is that he's probably right again, which is becoming annoying.

"Are you ready?" he asks as the music restarts. 

You nod, and the movement takes over. Count after count, step after step. For a few minutes, everything disappears except the dance. The studio, the rhythm, and even the choreography. Jimin's focus becomes absolute whenever he dances. 

You've noticed it before, but never from this close. It's remarkable, like watching someone speak a language they're completely fluent in. Every movement is intentional, each transition seamless and without hesitation or uncertainty, just confidence.

The routine ends, and your breathing is uneven whilst Jimin isn’t even breaking a sweat. Once more you wonder if he isn’t from another species. 

“You’ve improved a lot,” he tells you. 

"I feel like I've been hit by a bus,” you complain. “But thanks.”

"You'll survive, I’m sure,” Jimin says. 

You chuckle, but you’re not even sure why. Then suddenly he's laughing too, the sound slipping out before either of you expects it. For one strange moment, everything else in the room fades. There isn’t anything but him Jimin looking at you with a smile. 

The moment breaks when someone throws a towel at him, which hits him directly in the shoulder.

"You two done?" a student calls.

Jimin catches the towel and throws it back but misses completely. The room cheers and you laugh so hard you nearly fall over. For the first time, you see him looking genuinely embarrassed, which of course just makes him even more endearing and attractive.

This was becoming harder to control. 

After class, you end up staying back later unintentionally, having lost track of time again. The studio feels like a second home, becoming strangely familiar and comfortable over the past few weeks.

It’s somewhere that you spend more hours than planned, the place where your confidence has slowly grown, and most of your favourite conversations lately seem to happen.

You finish stretching and glance toward the front windows. The sun is setting, orange light spilling across the floor. Only a handful of students remain, and Park Jimin, who is sitting cross-legged on the floor, working on something on his laptop. You gather your things and walk over.

“You're still here,” you say. 

He looks up. "So are you,” he says. "I’m impressed with your dedication.”

“Thank you.”

Jimin’s gaze shifts toward the large clock that hangs above the door. "You hungry?"

The question catches you completely off guard. "What?"

"Hungry."

"I know what the word means."

"I should hope so."

"You just surprised me."

His smile appears. "I do that occasionally."

You stare at him. "Occasionally?"

"Frequently?"

"More than that."

He laughs and closes the laptop. "I haven't eaten since lunch."

"Now you’re making unhealthy choices too?" you say in mock disbelief. “After everything you’ve told us about looking after our bodies.”

"I know, I know,” he concedes. “It’s just been one of those really busy days.”

You consider that, then shrug. "I could eat."

"Great,” he says, as if it's the simplest thing in the world. 

Like this isn't sending your heart into complete disarray.

Dinner becomes a regular restaurant five minutes from the studio. It’s nothing fancy, just comfortable booths and warm lighting. The kind of place people actually return to, a hidden gem of sorts. Once more you sit across from each other, this time with menus open. 

Conversation once more is dangerously easy. You've started noticing that with him the silence never feels like work, and talking never feels forced. Topics simply unfold, one leading naturally into another. 

"You always wanted to act?" Jimin asks.

"Always."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously."

He leans back. "I wanted to be everything."

You laugh. “That narrows it down then.”

"I had phases before I chose dance,” Jimin explains. "Singer, tennis player, and then soccer player."

"You?" you say incredulously. “A soccer player?”

"Briefly."

"How brief are we talking exactly?" you probe, finding it amusing attempting to picture Jimin in soccer attire. 

"Three weeks."

"Three weeks?"

"I wasn't good."

"You gave up after three weeks?"

"No." His eyes brighten. "I got hit with a football."

You burst into laughter, hard. "So, your soccer career ended immediately."

"That’s correct,” Jimin confirms. “But don’t laugh, I was gutted.”

"That's tragic."

"It was."

The conversation continues, story after story, memory after memory, and somewhere in the middle of it, you stop being nervous around him in all the obvious ways. The nervousness now lives somewhere deeper. It’s less about impressing him and more about what happens if this keeps growing.

Because it is growing. In every conversation and class, every week that goes by, and even on the days you don’t see him. The feeling keeps expanding quietly, as if it has no intention of stopping.

There is an audition workshop fixed for the following Wednesday. It’s an optional evening session with a smaller group and more focused training. You sign up immediately and naturally so does Jimin, because he’s eager to give you as much support as possible. You gladly accept his offer. 

The session runs late, much later than expected. By the time it ends, the city outside has gone dark. Rain taps softly against the windows. You and Jimin are the last ones left. You sit on the floor near the mirrors, exhausted. 

He drops down beside you. "You were good tonight,” he says. 

You glance over. "Really?"

"Yeah, really."

You study his face, trying to determine whether he's simply being encouraging or means it. 

"What?" he asks. 

"Nothing."

His expression softens. “I’ve told you, you’ve improved so much, Y/N,” he says gently. “You have to start believing in yourself more.”

His words land harder than expected, because Jimin doesn't hand out praise carelessly. You've learned that when he compliments something, he means it, which makes it matter a lot. 

"You've changed since week one." His voice is quiet and thoughtful. "You move differently now."

You smile. "That’s all thanks to you."

He shakes his head. “No, it isn’t me,” he says. “That’s all because of your work."

Something intimate settles between you. Outside the rain continues, soft against the glass and neither of you seems to be in any rush to leave.

“I’m still scared about the audition,” you confess, looking at your hands, heart racing as the admission slips out unplanned but effortlessly. "I know that's dramatic." 

"No, it’s not."

"What if I don't get it?" The question emerges before you can stop it. The one you've been carrying for weeks, months —maybe longer.  "What if I work this hard and it still isn't enough?"

The room grows quiet, the mood pensive. Jimin studies you for a moment. "You know what I think?" he asks eventually. "I think you've attached too much meaning to one outcome."

"That's annoyingly insightful."

"That’s one of my perks."

You laugh despite yourself, then fall quiet. "So what should I do?"

"Keep showing up."

The words hit you immediately. You've heard them before, back in week one. After class, when everything had felt impossible. 

"You remember saying that?" you ask quietly. 

His expression changes slightly. "Yeah."

Something tiny shifts almost invisibly, yet it’s impossible to ignore. The space between you suddenly feels charged and full of awareness. As if both of you noticed something at exactly the same time. 

Jimin looks away first toward the rain-streaked windows and you look down, suddenly fascinated by the floor, none of you entirely sure what just happened.

Only that it did.

When you finally leave, the rain is still falling. It’s not heavy but it’s enough to merit taking cover. You stand beneath the awning outside the studio, checking the weather app.

Jimin appears beside you. "Waiting for someone?"

“No, just for the rain to calm a bit,” you reply, returning your phone into your bag. 

He looks up at the cloudy sky, eyebrows lifting. "You might be waiting a while."

You sigh. "It wasn't raining earlier, maybe it might…”

“I have my car today,” Jimin says. “How about I give you a lift somewhere?”

Your heart immediately forgets how to function. "What?"

"Come on, I'll drive you,” he says, pulling out his car keys from his pocket. 

"Jimin—."

"Y/N, it’s raining,” he says firmly. “This rain won’t stop for a while yet.” Then as if the Gods themselves want to make Jimin right, the drops start to fall harder. Jimin grins. “You see?” 

"I'll survive,” you insist. 

"I can’t just leave you here,” Jimin says stubbornly. “I'd rather make sure you get somewhere safe. Preferably whilst you’re dry."

His concern nearly undoes you. Not because he’s pressurising you or being dramatic, but because it’s the sort of casual kindness that comes naturally to him, as if it’s woven into his DNA. 

And it makes falling for him a dead cert guarantee.

The drive is quiet. Music plays softly as streetlights slide across the windows. You tell yourself to enjoy it, not analyse or overthink it. Rather predictably, you fail miserably. By the time Jimin pulls up outside your building, your emotions are a complete mess.

"Thanks,” you say, reaching for the door handle. 

You pause but you aren’t sure why. The moment stretches for a few seconds, maybe less, maybe more. Jimin’s gaze meets yours and the world suddenly feels very small. For one impossible moment, you think maybe—

A horn sounds somewhere down the street and the spell breaks instantly. Reality rushes back, and you look away first.

"Goodnight." Your voice comes out softer than intended.

Jimin smiles. It’s not his teasing or playful smile, but something far gentler. "Goodnight."

You climb out of the car, closing the door behind you and start walking towards your building.

Only once you're safely inside do you allow yourself to acknowledge the truth. The fifth week of class is almost over and the course is almost finished. 

And you're completely, hopelessly, undeniably in love with Park Jimin. The realisation alone would be hard to process alone, but you’re also hit with another revelation. 

You think he might be falling for you too.

| ❛ week six ❜ |

You do not handle the realization well. In fairness, there isn't a handbook for this sort of thing.

No helpful guide titled ‘How to process falling in love with someone you shouldn’t’. If there were, you would buy it immediately.

Instead, you spend Thursday staring at your ceiling, Friday over-analysing every interaction you've had for the past month, and Saturday waking up a full hour earlier than necessary because your brain simply won’t switch off. 

The audition is three days away, and the final class is today. Neither of those things you feel particularly ready for. 

The studio feels different when you arrive on Saturday. Perhaps it’s because you know it's the last week, and endings sometimes have a way of making people pay that little bit more extra attention. Every detail feels sharper, gaining your attention in a manner you hadn’t given it before. The familiar reception desk, the hallway photographs, the music sounding out from somewhere deeper inside the building.

You pause outside the studio, a strange ache settling in your chest. Six weeks had really gone that fast. 

The door slides open suddenly and Jimin steps out. Immediately he stops. His hair is down today, soft waves falling around his face. You can’t help staring. You would never forget his face. 

"Y/N,” he says with the smile of someone genuinely happy to see you. It still has the capacity to affect you. “Hey.”

“Hi.”

There isn’t any other conversation, you both just stand there quietly, as if there's something both of you are aware of but neither has figured out how to say. Then voices approach from down the hallway and Jimin is distracted.

You trawl behind him into the studio, wishing you had the ability to freeze time. But you don’t, and the final class begins.

The final session is surprisingly emotional. Nobody, including you, expected that. The group has spent six weeks suffering together, learning and improving together. Some students exchange numbers, others take photos and someone even starts a group chat. Within ten minutes, the chat has already become unbearable, as all group chats eventually do. 

Jimin spends most of his time encouraging and teaching, correcting any final mistakes the same as always. You keep catching yourself watching him, trying to memorize things he does. The way he pushes his hair back, how he folds his arms when he's thinking, the sound of his laugh and the tone and rhythm of his voice.

You know you’re being ridiculous, but you can’t stop yourself. It’s entirely out of your control.

Near the end of class, everyone gathers around the mirrors, sweaty and exhausted, but happy. Jimin stands at the front, hands on his hips as he looks around the room. A silence descends on the group, which immediately gets everyone's attention.

"I won’t drag this out, so I’ll keep it short. I don’t want to bore you,” Jimin says suddenly. "You all worked hard and I am so proud of you." His gaze moves across the group, finding yours briefly. "You showed willingness and endeavour, and that's all I could have asked for. “Well done everyone, you’re all amazing and I wish you all every success in your respective futures in dance.”

The speech is simple and honest, and very effective because it sounds exactly like a Jimin sort of speech. The room breaks into applause and Jimin immediately looks embarrassed by the attention, which only makes everyone clap even harder. 

Goodbyes take longer than expected. There are photos and conversations, promises to stay in touch and tearful embraces, but gradually the studio empties and the voices fade. The afternoon sunlight shifts across the floor of the studio, until once more it’s just you and Jimin for the final time. 

You stand near the mirrors, your gym bag slung over one shoulder, wanting to drag out every second. "Well,” you say, forcing a smile. "I made it."

"You did,” Jimin says with a cheeky wink. “It’s a miracle.”

“Hey!” you protest. 

“I’m joking! I’m joking!” he laughs. “You made it, well done.”

The room suddenly feels very still. "I wanted to say thank you,” you say, the words leave your mouth before you can second-guess them.

Jimin blinks. "There’s nothing to thank me for,” Jimin says. “I hope I’ve done my job well, and that you kill it at your audition.”

“It’s not just the classes,” you say, looking around the studio, at the mirrors and speakers, the place that has become so important over the last few weeks, and then back at him. "It’s everything else you did. All of it."

His expression changes immediately, all traces of his teasing disappearing. "It was all you, Y/N. You did the work."

You smile. "You helped in more ways that I expected."

He looks at you, and your heart blooms in your chest. That same feeling rises in you, that awareness that’s been growing between you for weeks, unnamed and ignored by both of you as you carried it together over every interaction. 

"You don't give yourself enough credit,” Jimin says, his voice quieter now.

You swallow and smile softly. "You’ve told me."

"I’ll keep telling you because it's true,” he says. “As long as you’ll listen to me.”

The space between you feels smaller than it should, as if every conversation you've shared is somehow standing here with you. Every late practice, every laugh you’ve shared, every coffee and text message. Everything all at once. 

"I have my audition on Tuesday,” you tell him.

"I remember,” Jimin says. 

You hear that impossible tenderness, the kind that sneaks up on you and fills your heart with so much emotion you feel like you can barely contain it all inside you.

"Do you know what I've been trying very hard not to do for the last few weeks?" Jimin asks suddenly. 

Your pulse instantly speeds up. "What?"

When he laughs, he sounds nervous, which surprises you more than anything. You've seen Jimin confident, focused and playful, but you’ve never seen him nervous until now. He looks down briefly. "I’ve been trying my hardest to stay back, and not cross the line,” Jimin says. “I didn’t want to push you into anything.”

The world seems to stop for a second. Your heartbeat becomes deafening, too full of everything neither of you has said. "You've been trying not to cross a line?" Your voice comes out softer than intended. “What line?”

"Yeah,” he answers. "There was a line between us, Y/N. I was your teacher."

Something like an adrenaline burst begins to shoot up in your chest, like fireworks exploding in your heart. Of course Jimin had thought about that and took it seriously. He’d been careful, because that’s who he is, and he hadn’t taken advantage. You expect nothing less. 

"And now?" you venture tentatively. 

The question hangs between you. Jimin exhales slowly, a small smile touching the corner of his mouth. "Now,” he says slowly. “The course ended twenty minutes ago, and I am technically off duty as your dance teacher."

You stare at him and let out a surprised, disbelieving laugh, not sure what to say. 

“I think we can safely say that the line has been erased,” Jimin declares with a bashful grin. 

Your stomach flips, but you feel a smile play at your lips. "Is this your big move?"

"My big move?"

"That whole crossing the line speech."

He covers his face briefly. "No, oh God, no!" he chuckles, still nervous. "I've been mentally playing out and preparing for this conversation."

"And this is what you came up with?"

There’s a moment of quiet as you look at one another, and then you're both laughing, the tension breaking and becoming something lighter, something real. When the laughter eventually runs its course, neither of you steps away, and instead Jimin moves in closer tentatively and your breath catches. 

His eyes travel down to your mouth, resting there for a moment before returning to hold yours. Your heart nearly stops. Nobody says anything, because there isn't much left to say. Not after weeks of conversations, not after everything. The feeling has already been spoken in a hundred smaller ways; this is just the first time you're both acknowledging it.

"I was planning on being much smoother than this,” Jimin says quietly. 

You laugh a little shakily. "Really?"

"Absolutely."

"What happened?"

His smile is soft and beautiful; you think you'll remember it forever. "You keep making me nervous,” he tells you. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

His confession reaches the very core of you. This man that you’ve come to know. The one who stays late helping students, who remembers details, who listens and cares. The one you've fallen in love with. He’s here and telling you that you make him nervous. Your eyes sting unexpectedly with relief, because for the first time you don’t feel alone in this anymore. 

"You okay?" Jimin asks softly. 

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"I'm just happy."

His smile falters, as if something about your revelation affects him the way his affected you. He takes another small step closer, his hand lifting to touch your face gently. The touch is so tender that your eyes close for a few seconds. 

And then you feel his mouth cover yours and all your thoughts evaporate, lost in the sensation of his lips pressed against yours. 

The kiss is the culmination of everything from the last six weeks. It’s unrushed and soft. Jimin’s hand remains lightly against your cheek as your fingers find the front of his t-shirt. The world narrows down to one perfect moment, one long-awaited answer, one shared feeling finally spoken aloud.

When you finally separate, both of you are smiling, neither seeming capable of stopping. "I've wanted to do that for a while,” Jimin says huskily, head dipping to rest his forehead against yours gently. 

"Yeah?" you quip. 

"Definitely,” Jimin replies. “So much so that I’m going to do it again, and then again.” The answer is so sincere that you adore him for the way he always seems to mean exactly what he says.

“Be my guest,” you smile, face upturning to look into his eyes. 

You stand there together on the studio floor, the afternoon sunlight stretching across the floor, the space quiet around you as Jimin gathers you into his arms again for another kiss. 

Three days later, you walk into your audition, nervous, excited and ready. Your phone buzzes just before you're called inside. A message flashes on the display —from Jimin.

Remember to let your body follow the music. 

A second arrives immediately after.

And don’t overthink. I’m rooting for you!

You laugh out loud, and a few people look over, but you don't care, because for the first time in months, the fear feels manageable, and the pressure feels lighter. You tuck your phone away and take a deep breath before you walk through the door. Not because you're certain you'll succeed or you’re fearless, but because you've learned something valuable over the last six weeks that’s much bigger than this audition or dance, or any of it. 

Sometimes the most important things begin with simply showing up, and if you're very lucky, they can end with the most unexpected scenarios. Like how Park Jimin changed your life in ways that you couldn’t possibly have anticipated. 

All within six Saturdays you would never, ever forget. 

♡ Jimin is a long-term relationship kind of person, he's very adamant about working through all of your problems, changing and improving himself to make sure he is your absolute dream person and perfect partner. In his eyes, there is nothing that you can’t work through together.

♡ Lots of hugs from behind!!! He loves wrapping his arms around you, and sometimes when he's extra clingy, he'll backpack onto you, resting his whole head and body on your back, just smiling into your shirt because he loves holding you like a teddy bear so much

♡ Jimin is a reformed crashout, but 100% he still does in secrecy. Taehyung or Jungkook will do something really irritating in public, and you’ll SEE him fight to hold it together and remain calm and let the night continue smoothly, but the moment you two get home, it’s all “Aiiiish, he’s actually so annoying. Aishh, I just thought about it again; he’s actually such a brat.” It’s cute seeing him get all riled up, and he loves that you’ll always listen to him rant about it. It amuses you to see him get all hot and bothered.

♡ On a similar note, your arguments can get kind of intense sometimes, but not because he ever yells at you, but just because he is fiery and passionate (read: stubborn), and he is also the most forgiving person you’ve ever met. Every argument has always ended rather quickly and been forgotten about.

♡ “Jagiyaaaa, my glasses? Have you seen my glasses?” yelled from down the hall. Like almost every single day.

♡ He is such a gentleman, your own little prince. it’s so important to him that you and he remain on a romantic level. You are each other's best friend, but he always wants you to feel like his woman. If you ever get a little too casual with him or tease him as if he were just your friend, he gets easily irritated.

♡ whatever he gets, he gets two of: one for you. Freebies at work? “Can I take one for Y/N?” Stopped by a cafe? There’s now a croissant in his bag for you too. He’s always considering you.

♡ spas together very often!!!

♡ he really loves taking pictures of you. “Look how nice these flower bushes are, will you please stand there so I can take a photo :)”

♡ If you let go of his hand jokingly, he stops dead in his tracks and blinks at you in pure comedic shock. “Babe, what do you think you’re doing? Get back here.”

♡ He’s a ritual lover!!!! Every night you two sheet-mask together; every morning you two brush your teeth together. If you skip it or either of you is too busy, his day is slightly ruined, you’re his lucky charm

♡ Did I say huge fan of hand holding

♡ His laugh is everything!!!! He thinks you’re the funniest person in the room, and he collapses to his knees at your jokes

♡ “Shoot. I can’t find my phone.” “Jimin, it’s in your pocket.”

♡ He's gifted with the art of noticing. He notices and tells you whenever you make the slightest change to your look, or you buy a new top. He always talks about how lovely the sky looks when the sunset is extra pretty. The world seemed to have gotten so much prettier since you started dating him; he's always got something positive to admire.

♡ Late-night snacks on the floor at the coffee table after a long day, while he talks about the calories don’t count because he’s eating them with you

♡ He fucking loves bringing you places in public to be photographed together. In every single photo of you two walking together, Jimin is smiling as wide as ever because you make him so happy, and he loves that the world gets to know about you.

♡ He likes makeup shopping with you!!!!!! You two go around and swatch lip products and fancy skincare together, and he always ends up getting another lip balm because he lost his old one.

♡ He's just big into shopping sprees together in general. Loves trying clothes and accessories on with you, and, of course, he doesn't even question whether you need them. If you like it, it's yours.

♡ Your parents and friends adore him. He's so kind and thoughtful, and so polite. He's a little quieter and shyer around your family, but he loves to be invited to see them anyway.

♡ Your shared apartment is really tidy. Jimin's good at keeping things clean, and one of his love languages is cleaning up after you in small ways. Your mug gets taken back to the kitchen when you're done with your drink. You'll wake up the morning after a night out to your dress already hung up.

♡ He's a gift giver 100%. Loves buying you gifts. You'll often come home to flowers; whatever you've been looking at recently will be sitting on the dining table, wrapped neatly in a bow.

♡ Jimin's laughter is often a part of your foreplay. Lots of giggling in between kisses, he likes to tickle you as he kisses your neck, his smile is enough to melt everything inside of you as he coaxes you out of your clothing.

♡ Unfortunately for him, it turns you on to get him mad. Not furious, but just bothered enough for his smile to fade and his Busan accent to come front and centre. And that's when his gentleness subsides. Suddenly, you're having your head pushed down further onto his length as you blow him, you're being handled and positioned however he wants you. His eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched, "Stop being such a brat, baby."

♡ Jimin needs you to sit on his face. He practically won't eat you out any other way. If it starts with you lying on your back, he'll eventually get you straddled over his face. He'll lie down, pat his chest a little and stick his tongue out, open-mouthed. "Come here, don't make me wait.”

♡ He's a hair puller through and through. Manhandling you, holding you in place, it's his favourite. Bending you over the counter with his fingers tangled in your hair, holding you steady and forcing you to look back at him. He loves gripping you by the ponytail as he finishes inside of you.

♡ He's SO vocal when he has an orgasm. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, he can't even form words; it's just endless moans, hisses, whines, and panting. He practically sings when he finishes. (Do you remember that Run BTS episode when Hobi threw a bowl of water in his face and Jimin's reaction????? yeah)

♡ Jimin is into public sex, and he's not terribly cautious. At this point, friends of yours know that when you two are missing in action, you're probably on top of a counter somewhere or against a wall, and Jimin is fucking you missionary against something.

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊˚ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻ੈ✩‧₊

Every weekday at precisely 8:10, the elevator from the executive floors opened, and he walked into the café looking as though he had personally been inconvenienced by the existence of everyone around him. He never smiled. Never greeted anyone. If his drink took longer than three minutes, no matter how busy it was, he’d glance at his watch with exaggerated annoyance.

His employees upstairs practically worshipped him. You couldn’t understand why. Maybe he was a genius when it came to software and investments, but none of that excused treating people like they existed solely to make his life easier.

“Medium americano.”, he stated without looking away from his phone. You didn’t even have to look up to know it was him. “You know.”, you said as you reached for a cup, “most people start with ‘good morning.’”

“It would still be morning whether I said it or not.”, he responded, “And you’d still have to make the coffee.” You let out a huff of annoyance and stepped away to finish the drink. You could feel his eyes on you while the espresso machine hissed beside you. “Y/N you seem particularly agitated today.”, he said. You slid his cup across the counter a little harder than necessary, “You seem particularly arrogant today.”

“You’re confusing confidence with arrogance.”, he corrected you. He picked up his drink, thanked no one, and disappeared back toward the elevators. You waited until the doors closed before sighing loudly, “I swear he gets ruder every single day.”

By the following Monday, you had mostly forgotten about him. The café was unusually quiet when you clocked in. Your manager Jin stood behind the register with an expression that immediately made you suspicious. Whenever Jin smiled like that someone’s day was about to get significantly worse. “What?”, you asked. His smile grew, “We’ve got a new employee.” You blinked, “I didn’t know we were hiring?” Jin shrugged his shoulders, “It’s a…temporary thing.”

You narrowed your eyes and you set your bag beneath the counter and tied your apron around your waist. You already knew you were going to be training them. You’d been there the longest. Every new hire eventually became your responsibility even though you insisted you had neither the patience nor the personality for it.

Jin always ignored that argument, “They’ll be here any minute.” You sighed, “Please tell me they have at least some café experience.” Jin chuckled, “Not exactly.” Before you could ask what that meant, the elevator doors opened. Your heart nearly stopped. Min Yoongi stepped out. Except something was different.

There was no expensive suit jacket draped over his arm. No tablet. No frantic assistant following behind him. Instead, he wore dark jeans, a simple black T-shirt beneath an apron Jin had clearly forced him into, and an expression that suggested he’d rather be anywhere else on Earth.

You stared. He stared back. Neither of you spoke. Finally, you looked at Jin, “Is this a joke?” Jimin snorted into a laugh. Jin shook his head, “The board of directors and his grandfather have decided that Mr. Min needs to spend six weeks working every position in the company he oversees. And since he technically owns this cafe…” Your eyes slowly drifted back toward Yoongi. Silence settled between you. He looked just as unhappy as you felt.

You led Yoongi behind the counter before the morning rush had a chance to begin. The café was quiet enough that you could explain things without having customers waiting impatiently in line and for that you were grateful. Training anyone took patience. Training Min Yoongi was going to take a miracle.

He stood beside you with his arms folded, studying the touchscreen register as though he were evaluating a prototype his company had developed. His expression barely changed, but you recognized that look. You’d seen it whenever he came downstairs for coffee. Everything was beneath him until proven otherwise. “This is the POS system.”, you explained, tapping a few buttons to bring up the menu, “Here are the specialty coffees, standard coffees, syrup options are over here and bakery is on this side. You’ll spend your first few shifts learning this before we even think about letting you touch the coffee machine.”

His eyes scanned the screen for all of five seconds, “That’s all?” You looked over at him, “That’s all?” He rolled his eyes, “It’s software.” You waited. He didn’t elaborate. Finally he scoffed, as though the answer should have been obvious, “I own a multi-million-dollar tech company. I think I can figure out a coffee shop POS system.”

There it was. That familiar confidence that always sounded just a little too much like arrogance. You couldn’t help but smile and for the first time, he looked slightly suspicious. Before he could ask what you meant, the bell over the front door chimed. Your head turned automatically. Then you saw who had walked in. A laugh nearly escaped you.

Every café had that one customer that tested everyone’s patience. The one whose drink ticket printed long enough to wrap around the cup twice. The one who ordered so often that the regular baristas knew the recipe would be difficult, but nobody else knew what to expect. Yours was Ms.Kim. She walked through the door in oversized sunglasses and designer heels, phone pressed to one ear while she waved absently toward the counter. She visited nearly every weekday, always at the same time, always with a drink that somehow became more complicated than the last.

You quietly stepped away from the register, “Your first customer is here.” Ms.Kim reached the counter and smiled pleasantly at Yoongi. “Oh.”, she said, “You’re new…and so handsome.” Even from a safe distance you could see the blush creep up his neck. Yoongi offered the practiced smile of a businessman who had spent years negotiating contracts and charming investors, “Good morning. What can I get started for you?”

“I’ll have a venti half-caf oat milk latte.”, she began. His fingers hovered confidently over the touchscreen. Then she continued, “…with three shots, extra hot, but not scalding. Two pumps of vanilla, one pump of sugar-free vanilla, three pumps of caramel, half a pump of hazelnut but be careful because last time they put 3/4 of a pump, cinnamon steamed into the milk, light foam, caramel drizzle around the cup and on top, whipped cream only around the edges, and two packets of raw sugar.”

His fingers stopped moving. The confidence disappeared so quickly you almost laughed. He stared at the register. Then at Ms. Kim. Then back at the register again. His expression remained impressively neutral, but after two years of arguing with him, you’d become surprisingly good at reading the tiny changes in his face.

The slight narrowing of his eyes.

The nearly invisible tightening of his jaw.

The fraction of a second where he simply…froze.

He had absolutely no idea where any of those buttons were. You bit the inside of your cheek. He’d walked into this convinced running a café would be easy because it involved a computer screen. Now that computer screen looked like it was in a completely different language.

You didn’t rescue him. Instead, you watched him try. His hand drifted uncertainly across the display as he searched for syrup options. A soft warning beep sounded. Wrong button. He frowned and tried again. Another beep. This time he’d accidentally selected iced instead of hot. He corrected it, only to lose the extra espresso shots he’d already entered. You could practically hear the gears turning in his head as he tried to solve the problem himself.

The longer it took the less confident he looked. His shoulders, which had been perfectly straight moments ago, began to tense. His brows pulled together in concentration and every now and then he glanced at the screen with the same expression people wore while assembling furniture without reading the instructions.

It was strangely…endearing. You hated using that word to describe him. He wasn’t endearing. He was simply discovering that the job he’d dismissed in less than a minute required far more attention than he’d expected. Eventually, after nearly a full minute of determined silence, he let out a quiet breath. Without looking at you, he asked, “How do you find the syrups?” You blinked. That might have been the closest thing to asking for help you’d ever heard from him.

You stepped beside him, pointing toward one of the submenu tabs, “They’re hidden under modifiers. Most new people miss it.” His eyes followed your finger. Together, you worked through the rest of the order, adding each customization one by one. When the receipt finally printed, it dangled almost to the countertop. Yoongi stared at the impossibly long sticker before looking toward the espresso station where Jimin had already begun making the drink.“That’s…one coffee?”, he asked and you nodded. He watched Jimin pump syrup after syrup into the cup with the practiced speed that only came from repetition. For the first time since putting on that apron, Yoongi wasn’t looking at the café as though it were beneath him. He was watching it with genuine curiosity.

You caught the thoughtful expression before he noticed you looking and you quickly busied yourself wiping down the counter. Maybe six weeks wouldn’t be enough to change someone. But after only twenty minutes behind the register, Yoongi had already learned his first lesson. Nothing about this job was as simple as it looked.

Quickly you came to one very specific conclusion. Min Yoongi was an excellent student but he was also unbelievably irritating. He picked things up far faster than any trainee you’d ever worked with. After watching you ring in drinks a handful of times, he’d memorized the entire register. By Wednesday he was taking most orders without your help. By Thursday he had learned enough about the machines to make basic drinks under your supervision.

You should have been impressed. Instead, it only gave him more opportunities to argue with you. He questioned everything.

Why did customers insist on ordering drinks that tasted like melted candy?

Why did everyone refuse to read the menu before reaching the register?

Why did the drive for “customer satisfaction” mean apologizing when someone else’s mistake held up the line?

He challenged nearly every answer you gave him and you challenged nearly every assumption he made. Somewhere between correcting his milk steaming technique and explaining why baristas wrote encouraging notes on regulars’ cups, your conversations had settled into a constant rhythm of bickering.

Friday however, was different. You’d known from the moment your alarm went off that the day wasn’t going to be kind. Your head felt heavy. Your body ached with the kind of exhaustion sleep couldn’t fix and the dull headache sitting behind your eyes hadn’t gone away no matter how many painkillers you took or how much coffee you’d sipped before work.

To make matters worse, you’d spent nearly three hours at the emergency veterinarian the night before after your cat, Sushi, had suddenly started limping. Thankfully, the little troublemaker was going to be fine, but the bill had swallowed nearly everything you’d managed to put into your savings over the past several months. Every time you thought about the number printed at the bottom of that receipt, your stomach twisted. You’d pay it again in a heartbeat but it still hurt.

By the time you tied your apron that morning, you already felt wrung out. Even Jimin noticed. “You okay?”, he asked quietly while restocking the napkin dispenser. You forced a smile, “Yeah just tired.” He looked like he wanted to ask more, but the morning rush had already begun. For once, even Yoongi didn’t have much to criticize. He worked beside you in relative silence until the line finally thinned enough for everyone to catch their breath. He glanced toward the stack of cups you’d accidentally knocked over for the second time that morning.

“You’re unusually clumsy today Y/N.”, he said without much actual bite to it. Normally, you would’ve had an answer ready. Something sarcastic. Something that would make him roll his eyes. Instead, you simply bent down, gathered the cups, and kept working, “Sorry.” The word slipped out automatically. Yoongi frowned. You never apologized to him. He watched you for another moment before returning to the register, though you could feel his eyes lingering every so often throughout the next several minutes. He didn’t say anything else.

The café grew busy again just before lunch. Most customers were patient despite the line stretching toward the door. Drinks were flying out as quickly as Yoongi and Jimin could make them and for a little while you managed to lose yourself in the familiar rhythm of taking orders.

Then a man in an expensive business suit stepped up to your register. You greeted him with the same polite smile you gave everyone, “What can I get started for you today?” He rattled off his order without looking up from his phone. You entered it carefully before repeating it back to make sure you’d heard correctly. His head snapped up, “That’s not what I said.” You took a breath, “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought…” But he cut you off, “I said whole milk.” As you typed away on the screen you corrected him, “You actually said oat milk, but I can absolutely change…” The man laughed at you, “I know what I said.” The customers waiting behind him shifted uncomfortably. You kept your voice calm, “No problem sir. I’ll fix it.” He sighed dramatically as if you’d just ruined his entire morning. “This is why nobody gets decent service anymore.”, he grumbled. You swallowed, “I’m sorry about the misunderstanding.”

“No wonder you’re working a shitty cafe job. You’ll never be anything more than a struggling minimum wage barista.”

The words landed harder than they should have. Maybe because you were already exhausted. Maybe because you were worrying about rent. Maybe because you’d spent half the night sitting on the floor beside Sushi’s bed, terrified something was seriously wrong. Whatever the reason, you suddenly felt your throat tighten. You blinked quickly, willing your eyes not to sting.

“I’m fixing it.”, you said softly, “They haven’t even made the drink yet so it’s not problem.” The man shook his head, “Unbelievable. If you were my employee you’d be fired already.” Something inside you cracked. You realized that if you stayed behind that register for one more second you were going to cry in front of a lobby full of people.

“I…excuse me.”, you said and you stepped away before anyone could stop you and hurried through the swinging door into the back room. The moment it closed behind you, you leaned against the wall and covered your face with your hands. The tears came in full force then. You hated crying at work. You hated that one rude customer had managed to undo every bit of composure you’d been clinging to all morning.

A few moments later the back door creaked open. You expected Jin to scold you for walking away mid order or Yoongi to say something to annoy you. Instead, Jimin poked his head inside. His eyes were wide, “Y/N…you okay?” You laughed weakly as you wiped beneath your eyes, “Yeah I will be.” He stepped fully into the room still looking mildly stunned, “You missed…something…interesting.” He scratched the back of his neck, “The guy who made you cry started complaining again after you left. And Yoongi…” Jimin let out a short, disbelieving laugh, “…Yoongi absolutely tore into him.” You looked up, “What?!” Jimin leaned against the shelves, replaying it in his head, “He walked right up to the register and asked the guy if humiliating someone who’d been nothing but polite and hard working made him feel important.” Your eyebrows lifted, “He actually said that?”Jimin nodded, “The customer tried pulling the whole ‘Do you know who I am?’ routine.” A smile tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth. You couldn’t help the tiny laugh that escaped you. Jimin continued, “Yoongi looked him dead in the eye and said, “I don’t particularly care who you are. I care how you treat my co-workers.’” Your smile softened. My co-worker.

Jimin added, “He told the man that if he couldn’t speak respectfully to the staff, he was welcome to buy his coffee somewhere else.” Your eyes widened, “He…kicked him out?” Jimin nodded, “He absolutely did. Then the guy demanded to speak to the owner.” Your curiosity got the better of you, “What did Yoongi do?” Jimin grinned, “Yoongi looked in right in the eye and said…you already are.’” Jimin smiled softly, “Everyone in line clapped while the guy did the walk of shame out the door. I don’t think that customer will be coming back.” The room fell quiet again.

You stared down at your hands, still trying to picture it. Min Yoongi, the same man who rarely smiled, who lived to correct everyone around him, who had spent the better part of a week arguing with you over the smallest things….had defended you without hesitation. For reasons you couldn’t quite explain, that unsettled you far more than another argument ever could.

The days slipped by almost without you noticing. Yoongi learned the names of customers before they introduced themselves. He remembered that Mrs. Park always wanted her blueberry muffin warmed for exactly fifteen seconds because twenty made it too soft. He knew Mr. Lee liked one ice cube dropped into his coffee so he could drink it immediately on his walk to work. He even started setting aside the last chocolate chip cookie every Thursday morning for the little boy who came in with his grandmother after preschool. He’d never admit he’d memorized any of it but you noticed.

You noticed a lot of things. Like how he silently restocked cups whenever he saw they were running low without having to be told. How he automatically grabbed another gallon of milk whenever Jimin reached for the last one. How he’d begun wiping down tables between customers without anyone asking. The work no longer seemed beneath him. It was simply work. Somewhere along the way, he’d stopped acting like a CEO pretending to be a barista. Now he was just another member of the team.

It caught you off guard how naturally he’d settled into it. Even Jin seemed impressed. “I wasn’t sure he’d last two days.”, he admitted one afternoon while counting the register. “I only gave him two hours.”, you replied. Across the café, Yoongi looked up from changing the trash, “I heard that.” Jimin sighed loudly from the sink, “You two argue like an old married couple.” The café fell silent. You froze with a towel still in your hand. Yoongi nearly dropped the tray he’d been carrying. Jimin looked between the two of you before slowly smiling, “…Interesting.”

“There is nothing interesting about that sentence.”, you said a little too quickly. “Not at all.”, Yoongi agreed at almost the exact same moment. Jimin’s grin only widened.

Thursday afternoon brought one of the slowest shifts you’d worked in weeks. Rain slammed harshly against the café windows while only a handful of customers occupied the tables. You were wiping down the pastry case when the front doors opened. A man around your age stepped inside, shaking rainwater from his jacket before walking toward the counter with an easy smile. He was handsome in an effortless sort of way, wearing a university sweatshirt and carrying a laptop bag over one shoulder.

When he reached the register, he smiled at you, “I’ll take a vanilla latte with oat milk.” You rang it in with your usual polite smile, “Anything to eat today?” He glanced toward the display before looking back at you, “No…but I was wondering something…I’ve been coming here for a couple weeks.” You nodded, recognizing him immediately. You knew his name was Hobi thanks to having to write his name on the cup. He usually came in during the afternoon lull probably once his classes were down for the day. He continued, “…I was hoping I could finally ask if you wanted to go out to dinner with me.” Before you could answer, you heard the unmistakable hiss of steam stop behind you.

“Umm ye…”, you started but were cut off by Yoongi, “You forgot to charge for oat milk.” The interruption came from directly beside you. Yoongi stood there pointing at the POS. You looked down and quickly fixed it before handing the total to the customer.

When you looked back up, Hobi smiled again, “So…dinner or maybe lunch?” Before you could answer this time, Yoongi slid the finished latte onto the counter, “Vanilla latte..with oat milk.” Then instead of walking away he stood next to you, arms crossed, with an unimpressed look on his face. Hobi looked between the two of you before taking his cup, “Thanks.” He hesitated for a moment as though debating whether to ask again. Then he simply smiled politely and walked toward the door. The bell chimed softly as he disappeared into the rain.

You stared after him for a second before turning toward Yoongi, “That was…unusually fast.” He picked up a towel and began wiping the counter with far more concentration than necessary and ignoring your statement. You narrowed your eyes, “You’re impossible.” He walked away before anything else could be said. Across the café, Jimin had witnessed the entire exchange. He waited until Yoongi disappeared into the stockroom before wandering over beside you.

A slow grin spread across his face. You frowned. Jimin leaned closer, “I don’t think he liked that guy very much. The interruptions almost seemed…intentional.” You looked toward the stockroom door before laughing. Jimin’s grin only grew. You shook your head, dismissing the idea entirely. Yoongi didn’t get jealous especially not with you. He barely tolerated most people on a good day. Still…As you glanced toward the back room, the thought of it…for some reason made you smile.

By the fourth week of Yoongi’s training, you’d settled into a routine that felt surprisingly normal. It was strange to think there had once been a time when the two of you couldn’t stand sharing the same space. Now, even on the busiest mornings, you rarely had to think about who was doing what. Orders flowed naturally. One of you took customers while the other worked to make the drinks and somewhere along the way you’d developed an unspoken rhythm that made the café run smoother than it ever had before.

Which was precisely why Thursday evening felt like a disaster before you’d even unlocked the front doors.

Min Technologies was hosting its annual product showcase upstairs which was a flashy event that drew investors, journalists, business partners, and enough executives to fill nearly every floor of the building. The lobby had been transformed with banners and digital displays, and catering staff hurried through the elevators carrying trays of food while security guards directed guests toward the conference center.

Normally, the café was closed by 6:00pm but on this day it always stayed open until at least 11:00 to accommodate all of the extra guests.

Tonight, however, everything that could go wrong already had. Jimin had called Jin that morning with a fever high enough that he had been admitted to the hospital. The other barista was visiting family out of state and the only other one had decided to quit the night before and had blocked everyone’s phone number. And of course Yoongi was busy tending to the event. Jin had spent half the afternoon calling anyone who had ever worked a shift behind the counter. No one was available. Which left only you.

Jin looked genuinely apologetic as he hung up his apron, “Y/N I can stay for another hour.” You shook your head, “You’ve already been here since four this morning. You have two kids waiting at home and tonight is your son’s big baseball game. You need to go.” He hesitated, “I hate this.” He looked toward the growing crowd gathering outside the elevators, “I’ll keep trying to find someone. If I can’t get anyone I’ll come back as soon as the game is over.” You smiled, even though neither of you believed anyone was suddenly going to become available.

For the first twenty minutes, things weren’t too bad. Busy but manageable. The line stretched toward the door, but you managed to stay ahead of it. Orders came in steadily enough that you could ring someone up while finishing drinks with your free hand.

Then the event upstairs ended its last big presentation. The elevators opened and suddenly it felt as though the entire building decided they wanted a late night coffee at exactly the same moment. People poured into the lobby in waves. Conversations echoed off the high ceilings. The line reached out the front doors within minutes. Mobile orders began printing so quickly that the receipt machine barely paused between tickets.

You stared at the growing pile. There wasn’t even time to panic. You simply moved. Take an order. Steam milk. Ring another customer. Blend a frappé. Heat a sandwich. Package a cinnamon bun. Call a name. Apologize for the wait. Take a deep breath. Start it all over again.

You barely looked up from the register. The café filled with overlapping voices until you could barely hear yourself think. A carton of oat milk ran empty. You sprinted to the refrigerator. Someone asked for the ingredient list for the ham and cheese croissant. Another customer wanted six drinks split across three separate receipts.The mobile order printer shrieked again indicating it was out of paper for the third time.

You glanced toward the steadily growing row of cups waiting to be made and felt your stomach sink. There was simply no way. No matter how fast you moved, you were falling further behind. A customer checked her watch with obvious irritation. Another sighed loudly enough for half the café to hear. You took a slow breath, forcing yourself to stay calm. One drink at a time. That was all you could do.

Then you heard measured footsteps crossing the lobby. They stopped on the opposite side of the counter. You glanced up, expecting another impatient customer. Instead you saw Yoongi. He was still dressed for the event upstairs. A perfectly tailored charcoal suit. White dress shirt. Dark tie. Rolex on his wrist. His conference badge still hung around his neck, and his hair had been styled far more carefully than usual. He looked completely out of place standing in the middle of your chaotic little café.

For a brief second, relief flickered through you. Then you remembered who you were looking at. Your shoulders sagged. You were already exhausted. You really weren’t in the mood for one of his sarcastic comments about your inability to keep up. He looked around the café without speaking. His eyes moved from the line stretching out the door to the mountain of unmade drink stickers to the overflowing sink and then to the like of spilled sugar all over the floor and…to you.

You knew exactly what he was seeing. Your hair had long since escaped its ponytail. There was a collection of syrup on your apron. Your cheeks were flushed, and you were fairly certain you had sweated through your shirt. You looked like a disaster. You braced yourself. “I know.”, you said before he could speak, “I’m behind.” He didn’t answer. Instead, he loosened his tie. You frowned. Then he slipped off his suit jacket and carefully folded it over the back of one of the office chairs. Your confusion deepened. Without a word, he walked over and reached for the hook beside the sink and pulled down one of the spare aprons.

For a second, you simply stared as he tied it around his waist with practiced movements. “Y/N you can’t do this alone.”, he said. He rolled up the sleeves of his expensive dress shirt until they rested just below his elbows, “What do you need first?” You blinked, “What?” He pointed, “The register or drinks?” For a moment, your brain completely refused to process what was happening. Before you could respond, he stepped past you and picked up the stack of waiting drink stickers. His eyes scanned them once, “Two caramel macchiatos, an iced chai, three peach strawberry ice teas…”

He reached for a pitcher as naturally as if he’d never left, “I’ll catch up on drinks.” You stood frozen for another heartbeat. Then he looked over his shoulder, “Well?…Orders aren’t going to ring up themselves.” You snapped back to reality. The two of you fell into motion almost instantly. You returned to the register while Yoongi threw drinks together like nothing. Within minutes, the pace of the café changed. Not because the crowd had gotten any smaller but because you weren’t facing it alone anymore.

Yoongi hadn’t come downstairs because he was required to. He’d come because he’d seen you struggling and without saying a single unnecessary word he’d simply decided you shouldn’t have to do it alone.

The last customer wandered out of the café a little after eleven. The lobby that had been deafening only an hour earlier had fallen strangely quiet. Event staff wheeled empty display stands toward the freight elevator while the cleaning crew began making their rounds through the building. Somewhere upstairs, the last of the executives were saying their goodbyes.

The café, however, looked as though a tornado had swept through it. Utensils filled the sink. Used towels were piled on one counter. The pastry case sat nearly empty, except for a lonely blueberry muffin and two oatmeal cookies no one had wanted. You let out a tired sigh. The rush was over. Now came the part nobody ever thought about until the end.

Cleaning.

You filled the sink with hot water before dropping another stack of dishes into the suds. Every muscle in your body protested. Your shoulders ached. Your feet throbbed. Even lifting the sanitizer bucket felt heavier than it should have. You mentally calculated how long it would take.Two hours at a minimum. Maybe three or even four.

You’d barely finished scrubbing the first dish when you heard Yoongi’s voice drift in from the front of the café, “Y/N.” You kept washing, “What?” There was a pause, “…Don’t ‘what’ me. Just come here.’”You shook your head, smiling to yourself despite your exhaustion. Another few seconds passed. You turned just in time to see him appear in the doorway to the back room, sleeves still rolled to his forearms, apron dusted with coco and espresso grounds.

He looked at the sink overflowing with dishes before meeting your eyes, “They’ll still be dirty in fifteen minutes. They’re not going anywhere.” You nodded, “Exactly. I need to get them done.”Instead of answering, he reached over, took the sponge out of your hand, and set it on the edge of the sink, “Just…come here. I promise it’s worth it.”

There was something different in his voice. Curiosity got the better of you. You followed him out to the dining area expecting him to point out something you’d forgotten to clean. Instead, you stopped short. A paper bag sat in the middle of one of the café tables. Beside it were two bottles of water and several plastic containers. Your stomach chose that exact moment to betray you with a loud growl.

Yoongi looked down at the containers with a smirk, “I ordered us some dinner.” He slid one of the containers toward you, “The sushi place down the street was still open.” You stared at it for a long moment. Silence settled between you. Finally he pulled out one of the chairs, “Sit.” It wasn’t really an order but more like an invitation disguised as one. Your body decided before your pride did. You sank into the chair with a relieved groan, “I was more tired than I realized.”

He sat across from you and opened one of the containers. For a few minutes, neither of you said much. The only sounds were plastic lids snapping open and the faint hum of refrigerators in the background. It felt odd. You’d never imagined yourself eating dinner with Min Yoongi after work. Especially not while both of you still wore coffee-soaked aprons.

He picked up a piece of salmon nigiri, “I wasn’t sure what you liked so I got a little of everything.” You smiled faintly, “Sushi is a safe choice.” You reached for a California roll, “I actually have a cat named Sushi.” His chopsticks froze halfway to his mouth, “…Your cat is named Sushi.”

You laughed, “Mhm.” He stared at you then he laughed, “That’s adorable.” You laughed along with him, “Yeah I found him behind a sushi restaurant. He was so tiny.” His expression softened and you continued, “The owner of the restaurant had been feeding him scraps for a few days, but they couldn’t keep him. I was only supposed to foster him. Then he slept on my chest the first night.” Yoongi smiled, “I suppose that was the end of fostering.” You laughed and nodded, “Pretty much.”

You found yourself telling him everything.How Sushi insisted on drinking from the bathroom faucet instead of his water bowl. How he’d once stolen an entire slice of turkey off your sandwich. How he greeted you at the door every evening with a tiny squeaky meow because he’d never learned how to meow properly. Yoongi listened. He asked questions. He laughed at all the right moments. He even admitted he’d never owned a pet because he’d spent most of his adult life working but if he ever did get one he’d get a black cat and name him Sugar.

The conversation drifted naturally after that. Cats stories became childhood stories. Childhood stories became favorite foods. Favorite foods somehow turned into travel, music, and books. The hours slipped by unnoticed. At some point you’d stopped sitting across from one another. You weren’t even sure when it had happened. One moment you were reaching for another container. The next, the two of you were sitting side by side, shoulders almost touching.

The café lights had been dimmed. Outside, rain had begun falling softly against the windows. You turned toward him, still smiling from something he’d said. He was already looking at you. Neither of you spoke. The laughter faded into a comfortable silence.

His eyes searched yours for a long moment. Your heart began beating just a little faster. Slowly…Almost hesitantly…He leaned closer. You didn’t move away. You could feel your breath catch. He was close enough now that you noticed the faint scent of coffee still lingering on his shirt beneath the citrusy cologne he’d worn to the company event.

Your eyes drifted to his lips. Just a little closer…then the front door burst open.

“There you two are!”

You both jumped apart so quickly the chairs loudly scraped against the floor. Jin stepped inside carrying his car keys, stopping the instant he noticed the distance that had suddenly appeared between the two of you. His gaze moved from you to Yoongi to the half-finished containers of sushi. One eyebrow slowly lifted, “Am I interrupting something?”

Your face immediately grew warm.

“No!”

Yoongi answered at the exact same time.

“No.”

Jin’s lips twitched, “I see.” Neither of you looked at each other. Jin looked between you once more before hiding a knowing smile, “Well…I came to help close and clean up.” He glanced at the untouched stack of dishes still waiting in the sink, “I would’ve got here sooner but there was an incident at the baseball game and I just got home from the ER…Though it seems I’ve arrived just in time.”

You quickly stood, desperate for something to do besides think about how close Yoongi had been only seconds earlier. As you hurried toward the back room, you missed the brief glance Jin sent Yoongi. It wasn’t teasing. It was understanding. And judging by the way Yoongi quietly rubbed the back of his neck before reaching for the dish towel he knew exactly what had almost happened too.

The almost kiss lingered far longer than either of you ever acknowledged. Neither of you mentioned that night after the company event. Not the dinner. Not how close the two of you had been. Not the way Jin had walked in at the worst possible moment.

Life simply continued but something between you and Yoongi had shifted. You caught him looking at you more often than before though he always found something else to focus on the second you noticed. Every now and then your hands brushed while reaching for the same milk pitcher or stack of cups, and where those moments once would’ve been followed by a sarcastic remark, now they were met with an awkward silence before one of you quietly stepped away. You’d told yourself not to read into it. It had almost worked. Until you caught yourself wondering if he thought about that almost kiss as often as you did.

Unfortunately Yoongi’s six weeks were coming to an end. The realization hit you unexpectedly one Tuesday morning when Jin mentioned it in passing while checking the schedule, “Friday’s his last shift.” You looked up from dating pastry labels. Jin smiled to himself but didn’t comment.

Instead, he continued writing on the schedule while your stomach twisted with an emotion you weren’t ready to name. You’d spent weeks counting down until the day you wouldn’t have to deal with working with Min Yoongi anymore. Now…The idea of him leaving felt strangely disappointing.

The biggest surprise wasn’t how much he’d learned. It was how naturally he’d become part of the café. Customers asked for him by name now. The regulars teased him whenever he looked too serious. Ms. Kim still insisted he was “far too handsome to be hiding behind a coffee machine,” which never failed to make him blush just enough for you to notice.

He remembered everyone’s orders without thinking. He knew exactly when to refill the pastry case, when to start another pot of coffee, and when you needed someone to quietly step in and take over the register because the line had become too long. There was no hesitation anymore. The two of you moved around each other as though you’d worked side by side for years.

Thursday afternoon was unusually slow. Rain drummed softly against the windows, leaving the café almost empty except for a few students tucked into the corner booths with laptops. You were wiping down the counter while Yoongi disappeared into the storage room to restock syrup bottles.

The quiet lasted all of thirty seconds. Then came the sound of cabinets opening. A muttered sigh. Another cabinet. More rustling. Finally, his voice drifted into the café, “Why is the chocolate syrup always impossible to open?” You smiled to yourself because even though you got along much better you still liked to know he struggled a little from time to time.

A few more seconds passed. You could practically picture him wrestling with the lid. “You need help?”, you called. There was another grunt. Followed by complete silence. Then a loud pop echoed through the stockroom. It was immediately followed by another sound. One you didn’t hear very often. Yoongi groaning in frustration followed by a string of curse words. Curious, you rounded the corner.

The sight that greeted you stopped you in your tracks. Chocolate syrup was everywhere. It streaked across the front of his black T-shirt and soaked into the apron tied around his waist. Tiny speckles dotted his bangs and there was even a smear across his cheek. The bottle still sat in his hand, tilted at an awkward angle, as though it had exploded the moment the lid gave way. For a heartbeat, you simply stared.

Then the laughter came. It burst out of you so suddenly that you had to grab the doorframe to steady yourself. You tried to stop but every time you looked at him, another wave of laughter escaped.

When you finally managed to catch your breath, tears had gathered in the corners of your eyes. Your gaze drifted back to the streak of chocolate across his face. The laughter started all over again. For a long moment, Yoongi simply watched you. There wasn’t even the slightest hint of irritation on his face. Instead, the corners of his mouth slowly lifted into a smile. Not the small, reluctant smirk he wore whenever he won an argument. A genuine smile. One that reached his eyes. It was the expression of someone quietly plotting revenge. The realization hit you a second too late.

Your laughter faded, “…Don’t.” He didn’t answer. He just looked down at the open bottle still in his hand before looking back at you. Your eyes widened, “Yoongi...” He took a single step forward. Instinctively, you took one back, “Don’t even think about it.” The smile only grew. A tiny flick of his wrist sent a thin ribbon of chocolate syrup sailing through the air. It landed neatly across the front of your apron. You looked down at the brown streak. Then back at him. The café fell completely silent. Neither of you moved. Finally, you reached for the nearest can of whipped cream. Yoongi’s eyes immediately narrowed, “Oh no.” You smiled, “Oh yes.”

He laughed and took off running before you’d even managed to press the nozzle. By the time you chased him around the cafe both of you were laughing too hard to make any real attempt at revenge. You nearly caught him once before he ducked behind the counter. He retaliated with another tiny drizzle of chocolate that landed on your thigh. You answered with a cloud of whipped cream that splattered harmlessly against the floor.

The entire café echoed with laughter neither of you could seem to stop. That was exactly how Jimin found you. He walked through the front door carrying a case of coffee beans and stopped dead in the entrance. His gaze slowly traveled from the whipped cream can in your hand to the chocolate-covered apron Yoongi was still wearing to the syrup streaks now decorating the counter. Slowly he shook his head, “I don’t even want to know.” You looked at each other. Then, without warning, both of you dissolved into laughter all over again. Jimin sighed dramatically as he set the box on the counter and walked back outside.

You and Yoongi burst into laughter. For the first time since he’d walked into the café wearing that borrowed apron, neither of you could imagine what the place would feel like without the other standing behind the counter.

By Friday afternoon, the realization had finally settled over the café. It was Yoongi’s last shift. The thought lingered in the back of your mind from the moment you clocked in making the morning feel strangely bittersweet. Customers stopped by to wish him luck upstairs, though many admitted they were disappointed he wouldn’t be making their coffee anymore. Yoongi would simply roll his eyes each time but you caught the small smile he tried to hide. For someone who had spent his first week insisting he was above working in a coffee shop, he’d become surprisingly popular.

By closing time, Jin disappeared into the office before returning with a small chocolate cake balanced carefully in his hands. The words Congratulations, Yoongi! were written across the top in slightly crooked white icing. “It’s not much.”, Jin admitted, setting it on one of the café tables, “but six weeks is six weeks and longer than some have lasted.” Jimin immediately began applauding far more enthusiastically than the occasion probably warranted.Yoongi looked at the cake before letting out a quiet laugh.

For the next half hour, the four of you shared cake and stories from the past six weeks. Jin brought up the day Yoongi accidentally made three iced lattes instead of hot ones during the morning rush and then argued about why he couldn’t just microwave them instead of remaking them. Jimin reminded everyone about the caramel bottle Yoongi had somehow launched across the prep counter and into the middle of the lobby. You contributed the chocolate syrup incident. Yoongi insisted you’d exaggerated every detail.

For a little while, nobody thought about the fact that this was the last time the four of you would close the café together. Eventually, Jin glanced at the clock, “I should finish inventory and lock up.” Jimin stretched as he stood up, “I’ll help.” Within minutes the dining area had emptied, leaving only you and Yoongi finishing the last of the cleanup.

You gathered the remaining plates while he carried the leftover cake box toward the back. Neither of you noticed you’d walked toward the cooler from opposite directions until the heavy door swung open. You stepped inside at the exact moment he stepped out. The narrow space wasn’t built for two people. You instinctively moved to one side. So did he. You both laughed quietly before trying again. Again, you ended up blocking each other’s path.

“After you.”, he said. You smiled, “You first. Neither of you moved. The cooler suddenly felt much smaller than it had a moment ago. The hum of the refrigeration units filled the silence. You looked up. He was already looking at you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Your heart began beating a little faster. “So…”, you said softly, “I guess this is it.” His smile faded just enough to reveal something more vulnerable beneath it, “I guess it is.”

The words settled between you. You hadn’t expected this to feel so final. Monday morning the café would open. Customers would line up. Life would continue. Only he would be back upstairs and not next to you. “I never thought I’d say this.”, you admitted with a small laugh, “but I’m actually going to miss arguing with you.” A quiet smile touched his lips, “I’ll still be here every morning for my usual coffee…I’m sure I can fit in a few jabs here and there.”

Your smile lingered. He took one slow step closer, “But…I don’t think I’ll come downstairs just for the coffee anymore.” Your breath caught. The space between you disappeared almost without either of you noticing. He hesitated, giving you every chance to step away. Instead you closed the remaining distance.

His lips met yours gently at first, almost questioning. When you didn’t pull away, the kiss deepened naturally. Weeks of lingering glances, quiet smiles, shared laughter, and almost moments melted into that one kiss. Your hand found the front of his shirt almost instinctively. His hands rested lightly against your waist. Neither of you seemed eager to be the first to pull away. When you finally did, your foreheads remained close together. He smiled, “So…I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

He laughed softly before leaning in again. The second kiss was less hesitant. His hand slipped gently to the small of your back, drawing you a little closer as your fingers curled around the fabric of his shirt. For one dangerous moment, it became very easy to forget where you were. The cooler. The café. Jin and Jimin out front. Reality returned all at once. You reluctantly rested a hand against his chest, “Wait.” He immediately stopped and you continued, “We’re going to get caught.”

He glanced toward the cooler door before letting out a quiet laugh. You smiled, “And I like my job.” He gave you another quick kiss, “And I’d rather you keep it so I can see you every day.” He was quiet for a moment, studying you with that thoughtful expression you’d grown so fond of. Then a small smile appeared, “Let’s go to my office.” You pretended to consider it for all of two seconds, “Okay.”

A few minutes later and after some quick mumbled excuses to Jin and Jimin and a ride up to the 78th floor, the elevator doors opened onto the executive floor. You’d seen this level once before when you dropped off some coffee during a big conference meeting but that was it. Walking through it beside Yoongi felt completely different. The offices were quiet now, the day’s event long since over. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched along the hallway, overlooking a city beginning to glow beneath the evening sky. He led you to the very end of the corridor.

Large solid cherry wood doors swung open into an office unlike anything you’d imagined. It was enormous. Warm wood lined the walls. Bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling. A grand piano sat near one corner. The wall behind his desk was nothing but floor to ceiling glass windows, revealing a breathtaking view of the city lights stretching toward the horizon. You turned slowly, taking it all in, “…This is incredible.” Yoongi looked around the room, “Yeah…well when you pretty much live in your office you try to make it as comfy as possible.”

A faint smile crossed his face. You wandered toward the windows, resting a hand lightly against the glass as thousands of lights shimmered below, “It’s beautiful.”

You turned back toward him. He was still standing by the door, watching you instead of the skyline. Without breaking eye contact, he reached behind him. The soft click of the lock echoed through the quiet office.

Your heartbeat skipped. The room suddenly felt a little smaller, despite being the largest office you’d ever seen. “Y/N," he murmured, his voice incredibly low, thick with a dangerous combination of restraint and lingering desire, “Do I have your permission to do exactly as I please right now?"

"Yes.”, you whispered without a second thought, the word a breathless vow in the quiet room. A soft, approving hum vibrated from his chest. He walked over and reached towards his desk where a spare silk tie lay draped carelessly over the corner of his laptop. He picked it up, letting the expensive fabric slide through his fingers as he stepped into your space.

"Take your shirt off and turn around.”, he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly command. You obeyed, your heart hammering against your ribs as you dropped your shirt and bra onto the floor beside you. A moment later, he gathered your wrists behind your back. The cool, smooth silk of the tie wrapped firmly around your wrists, binding them together. He pulled the knot snug not tight enough to hurt, but secure enough to make it instantly clear that your hands were no longer yours to use. The sudden restriction sent a shiver straight down your spine. Before you could fully process the feeling of being bound, Yoongi reached onto a nearby shelf where another spare tie lay rolled. Unfurling the smooth fabric, he brought it to your face. “Close your eyes Y/N.”, he commanded softly.

You obeyed and a second later, the silk was wrapped snugly over your eyes, secured at the back of your head. Darkness descended instantly. Without your sight, the remaining senses heightened to an almost agonizing degree. The cool air of the office on your skin, the scent of his citrus cologne mixed with coffee, and the heavy sound of his breathing all filled your mind.

The feeling of being completely bound and blinded, standing before him in his own office, made a sweet, heavy ache bloom between your thighs. A soft, helpless whimper escaped your lips, a tiny sound of submission that felt incredibly loud in the quiet room. Yoongi paused, his breath catching just inches from your face. A low, dark chuckle vibrated in his chest. "God…”, he murmured, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, “You have no idea how long I've wanted to hear you make a sound like that. It sounds exactly like I imagined."

Even blindfolded and bound, a spark of playful defiance flared in your chest. "Exactly like you imagined?", you teased softly, tilting your face toward the warmth of his touch, “Have you been spending a lot of time imagining my sounds, Min Yoongi?"

The silence stretched for a heartbeat, thick and heavy with tension. When he spoke again, his voice dropped an octave, rough and completely unraveled. "More than you know.”, he admitted, his hand sliding up to cup your jaw, “I've sat right here at this desk, late at night, pleasuring myself until I was completely blind just thinking about you in this office. Thinking about having you right where you are now." The sheer honesty of his confession sent a violent rush of heat straight to your core, making your knees instantly weak.

Yoongi’s hands slid up your bound arms, tracing the line of your shoulders before his fingers tangled into your hair, tilting your head back. He leaned down and kissed you, a deep, possessive, hungry kiss that tasted faintly of the chocolate cake from earlier. You gasped into his mouth, completely unraveled by the sheer dominance of his touch.

He broke the kiss, his hands guiding you back a few steps until your hips met the edge of his massive desk. He lifted you effortlessly, seating you on the polished wood. Yoongi didn't give you time to think. His hands slid down to the top of your jeans, undoing the button before hooking his fingers into the waistband. He slid them down your legs and tossed them away, completely exposing your core.

Instead of pulling you closer, Yoongi sank to his knees on the floor between your open legs. Your breath hitched as his hands gripped your outer thighs, spreading them wide. You tried to shift, but with your arms bound behind your back and your vision gone, you were completely at his mercy, forced to anticipate his touch in the dark.

When his tongue made contact with your core, your head snapped back, a sharp groan escaping your lips and echoing off the high ceilings. He was relentless, starting with long, deep strokes that smoothed over your damp heat, tasting the slickness that had already gathered there.

He discovered your rhythm instantly because you couldn't use your hands or see his movements, every sensation was magnified ten fold. His thumb found your center, applying just enough pressure to keep you pinned to his mouth, while his tongue flicked over you over and over, precise and demanding.

"Yoongi, please.”, you whined, your shoulders tensing as the friction built a frantic, coiled tension in your lower belly. He didn't slow down. He drank you in as you began to tremble, his tongue moving faster, driving you ruthlessly toward the edge. Your body arched off the desk, your breath catching in your throat as a sudden, sharp orgasm rippled through you. Yoongi stayed right there through every pulsing wave, capturing your release until your breathing slowed to ragged pants.

The heavy silence of the room returned, broken only by the sound of your synchronized, ragged breathing. Slowly, Yoongi withdrew, a low exhale leaving his lips as the sudden absence of the heat of his mouth left you shivering. But he wasn't done.

His hands returned to your waist, not to hold you, but to guide you down. With your knees trembling and your wrists still securely bound behind your back, you sank forward, guided entirely by his firm touch until the plush carpet met your knees.

You hovered there in the darkness of the blindfold, completely exposed and breathless. You heard the rustle of his movements, the soft shifting of fabric, the clink of the metal on his belt, before his fingers gently caught your chin, tilting your face upward. Slowly and gently, his hand slid from your chin to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair with a tender but unyielding grip. He guided you forward, the heat of his proximity filling your senses until the bare, rounded softness of his top pressed against your lips.

"Open.”, he commanded softly. You parted your lips, welcoming him. Yoongi let out a loud ragged groan as your warmth enveloped him. He began to move, using your mouth to pleasure himself with slow, deliberate strokes. Without your hands to hold onto him or your eyes to track his movements, every slide of his skin against yours felt magnified. The taste of him, the heavy rhythm of his hips, and the sound of his breath and even a little whimper catching in his throat filled your entire universe.

As the friction began to build an unbearable, teasing heat back in your own lower belly, you desperately needed something, anything, to press against and relieve it. Blindly, your hips shifted even closer to the floor. Your knees parted slightly as you felt the texture of soft, cotton fabric beneath you. It was the the pile of discarded clothes, bunched up and carelessly laying on the ground.

Driven by pure instinct, you leaned forward, arching your lower body and desperately grinding your sensitive, aching core against the crumpled fabric, seeking any relief from the persistent ache between your thighs.

Above you, Yoongi suddenly froze. His breath hitched violently, a sharp, ragged sound tearing from his lungs. Through the blindfold, you couldn't see the expression on his face, but you felt the sudden, intense tremor that racked his entire frame. The sight of you, bound, blindfolded, entirely submissive to his touch while mindlessly, desperately seeking friction right in front of him on his office rug shattered whatever fragile restraint he had left.

A low, guttural growl vibrated deep in his chest. His grip on your hair tightened as his pace became frantic and unraveled for a split second. He was right on the precipice, the overwhelming heat of your mouth and the sheer visual of your desperation tearing his control to shreds.

Just as the sensation built to an explosive breaking point, Yoongi suddenly gripped your hair and pulled back, tearing himself away from your lips just in time. He fell back a step and sat down in his leather executive chair, his chest heaving violently as he fought for breath, leaving you breathless, aching, and suspended in the dark.

Before you could fully recover, you felt his strong hands lift you from the floor. Still blindfolded you gasped as he guided you up so that you were straddling him. You could feel his bare, hard length pressing right against your aching entrance.

"Yoongi...", you whispered, adjusting to the sudden shift in gravity with your hands still bound tightly behind your back. "You know what to do.”, Yoongi commanded in your ear, his voice rough and uneven. His hands came to rest on your hips, guiding you downward, “Slowly."

Without your hands for balance, you had to rely entirely on the strength of your legs and the steady anchor of his grip on your hips. Guided by the darkness, you lowered yourself down onto him. Yoongi let out a low, ragged hiss through his teeth, his fingers digging into your waist as you took his length all at once. The sheer heat and fullness of him filled the lingering ache between your thighs. You paused for a fraction of a second adjusting to the sensation before you began to move your hips, sliding up and down his length in the dark.

"Fuck Y/N.,”, Yoongi muttered, his head falling back against the leather of the chair as you set the pace. His chest rose and fell sharply against yours. The rhythm was intoxicating. Every time you came down, he met your movements with a subtle, upward thrust of his hips, driving deeper inside you. The pleasure began to rebuild, sharper and hotter than before, magnified by the sensory deprivation of the blindfold.

But Yoongi’s patience was short-lived. He grabbed your waist, stopping your movement mid-stride. He lifted you off his lap, his hands firmly guiding your trembling body until your front met the smooth, cool surface of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The sudden, freezing contrast of the glass against your flushed skin made you gasp, the chill biting into your chest and thighs. Outside, the blurred, distant lights of the city stretched out into the night, but you couldn't see them, you could only feel the massive, imposing expanse of the window supporting your weight as Yoongi pressed you flat against it.

"Yoongi.”, you breathed, your voice trembling as the sheer vulnerability of the position settled in. Behind you, the room was silent except for the sound of his heavy, ragged breathing. He didn't answer with words. Instead, his broad chest flushed against your back, trapping you securely between his radiating body heat and the cool window. His hands slid down your spine to your hips, his fingers digging in with a bruising, possessive grip that left no room for retreat. He pulled your hips back slightly, arching your spine and aligning your body perfectly with his.

When the blunt tip of his length pressed against your aching, sensitive entrance, a shiver ran straight down your spine. "Don’t worry…only I can see you like this from up here.”, Yoongi murmured against the shell of your ear, his voice a desperate, gravelly sound that sent a thrill through your veins.

Then he pushed forward. He took you from behind in one deep, unyielding thrust that bottomed out inside you. A loud, breathless cry escaped your lips, echoing sharply off the glass. The sensation was overwhelming, the friction, the sudden overflowing fullness, and the cold glass stealing the breath from your lungs all collided at once. Yoongi didn't give you a moment to adjust. He established a relentless, punishing rhythm, his hips crashing against yours with a raw intensity that had been building since he first tied your wrists. Every heavy thrust pushed you harder against the window, the glass groaning faintly under the pressure of your shifting bodies.

Without your hands to anchor you, your body rumbled with every impact. You were entirely dependent on his grip on your waist to keep you upright. The sensory deprivation magnified everything to a breaking point, the slick, wet friction between your thighs, the heat of his skin against your back, and the dominant, rhythmic thud of his body driving into yours.

"Ah! Yoongi, please, it's too much.”, you sobbed out, your head tossing blindly against the cool glass as the tension coiled tight and fierce in your lower belly. "It's not enough.”, he growled in response. His pace quickened becoming faster, harder, and entirely unmerciful. He used his left hand to lift up your left thigh widening the space he had to move and allowing him to reach even deeper inside you. Then his thumb found your sensitive core, he pressed down on your clit as his right had came around and squeeze your breast. At this point he was practically holding you up with his own strength pounding into you as hard and as fast as he could against the glass. He angled his thrusts deeper, hitting the exact spot that sent electric sparks straight to your core.

The friction was blinding. You curled your toes, your thighs shaking violently as the waves of a second, even more intense climax began to crash over you. You were completely at his mercy, suspended in the dark, vibrating with a pleasure so sharp it felt like a ache.

"Yoongi…I'm going to…”

"Go.”, he ordered, his voice breaking as his own pace became frantic, pushed over the edge by the tight, pulsing heat wrapping around him, “Let me feel it. Let me feel you come undone around me. I need it. I…want it.”

With a final, devastatingly deep thrust, your body shattered. A high, fractured undone sound tore from your throat as your orgasm ripped through you, your internal muscles clenching fiercely around his length. The sheer force of your release triggered his own. Yoongi let out a low, guttural ruin of a groan against your neck, driving into you one last time as he spent himself deep inside you, his chest heaving violently against your back as the world faded into nothing but the heat of his touch.

The cold glass of the high-rise window slowly seeped into your skin, grounding you as the adrenaline began to fade. Behind you, Yoongi still buried deep inside you, remained still for a long moment, his forehead resting against your shoulder blade as his breathing gradually mirrored your own ragged pace.

When he finally moved, it was with an unexpected gentleness. He shifted away to give you room, but his hands stayed on your waist, steadying your trembling legs until he was certain you wouldn't collapse. A second later, you felt the restriction around your eyes fall away. The sudden bright blur of the city lights and the dimmed office lamps made you blink rapidly, the dark room slowly coming back into focus. Yoongi reached around you, his fingers deftly untying the silk knot at your wrists. As your hands were freed, you immediately brought them forward, rubbing your skin and turning around to face him. He looked completely unraveled with his hair a beautifully messy contrast to the perfectly styled look from earlier and a soft, incredibly tender expression on his face that you had never seen before.

"You okay?", he asked, his voice still low and a little gravelly. “Yeah.”, you smiled as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself against the solid warmth of his chest, “More than okay actually." He let out a soft laugh, his arms locking around your waist to lift you slightly off your feet as he sat back down in his chair and held you close against him in his lap.

Later, after you had both gotten dressed and successfully snuck past a very knowing security guard in the parking garage, you walked out into the cool night air. The rain had cleared, leaving the city streets glistening under the neon signs.

Yoongi reached down, his fingers sliding between yours and squeezing your hand tightly as you walked toward his car. “So…”, you said, glancing up at him with a playful smirk, "what happens on Monday when you're back in your suit and I'm behind the counter?" Yoongi didn't look away from the path ahead, but a genuine, effortless smile spread across his face, lighting up his eyes. "On Monday, at exactly 8:10, I'm coming down to get a medium americano. And if the barista doesn't have it perfectly made in a sufficient amount of time…I might just have to make them come upstairs to my office and explain themselves."

You laughed, leaning your head against his shoulder as you walked together. The six weeks were over and the café routine would go back to normal but as you looked at your tangled hands, you knew your mornings would never be the same again.