• swim •

[Baltimore, MD, August 2026]

You’re standing in front of a vending machine in the lobby, arms crossed, watching as Namjoon aggressively tries to procure a piece of candy.

“You fuckin’ broke it, Joon,” you laugh, leaning against his side.

“I didn’t break it,” he insists, already giving the machine another shove.

The little screw thing whirrs, the chocolate bar teeters but still doesn’t fall.

You gasp. “Oh my god, you did break it.”

“I did not,” he presses the buttons again, then, with zero shame, thumps the side of the machine.

Nothing. Then, he hits it again, biceps flexing with each bang.

“Namjoon,” you wheeze, laughter spilling out now. “You can’t just damage public property.”

“It’s stuck,” he mutters, crouching slightly to inspect the angle like that’s going to help. “Just needs a… love tap.” Then slams the vending machine again. “Shit.”

“Love tap? Jesus Christ.” You shake your head. 

Namjoon pulls back and gives it one last, dramatic bang. The bar finally drops!

“Told ya,” he straightens, triumphant, dimples cutting deep, like he just solved world hunger, even though it’s just his own that’s the issue at hand.

A door clicks open down the hall. Oh shit, you must have been too loud and now someone is going to chew your ass out. 

Ah. It’s just Yoongi. Whew.

Yoongi steps out, probably drawn by the noise, loose white long sleeves, hair slightly mussed but flat on one side like he’s been lying down. 

“Yoongi!” You call. “Your boy just committed a crime.”

His gaze lands on the two of you as he waddles over. Takes it in. Namjoon in his white tank, a Three Musketeers bar in one hand. And you, in an obviously-not-your-hoodie hanging off one shoulder, a leopard-print cami underneath, which Yoongi has definitely seen on you before. And on his floor.

Tipsy as fuck, Namjoon suddenly snags you into the crook of his arm, squishing your face against his side until you’re laughing.

Yoongi isn’t.

Namjoon scoffs as he releases you. “It’s actually not a crime when I paid for this shit.”

“He punched the vending machine multiple times,” you explain to Yoongi, gesturing dramatically. “I witnessed it.”

Yoongi huffs quietly, eyes flicking between you and Namjoon then the machine. “Looks fine to me.”

“Of course you’re gonna take his side,” you accuse, pointing at him now.

You’re a little drunkie drunk and everything feels lighter, looser. Words come easier.

“Oh Yoongi, do you watch Lovers not Fighters?” you pivot back, already halfway into another thought, “They had the craziest episode earlier. Like, actual insanity. The main character–”

Namjoon interjects. “She’s crazy. Everything is her fault!”

“No way! It’s definitely the guy’s fault for being so… ughhh…” you groan, continuing your rant.

Yoongi watches you talk with furrowed brows like you’re a new species to be studied.

“Anyway,” you finish, waving a hand like it’s all very important. “It was so wild! Yoongi, you should join us next time!”

A beat.

“I’m good,” he says simply.

“No seriously,” you insist, tugging lightly on the sleeve of his white tee.

He tracks your touch from when it curls on his sleeve and drops. “Y’all enjoy that.”

You shrug. “Your loss.”

He nods once. And just like that, he turns, heading back toward his room, not before a brief glance over his shoulder. 

You catch it, but you’re too busy laughing when Namjoon is aghast to discover that the candy bar is expired! Lmaooo.

⊙⊝⊜

The next night, you get hit by a tree. 

Okay, not really. But it feels like it.

The tree’s name is Kim Namjoon.

It was during the FYA/Fire remix. Everything was moving fast, cues hitting back-to-back, adrenaline high and bodies popping and locking everywhere. And suddenly Namjoon lost his balance and barreled straight into you, arms catching your shoulders at the last second to stop the collision which could have made both of you fall from the extended stage.

There’s a split-second freeze when you both realize what’s happening and who the person is in front of you. Then you recovered, slipping back into formation like nothing happened. Seamless.

But it is, unfortunately, not seamless on the internet because the next day you find out in the girls’ GC that you’ve become the subject of a viral moment.

Angel: wake tf up @y/n Tiff: oh she’s famous now Rei: i can get behind this ship actually Bina: fanfics just writing themselves atp

The scream you scrumpt could have been heard all the way in Seoul.

You even get a text from your sister asking if the storylines the internet is concocting could be true. You sent her a big fat NO.

Even after soundcheck, you don’t escape the teasing. You are summoned to the green room because Hobi wanted to practice that *NSYNC dance challenge when you get bombarded.

“Y/N!” Taehyung has his Tata mic face on, which spells trouble. “You and Namjoon went viral.”

You groan. “Oh god. Not this again.”

Namjoon is already red. Like, visibly red. “It was just a fuckin’ misstep,” he whines.

“Just a misstep?” Tae repeats with a grin, clearly wanting to stir the pot. “Hyung, you almost took her out.”

“I did not—”

“You did actually,” you cut in, pointing at him. “I could sue.”

Laughter breaks out around you. Jimin almost falls off the stool. Jungkook is replaying the clip from Tae’s phone.

“Ah, you guys are cute…” Hobi says from over Kook’s shoulder.

“Stop replaying it!” Namjoon groans, walking towards the fridge to grab an Arih.

“Awww… so cute.” Jungkook giggles as they watch what appears to be the same video from a different angle.

“Oooh the internet is thirsty…” Tae says. “They think you’re hot, Y/N… mucho picante!”

Stupid boy chuckles ensue as you roll your eyes. You’re momentarily distracted when the coffee machine starts making a loud noise and Yoongi’s there staring at his cup like it’s serious business.

“They say you saved a nation in a past life, Y/N,” Jimin quips. “ARMY is so creative.”

Tae chimes back in. “This one said you and Namjoon would make cute babies.”

You’re blushing, a little flustered, not gonna lie. It’s harmless, and you know it. The boys like to joke around, but this is the first time you’ve ever been linked to a member like this, and fuck, it’s really so embarrassing.

“Alright, that's enough.” A stern voice calls from the side. Thank god for Jin, who finally speaks up in your defense. 

You almost thank him, but he adds. “We all know Y/N only has eyes for me.”

The fuck?

Jin shoots you a wink as he walks to the couch where Yoongi is now sitting. You narrow your eyes at the eldest member, unamused.

You try to ignore everyone after that, but in your periphery, you catch Jin swatting the back of Yoongi's neck before strolling off. Yoongi rubs the spot with a quiet glare, and whatever silent conversation just passed between them remains a mystery. You file it away for later.

Right now, you have another problem: One Kim Taehyung. Because this mf cannot have the last laugh.

"Hey, Tae?"

"Yeah?"

You smile sweetly. "Should I tell Angel you swapped bandannas with that influencer during soundcheck?"

His head snaps toward you, the evidence of his flirtatious act hanging on the belt loops of his denims. "...Yah." He says lowly and slowly as he approaches.

"You know." You shrug innocently, backing away. "I wonder if she'd find that interesting."

"Y/N." He takes another step forward.

"All this charity work you’re doing…”

"Don't."

“Shedding your fits to give away… clothes that she procured…”

“Damn, Y/N.”

You smirk. "You started this."

Taehyung points at you accusingly, before hollering, “Hyung!!!”

Your eyes instinctively find Yoongi’s for help. He looks back just as quickly, like he assumed he’s being addressed—the hyung Tae called for.

But then Taehyung stomps straight past Yoongi towards their leader. No matter, your gazes are locked on each other. Meanwhile, Namjoon doesn’t even look up from his book.

“She’s threatening me!” Taehyung complains.

“Oh, you’re still talking about this shit?” Namjoon scoffs, flipping a page.

Taehyung clutches his chest in betrayal. “This is a hate crime. A targeted attack.”

“She got you.” Yoongi deadpans under his breath. “Move on.”

Taehyung lets out a grumble. Yoongi nods at you.

You grin to yourself, your evil cackles following you all the way down the corridor toward Wardrobe. Yeah, no, Tae is in deep shit now.

⊙⊝⊜

[Arlington, TX, August 2026]

So Rei discovers a western bar downtown and decides to make it a tour sluts field trip.  

Saddle & Rye, it's called. A cross between a cocktail speakeasy and a honky-tonk dive bar. It surprisingly works. The vibes are so right. Cognac leather booth, warm lighting, and behind the bar, shelves glitter with enough whiskey to make Min Yoongi’s ass spin. You know he luh tha shii.

Meanwhile, you love Tequila. Ever since your own appa poured you your first shot, it’s been your go-to party drink. You love the sexy little ritual, that whole lick, shoot, and suck. You love the burn down your throat and the quick burst of energy that comes with it.

Which apparently is what spurs you on to take the bar’s piece de resistance: a mechanical bull.

“You ever done this before?” The operator gives you a once-over. His name plate reads Cowboy Josh.

“Nope.” You say, popping the p.

“You’re about to eat dirt,” he replies with a toothy grin.

You shrug. “We’ll see.”

You climb onto the mechanical bull to a chorus of cheers from your friends and some guys from another table. Your itty bitty denim shorts ride up a bit, thighs squeaking against the vinyl as you settle in. 

You grab the strap as the machine lurches, coming to life with a menacing rumble underneath you.

Fuck. This was harder than you thought, but you can’t fall off in 3 seconds flat. That would just be humiliating. 

So you lock in and move with it instinctively, hips following the rhythm like it’s just another piece of choreography to pick up. 

The bull bucks harder and the speed increases twofold.

Someone whistles as your torso rolls with every swivel of the bull. You hear Angel absolutely losing her mind somewhere behind her phone.

“GET ITTTT, QUEEN!”

The bull twists sharply to the left and your core engages automatically.

Years of dance take over before your brain even catches up, allowing you to find ways to stay on by shifting your weight and adjusting your grip.

Cowboy Josh cranks it faster and the crowd really starts cheering now.

Feeling emboldened, your one hand holds the strap, and the other shoots up into the air.

The whole bar erupts.

You don’t really know how long you stay on, if it’s enough to get your name on their wall of fame, but eventually, the machine gives one violent spin and you let yourself fall dramatically onto the padded mat, laughing so hard your stomach hurts.

“Give it up for Y/N!” Cowboy Josh hollers before he offers you his hand. “You alright?”

You nod, still laughing as he helps you to your feet. “Yeah.”

“That was actually pretty hot.”

“Thanks.” You barely register the compliment, already searching the crowd. “Angel! Did you get it?”

“Girl!” Angel squeals, waving her phone above her head. “I got ALL of it!”

“Hey.” You glance back and Cowboy Josh is there with a weathered hat in his hands. “You earned this.” Before you can protest, he settles it gently onto your head. “Looks good on you.”

You let out a surprised laugh, not expecting the little prize. “Seriously? Thanks! ”

“Have a good night.” With a tip of his own hat, he heads back.

Rei gives you a teasing look. “The cowboy fell in love,” she says, pulling a piece of paper that’s stuck in the flap of your hat.

She unfolds it and the paper reads a set of digits. Cowboy Josh gave you his number?

“Maybe nobody's stayed on that long in a while.” You shrug, adjusting the brim to hide a little bit of your fluster. You’re still high from the ride, but this whole thing is making you shy.

“He’s kinda cute,” Rei encourages, nodding to where Cowboy Josh is clearly giving you the eyes.

Angel wedges herself between you and Rei, stealing your attention, phone already inches from your nose. "Forget Cowboy Cassanova. Look at YOU."

You watch the video, and it's honestly kind of sexy. You really rode that bull with the confidence of someone who can fuckin' ride anything.

“Send me that.”

She AirDrops it immediately. Without really thinking about it, you forward it to one person. You shove your phone back into your pocket before anybody notices, smiling to yourself.

Barely thirty seconds later, it buzzes.

🙀: Where are you? You: 🤠

Your phone starts ringing. 🙀calling…

You step away from the table and swipe to answer, the screen clicking against your earring. “Hello?”

“Where are you?” Yoongi’s voice is a little gravelly.

“Texas!”

A tiny huff. “…I know. We flew in at the same time.”

You giggle, already imagining his unimpressed face. “I rode a bull.”

“I saw.”

“I won!”

“What did you win?”

“A cowboy hat,” you beam. “And someone’s number, apparently.”

“I’m not surprised.” Yoongi clears his throat. “You still with the girls?”

“Mhm.”

“How you gettin’ back?”

You glance vaguely around. You’re a little distracted watching Bina pouring a fresh round of shots that you need in you stat. “I dunno yet. Prolly Uber?”

“Stay with the crew, okay?”

You laugh at his authoritative tone. “O-kayyy, dad?”

The line goes dead. You stare at your phone. Did he really just hang up on you?

Fuckin’ Min Yoongi.

The night rolls on anyway. More dancing. More tequila. And did you mention more tequila? The girls somehow convince you to give the bull another go, but by then you're so tipsy you’re basically liquid in a cocktail shaker, so you get launched off in record time.

After that, you step outside with Angel, happily stealing a pull from her vape while the Texas air cools the alcohol buzzing pleasantly beneath your skin.

“Y/N-ssi?”

You turn to find one of BTS’ bodyguards standing a few feet away, hands clasped politely in front of him.

“Hi?”

He bows his head, and you do, too. Angel follows suit despite being in between puffs.

“Yoongi-ssi is here to give you a ride back to the hotel.”

Your mouth dries up, and it’s not from vaping. Did you hear it correctly? Yoongi is here? For you?

“Miss?”

Angel elbows you. 

“Oh. Umm. Well, where is he?”

The bodyguard gestures toward the curb. Angel lets out a low whistle as you find a shiny black SUV waiting beneath the streetlights. The rear window slides down and Yoongi sits inside in a black hoodie and cap pulled low, just enough for you to see it’s really him in there.

“Go.” Angel bumps your shoulder with hers. “Your prince charming awaits.”

“Shut up.” You shove her back, a little harder than intended. She yelps dramatically, grabbing onto your arm as both of you nearly topple sideways off the curb in a fit of laughter.

“You're so rude!” she gasps between giggles, swatting your thigh. “I'll tell everyone you ditched us for Cowboy Josh.”

“I would never.”

“But for Min Yoongi?”

You press your lips, fighting the urge for all these pleasant emotions to burst.

“Whatever. He's waiting. Text me?”

You nod, adjusting your tiny saddle bag on your shoulder before heading for the SUV, spring on your feet. 

At that time, it didn’t matter why. You’re too overwhelmed with all the emotions of the night. It’s so nice of him to do this and maybe you can show him your gratitude the best way you know how.

The door slides open automatically as you approach. Despite your earlier hesitation, you’re totally heart-eyed when you greet him. “Yoongi, you came for me.”

Before he can say a word, you climb straight into his lap. Because, well you're officially a cowgirl now, aren't you?

A fit of giggles erupts from somewhere at the back. You freeze.

“Jiminie’s here,” Yoongi declares, his hands hovering awkwardly at your waist, like he can't decide whether to steady you or pretend this isn't happening.

“Oh! Hi, Jimin.”

“Hello, Y/N.” Jimin smiles, thoroughly entertained. “You look nice.”

Yoongi punctuates his friend’s compliment with a sharp cough.

“Thank you. I wanted to go with the theme,” you say.

“I like the hat.”

“Ah, I won it.” You turn back to Yoongi. “Did you show him the video?”

“No,” Yoongi says firmly, taking the hat from your head and putting it in the empty seat. “I deleted it.”

Wha—?

Jimin laughs like this is all sooo interesting and you’re a little miffed. Is he making fun of you?

And why are Yoongi’s hands so limp on his sides like you’ve got a communicable disease?

“You didn’t like it?” There’s hurt in your voice, and you don’t know why it’s coming out like that.

“It’s not that.”

You pout. “Then why did you delete it?”

“None of your business.”

You cross your arms against your chest, fumes coming out of your nostrils. Jesus. Why is he being a dick? If he was just going to be an asshole to you, then why did he have to come and pick–

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” You challenge.

“Pouting.”

You huff, challenging him with your stare. “Why?”

His gaze lands firmly on your lips meaningfully before he shakes his head at you.

In the mix of Tequila and your insanity, something clicks. You don’t hesitate to call him out on his bullshit. “Ahhhh. Cus’ you wanna kiss me so badddd don’t you?”

Your name is spoken like a warning.

But it’s no big deal, right? Just a stupid kiss that means absolutely nothing to either of you. Why are you even putting so much weight on it? Without ceremony, you lean in and just before your lips touch Yoongi looks away, landing against a plump cheek instead.

“What the fuck, Y/N?” 

His voice comes out sharper than usual, but his ears are red even in the dimness of the car.

Jimin has his lips thinned into a small, amused grin as he looks pointedly outside.

Damn. Of course. You STUPID, drunk girl. You can’t act this way with Yoongi. Not around Jimin.  Because Jimin… Yoongi loves Jimin.

You clamber out of Yoongi’s lap ungracefully. He lets you off without any resistance. The rest of the ride was spent in silence, even though your thoughts seem louder than bombs.

⊙⊝⊜

“You feeling better?” Yoongi mumbles when you finally see him backstage the next day.

You’re way more put together now, no signs of the messy drunk he had to deal with last night. But you still remember how disgusted he was by your actions and how deeply embarrassing your antics were.

Thank goodness he doesn’t look like he’s offended. Not anymore at least.

“Better.” You reply oh-so-casually even though it’s a night you much rather forget with how monumentally you humiliated yourself. Still, he deserves an apology. “Look, I’m so sorry. I was wasted and I shouldn’t have acted like that. It was so out of line and beyond embarrassing.“

He studies you for a second. "...You done?" 

Uh. Dick.

"...Yes."

A corner of his mouth lifts as he reaches to push a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re good. You know you can always make it up to me."

He’s gone before you can scrape your jaw from the floor.

⊙⊝⊜

The final beats of Into the Sun play loudly from the stadium speakers. The boys emerge from the billowing curtains like literal angels, backlit by stage lights and fireworks.

Yoongi is wearing a cowboy hat. A familiar one, you realize, because it was on your head last night when he found you on the curb of the club. You forgot to bring it with you in your haste to leave the vehicle the moment you arrived at the hotel.

You’re already in your casual clothes since the final ment didn’t require most dancers on stage. But as is tradition, the team usually waits until the members come back in, a moment to celebrate a successful show to pass positivity on before going separate ways.

“Good job, Psyduck.” You say as a pokemon-wearing Namjoon mock-punches your cheek.

Then, it’s Yoongi behind him, grinning lopsided as he makes his way over.

“Nice hat, cowboy.” You say before the familiar musk of Invictus assaults your senses because Yoongi is leaning in, which he has never, ever done before. Not backstage, at least, in front of actual human beings. 

So you’re… hugging? Wow. Okay. Sure. That’s not odd behavior at all. Except that’s not even the problem. 

His lips brush your ear as he whispers something, and you nearly let out the most embarrassing whine in front of the entire crew.

“Wanna ride me tonight?”

⊙⊝⊜

A little past midnight, you come over with a bottle of Jose Cuervo Gold and a bag of lime slices you picked up on the way and a question of your own. “Truth or dare?”

Leaning against the door frame, Yoongi purses his lips in thought. “Dare.”

“Get drunk with me.” You press the brown bag against his chest and shove him inside.

It doesn’t take long before Yoongi’s already a mess six or seven (6-7!) shots in. You’re faring no better. Both of you butt-naked, giggly, playfully exploring each other with liquor and the game you chose to play tonight.

“Ow!” You swat his arm before rubbing the skin where he planted a pink bouquet with his blunt teeth. “Stop biting me.”

“Why?” He chuckles, looming over you against the couch. “You’re so plump.” Another bite is deposited on your shoulder when he leans in. And one more, a little gentler on the tops of your breasts. Then lower, subtler, against your nipple. You definitely do not fight him for that one. 

“Truth or Dare?” He mumbles.

“Dare,” you sigh out.

He chuckles throatily. “Tell me to stop.”

“Nah. You can’t.”

His mouth is slick where he continues to nibble on your nub. “But that’s your dare.”

“Did I say dare? I meant truth.”

“Okay,” Yoongi sits back, pretends to think, but for some reason you believe he already got something simmering. “Rei’s birthday. Did you really mean to say Jin-hyung?”

Your face cracks.

This is… yeah. Yoongi’s downright evil for this.

You suck on your teeth, weigh your options. You remember that night clearly. Maybe too clearly that mortification awashes your features before you can control it. Yoongi observes you with a grin.

You settle for a half-truth. “Yeah, I did mean to say Jin.” 

“But?”

“There’s no buts.”

“Hm. Fine.” He takes the bottle and puts it against his lips for a slow drink.

“Truth or dare?” You say.

He wipes the sheen with the back of his palm. “Not playing anymore if we gonna bullsh—“

“Fine. It wasn’t just him. There might have been one more.”

“Now we’re talking.” He lines himself up on your entrance and eases in nice and slow.

Hoooly crap that felt good.

“You gonna say the name or do I have to fuck it out of you?”

“God why are you so...“

He bucks up hard and you choke his name out in shock. “Yoongi!”

“Knew it,” he slurs with a satisfied hum, dropping a kiss on your neck before licking the soft flesh there. “You’re a dirty liar.”

He’s right. You are. If only he knows that every single night you’re with him, this whole situation gets more and more difficult to control.

Yoongi continues to kill you softly, teasing you with his gravelly voice against your ear, his thick cock sliding slowly in and out of your needy pussy.

“Your turn,” you cup his face between your hands, making him level with your eyes. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.” He replies, tone steady.

The hat sits on the coffee table and you tilt your head towards it. “So you got jealous over a rando?”

“Psh.”

“Had to wear the hat and all, huh? Got sum’ to prove?”

“It’s a good-quality hat. Hand-sewn from a family-run business with like a 100-year heritage.”

“Did you just say heritage?” You laugh a little shrill just to mess with him. “Okay, unc.”

“Check it if you want.”

You should be focused on rocking against his torso, but for some reason, you’re still having a full-on conversation about a random hat??

“Right,” you plant your palms against his chest and push him up into a sitting position. You reach for the hat, not reading the tag because that’s not what you wanted to do, really. Knowing Yoongi, he probably did research about the brand already. 

Grinning, you affix it on his head and dear god, there’s something mind-boggling about Yoongi and head gear that you just cannot fathom.

“Sexy,” you nod appreciatively.

Yoongi releases a beautifully pained sigh as you sink down, pussy swallowing his stiff cock whole as you guide him in.

“Why’d you pick me up anyway? Scared I’d go home with him?” You ask when you’re fully seated, wincing a little at the stretch.

“We both know he could never.”

“Never what?”

“Get you all fucked up like this,” Hands over your waist, he pistons upwards so brutally that wind is knocked out of your chest. You grip his shoulders as high-pitched wails are pulled out of you with every upward thrust. “Hear yourself?”

“Ah, fuck you,” you snarl. 

The hat leaves his head and goes on top of yours. 

Crossing his arms behind his neck, Yoongi looks so infuriatingly relaxed as he goads. “C’mon, cowgirl. Do your thing.”

You lift yourself up, letting him slide out just enough to leave only the fat head of his cock trapped inside your warm walls. He’s watching you closely, curiosity trapped between his teeth and bottom lip, as he waits for your next move.

You swivel your hips, your tongue trailing slowly across the base of your teeth as you do, before slamming back down onto him, drawing the neediest, high-pitched whimper you've ever heard from his throat.

You do it again, bounce your ass against his cock. Same wrecked roar ripping from his chest.

“Fuck, Y/N. You’re breaking my dick.”

You ease back, palms pressing into his thighs while your hips move in a slow, sensual roll, watching his face for every crack in his composure.

“You like this?” You test.

“Fuck. You know I do, baby...” Yoongi looks positively possessed, eyes locked in on each cascade of pleasure you’re creating with your body. “God, your body looks so insane right now.”

“Thought you don't like seeing me like this.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Your eyes dart to the sides, but your mouth betrays you. “Deleted my video. Thought it would impress you.”

Shit-fuck. Why did you just admit that? 

A small exhale of breath from him tickles the damp skin on your chest before you feel him move. Fingers curl lightly against your neck, massaging the skin there. You swallow the lump on your throat that bobs underneath his fingers.

“Look at me, Y/N.”

“No.”

He tuts and the subtle pressure of his thumb against your windpipe doubles the bpm of your pulse.

“Baby.”

Of course he calls you that again which is so fucked up. Your eyes drift towards him in surrender.

Yoongi’s eyes are dark, but honest and steady. “You have no idea what I think of you, huh?”

When you shake your head no, he swallows a lump on his throat like a truth he is trying to push down. Under the guise of the game, you pry it out. “I dare you to tell me.”

He shifts carefully, not breaking your connection, as he takes the bottle of Cuervo off the floor and takes a swig before offering it to you. You take a generous gulp, letting the burn trickle down your throat to satiate your nerves.

He takes the bottle back, and closes in to nuzzle his nose on your collarbone. “You’re so fuckin’ sexy… Can come just by imagining how you feel around me…” 

“Oh?”

“Mmh.”

“So you’ve jacked off to thoughts of me?”

“So many fucking times.” He smiles stupidly when he lifts his head to meet your gaze. “Now lean back.” 

You already miss the warmth of his lips on your skin when you rest your palms against the muscles on his knees. But you do as he says.

Yoongi takes the bottle of tequila again, pours the amber liquid on your chest, trailing towards the tip of your taut nipple where his tongue quickly flickers out to catch it. “Ahh these tits.”

You cup the side of his jaw as he suckles it a few times more before he continues. “Best I ever tasted.”

You moan. Fuck you can’t hold it in.

“You know I can’t stop thinking about y… this. It’s fucking me up.”

Between the praise and pleasure and the heady scent of alcohol, you might be going insane. Because whatever Yoongi is saying cannot be real. You’re both drunk, dumb, loose with words, careless with consequences.

“…Beautiful,” he murmurs, lifting his head to press a kiss on the inside of your wrist, inhaling the scent of your perfume, before guiding both of your hands over his shoulders. 

Instinctively, your fingers find each other behind his neck.

Your arms tighten around him like second nature. Yoongi folds into you at the same time, forehead pressing against yours as the last of the tension shudders out of both of you. 

Now there’s no more teasing, no smart remarks, and no space. Just his breath mingling with yours and the strange, dizzy feeling of being held so tight by someone you never want to let go of.

You find yourself in this situation again. When your rule seems to be moot. Because all you want is the feel of his lips, when his mouth is right fucking there, so close that you feel the warmth of his next breath. Your faces are steady, locked, even as the rest continues to roll forward, chasing the high that your bodies need though your heart is bloody screaming for something else. 

For one suspended second, it feels inevitable.

Then Yoongi turns just slightly, making the decision for you. Maybe he knows not to press your buttons anymore, so he presses his cheek to yours instead. You close your eyes and hold him tighter, pretending the ache in your chest is only the tequila, only the aftermath, only anything but what it actually is.

It takes almost nothing after that. One last desperate pull of each other closer and the pleasure breaks through you both at once, your bodies going taut before collapsing together, breathless and trembling. You bury your face against his neck as he holds you, talks you through it, and for those few stolen, dangerous seconds, it feels less like coming apart and more like becoming whole.

⊙⊝⊜

You give yourself grace to stay a little longer tonight out of sheet exhaustion. Yoongi doesn’t seem in any rush to let you go either, one arm still draped loosely around you as you rest on the couch side by side.

For a while, neither of you says much. You just exist there together, limbs tangled, trading the bottle of water back and forth until the silence starts to feel almost domestic. Eventually, Yoongi pushes himself upright and runs a hand through his already-ruined hair, somehow making it worse, then glances toward the bathroom.

“You wanna shower?” he asks, like it isn’t the first time he offered.

“Are you sure we’re even gonna fit in there? It looks like a small shower.” It isn’t. It’s huge. Probably has four kinds of showerheads and all.

Yoongi laughs, tilting his head for you to follow. Then, almost as an afterthought. “Jimin and I used to shower together when we were writing the album.”

Throat tightening unexpectedly, you manage. “…oh, is that so?”

He shrugs, entirely too casual.

You thought it weird, to say that so randomly, and maybe it’s also why you blurt. “You two also fuck?” The question slips out of your mouth so suddenly, you spot the change of expression on his face.

You’re dangling off a precipice. All you need is a no to tug you back into safety.

His mouth quirks. Just one corner. That annoying, knowing half-smirk. He doesn’t really answer, which is an answer in itself.

“Right,” you mutter, pushing yourself up. “Of course.”

He watches you for a second longer than necessary, something amused flickering in his features, like he’s clocked the shift, like he’s enjoying it just a little.

“You look cute when you’re jealous.” He says, pinching your cheek lightly.

You swat him away immediately as you walk towards the bath. “Please.”

His chuckles echo along the tiles as he follows you in. You could say Jimin could never. Like he’s said about the random cowboy. But that would be a lie.

The shower is meant to be just that. But when the water runs hot, the space shrinks as his soapy hands roam all over your body, until lust fogs the glass.

⊙⊝⊜

Back in your own hotel room, underneath clean sheets to hide your muddled thoughts, you huff out a dry laugh to yourself.

Jimin.

You love Jimin. You really do.

But now you can’t stop picturing it.

And it annoys you more than it should. Not because it matters. It doesn’t. They’ve got history. They’re family. But still there’s something about realizing, over and over again, that Yoongi is exactly who you think he is. Or was? You can’t tell anymore.

You flop to your side and hug your pillow tighter. “This is fine,” you mutter to no one.

It is. It has to be. 

⊙⊝⊜

[Toronto, CA, August 2026]

There are always people backstage, staff and stylists and friends of friends and people who somehow know somebody important enough to get escorted past security, so when you catch sight of a woman standing near the couches talking to Yoongi, you barely give it a second thought.

Until you look again. And then, unfortunately, again.

Cropped hair, cropped top, tight jeans. She’s beautiful, edgy. Someone that should be hanging out with rockstars, just like she is now.

Yoongi is leaning back against the arm of the couch, listening to her with that small, private smile he gets when somebody says something genuinely funny, and every now and then she touches his forearm when she talks, easy and familiar.

Which, okay. People touch. You touch people. You practically live in Namjoon’s personal space when you’re together. This could mean nothing.

Speak of the devil, Namjoon is standing in front of you, holding out a bottle of water. “You good?”

“Perfect.”

He gives you a look that says you are very obviously not perfect, but thankfully doesn’t push.

You take the bottle anyway because rehearsals were brutal today in the humidity and you really are very thirsty.

“She looks familiar,” you say eventually, mostly because the question has been scratching at the inside of your skull for the last five minutes and Namjoon happens to be standing beside you, scrolling through something on his phone.

He glances up, follows your line of sight, then makes a small sound of recognition.

“Oh. Her?”

“Mhm.”

“She’s a singer.” And almost as an afterthought. “Yoongi’s ex.”

“That’s why she’s familiar. I mean, familiar cos she’s a singer, not because she’s Yoongi’s ex. I mean I dunno who Yoongi’s exes are or who even is he dating…”

Namjoon looks at you all funny.

You stare back, willing yourself not to unravel any further.

“We okay today, Y/N?”

You give him a thumbs up and take another long drink from your bottle. Thankfully, Namjoon turns back to his phone.

Yoongi has exes.

You have exes.

Normal, functioning, adults have entire histories full of people they loved, fucked, hated, blocked, unblocked, drunk-texted at three in the morning and then pretended never existed again. This is not groundbreaking information and you are not sixteen years old, so there is absolutely no reason for something so goddamn juvenile to crawl underneath your skin the way it does.

Still, you glance back.

She says something that makes Yoongi duck his head, his gummy smile flashing for barely a second before he shakes it away, and for some reason that gets you more than the hand on his arm ever could.

“How long were they together?” you ask.

Namjoon pauses.

You immediately hate yourself. Why the fuck did you just ask that?!

“I don’t know,” Namjoon says, thinking. “A while, I think.”

Fucking fantastic.

“It was forever ago.”

See, it was eons ago. So you stop yourself there.

Jesus Christ.

You need to get a grip.

Finally, you sense the woman is saying goodbye. But before that, she hands him a rectangular box from behind her, a gift.

Oh Yoongi is grinning wide. Because in that box sits his favorite Hibiki, a Japanese whisky he’s once told you about. Of course it’s something that someone who really knows him would bring.

Not a shitty bottle of Cuervo from a dingy 7-11.

Crop Top is leaning in to hug Yoongi before stepping back with one hand still curled loosely around his arm.

Yoongi smiles at her. You kinda hate how much history can apparently fit inside a gesture that lasts all of three seconds.

Then his gaze lifts and finds yours. Brows raised, smile still gummy, nodding at you like you’re not currently malfunctioning, that proved to be all you can handle.

You look away immediately, distracting Namjoon into a conversation. “I saw Angel unboxing like ten million new Pokemon hats earlier.”

“Why didn’t you lead with that? Let’s go.” Namjoon wraps his hand on your wrist, dragging you to wardrobe.

Across the room, you don’t look back to see whether Yoongi is still watching.

⊙⊝⊜

[Chicago, IL, August 2026]

The soju was originally supposed to be one bottle.

That’s what all of you say every single time before someone inevitably comes back from the convenience store downstairs with plastic bags digging into their wrists and a grin that means everybody’s doomed.

Now there are empty green bottles crowding the table between you and Rei’s beds, somebody’s fried chicken gone cold in the corner, music playing softly from a phone speaker while the city lights blink beyond the hotel windows.

Your cheeks already hurt from laughing.

Angel is halfway lying across the carpet, dramatically fanning herself with a room service menu while Bina recounts the worst hookup she’s ever had in excruciating detail. 

“No, because why was he moaning louder than me?” she cries.

Another round of reckless laughter fills the air. Oh how you love nights like this.

“That’s so traumatic,” Rei wheezes.

“That’s why you gotta stay loyal to Kookie.” Angel says. “I don’t even know why you’re chasing other dicks.”

“Damn. A girl has needs and he’s been all over the map lately.”

“Okay, okay. That’s fair,” Angel says, pointing lazily around the room. “Everybody answer. Worst sex you’ve ever had.”

“Like ever? I gotta go browse the archives.” Rei says.

“Past year only,” Tiff says.

Stories spill after that easier than the alcohol does. Awkward one-night stands. Exes. Men who cried after sex. Men who thought they were doms because they listened to one podcast.

Until somehow, unfortunately, the conversation lands on you. 

Which is highly inconvenient, because you don’t want to talk about your sex life aka Min Yoongi. But also, if you’re really honest with yourself, you’re still a little bruised from seeing him friendly with an ex. And you’re definitely not thinking about the fact that he basically admitted to fucking Park Jimin. Both are completely normal things that shouldn’t affect you, but it does.

“I’m good… no complaints.” You shrug, hoping that they will let you get away with that. And you’re not trying to be dismissive. It is the truth. Besides, you can’t complain about getting exactly what you signed up for.

Unfortunately, the vague statement seems to pique everybody’s interest more.

“She’s getting dicked down good. Damn.” Tiff nods approvingly.

“No, seriously,” Bina points. “What even is your situation right now?”

“What situation?”

“Oh brother,” Tiff snorts.

“The Min Yoongi situation,” Gwayoung deadpans.

Honestly, it’s a little awkward with her around. She gives you the creeps, but Rei’s been friendly with her lately so you guess it’s fine. You know she’s in Yoongi’s lineup too, even if you have not spoken directly about it.

Heat climbs your neck and you try to hide it with a light drag of your nails. “There is no Min Yoongi situation.”

“Bitch?” Angel chimes, high-pitched.

Tiff cackles into her soju glass. “Please. That man cleared the board for you.”

Your head snaps toward her. “What?”

“Dismissed all them other hoes. Deadass.” Angel adds. “No offense, Gwa.”

“Oh my god, girl. Just facts,” Gwayoung shrugs, already too drunk to censor herself. “Tried to flirt with him two weeks ago and he literally blew me off.”

The room howls.

“That’s… wow,” Bina nods solemnly.

“I know!” Gwayoung cries. “I looked amazing too.”

“And that American dancer?” Tiff continues. “The one that joined for two weeks?”

“The redhead?” Rei slurs, head tilting sideways from being uncharacteristically plastered tonight.

“Yes, the redhead. She was practically throwing ass at him throughout the show then tried something backstage, but he shut her down.”

You hate the warmth blooming in your chest at that. Hate. It. So. Much. 😃

Because despite all your rules and all your attempts to keep this detached and manageable and casual, you like hearing that.

You lower your drink, trying very hard to look unaffected. “Maybe he has some other people we don’t know...”

“Oh my god,” Bina groans. “Look at her trying to downplay this.”

“I’m literally not.” You mock-whine.

“Your face, bro…” Tiff teases.

You roll your eyes, taking a sip of your drink before your smile can betray you further.

“No, but seriously,” Rei hiccups. “Min Yoongi is a changed man.”

Tiff snorts. “Changed from what?”

Rei squints, thinking far too hard for someone this intoxicated. “Back then? Oh my god. Rotation king.” She continues when the girls egg her to spill the tea.. “No because when we slept together—”

Your smile drops before you can stop it.

Someone gasps. Somebody says ‘wait what’? Even Gwayoung looks genuinely gagged.

But all you can hear is: ‘…when we slept together.’ 

Rei and Yoongi?

Rei’s eyes widen as realization finally catches up to her alcohol-soaked brain. “Ages ago!” she blurts immediately. “Oh my god, it was ages ago. Like 8-9 years back… You weren’t even in the team yet.”

You stare at her and can’t even mask the hurt in your eyes.

Because Rei. Rei knew everything. From the beginning.

She knew about Hannam. She comforted you when you got swerved. You came clean after Madrid. When she clocked you backstage and when you went home with cartoon hearts 

floating above your head.

Rei knew your secrets and yet, she couldn’t tell you hers.

“I literally don’t even remember what his dick looks like,” Rei says flippantly. “Just know he’s big.”

“Rei, the fuck?!” Angel mutters like she too has had enough.

“What?!”

You stand too quickly. “I’m gonna…” You grab your hoodie blindly. “I need a fuckin’ cigarette.”

“Y/N—”

But you’re already heading for the door.

“Oh, come on,” Rei groans behind you. “I didn’t tell you because you’re so in love with him! Tsss… oh my god, Y/N. Come back!”

The words hit like a car crash.

You don’t even know if the room goes quiet after that because your ears are ringing too hard.

The hallway outside feels freezing in comparison as you run towards the fire exit. Not even a minute later the door opens again.

“Hey,” Angel says softly, handing you her vape.

You don’t answer. You just take it and take a long drag until a white cloud surrounds you.

Just lean against the wall, arms folded tightly across yourself like you can physically hold everything in place.

Angel sighs, coming to stand beside you. For a while, neither of you says anything, just passing the vape back and forth until your breaths taste like cherry.

“That was so fucking embarrassing,” you admit finally.

Angel’s expression softens instantly. “Baby…”

“She knew.” Your voice cracks. “I told her everything and, oh my god, I feel like such an idiot.”

“That’s not true.”

“It feels true.”

You slide down the wall, sitting on the cold floor as the past five minutes replay in your mind’s eye like a horror story. “Why does he have to be such a fuckboy bro, like?”

“Reformed fuckboy?”

You groan, pressing your palms against the socket of your eyes.

Angel settles down beside you. “For what it’s worth, I do think he likes you.”

You laugh bitterly. “That almost makes it worse.”

Because if he likes you, then what the fuck is this? Sneaking around hotel floors. Texts at 2 a.m. Nothing to hold on to but a Kakao filled with suggestive messages. 

“What are you thinking?”

“I dunno… I hate Rei. I hate him. I hate this. I feel so stupid.”

Angel watches your face carefully before saying, very gently. “You, my love, are a queen. Queens are allowed to have shit days too. ”

“Rei fucked up. She’s wasted as hell. Let her apologize when she’s sober.”

Angel takes the vape back, staring ahead for a second.

“And Yoongi… he’s Min Yoongi, babe. He’s got history. So do you. You’re probably not gonna love every single thing he’s done before you.” She glances at you. “But like… are you gonna keep judging him for who he was, or actually look at what he’s been showing you now?”

You close your eyes briefly.

Angel’s optimism sounds nice, but you’re not sure if it fits. Not when Yoongi has rejected you many times before. Not when the biggest thing staring you in the face is that you’re not even together. Not when there really is nothing beyond this.

So really, you don’t get to ask where this is going when there isn’t technically anything to go anywhere.

“Thank you for being a good friend,” you tell Angel quietly. That much, at least, you know for sure and she deserves to hear that.

You find yourself bunking with her and Tiff that night, because you can’t go back to your room and face Rei again. Hell no. But as you try to cling to sleep, you realize that beneath the hurt, beneath the wounded pride and jealousy, Rei is right about one thing.

You fell too deep.

The difference is, Yoongi was never going to dive in after you. Maybe he can’t. He’s Min Yoongi: world-famous, wanted by everyone, living a life where whatever this is between you can only ever exist in dark SUVs, and locked hotel rooms. 

So fuck Hannam. Shared ramyeon. Pickleball. Madrid. Fuck all that.

Wanting more than that would mean asking him for something his life has never really allowed.

You just hate that you were stupid enough to hope anyway.

⊙⊝⊜

[Los Angeles, CA, Sept 2026]

Yoongi: wanna come over? You: i cant Yoongi: i can go to you You: no Yoongi: why You: cos im done

A/N: Well, what do we think?

*goes into hiding*

Thank you for reading you lovely, beautiful human xo

⊙⊝⊜

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"Again," Flower says, eyes crinkling at the corners despite the commanding tone. "Tell me who you are tonight, baby ensign."

You straighten your shoulders, tilting your head just so. The practice room's harsh lighting catches on Flower's diamond earrings as she circles you, fluid and catlike.

"Kim Jiwoo," you say, voice pitched slightly higher than your natural tone. "Biotech graduate student. Fascinated by Dr. Park's work on neural implants. Just smart enough to follow along, just dumb enough to seem harmless."

Flower stops in front of you, that distinct black widow presence making the fine hairs on your arms stand up. 

Unlike the first time you felt it, now it's almost comforting. 

Familiar. 

She studies your face, tucking a loose curl behind your ear with unexpected gentleness.

"Very good. Now tell me about the walking disappointment you're targeting."

You snort at her description. You don't need the file to recite this. You've memorized every detail about Dr. Park Minjun, biomedical engineer and unwitting key to the Kkangpae's next move.

"Forty-two years old. Divorced—she left him, no surprise there. No children, thank god. Graduated top of his class from KAIST. His work focuses on neural-digital interfaces. He's brilliant but underappreciated by his peers because he's insufferable. Likes brandy, classical music, and women who make him feel smart."

Flower's lips quirk up into a genuine smile. "And his weakness?"

"He publishes papers on social engineering and cybersecurity, but he's pathetically susceptible to flattery. Classic case of 'physician, heal thyself.' Basically a walking ego with glasses."

The black widow sensation intensifies briefly—Flower's version of delight.

"I swear to god, men like him make our job too easy," she says, stepping away to adjust something on her tablet. "It's almost disappointing. Almost." 

She glances up with a conspiratorial wink. Sighs, then smiles.

“RM wants those neural interface designs. The military applications alone..."

You nod, watching her fingers fly across the screen. 

The mission parameters are clear: 

Charm Dr. Park at the Nexus Biotech gala. 

Get him comfortable. 

Get him talking. 

Get him to take you somewhere private—preferably near a server access point. 

Plant the USB device AD prepared. 

Extract without raising suspicion.

Simple. Clean. The kind of mission the Seduction Division handles monthly.

So why does your stomach feel like it's full of stones?

Flower looks up, eyes softening. "Hey. What's going on in that big brain of yours?"

"Nothing," you say automatically.

She sets down her tablet and approaches, adjusting the thin strap of your dress with gentle fingers. Her touch is sisterly, comforting.

"Your pupils dilate when you lie," she says quietly. "Dr. Park won't notice—men like him only see what they want to see. But I see you."

You swallow. "I won't let you down."

"Sweetie, this isn't about me." She squeezes your shoulder. "Dual-division ensigns are rare. You're special. RM and AD both vouched for you. I'm just making sure you're taken care of out there."

The weight of expectations settles heavier than the dress. 

You've been with Kkangpae less than five months, but already the divisions are watching to see if you'll justify the unusual position.

"I understand."

Flower steps back, smile still decorating her doll like features.

“Good. Now listen—don't use technical language unless he uses it first. Laugh at his jokes even when they suck, which they will. Touch his arm when he says something 'impressive.'" She makes air quotes, rolling her eyes. "And for the love of god, don't let him see how much smarter you are than him. Male fragility is real and it's pathetic."

"I know how to play dumb," you say with a hint of Jiwoo's practiced giggle.

Something warm blooms across Flower's face—recognition, sisterhood. 

She was recruited for the same skills, after all.

"Go see Jessi for your gear. And by the way?" She catches your eye. "Remember what happens to insects caught in a spider's web."

"They become dinner?" you venture.

"Exactly." She grins, sharp and genuine. "And tonight, you're the spider."

Jessi's domain is completely different from the Seduction’s space. 

It smells like gun oil and leather, nothing like the perfumed air of the Seduction Division. 

You find her hunched over a workbench, a disassembled pistol laid out before her. Her red hair is barely contained in a messy ponytail, and she doesn't look up as you enter.

"There's my favorite pain in the ass," she growls without looking up, fiery aura reaching you before her words do—heat blasting across your skin, not uncomfortable but intense, like standing next to a furnace running at full capacity.

"How'd you know it was me?"

She scoffs, finally glancing up. Her eyes are sharp as flint. 

"Your footsteps. Too quiet for most divisions, too heavy for pure Seduction." Her gaze rakes over you, professional and quick. "The dress works. You don't look like you could hack into a child's iPad."

Coming from Jessi, that's basically a standing ovation.

"Flower sent me for equipment."

"Yeah, yeah." 

She wipes her hands on a cloth that's seen better days and stalks to a cabinet, unlocking it with her palm print. 

“Special occasion when my division crosses with Seduction. Usually I'm just supplying the boring stuff—guns, knives, the occasional brick of C4."

"Nothing boring about C4," you say, making her snort.

"True. But tonight..." She spins around, holding a small velvet box like it might bite her. "Tonight we get fancy."

Inside the box is a pair of diamond earrings that catch the light in a way that screams ‘expensive.’

You raise an eyebrow.

"Are those real?"

"Real enough to pass inspection," Jessi says with a dismissive shrug. "Left one has your comm link to AD. Right one has a GPS tracker and panic button. Press firmly on the back for three seconds, and we'll know you need extraction."

She shoves the box at you, then reaches back into the cabinet for something else—a lipstick.

"Standard issue for Flower's pretty little killers, but I modified it." She twists the base, and instead of lipstick emerging, a small compartment opens in the side. "USB device fits in here. The shell is scan-proof. They'll see normal cosmetics if they check your bag."

You take the lipstick, examining the clever design. "Nice work."

"Thank JM's division for the budget," she says with a sharp smirk. "Expensive toys for expensive missions."

The USB device itself comes next—barely larger than your thumbnail, matte black with no markings.

"AD's baby," Jessi explains, flicking it with her finger. "Once connected to their system, it creates a ghost terminal that he can access remotely. Self-destructs after twelve hours, leaves no trace. Poof."

"Clean," you murmur, appreciating the engineering.

"That's the idea." 

She slams the cabinet shut and leans against it, crossing her arms. The movement makes the flames of her aura leap higher, warming your cheeks. 

“Now for the serious talk. This mission goes sideways, you get out. No heroics."

You nod, but she fixes you with a glare that could melt steel.

"I mean it. Your job is intelligence gathering, not martyrdom. You feel threatened, you press that panic button. AD will have a team three minutes from your location at all times."

"I know protocol," you say.

"Everyone knows protocol until shit explodes in their face." Jessi pushes off the cabinet and stalks toward you, heat intensifying until you can practically see the air shimmer. "Park has connections we don't fully understand. Intel suggests Myung-dong Faction might have their hooks in Nexus Biotech."

That gets your attention. 

MDF involvement would elevate the risk significantly.

"Was that in the briefing?"

"It's my addition to the briefing." Jessi's eyes narrow to dangerous slits. "Flower focuses on the seduction. My job is keeping our people alive. So you listen—any sign of MDF, any whisper, you abort immediately."

You straighten, suddenly very aware of the weight of the mission.

“Understood."

Her blazing pulls back slightly as she nods once.

“That’s what I like to hear.”

You smile, slightly. Her worry is not misplaced, but it’s often rare amongst the highest ranks in Kkangpae.

"Thank you," you manage.

"Don't thank me. Just come back in one piece.” She gives your shoulder a punch that's probably meant to be gentle. "Plus, the Doc would have my head."

The casual mention of Hoseok makes your pulse skip. 

You roll your eyes to cover it, and Jessi laughs—a short, explosive sound.

"Alright, get out of my division. Go be pretty and dangerous somewhere else."

Your stomach won't stop churning.

The car glides through Seoul's glittering nightscape, a sleek black counterpoint to the neon-soaked streets. You sit in the back, breathing slowly and methodically as the Castle recedes in the distance.

"Testing, testing. Tell me you can hear my dulcet tones, or I'm coming down there to fix your ear myself."

AD's voice crackles through the comm link in your earring, sharp and clear.

"I hear you," you murmur, keeping your voice low even though the privacy partition between you and the driver is up. "Loud and clear."

"Good. Running final checks on the USB. You nervous yet?"

You smooth invisible wrinkles from your dress. 

"Should I be?"

"Nah. This is baby stuff compared to what Flower usually handles. Consider it your training wheels mission."

Something about his confidence settles your nerves. AD doesn't sugarcoat—if he thought you were walking into danger, he'd say so.

"Security scan is showing standard measures at the venue," he continues, keyboard clicks audible in the background. "Metal detectors, bag check, ID verification. Nothing our gear can't handle."

You touch the earrings, making sure they're secure. 

“Any word on MDF presence?"

A pause. 

"Jessi talk to you?"

"She mentioned concerns."

AD sighs, the sound staticky in your ear. 

"Nothing confirmed. Just chatter. But keep your eyes open. Don't do anything stupid."

The car slows sometime later as you approach the venue—the Grand Hyatt, facade gleaming with tasteful spotlights. 

A line of luxury vehicles dumps Seoul's elite onto the red carpet leading to the hotel's entrance. 

Your palms sweat.

"Remember," AD says, voice dropping to a more serious tone, "I've got eyes on the security feeds and a team on standby. But you're running point. Trust your training."

The car stops. Your door opens to reveal a white-gloved attendant. 

It is time.

"I'll be in your ear the whole time," AD says, then adds with his characteristic snark, "Try not to fall in love with this asshole."

The comment strikes closer than AD could know, your mind jumping to someone else—someone with an earthy aura and hands that heal rather than harm.

Not now, you scold yourself, pushing thoughts of Hoseok away like a stubborn cat.

“I’ll try my best,” you snort right back, sarcastic.

You step out of the car, a practiced smile already on your face. 

Kim Jiwoo has a biomedical engineer to seduce, and doesn't have time for forbidden distractions.

The gala unfolds in predictable luxury.

There’s… everything?

Champagne fountains, string quartet, the quiet murmur of the wealthy discussing how to become wealthier. 

You navigate the crowd exactly how you’ve been taught, sipping champagne like it's water as you scan for your target.

"Northeast corner," AD's voice directs in your ear. "By the ice sculpture that's trying way too hard to be artistic. Looks like a dick."

You turn casually, spotting Dr. Park immediately. 

He's exactly as his file described—tall, slim, with salt-and-pepper hair and designer glasses that cost more than most people's monthly rent. He's surrounded by a small circle of admirers, holding court with the confidence only mediocre men seem capable of mustering.

"Target acquired," you murmur behind your champagne flute.

"Great. Now go make him feel special while I hack into the hotel's HVAC system for fun."

You swallow a laugh and begin your approach, slipping through the crowd with measured steps. 

As you get closer, you catch fragments of conversation—Park is explaining some complex concept, his audience nodding with the vacant expressions of people who'd rather be anywhere else.

Perfect timing.

You stumble slightly—just enough to draw attention without seeming fake—and your champagne sloshes dangerously close to the rim. 

Park glances your way, then away, then back with renewed interest as he notices the red dress, your styled hair, the seemingly genuine embarrassment on your face.

"Careful there," he says, reaching out though you're nowhere near close enough for him to actually touch you. "These floors can be treacherous."

You widen your eyes, the picture of flustered gratitude.

"I'm so sorry. I wasn't watching where I was—" You stop, recognition dawning on your face. "Wait, you're Dr. Park Minjun, aren't you?"

His posture straightens like someone shoved a ruler up his ass, pleasure evident in the slight lift of his chin. 

"I am, yes."

"Oh my god." You lower your voice, stepping closer to his circle. "I've read all your papers on neural interface technology. Your work on the P300 response integration is revolutionary."

In your ear, AD makes a retching sound.

Park's expression shifts from polite interest to genuine engagement. 

"You're familiar with my research?"

"I'm doing my graduate work in related areas," you say, offering your free hand. "Kim Jiwoo. I never thought I'd actually meet you in person."

He takes your hand, holding it a moment longer than necessary. 

His palm is clammy. 

“A pleasure, Ms. Kim. Are you here with the university delegation?"

"Oh, no, I'm just someone's plus-one." You give a self-deprecating laugh. "I practically begged to come when I heard you might be here."

"Dear god, I think I'm going to vomit in my keyboard," AD mutters in your ear. "This guy is eating it up like free cake."

He is indeed. 

Park's entire focus has shifted to you, the others in his circle forgotten. One by one, they drift away, recognizing they've lost their audience. One woman mouths 'thank you' behind his back as she escapes.

"Perhaps you'd like to discuss my research further?" Park suggests, gesturing toward a quieter area of the ballroom. "I rarely meet someone so... enthusiastic about my work."

"I'd love that," you breathe, like he's offered you the moon instead of a boring conversation about his research.

As he guides you away, his hand comes to rest at the small of your back. 

The touch is proprietary, presumptuous. 

You fight the urge to break his fingers, instead leaning slightly into it as Jiwoo would.

"His hand is at T9 vertebral level," AD narrates unnecessarily. "I count at least six hygiene violations already. When's the last time he washed those hands?"

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing as Park launches into an explanation of his latest project. His hand remains on your back, occasionally drifting lower before returning to a more proper position, testing boundaries like a toddler seeing what he can get away with.

Unbidden, your mind swaps in a different hand—steadier, warmer, worn smooth by latex gloves and long hours spent saving lives. 

Hoseok's touch would feel grounding, like his earthy aura. 

It would center rather than claim.

"—don't you agree?" Park is asking, and you snap back to attention.

"Absolutely," you say with conviction, having no idea what you're agreeing to. "Though I wonder about the practical applications beyond medical use."

It's a safe pivot, and he takes the bait eagerly, launching into a discussion of military and commercial possibilities. His eyes light up when he talks about the money, not the medicine. 

As he drones on, you gradually guide the conversation toward security protocols and access limitations.

"The problem with cutting-edge research," you say, wide-eyed with feigned naivety, "is balancing collaboration with protection, isn't it? How do you share enough to advance the field without risking your intellectual property?"

Park's expression grows serious, pleased to explain complex matters to an attractive admirer. 

“That's precisely the challenge. In fact, I've published on cybersecurity measures specific to biotech research."

"Really? I'd love to read that."

"I have copies in my office," he says, and you see the calculation in his eyes—weighing professional opportunity against personal interest. "Perhaps I could show you sometime."

You touch his arm, just as Flower instructed, and let your expression brighten. 

“Is your office here? At the hotel?"

"Nexus maintains a suite for conferences and events," he says, now fully committed to the idea. "I have some materials there I could share with you. If you're interested."

So easy. Men are so easy. 

"I'd be honored," you say, squeezing his arm lightly before letting go.

"Ten floors up, northwest corner of the building," AD supplies in your ear. "Security camera blind spot in the hallway outside the Nexus suite. You'll have approximately twelve seconds of invisible approach. Try not to trip."

Park glances at his watch, a move so transparent you nearly roll your eyes. 

"I should make an appearance at the CEO's table first, but perhaps in thirty minutes? We could slip away without much notice then."

"That sounds perfect," you say. "I'll meet you by the west elevators?"

He nods, clearly pleased with how the evening is developing. 

"Don't disappear on me, Ms. Kim."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Dr. Park."

As he walks away, AD's voice returns. "Well, that was disgusting and effective. Thirty minutes gives us time to review the suite's layout. Head to the west bathroom—I'll send the blueprints to your phone."

You make your way through the crowd, maintaining Jiwoo's slightly awed expression as you go. 

Inside the bathroom, you check under the stall doors to make sure they're empty before speaking.

"Send the plans."

Your phone buzzes with an incoming message. The blueprints show a standard executive suite, modified for office use. The server access point is in what would normally be the bedroom, now converted to a secure file room.

"USB needs a physical connection to their closed network," AD reminds you. "Get him out of the room for at least forty seconds. That's all I need."

You study the layout, memorizing escape routes and hiding spots. 

"What if he doesn't leave me alone in there?"

"Plan B is in your right earring. Micro-sedative. Twist the back completely off and shake the contents into his drink. He'll get drowsy within two minutes. Should buy you enough time."

You touch the earring reflexively. 

"Noted."

"And Y/N?" AD's voice loses its sarcastic edge for a moment. "Stay sharp. This guy gives me bad vibes."

Coming from AD, that's practically a declaration of concern. 

You're touched, though you'd never tell him so.

"Roger that," you say, tucking your phone back into your clutch. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. Stop thinking about J-Hope during the mission. Your vital signs spike every time you do."

Heat floods your face. 

Sometimes you forget the earrings monitor more than just location.

"I wasn't—"

"Save it. Just focus on the mark and get this done." You hear keys clicking rapidly. "And try not to get kidnapped. The paperwork is a nightmare."

Easy for you to say, you think but don't voice. 

He's not the one about to get pawed at by Dr. Handsy McCreeperson.

You take a deep breath, giving yourself one final check in the mirror. 

The woman who stares back looks nothing like the real you—the you who curses when code won't compile, who can hack through a firewall in minutes, who sits on the medical wing watching a certain doctor work with quiet fascination.

That person is nowhere to be seen tonight.

Instead, there's just Kim Jiwoo, biotech student and admirer of mediocre men, ready to complete their mission.

You reapply your lipstick, making sure the USB compartment is secure. 

The cherry note of your usual perfume clings to your skin, familiar and comforting in this unfamiliar role.

"Time to finish this," you murmur to your reflection.

"That's my problem child," AD says in your ear, almost fond. "Now go make Park feel like the most important man in the world. It's what he thinks anyway."

You straighten your shoulders, drop your clutch into your purse, and exit the bathroom.

Yeah.

Time to become the spider.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Park appears at the west elevators exactly thirty minutes later, looking pleased with himself.

"Ms. Kim," he says, offering his arm with exaggerated courtesy. "Ready for that private tour?"

You take his arm, letting Jiwoo's giggle bubble up.

"I can't believe you're actually willing to share your research with me."

The elevator ride up is mercifully brief, though Park uses the time to stand closer than necessary, his cologne competing poorly with your cherry cordial scent. His presence lacks any grounding quality—just nervous energy and poorly concealed intentions.

Nothing like the solid earth sensation you crave from someone else's proximity.

Focus, you remind yourself, pushing thoughts of Hoseok's steadiness away.

"Tenth floor, northwest corner," AD's voice confirms in your ear. "Right on schedule. Security sweep shows the hallway is clear."

The Nexus suite is exactly as the blueprints suggested—corporate luxury masquerading as functionality. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook Seoul's glittering skyline, and the main room holds conference tables surrounded by expensive-looking chairs.

Park gestures grandly, like he personally designed the space.

"Impressive, isn't it? Nexus spares no expense for important conferences."

"It's beautiful," you breathe, allowing your eyes to widen appropriately. "Do you work here often?"

"When necessary. The real magic happens in the research facilities, of course, but this is where we handle the... business side of innovation."

He guides you toward a door marked ‘Authorized Personnel Only’—the converted bedroom that serves as their secure file room.

Perfect.

"The papers I mentioned are in here," he says, producing a keycard from his jacket. "Along with some prototype displays you might find fascinating."

The secure room is smaller than the main suite, lined with filing cabinets and computer terminals. A single server tower hums quietly in the corner—exactly where the blueprints indicated it would be.

Your target.

"This is where the real work gets documented," Park explains, moving to a filing cabinet. "Everything from initial concept to market projection."

You maintain Jiwoo's interested expression while mentally calculating distances and angles. The server is maybe six feet from where you're standing, but Park would have a clear line of sight if you approached it directly.

"Dr. Park," you say, touching his arm again, "would it be terrible if I asked for a glass of water? The champagne was stronger than I expected."

His eyes light up—the perfect opportunity to play concern.

"Of course! There's a water cooler just outside. I'll be right back."

"You're wonderful," you say, adding just enough breathiness to make it sound like more than gratitude.

He practically preens as he exits, leaving the door propped open—a gentleman's gesture that speaks to either his arrogance or his complete underestimation of his ‘guest.’

The moment his footsteps fade, you're moving.

"Clock starts now," AD says in your ear. "Forty seconds, remember."

Your fingers find the modified lipstick in your purse, extracting the USB device in one smooth motion. 

The server's access panel is exactly where it should be, and the device slides into the port without objection. 

"Connected," you whisper.

"Beautiful. Initializing now... twenty percent... forty percent..."

Footsteps in the hallway—too soon.

Your heart hammers as you step away from the server, trying to look like you've been examining the wall-mounted research displays the entire time.

Park returns with a paper cup of water, looking pleased.

"Here you are. Feeling better?"

"Much, thank you." You accept the water with a grateful smile, noting how his fingers brush yours deliberately during the handoff. "These displays are fascinating. Is this the neural interface work you mentioned?"

"Exactly." He moves closer, ostensibly to point out specific elements, but his proximity feels disingenuous. "This particular model can interpret complex thought patterns and translate them into digital commands."

"Sixty percent," AD updates quietly. "Keep him talking."

"The applications must be endless," you say, allowing wonder to color your voice. "Military, medical, even commercial possibilities."

"You understand the implications better than most," Park says, his hand coming to rest on your lower back again. "Intelligence and beauty—a rare combination."

The compliment feels slimy, nothing like the quiet appreciation you sometimes catch in Hoseok's eyes when he thinks you're not looking.

"Eighty percent," AD murmurs. "Almost there."

Park's hand slides lower, testing boundaries with the confidence of someone who's never faced real consequences.

"You know," he says, voice dropping to what he probably thinks is seductive, "there are more... private applications we could discuss."

Your skin crawls.

But of course, Jiwoo just looks flattered and slightly flustered.

"Dr. Park, I—"

"Please, call me Minjun."

"One hundred percent. Data transfer complete. Get out of there."

Relief floods through you, but you make sure to maintain Jiwoo's uncertain expression.

"Minjun," you say, testing the name like it means something. "This has been incredible, but I should probably get back to the gala. People will notice I'm gone."

His expression wavers—disappointment warring with the desire to maintain his sophisticated image.

"Of course. Though I hope this won't be our only opportunity to... collaborate."

"I'd like that very much," you lie smoothly.

He escorts you back to the elevators, his hand never quite leaving your back. 

As the doors close, he leans closer.

"Perhaps dinner sometime? I know several excellent restaurants that cater to... private conversations."

"That sounds wonderful."

The elevator descends, and you mentally count down the seconds until you can shed this persona entirely.

"Device is broadcasting perfectly," AD confirms in your ear. "Mission parameters satisfied. Time to extract."

But something in Park's expression as you reach the lobby makes your instincts prickle.

"Ms. Kim," he says as the elevator doors open, "there's something I should mention."

Your blood chills, but you keep Jiwoo's expectant smile in place.

"Oh?"

"I hope you don't think less of me for saying this," Park continues, stepping closer as you exit the elevator, "but I feel like we have a real connection. It's rare to meet someone who appreciates both the technical and philosophical aspects of my work."

Just paranoia, you tell yourself. He's just being creepy, not suspicious.

"I feel the same way," you manage, though something cold is settling in your stomach.

You make your way back into the gala proper, Park's hand still possessive on your back. 

The champagne fountain sparkles under the chandeliers, conversations flowing around you in multiple languages, everything exactly as you left it.

Normal.

Safe.

"The beautiful Ms. Kim returns," someone says, and you turn to see a man in an expensive suit approaching with champagne flutes. 

Mid-forties, perfectly groomed, with calculating eyes that remind you of Flower's warnings about dangerous predators.

Park straightens beside you.

"Ah, Director Yang. I didn't realize you were attending tonight."

Director Yang extends a champagne flute toward you with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Business calls, Dr. Park. And who is your lovely companion?"

"Kim Jiwoo," you say, accepting the champagne with Jiwoo's grateful smile. "Graduate student. Dr. Park was kind enough to discuss his research with me."

"How fortunate for you." Yang's gaze lingers on your face in a way that makes your skin prickle. "Though I believe we may have crossed paths before, Ms. Kim. You look... familiar."

The cold in your stomach crystallizes into ice.

"I don't think so," you say with a light laugh. "I'd definitely remember meeting you."

"Hmm." Yang sips his champagne thoughtfully. "Perhaps at a university function? I occasionally guest lecture on biotechnology applications."

"Possible, though I mostly focus on the technical side. Less exposure to the business aspects."

"The technical side." Yang's smile sharpens. "How refreshing. Dr. Park, you mentioned Ms. Kim has been asking about security protocols?"

Park blinks, clearly not remembering the conversation quite that way.

"We discussed collaboration challenges, yes. Standard academic concerns about intellectual property protection."

"Of course." Yang's attention returns to you. "And what's your particular area of focus, Ms. Kim?"

The question feels like a trap, though you can't identify exactly why.

"Neural-digital interfaces, primarily. The cognitive mapping applications fascinate me."

"Sophisticated field for a graduate student."

"I've always been drawn to challenging problems."

Yang nods slowly, and you notice his free hand has moved to his jacket pocket.

"Dr. Park, would you mind giving Ms. Kim and me a moment? I believe there are some colleagues by the east wing who've been asking about your latest publication."

Park hesitates, clearly reluctant to leave you alone with Yang.

But social pressure wins out.

"Of course. Ms. Kim, I'll find you in a few minutes?"

"I'll be here," you promise, though every instinct is screaming at you to run.

The moment Park disappears into the crowd, Yang's demeanor shifts entirely. 

Everything about him is making your insides recoil.

"Now then," he says quietly, "let's discuss your real area of expertise."

"I'm sorry?"

"Drop the act. We know exactly who you are."

Your mouth goes dry. In your ear, AD's voice is sharp with sudden alarm.

"Your heart rate just spiked. What's happening?"

Yang steps closer, crowding your space.

"Kim Jiwoo doesn't exist. The university records show no enrollment under that name. Your identification is excellent work—whoever made it has serious skills—but not quite perfect."

Shit.

"I think there's been some mistake—"

"The only mistake," Yang interrupts, "was assuming Nexus Biotech doesn't screen its gala attendees. Especially when they start asking very specific questions about our security protocols."

"Talk to me. What's going on down there?"

You can't respond with Yang watching your every micro-expression, but your silence is answer enough for AD.

"Your friend Dr. Park was quite helpful, actually," Yang continues conversationally. "He mentioned how surprisingly knowledgeable you were about neural interface technology. Far more knowledgeable than any graduate student should be."

The champagne glass trembles slightly in your hand.

"And then there's the interesting timing of your disappearance with Dr. Park. Thirty minutes, wasn't it? Just long enough to access our secure systems."

Yang's hand emerges from his jacket pocket holding what looks like a small device—signal detector, you realize with growing horror.

"Would you like to guess what this is reading from your current location?"

You swallow thickly. 

"Multiple unknown signals detected," he continues when you don't respond. "Communication devices. Very sophisticated ones."

"I'm calling extraction now," AD's voice is tight now. “Get to the west exit. Emergency protocol alpha."

But Yang is already moving, his hand now clearly holding something more threatening than a signal detector.

"I'm afraid you won't be leaving just yet," he says pleasantly. "We have so much to discuss about your technical expertise.”

The device in his hand catches the light, and you realize it's not a weapon at all.

It's a syringe.

Your training kicks in before conscious thought does.

You stumble backward, the champagne glass flying from your hand to shatter against the marble floor. 

The sound draws attention—exactly what you need—and several nearby guests turn to look.

"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" you exclaim, loud enough to ensure an audience. "How clumsy of me!"

Yang's expression tightens with frustration as a waiter hurries over with napkins and concerned murmurs fill the space around you.

"No problem at all, miss," the waiter says kindly. "Happens more often than you'd think."

"Thank you so much," you say, maintaining Jiwoo's flustered persona while using the distraction to put more distance between yourself and Yang. "I feel terrible about the mess."

"Extraction team is moving," AD's voice crackles in your ear. "Three minutes out. Get to street level."

Yang hovers nearby, unable to approach with so many witnesses focused on the commotion. His polite smile has returned, but his eyes are cold as winter.

"Ms. Kim seems to be having quite an eventful evening," he comments to the waiter.

"The champagne can be stronger than expected," the waiter replies diplomatically, shooting you a sympathetic look.

You're backing toward the main entrance now, still playing the embarrassed guest while scanning for additional threats. Yang isn't moving to follow, which either means he's confident you can't escape or—

Or he's not the only one.

"Hey," AD's voice is sharp. "I'm seeing movement on multiple security feeds. At least four individuals converging on your location."

Fuck.

The main entrance suddenly seems very far away, and you notice two men in suits positioned near the exit who weren't there before. They're trying to look casual, but their positioning is too strategic to be coincidental.

"West bathroom," AD directs. "Service corridor access through the maintenance panel behind the third stall. Move now."

You excuse yourself from the helpful waiter and head toward the bathroom, fighting every instinct that wants you to run. 

Jiwoo wouldn't run. 

Jiwoo would use the bathroom and return to the party, maybe find Dr. Park again, maybe have another glass of champagne.

When you make it inside, the bathroom is empty—small mercy—and you immediately head for the third stall, fingers searching for the maintenance panel AD described.

"Bottom right corner," he guides. "Should be a standard release mechanism."

Your fingers find the concealed latch just as the bathroom door opens behind you.

"Ms. Kim?"

Yang's voice, pleasant and concerned.

You freeze.

"Is everything alright? You seemed upset after the incident with the champagne."

"Fine," you call back, your voice slightly strained. "Just need a moment."

"Of course. Take all the time you need."

But you can hear him moving, footsteps approaching the stall area.

The maintenance panel comes free in your hands, revealing a narrow service corridor beyond. 

You can hear AD breathing through the comm, probably watching security feeds and calculating extraction routes like a madman right now.

"The good news," Yang continues conversationally, "is that we retrieved your little device from our server. Quite sophisticated. Your people do excellent work."

Your blood turns to ice.

They know about the USB.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you say, but your voice cracks slightly.

"The device that was uploading our proprietary research for the last fifteen minutes? The one broadcasting on frequencies that don't appear on any civilian equipment?"

Yang's footsteps stop just outside your stall.

"You can come out now, Ms. Kim. Or should I say, Agent Kim?"

"Get out of there right now," AD hisses in your ear. "They made you. Move, move, move!"

You don't hesitate.

You push yourself into the service corridor.

And… It is exactly as narrow as it looked, barely wide enough for your shoulders, but it's escape. 

You push through into darkness just as Yang's voice turns sharp behind you.

"Security to women's restroom, level one. Target is mobile."

Your heart rate inevitably picks up rhythm. 

"Straight ahead fifty meters, then left," AD directs. "There's a service elevator that connects to the parking garage."

Your heels are too loud against the concrete (and way too overstimulateing right now), so you pause to kick them off, cold floor shocking against your bare feet.

"Thermal imaging shows at least six hostiles now," AD updates, his voice tight. "They're coordinating through building security. This is bigger than just Nexus."

At the end of the narrow corridor, the service elevator comes into view—a freight lift with industrial controls. 

You punch the button for the parking garage level, adrenaline making your hands shake.

"MDF," you whisper as the elevator lurches into motion. "This has to be MDF."

"That's what I'm thinking. Extraction team is in position. Black sedan, license plate 서울42바7891. Driver will be wearing a blue baseball cap."

The elevator shudders to a stop, and the doors open onto the parking garage. 

A parking garage that feels cavernous and threatening, full of hiding places and blind spots.

You can see the black sedan AD described, parked near the exit ramp. The driver's blue cap is visible through the windshield.

Forty meters. 

You can make forty meters.

You're halfway there when the elevator behind you dings.

They found the service corridor.

"Run," AD says simply.

You do.

Your bare feet slap against cold concrete as you sprint toward the sedan, the red dress hampering your stride but not enough to slow you down significantly.

Behind you, voices echo through the parking garage.

"Target heading for exit ramp. Intercept vehicle alpha-seven."

They have radio coordination.

This is definitely bigger than Nexus Biotech.

Thirty meters, you count mentally, pushing harder. 

Twenty. 

Fifteen.

The sedan's engine is already running, exhaust visible in the underground chill. 

The driver—young woman, not the man you expected—spots you approaching and begins moving the car to meet you halfway.

Ten meters.

A black SUV rounds the corner at the exit ramp, moving fast and heading directly for you.

"Vehicle incoming from your three o'clock!"

You can see it, tires squealing as it turns to cut off your route to the sedan. 

The driver's window is down, and something metallic glints in the passenger's hand.

Not good. Not good at all.

You veer left, using a concrete pillar as cover just as something small and sharp embeds itself in the pillar where your head was a second ago.

Tranquilizer dart.

They want you alive.

Somehow that's not comforting.

"New plan," AD's voice is tight with concentration. "Service stairs, northwest corner. Two levels up connects to street access."

You spot the stairwell entrance—heavy metal door marked ‘Emergency Exit Only’—and change direction again. 

Your feet are starting to go numb from the cold concrete, but adrenaline keeps you moving.

The SUV's doors are opening, disgorging figures in dark clothing.

Professional.

Military-style coordination.

Definitely MDF.

"Target is heading for stairs. Converge on northwest corner."

You reach the stairwell and tear the door open, taking the steps two at a time. 

The metal stairs ring under your feet, but there's no point in stealth now.

Because they know exactly where you are.

"One flight up, then the fire door leads to an alley," AD directs. "Extraction team is repositioning to meet you there."

Your lungs burn as you climb, the tight dress making it impossible to get a full breath. 

Behind you, the stairwell door crashes open.

"She's in the stairs. Moving to intercept at street level."

Shit.

They're faster than you anticipated, and they know the building layout as well as AD does.

You reach the fire door and push through into Seoul's night air. 

The alley is narrow, lined with dumpsters and emergency exits from adjacent buildings as streetlights eerily light up what’s barely visible.

The black sedan appears at the mouth of the alley, driving fast.

But so does another SUV from the opposite direction.

They're boxing you in.

"You need to get off the street level. Fire escape on your right—building next door. Get to the roof."

You look up and spot the fire escape—old metal ladder system running up the side of what looks like an office building. 

It's going to be a nightmare to climb in this dress, but… 

Yeah.

Still way better than being caught between two vehicles full of people who want to drug you unconscious.

You jump for the lowest rung of the fire escape, hauling yourself up with arm strength you didn't know you possessed. The red dress tears along one side, giving you better range of movement.

Below, car doors slam.

"Target is climbing. Bring the equipment."

Equipment.

That can't be good.

You climb faster, ignoring the way the metal rungs bite into your bare feet. 

One story. Two stories

"Three more floors to roof access," AD says. "Extraction team is moving to parallel building. They'll throw you a line."

Your shoulders are screaming by the time you reach the roof, but you don't stop moving. 

The Seoul skyline spreads out around you, neon and glass stretching to the horizon. 

Under different circumstances, it might be beautiful.

Right now, it just looks like a long way to fall.

"Careful!"

A voice from across the gap between buildings—maybe ten feet of empty air over a five-story drop. 

A figure in black tactical gear is setting up what looks like a zip line.

"Jump harness incoming!"

Something flies through the air toward you—a climbing harness attached to a line. You catch it, working frantically to step into the leg loops while keeping an eye on the roof access door.

The door crashes open just as you click the harness closed.

Yang emerges onto the roof, no longer bothering with his polite businessman bullshit anymore. 

Yeah, fucker is pissed.

Behind him, two figures in tactical gear carry what looks like a net launcher.

A net launcher.

They really want you alive.

"Go, go, go!" the extraction team member shouts.

You don't hesitate.

You jump.

For a terrifying moment, you're falling through empty air, the alley rushing up to meet you. 

Then the line catches, swinging you in a pendulum arc toward the opposite building.

You hit the roof hard, rolling with the impact as rough concrete scrapes against your knees and palms. 

But you're alive.

You’re free.

Behind you, Yang is shouting into a radio.

"Target has crossed to adjacent building. Initiate containment protocol seven."

That sounds ominous.

"Helicopter incoming," AD's voice is tight. "This operation just went from covert to very public very fast. We need to get you underground."

The extraction team member is already moving, unclipping you from the zip line and guiding you toward a different roof access.

"Service tunnels connect to the subway system," they explain quickly. "Once we're underground, we can disappear."

You follow them down into the building, through emergency stairwells and service corridors that blur together in your adrenaline-fueled state. 

Your feet are bleeding now, leaving small smears on the concrete floors, but you barely notice.

Somewhere in the distance, you can hear the rhythmic thump of helicopter rotors.

They really, really want you alive.

The question is why.

And what they're willing to do to everyone else to get you.

"Almost there," the extraction team member says, pushing open a final door that leads to a subway maintenance tunnel. "Transport is waiting."

You stumble into the tunnel, and there—blessed sight—is AD himself, not just his voice in your ear. He’s standing next to a black motorcycle, helmet in hand, looking more rattled than you’ve ever seen him.

“Y/N!” His voice cracks slightly with relief. “Jesus fucking christ, when they compromised the sedan team—”

You make it maybe five steps toward him before your legs give out.

It hits you all of a sudden—a goddamn adrenaline crash—every injury and exhaustion you’ve been ignoring suddenly demanding attention. 

Your vision blurs at the edges, and the world tilts alarmingly.

“Whoa, whoa, hey—” AD drops his helmet, catching you before you hit the concrete. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re safe now.”

His hands are surprisingly gentle as he checks you over, cataloging injuries with a level of efficiency that would make Hoseok proud.

“Bleeding feet, torn dress, pupils slightly dilated but responsive, pulse elevated but not dangerous,” he mutters, like he’s informing someone else. “What the fuck did they do to you?”

“Nothing,” you manage, though your voice sounds far away even to your own ears. “Got away. USB—did the data—?”

“Data’s secure. Mission accomplished.” His voice is rough with an emotion you can’t quite identify. “But fuck the mission. Are you hurt? Did they inject you with anything?”

You try to shake your head, but the movement makes the tunnel spin.

“Just… tired. Adrenaline.”

“Yeah, well, remind me to never send you on a training wheels mission again.” But his snark is not believable, because it lacks its usual bite. “Can you ride? We need to move before they expand their search grid.”

“I can… ride.”

It’s a lie, but AD already knows that. 

He helps you onto the back of the motorcycle, securing a spare helmet over your head with shaking fingers.

“Hold on tight,” he says. “And if you fall off my bike, I’m leaving you for dead.”

Another lie. You can hear it in his voice.

The motorcycle roars to life then, carrying you into Seoul’s underground tunnels.

Your head grows heavy against his back, and so without thinking, you murmur his name.

“Yoongi?”

He tenses slightly—he never lets anyone use his real name, and you’re not usually the exception.

But this time, he doesn’t correct you. 

“Thank you.”

Then you’re drifting, consciousness slipping away as underground tunnels engulf both of you in streaks of light and shadow. 

Your last coherent thought is that AD’s aura—that crisp winter morning—feels almost warm right now.

Almost like he actually gives a damn.

You wake up in pieces.

First comes the antiseptic smell—sharp and clinical, nothing like the cherry cordial that usually clings to your skin. 

Then the soft beeping of monitors, the rustle of starched sheets against your legs.

The medical wing.

Your eyes crack open to ceiling tiles above you that have water stains in the corner—something you've never noticed during your previous visits here.

Previous visits.

The thought brings everything rushing back: the gala, Dr. Park's clammy hands, Yang's calculating smile, the rooftop chase, falling against Yoongi's back on the motorcycle—

"About time."

You turn your head—too fast, making the room spin briefly—and find Yoongi slumped in the visitor's chair. He looks like he's been there for hours, possibly days. His hair is messier than usual, and there are shadows under his eyes that speak to missed sleep.

"How long was I out?"

"About eighteen hours. Hobi said it was exhaustion and adrenaline crash, plus some dehydration. Nothing life-threatening."

Hobi.

Just hearing his name makes something warm unfurl in your chest.

"The mission—"

"Was a complete success," Yoongi interrupts. "Data extracted, USB worked perfectly, no casualties on our side. RM's pleased."

You try to sit up, but your body protests with a dozen small aches. Your feet throb where the concrete scraped them raw, and there's a persistent soreness in your shoulders from all that climbing.

"Easy." Yoongi's tone is gentler than his usual snark. "You went through hell last night."

"What happened after I—after the tunnels?"

"You passed out on my bike about ten minutes into the ride. Had to carry you up here unconscious." He pauses, then adds with characteristic bluntness, "You're heavier than you look."

Despite everything, you almost smile.

"Thanks for the rescue."

Yoongi's expression shifts slightly—not quite embarrassment, but close.

"You said my name in front of the extraction team."

Oh.

Shit.

You'd called him Yoongi on a comm channel. 

In front of witnesses. 

Using his real name when you were supposed to maintain operational security and proper hierarchy.

"I'm sorry, I was—"

"Half-conscious and running on fumes," he cuts you off. "People say stupid shit when they're crashed out. The team thinks you were delirious."

But the way he says it suggests he knows it wasn't delirium at all.

"Still. I shouldn't have—"

"It's fine." His voice carries an edge of something you can't quite identify. "We've got bigger problems than operational security breaches."

Something cold settles in your stomach.

"What kind of problems?"

Yoongi leans back in his chair, and for the first time since you woke up, he looks genuinely uncomfortable.

"The mission wasn't what we thought it was."

"What do you mean?"

"Dr. Park wasn't working on standard biotech research. The data you extracted..." 

He pauses, choosing his words carefully. 

"Ever heard of Project Chrysalis?"

You shake your head.

"Military application of neural-digital interface technology. The ability to enhance soldiers' cognitive processing, reaction times, even pain tolerance through direct brain-computer integration." His voice drops. "Whoever controls that technology controls the future of warfare."

Chrysalis.

Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon. Transformation at the most fundamental level.

"And Dr. Park was working on it?"

"Unknowingly, probably. His research on neural mapping and digital command integration—it's the foundation for everything Chrysalis represents. With his data, we can either develop our own capabilities or ensure our enemies can't develop theirs."

The scope of what you were involved in settles over you.

Not just corporate espionage or gang politics, but something that could shift the balance of power on a much larger scale.

"But the briefing said it was routine corporate intelligence gathering."

Yoongi's jaw tightens.

"The briefing said a lot of things."

Oh.

"RM knew."

"RM knew." Yoongi's voice passes as neutral, but there's something underneath it—frustration, maybe, or resignation. "He also knew that if any of us had understood the real scope, we would have insisted on sending someone with more experience."

"Someone like Flower."

"Someone like Flower," he confirms. "Or a full team. Not a dual-division ensign on what was supposed to be a training mission."

You think about the sophisticated security response, Yang's approach, the way everything escalated so quickly from simple corporate espionage to international intelligence warfare.

"But he sent me because of the dual-division thing."

"He sent you because you were the only available operative who could handle both the social engineering and the technical infiltration seamlessly. Most of us specialize in one area—you bridge both." Yoongi's expression softens slightly. "And because he's always twenty steps ahead. If he trusted you with this, it means he saw potential for advancement that the rest of us missed."

"Even if I nearly got kidnapped by hostile intelligence services?"

"Especially because you didn't get kidnapped. You adapted, completed the objective, and extracted successfully under extreme circumstances." Yoongi's almost-smile returns. "RM doesn't gamble with people's lives. If he sent you alone, it's because he knew you could handle whatever came up."

The way he frames it—as trust rather than endangerment—makes sense in the context of RM's strategic thinking. 

Because RM never make decisions lightly, and he certainly doesn't treat his people as expendable resources.

"How angry is Hobi?"

Something flickers across Yoongi's expression—part amusement, part concern.

"Hobi's having a conversation with RM as we speak."

Oh no.

"Please tell me he's not—"

"He's absolutely tearing RM a new one for the deception and putting you at unnecessary risk," Yoongi confirms. "Has been for the last hour."

Your blood chills.

"He could get fired. Disciplined. RM doesn't tolerate insubordination—"

"RM's been putting up with Hobi's protective instincts for years," Yoongi interrupts. "He knows he can't afford to lose his Chief Medical Officer, especially not when he has regular meetings with the triads that sometimes end with people bleeding."

The casual way he mentions RM's diplomatic negotiations makes you remember exactly what kind of organization you work for.

"But still—"

"Hobi will be fine. RM respects people who stand up for their principles, even when those principles include calling him a self-serving bastard who puts valuable personnel at risk for strategic advantages."

Jesus.

"He actually called RM that?"

"Among other things." Yoongi's expression suggests he finds the whole situation more entertaining than concerning. "I may have declined to stop him."

"Why?"

"Because he's not wrong about the information control, and because watching Hobi lose his temper is educational." Yoongi stretches, joints popping audibly. "Besides, someone should call RM out when his strategic thinking overlooks the human cost."

But you don’t miss the affection in his voice when he talks about both of them—RM and Hoseok.

It’s the kind of complicated loyalty that comes from years of shared danger and mutual respect.

"He's officially requested to be the one supervising my case this time again, right?"

The question slips out more pointed than you intended, and Yoongi goes very still.

"...Yeah."

The pause before his answer says everything. 

Because Council members don't personally handle ensign medical care—Hoseok only sees critical cases, life-threatening injuries, or Council-level personnel who require his expertise.

Not dual-division ensigns with bruised feet and exhaustion.

Yoongi shifts uncomfortably in his chair, clearly wishing this particular conversation would go somewhere else.

"He's been handling your medical care since you started getting injured regularly," he says finally. "Consistency of care, he says."

Consistency of care.

Right.

"Makes sense," you say, even though you both know it doesn't make sense at all.

Yoongi's expression suggests he'd rather be anywhere else than navigating this particular minefield.

"Anyway," he continues with obvious relief at changing the subject, "the data you extracted is already being analyzed. RM wants a full debrief when you're cleared for duty, but that's not happening until Hobi says you're ready."

"How long do you think they'll be talking?"

"Until one of them says something they can't take back, or until RM acknowledges that maybe next time he should trust his division chiefs with operational intelligence." 

He snorts—almost a laugh—then stands up from the chair with a stretch that suggests he’s been sitting there far longer than is comfortable. 

"Could be a while."

You wonder what Hoseok told RM about your condition, how much detail he provided about your injuries and recovery needs.

“Yoongi?” You catch his attention before he reaches the door. “Thank you. For coming to get me yourself.”

He pauses, hand on the door handle.

“Hobi would have killed me if I’d sent anyone else.”

Then he’s gone, leaving you alone with the quiet beeping of monitors and the antiseptic smell that can’t quite mask the cherry cordial still clinging to your skin.

You decide to lie there cataloging injuries and replaying the mission in your head. 

Every detail feels important now that you know the true scope of what was at stake—Project Chrysalis, neural enhancement technology, the kind of breakthrough that could shift global power dynamics.

And you were worried about charming some boring scientist.

Plus, right now, your body aches in places you didn’t know could ache. 

The concrete rooftop was unforgiving, and your feet feel like someone used them for target practice. But you’re alive, and more importantly, you’re safe.

Safe in Hoseok’s medical wing.

The thought brings warmth that has nothing to do with the heated blankets.

You think about his hands—always gentle when he examines you, clinical but somehow personal at the same time. The way he notices things: how you favor your left ankle when you’re tired, the pattern of bruises that maps your training schedule, the fact that your veins are notoriously difficult to find.

He pays attention.

In a world where most people only see what directly affects them, Hoseok notices the small details that matter. It’s what makes him good at his job, but it’s also what makes him dangerous to you.

Because you can’t stop wondering what it would feel like if that attention wasn’t purely medical.

If those gentle hands were touching you because he wanted to, not because you were injured.

If the warmth in his eyes when he checks on you meant something more than professional concern.

Stop it.

The gang’s rules are clear, and they exist for good reason. 

RM rebuilt Kkangpae on the principle that personal attachments create vulnerabilities, and everything about your organization’s success proves him right.

But knowing something intellectually and feeling it emotionally are two very different things.

And right now, exhausted and vulnerable in a hospital bed, you can’t quite convince your heart to care about organizational policies.

The cherry cordial scent grows stronger as your body warms under the blankets, mixing with the antiseptic in a way that somehow feels like home. 

This room, this wing, the quiet competence of medical equipment—it all feels safer than anywhere else in the Castle.

Because this is Hoseok’s domain.

Where his word is law and his protection extends to everyone who enters seeking help.

Where the harsh realities of gang life soften into something approaching actual care.

You close your eyes and allow yourself, just for a moment, to imagine what it would be like if the world were different. 

If two people could simply care about each other without it being a threat to everything that’s been built.

But when you open your eyes again, the medical wing looks exactly the same.

Fluorescent lights, beeping monitors, the faint chemical smell of industrial cleaning supplies.

Reality, unchanged by wishful thinking.

You’re still a dual-division ensign who just completed a mission of international significance.

And Hoseok is still the Chief Medical Officer whose job it is to keep you healthy enough to complete the next one.

Nothing more.

Nothing more.

The door opens quietly, and you know it’s him before you turn your head. Something about the way Hoseok moves—economical, precise, but never harsh. Like he’s always conscious of taking up space in a world full of people who need healing.

“Hey,” he says simply, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Your pulse quickens despite your best efforts to stay calm.

“Hey yourself, doc.”

He approaches the bed with that familiar combination of professional distance and personal concern that makes your chest tight. 

Today he’s wearing a simple turtleneck under his white medical coat, and there are tension lines around his eyes that suggest he’s been running on too little sleep.

“How are you feeling?” He asks. 

“Like I got hit by a truck. Driven by someone who really had it out for me.” You say, because there’s no point in lying.

That earns you a small smile—not the polite expression he uses with most patients, but something warmer and more genuine.

“That’s fairly accurate, considering.” 

He reaches for your chart, scanning the vitals with the kind of focused attention that most people reserve for life-or-death decisions. 

“Yoongi said you were asking about the mission.”

“He told me about Chrysalis.”

Hoseok’s hands still on the chart.

“Did he.”

“Military neural enhancement. The kind of thing that makes last night make a lot more sense.”

“It does.” He sets the chart aside and moves closer to the bed, studying your face with an intensity that makes you feel exposed. “How much do you remember about the extraction?”

“Most of it. Up until I passed out on Yoongi’s bike.”

Something flickers across his expression—relief, maybe, or concern that you remember more than he hoped.

“He was worried about you. More than he’d ever admit.”

“I figured. He stayed here all night, didn’t he?”

“Seventeen hours.” Hoseok’s voice carries a note of fond exasperation. “I had to threaten him with sedatives to get him to eat something.”

The image of Yoongi being bullied into basic self-care by an exasperated Hoseok makes you smile despite everything.

“He called you, didn’t he? During the extraction.”

Hoseok nods, moving to check the IV line in your arm. His fingers are warm against your skin, and you fight the urge to lean into the contact.

“Real-time medical assessment. Torn dress, bleeding feet, elevated pulse, dilated pupils.” He pauses. “He was scared. Really scared.”

“Were you?”

The question slips out before you can stop it.

Hoseok goes very still, his hand still resting against your arm where he’d been checking the IV.

“Yes.”

Simple, honest, devastating.

“The whole time you were gone, I kept thinking about all the things that could go wrong. All the ways you could get hurt that I wouldn’t be able to fix.”

His thumb traces unconsciously against your skin—just once, barely there, but enough to make your breath catch.

“Your veins are impossible to find on a good day,” he continues quietly. “If you’d been seriously injured…”

“But I wasn’t.”

“But you could have been.”

You feel the weight of his words on his chest.

All the ways the mission could have gone wrong, all the variables that could have ended with you not coming home at all.

How he would have beaten himself up forever for it. 

“I’m okay,” you say softly. “I’m right here.”

“You are.” His voice carries a note of wonder, like he’s still not quite convinced. 

“How did the meeting go?”

He pauses, licking his lips and considering his response like he’s been busted. But then he just sighs loudly and actually replies.

“About as well as expected.”

“Which means?”

“RM and I had a frank discussion about operational intelligence sharing and the medical risks of deploying personnel without adequate briefings.” 

Which means the conversation was more heated than his diplomatic phrasing implies.

“Are you in trouble?”

“No more than usual.” He approaches the bed. “RM understands that medical officers occasionally have strong opinions about risk management.”

“Strong opinions?”

“I may have suggested that his strategic brilliance sometimes overlooks the human cost of calculated risks.”

Jesus.

“And he didn’t fire you?”

“He pointed out that my job is keeping people alive, not second-guessing command decisions. I pointed out that those two responsibilities sometimes conflict.” Hoseok’s mouth quirks into something that might be a smile. “We agreed to disagree.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” He sighs loudly. “Though he did mention that your performance exceeded all expectations and that future operations will benefit from better intelligence sharing.”

Future operations.

The phrase brings with it a complex mix of pride and apprehension.

“So I’m not in trouble either?”

“You completed a mission of international significance with minimal support and maximum complications. RM’s exact words were ‘exemplary adaptation under extreme circumstances.’” Hoseok’s eyes finally land on yours. “You’re not in trouble, pip. You’re being fast-tracked for advanced operations.”

Pip.

It makes something flutter in your chest, intimate and fond in a way that professional relationships definitely shouldn’t be.

“Is that good or bad?”

“It’s recognition that you’re capable of handling situations far beyond your current rank. Whether it’s good or bad… Well, that depends on how you feel about increasingly complex missions.”

You don’t know how you feel about increasingly complex missions. 

“I should probably start an IV,” he continues, deflecting from whatever he sees in your expression. “You’re still dehydrated, and knowing you, you haven’t eaten anything substantial in the last twenty-four hours.”

“Do you have to? The needle thing?”

He gives you a look that’s equal parts professional concern and personal amusement.

“Yes, I have to. And it’s not going to be fun, given your vascular situation.”

You make a face, and he laughs—actual laughter, warm and genuine.

“Come on, pip. When have I ever hurt you?”

Pip. Again.

“There’s a first time for everything, crocs.” 

“Call me that again and I’ll use the biggest needle I can find.”

But there’s no heat in the threat, just the easy teasing that’s become natural between you despite all the rules it probably violates.

He prepares the IV kit with the kind of meticulous care you’ve come to associate with everything he does. 

“This might take a couple tries,” he warns, settling beside you on the bed to get better access to your arm.

He’s close now—closer than usual, and the proximity makes your heart race in a way that has nothing to do with medical anxiety. 

You can smell his cologne—that sandalwood scent that always makes you think of solid ground and safety—and feel the warmth radiating from his body.

“Just… try not to turn me into a pincushion.”

“I’ll do my best.”

His fingers probe gently along your arm, searching for a vein that will cooperate. The touch is clinical, professional, absolutely appropriate for a medical procedure.

So why does it feel like something else entirely?

“There,” he murmurs, finding what he’s looking for. “Hold still.”

The needle slides in smoothly—no pain, just a brief pinch and then relief as the IV line seats properly.

“Show off,” you mutter.

“Years of practice on difficult patients.”

“I’m not difficult.”

“You’re the most difficult patient I have.” But he says it with a fondness that takes any sting out of the words. “Always getting hurt in the most inconvenient ways.”

“I don’t do it on purpose.”

“Don’t you?”

The question catches you off guard, and you look up to find him watching you with an expression you can’t quite read.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” He finishes securing the IV line and moves to check the flow rate. “Just… you end up in here a lot for someone who’s supposed to be trained in avoiding injury.”

There’s something underneath his words—not quite an accusation, but close.

Like he’s noticed the same pattern you’ve been trying not to think about.

The way you find reasons to visit the medical wing. The way minor injuries seem to require his personal attention. The way you linger in conversations that should be brief and professional.

He knows.

Or at least suspects.

“Sometimes people get hurt,” you say carefully. “That’s what medical wings are for.”

“Sometimes,” he agrees. “But usually not the same person, with the same frequency, requiring the same level of personal attention.”

Your cheeks warm, and you look away from his too-knowing eyes.

“I bruise easily. You said so yourself.”

“You do.” His voice is gentler now, less probing. “But that’s not what I’m talking about, and we both know it.”

Silence falls between you for a beat. Two. 

“Hobi,” you say quietly.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For taking care of me.”

“It’s my job.”

“Is it?”

He looks at you then—really looks.

“Yes,” he says finally. “It is.”

But the way he says it suggests it stopped being just a job a long time ago.

Because there are moments—small ones, easily missed if you weren’t paying attention—where it’s clear.

The way he lingers when checking your pulse, fingers resting against your wrist longer than necessary.

How he adjusts your pillows with a gentleness that goes beyond medical courtesy.

The fact that he’s personally handling your care instead of delegating to the night staff.

“You don’t have to stay,” you tell him as he settles into the visitor’s chair Yoongi vacated hours ago. “I’m sure you have other patients.”

“Not tonight.” He stretches his legs out, looking more relaxed than you’ve seen him in weeks. “Quiet evening in the medical wing. Just you and a couple of routine check-ups.”

“Lucky me.”

“Lucky you.”

Your perfume mixes with his now, and it takes no effort for you to identify it. 

Cherry cordial, sandalwood. 

The sterile medical room feels almost cozy. Like a space that belongs to both of you instead of just him.

“RM wanted me to pass along his congratulations,” Hoseok says, pulling out a tablet and scrolling through what looks like official communications. “Mission success, minimal complications, valuable intelligence gathered.”

“Minimal complications?”

“His words, not mine.” 

His tone suggest he doesn’t agree with RM’s statement.

You snort. “I nearly got kidnapped by hostile intelligence services. That seems like more than minimal.”

“But you didn’t get kidnapped. You completed the objective and extracted successfully.” His eyes meet yours over the tablet. “That’s what matters to RM.”

“What matters to you?”

Silence. 

His eyes rise up from his device to stare into yours for a couple seconds. 

“That you’re safe,” he says then. “That you’re here, in one piece, complaining about IV needles and calling me ridiculous nicknames.”

That you’re here.

Not that the mission succeeded, not that KGP’s objectives were met, but that you specifically are present and accounted for.

“The nicknames aren’t that ridiculous.”

“Crocs?”

“You wear them all the time!”

“Because I’m a doctor!”

“You literally wear designer turtlenecks to perform surgery.”

“I wear scrubs for surgery.” But he’s smiling now, the tension of the last day finally starting to ease. “The turtlenecks are for meetings with people who think doctors should look respectable.”

“You don’t think you look respectable?”

“I think I look like someone playing dress-up in a world where appearances matter more than competence.”

“You look like someone who saves lives,” you say quietly. “Everything else is just packaging.”

He goes still, tablet forgotten in his lap.

“Pip…”

“What?”

“Nothing.” He shakes his head, but something has shifted in his expression. “You should get some rest. It’s been a long day.”

“I’ve been resting for eighteen hours.”

“You’ve been unconscious for eighteen hours. That’s different.”

“I’m not tired.”

“You’re exhausted. I can see it in your vitals.”

Always paying attention.

Always noticing the things you try to hide.

“Will you stay?” The question slips out before you can stop it. “Just… until I fall asleep?”

Something vulnerable flickers across his face.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I can do that.”

He moves the chair closer to the bed, close enough that you could reach out and touch him if you wanted to. 

Close enough that the scent of sandalwood mingles with cherry cordial until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

“Better?”

“Better.”

You close your eyes, listening to the quiet sounds of him settling in—the rustle of fabric, the soft beep of monitors, his steady breathing that somehow makes the whole room feel safer.

“Hoseok?”

“Mmm?”

“I’m glad you were scared.”

A pause.

“Why?”

“Because it means this matters to you too.”

You don’t open your eyes to see his reaction, but you hear the sharp intake of breath, the way his breathing changes rhythm.

“Get some sleep, pip,” he says finally, voice rougher than before.

“Stay?”

“I’ll stay.”

And he does.

When you drift off, lulled by exhaustion and the warm weight of his presence, Hoseok is still there in the chair beside your bed. Still watching over you with the kind of careful attention that speaks to feelings neither of you can afford to name.

Still close enough to touch, even though you both know you never will.

Where a doctor tends to wounds that go deeper than skin.

Where someone learns the difference between being cared for and being cared about.

Where Project Chrysalis represents transformation on a global scale.

But the only metamorphosis that matters is happening right here.

In the quiet space between two people who are learning that some rules are harder to follow than others.

Y/N sat back on her heels, wiping a strand of hair from her sweat-damp forehead. She was dressed in a pair of faded gray sweatpants and one of Wonwoo’s old, ultra-oversized dark blue hoodies that smelled faintly of cedarwood and laundry detergent a comfortable shield against the crisp autumn chill drifting in through the slightly cracked balcony door.

Around her lay the evidence of an intense online shopping spree. Having her own personal apartment away from the main dorms was a new boundary she had set for herself a physical space where she wasn't "the 14th member" or "the vocal filler," but just Y/N. And filling that space had become her primary project.

"If you tell me you ordered another blanket, I am hanging up on you," Maya’s voice crackled through the phone speaker resting on the coffee table.

Y/N let out a soft, airy laugh, reaching into the box to pull out a heavy, sage-green ceramic mug with a roughly textured, hand-crafted base. She held it up to the sunlight, admiring the glaze.

"It’s not a blanket," Y/N replied, her voice soft, unhurried, and noticeably devoid of the raspy exhaustion that usually plagued her throat during promotion cycles. "It’s a sixteen-ounce artisanal mug. It holds enough peppermint tea to survive an entire evening of editing."

"Y/N, you have lived in that apartment for less than three weeks and you already have enough crockery to host a small dinner party," Maya deadpanned from her apartment in Los Angeles. "Though... I guess if thirteen giant guys decide to crash your living room, you’ll actually need that many."

Y/N’s hands paused on the smooth rim of the mug. The mention of the boys didn't trigger the sharp, suffocating panic it used to that cold, tight knot in her chest that made her want to retreat into her noise-canceling headphones. Instead, it brought a gentle, melancholic warmth, like looking at an old photograph through warm sunlight.

"They won't crash it," Y/N murmured, setting the mug down carefully on her desk next to her new audio interface and studio monitors. "We agreed on strict boundaries for the break. Everyone is in their own corner of the world right now."

"Do you miss them?" Maya asked gently, her tone dropping its sarcastic edge. "Be honest."

Y/N leaned her head back against the side of her plush gray sofa, staring up at the white ceiling. She took a slow, deep breath, expanding her lungs fully a simple physical sensation she hadn't realized she had been depriving herself of for years.

"I miss the parts of them that aren't the job," Y/N confessed quietly. "I don't miss the 4:00 AM hair and makeup calls. I don't miss standing in line waiting for camera blocking while directors discuss my height line like I'm a prop. But... yeah. I miss hearing Seungkwan humming in the hallway. I miss the sound of Jihoon pressing piano keys through the wall. I wonder what they look like when they aren't forced to be 'Seventeen'."

If Y/N could have traced the invisible threads connecting her to the rest of the group across South Korea that afternoon, she would have seen thirteen boys going through their own quiet, agonizing, and beautiful transformations.

Down in Jeju, Seungkwan was walking along a windy, desolate stretch of the black sand coast. His phone was sitting inside his mother’s house, completely powered down. For the first time since he was fifteen years old, he wasn't checking vocal warm-up videos, monitoring chart positions, or stressing over his variety show timing. He walked with his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, listening to the crashing waves, letting the salt air wash away the suffocating expectation of always having to be the loud, bright center of the room. He was just a son walking with his mother, learning that his worth as a human being didn't decrease when the microphone was turned off.

In a quiet, light-filled art studio nestled in the hills of Gyeonggi-do, Minghao stood before a towering, three-meter canvas. He was covered in dark blue and streak-gray oil paint, his hair tied back in a messy bun. Sitting on a low wooden bench behind him was Hoshi. The performance leader usually a human typhoon of choreography counts, relentless energy, and fierce perfectionism was completely still. He held a sketchbook on his lap, not drawing dance formations or stage angles, but simply sketching the way the afternoon light hit the floorboards. They didn't speak for hours. Hoshi was learning how to sit in silence without feeling like he was failing his duty as a leader, while Minghao painted the raw, dark emotions they had all been forced to bury under bright concept photos.

In Seoul, inside the corporate headquarters that had felt like a golden cage for six years, Seungcheol sat in a high-backed leather chair across from the company’s head of talent management. The leader didn't have his idol persona on. He wore plain wire-rimmed glasses, a simple black turtleneck, and carried a thick, leather-bound notebook. For three hours, Seungcheol systematically went over every clause of their future contract framework demanding hard limits on daily working hours, mandatory mental health check-ins with external doctors, and an explicit, legally binding clause protecting individual member creative input and personal space. He wasn't negotiating as an idol; he was fighting like a big brother securing a fortress so that when Y/N and the others stepped back into the building, the walls would never crush them again.

And in a quiet apartment overlooking the river, Wonwoo sat at his desk, the screen of his monitor reflecting a blank video editing timeline. He wasn't working on a group vlog or a promotion teaser. On his desk sat a small, framed photo from 2015 a grainy, low-resolution shot of a young, terrified Y/N sleeping soundly against his shoulder on an old rehearsal mat, both of them worn down by eighteen-hour trainee days.

Wonwoo picked up his phone. He looked at her contact name: Y/N-ah. For twenty minutes, he simply held the phone, his thumb tracing the edges of the glass, fighting the deep-seated urge to check up on her, to protect her, to make sure she wasn't fading away in her new space. He knew he had to give her room to breathe, but the quiet thread between them was too strong to leave entirely untouched.

Hannam-dong

Back in her living room, Y/N had just finished setting up her new floor lamp, shedding a soft, amber glow over the newly laid gray rug. The chaotic pile of cardboard boxes had finally been broken down and stacked neatly by the front door.

The soft, distinctive ping of a text message echoed through the quiet apartment.

Y/N walked over to the coffee table, setting her new ceramic mug down, and picked up her phone. Her eyes softened instantly when she saw the sender.

[Woo 🦊]: Did you manage to assemble that desk frame without breaking your toes?

A genuine, warm laugh bubbled up from Y/N’s chest, breaking the serene silence of her apartment. She quickly snapped a photo of her fully assembled studio desk, complete with the glowing floor lamp and the sage-green mug resting proudly on the wooden surface.

[Y/N]: Flawlessly assembled. No hospital trips required. Maya is currently lecturing me about my ceramic mug collection.

Her phone buzzed almost immediately in her hand.

[Woo 🦊]: She’s right. You have five in the dorm kitchen and two in the practice room locker. You’re building an empire. [Woo 🦊]: Coups-hyung finished the legal review today. Jihoon deleted his entire old draft folder and started fresh on an acoustic project. Soonyoung slept for sixteen hours straight yesterday. [Woo 🦊]: Everyone is finding their footing, Y/N-ah. Don't rush yourself. The house is waiting, but take all the time you need.

Y/N stared down at the glowing text bubbles, her thumb lightly resting on the screen.

The weight that had rested on her chest for six years the suffocating fear that she was an invisible, easily replaced variable in a thirteen-man equation finally dissolved into the warm afternoon air. They weren't checking in on her out of corporate anxiety or damage control anymore. They weren't trying to force her onto a stage or bribe her with b-side verses.

They were giving her the one thing she had starved for since debut: the freedom to exist on her own terms, paired with the absolute certainty that if she ever chose to look back, thirteen hands were still holding the door wide open.

Y/N smiled, a quiet, profound sense of peace settling deep into her bones. She typed out a short reply, hit send, and locked her phone, setting it face-down on the table.

She walked over to her wide balcony doors, slid them open, and stepped out into the crisp, autumn breeze overlooking the golden skyline of Seoul. She took a long, deep breath, pulled Wonwoo’s oversized hoodie tighter around her shoulders, and for the very first time in six years, looked forward to tomorrow.

The two-month mark approached not with the sudden clash of a gong, but with the quiet, deliberate thaw of an early spring.

For the first four weeks, the space between them had been a sacred, untouchable territory. But as November slid into the sharp, bitter cold of December, the invisible threads connecting Y/N to the group began to pull not with the heavy, restrictive weight of a corporate contract, but with the soft, persistent tug of thirteen people who genuinely missed her.

It started small.

A box of handmade Jeju citrus marmalade arrived at her Hannam-dong apartment with no return address, just a scrawled post-it note in Seungkwan’s neat handwriting: Don't drink cold water. Eat this with warm tea.

Two days later, a link to an obscure, forty-minute ambient piano track appeared in her inbox from Jihoon, accompanied by a single text: No vocals. No arrangement notes. Just thought it sounded like the rain outside your balcony.

They weren't asking when she was coming back. They weren't asking if she had signed the contract extension or if she had finalized her decision with Legal. They were simply dropping small, glowing stones along the path, illuminating the way back home whenever she felt ready to walk it.

December 20th

The invite hadn't come from Seungcheol, nor had it come from the company managers. It had come from Minghao.

[haohao]: No cameras. No managers. No music talk. No nothing. Just potluck at my private tea studio in Seongsu. 6:00 PM. If you're tired, stay home. If you want food, come.

Y/N stood in front of her full-length mirror at 5:15 PM, adjusting the collar of a soft, cream-colored turtleneck sweater. For the first time in six years, preparing to see Seventeen didn't involve an outfit check from a visual stylist, a double-check on her weight, or a mental review of media-trained talking points.

She looked at her reflection. The dark circles under her eyes had completely faded, replaced by a healthy, quiet radiance. Her skin looked rested, her shoulders sat naturally without that defensive, tight hunch she had carried for half a decade.

She picked up her bag, grabbed a container of homemade matcha cookies she had baked the night before, and walked out into the crisp December evening.

The tea studio in Seongsu was tucked away in a quiet, tree-lined alley, far removed from the neon chaos of the main entertainment districts.

When Y/N pushed open the heavy wooden door, the rich, earthy scent of roasting tea leaves, sandalwood, and braised potherb pork hit her instantly. The room was bathed in soft, amber light from paper lanterns. Low wooden tables were pushed together in the center of the tatami floor, surrounded by plush floor cushions.

The room was already full and it was entirely, gloriously chaotic.

Dokyeom and Seungkwan were sitting cross-legged near the electric griddle, aggressively arguing over who was responsible for flipping the kimchi pancakes without tearing them. Across the room, Hoshi was lying completely flat on his back on a woven rug, a blindfold over his eyes, listening to Joshua quietly play soft acoustic chords on a vintage guitar.

Jihoon sat near the tea counter, his legs tucked under him, wearing a grey hoodie that was three sizes too big, staring blankly at a steaming porcelain cup with an expression of profound, unbothered peace.

When the front door clicked shut, the ambient noise in the room didn't suddenly die down into awkward, tense protocol. There was no sudden visual realignment, no rigid posture shift.

Mingyu looked up from chopping green onions, his face lighting up with a massive, toothy grin. "Y/N-ah! Did you bring the cookies? Minghao said you made cookies!"

"They’re on the counter," Y/N laughed, setting her shoes in the wooden cubby at the entrance and slipping into soft indoor socks.

Wonwoo was sitting near the window, a book resting face-down on his lap. As she walked in, his dark eyes met hers over his glasses. He didn't jump up or make a scene. He simply reached out and patted the soft floor cushion right next to his, shifting his long legs to make room for her before she even reached the table.

Y/N slid into the space beside him, the heat from his side instantly warming the chill off her jacket.

"You look good," Wonwoo murmured, his deep baritone a quiet, private frequency meant only for her amidst the clamor of Seungkwan yelling at Mingyu for burning the scallions.

"I feel good," Y/N whispered back, leaning her shoulder briefly against his arm. "How's the eyes? You've been reading too much in the dark again."

"Jihoon took away my monitor for three weeks," Wonwoo grumbled softly, though the small, affectionate twitch of his lips betrayed his fake annoyance. "I've been forced to look at actual paper."

Dinner was a loud, messy, and deeply grounding affair.

There was no corporate hierarchy at the table. Seungcheol wasn't managing the timeline; he was actively stealing cooked meat from Jeonghan’s plate while Jeonghan tried to swat his chopsticks away with a wooden spoon. Chan was belly-laughing at a ridiculous story Dino and Vernon were telling about a botched attempt at making sourdough bread during their week off.

Y/N sat in the middle of it all, a small bowl of rice in her hands, watching them.

Six months ago, sitting in a room with these thirteen men felt like sitting in an overcrowded pressure cooker that was about to explode. Every interaction carried the phantom weight of survival, of efficiency, of maintaining the visual engine of a top-tier K-pop group.

Now, stripped of the uniforms, the microphones, and the corporate expectations, she saw them clearly: thirteen brothers who were just as exhausted by the machine as she had been, but who had spent two months tearing down their own walls just so she wouldn't have to stand outside in the cold.

"So," Seungcheol said around 9:00 PM, setting his tea mug down on the wooden table. The room didn't go silent, but the volume drifted lower naturally. The leader looked around the circle, his dark eyes clear, steady, and devoid of the heavy anxiety he had carried for years. He looked at Y/N last.

"The company sent over the draft schedule for next year," Seungcheol said gently. "They want us in the main studio on January 15th to discuss the next album direction."

The room held its breath for a fraction of a second not in terror, but in a quiet, collective solidarity.

"I told them we aren't starting recording until February," Seungcheol continued, a faint, proud smile touching his lips. "And I told them that the production team is officially an internal committee now. No outside line-up changes or no mandatory distribution ratios forced by the executives, and no schedule that exceeds six hours of physical rehearsal a day."

Jihoon nodded from his corner, his small hands wrapped around his cup. "I already cleared the master board. If a song doesn't have fourteen distinct vocal lanes built into the arrangement from day one, it doesn't make the tracklist."

Y/N looked around the circle of faces.

Seungkwan gave her a tentative, hopeful little nod. Minghao smiled softly into his tea. Wonwoo reached under the low edge of the table, his hand finding hers, his long fingers gently interlocking with hers in a firm, steady grip that anchored her completely to the floor.

She didn't pull out her phone. She didn't open her notes app to check a list of pros and cons.

The evaluation was over. The countdown hadn't ended in a sudden, dramatic exit it had simply dissolved into the quiet warmth of a room where she was finally allowed to breathe as herself.

"February is fine," Y/N said softly, her voice carrying through the peaceful room with absolute clarity. "I need until February to finish setting up my studio anyway."

A collective, massive sigh of relief seemed to pass through all thirteen men at once. Seungkwan buried his face in his hands, letting out a watery, dramatic laugh, while Mingyu let out a loud cheer, nearly knocking over his tea mug before Joshua caught it.

Wonwoo tightened his grip on her hand under the table, his thumb tracing the smooth skin of her wrist, his eyes shining behind his glasses with a quiet, profound light that burned brighter than any stage lantern.

"February it is," Wonwoo whispered against her hair, as the rain outside turned into the first soft, white flakes of winter snow, falling gently over a house that was finally, completely built to last.

The bitter December cold had given way to a quiet, crystalline January chill.

A week after the potluck at Minghao’s tea studio, the two-month hiatus was technically still in effect, but the atmosphere around the group had shifted. It was no longer about escaping the machine; it was about preparing to walk back into it this time on their own terms.

Y/N sat on the wide, wooden window seat of Joshua’s apartment, her knees pulled tight against her chest inside a pair of thick knitted socks. Outside, the dusk light cast a soft, lavender hue over the snow-covered rooftops of Seoul. The apartment was warm, smelling of boiled cinnamon, dried apples, and the faint, sweet scent of Earl Grey tea.

Joshua had always been one of the quietest room in Seventeen. Where Seungcheol managed with fierce protectiveness and Wonwoo anchored with steady silence, Joshua was the calm, non-judgmental harbor. He never forced a confession, never demanded clarity, and never filled a silence just to avoid the awkwardness.

He walked over from the kitchen holding two ceramic mugs one of which was the sage-green one Y/N had brought over as a gift and handed it to her. He sat down cross-legged on the cushion opposite hers, his long legs folded neatly, his expression gentle behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

"You've been staring at the snow for twenty minutes," Joshua said softly, his voice a warm, melodic whisper against the quiet hum of the radiator. "Is your mind still racing, Y/N-ah?"

Y/N wrapped both hands around the hot ceramic, letting the steam rise up to touch her face. She swallowed, feeling a thick, familiar lump form in her throat.

"Shua, I thought... I thought deciding to stay would make the fear go away," she admitted, her voice trembling slightly as she looked up to meet his soft, cat-like eyes. "At Hao's studio... when I said February was fine... I meant it. I really did. But every morning when I wake up now, my chest still gets tight. I still feel like I'm five seconds away from losing my voice again."

Joshua didn't immediately jump in with empty reassurances. He set his mug down on the windowsill, leaned forward, and gently reached out, resting his large, warm hand over hers where she gripped the tea cup.

"It's because the trauma of six years doesn't disappear just because we changed the rules," Joshua murmured, his eyes shining with an intense, quiet empathy. "You spent six years being told sometimes directly, but mostly through the quiet, clinical machinery of this industry that you were invisible. That you were the extra piece they had to fit into a puzzle that wasn't designed for you. You can't unlearn six years of survival instinct in some months."

A single tear spilled over Y/N’s lashes, tracking down her cheek. She didn't wipe it away. "I'm so scared that once the cameras start rolling again... once the managers start setting the timers and the floor directors start screaming... we're just going to fall right back into the old patterns. That I'll shrink, and you guys will get busy, and I'll become some kind of ghost again."

Joshua’s breath hitched slightly, his own emotional composure cracking around the edges. He shifted closer on the window bench, taking the mug from her hands and setting it aside so he could take both of her cold hands into his own. His fingers were slightly trembling, his thumb tenderly wiping the tear from her cheek.

"Do you know why I was so quiet during those years, hmm?" Joshua asked, his voice thick with a sudden, painful vulnerability that made Y/N’s breath catch. He rarely spoke about his own guilt.

She shook her head softly.

"Because I was terrified, too," Joshua confessed, a watery sheen coming over his eyes as he looked down at their joined hands. "I came from Los Angeles. I didn't speak the language well at first. I was terrified of being the weakness in the group, of being the one who dragged the performance down. So when the management started pushing you into the shadows... when they started cutting your vocal lines and moving you to the back during the formations... I convinced myself that keeping my head down was the only way to protect the group's survival."

He let out a ragged, trembling breath, his shoulders dipping under the weight of the confession.

"I watched you bleed yourself dry for six years, Y/N," he wept softly, a rare tear slipping past his glasses and dropping onto her hand. "I watched you sit in the corner of every waiting room, holding your breath, making yourself smaller and smaller until you were practically see-through. And the worst part of my life... the absolute worst regret I carry... is that I mistook your quietness for strength. I thought, 'She's so graceful, she's so strong, she's handling it.' I used your endurance as an excuse to excuse my own cowardice."

"Shua, no..." Y/N sobbed, reaching up to grip his wrists, her heart aching at the sheer depth of remorse in his face. "You were always kind to me. You brought me tea, you helped me with my Korean lines, you-"

"Kindness isn't protection!" Joshua’s voice cracked, an unusual, heartbreaking burst of emotion breaking through his calm facade. He pulled her forward, wrapping his long arms tightly around her shoulders, pulling her face into his chest as he held her securely against him. He rested his chin on the top of her head, his broad frame trembling with silent sobs.

"Kindness is easy," Joshua whispered into her hair, his arms tightening as if he were trying to physically shield her from the past six years. "Standing up and stopping the machine is hard. But I promise you... on my life, Y/N-ah... we are never going back to that room. If the floor director screams at you, thirteen of us will walk off that stage. If the company tries to mute your track, Jihoon will even burn the master files. You aren't going back into the machine alone. If it breaks... it breaks all of us together."

Y/N buried her face in the soft wool of his sweater, letting out the heavy, agonizing sobs she had held back since the hiatus began. She cried for the thirteen-year-old girl who had hidden behind the water purifier; she cried for the girl whose voice had been edited out of the chorus; and she cried for the exhausting burden of trying to stay strong for a group she loved more than her own life.

Joshua just held her, swaying gently on the window seat as the snow fell thicker outside, rubbing smooth, comforting circles into her back, whispering quiet prayers in English and Korean into her hair until her frantic breathing finally began to slow.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes swollen and her nose pink, Joshua smiled a soft, wet, utterly genuine smile. He reached up, gently wiping her wet cheeks with his sleeve, then picked up her mug of cinnamon tea and pressed it back into her hands.

"Better?" he asked softly.

Y/N took a shuddering, deep breath, feeling the cold, tight knot in her chest finally unspool into a quiet, grounded warmth.

"Better," she whispered, taking a small sip of the warm tea.

Joshua leaned back against the window frame, looking out at the snowy city with a quiet, unyielding peace in his eyes. "Good. Because tomorrow, Jun and Mingyu are coming over to help me bake cookies... and if you aren't here to supervise them, they're going to burn down my kitchen."

Y/N let out a wet, genuine laugh, leaning her head against Joshua’s shoulder as the warm lavender dusk faded into a quiet, safe night.

After Joshua left her alone in the quiet warmth of his living room, the apartment felt impossibly large. The front door had closed with a soft, final click, leaving Y/N on the window seat as the pale moonlight reflected off the fresh snow outside.

Her tea had long gone cold.

Even with Joshua’s tearful vows still echoing in her ears even with the raw, protective warmth of his hug lingering on her skin a cold, stubborn knot of unease remained tight in her stomach. It was easy to talk about safety in a quiet apartment filled with the scent of cinnamon and acoustic guitar music. It was easy to feel loved when thirteen people were actively trying to shield her.

But the reality of the machine was waiting just past the horizon.

Y/N pulled her knees back up to her chest, resting her chin on her wooden knees, her eyes fixed on the distant glow of the Seoul skyline.

What happens when the first comeback article drops? she thought, her pulse spiking instinctively. What happens when the comments section turns toxic again? What happens when we’re forty-eight hours into a non-stop music video shoot, everyone is running on two hours of sleep, and the old dynamics silently slip back into place because habit is stronger than promises?

She knew the boys meant every word. Seungcheol’s fierce legal battles, Wonwoo’s heartbreaking tears in Gapyeong, Jihoon’s rewritten vocal lines, and Joshua’s desperate embrace tonight they weren't fake. They were realer than anything she had ever known.

But the fear wasn't about them. The fear was about her.

She was terrified that six years of being pruned into a background shadow had permanently altered the way she grew. She was scared that the moment she stepped back into the practice room, her body would automatically shrink, her throat would automatically close up, and she would voluntary slip back into the dark just to keep the harmony intact.

If I stay, she reasoned, a heavy, suffocating weight pressing on her chest, I am choosing to walk back into the arena. I am choosing the pain.

She pulled her phone out of her sweater pocket. Her screen lit up, showing a new notification in the group chat:

[Kwan]: Hyung, did Y/N leave your place yet? She left her acoustic foam specs in my room, I can bring them over to Hannam tomorrow! [mangoe]: Tell her I bought the whole-wheat flour for the cookies. If she doesn't come tomorrow, Joshua hyung is gonna make me do the dishes. [happy Virus]: [Photo of a terrible hand-drawn frog] Look what I drew while waiting for my chicken. [Nono🐻‍❄️]: Delete that photo.

Y/N stared at the scrolling text bubbles.

A silent tear slipped down her cheek, landing with a soft pat on the dark glass of her phone screen.

She could walk away. The exit door was right there, unlocked and unguarded. Seungcheol had guaranteed her an easy break; Wonwoo had offered to sign her release papers himself. She could live a quiet, comfortable life in her Hannam-dong apartment, edit music at her own pace, make her tea, and never again suffer the brutal judgment of an industry that saw her as an anomaly.

She closed her eyes and took a long, trembling breath.

In the quiet darkness behind her eyelids, she didn't see the bright, blinding stage lights. She didn't hear the deafening screams of stadium crowds or the cold orders of stage directors.

She saw a thirteen-year-old girl with bruised knees sitting behind a water purifier in a green basement. She saw Wonwoo holding out his hand to share a mic frequency. She saw Jihoon staying up until 4:00 AM just to re-pitch a harmony so her voice didn't sound strained. She saw thirteen boys who had just spent two months tearing apart their own lives, their own peace, and their own contracts not to fix the group, but to save her.

If she walked away, she would be safe.

But if she walked away, she would leave them behind in the wreckage of a house they had rebuilt entirely around her spot.

Slowly, Y/N opened her eyes.

The unease didn't magically vanish. Her heart was still pounding, her throat was still tight, and the phantom ghost of six years of agony still hovered at the edges of her mind. Courage wasn't the absence of fear; it was simply the decision that something else mattered more than the fear.

She wasn't staying because the path was going to be easy. She was staying because they were her family, and for the first time in six years, they were finally fighting the giant with her.

Y/N unlocked her phone. Her fingers were steady as she typed into the group chat, her voice clear and resolute in the quiet room:

[Y/N]: I’m still at Joshua-oppa's place. Mingyu, if you touch that flour before I get there tomorrow, I'm hiding your workout shoes. [Y/N]: And tell Jihoon-oppa... February 15th for the first vocal recording. I'm ready.

The response was immediate a sudden, chaotic flood of green and yellow text bubbles exploding across her screen, filled with ridiculous emojis, frantic voice notes from Seungkwan, and a simple, single heart from Wonwoo.

Y/N wiped the tear from her cheek, a small, quiet smile breaking across her face.

The fear was still there. But as she set her cold tea aside and stood up to head home, Y/N knew she was no longer walking into the dark. She was walking straight into the light, surrounded by thirteen people who would never let her fade again.

The quiet rooftop cafe in Mapo-gu seemed completely detached from the rest of Seoul. Down on the street below, people rushed home through the icy dusk, bundled in heavy coats, but inside the small back booth behind the wooden partition, time moved at a slow, peaceful crawl.

Wonwoo sat across from her, his dark eyes observing her face with an unhurried, gentle intensity.

There was no tablet on the table, no calendar open, no mention of dates or upcoming responsibilities. He had purposefully stripped away every layer of the world outside this room.

"You're still holding your breath," Wonwoo said softly. His deep, gravelly voice cut right through the quiet hum of the cafe's heater, reaching her with effortless warmth.

Y/N lowered her eyes to her dark roasted coffee, watching her own faint reflection in the dark liquid. She let out a long, slow breath, her shoulders dipping just a fraction.

"I don't know how to turn it off," she admitted quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. "I sit in my apartment, I look out at the snow... and my chest just feels tight. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop."

Wonwoo reached across the small table. He didn't make a grand gesture; he simply laid his large hand flat on the wood between them, palm up, completely open.

Y/N looked at his long fingers, then slid her hand into his. The solid, steady warmth of his skin immediately anchored her cold fingers.

"Everyone else spent the last two weeks talking about how to fix things for you," Wonwoo murmured, his thumb rubbing smooth, comforting circles against the back of her hand. "They want to build bigger walls, rewrite the rules, fix the structure. But I don't care about any of that right now."

Y/N looked up, meeting his eyes behind his soft, dark hair. "Then why did you ask me to come out today?"

"Because nobody is asking how Y/N is doing," he said, his tone entirely devoid of pretense. "Not the member. Not the person everyone is trying to protect. Just you. The person who gets overwhelmed when the room gets too loud. The person who hides in her own head when she's scared."

A sharp, sudden ache flared in the back of her throat. She bit her lower lip, staring down at their joined hands.

"I'm terrified, Wonwoo," she whispered, the raw truth slipping out before she could stop it. "I'm terrified that even with all the promises... I'm still just fundamentally broken from the last six years. What if I try to stand my ground, and I just fail? What if I end up shrinking all over again?"

"Then you walk away," Wonwoo replied instantly. There wasn't a single second of doubt in his voice.

Y/N blinked, caught completely off guard by how easily the words left his mouth. "What?"

"If it gets too heavy again, you leave," Wonwoo repeated, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an unshakeable, fierce clarity. "And I'll walk right out the door with you."

"Wonwoo, don't say that-"

"I mean it, Y/N-ah," he interrupted gently, his grip tightening just enough to make her focus entirely on him. "I didn't endure six years of chaos just to watch you slowly lose yourself. My life doesn't depend on a single building or a career. If the cost of staying in that environment is watching you fade away again, it's not a price I'm willing to let anyone pay."

The absolute simplicity of his declaration hung in the air between them. He wasn't playing a hero or making a dramatic scene; he was simply stating an unalterable fact of his existence. He chose her. He had always chosen her.

Y/N felt the last stubborn, icy knot of self-doubt inside her heart finally thaw. A tiny, tearful laugh slipped past her lips.

"You're completely ridiculous, you know that?" she murmured, wiping a stray eyelash from her cheek.

"I'm just practical," Wonwoo countered softly, the tiny, rare curve of a smile appearing at the corner of his lips. "And your coffee is getting cold while you overthink everything."

"You're demanding today," she teased, though her voice was rich with affection.

"I have high standards for your peace of mind," he replied, taking a slow sip from his own mug without breaking eye contact.

They stayed in the back booth until the cafe's lantern lights flickered on outside the window. They talked about the terrible sci-fi book Wonwoo had finished the night before, the absurdly overpriced standing lamp Y/N had struggled to assemble, and the simple, quiet relief of sitting next to someone who expected nothing from her except to exist.

But the next morning, he was nowhere to be seen.

When you finally opened your eyes, blinking against the harsh, bright sunlight piercing through the cracks of the heavy blackout curtains, the couch beside you was completely empty. You checked your phone—it was god knows what hour of the late morning—and the realization that you were alone in the vast, quiet space hit you like a cold splash of water. The heavy dark duvet was pulled back, the plush pillow still holding the indentation of his head, but Jeongguk was gone.

So naturally, you grew a bit anxious.

A tight, familiar knot formed in the pit of your stomach as you sat up, the silence of the multi-million dollar apartment suddenly feeling incredibly heavy. Your mind instantly began to scramble, racing back through the events of the previous night. You hoped with everything you had that he would just forget what he said last night. You prayed the tequila had completely wiped his memory, that the slurred confessions about true love and people coming up short in comparison to you would just evaporate into the morning air. If he forgot, everything could go back to normal. You could go back to being the constant, unshakeable variable in his life.

But then the darker, terrifying thoughts started to bleed in, turning your anxiety into full-blown panic.

What if he remembered? What if he woke up with a pounding headache and a crystal-clear recollection of every single word that had left his mouth? What if he was so thoroughly mortified, so repulsed by the fact that he had crossed that sacred platonic line and laid his soul bare, that he had physically chosen to flee his own home just to avoid looking you in the eye?

You stood up, your knees slightly shaky, your eyes darting toward the hallway. His bedroom door was still closed, but the heavy silence in the apartment made it feel like he had abandoned the entire place just to escape the mess he’d created in the dark.

That’s when you heard the faucet running.

The sharp, metallic hiss of rushing water cut through the suffocating silence of the apartment, drawing your attention toward the kitchen. Your heart skipped a beat, the knot of anxiety in your stomach loosening just a fraction, only to tighten again with a completely different kind of tension.

With small steps, your feet padding quietly against the cold hardwood floor, you made your way down the hall. Every single breath you took felt like lead, heavy and burning in your chest. You braced yourself for a tense, awkward confrontation, preparing to play off his drunken rambling as a massive joke.

Instead, you rounded the corner and saw him in all his glory, completely naked from the belt up.

The bright morning sunlight poured through the kitchen window, hitting the sharp, fiercely toned lines of his back and shoulders as he stood in front of the sink. He had a clean pair of grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips, exposing that dark, dangerous happy trail you’d been obsessing over the day before. His skin practically glistened, completely washed clean of the previous night's sweat and alcohol, and his dark, damp hair strands curled slightly around his nape. He was rinsing out a couple of mugs, hands moving with effortless, domestic grace.

As if sensing your presence, Jeongguk turned around.

There was no repulsion on his face. No awkwardness, no frantic desire to flee. Instead, his sweet, round eyes instantly crinkled at the corners, and a warm, lazy grin spread across his face, his silver lip piercing catching the morning light.

He greeted you in a sweet, entirely normal manner.

"Morning, sleepypants," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly morning rumble that vibrated pleasantly in the quiet air. He set the mug down and gestured toward the espresso machine on the counter. "Coffee?"

You sit down awkwardly on one of the high barstools at the marble kitchen island, your hands folded in your lap as you nod your head. "Yes, please. Black is fine."

The silence stretches between you for a bit, heavy and thick on your end, though Jeongguk seems entirely unbothered as he presses a button on the espresso machine. The low whirring of the grinder fills the space, and the rich, dark scent of coffee begins to bloom in the air. Your mind is still a frantic mess of questions, the sheer weight of his shirtless torso in the bright morning light not helping your ability to think straight.

Unable to take the suspense any longer, you clear your throat. "Koo?"

He hums in response, not turning around just yet as he watches the dark liquid drip into the mugs, patiently waiting for you to continue.

You swallow hard, tracing a invisible line on the marble counter. "Do you... do you remember last night?"

Jeongguk freezes for a split second, his shoulders tensing just a fraction before he slowly turns around to face you. He leans back against the counter, crossing his tattooed arm over his bare chest, a totally blank, deadpan expression washing over his features.

"Last night?" he repeats, blinking his eyes with exaggerated confusion. He tilts his head, looking down at his own bare torso and then back up at you. "Wait... what year is it?"

You instantly catch onto the stupid joke, a rush of exasperated relief flooding your chest. You reach out, grabbing a random crumpled tissue you found sitting on the edge of the counter, and throw it straight at his face.

He ducks, but it clips his shoulder anyway. Jeongguk bursts into a loud, boxing-glove laugh, his eyes crinkling into those familiar, endearing crescents as the heavy tension in the room instantly evaporates.

"Yes," he says, his laughter dying down into a soft, knowing smile as he holds your gaze, his voice dropping back into that low morning cadence. "I remember last night, Y/N."

Your stomach drops straight through the floor. The relief you felt a second ago evaporates, replaced by a sudden, choking wave of heat that rises all the way to your face. You fumble with your words, your tongue feeling thick and clumsy as you try to form a coherent sentence.

"You—you remember?" you stammer, your hands nervously gripping the edge of the marble counter. "Then... what you said on the couch. Before you fell asleep. Did you... I mean, did you actually mean it?"

Jeongguk stays quiet for a while. The playful morning light suddenly feels too bright, too exposing. He doesn't move from where he’s leaning against the counter, but the easy grin vanishes from his face. He looks down at his feet, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard, his chest expanding with a deep, deliberate breath.

When he finally lifts his head, his eyes are dead serious, devoid of any tequila-induced haze.

"Yes," he says, his voice a low, steady vibration. "I meant it."

You blink, your chest tightening so fast it hurts. "What... what did you mean, Jeongguk? Exactly?"

"I meant what I meant," he mutters, his jaw clenching as he shifts his weight. He crosses his arms tighter over his bare chest, a defensive instinct kicking in as he tries to maintain his footing. He’s trying to stay casual, trying to play the enigmatic card, but the slight twitch in his silver lip piercing gives him away.

"Yes, but what does it mean?" you push, your voice cracking slightly out of frustration. You lean forward on the barstool, completely done with the riddles. "You don't get to drop a bomb like that, tell me everyone else comes short in comparison to me, and then just say 'I meant what I meant.' What does that mean for us, Jeongguk? What are you actually saying?"

Jeongguk stares at you, the silence stretching out between you like a taut wire. You can practically hear the furious looping in his head, the terrifying friction between the decade of friendship holding him back and the raw, suffocating desire to just stop hiding.

"It means exactly what you think it means, Y/N," he says defensively, his voice rising a fraction. "Why do I have to spell it out?"

"Because you were drunk!" you snap back, your own walls going up because you're terrified of getting your hopes destroyed. "Because people say crazy things when they've had six shots of tequila! You told me I'm the standard for your love life. Do you have any idea how insane that is to hear from your best friend?"

That's the breaking point.

Jeongguk cracks. The stubborn, defensive posture completely shatters, his arms dropping to his sides as he takes a sudden, aggressive step forward, closing the distance between the counter and your stool. He looms over you, his bare chest heaving, his eyes wide and burning with a desperate, chaotic intensity.

"It's not insane!" he bursts out, his voice cracking with a raw, emotional force that echoes through the quiet kitchen. He grips the edge of the marble island right next to your thighs, leaning down until his face is just inches from yours, entirely undone. "It's not the tequila, Y/N! I've been sober for months on tour and I thought about it every single day. Every girl I look at, every person I talk to, I'm just looking for you in them. I'm tired of pretending I don't. I'm tired of the mystery. I meant that I’m in love with you, okay? I’ve been in love with you for years!"

"You're crazy!" you snap back, the pure panic in your chest bubbling over into anger as you push yourself back against the barstool. "You are completely crazy, Jeongguk! You can’t just wake up one day and decide to ruin a ten-year friendship because you had a breakthrough on tour! You don't just get to tear down everything we built because you feel like it!"

He flinches as if you physically struck him. The fierce, looming intensity drains from his posture in an instant, leaving him looking raw and incredibly small despite his broad frame. His eyes turn visibly sad, a thick, glossy sheen coating them under the bright kitchen lights. His jaw tightens, his silver lip piercing trembling just a fraction before a bitter, hurt laugh leaves his throat.

"Well, excuse the fuck out of me if I have feelings," he spits out, his voice cracking with a dangerous mix of anger and absolute rejection. He pulls his hands off the marble counter and takes a step back, wrapping his arms tightly around his torso again, as if trying to shield his chest from you. "Excuse me for actually trusting my best friend enough to be honest. I didn't decide to feel this way, Y/N."

"It’s not even about that!" you yell back, your hands flying into the air out of sheer frustration. You slide off the barstool, finally standing on your own two feet so you don't have to look up at him. "Jeongguk, think for one second! Could you actually afford to lose me if a relationship goes south? If we do this, if we cross that line and it blows up in our faces, we don't get to go back to being friends. I'm gone. You're gone. Everything is ruined. Can you honestly afford that?"

At your words, his entire demeanor shifts from heartbroken to super pissy and defensive, the vulnerability of his ego being bruised making him lash out.

"It wouldn't go south!" he barks, his chest heaving as he glares down at you, his face flushing a furious, hurt red. "Why are you already deciding we're going to fail? And you know what? It doesn't even matter because you’re standing here acting like you have the high moral ground! Like you're the only one who cares about our friendship and I'm just some reckless idiot trying to break it!"

"I don’t have a moral ground!" you shout, stepping right into his space, your voice matching his volume. "I’m just trying to be smart about this! Someone has to be, because you're clearly letting your emotions run completely wild right now!"

"Why should you be smart?!" Jeongguk erupts, his frustration completely breaking through the ceiling. He throws his hands up, the silver rings on his fingers flashing aggressively in the morning sun. He steps so close you can feel the radiating, shirtless heat of his skin, his breath hitting your face in short, ragged gasps. He looks down at you, his eyes searching your face with a suffocating anger. "Why do you always have to be the logical one? Tell me the truth, Y/N—have you ever even thought about me that way? Even once? Or am I just the only idiot who’s been suffocating in this for years?"

"Of course I’ve thought about you that way!" you burst out, the truth ripping through your throat before you could even try to stop it. "Every single day for the last ten years, Jeongguk! I have been suffocating right next to you, watching you date other people, watching you become a global superstar, completely terrified that if I said a word, I’d lose you forever!"

Jeongguk completely freezes. The furious, pissy retort dies right on his tongue, his mouth hanging open slightly as his chest heaves. His round eyes widen, the glossy unshed tears making them look impossibly huge as he processes your words.

"You..." he stammers, his voice becoming a breathless, vulnerable whisper. "You have?"

"Yes! But you’re sitting here acting like it’s so simple," you say, your voice trembling with an overwhelming mix of anger, frustration, and a decade's worth of built-up tension. You take a step closer, your eyes locking onto his parted lips, then tracing up to the raw, completely undone expression on his face. He looks so helpless, so utterly desperate for your touch, standing there shirtless in the bright morning light.

You need him to understand. You need to prove to him that this isn't just some casual, easy dynamic he can play with. You want to prove a point—to show him exactly what he's playing with, exactly how dangerous this boundary truly is.

Before he can utter another word, you reach out, your fingers gripping the soft fabric of his sweatpants at his hip to pull him in, and you slam your lips against his.

Jeongguk lets out a sharp, muffled gasp into your mouth, his entire body jolting at the sudden impact. But the hesitation lasts for less than a second. The moment he realizes you are actually kissing him, he completely shatters. A low, desperate groan rumbles deep in his chest, and his tattooed hands flies to your waist, his fingers digging into your skin with a terrifying, suffocating hunger.

The kiss is chaotic, fierce, and overflowing with ten years of unspoken agony. You pour everything into it—all the logic, all the smart choices, all the fear of losing him—crushing your lips against his until your teeth click. He tastes like the rich espresso he just brewed and the sharp, lingering heat of his own desperation. He follows your lead completely, surrendering to the dominance you admitted to just hours before, letting you call every single shot as he whimpers against your mouth, his frame trembling beneath your hands.

When you finally pull back, your chest heaving, your lips swollen and tingling, you try to step away to establish the boundary again. "See?" you breathe out, your voice shaky as you stare at his dark, completely blown-out pupils. "That is what we lose if—"

"No," Jeongguk whines instantly, the sudden loss of your lips making him sound incredibly small and pathetic. His hands tighten on your waist, physically yanking you right back against his bare, warm chest. His nose brushes against yours, his breath hot and ragged. "No, Y/N. Please. Just one more. One more."

"Jeongguk, I'm trying to make a point—"

"I don't care about the point," he groans, his voice turning super whiny, his bottom lip pushing out in a desperate, pouty expression that completely contrasts his heavily tattooed, muscular frame. He leans his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering shut as he practically begs. "Just one more kiss. Please. Y/N. One more, and then I’ll listen to the logical stuff. Just one more."

You melt away entirely under the pathetic, desperate drag of his voice. Every ounce of your hard-earned logic completely liquefies, dripping away into the space between your pounding hearts as you slide your hands up his radiating chest to cup the back of his neck, pulling him right back down to you.

The moment your lips meet again, Jeongguk kisses you like it’s the only thing he was ever put on this earth to do.

It is an agonizingly deep, consuming kiss that destroys any remaining illusion of your platonic past. He devours you, his plush lips parting with a fierce, wet desperation that immediately slicks your skin. He uses his tongue with a heavy, deliberate stroke, sweeping into your mouth to claim you entirely, tasting intensely of the bitter espresso and the sweet, clean mint from earlier. Every tilt of his head is a calculated shift to press deeper, his silver lip piercing sliding hot and sharp against your bottom lip, an intoxicating friction that sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core.

You let out a helpless, broken moan right into his mouth, the sound vibrating against his teeth.

The small noise completely undoes him. Jeongguk’s hands abandon your waist to roam frantically all over you, his palms hot and heavy as they map out your body. He slides his hands down the curve of your back, his blunt fingernails digging into your clothes, before lifting up to cup your jaw, his tattooed thumb firmly pressing against your pulse point to hold you perfectly still for his assault. His chest presses flush against you, the hard, sculpted lines of his abdomen crushing into your frame until you can feel the frantic, booming rhythm of his heart matching your own.

He is entirely consumed, a slave to the sudden shift in your dynamic.

He briefly breaks the kiss, his lips only parting a fraction of an inch from yours, leaving a string of wet, heavy breaths between you. His glossy eyes flutter open, looking at you with a gaze so completely wrecked and swimming with desire that it makes your knees buckle. He whines against your skin, a high, desperate sound cutting through his deep morning rasp as his forehead drops heavily against yours.

"I'm gonna make you feel good," he pleads, his breath hot and ragged against your swollen mouth as his hands slide back down to desperately grip your hips. "Please, Y/N... please let me make you feel good. Just let me. Please."

You don’t reply right away, your mind completely fracturing into a thousand pieces as you stand frozen in his kitchen. Your thoughts pull you in every direction, desperately trying to analyze the wreckage of the last five minutes.

The damage is done. You already kissed him—not just a gentle slip of the lips, but a fierce, devastating confession of a kiss that blew every single one of your carefully constructed boundaries right out the door. The sacred line of the friendship hasn't just been crossed; it’s been entirely incinerated.

As you stare down at his flushed face, a dark, heavy thought slips into your mind, taking root before your logic can tear it down: Would it really be so bad to just go through with it?

If everything is already broken, if the mystery is gone, why keep fighting the very thing that’s been suffocating you both for a decade? You look at his chest rising and falling in sharp, ragged gasps, his skin radiating a maddening heat that pulls you in like gravity.

Before a single word can tumble past your swollen lips, Jeongguk completely unravels. His knees give out, hitting the hardwood floor with a soft thud as he drops down right in front of you.

The global superstar, the man who fills stadiums worldwide, is entirely brought to his knees, looking up at you with huge, glassy, pleading eyes. He looks so sweet, so raw, and completely submissive to whatever you decide next.

"Please," he whimpers, the word spilling out of him like a broken prayer. "Please, Y/N."

He doesn't wait for your permission. His hands slide up the back of your legs, his palms scalding hot through the fabric of your clothes as he pulls your hips closer to his face. He buries his face against you, his warm forehead pressing firmly against your lower stomach as a ragged breath hitches in his throat.

"Let me make you feel good," he begs into your clothes, his voice dropping into a desperate, deep vibration that resonates straight through your skin. "Just let me do this for you. Please."

Then, his plush lips press against your clothed thighs.

He kisses you right through the fabric, his mouth hot and damp, leaving heavy, branding presses of his lips along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He nuzzles his face deeper against your legs, whining softly when you don't immediately push him away. The absolute friction of his silver lip piercing catching against the material, combined with the desperate, worshipful way his hands tighten on the back of your thighs, makes your breath hitch sharply in your throat. Your hands fly to his bare shoulders just to keep yourself steady, your fingers digging into his smooth, firm skin as the room tilts on its axis.

Your fingers sink deeper into the smooth muscle of his bare shoulders as the sheer weight of his worship pulls you under. The internal debate, the frantic logic, the fear of what happens when the dust settles—it all completely evaporates.

"Okay," you finally whisper, the single word cutting through his desperate, ragged breaths. "Okay, Jeongguk. Do it."

The permission hits him like an electric shock. He doesn't waste a single second, his hands moving with an frantic, desperate urgency. He grips the waistband of your pants and underwear together, his knuckles brushing against your skin as he tugs them down your legs in a breathless hurry. You kick out of them, your feet hitting the cool hardwood floor, leaving you completely exposed to him in the middle of the bright kitchen.

When he leans his head back in, you let out a sharp, involuntary hiss as the hot, concentrated burst of his breath hits your sensitive pubic area.

But he doesn't touch you yet. Jeongguk just stays frozen on his knees, his hands still tightly gripping the back of your thighs to anchor you in place. He’s just looking. His sweet eyes are wide and completely dark with a devastating mixture of awe and pure hunger. His chest heaves, his silver lip piercing glinting as his lips part slightly, his gaze completely tracing every inch of you as if he’s memorizing a holy text.

The intense, unblinking weight of his stare makes you shift your weight, a sudden spike of heat rushing to your face. "Jeongguk," you breathe out, your voice trembling. "What... what are you doing?"

"I need more room," he rasps, his voice dropping into a thick, desperate growl.

Before you can even process the words, his large hands slide under your thighs and around your back. In one swift, effortless motion, he lifts you completely off the ground. You let out a small gasp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck as he carries you out of the kitchen. He moves with a singular, fierce focus, and in a matter of seconds, you’re in his bedroom.

He lays you down onto the mattress, and you find yourself completely sprawled across the dark, silk sheets of his bed, the heavy clean cotton scent of him enveloping you entirely.

Jeongguk doesn't even let you catch your breath. He crawls up onto the mattress immediately, his large, heavy body looming over yours for a fraction of a second before he slides right back down between your thighs. He hooks your knees over his shoulders, pinning you open, and buries his face directly between your legs.

The first touch of his tongue is a wet, heavy stroke that makes your entire body arches off the bed. He eats you out like it’s a form of salvation, his mouth hot, wide, and utterly ravenous against your wet skin. He uses his tongue with a frantic, consuming rhythm, lapping at you with deep, deliberate strokes that pull a loud, undone moan right from your throat. The slick, wet sounds of his mouth against you echo in the quiet room, completely destroying any lingering sanity.

Even as he devours you, the desperate, pleading energy from the kitchen doesn't leave him. Every time you twist your fingers into his damp, dark hair to pull him closer, a muffled, high whine breaks from his throat, vibrating directly against your clit. He nuzzles his face deeper into your heat, his silver lip piercing sliding sharp and intoxicating against your most sensitive spots, making you sob his name into the empty air.

"Please," he whimpers against your wet flesh, breaking his rhythm for only a split second to breathe your name, his voice cracked and completely wrecked. His hands grip your hips so tightly his knuckles turn white, silently begging you to hold him there, to let him keep drowning in you. "Please tell me it's good. Tell me you like it, Y/N. Just let me stay right here."

You can only cry out in response, your hips instinctively rolling into his mouth as his tongue darts back inside, deeper and more desperate than before, completely surrendering his entire existence to the rhythm of your pleasure.

The sound of his name ripping from your throat sends a visible shiver straight through his broad, shirtless frame. Hearing how undone you are only makes him more desperate, his tongue working with a frantic, wet rhythm that has your hips rolling blindly into his face.

"You're so good, Koo," you gasp out, your knuckles turning white as you fist your fingers into his damp, dark hair, pressing him closer. "Ah—yes, right there. You're making me feel so good. So good..."

Jeongguk lets out a muffled, high whine directly against your core, the high-pitched, needy sound vibrating straight through you. The praise completely undoes him. He sucks a hard, bruising path up your inner lip, his silver piercing scraping perfectly against your most sensitive flesh, pulling a loud, broken sob from your lungs. He is utterly buried in you, his hands gripping the undersides of your thighs so tightly that his bicep muscles bulge under his smooth, tattooed skin. He nuzzles deeper, lapping at your slick heat with a ravenous, worshipful speed, swallowing your whimpers like they are the only thing keeping him alive.

The friction is too much. The intense, deep heat building in your lower stomach is expanding so fast it feels dangerous, blinding you to everything else in the room. You are getting so entirely into it, the overwhelming pleasure clouding your logic until you can't breathe, can't think, can't handle the agonizingly slow burn of just his mouth anymore.

You want him. You want all of him.

With a breathless cry, you pull your hands out of his hair and adjust the position you're in, your palms sliding down his broad chest, past his tensed abs, to the low waistband of his grey sweatpants. Jeongguk senses the shift immediately, his head lifting, his lips glistening, dark hair falling wildly over his wide, blown-out eyes as he looks up at you with a breathless, questioning whimper.

You don't say a word. You simply hook your fingers into the cotton of his sweats and underwear, tugging them down past his hips in one swift, demanding motion.

His cock springs free, thick, heavy, and leaking a bead of pre-cum that glints in the bedroom light. It twitches against his lower stomach, fully erect and radiating a maddening heat. Jeongguk lets out a raw, hitched breath, his hands trembling on your mattress as he hovers over you, completely exposed, his chest heaving as he waits in agonizing suspense for what you're going to do to him next.

You wrap your fingers firmly around the thick, pulsing base of his shaft, the skin scalding hot against your palm. Jeongguk lets out a shaky, pathetic gasp the moment your hand closes around him, his hips twitching forward instinctively. Without giving him a second to recover, you lean forward, parting your lips, and slide the plush, leaking head of his cock straight into your mouth.

He completely loses his mind.

A loud, ragged moan rips from his throat, echoing sharply in the quiet bedroom. You swirl your tongue around the sensitive ridge, catching the slick pre-cum, before sinking your mouth lower, drawing him deeper down your throat. The rich, clean scent of him mixes with the musk of his arousal, entirely consuming your senses. You use your tongue to stroke the sensitive underside of his shaft, your lips wrapping tight around him to create a fierce, suffocating vacuum as you bob your head in a steady, demanding rhythm.

He throws his head back, hair spilling over his forehead as a continuous string of broken groans and breathless whimpers spills from his parted lips. He doesn't try to hold back, his chest heaving as he watches you through hooded, blown-out eyes, his silver piercing catching the light every time his jaw slacks.

"Ah, God, Y/N," he pants, his voice cracking with pure, unadulterated worship. His large, tattooed hand flies to your hair, but he doesn't push you down—he just cradles your head with a trembling, gentle grip, completely submissive to your pace. "You're so perfect. Look at you... fucking hell, you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Please, you're destroying me."

The praises are heavy, thick with a devotion that makes your chest ache. He’s praising you in a way you've never been praised before, treating your mouth like a sanctuary, completely unbothered by his own ego. You take him deeper, your thumb rubbing over his balls, and the combination makes his hips roll blindly against your lips, a low, desperate whine vibrating in his chest.

The edge is getting too sharp for him. The friction of your wet mouth and the agonizingly sweet torture of the rhythm has him shaking from head to toe. His fingers tighten in your hair, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps as he feels himself reaching a dangerous point of no return.

He suddenly pulls back just enough to slip his cock from your lips, a heavy string of saliva connecting you for a fraction of a second. Jeongguk hovers over you on his knees, his entire body trembling, his face flushed a dark, beautiful red as he looks down at your wet, swollen lips.

"I can't—I can't just take," he begs, his voice breaking completely as he drops his forehead against your chest, his chest heaving against your skin. He is entirely undone, crying out as his hands slide down to grip your hips, physically pulling you back down onto the mattress. He positions himself right between your soaked, aching thighs, the heavy head of his cock rubbing torturously against your wet core. "Please, Y/N. I need to be inside you. Please let me come home. Please let me inside."

A dark, heady rush of power floods your veins as you look down at him. Seeing the man who fills stadiums worldwide reduced to a trembling, pleading mess right under you is intoxicating. You smirk against the flushed skin, your fingers sliding up his damp neck to tilt his face up.

"Put it on then, Koo," you murmur.

You say your consent, and the word acts like a green light. Jeongguk scrambles, blindly fishing a condom from the nightstand drawer—you aren't even paying attention to where he gets it from, your eyes locked onto the sharp, beautiful lines of his tensed muscles as he tears the foil open with his teeth.

His hands are shaking so violently it takes him two tries to roll the latex down his thick, pulsing length.

The moment he’s protected, he doesn't wait. He lines the wet, heavy head of his cock against your slick opening and sinks into you in one deep, agonizingly slow push.

A loud, broken sob rips from your throat as he fills you completely, stretching you out until you're entirely consumed by the sheer size of him. Jeongguk lets out a guttural, trembling groan into the crook of your neck, his large frame collapsing over yours, his full, shirtless weight pinning you into the dark silk sheets.

"Ah, God, Y/N... you're so tight, you're so warm," he whimpers, his voice completely wrecked as he begins to move.

The friction is instant and overwhelming. Jeongguk doesn't fuck you with the practiced, cocky rhythm of a man in control; he fucks you with a desperate, frantic hunger, his hips snapping forward in deep, heavy thrusts that rock the entire bed. He is completely starved for you, his tattooed hand sliding under your lower back to lift your hips higher, taking every single inch you have to offer. The wet, slapping sound of his skin hitting yours echoes in the quiet bedroom, mixed with his continuous, vocal praises.

He’s riding the absolute edge from the very first stroke, the decade of built-up desire making him impossibly sensitive. His breath comes in short, panicked gasps against your ear, his silver lip piercing grazing your pulse point as his pace turns frantic, unhinged.

"I'm gonna—Y/N, I'm close, I can't hold it," he cries out, his voice cracking. He gives three more deep, blind thrusts, his entire body locking up as a low, ragged scream tears from his lungs. He spasms against you, his cock twitching violently inside your walls as he finishes first, spilling himself entirely into the condom.

But he doesn't stop.

Even as his climax ripples through him, leaving him completely overstimulated and trembling, he refuses to pull out. He knows you haven't crossed the line yet. With his jaw clenched and his eyes swimming with tears from the sheer, burning sensitivity of his post-nut state, Jeongguk forces his hips to keep moving.

He whimpers miserably with every single stroke, the friction against his overstimulated skin clearly driving him crazy, but he keeps pushing inside you anyway.

"I've got you," he pants, a high, needy whine breaking from his lips as he drags his body up and down yours, his movements slower now, heavier, grinding his pelvis right against your clit with agonizing precision. "I'm not stopping... please, baby, come for me. Let me feel you clamp down on me. Please."

The sight of him pushing through his own overstimulation just to please you completely shatters whatever restraint you have left. Your internal walls collapse. Your hips begin to roll frantically against his, your toes curling into the silk sheets as the tight coil in your lower stomach snaps.

You scream his name as a violent, crushing orgasm ripples through your body. Your internal muscles clamp down tightly around his thick shaft, milking him through the latex. Jeongguk lets out a loud, pathetic whimper at the tight squeeze, his forehead dropping heavily onto your shoulder as he rides out the wave of your climax with you, completely spent, completely yours.

He collapses right besides you, his massive, shirtless frame molding perfectly against you as he pulls you into his chest. Both of your chests are heaving in the quiet room, the only sound the ragged asymmetry of your breathing slowing down. Jeongguk nuzzles his face into your hair, tracing his plush, swollen lips along your jawline before kissing you tenderly on the cheek—a soft, lingering pressure that feels entirely detached from the frantic, consuming chaos of just moments ago.

You lie there, the cool air of the bedroom hitting your bare skin where his body isn't pinning you down. The reality of what just happened begins to settle into your bones, the heavy fog of pleasure lifting to reveal the massive, uncharted territory you’ve both just stepped into.

"Jeongguk," you breathe out, your voice still a little raspy. You turn your head slightly, trying to look at him. "We should talk about it. About... us. What this means."

He lets out a soft, tired groan, burying his face deeper into your neck. His large, tattooed arm wraps securely around your waist, pulling you so close there isn't a single millimeter of space left between you.

"We will," he promises, his low rumble vibrating right against your skin. "I promise we’ll talk about everything you want. Just... please let me enjoy this moment for a second. Let me just hold you."

You agree, nodding your head slightly against his chest, but you are visibly lost in your thoughts. Your eyes trace the unfamiliar contours of his bedroom, the dark silk sheets, the heavy shadows on the wall. The anxiety hasn't completely vanished, it's just waiting on the periphery, whispering questions about tomorrow, about his career, about the fragile ten-year foundation you just risked.

As if sensing the sudden shift in your energy, Jeongguk shifts. He props himself up on one elbow, hovering over you just enough to look down into your face. His eyes are incredibly soft, completely clear of the tequila from last night and the blinding lust from minutes ago. He reaches up, his gentle thumb tracing your cheekbone, wiping away a stray bead of sweat.

"Hey," he murmurs, his piercing catching the soft light. He looks at you with an unwavering certainty that makes your heart skip a beat. "I’m going to make sure nothing goes south. I promise you. I love you, Y/N."

Hearing the words spoken so clearly, without a drop of alcohol or adrenaline to hide behind, makes the last of your defenses crumble.

"I love you too," you whisper back.

He smiles—a genuine, boyish grin that reminds you exactly of the teenager you met a decade ago—and pulls you back down against him. As you nuzzle your nose deep into the warm, clean-scented crook of his neck, listening to the steady, unshakeable beat of his heart beneath your cheek, the frantic thoughts in your mind finally begin to quiet down.

Las Vegas hits you the second you step out of the airport. The dry heat wraps around you like a second skin, and the city already feels electric, buzzing with that restless, neon-charged energy. Day 1 of the concert hasn’t even started, but everything around you feels intense as the minutes go by. Anxiously.

You’d been counting down to this moment since January. You still remember the three of you refreshing the presale page like your lives depended on it, hearts pounding as you fought your way into the queue the moment it opened. After nearly missing out last time they came to Vegas (you’d barely snagged a floor ticket, but you were so far back the members never would’ve seen you), you refused to settle. This time you were going all out. Ten years of being a fan, ten years of loving them through every comeback, every hiatus and every milestone. You wanted this trip to matter. You wanted to be close. You wanted the chance, however small, to actually be seen.

You and your friends had landed with nothing resembling a real plan, just a loose agreement to chase anything that felt even a little ARIRANG-coded or tied to BTS lore outside of going to the concerts. Hours before the day 1 concert, the three of you were fully committed and determined to follow the "BTS IN THE CITY - LAS VEGAS" itinerary and do anything even remotely related to them. It’s ridiculous, you think, as you walk past tourists filming the fountains and gamblers stumbling out of casinos like they’ve lost all sense of time. But it’s Vegas. Everything here is supposed to be a little ridiculous.

That’s how you end up at this specific place.

The Lotus Magic Shop is tucked on the Las Vegas Strip between two much louder hotel buildings. Its sign is small and easy to miss. The place looks gimmicky, but something about it still catches your eye. Your friend laughs the moment she sees it.

"Okay," she says, pointing. "That is literally a Magic Shop. We have to go in."

You don’t argue. None of you do. It doesn’t hurt you guys to check it or kill more time before soundcheck starts later that day. So you all just go in.

Inside, the air shifts. It’s cooler, quieter, like the city got muted the moment the door closed behind you. Shelves line the walls in uneven rows, filled with trinkets that look half antique and half staged, crystal animals, dusty jars, folded paper charms tied with string. It smells faintly like cedar and something metallic underneath, like old coins or rain that never fully dried. Mildew too, maybe?

As you slowly walk, observing each and every object, something immediately catches your eyes. Something peculiar.

The One Wish Willow.

It sits on a middle shelf like it doesn’t belong there, in a highly deceptive, retro, and cheap-looking mass-market packaging. The vintage 1980s-style box is designed to look like an ordinary, inexpensive novelty trinket you might impulsively pick up from a gift shop.

6.99.

Seven dollars, basically. It’s always the seven when it comes to BTS and Army!

You stare at it longer than you mean to.

"Look at this thing!" you say, holding up the small paper box. "It grants one wish, it says!"

The exterior and packaging also prominently display "Amaze your friends!" alongside important user warnings. Warning Labels: The packaging and included instructions heavily stress that wishes are irreversible and cannot be repeated.

Your friend snorts. "That’s so fake."

"Obviously," the other says, already turning to walk away. "But it’s cute. Get it for the memory or whatever." Her voice drips with sarcasm.

You know you should put it back. You absolutely know that. But something about the retro design keeps pulling your attention. Vegas has a way of making bad ideas feel exciting, like they’re part of the whole experience you’re supposed to collect.

So you carry it to the counter.

The cashier gives the box a strange look as he rings it up. "Are you sure about this?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, I’m sure," you reply, trying to sound casual.

He hesitates for a second, then shrugs. "Alright then."

Seven dollars feels like nothing in a city built to empty your wallet.

When your friends spot the bag in your hand at checkout, they both burst out laughing.

"So you actually bought a cursed piece of dead wood?" one of them says, eyes wide with amusement. "I was being sarcastic, you know!"

"It’s not cursed," you answer, rolling your eyes even as a small laugh escapes you. "It’s just a joke object." You pause, then add, "And I thought it looked pretty cool and retro."

You tuck the box deeper into your bag like it belongs there, even though a tiny voice in the back of your mind wonders if this was a dumb idea.

"It better not end up being like a Ouija board or something," your other friend says, grinning. "I’m not dealing with any haunted hotel room tonight."

"Oh please," you reply, shaking your head. "This is not going to summon anything. It’s literally just a trinket. Let it go." Your friends continue to laugh and tease you about your silly purchase.

You pull your the bag over your shoulder and head back out onto the Strip with your friends, the small weight of the box bouncing lightly against your side.

Outside again, the sun is blazing hot. The world is loud. You almost forget about the shop entirely by the time you three are rushing toward the venue, checking your phone every few seconds like it might suddenly tell you you’re late. You cannot be late!

Luckily the three of you make it just in time. The line is already moving, ushering fans into the venue grounds under the massive shade of Allegiant Stadium’s bowl.

You head straight to the Live Nation VIP tent, heart pounding as you wait your turn. When the staff finally hand over the passes and loop them around your neck, you look down and freeze. Soundcheck passes. The real ones. You still can’t believe it.

One of your friends lets out a sharp breath. "Holy shit, we actually got them."

The other just grins, gripping her pass like it might disappear. "Let’s go, let’s go!"

You’re guided inside with the rest of the VIP crowd, a buzzing wave of energy that feels impossible to contain. Everywhere you look there are flashing wristbands, security checking bags, and excited chatter bouncing off the concrete walls. In the distance, you can already hear the low thump of BTS running through their real soundcheck, the bass vibrating through your chest before that ends.

Once inside the stadium, the full scale of it hits you in pieces instead of all at once.

The stage is massive, extending into long catwalk legs that reach deep into the audience sections like arms stretching out to touch as many people as possible. Your seat is just slightly off-center from the extended stage. The moment you sit down, a small wave of disappointment hits you. You’re not as close as you thought you’d be. Not even close.

Your friends had sworn the three of you would be much closer than this. You can’t help but think you should have spent extra money on barricade resell tickets to guarantee it. Now you’re already worrying about the tickets for the other days. If those aren’t better, you know you’ll regret it.

You’ve been a fan for almost ten years. After all this time, you really want them to notice you. Not just as another light stick in the sea of ARMY, but as you.

Your fingers tighten around your phone as you settle in. They’ll look everywhere, you tell yourself, but the sinking feeling remains. Not exactly here. Not you.

Still, you came prepared. Your clear bag opens like a small arsenal of anticipation witn your BTS light stick, snacks you probably won’t eat, tissues you don’t need, and the poster you spent too long making.

On it, in bold exaggerated handwriting: "Can you BE MINE? 1 for Yes or 2 for Yes." with a photo of Jimin during MUSE era.

It’s stupid. It’s supposed to be stupid. That’s the point. It’s based on Jimin’s solo work. It’s a silly joke turned into hope turned into a poster that will lead to an interaction instead of just thinking about it as a possibility. He is your bias after all.

Just the thought that BTS are about to step onto that stage. And more specifically, Park Jimin…the PARK Jimin, is about to exist in the same physical space as you again after several years, even if only briefly, even if only in passing light.

You tell yourself that should be enough. He should notice you.

Soundcheck starts with "Swim," then "Alien," then "Fya." It’s fifteen minutes that feel like they stretch and compress at the same time, like time is reacting to their sound instead of the other way around.

When BTS comes out, the stadium erupts in a kind of sound that feels too much for human lungs. You watch them move like they already know exactly where every camera is, every angle, every expectation. Their simple, "What’s up guys!" are simply three words enough to drive everyone insane, especially you. Finally, after several years since Permission to Dance in Las Vegas, you are seeing these seven men together again. Kim Namjoon. Kim Seokjin. Min Yoongi. Jung Hoseok. PARK JIMIN. Kim Taehyung. Jeon Jungkook.

They look effortless in a way that makes you feel slightly unreal for existing in the same space. 

Kim Namjoon stands tall with his sharp jawline and calm, intelligent eyes. Kim Seokjin looks effortlessly handsome with his broad shoulders and glowing skin. Min Yoongi carries that cool, low-key charisma with his pale complexion and sharp cheekbones. Jung Hoseok radiates warm energy, his bright smile and toned physique lighting up the stage. Kim Taehyung looks strikingly handsome with his deep voice aura, defined features, and intense gaze. Jeon Jungkook lives up to being the golden maknae with his muscular, tattooed arms and  messy hair and youthful confidence. 

And then there’s Park Jimin, who moves like he’s half-aware of gravity but not fully obeying it, a living Disney princess with his luscious golden locks framing his delicate, ethereal face. He looks so strong, yet so petite. That’s your baby.

He circles the stage during "Alien" with the others, and you immediately stand a little straighter, as if that helps. You tippy-toe in your already tall-heeled boots. You lift your poster slightly higher. You even try a small, awkward dance, something to make yourself noticeable, something to separate you from the blur of fans around you.

He comes to your direction during their rounds around the stage. Oh my god.

Your chest tightens so sharply it feels like it might interrupt the moment itself.

He’s getting closer now. Close enough that you can see the way his hair sticks slightly to his forehead, the way his expression shifts between focus and warmth depending on where he’s looking.

You raise your poster higher.

"Can you BE MINE? 1 for Yes or 2 for Yes."

Your heart is doing something unhelpful and frantic.

But his eyes don’t land on you.

They sweep over your area like a light passing over glass, brief, reflective, gone. He’s looking lower, closer to the barricade, the very front rows where people are practically reaching into the stage. His attention is anchored there, grounded in proximity.

You are just far enough back to become part of the crowd instead of part of that key moment for him.

He glances at someone else with his signature angelic smile. Waves like a royal prince seeing his lovely commoners he cherishes. And then, he moves on.

Gone in the distance. By that, you mean going to another side of the stage to see more fans.

Just like that.

Opportunity lost.

The disappointment is not immediate due to the euphoria you feel from suddenly seeing him after so long. But it arrives a few seconds later with your shoulders slumping down, like your body needed time to realize what your mind already understands. You sigh, but it’s muffled by the speakers.

Soundcheck ends quickly after that. The members leave in a blur of coordinated movement and flashing lights, and the stadium slowly deflates into a crowd of noise again, fans talking, laughing, already discussing the moments they just experienced and other miscellaneous topics.

You stay seated.

Long after everyone else begins to shift and stand and stretch and leave for a bathroom and food break, you remain still, your poster resting against your knees like it suddenly weighs more than it did before. As if it won’t let you get up from this spot, remaining stuck on what happened earlier.

Your friends who had been chatting suddenly notice your gloom.

"It’s okay," one of them says quickly, patting you on the back for comfort. "It’s just soundcheck. You’ve got the main show with so many chances he’ll come back to our side. He’ll definitely see you then."

"Exactly," the other adds. "Your poster is literally iconic. We’ll make sure he doesn’t miss it the next time he comes around."

You know they’re just trying to cheer you up, but you can’t help but simply nod and stay quiet. Not saying anything is easierthan explaining that something about what happened already feels like the universe has decided this is how the rest of the night will be. It doesn’t include what you wanted at all.

They soon leave to get food, promising to come back before the show starts. Then the rest of the stadium’s floor empties in waves for a brief moment. You stay behind, claiming you need to charge your phone, even though it’s really just an excuse. You’re not in the mood to keep pretending you’re fine. After everything, ten years of being a fan, spending all that money, traveling all this way…you still feel invisible to these men you’ve supported for so long.

Of course you do, you think bitterly. Why would this time be any different? You always build these stupid little delusions in your head, imagining they might actually notice you, and then reality hits you in the face like it always does. You know you’ve gotten older and so have they as well. Sooner or later, they’re just going to get married and that tiniest delusional wish of you being with them, specifically Jimin, will suddenly not be possible. Not like it ever was.

Ugh.

The disappointment sits heavy in your chest. You close yourself off, sinking deeper into that familiar, tired feeling of being too much and not enough at the same time.

You open your bag slowly.

That’s when you see it again.

The One Wish Willow box.

It sits at the bottom like it’s been waiting patiently, as if it knew you’d eventually run out of distractions and remember it existed.

Suddenly, an idea sparks in your mind and you grab it out of your bag.

You turn it over in your hands.

6.99. Again, that’s basically $7. Sevens being associated with BTS, like this was always a sign for you to get it.

This is a joke. A souvenir. A stupid little object from a stupid little shop in a city that thrives on illusions. Reading it, it says to spark the middle and break in half right after saying your wish.

You almost laugh.

"What harm could it do to actually make a wish?" you murmur under your breath.

It’s not even a question you expect an answer to.

You open the box.

Inside, the One Wish Willow is smaller than you thought. Delicate. Ordinary. Almost pathetic. Like something you could snap between your fingers if you wanted to.

You hold it anyway.

The stadium hums faintly around you. Distant staff and fan movement, echoing sounds from the VCR play around the venue and the lingering ghost of music still trapped in the walls.

You exhale. You’re really gonna do this.

"I wish Jimin would finally notice me," you say quietly, almost amused at yourself.

There’s a pause.

Your brain tries, genuinely tries, to stop you there. To let it remain harmless. A joke. A story you can tell your friends later.

But you don’t stop.

Because if you’re going to pretend magic is real, it might as well be honest with magic.

"…and that once he does, he can’t stop thinking about me. Like I stay in his mind. Like he can’t look away, even when he tries. Like he…"

Your grip tightens slightly.

You don’t know why it suddenly feels harder to breathe in a building full of air.

You continue anyway.

"…like he falls for me completely and can’t stop."

The moment the words leave your mouth, you snap the piece of wood in half. The sharp crack echoes in the quiet space around you.

The air seems to shift. Not dramatically, and not in any way someone else would notice, but you feel it — a faint, almost imperceptible change. A soft jingle-like sound registers in your ears a second after the wish is already spoken.

You sit there for a beat. 

And

Well… nothing happened. 

Of course nothing happened. Wow, are you even surprised? Another ridiculous, delusional moment added to the list of desperate things you’ve done. Did you really thing some joke shop item could make the impossible possible.

You sigh, quickly stuffing the broken willow pieces back into the box and in your bag, embarrassed at yourself for what you just did. Your phone buzzes beside you, pulling you out of your thoughts. You glance down automatically. A notification lights up the screen from one of your fan update accounts: soundcheck clips are uploading. Thousands of fans are already reacting, flooding the comments with laughing emojis and stories about the interactive moments they got to experience. Moments you didn’t.

And somewhere in that noise, a strange thought forms, quiet and uninvited.

Like something heard you.

Like something is listening now.

The stadium floor begins to fill again.

And far away, under stage lights warming up for the main show, Day 1 of 4 starts to feel less like the beginning of just the Las Vegas concerts.

But  more like the first time something, or someone, has suddenly…and already chosen you back.

Your friends eventually come back with food in hand, talking over each other about how insane it already feels, how this is only Day 1 and somehow everything already feels so exciting yet overwhelming at the same time.

"You’re too quiet," one of them says, handing you one of those special BTS alcoholic drink pouches they’re serving and a paper tray of chicken tenders to share.

"I’m fine," you reply automatically, grabbing the drink and one chicken tender to eat. You do not mention you embarrassingly pulled out that one wish joke trinket and making an actual wish earlier. "I’m just anxious for the show to start already,"

You let your friends continue the rest of the conversation, letting their words wash over you while your eyes drift to the main stage again. 

The long catwalks stretch out like empty roads now, the barricades still lined with early fans trying to capture the perfect shot to show that they made it to the BTS concert and have the "best seats in the house". Staff members move across the floor, taping cables, checking screens, resetting the world for tonight’s main show like nothing supernatural had ever brushed through it.

But you cannot shake the feeling that something did. Or at least that’s what you want to believe.

By the time doors open for the general audience for the main concert, the energy shifts completely.

The stadium fills so fast it almost feels violent. Allegiant Stadium becomes a single body exhaling heat, light, and sound all at once. It's also just a bit overwhelming the more and more you think about it and look around. Thousands and thousands of people…

The crowd becomes a living thing pressed shoulder to shoulder, lightsticks blooming like a field of synchronized living stars, and VCR music begins to play ominous traditional Korean instrumental tunes.

You and your friends do eventually go to the bathroom together before returning back to your seats discussing surprise songs you’re all hopeful to see, random tweets they saw online, and other yappings about BTS. Things have settled and feel different. Fuller. Heavier. Like whatever happened during soundcheck and you being embarassed by Jimin's lack of attention towards you has been swallowed by something larger. 

The show that you all came here for.

When the show begins, it begins with a big impact.

"Hooligan" hits first, and the stage explodes into movement. Then "Aliens," then "Run BTS," and the entire stadium screams like it is trying to keep up with its own heartbeat.

BTS move like they are in control of space and gravity again, but you notice something subtle now that you did not during soundcheck. It is not obvious at first. Just small pauses between movements. Slight changes in where attention goes.

And more than anything, you notice Jimin.

He is smiling, performing, spinning into choreography like he always does, but his eyes keep drifting in ways that feel slightly unfocused. Not lost. Just… searching. Like he is looking for something he cannot name. His body language also looks off at moments, but maybe you're overthinking it a bit much.

Yeah, maybe you are just imagining it.

But then it happens again during "Fake Love."

He and Yoongi walk toward the extended stage leg closest to your side of the floor. The crowd erupts around you, phones rising like a single wave. You jump excitedly without thinking, lifting your poster again even though your hands are already tired from holding it earlier. Is this rude to the rest of the people behind you? Yes. Did you care, not in the slightest at that moment! You need Jimin to see you at all costs!

"Can you BE MINE? 1 for Yes or 2 for Yes."

You watch him approach.

Huh…? Woah… wait…

This time, he’s closer than he was during soundcheck. Close enough that you can see the way his expression tightens slightly when he scans the crowd to hype everyone up.

As he turns, he stops.

Just for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

His eyes pass over barricade fans first, then to the middle sections, then to you.

You?!

And for a moment, his gaze catches yours and he suddenly looks very elated to find you, like he’s been looking for you his whole life.

He then looks at the poster you’re holding, reading the sign and laughs. Then he raises a peace sign, a two, answering your poster’s question. 

The moment registers, and you and your friends explode into screams, jumping and clutching each other in pure shock.

Finally. After all these years, he actually noticed you!

Yes, you!

But just as quickly, his expression shifts. His smile falters. He looks away sharply, almost like something yanked his attention elsewhere, and continues moving down the stage. The interaction ends as fast as it started.

You slowly lower your poster, heart still hammering in your chest.

"WOAH! Wait, what just happened?!" one of your friends shouts over the pounding music. "He literally noticed you!! Like, he read your poster and everything!"

"I don’t know how I even got this lucky," you answer, your voice sounding distant and shaky, still completely awestruck. "Oh my god, I can’t believe he saw me and answered!"

As you speak, a strange mix of excitement and confusion swirls inside you. You and your friends keep fangirling hard, screaming and cheering through the rest of the set, but the rest of the concert continues like a dream that refuses to settle.

Act 2. "Mic Drop" shakes the stadium so hard your ribs feel like they are vibrating separately from your body. It’s been years since you last saw this song live. "Fire" and "Fya" turns the crowd into pure crazed movement, with other members like Taehyung and Hoseok coming onto your side to hype everyone up. During "Idol," the members walk the perimeter in a procession, and you catch glimpses of them moving past your section. Namjoon looks out into the crowd with a calm focus which then turns happy and silly, seeing the whole stadium at once and taking the chance to have fun. Jin waves toward a section slightly farther away, laughing at something a fan is doing. Jungkook and Yoongi run ahead of the others briefly, then slows like he remembers he is supposed to stay in formation close to the rest of the members.

But Jimin…

Jimin keeps pausing in small, inconsistent ways. Not enough for anyone else to notice if they weren't his fellow members and staff, though just enough for you to start noticing it as a long time fan. 

Is something wrong?

Earlier before, during a transition, he turned his head toward the stage wings like he heard something offstage. Another time, he looks directly into the crowd again and holds it for a beat too long, then blinks like he is resetting himself.

Your stomach tightens.

You tell yourself it's likely exhaustion. Lights. Noise. Pressure. Anything normal. This is the last stop of the first leg of the World Tour, and maybe he's not feeling 100% right now. It’s been a few years since they’ve toured and traveled this much after all.

But the thought from earlier returns from when you made the wish.

That weird feeling like something changed.

By the time the encore begins, you are physically drained from all of the standing or screaming you've been doing for over an hour. It’s been so fun, but man, does it suck everything out of you.

Once "Come Over" starts, everything feels so much more chill from the songs that came before it. In a way, it’s like the stadium is exhaling and slowing down, wrapping up a show you waited months for. "Butter" makes everyone laugh and sway, the members joking with each other, moving without precision on purpose.

During the "Dynamite" dance break, Jimin spins mid-step and for a brief second looks directly toward the center sections again around the area you are at.

And again, it is like something inside him stutters.

Like he is trying to focus, but there’s one thing that’s causing him to fail.

The surprise songs hit differently.

"Permission to Dance" shocks fans at its sudden return to being played, to the dismay of some, but it brings back some soft memories from the Permission to Dance tour. "Go Go" right after is chaotic and playful, but even then, you notice Jimin lagging half a beat behind the others at one point, then correcting himself instantly like it never happened. He laughs it off, but you can tell members like Taehyung catch it immediately that this isn't normal for Jimin.

You hope everything is alright and that he isn't pushing himself too hard.

The final stretch of the concert slows everything down. The members do their ending ments, thanking fans for coming to Vegas, mentioning how they know many travelled fair to be there and also coming back to this venue after 4 years. Time surely has passed. Jimin's ending ment is very normal during this part with him just teasing fans to make some noise and hoping everyone gets home safely after the show. Last two songs are up.

"Please" has them sitting on the rotating main stage, turning slowly so every side of Allegiant Stadium gets to see BTS full and clearly. The crowd is still loud, but it is now singing softly. It’s starting to feel emotional enough with everyone’s collective fatigue and joy mixing together.

You watch Jimin during that rotation, recording with your phone for some fancam clips to have as memories.

You zoom in with your phone and see that he is smiling again. Now, playing around with Yoongi who keeps poking at him, followed by Jungkook who slaps his knees. Your typical "boys"  in their natural setting. 

But every so often, his eyes flick toward your section again. And again.

He stares deeply, as if he’s trying to find…you, but his contacts don’t let him do that. Maybe you’re just making this scenario up in your head. 

Then "Into the Sun" begins.

It feels like the entire stadium holds its breath for a second before the lights shift into warm golds and soft oranges. The end of the show. The opening notes wash over the crowd, and the energy changes instantly. You spot Jimin stepping forward under the glowing lights, his golden hair catching every beam as he moves across the stage with that effortless, floating grace.

The members stand at the edge of the stage, waving, lingering, and walking backward as if refusing to fully leave yet. The stadium roars with everything it has left, a wall of sound that vibrates in your chest like it could keep them there forever.

And then it is over. 

The lights come up gradually at first, then all at once.

Harsh, white, and unforgiving. Reality forcing itself back in like waking up suddenly after having a beautiful dream. You don’t want to leave yet!

The crowd seems to share the same sentiment as they also don’t move right away. Everyone just stands there, stunned into a lingering, messy noise until they finally start shuffling out. Some still full of energy, some already crying, a few calling out names that won’t be answered by BTS again tonight. The magic drains slowly, like water slipping through cupped hands.

Back to reality, you suppose.

Your friends stay frozen beside you for a long second. Then the disbelief spills out.

"I can’t believe Day 1 is actually over," one of them says, voice cracking. "It doesn’t feel real that we finally saw them all together after four years."

Another lets out a shaky laugh and rubs her face with both hands. "I’m literally not ready to leave. How are we supposed to just go home after that?"

"How do we go home when this feels like home?" you murmur, throat tight. The words make one of your friends tear up. The stadium lights suddenly feel too bright against your own wet eyes.

"You’re so right…" the first friend says softly. Then she tries to rally. "But hey, we’ve still got tomorrow, Wednesday, and Thursday."

A half-hearted "Yay" ripples through your little group. It comes out flat, tired, and sarcastic. You join in, but it sounds more like a groan. You promise you’re excited, but just for now, very, VERY tired.

Tomorrow suddenly feels less like a gift to see BTS again and more like the last step toward the edge of a cliff you’ll fall off of due to post-concert fatigue. 

Your friend grabs your arm anyway, gently pulling you forward before the body ache can settle too deep.

"Can we take some photos?," one says, already steering you toward the barricade. "We have to get some barricade pictures while it’s emptying out. Come on."

You follow and comply because it’s easier than thinking. Easier than sitting still with your body suddenly too aware of itself. Legs shaky, chest hollow, every chorus still ringing in your ears. Maybe you should’ve bought those LOOP earplugs because it’s gonna be a very long weak for your deafening ears at this rate.

The barricade and overall fall area is calmer now, still crowded but manageable. Fans take turns posing, laughing, and recreating tiktok poses for their photos to share on their socials later on.

You take a few photos with your friends. You smile when you’re supposed to. You hold up your lightstick and try to match their energy.

But your feet hurt. Your entire body feels like it’s been emptied and refilled too many times in one night.

Eventually you drift away from them, letting your friends keep taking pictures while you sink into a random empty aisle seat closer to the back of the floor. It isn’t your seat. You don’t care. Doesn’t matter at this point anyways.

You lean forward, unlacing your boots with slow fingers. The floor feels colder than you expect. You pull out your foldable flats from your bag and slip them on, exhaling like you have been holding your breath for hours. You put your boots away in a reusable bag you had folded up in your main bag.

The thought of walking back to the hotel already makes your legs ache. The Strip will be chaos. Fans everywhere. Regular Las Vegas tourists everywhere as well. Glittering noise and traffic and exhaustion all wrapped together in multiple directions.

"Fans are packed together just like sardines," one of your friends had called it earlier.

It feels accurate now seeing everyone trying to get out of the stadium with no BTS in it. They’ve probably left by now. Good on them for going back to eat and rest, you need to do that too.

You lean back in the seat for just a few seconds, holding onto your clear bag of stuff and your shoe bag, looking at your friends still focused on getting the right angles for their pictures.

But that’s when it happens.

A hand grabs your arm.

Firm. Immediate. Real.

You are pulled sideways before your brain fully processes what is happening, taking a strong hold of your bags before they slip off.

"Wait–" you start, voice rising instantly, shock snapping through your body. 

The grip tightens and drags you faster, away from your seat, away from your friends, toward one of the darkened tunnels that leads backstage.

Your breath catches hard.

Who is this person and where are they taking you?!

The direction BTS disappeared into? Why? 

Your instinct is to scream. 

You almost do.

But the person stops abruptly and turns slightly, sensing it before it happens. A hand rises quickly, finger pressed to a masked mouth in a clear shushing gesture.

"쉬," the man says quietly. ["Shh."]

Your heart slams so hard it feels like it is trying to leave your chest.

The man is small-framed, a bit taller than you, wearing an oversized hoodie that swallows his body shape completely. He is wearing some kind of access pass with AAA on it. He dons on a  mask and the hood covers most of his face, leaving only his eyes visible.

And when you see those eyes properly, everything in you goes still in a way you had once joked about.

Not panic.

Not excitement.

Just a total system freeze.

Because your brain refuses to accept what your eyes are showing you.

Because it just can’t…

No.

No way.

That is not–

The man pulls you further into the tunnel, away from the noise of the stadium, deeper into the dim backstage corridor where everything sounds distant and muffled.

Your mind finally catches up to your body.

This is how you thought it would go, once, in a very delusional dream you had many years ago about BTS at the Speak Yourself tour when you were still in college. 

You left the stadium in the dream and a BTS member suddenly stopped you before you went out just to talk to you about how you liked the show. You immediately laughed it off once you woke up.

Yes, it’s a bit different and not like this. But it’s supposed to be a dream. Not possible at all.  

If something like that ever happened, you had told yourself you would freeze up. You will not scream. You will not move. You will just accept whatever they do or say because it cannot be real anyway.

And now you are doing exactly that.

Because the man glances back at you again, and the mask shifts slightly as he turns.

And when you meet his eyes properly this time, there is no room left for doubt.

It is him.

Jimin.

He is staring at you like he is still trying to confirm something.

Then, in a low voice, barely above a breath, he speaks in Korean first.

"왜 이렇게 조용해요?" ["Why are you so quiet?"]

You do not answer.

You physically cannot.

He lets out a short exhale that sounds almost like relief, then shifts his grip slightly, still holding your arm but gentler now, guiding instead of dragging.

Then he adds, in careful English, softer and more deliberate than before.

"Sorry, I need you to come with me. Just for a moment."

Your legs move because he is moving.

Not because you decided.

Because something in your brain has completely stopped arguing.

And as the tunnel opens further into the backstage world, where lights are colder and voices are lower and everything feels like it is happening behind reality instead of inside it, one thought repeats in your head over and over again.

Again, this is not supposed to be happening.

And yet it is.

The corridor behind the main tunnel is nothing like the stadium.

The sound drops off so sharply it feels like your ears are malfunctioning. One moment there are 50,000+ people screaming somewhere behind concrete and steel, and the next there is only the hum of emergency lighting and the distant vibration of machinery you cannot see.

Jimin keeps walking until the noise of tour staff, venue staff, and other stagehands fades completely.

You try to count doors as you pass them. You lose track after the third.

He finally stops in a narrow stretch of corridor that looks abandoned, like it exists only for maintenance and forgotten movement. No staff. No cameras in obvious sight. Just pale walls and a flickering light overhead that makes everything feel slightly unreal.

He releases your arm.

For a second, you do not move. You just stand there, staring at him in the hoodie and mask. You’re not sure if you look scared or fascinated, but your brain is still refusing to fully translate what is happening into something logical.

Then he exhales, like he has been holding something in since earlier.

And suddenly, he steps forward.

Fast.

And you instinctively move back before you can process it, which leads to your back hitting the wall.

Not painfully. Not violently.

But firmly enough that your body registers it as a full stop with nowhere to go.

Your breath catches sharply, eyes widening instantly as your hands lift slightly between you and him out of pure reflex.

He is close now. Too close for any normal backstage interaction. Close enough that you can see the slight uneven rise and fall of his chest, like even he is not fully steady.

The mask is still on, but his eyes are completely uncovered now that the oversized hood of his hoodie falls off.

Jimin is not performing anymore.

Jimin is focused.

Locked in.

On you.

Your voice tries to form something in Korean, but it does not make it out.

He takes his mask off and speaks first, in Korean. 

Voice low and controlled, but very clear. However, there is something strained underneath it, like the words are being pulled out instead of chosen by him.

"오늘…" he starts, then pauses, as if correcting himself mid-thought. "오늘 제대로 못했어요." ["Today… I couldn't do my best."]

Your brows knit slightly. You know some Korean, so you're only able to catch fragments of words. Today. Could not. Best.

You do not question why he is speaking to you in a language that you don't really understand, mainly due to being a bit nervous of killing the vibe right now. You will listen to him say anything even if you can’t comprehend it because you can’t even comprehend the situation you’re in right now! Jimin doesn’t notice this spiral of internal thoughts of yours and continues speaking, not looking away from you at all.  "계속 당신을 찾으려고 했어요." ["I kept trying to look for you."]

Your breath stutters.

That word. 당신.

You know enough Korean to understand the weight of it. You. You specifically. You said in an endearing way.

His hand lifts slightly, then stops midway, like he is unsure whether he should touch you again or not.

He continues anyway, voice tightening just a little.

"잠깐이라도 안 보이면…" ["If I could not see you, even for a moment…"]

He stops.

His gaze flickers across your face like he is checking whether you are still here, still real, still reacting.

Then he exhales through his nose, a sound that is almost frustrated with himself.

"불안했어요." ["I felt anxious."]

Silence drops between you.

It is not empty.

It is full.

Full of the stadium somewhere behind you. Full of the fact that this is Jimin. Full of the fact that he is standing too close, speaking like you are not a stranger he just pulled into a corridor five minutes ago.

Your mouth opens slightly.

Nothing comes out.

Your brain finally forces a question to the surface.

"Sorry, what do you mean exactly?"

He watches your confusion register. His eyes soften slightly, and for the first time there is a crack in the intensity, like he realizes you are not following everything and must figure out better words to reach you.

He shifts, leaning back just a fraction, giving you the smallest amount of space against the wall.

Then he switches to English.

His words are carefully thought out, "I kept losing focus on stage."

Your own breath is still unsteady, but at least now you can understand him clearly.

He continues, eyes still locked on yours.

"I would be performing, and then I would look for a second, and you were not in my sight."

A pause.

His fingers curl slightly at his side, like he is restraining something restless in his own body.

"And I could not stop thinking about it."

Your heart is beating so hard it feels loud in your ears again, even without the stadium.

You manage a small, broken sound. Not a word. Just disbelief trying to become speech.

He nods once, like he understands that reaction more than he wants to.

Then he speaks again, softer now, but no less direct.

"I do not know why it was happening today."

His eyes move over your face again, slower this time, like he is trying to confirm something that still does not make sense even to him.

"I have performed hundreds of times," he says. "But today… I kept feeling like I needed to see you."

The word see lands heavier this time.

Not just notice.

Not just a glance.

See.

Like you were supposed to be part of something that he could not complete without you being there.

Your back is still against the wall. His proximity has not changed much, only softened at the edges.

And then he adds, quieter, almost like he is admitting something he did not plan to say out loud.

"I thought I was imagining it at first."

A beat.

"But it kept happening again."

He tilts his head slightly, studying you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip and feel like it’d be better to disappear at this moment. This may be too much for you to handle, but you will hold on to dear life for him to keep going with his words.

"And when I finally saw you clearly during ‘Fake Love’…" he pauses, swallowing slightly. "It felt like something clicked."

Your fingers tighten slightly against the wall behind you, grounding yourself in something physical because nothing else feels stable.

You finally force yourself to speak again, though your voice is thin, and a bit nervous.

"You… you saw me?"

That is all you can manage. Stupidest question ever since you know he did and acknowledged your poster, but double confirmation from him would be nice.

He nods immediately.

"Yes."

Simple.

Absolute.

No hesitation.

Then, after a pause that feels heavier than anything before it, he adds in English again, quieter now.

"I could not stop looking after that."

The corridor hums faintly.

Somewhere far away, staff voices echo briefly, then fade again.

He does not move away.

You do not move either.

And in the strange silence between a stadium of people leaving and a hallway meant for nobody, it becomes very clear that whatever this is, it did not end when the concert did.

Your mind latches onto the only logical thread it can find, even as your body refuses to fully cooperate with logic anymore.

Did it actually work?

Did the One Wish Willow actually fucking work?

That stupid seven-dollar box sitting at the bottom of your bag. A whole joke toy. A souvenir or whatever. Something you were supposed to laugh about as a trinket from Vegas upon returning home.

Now nothing about this feels like a joke.

Jimin is still standing in front of you.

Too close. Too real.

And then his hands lift. Slowly. Carefully.

As he moves, your eyes catch the small, delicate "13" tattoo on his left wrist, inked in clean, black lines. The sight hits you hard. Another real sign. This is actually him. Park Jimin.

He cups your face like he’s testing whether you are solid and real as well. His palms are warm against the chill of the hallway air, thumbs resting gently under your cheekbones. For a moment, his expression tightens again, like even this gentle contact isn’t enough to settle whatever is storming inside him.

His voice drops, and this time he speaks in Korean again, slower than before, like he is choosing each word as it comes out.

"볼수록…" he murmurs. ["The more I look at you…"]

His gaze drags over your face like he is trying to memorize it in real time.

"너를…" he continues, then stops briefly, exhaling through his nose. ["You…"]

Then he finishes it, voice quieter but heavier.

"가지고 싶어져." ["I want to have you."]

A pause.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just heavy in the way silence becomes heavy when someone says something they were not supposed to say out loud.

His thumbs press slightly more firmly against your cheeks, not painful, but enough that you feel the intensity sharpen.

"그냥 보는 걸로는 부족해." ["Just looking is not enough."]

Your breath catches.

Not because you understand everything perfectly, but because you understand enough.

Enough to feel the meaning behind it pressing into the space between you.

His eyes flicker across yours again, like he is checking your reaction, and something in him seems to lean forward before he consciously decides to follow it.

The distance between you disappears further. The distance between you vanishes.

Jimin’s mouth finds yours like he’s been starving for it, slow at first, almost reverent, lips soft and plush as they press against yours. Then the hunger takes over. His hands slide from your cheeks into your hair, gripping just tight enough to tilt your head back as he deepens the kiss. His tongue slips past your lips, hot and insistent, tasting you like he wants to devour every small sound you make.

You moan into his mouth and he answers with a low, throaty sound of his own, pressing you back against the cool wall of the hallway. His body is solid heat against yours, firm chest, narrow waist, the hard line of his thigh pushing between your legs. One of his hands drops to your hip, fingers digging in as he rolls his hips forward, letting you feel exactly how much he wants you.

"Fuck…" he breathes against your lips in English this time, the word ragged. Then he’s kissing you again, filthier, tongue stroking deep and slow while his hand slides under the hem of your shirt. His palm is scorching against your bare skin, fingertips tracing up your ribs until he cups your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple through your thin bra. It pebbles instantly under his touch and he groans, pinching lightly, rolling it until your back arches off the wall.

You clutch at his shoulders, the ash hoodie fabric bunching in your fists. He’s still in stage clothes underneath, sweat-damp tank top clinging to his body, and the scent of him fills your head: clean sweat, faint cologne, and something darker, purely him. You suck on his tongue and he shudders, grinding harder against you, the very obvious ridge of his cock pressing insistently against your thigh.

"너 때문에…" he pants between kisses, voice wrecked. "이렇게 됐어… [Because of you… I’m like this…]"

His mouth trails down to your jaw, then your neck. He bites, sharp enough to sting, then soothes it with his tongue, sucking a mark right below your ear while his hand squeezes your breast harder. Your hips jerk against his thigh, chasing friction, and he chuckles darkly against your skin before kissing you again, messier this time. Lips wet, tongues sliding, spit-slick and desperate. His free hand grips your ass, pulling you tighter against him so you can feel every inch of his hardness rocking against you.

You’re both breathing hard, almost panting into each other’s mouths. His forehead rests against yours for half a second, eyes half-lidded and glassy with want, before he dives back in-kissing you like the world is ending, like this stolen hallway is the only place left. One of your hands slips under his hoodie, nails dragging down his back, and he hisses, hips snapping forward again in response.

He’s just starting to push your shirt higher, mouth moving down toward your chest, when–

A sound cuts through the hallway.

Footsteps.

Sharp. Controlled. Fast.

A voice follows immediately, colder than everything else in the corridor.

"지민아." ["Jimin."]

The spell breaks instantly for a moment.

Jimin’s hands drop from your face immediately like he has been shocked by you. His entire posture changes in a single snap, shoulders tightening, breath shifting.

He turns his head towards the voice.

Namjoon is now standing at the end of the corridor, with an expression that is not confused at first.

It’s initially sharp, but then it turns fully into disbelief. Like he cannot believe what his fellow band member is doing right now.

His eyes move from Jimin to you, then back to Jimin.

"뭐 하는 거야?" ["What the hell are you doing?"]

Jimin takes a half step back so quickly it looks involuntary, like his body is suddenly remembering it is supposed to have boundaries. "씨발…What the…fuck?" his eyes widen, and mutters under his breath, but not directed at anyone in particular, like he is realizing the situation at the exact same time everyone else is.

He looks down briefly, running a hand over his face, then moves slightly away from you as if trying to physically reset himself.

The shift is so abrupt it makes your stomach drop and a bit hurt by the actiom. What’s even going on right now?

It’s as if someone just turned the volume of reality back on too fast and this idol that was all over you is suddenly, and really, just a stranger after all.

Namjoon steps closer, eyes narrowing as he takes in the corridor, the distance between you and Jimin, the way Jimin is standing like he is trying to reassemble his own thoughts. He’s probably more confused now, and you understand that too.

"무슨 일이야?" Namjoon asks, voice controlled but clearly strained. ["What is going on?"]

Jimin does not answer immediately.

Namjoon exhales harshly, looking between you both again.

"끝나고 나서 너 갑자기 후드 쓰고 마스크 쓰고 뛰쳐나갔다며." ["After the show ended, you suddenly grabbed a hoodie and a mask and ran off."]

He gestures vaguely down the corridor.

"스태프들이 계속 찾고 있었어." ["The staff have been looking for you everywhere."]

Silence again.

Then Namjoon’s eyes flick to you again, slower this time, assessing.

Jimin suddenly lets out a short, but strange laugh.

It is not the kind of laugh that belongs in this moment.

It is too light.

Too detached.

Namjoon finds this uncomfortable, his expression shifting.

"왜 웃어?" ["Why are you laughing?"]

Jimin tilts his head slightly, still half turned away, then looks back at you like he has just remembered you are there in a different way than before.

Then he says, in Korean, almost casually and flirtatiously:

"그냥… 이 팬이 눈에 들어와서." ["Just… this fan caught my eye."]

His gaze lingers on you.

Then he adds, slower:

"같이 데려가고 싶었어." ["I wanted to bring her with me."]

Namjoon scoffs immediately.

"호텔까지?" ["To the hotel?"] His disbelief sharpens. "너 지금 우리 전부 다 걸고 그런 짓을 한 거야?" ["You’re putting all of our reputations on the line for that?"] He gestures between Jimin and the corridor like he cannot believe he is having to say this out loud. "그냥 데려가서 여기서 키스라도 하려고 한 거야?" ["Did you just drag her here to kiss her in a hallway?"]

The air goes completely still. This time it isn’t charged with only tension, but it also feels heavy with consequences that are yet to come.

Jimin opens his mouth like he’s about to respond, then closes it again. His expression flickers, as if he’s trying to hold onto a thought that keeps slipping away. Then, unexpectedly, a soft laugh escapes him. It starts quiet, almost disbelieving, before growing just a little stronger.

Namjoon stares at him like he is no longer sure who he is looking at.

You don’t move. You barely breathe. You have no idea whether you should even be here for this conversation. This seems like the moment you should slowly walk away.

Jimin finally turns to look at Namjoon properly, still smiling faintly like the entire situation feels slightly unreal to him.

Then he says in Korean, calm and quiet:

"형, 그냥 영어로 말해줘." ["Hyung, just tell her in English."]

A pause.

Namjoon blinks. "뭐라고? 걔한테 뭐라고 말하라고?" he asks, voice flat with disbelief. ["What? Tell her what?"]

Jimin tilts his head slightly toward you again, eyes briefly sharpening as if refocusing on the original thread that started all of this.

His voice lowers when he speaks next, calmer now, but still unsettling in its certainty.

"그냥 영어로 말해줘." he says first, almost absentmindedly, like he is setting the tone of the moment for himself. ["Just say it in English."]

Then, after a beat, he adds in Korean, slower, deliberate, as if each word has already been decided and there is no room left to argue with it.

"...데려간다고 말해." ["...Tell her she’s coming with us."]

Namjoon does not move right away.

The word hangs in the corridor like something physically uncomfortable.

"데려간다고?" he repeats, slower this time, like saying it again might make it make sense. ["Bring her with us?"]

His eyes flick to Jimin first. Then to you. Then back again, sharper now.

"지민아, 너 지금 무슨 말 하는지 알아?" ["Jimin, do you know what you are saying right now?"]

Jimin does not look away.

He stands straighter now, like the earlier instability has been replaced with something more fixed, more certain in a way that is almost worse.

"I know," he says simply in Korean, then exhales once. "알아." ["I know."]

Namjoon lets out a quiet breath through his nose, frustration and concern mixing in a way that makes his voice drop lower.

"아까부터 이상했어." ["You’ve been strange since earlier."]

He gestures slightly toward Jimin, controlled but tense.

"무대에서도 집중이 계속 끊겼고, 스태프들도 봤어." ["Even on stage, you kept losing focus, and the staff noticed."]

Again, his gaze sharpens as he continues to scold and interrogate the younger member, but he says nothing back.

"이거 그냥 넘길 문제가 아니야." ["This is not something we can just ignore."]

Jimin’s jaw tightens slightly, but he still does not step back or rile up his leader further.

Namjoon finally looks at you properly now, like he is now deciding to include you in something he did not plan for. It makes you nervous. He is your bias wrecker after all and all this serious business is making you worried.

Then he switches to English, voice softer but very deliberate.

"I need you to listen carefully."

You swallow.

He glances briefly back at Jimin before continuing.

"Jimin wants you to come with us."

A pause.

Not dramatic. Just heavy. The kind of pause where you hear something so insane that a single second stretches long enough for your pulse to beat twice, three times, while your brain tries to assemble the sentence into something that makes sense.

"Okay…" The word comes out before you can stop it. Neutral. But sounds question shaped. A placeholder while your mind scrambles for footing for more words.

Namjoon's expression tightens slightly. Not anger. Something closer to the careful patience of someone explaining the rules of a game you haven't agreed to play and have never played before.

He adds, more carefully now, "But you need to understand… this is not normal."

His eyes flick down the corridor, checking for what? Security? Staff? Other fans spilling out of nearby exits? Then back to you.

"I think he is going through something. Mentally. Like a crisis. I don't know what triggered it, but this behavior is not like him."

Behind Namjoon, Jimin says nothing. Doesn't move. Just keeps smiling that small, knowing smile, watching you like you are the only person left in the world. 

Something cold traces down your spine. Not fear. Not yet. But the awareness that the ground has shifted beneath your feet, and you haven't noticed until just now.

Namjoon's voice drops lower, pulling your attention back.

"I am not letting you be pressured." He says it like a fact. Like a line he has already drawn in his own mind and will not cross. "But I also cannot just leave you like this in the middle of Allegiant Stadium."

He exhales, a slow controlled breath, and takes a step slightly closer to you. Close enough that the ambient noise of the departing crowd seems to recede. Close enough that his next words feel like they are being placed directly into your ribs.

"If you come with us, you have to stay calm. You do not post anything. You do not record anything. You do not argue. You just go where we go and we will figure this out."

His eyes aren’t cruel, but they are precise in its’ focus. The sharp, calculating gaze of a leader who knows the margin for error has just shrunk to almost nothing.

"And you tell your friends you left with other people from the concert. Other friends," he says firmly. "Tell them you’ll be back at their hotel tomorrow. You understand?"

A beat passes. His voice softens just slightly. "Can you do that?"

"Yes." The word slips out before you can even think. You feel heat rise to your cheeks, embarrassed by how quickly you agreed and by how much his authoritative tone affects you. It’s one of the things you’ve always loved about him and made him your bias wrecker.

The moment the answer leaves your mouth, your phone buzzes with a notification in your hand.

You glance down instinctively and try to open it, but no signal.

No signal?

That’s strange. The stadium had been packed all night and your service had been fine. Now the bars at the top of the screen are completely gone, replaced by a small, blinking icon you don’t recognize.

Then the screen stutters. Ghost inputs appear. The edges of your wallpaper flicker and pixelate into gray static for a split second. The phone dims and not the normal fade of low battery or auto-brightness, but something unnatural. Like something is actively draining the life from it in real time.

It goes dark. Then lights up again, dimmer. Then it turns dark. Then dim.

Namjoon notices immediately. You see the exact moment it registers and the slight hitch in his breathing with the way his gaze drops to your hand for half a second too long.

"That’s fine," he says quickly, his tone smooth and reassuring, already trying to paper over the strange moment. "The stadium network probably got overloaded. Just tell them you couldn’t contact them and share your location later."

His voice stays steady, but you catch the new layer of tension running underneath it.

Jimin finally speaks again, quietly in Korean.

"형, 빨리 가." ["Hyung, let’s go quickly."]

Namjoon does not respond immediately. His eyes stay on you for another second, like he is still deciding whether this is a mistake that can be stopped.

Then he exhales once, sharply.

"Okay," he says in English, more to himself than anyone else.

He turns slightly, gesturing down the corridor.

"Follow me."

The walk feels unreal.

Not fast. Not chaotic.

Controlled, like your body has been inserted into someone else’s plan and is now expected to cooperate.

The corridors shift from narrow backstage passages into wider service halls. You pass staff areas, locked doors, rolling equipment cases. Every sound feels muted, like the building is underwater now.

Then you reach the loading area.

The air changes again.

Colder. More open. Outside doors are partially raised, letting in flashes of Las Vegas night light, distant traffic, and the lingering echo of a stadium that is still emptying out behind you.

A black Escalade is already waiting.

Engine running.

Lights on.

Other members are not here.

Just this.

Just Namjoon, Jimin, and you.

Security is stationed nearby. A few staff members in BTS tour uniforms. And near the vehicle, a man you recognize from earlier briefings, likely head of security, labeled Mr Lee by the staff.

He looks at you immediately.

Not with curiosity.

With assessment.

Like you are a problem that has entered a controlled environment.

His eyes flick between you, Jimin, and Namjoon in quick succession.

One of the security staff leans slightly toward Mr Lee, speaking under his breath.

Namjoon notices immediately and steps forward before it escalates.

"괜찮아요." he says firmly in Korean. ["It’s okay."]

Then he switches to English for clarity, voice calm but authoritative.

"She’s with me. She’s a friend."

There is a pause.

The security team does not look convinced.

Mr Lee’s gaze lingers on you a moment longer than comfortable, then shifts back to Namjoon.

A quiet exchange happens between them without words needing to be said.

Then, finally, Mr Lee gives a short nod.

No approval.

Just acceptance of responsibility being transferred.

No one argues out loud, but the air says everything anyway.

Namjoon opens the door to the Escalade.

"Get in," he says gently, looking at you again. You do.

Behind him, Jimin is already waiting, eyes fixated on you like the decision was never really open to question at all.

And the night outside of the venue, fans continue to walk home, unaware that something with bts has already changed direction completely.

The black Escalade pulls away from Allegiant Stadium smoothly and disappears into the Las Vegas night with dark windows and practiced timing. Outside, the Strip is exactly what you imagined it would be after Day 1 of a BTS concert. Thousands of people flood the sidewalks in every direction to get back home or to their hotels. Lightsticks still glow in people’s hands. Fans carry banners rolled under their arms and film themselves while walking in crowds thick enough to slow traffic. Cars inch forward beneath giant LED billboards and neon reflections.

You should be out there.

You should be squeezed between your friends, complaining that your feet hurt and replaying every moment from the show. You should be hearing someone insist Jimin definitely looked in your direction at one point. You should be heading back to the ARIA, where you're staying at, and deciding whether overpriced room service is worth it. Or if you should door dash some food from somewhere.

Instead, you’re here.

Inside a black SUV.

With Jimin and Namjoon.

This car ride feels wrong in the same way certain dreams feel wrong. Not frightening at first, just set up incorrectly, with pieces that belong to different realities forced into the same scene. A bit uncanny, some might say.

Finally, as you have moved away from the stadium, your regular 5G data loads. You unlock your phone.

The screen flickers for a second before stabilizing and immediately reveals a flood of notifications you couldn’t see earlier.

Friend 1: WHERE ARE YOU HELLO????

Friend 2: DID U LEAVE WITHOUT US?? WHERE'D YOU GO?

Friend 1:YOU LEFT YOUR POSTER BTW I'LL SAVE IT. Friend 2: PLEASE LET US KNOW YOU’RE OKAY!

You stare at the keyboard.

Your fingers hover for longer than necessary.

Eventually you type:

you: sorry!! ran into some friends from online and hanging out for a bit 😭 my phone is glitching rn and i cant share location

you: but im okay!! don’t wait up if i’m late!

You stare at the message again after sending it. It looks normal enough. Weird, but not alarming. Your friends know concerts are chaotic. People split up all the time.

You lock your phone.

Only then do you realize one of your hands feels warm.

You look down.

Jimin is holding it.

There is nothing dramatic about it. His fingers are loosely intertwined with yours between the seats as though he reached over without thinking and never stopped. He isn’t gripping tightly. He isn’t even looking at your hand.

He’s looking at you.

Not glancing.

Looking.

You’ve spent years watching performances, interviews, clips, fan interactions, livestreams. You know his expressions. You know what his performance face looks like. You know what his fanservice face looks like. You know what his polite public smile looks like.

This isn’t any of those.

His eyes look almost unfocused around the edges, soft in a way that makes your stomach feel strange. Like he found something unexpectedly beautiful and cannot stop checking whether it’s still there.

His thumb brushes lightly across your knuckles once.

You look away first.

On your other side, Namjoon sits with his elbow resting against the door. His expression is neutral, but not relaxed. His phone keeps lighting up. You accidentally catch pieces of the group chat reflected faintly in the screen.

Jungkook asking where they are.

Taehyung asking if everyone’s alive.

Jin saying staff is really upset with them right now.

Namjoon types for a while.

Namjoon: Found him. Coming back. Will explain.

Then another message appears.

Namjoon: Actually.

Namjoon: Something’s weird.

He sends it.

Locks the screen.

And goes back to staring out the tinted window.

After a while he finally turns slightly toward you and says in English, quietly enough that it feels private, "You okay?"

You blink.

The question feels too normal.

You swallow and answer honestly. "I think so."

Namjoon nods once and looks away again before saying, "You don’t have to be afraid," then pauses briefly before adding, "but I know this is strange."

You almost laugh.

Strange feels like the wrong word for being pulled out of a stadium by your celebrity crush after making a suspiciously specific wish to a fake magic item.

The ride ends before your brain can finish processing any of it.

Eventually the scenery outside changes. The Strip becomes cleaner. Taller. More expensive.

Then the SUV turns and your eyes widen slightly when you realize where.

The Waldorf Astoria.

Which feels absurd because you and your friends are staying at ARIA. Practically next door.

The car doesn't approach the front entrance. Instead it descends into a private underground level. Concrete walls. Controlled access. Security checkpoints. Quiet lighting. The kind of infrastructure designed specifically so famous people never have to become public if they don't want to.

The vehicle comes to a smooth stop. Before anyone can speak, Jimin opens the door and gets out. Then he immediately turns and reaches for you. You grab your things and take his hand because, apparently, that is what your body does now. You are not questioning anything right now. He pulls gently but decisively, and suddenly you're moving again. Namjoon unfolds his tall frame from the backseat and follows behind with the energy of someone who has accepted this situation without approving of it.

You're led through the garage toward a set of elevators tucked behind another secured entry point. Private elevators. No guests. No chance encounters with fans or sasaengs. Jimin pulls you inside, grip firm and possessive, and Namjoon steps in right after you, earning a visible eye roll from Jimin.

Jimin presses the button to close the elevator doors immediately before any of their staff could enter with them. Three's already a crowd.

Once again you're sandwiched tightly between them, Jimin in front of you, Namjoon behind. No space. No escape. The elevator starts its smooth ascent and your pulse spikes.

Oh god, not here. Not with both of them like this. Your mind races. You can feel every inch of them. Your clothes are wrinkled, your makeup is ruined, and these stupid foldable flats make you feel small and unprepared.

Jimin notices the split second your eyes flick toward Namjoon. His expression shifts instantly, still calm, but now sharply attentive. He leans in closer, chest brushing yours, and murmurs low against your ear in Korean.

"여기 봐요." Look at me.

Your face burns as you obey. The second your gaze meets his, his eyes soften with dark satisfaction. Then he dips his head without hesitation.

His lips find the side of your neck, hot and deliberate. He kisses you open mouthed, slow and wet, sucking gently at first before dragging his teeth along your pulse point. A helpless little whimper escapes your throat before you can stop it. Embarrassment floods you. Namjoon is right there, inches away, witnessing every second of this. But the shame only makes your body react stronger as heat pools low in your belly.

Jimin smiles against your skin, clearly loving it. He loves the sound you made, loves how you tremble knowing you have an audience. His hand slides around your waist, pulling you tighter against him as he kisses lower, sucking harder at the sensitive spot just above your collarbone. His tongue traces slow, filthy circles before he nips again, hard enough to make you gasp.

You can feel Namjoon's solid warmth at your back, his body heat radiating through your clothes. The elevator feels impossibly small with these two men so close to you. Jimin's free hand trails up your side, thumb deliberately brushing the underside of your breast through your dress, teasing the curve as his mouth continues its assault on your neck. Licking. Sucking. Marking you.

Another needy, breathy moan slips out of you. Jimin's grip tightens possessively, his breath hot and ragged against your damp skin. He's completely lost in teasing you now, staring deeply into your eyes whenever he pulls back for air, his gaze hooded and hungry.

Behind you, Namjoon clears his throat. Loudly. He stares fixedly at the glowing floor numbers like they are the most fascinating thing in the world, his jaw tight, his ears visibly red. This is probably one of the most embarrassing moments of his life, and he can't believe Jimin's audacity right now to do all this to you. 

Mortified of being watched by your bias wrecker and any other things Jimin might do, you push weakly at him chest, your voice shaky and breathless. "Jimin, Namjoon is right here. Let's save this for when we're alone."

Jimin scoffs, low and amused, his lips still grazing your flushed, marked neck. He steals one last slow, deliberate kiss right under your jaw, tongue flicking teasingly, before he finally pulls back. His eyes stay locked on yours, dark and full of filthy promise.

The elevator doors open with a soft ding.

The hallway outside is quiet and expensive in a way only luxury hotels can be. Thick carpet. Soft lighting. Closed suite doors.

Before Namjoon fully exits, Jimin moves.

He takes your wrist and starts walking quickly.

"지민아," Namjoon calls.

Jimin doesn’t stop.

One door.

A keycard.

A green light.

The door opens.

You’re pulled inside.

And before Namjoon reaches it–

Click.

Locked.

Outside, there’s silence.

Namjoon stands there staring at the door for a second before letting out a tired sigh.

Nearby doors open.

Jungkook appears first and looks around before asking, "왔어?" [You’re back?]

Then he notices one person missing and asks, "지민이 어디 갔어?" [Where did Jimin go?]

Other doors open.

Jin.

Taehyung.

Yoongi.

Hoseok.

Namjoon rubs his face and says quietly, "…나도 아직 잘 모르겠어." […I still don’t really know.]

Everyone waits.

Then he adds, "근데 여자 한 명 데려왔어." [But he brought a girl.]

The hallway goes silent.

Jin immediately lowers his voice and asks, almost whispering, "…팬?" […A fan?]

Namjoon nods.

Jin rolls his eyes.

Taehyung blinks once before saying casually, "지민이 성적으로 너무 답답했던 거 아냐? 오랜만에 투어잖아." [Maybe Jimin’s sexually frustrated? It’s been a long tour.]

Hoseok immediately smacks his arm. "야." ["Hey."]

Taehyung rubs his shoulder dramatically and frowns.

"왜? 진지하게 말한 건데." ["What? I’m being serious."]

Jin lets out a quiet breath through his nose and mutters under his breath. "진짜 별소리를 다 하네." ["You really say the most ridiculous things."]

Yoongi shakes his head before Taehyung can continue and says quietly, "아냐." [No.]

Everyone looks over.

Yoongi crosses his arms loosely and leans against the wall.

"대기실에서도 이상했어. 계속 멍 때리고 있었어." ["He was strange in the dressing room too. He kept spacing out."]

His expression turns thoughtful.

"…집중을 못하는 느낌?" […"Like he couldn’t focus?"]

Hoseok nods slowly.

"맞아." ["Yeah."]

He glances toward Jimin’s closed hotel room door.

"…누구 찾는 것 같기도 했고." […"And it kind of felt like he was looking for someone."]

That makes Namjoon’s expression tighten.

He noticed it too.

Not enough to interrupt the concert.

Not enough to panic.

But enough.

Enough that he checked on Jimin between transitions.

Enough that he remembered him staring too long toward one side of Allegiant Stadium before snapping back into choreography.

Enough that he noticed Jimin missed a cue during rehearsal and brushed it off.

Namjoon looks back at the closed suite door.

Then quietly says:

"…공연 중에도 그랬어." […"He was like that during the show too."]

Nobody says anything after that. Because suddenly this feels less like recklessness.

And more like something none of them understand.

The hallway goes quiet. Namjoon stares at the closed door for several more seconds.

That is their shared grand presidential suite.

Normally they barely saw each other once schedules ended. Separate bedrooms. Separate routines. Namjoon goes out often to avoid feeling enclosed in these concrete buildings only meant for their temporary lodging.

But tonight…

His eyes linger on the door.

He thinks back to the corridor.

The look on Jimin’s face.

Too focused.

Too emotional.

Too unlike himself.

Namjoon exhales.

Then turns.

"…오늘은 내가 다른 방 써도 돼?" […"Can I stay in someone else’s room tonight?"]

Everyone looks at him.

Jungkook blinks.

"왜?" ["Why?"]

Namjoon rubs the back of his neck.

"그냥… 좀 놔두는 게 좋을 것 같아서." ["I just think… it’d be better to leave him alone tonight."]

His eyes drift back toward the closed door.

"생각 정리할 시간 필요할 수도 있잖아." ["He might need time to organize his thoughts."]

His shoulders lift slightly.

"…내가 옆에 있으면 오히려 불편할 수도 있고." […"Me being there might make it harder."]

Nobody speaks immediately.

Jin studies him.

Then quietly asks:

"너 괜찮겠어?" ["You okay with that?"]

Namjoon exhales softly.

Not really.

But he nods.

"내일 되면 괜찮아질 수도 있지." ["Maybe tomorrow things will be better."]

His eyes lower.

"…그냥 오늘 하루 이상했던 거면 좋겠어." […"I just hope today was weird and that’s all."]

A pause.

Then Jungkook lifts his hand.

"형 와!" ["Hyung, come stay with me!"]

Taehyung immediately points out.

"야 왜 너만." ["Hey, why only you?"]

Jungkook looks offended.

"내 방 제일 커." ["My room’s the biggest."]

Taehyung scoffs.

"내 방도 커." ["My room’s big too."]

Jin immediately cuts in.

"둘 다 조용히 해." ["Both of you, be quiet."]

That finally earns a small smile from Namjoon.

Small.

Tired.

He nods.

"고맙다." ["Thanks."]

Before leaving, though, he looks at Jimin’s door one more time.

For a second he considers knocking.

Checking in.

Talking.

But he stops himself.

Jimin isn’t dangerous.

He’s overwhelmed.

Exhausted.

Maybe emotional after finally touring again.

Maybe tomorrow they’ll talk.

Maybe tomorrow Jimin will apologize.

Maybe tomorrow things will feel normal again.

Namjoon turns and follows Jungkook down the hallway.

Behind him, the door stays closed.

And he doesn’t notice that for the first time in years…

He feels uneasy about leaving Jimin alone.

Meanwhile, behind the locked hotel room door, you stand in unfamiliar silence and realize for the first time all night that there are no crowds now, no friends, no staff, no excuses.

You are completely alone with him.

The place is quieter than you expected.

Not silent. Hotels are never truly silent. There is still the low hum of the air conditioning somewhere overhead, the faint vibration of elevators traveling through hidden shafts in the walls, and the distant pulse of Las Vegas existing dozens of floors below. But compared to the roaring stadium, the screaming crowds, the lights and constant movement, it feels unnaturally still.

And huge.

You hadn’t actually processed where you were until now.

Your eyes drift upward first.

The ceilings are absurdly high.

Then outward.

The suite opens far beyond what your brain expected when someone says hotel room.

It isn’t even a room.

It feels like an apartment.

No. Bigger than that.

A long central living space stretches ahead with polished wood floors and designer furniture arranged so intentionally that it almost feels untouched. There’s a sitting area with couches and a television mounted into the wall. Farther in, a dining area. Decorative lighting. Another hallway branching deeper into the suite.

Your brain immediately compares it to your room at ARIA.

Two queen beds shared amongst three women. Suitcases exploded across every available surface that is NOT a bed. Phone chargers fighting for outlets. Someone’s makeup bag permanently open for the duration of the trip.

This feels ridiculous in comparison.

Your eyes continue wandering.

There’s another side of the suite too.

You notice another closed bedroom farther away across the living space. Bigger than a normal connecting room. Another member probably stays there.

You wonder who.

Not that you’d ask.

For some reason the thought of accidentally opening the wrong door and discovering another BTS member relaxing in pajamas or even naked feels more embarrassing than ending up backstage with Jimin.

Your attention shifts back.

Jimin is watching you.

Not intensely this time.

Almost shy.

Like he forgot what this would look like through someone else’s eyes.

You glance around once more and laugh quietly.

"…Your room is huge."

His expression softens immediately.

He looks around too.

Then gives a small shrug.

"익숙해져서 잘 몰라요." ["I’m used to it, so I don’t really notice anymore."]

Then after a second he smiles faintly.

"…근데 그렇게 말하니까 갑자기 큰 것 같네요." […"But hearing you say it makes it suddenly feel big."]

"Hehe, yeah.." You smile back at him.

He stands there for another second before walking over.

Without really thinking, he reaches for your wrist again.

Not pulling.

Just guiding.

His fingers wrap loosely around your hand this time.

Then he quietly says:

"이쪽이에요." ["This way."]

He leads you across the suite.

Not toward the center.

Toward the left side.

As you walk farther in, the layout starts making more sense.

The shared spaces stay behind.

The hallway narrows.

There’s a bedroom tucked off separately, with its own bathroom and sitting area outside the room.

This must be his room.

When Jimin opens the door, you notice now how his actual bedroom feels more lived in than the rest of the place.

A hoodie tossed over a chair.

A phone cable plugged in.

Water bottles.

A few bags.

Enough signs of actual life that suddenly this stops feeling like a luxury hotel and starts feeling strangely personal.

Jimin releases your wrist after he closes and locks the bedroom door.

For the first time since he pulled you from your seat at Allegiant, he seems uncertain.

He glances around once, then quietly walks to the edge of the bed and sits.

And just… sits.

His shoulders look different now.

Not smaller.

Just heavier.

You remain standing for a moment, watching him.

Finally he looks up at you.

His eyes still carry that earlier softness, but something else lies underneath now.

Fatigue.

Maybe embarrassment. Does he regret bringing you now? 

You swallow.

This feels like the moment you should ask about him.

You take a small breath and speak carefully.

"I wasn’t sure when the right time was to ask…"

His expression shifts.

"But… are you okay?"

His brows move slightly.

You look down briefly before meeting his eyes again. "What Namjoon said… about how you were acting during the concert."

You hesitate.

"I know this probably sounds weird because I’m literally your fan and everything, but… I like you." Your face warms. "I mean… obviously I do."

That draws a faint smile from him.

You continue anyway. "But if something’s wrong… I don’t want to do something if you’re vulnerable or not okay."

The room falls quiet.

Jimin stares at you. Then, unexpectedly, his eyes begin to water.

Your stomach drops.

His gaze lowers. His hands clasp together loosely. When he speaks, his voice is quieter. "Kind of. I’ll say it in Korean first, to let my feelings out, as it’s hard to describe in English."

He exhales, then switches into Korean. "괜찮긴 했어요." He looks at his hands. "근데…"

He lets out a short, embarrassed laugh. "나이 드는 게 생각보다 별로예요."

You stay quiet, letting him continue.

"예전 같지가 않아요. 예전엔 하루 종일 연습하고 공연해도 괜찮았어요."

He translates for you. "When I was younger… I felt unstoppable." His smile is small. "But now… my body feels different. It doesn’t help that military happened." His expression tightens. "I hated it."

His voice lowers. "Coming back… touring again after so long… I keep thinking… what if I get hurt? What if I get sick? What if I can’t keep up and everyone has to slow down because of me?"

Your chest tightens.

He laughs once under his breath. "You know… I started noticing every little thing. My knees. My stamina. My breathing." He smiles faintly. "And then I started thinking too much."

He finally looks at you. "And today… I saw you." He shrugs slightly. "And everything burden and problem disappeared."

You think for a second, then walk over and sit beside him. Not too close. "You say all this like your value is in how perfectly you perform," you say softly. "I think people came back because they missed you. You’re allowed to get tired. You’re allowed to not feel twenty forever." You smile a little. "And honestly… if a member got hurt or needed a break, I think ARMY would want them to rest and be healthy more than perfect. You don’t carry everybody."

His eyes soften. Then he laughs, small and real. His shoulders lower. "Thank you."

After a moment his ears turn faintly pink. He looks embarrassed. "…I’m sorry. For grabbing you. And bringing you here suddenly." He rubs the back of his neck. "This is probably really weird."

You shake your head, expression softening. "There’s no need to apologize. I’m here… as a fan." You pause. "And as a friend."

His eyes widen slightly, then soften. After a moment he reaches for you slowly, carefully. His fingers curl around yours and he tugs gently, inviting.

"Will you stay tonight?" he asks quietly. "…I think I need comfort."

Your heart twists. You nod. "Okay."

His face relaxes. You both sit there for a while in comfortable silence. Eventually he stands and begins to undress, leaving only his black sweatpants on. Shirtless now, his body is toned yet compact. Bigger than yours but somehow delicate in the low light of the room.

His signature nevermind tattoo under his ribcage looking as sexy as ever.You never get tired of seeing it.

As he turns slightly, you finally see something of his that you always wanted to see in real life: the elegant moon phase tattoos trailing down his spine. The ink looks even more beautiful up close, delicate and innocent against his smooth skin. A quiet ache blooms in your chest as you wish you could reach out and trace them with your fingertips, feel the warmth of his skin beneath the ink. 

He giggles seeing you distracted by them and pokes your side gently, nudging you to remove your clothes. You undress slowly, slipping out of your lace black dress, socks, and shoes until you’re left in your undergarments. He promises to give you one of his shirts afterward.

When you sit beside him again, a strange awareness settles between you. Not bad. Just heightened. You are suddenly very conscious that you are in a hotel room with Jimin at midnight.

He looks at you quietly, then smiles. "You being here… makes me really happy."

Your face heats. "Really?"

"Yeah." He scoots closer. "I thought about how it seemed like a dream to have you here. But you are here now, existing with me."

He leans in and kisses you. Softly at first. Warm. Unrushed. His lips move against yours with tender care, deepening gradually as his tongue brushes yours. You lift a hand and touch his cheek, feeling the smooth warmth of his skin beneath your palm. He sighs into the kiss, the sound low and needy.

His hands find your waist. With gentle strength he helps guide you onto his lap until you straddle him. Your thighs settle on either side of his hips. The new position presses your bodies closer, and you feel the heat of his bare chest against you. His hands slide up your back, holding you there as the kiss grows slower, deeper, more sensual. Every brush of his tongue sends warmth spreading through your body.

Then suddenly he freezes. His eyes widen. He pushes you away, body jerking back. Fear flashes across his face angrily saying:

"씨발!…"

He moves too quickly and loses balance, falling off the bed.

You jolt upright. "뭐야?!" A word in korean slips out, "What? Why did you do that?"

He sits up, rubbing his face. "I-I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that." His breathing is uneven. "I’ve had weird experiences before… with people. Something in my brain… triggered."

"You’re scaring me a bit.:

"I know, I know. I’m sorry! Please forget about it."

You stare at him, chest aching at the genuine fear in his eyes. He notices your concern and reaches over, squeezing your hand. "I’ll make it up to you," he says quietly.

He does.

Jimin coaxes you onto your back with soft kisses along your jaw and neck. He peels away the last of your undergarments with careful hands, then settles between your thighs. His mouth is warm and insistent. He starts slow, teasing licks and gentle kisses that make your hips twitch. Then he grows bolder, tongue pressing flat and dragging over your most sensitive spot before circling it with focused intent.

Your fingers thread through his hair as pleasure builds. He hums against you, the vibration pulling a moan from your throat. He doesn’t rush. He savors every reaction, every gasp, adjusting to what makes your thighs tremble around his head. When release finally crashes over you, sharp and overwhelming, he keeps going, gentling you through it until you’re boneless and panting.

Afterward he climbs back up, lips shiny, and kisses your forehead. He disappears into the bathroom for a moment and returns with a warm, damp cloth. With tender care he cleans you, wiping away the evidence of your orgasm with slow, soothing strokes. He presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, then helps you slip into one of his oversized shirts before pulling you into his arms.

Eventually the tension fades. Conversation replaces the awkwardness. Exhaustion wins.

Later he curls behind you in bed, one arm draped around your waist, warm and sleepy. You both drift off like that.

At 3:45 AM you wake and quietly slip into the bathroom outside the bedroom with your phone to pee. Notifications from friends, memes, photos. No stress calls from friends asking if you've been kidnapped luckily. You'll craft a story later that will prevent them from knowing what's going on.

Then you open reddit and search up the one thing that has been bothering you the most: One Wish Willow. Only two reddit threads with comments come up. People swearing it worked. Others calling it coincidence. Warnings not to wish vaguely. Things going to shit. Warnings not to wish emotionally. Suggestions to buy a crystal for protection...

Your stomach twists.

If this actually worked… why does everything feel so off? Especially with Jimin?

You stare at your reflection, then lock your phone. Nothing bad has happened. Maybe you’re overthinking.

When you return, Jimin is already awake, sitting on the bed, menacingly. His eyes find you immediately, but they look dead. You’re scared to address him being awake, so you plan to ignore it and lay down to continue your sleep.

However Jimin decides to speak.

"어디 갔어요?" His voice sounds clear as day, with a tint of frustration. He speaks in korean, and you manage to understand what he says thanks to the countless kdramas you’ve seen. Not a hard question to answer.

"The bathroom."

His shoulders tense. "I thought you left."

You smile and settle back down beside him. "I’m not leaving any time soon. I willl tell you when I go later in the morning. I have to meet my friends."

His brows knit. "…later?"

You nod. "Yes, I’m going to the concert later too." You tell him you forgot the exact row, but your seat should be closer this time.

His expression visibly relaxes. "좋아." Then, quieter: "I want to see you. At all times."

Your chest tightens at the words, but you don’t question them. Instead you let him pull you closer, holding you like he needs to be sure you are still there.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Is it odd to say you’re progressively starting to feel a bit weirder about this. But will you do anything about it? Despite the strange situation you’re in, the answer is no.

- - ▶ cue: Emotions by Brenda Lee 

↻      ◁ II ▷     ↺ -

| ❛ 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 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.