Call Me Noona

So many paths that will never cross–this is a thought you constantly have as you stare at the museum and gallerygoers wandering through the exhibition hall, their footsteps muffled by the polished wood beneath them, their gazes fixed on frames capturing bodies, brushstrokes, and meaning.

You often find yourself watching people as much as you watch the art. Maybe it’s habit. Or maybe it’s the same flicker of wonder you felt the first time you ever walked into the Guggenheim Museum in New York. You’d gone to help a close friend move into the Columbia University dorms to start her first year as an architecture major, and she took you there on a whim. You didn’t expect to fall in love–not with a person, but with the silence between walls, with the hush of reverence, and with the people who stopped in their tracks, struck by something they couldn’t name. Art pieces obscure and beautiful of all shapes and sizes.

That feeling never left you. You chased it all the way to Seoul, through your grad school years at Seoul National University and working at their Museum of Art, through internships at Gana Art Center, and temporary roles at Gallery Hyundai and the National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art in Seoul. You finally landed here at Kukje Gallery about eight months ago. First as an archivist. Now, you're curator.

And yet, for all the ways you study art, you’ve always studied people too.

You can’t help it. The way your mind drifts when you see a stranger paused in front of a sculpture or squinting at a canvas. The thoughts creep in.

Who are they? What brought them here today? What are they carrying that you’ll never know?

Moments of sonder, you’ve always called it. Realizing every person is living a life as vivid and complex as yours. Yet you pass each other without ever intersecting.

You’ve carried that thought with you ever since.

Still, you never acted on it. Not until one quiet afternoon, in late August, when your body moved before your mind could catch up.

He was tall. Broad shoulders, muscular frame. Thick thighs that tapered into lean legs. Thick-rimmed glasses, sometimes paired with a mask and a ball cap, sometimes not. His outfits rotated from pressed button-downs and slacks to oversized hoodies and shorts. Casual. Low-key. Purposefully anonymous.

He came often, yet never drew attention. Quiet. Observant. Always lingering in front of each painting for longer than most, as if he were dissecting every brushstroke, every nuance.

And despite the hundreds of visitors who passed through the gallery, there was something about him that made your eyes follow him every time.

One day, you left your desk to retrieve documents from the archive room across the hall. As you returned, you spotted him again. He was standing in front of Kim Heungsoo’s Untitled (Two Nudes) and Une Pose. There was something about his expression this time–creased brows, a slight frown. Frustration?

Your curiosity got the better of you.

“Something wrong?” you asked, in Korean.

His head jerked slightly, startled. “Huh?”

His eyes flicked to your chest–your name tag. L/N, F/N. Recognition flickered behind his lenses. Foreign name. He thinks he’s seen you here before, working. Somehow, that small confirmation calmed him.

You noticed the way his stance eased. Still quiet, still a little guarded, but less… rattled.

“Oh, uh,” you continued, “you looked like you were looking at the paintings and thinking really hard, so I was curious to see if you were okay.” Should you not have asked? Maybe he thinks you’re weird. You’re not sure why after all this time of observing people at museums looking at paintings, that you decided to finally interact with one of them in their most pensive moment.

He just nodded, weighing his next words. For a second, you thought he might brush you off. You wouldn’t blame him for it. But instead, he followed it up with a question. 

“Um, do you know who wrote these artwork label descriptions?”

“Oh, these?” You glanced at the placards and then back at him. “That would be me, the art curator of this gallery. Why?”

He glanced at you, and then back at the art, lost in thought.

“I’m gonna be honest,” he began, his gaze returning to the paintings. “I know art is subjective and open to interpretation, but…” He paused, then looked back at you. “I think you’re missing something in your interpretation of Untitled (Two Nudes) and Une Pose. Especially in terms of Kim Heungsoo’s perspective on form and desire. It’s not just about appreciation of the body. It’s about the subtle tension between abstraction and eroticism. Your labels don’t really touch on that.”

Your mouth opened, stunned. You weren’t used to being challenged–at least not like this.

“Uh, what do you mean? I studied these pieces,” you said, defensively. “I curated this exhibition. I spent months researching the cultural context, the artist’s interviews, the stylistic evolution–”

He gave a small shrug, then responded in English, shocking you completely.

“I still think you’re overlooking something important. But I’ll agree to disagree. Thanks.”

And with that, he turned and walked ahead. Just like that. Leaving you standing in the quiet gallery, blinking at the space he left behind.

He turned and walked away, disappearing further down the hall.

You stood frozen, utterly thrown off, appalled. What was that?

Did he just… mansplain a label you wrote? Who the hell is this guy? You doubt he’d have any understanding on erotic modern art pieces like you do. This is your forte after all. You learned about all of this through blood, sweat and tears. What does he know?

Ugh. It left you feeling like after eating a sour hard  candy,

You wanted to say something back. Something witty, cutting, professional yet scathing. But you held your tongue. You had a job to do. So you sighed, going back to the office as there were some remaining things you had to do before you head home.

Still… seriously? Who does he think he is?

A few weeks pass.

It’s a slow Tuesday evening in the late summer–still a bit warm, golden light stretching through the tall glass windows, shadows melting across the polished floor. Foot traffic is light. Most people don’t visit galleries on weeknights unless there’s a special event, and tonight, it’s just a few quiet souls drifting through the current nude modernist exhibition.

You’re at the front desk, going through the evening checklist, when a familiar figure enters. The same figure that lit a flame in you not too long ago.

This time, he isn’t wearing a mask. His black baseball cap casts a soft shadow over his face, but you see him clearly–hoodie, matching gray 5-inch shorts. Still effortlessly tall. And frustratingly… attractive. No surprise to be completely honest. There’s handsome men like him who frequent museums in Seoul just to feel something or to feel nothing, just performative for their social media or social rich circle.

You’re still mildly irritated with this guy as you see him approach a painting at the entrance, lost in his own thoughts. You shouldn’t play with fire, but something about him doesn’t let you just ignore him. So you stand behind him and pounce on the moment.

“Are you here to look at an exhibition and tell me I’m bad at my job again?” you ask dryly in English, remembering how this man went on a whole rant in Korean only to end it in perfect passive-aggressive English.

A small chuckle escapes him as he settles into your language. “Hey, no, I’m actually here to sign a few papers. I was just looking at the painting while waiting to see if one of the people I know here would come out, but even the front desk is vacant.” His head gestures to the empty front desk. You assume he wanted to see the chairwoman, who left to go to a small event earlier. Sekyung’s not even here to help because she went to grab dinner with a friend. So much for a quiet night.

“Oh, I see.” You quirk a brow. “Well, what papers did you need?” Once again, a hint of hesitation that you catch in seconds because it becomes nonchalance.

“I don’t really like to mention this because I hate bragging,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck, “but… I donated a bit of money to the gallery. Just to keep supporting research and future exhibitions. I like coming here, and I want to keep coming.”

You pause. Wait, what. Who the hell is he, even? Donating money for the arts? No way… but this would make so much sense as to why he was being so critical when you first met him.

Your tone softens, caught between guilt and surprise from your previous thoughts about him. “Oh? That’s actually really kind of you. I can pull up the paperwork for you. What’s your name?”

And again! The hesitation. A flicker in his eyes as he speaks before it goes away.

“…Kim Namjoon.”

Okay?

“Ah. Okay. Mr. Kim Namjoon.” You type it into the system, and sure enough, his name pops up. “I see you here and the pending paperwork. I’ll get the documents printed out.”

He watches you, his gaze studying your face with care. Still no flicker of recognition from you, he thinks.

Do you really not know who he is?

He doesn’t want to be obnoxious, but… he’s Kim Namjoon. BTS. Global phenomenon. Cultural ambassador. A foreigner like you must know who he is, right?

He waits for a double-take at any moment. Even a pause for you to say something about him.

But nothing.

“Oh,” you add, scrolling through the screen, “there’s also a form here about submitting your own pieces for a future exhibition? You collect art?”

His earlier thoughts dissolve. “Oh, uh–yeah. I do.”

“Well.” You flash him a tight-lipped smile. “That explains why you were so critical of my work. You’re a collector after all.” Another petty remark you throw out. Why are you like this? You’re going to get yourself fired if he reports you to the execs. 

He winces a little, chuckling. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you the other day, Y/N.”

You freeze.

Your name.

You aren’t wearing your name tag today–you forgot it at home.

Your eyes slowly lift from the screen to meet his. Your heart thumps once, heavy in your chest.

“How did you…” you start, but your voice fades.

He looks back at you, unreadable behind his glasses and cap, and continues before you can press further. “I apologize about the other day. I was too deep in my thoughts and said something rude without thinking. Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

I’m sorry, what?

Your fingers hover above the keyboard. Your pulse thunders in your ears.

Is this… an apology? From him? Mr. know-it-all?

You clear your throat, trying to steady yourself. “You don’t have to do anything. Really. It’s part of the industry. I’ve seen it happen to others when critics walk in–I just didn’t expect it to happen so suddenly. At least… not like that.”

He nods slowly, turning each of your words over in his mind. “I get that,” he murmurs. “I’m not a critic or anything, but I care too much about art sometimes. Especially when it moves me.”

“I can see that, but you’ve already given back to the gallery,” you reply, your voice softening. “That’s more than enough to show you care.”

“But I want to make it up to you, Y/N.”

You blink, caught off guard by his insistence. You hesitate.

Maybe this could help smooth over the tension between you two. He’s a donor. Maintaining good relations is in the gallery’s best interest–your best interest. For your research. Your exhibitions. Your job.

Yes. That’s a good reason.

“…Maybe,” you say slowly, eyes dropping. “Buy me a coffee?”

You bend down to retrieve the printed forms from the tray beside the desk. “Sign here on this page, and then again on the back.”

You place the papers in front of him and hand over a pen. Your fingers brush, just briefly, but it’s enough to send a flush creeping up your neck.

He signs quickly, glancing up afterward.

“How about dinner instead?” he asks. “I know a laid-back spot that has great food. No pressure–just… a peace offering.”

You look at him, a little amused, a little surprised.

“So this is how you bribe people you offend?” you tease.

His lips curve faintly. “Not exactly. Maybe I just want more than five minutes to talk about art… and to hear your point of view.”

You smile, slower this time, your gaze lingering.

“Then sure,” you say softly. “I’d like to hear more about your thoughts, too.”

“Alrighty.” He picks up one of the business cards in the acrylic holder on your desk, flips it over, and writes neatly–his number and KakaoTalk ID.

Namjoon slides the card across the counter. “I’ll message you. Does Friday evening work?”

You nod, tucking the card away into your blazer pocket. “Yeah. That works.”

He bows slightly before heading to the exit, the warm evening light catching the back of his hoodie as the glass doors slide open.

For a long moment, you just stare at the space he leaves behind.

You’re not sure what just happened.

Only that it leaves your heart beating faster than it should.

That night, after your shift, you return to your small studio apartment, kick off your shoes, and curl up on the couch with your phone still in hand.

A part of you hesitates. Should you message first? Will he really follow through?

[You] Hey! Just wanted to confirm for Friday. What’s the name of the place we’re meeting?

A moment passes. Then another. You tap out of the conversation, scroll through Instagram aimlessly, then tap back in.

Still nothing.

Then–a reply. A few minutes later.

[Namjoon]Yetnal Guksi in Yongsan. 8pm. Let me know if you have trouble finding it.

You pause, staring at the profile photo he uses–some anime character in profile, hair tousled, playing a saxophone. His display name isn’t even his real name. It’s a casual, half-joke Korean nickname. It doesn’t match the polished, reserved guy you met at the gallery at all.

But you don’t question it.

You type back:

You: Got it. Thanks. See you then.

And then, without overthinking it, you set your phone aside and go to bed.

You leave work earlier than usual. Your coworkers agree to cover the last two hours of special guest tours, and you’re quietly grateful.

Still, the journey is long. You take the subway from Anguk Station, transferring at the stop connected to Lotte Department Store. Weaving through corridors of glowing cosmetic ads and the rush-hour crowd, you switch lines again until you finally arrive at Noksapyeong Station.

From there, it’s a ten-minute uphill walk. The evening is starting to cool; your hair sticks slightly to the back of your neck as you pass small bars, cafés, and the slow hum of a residential neighborhood waking for dinner.

Almost an hour in total. Maybe you should have asked him to pick you up. But maybe he’s busy before this. Maybe that’s why he didn’t offer. You hope that’s the reason. And not that he’s some prick after all.

You finally arrive at Yetnal Guksi (옛날국시), a modest, old-school noodle joint with handwritten menus taped to the window and the steady clatter of bowls from inside. Nothing fancy, but comforting. You like that, honestly. You check your watch. 7:53 p.m.

He isn’t there yet.

You stand just off to the side of the entrance, pretending to browse your phone. Minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen.

No Namjoon.

Your chest tightens. Anxiety blooms slowly beneath your ribs. You pride yourself on punctuality–getting somewhere early helps you stay calm. But it also means sitting in that discomfort longer when the other person doesn’t show.

At exactly 8:15pm, you send him a message.

You: “Hey, I’m here. Where are you?”

No reply.

A part of you starts to spiras. Maybe meeting him outside of work is a mistake. Did he seriously stand you up? Why bother giving you a time, a place? You’re not sure where he lives. Not like you bothered looking at any of his personal info in his file, but you can’t imagine he’d get here any time soon. It took you awhile to even get here yourself after all.

You suddenly feel eyes on you. An ajumma from the restaurant steps out, drying her hands on her apron.

“Are you coming in to eat, miss? Or…?” Her tone carries the unspoken question: Or are you just going to be loitering suspiciously outside this establishment?

“I’m waiting for someone,” you explain with a forced smile. “But he hasn’t arrived yet.”

Just as you finish, a soft gust of wind lifts your hair–and then a low voice behind you, in Korean: “I’m here.”

You turn.

Namjoon stands there, slightly breathless, baseball cap pulled low, a thin sheen of sweat on his neck. His hoodie clings to him like he jogged the last few blocks.

“I’m sorry,” he says gently, back in English. “I should’ve texted. Got caught in traffic.”

Irritation that was flickering inside you fades into relief.

He really came after all.

The ajumma nods at you both and waves you inside.

You follow Namjoon into the narrow space–walls slightly yellowed from time and oil, the clinking of metal chopsticks and bowls playing beneath the low hum of a TV in the corner.

Most diners are older–old people sharing soju, middle-aged couples eating quietly, a few solo regulars bent over their bowls. No one pays you any mind, which feels strangely comforting compared to other places out in Seoul.

Namjoon slides into a booth near the back, tucked by a wooden window cracked open for the breeze. You settle across from him, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear as he pulls a laminated menu toward him.

“Want me to order for us?” he asks, glancing up.

“Please do. You said you’ve been here before, right?”

He nods. “Yeah. I come whenever I want something simple and quiet. Their bibimguksu is solid. And we’ll get a small plate of gomabap, too. Mini gimbap rolls.”

“Sounds perfect.”

He flags down the ajumma with a warm, familiar tone–nothing overly polite or stiff, but respectful, like he’s done this many times before.

Soon, two steel cups of barley tea are placed in front of you. You lean back slightly, watching him.

“You come here alone?” you ask.

“Uh, yeah, usually,” he says. “Sometimes with a friend or two, but mostly on my own. It’s pretty peaceful. Away from the crowd.”

You see why. Despite the lack of frills, the place has a worn charm. The light is yellow and soft. The air smells like sesame oil and chili paste. No one’s here to impress anyone.

When the food arrives, the scent makes your stomach flutter. The bibimguksu glistens red with sauce, sliced cucumbers and boiled egg resting on top, noodles glossy and tangled. The gomabap rolls sit neatly beside a small bowl of soy sauce.

You pick up your chopsticks, twist a bit of bibimguksu around them, and take a bite.

Your eyes widen instantly. “It’s really good!”

Namjoon smiles at your reaction. “I’m glad you like it too.”

“It’s… sweet, spicy, cold…mmm–it has so many layers. I wasn’t expecting this level of flavor.”

“Right? The sauce is just the right kind of fermented. And they don’t cheap out on the gochujang.”

You try a piece of gomabap with soft rice, crisp vegetables, a hint of sesame. Clean and light. Perfect alongside the fire of the noodles.

“I have to admit,” you say, grinning between bites, “I was kind of dreading it being bland. But this might be better than some trendy restaurants I’ve been to lately.” “That’s the thing,” he replies, leaning on one elbow. “Places like this… they don’t try hard. They just know what they’re doing.”

You nod thoughtfully, then look up. “So what’s your usual order here?” you ask, half-teasing. “Or is this it?”

“Sometimes kalguksu if I’m tired. But usually this.” He pauses, eyes scanning your face. “I didn’t want somewhere fancy. Figured this would be better.”

“It is,” you say sincerely. “Thank you for bringing me.”

He looks down for a moment, hiding how his smile pulls wider.

You fall into a comfortable rhythm–eating, talking, trading casual stories about art. You tell him about how you once dropped an entire tea tray at your old gallery job and cried in the archive room for twenty minutes. He tells you about buying a sculpture he thought was two feet tall but turned out taller than him. He hesitates to say where he ended up putting it, scared it might reveal too much. But despite all of his efforts to put up a wall to prevent you from learning too much about him. There’s a part of him that wants to tell you. He has a feeling. A good feeling. A feeling that you’re a safe person he can confide this with.

And once you ask him this question, it truly has battling with opening up himself to you, to his world.

“So what do you do for work outside the art world, Namjoon?”

Caught off guard, he wonders what to say. Should he really tell you he’s an idol? The fact you haven’t recognized him still surprises him. What would you say if he told you? Judge him? Freak out?

He reminds himself again that he doesn’t know you well, and the thought scares him to share too much given what he’s seen in the past. To him, to his members.

But he decides to be genuine. Lying feels worse. Plus, the feeling he has about you is something he’s never felt about someone before.

He sets down his chopsticks gently, wiping his hands on a napkin, stalling a moment. “I’m… actually a musician,” he says carefully, watching your reaction.

You blink, chopsticks hovering. “Oh, really? Like… producing? Or do you perform too?”

He hesitates. “Both.” You tilt your head, lips quirking. “That’s cool. What kind of music?”

He laughs softly, almost in disbelief. You still don’t know after all these hints, he thinks. 

“Mostly hip hop and pop. I’m… in a group. We’ve been around for a while.” A while is twelve years, he thinks.

Your brow furrows. “A group? Like a band?”

“Not exactly.” He leans in quietly, readying for the grand reveal. “BTS.”

A beat of silence.

You stare. For a moment, your brain lags behind your ears.

You run his words over–BTS–and something clicks. The glasses, the quiet composure, the careful words, the way he observes art like air. You knew about BTS–your close friend back home was obsessed with K-pop in her teen years, trying to rope you in with playlists and videos, especially featuring their “leader,” Rap Monster… or RM. You’d listened here and there, curious, but fangirling over K-pop always felt a little unrealistic. A little too delusional Life was hectic, so the interest faded.

You’d heard headlines about Kim Namjoon in the art world, maybe seen a photo or two online, but none of it mattered much–until now.

Now you’re here, eating dinner with him.

Your chopsticks lower slowly, words whispering out in the quietest voice, “Wait. Like… the BTS?”

He nods, almost sheepishly. “Yeah.”

You laugh, stunned, sitting back. “Wow. I… I didn’t recognize you at all. That’s insane.”

His eyes flick to yours, searching for a change in tone. But there isn’t one. You’re not freaking out. Not grabbing your phone. Just surprised. Maybe a little amused. A bit of disbelief too.

“I thought you looked familiar,” you admit. “But I didn’t want to assume. You didn’t act like… you know. Someone that famous. So i shrugged it off,”

“I try not to,” he murmurs. “It gets tiring.”

“I can imagine.”

You pause, looking down at your nearly-empty bowl, gathering thoughts. “So that’s why you knew so much about those pieces. You’ve probably been studying art a long time.”

“I try. It started as just going to a museum while on tour years ago. Purely a hobby, just collecting, but now it’s… part of my life. Something I love.”

You nod slowly, still a little floored but smiling. “Well, you’re were still kind of rude about my curated labels.”

That makes him laugh, low and genuine, warming your cheeks.

“Yeah. I deserved that.”

You sip barley tea, shaking off the surreal feeling of sitting across from a global icon who just asked you to dinner at a tiny, greasy spoon. But he’s still the same man who stands in front of paintings, deeply, frustratingly thoughtful.

He doesn’t ask for special treatment, and you won’t give it.

You lean your chin into your palm, eyes softening across the table.

“I’m glad you told me.”

His gaze meets yours, grateful behind his glasses. “Me too.”

You both linger over the last bites, the plates mostly cleared, spice tingling pleasantly on your tongue. The restaurant has thinned out, leaving only a few older couples finishing in silence. The air is warm and still, laced with sesame oil and the clink of silver chopsticks against ceramic.

Namjoon sets down his spoon, wiping his hands with a napkin. “That was nice,” he says quietly, the moment calling for softness.

“It was,” you agree, smiling. “I’m glad you didn’t stand me up.”

His hand comes up, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “I was close, apparently.”

You both laugh.

“I should probably head back,” you say, glancing at your phone. “It’s getting late.”

“I can take you home,” he offers immediately.

You shake your head gently, already anticipating. “That’s sweet, but I live a bit far. The train’s faster.”

A flicker of hesitation passes his face.

“But,” you add, standing, light in your voice, “if you’re not in a rush… I wouldn’t mind you walking me to the station. Just ten more minutes.”

That makes him smile–the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s trying not to grin. “Yeah. I can do ten minutes.”

Outside, the night greets you with a soft breeze. Namjoon quietly pulls a black face mask from his pocket and tugs it over his nose and mouth. You notice but don’t comment. It makes sense.

“You don’t have to worry,” you say after a few steps, voice light but sincere. “I won’t tell anyone… about you. I’ve worked with private clients before. I know how to keep things quiet. If you want, I’ll sign something.”

He chuckles, low and warm beneath the mask. “I’m not going to make you sign anything. Honestly, I get a sense about people. And I don’t think you’d do that.”

You glance at him as you walk. “Thanks for trusting me.”

He shrugs, hands in pockets. “It’s not just that. I… don’t have many female friends to talk art with. Mostly my younger sister, my mom or older gallery owners and retired curators who send me handwritten notes.”

You smile at the image. “I feel honored to be in such company.”

He laughs quietly. “No, I’m honored to have you spend time with me. I’d like to see you again. If you’re up for it.”

“I’d like that,” you say, meaning it.

You continue toward the station in a quiet, easy rhythm. Just two people sharing a corner of the night.

This is the nice boundary to keep. He escorts you to the front entrance of Noksapyeong Station, the traffic humming low in the background, headlights glinting off passing cars. You come to a stop just before the stairs lead down.

“I’ll text you,” he says, his voice muffled slightly behind the mask but still warm.

“That sounds good. See you around, maybe, Namjoon?” You give him a polite bow, hands folded in front of you. It feels a little too formal for what tonight was, but you don’t know what else to do. When you rise, you catch the flicker of something in his eyes–like he wants to say more, maybe even lean in and hug you, but holds himself back.

Silly Namjoon, he thinks to himself. He can’t afford to be careless in public. Not here. Not with who he is. Any passerby could snap a photo, leak a name, turn a small moment into a scandal. And the last thing he’d want is to inconvenience you with something like that. You’re a kind and smart woman, he thinks. A bit feisty, but he find that endearing. Even just by the conversations he had today, his heart began feeling something, which is rare for him.

Despite all his thoughts about you, he settles on a soft, almost wistful smile. “Will see you sometime in the future. Good night, Y/N.”

“Good night,” you say, your voice quiet as you disappear down the stairs, heading home.

Two weeks pass. No messages.

You don’t dwell on it. Not really. You get it. This is RM. Kim Namjoon. BTS. You’d be naïve not to assume his days are consumed by meetings, recording, traveling, photoshoots, whatever comes with being who he is. You heard he was recently discharged from the military. It makes sense he’s adjusting, returning to a rhythm that doesn’t leave much room for casual texts or catching up with the art gallery girl.

So, on a quiet Saturday afternoon, you throw on an old tee and decide to do a deep clean of your loft in Myeongdong. The space is small but cozy, perched above a cosmetics shop with a big bay window that lets in too much sun during the afternoon. You don’t mind. It’s not like you’re home that often anyway.

You’re wiping down your kitchen shelf, halfway through reorganizing your spices, when your phone buzzes on the counter.

[namjoon] hey y/n. i apologize, i've been busy so i haven't had the time to message you. how have you been?

You stare at the screen for a beat, lips quirking before you even realize it.

And just like that, the long, continuous, conversation begins. Slowly at first. Then steadily. Messages weaving in and out across days, with gaps and time zones and all the signs of two people trying to find a bubble of time in the chaos of their lives. He asks about your favorite artists. You ask what exhibitions he’s excited for. The conversation flows easily over the course of days–sometimes a few texts a day, sometimes long pauses between messages–but neither of you seems to mind. You send him photos of art pieces that leave you breathless, and he sends back voice notes when he doesn’t feel like typing.

You both fall into rhythm talking about painters and sculptors and entire exhibitions you wish you could relive. Namjoon talks about his admiration for Yun Hyong-Keun–how the earth tones and minimalist brushwork feel deeply meditative to him–and how Kim Whan-Ki’s dot paintings remind him of memory fragments and starlight. He brings up Roni Horn too, her approach to identity and landscape through sculpture and photography. And Thibaud Hérem, with those intricate architectural drawings. “There’s a weird comfort in the details,” he texts. “It’s obsessive, but beautiful.”

You tell him you’ve always been drawn to the emotional tension in Rothko’s color fields, the sense of vast stillness in Agnes Martin’s grids, and the chaotic sensuality in Cecily Brown’s layered canvases. You mention you once stood in front of Girl on a Swing for twenty minutes, not even realizing you’d been holding your breath. He sends a voice message: “I totally get that. Brown’s stuff is like... the aftermath of a dream.”

Namjoon replies late one night with:

You pause, rereading that line. There’s something deeply sincere in the way he talks about art–as if it’s a language he’s been speaking longer than he’s known himself.

[you]Woah, I’ve always wanted to go. Rothko makes me feel both grounded and like I’m floating. It’s weird but calming.

The next morning, he sends a photo of his bookshelf–several monographs, poetry collections, and a thick exhibition catalog from a Kim Whan-Ki retrospective.

You send a picture of your coffee table covered in old gallery pamphlets and the Cecily Brown zine you picked up in London.

You ask what exhibitions in Seoul he’s excited for. You send him photos of art pieces that leave you breathless, and he sends back voice notes when he doesn’t feel like typing. 

Later on he asks about your favorite music artists. You talk about what brought you to Korea, the music you listen to–The Marías, Emotional Oranges, Frank Ocean, Wave to Earth, Se So Neon.

He likes them too. You exchange playlists. Listen to new music you’ve never listened to before. You tell him you paint in your free time. For fun, not for any hope of becoming famous. He says he admires that, because he only painted something once and thought it’s not his thing after all.

Gardening comes up. He says it calms his mind. You have several plants as well though, you accidentally forget to give them water and have killed a few in the past. He tells you he’ll help you pick the right ones that will be easier to care for next time. You say, next time?

You even get into film. One night, the thread leads to Park Chan-wook’s Decision to Leave.

“It’s one of my favorites,” he texts. “I love how it plays with longing and detachment.”

You admit you haven’t seen it.

A pause, then:

[namjoon] do you want to watch it together?

Your thumbs hesitate above the screen.

[you] uhh, how is that gonna work? is it showing in theaters again?

His reply is instant:

[namjoon]lmao no. it came out a few years ago. we can stream it.

You bite your lip, grinning.

[you] so… you’re inviting me over to your place?

Seen.

Typing…

[namjoon]only if you’re okay with that. no pressure.

Typing…

[namjoon] i’ll even make you tea. or wine. or beer. or ramen. whatever works.

You stare at the message. Then you smile to yourself, heart beating just a little faster.

[you] only if it’s good ramen.

[namjoon] challenge accepted.

October 11th.

It’s another Saturday, exactly three weeks since Namjoon messaged you again after that dinner, and now you’re standing at the entrance to Nine One Hannam.

The building looms ahead, all sleek lines and understated opulence, tucked behind tall stone walls and trimmed hedges. A sign gleams beside the entrance gate. You’ve heard whispers about this place before. A-listers, diplomats, generational wealth. The kind of neighborhood with valet spots for Teslas and private elevators.

And apparently, this is where he lives. Kim Namjoon.

You pause a few feet away, adjusting your long cardigan as your nerves start to hum. Are you seriously going in there? Is this outfit appropriate for a casual hang out with you, art mutual? These thoughts linger as you look down to your outfit: a navy blue oversized cardigan, a white spaghetti tank top, a denim mini skirt, white converse sneakers.

You spot the small booth outside the pedestrian gate, a security officer already eyeing you as you walk up. The air feels strangely still, as if even the trees here breathe quieter.

You clear your throat. “Hi, I’m here to visit Unit 244A.”

The officer–middle-aged, buzz cut, clearly alert–looks you over with polite suspicion. A foreigner, he likely notes. He reaches for a clipboard and pulls up the visitor log.

“Name?”

“Y/N L/N.” You hand him your ID without hesitation, just like Namjoon told you to do.

He checks the list, confirming. A subtle nod. “Alright. Go on in.”

You give him a quick thank you, stepping past the gate. The building ahead is massive, its exterior modern but quiet in that rich-people-don’t-need-to-try-hard kind of way. Your sneakers feel too loud on the pavement. And now that you’re in–how the hell are you supposed to find his unit?

“Hey.”

You practically leap out of your skin.

He’s there. Namjoon, leaning casually against the wall, dressed down in a forest green Tyler, The Creator Chromakopia Tour hoodie, the hood pulled halfway over his face. His black shorts barely hit his knees, and his long legs look even taller without trying. He’s got his phone in hand, smiling as if this whole thing is the most normal Saturday hangout in the world.

“God, you scared me!” you exclaim, laughing in relief.

He chuckles, easy and deep. “It’s hard to explain directions to a place like this in English, so I figured I’d just come down and walk you up.”

“Well, thank you for the rescue,” you say, nudging his arm lightly.

“You’re welcome,” he grins. “Let’s go. I got food delivered for this occasion, instead of ramen.” “No ramen?” You say sarcastically. “Might just go home then.”  “Oh, come on. I got something better,” He gently tugs at your shoulders with both hands, before pulling away. He had a moment of realization that maybe he was being a bit touchy when he hasn’t been like this to you before. He’s been like this with his members ever since they all came back from enlistment, but never with anyone else. He doesn’t want you to think he’s weird, like some of these other men out in this city. The walk to his building is quiet, save for the crunch of gravel and distant birdsong. Inside, the elevator glides up without a sound, and he makes some small talk–but it doesn’t feel awkward. There’s a calm between you two that neither of you feels the need to fill.

When you step into his unit, you blink in surprise.

It’s spacious–more spacious than you thought any Seoul apartment could be. A clean hallway leads into an open-concept living room, where daylight pours through sheer curtains. Stacks of books sit against the walls, climbing toward the ceiling like curated towers. A soft grey couch stretches along the far end, low to the ground, lived-in but elegant. Potted plants fill corners. Sculptures and minimalist furniture round out the space.

But the art. The art.

“Whoa,” you whisper. “This place is… beautiful.”

“Thanks,” Namjoon says, sliding off his slippers. “Took a while to make it feel like home. Got some pieces I really care about, too.”

Your eyes sweep over the walls and freeze immediately on one familiar work.

“Oh my god–” you gasp, walking closer without even thinking. “You have Roni Horn’s ‘But the Boomerang That Returns is Not the Same One I Threw’ artwork? That’s so cool!”

He grins at your recognition, clearly pleased. “Oh yeah! That one hits me hard the first time I see it. I keep thinking about how memory isn’t linear and how we come back to people and places and ideas changed. I have to get it.”

You step closer, looking at the piece with reverence. “You know, I referenced this once in a thesis. It’s about the circularity of memory in contemporary installation art. This line stays with me.”

Namjoon smiles, brushing his knuckles over the side of his hoodie. “See? I knew you’re the right person to talk about this stuff with.”

You turn to him, arching a brow. “Are you saying you lured me here with art and food?”

“Maybe a little,” he laughs. “But mostly for the company.”

You flush slightly, feeling the easy warmth between you again. He motions toward the couch. “Come over, let’s eat before it gets cold.”

You sit on the soft, clean-lined sofa while Namjoon brings over the food–a spread of tteokbokki, fried mandu, japchae, and a couple of dishes you don’t recognize. “You weren’t kidding when you said food was already here.”

“I wanted to impress you,” he says as he sits next to you, cracking open a couple of sparkling waters.

Impress you? There really is no need for that. If anything, you should be the one trying to impress him, the client of the art museum you work for.

The two of you begin eating. Between bites, you look around the curated chaos of his apartment–organized piles of art books, records stacked near a turntable, a small bonsai on the windowsill, and paintings and prints on nearly every wall. There’s a calm sense of order to it all, but nothing sterile. It feels lived in, thoughtful. Like him.

“Do you ever get overwhelmed living here?” you ask softly, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of sweet potato japchae.

“Yeah,” he admits, “sometimes it feels too big. I’m used to small spaces. But I’ve learned to make it feel... grounding. Plants help. Books help. Art helps.”

You nod. “I get that. Your place doesn’t feel like a celebrity’s house. It feels like a collector’s sanctuary.”

He smiles at that, modest but proud. “That’s kind of what I want.”

After you finish eating, he clears the plates while telling you to scroll through streaming apps looking for Decision to Leave.

“It’s on here,” you call out. “Should I start it?”

“Go for it,” he replies from the kitchen, rinsing off a bowl. “You want beer? I’ll get some out from the fridge after I’m done?”

“Oh yes, please.”

By the time he comes over and dims the lights, the film has begun. He settles in beside you on the couch again, this time a little closer. Your elbows nearly touch.

The opening scenes of Decision to Leave unfold quietly. Detective Haejun, a murder mystery, his insomnia, his marriage already dissolving at the seams. A routine case turning seductive, falling for a strange foreigner, his restraint slowly breaking.

You watch in silence, fingertips loosely wrapped around the sweating bottle of beer, but your focus begins to drift–not from the film, but from the proximity. The way Namjoon’s arm lightly brushes yours when he shifts. How his thigh rests just close enough to yours that you have to force yourself not to notice.

You try to focus on the film, but from the corner of your eye, you see the way his arms fold, the slope of his shoulders, the flickering light catching on the sharp cut of his jawline.

Ten minutes in, a sex scene fills the screen. Slow, quiet, achingly intimate but very awkward.

You shift slightly, suddenly aware of your own breathing. Of Namjoon’s proximity. His scent, clean, soft, like cedar and something faintly citrusy, fills your lungs.

You clear your throat.

He doesn’t look at you, but he smirks. “It’s... definitely not a movie to watch on a first hangout,” he murmurs, chuckling as his eyes stay on the screen.

“You didn’t mention that,” you pout, sinking lower into your seat.

“I forgot, I swear!”

You let out a breathy laugh and try to focus.

Every now and then, you glance at Namjoon, who watches with furrowed brows, like he’s mentally cataloging everything. It’s kind of attractive.

“I’ve always loved how Park Chanwook balances contradiction,” Namjoon murmurs during a lull in the dialogue. “Like that line–‘grief as an envelope or slowly spreading ink.’ It’s brutal, but elegant.”

You turn to him, the glow of the screen painting your profile. “That one gets me too. The metaphors in this film are so carefully placed. It’s not just a love story at all.”

He nods. “Yeah. Like when the detective lies to his wife about sushi, but brings the best for Seo-rae. His values contradict, but love bends people that way.”

“Oh! You’re so right!”

You realize he’s such a yapper; now you’re really hanging out with him in the comfort of his home.

“You like Yun Hyong-Keun, right?” he asks at one point during a slow moment. “That scene with the fog rolling through the mountains? It reminds me of his palette. That kind of smoky grief.”

You nod. “I see the vision, filled with the same exact emotions.”

He turns his head to look at you. “You really know how to talk about art.”

You smile, a little shy. “It’s kind of my job.”

Later, when Haejun mentions he has insomnia, Namjoon stirs beside you. “That part hits close.”

You turn to him, brows drawn. “You have insomnia?”

He gives a half-shrug. “Since I was in the military. Something about the routine… or the lack of it. Stress, maybe. Sometimes I think it’s just residual from everything–work, my members, the future. Not knowing what will happen while I’m in there and when we get out.”

There’s a heaviness in the way he says “we.”

You want to say something comforting, but then Seo-rae whispers: “I wish I could give you a piece of my sleep. Just like a battery.”

That’s it.

You both fall quiet.

Neither of you speak for a while after the credits roll. The silence that follows isn’t awkward–it’s full. A current of thoughts stretching out beneath the stillness, taut and invisible.

You finally speak. “You know… when Haejun tells her to throw away the phone, he’s basically telling her to hide the murder, right? But to me, that’s the closest he ever gets to saying ‘I love you.’ Because if he didn’t, he’d let her get caught.”

Namjoon exhales through his nose, slow. “Yeah, it’s tragic. But it’s also… pure, in a way. Like loving someone means making a choice that could destroy you.”

Loving someone… it’s been too long since you’ve done that. Why bother thinking about this now?

You turn toward Namjoon now, fully. The room is dark but you can still see him, his brows drawn in quiet thought, the subtle tension in his jaw, the flicker of something unguarded in his eyes.

After a pause, he sets his empty beer bottle down, the soft clink echoing in the quiet. He leans forward, elbows on his knees.

“It’s getting late,” he says. “But I doubt I’ll be able to sleep. It’s gonna take a few hours, but that’s life.”

You hesitate for a second, then lean in just a little, close enough to really look at him. “Might be silly, but I wish I could give you my sleep,” you say softly. “So you could rest. So you didn’t have to carry so much, all the time. Living the life of an idol. Plus, I don’t really need mine anyway.”

Namjoon turns his head toward you, his expression faltering for a moment. Like your words knock the wind out of him a little. There’s something startled in his eyes, almost boyish. But then, slowly, a smile spreads across his face. Small. Disbelieving. Touched.

He laughs once…quiet, breathy. Not teasing. Not dismissive. Just... moved. Like maybe he hasn’t heard something so gentle in a while. But you think otherwise, “Sorry! It’s late and I’m just yapping away. I don’t know–”

“Is that your way of telling me you like me?”

The question lands like a spark in your chest.

Your eyes go wide. “H-Huh?”

Your heart stumbles. Trips. Nearly crashes. The beer bottle in your hand feels like an anchor now–too cold, too slippery. You suddenly feel very aware of everything: the slope of his knees beside yours, the faint warmth radiating from where your thighs nearly touch, the low hum of the movie credits still rolling.

“I–I mean–not like that,” you blurt out. “Not like Seorae or anything, I think I’m just a bit tipsy so the words just–”

Namjoon lifts his hand in mock defense, grinning now, though not unkindly. “I’m kidding,” he says, the words slow and gentle. “Just teasing.”

But the glint in his eyes doesn’t fade. And neither does the silence that follows.

You take a breath, trying to ease your pulse. “Don’t play around like that, Namjoon,” you murmur, the corners of your mouth twitching downward. “Don’t you have someone you’re with?”

The words fall out before you can stop them.

Regret pricks at you the moment they hang in the air. because it sounds invasive. And maybe it is. You’ve established this simple friendship through your love for art and other miscellaneous things, but questions about anything else–his members, his deeper relationships, his family–certainly feel off-limits.

You shift your gaze down to the neck of your bottle, feigning casualness, even though your mind is screaming. God, he’s thirty-one. He’s too attractive. Too grounded. There’s no way he’s not seeing someone. Even if it's not public. It’s not like you keep up with tabloids, but every friend you’ve had who followed Western bands swore up and down about many secret flings and long-term hidden lovers. Why would Namjoon be any different?

Why wouldn’t he?

But then he answers.

“No,” he says simply. Calmly.

Your eyes snap back up to his face.

He meets your gaze without hesitation, his posture still relaxed. But there’s a weight behind his words that makes them feel true. Not performative. Not for effect. Just honest.

“I’m not,” he repeats. “I haven’t dated in a long time. There was someone over four years ago. And someone else… maybe seven years before that.” There were others he was seeing for a bit, but it never evolved into anything. And usually always, he seemed to be the root cause of that. Not really worth mentioning that, he thought.

He shrugs one shoulder slightly, as if brushing it off, but the quiet undercurrent in his tone betrays him.

“They didn’t last. Not because they weren’t good people. They just–” He pauses. “There wasn’t really time before. Not real time. Not the kind where you could actually… show up for someone.”

You stare at him now. Not just his face, but his whole being. The slope of his shoulders. The tension in his jaw. The lines around his eyes that you now recognize not as age but weariness. You wonder how many pieces of himself he’s had to give away. How much of him is left for himself. For this version of him now–barefoot on a couch in sweats, sipping beer with you at midnight.

You’re about to respond when he shifts, looking over at you again.

“What about you?” he asks, and there’s something shy behind it. Hesitant. Like maybe your answer matters more than it should.

You let out a small breath, eyes dropping to the floor.

“Me? I haven’t dated in a while either,” you admit. “College was… busy. Two or three flings that never really turned into anything. I always chose work, my projects. I guess I just figured there wasn’t room for both.”

Namjoon listens intently, eyes on you, head slightly tilted.

You swallow, voice softer now. “And at some point… I think I just stopped believing I was the kind of person people waited for. I settled just to not date.”

The room falls quiet.

He looks at you–not just looks, but it feels as if he sees you. Like you opening up about your love life rearranged something in him. His brow softens. He sits up a little straighter, knees brushing yours.

“That’s not true,” he says, voice low and sure. “You’re... someone people definitely remember.”

His hand reaches out, tentative, searching. His fingers graze the side of your face, knuckles brushing your cheek in a slow, reverent touch. You freeze under it, heart in your throat.

He leans in a little closer. Not rushing, not assuming. Just closing the distance like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And you don’t move. You’re eagerly waiting for the next move.

And your voice wavers. “Namjoon…”

“I’m not trying to complicate anything,” he says, his forehead nearly touching yours now. “I just haven’t been able to stop thinking about you… and I don’t want to pretend like I don’t want to know you beyond art.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

And in the next moment, you both move–together, unsure of who initiates–but it doesn’t matter. Your lips meet in a kiss that’s hesitant at first, barely a brush. Then again, longer. Surer. Warmer.

Namjoon feels the shape of your mouth, the curve of your breath, the way you sigh into him like you’ve wanted this too.

God, he thinks. She tastes like an escape. A great escape. From all his stress. From sleepless nights. From this whole life he chose to live many years ago.

You both pause, pulling back a fraction, breath mingling. The room pulses with something unspoken.

Then you dive in again. This time slower. Deepening. Exploring. His hand cups your face more fully, thumb stroking your cheekbone as if to memorize the curve of it.

You kiss again and again, and somewhere in the middle of it, you shift forward, knees brushing his. He pulls you in gently, and before you know it, you're climbing into his lap. Straddling him.

Your knees are planted on the cushions below, your hands resting on his shoulders as you settle against him, close enough to feel his heartbeat hammering through the thin cotton of his hoodie.

Namjoon lets out a low breath, stunned at first. Then his hands move instinctively to your hips, steadying you, holding you there like he’s not entirely convinced you’re real. 

You’re facing him now, fully, and the sight of you this close, your flushed cheeks, your kiss-bitten lips, the wide, searching look in your eyes, undoes him.

You feel his breath against your neck, his hands warm through the fabric of your tank top. He tilts his forehead to rest against yours, the closeness unbearable in the best way.

“Fuck…I’ve thought about this,” he admits, voice roughened with restraint. “A lot.”

Your heart slams against your ribcage.

“You have?” you whisper.

Namjoon nods. His eyes flick between your own. “Since that evening I saw you at the museum. Since you sent me instagram reels that reminded you of things i’ve mentioned.” He grins, but it fades fast into something more serious. “Since you told me what you loved about Yun Hyong-Keun. Since I’ve seen you wear these sexy, yet simple, casual outfits,”

Your breath hitches.

“I’ve tried not to think about it too much,” he continues. “Tried to stay in control. Be good. Remember that you’re a curator probably just trying to maintain a good relationship with me, your client. But that wasn’t just it for me. You’re just not easy to forget.”

Neither are you, you think. In the last few weeks, you’ve grown to wait for his messages, and hear about his thoughts and his feelings. You’ve enjoyed him sending you selfies. You’ve thought about him late at night. But the words don’t come out to let him know.

Instead, you lean in again. And this time, there’s nothing tentative about it.

And underneath it all, you have no idea how long he’s wanted this.

To touch you. To consume you. It might’ve even been from the moment he met you. Reading your labels, opening up a new world to him that amused and frustrated him at the same time.

His hands grip your hips more firmly now, thumbs pressing into the rough fabric of your denim skirt as your mouths crash together again–deeper, messier. You're no longer holding back. The second your hips rock forward, you both inhale sharply. It’s instinct, friction, need–years of restraint unraveling between stolen breaths. You want to feel him, no, need to feel him.

Namjoon groans softly against your mouth, like the pressure against his cock beneath his  shorts surprises him. His hands slide up your back, pulling you flush against him, and you feel how hard he is beneath you–thick and straining against the cotton of his shorts. Your breath stutters. You grind down again.

“Shit,” he whispers, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he sucks in air. “You can’t… you can’t move like that unless you mean it.”

“I do,” you breathe, the words barely formed. “I mean it.”

Your fingers curl around the back of his neck, pulling him in as your hips start a slow, grinding rhythm against his. There’s nothing frantic about it. Just drawn-out, indulgent friction. Dry, but heady. Heated. Real.

Namjoon kisses your throat now, lips warm and reverent, dragging along your skin like he’s desperate to memorize the taste of you. You tilt your head back to give him more, gasping when his tongue darts out to soothe where his teeth grazed. His hands remove your cardigan and slip under your tank, splaying wide against your back, dragging up slowly until his thumbs brush just under your breasts.

You arch into him. He pulls back slightly, searching your face.

“Okay?” he asks, voice hoarse, trembling with restraint.

You nod. “Yes. Please.”

And then his hands find your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the thin fabric of your blue lace bra. Your back curves with the sensation, thighs tightening around him, as a low moan escapes you. He watches your face the whole time, eyes dark and reverent.

“You’re so responsive,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Fuck.”

Your hips grind down harder, and the sound that escapes him is almost guttural. He grabs your waist with both hands, guiding your movements now, slow and deep, grinding the shape of his cock against your clothed center.

Every motion sends sparks along your spine.

When Namjoon’s fingers slip under the hem of your tank. He doesn’t rush. He just pauses there, his thumbs brushing soft circles against your skin. Then he tugs, gently, not forceful, not demanding. Just a question, wordless but clear.

Your breath catches. The haze in your head lifts slightly, the thrum of arousal edged now with hesitation.

You pull back a little, just enough to meet his gaze. “Wait…” you say softly, fingers curling around his wrist to still him. “Can I tell you something first?”

Namjoon’s eyes are immediately alert, open. “Of course.”

You take a breath. Then another.

“I’m not really… confident about my body,” you admit, trying to keep your voice steady. But it honestly just sounds like word vomit. “Especially not with my chest. My boobs are kind of… weird? They’re not perky. They droop, but not in that cute teardrop way people talk about online or show in porn. They’ve always been like that. Just… heavy. Uneven. And I guess I always worried that guys wouldn’t know what to do with them. Or worse, would see them and just… lose interest.”

God, he’s going to think you’re ridiculous, isn’t he?

However, Namjoon just stares at you for a moment, and then he smiles. So soft, so full of something almost like wonder. A giggle slips from him, not mocking but sweet and earnest.

You blink. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because,” he says, resting his forehead briefly against yours, “You’re talking to someone who once spent an hour staring at Koo Bon-woong’s Nabu at the MMCA, completely mesmerized by the lines of a woman’s back and the uneven curve of her breasts.” His hand strokes slowly over your side, not daring to go further yet. “Or Lee Kwae-dae’s 기대어 앉은 나부 1940년대. Have you seen it? One breast is visibly fuller than the other. Her arms look a little too long. It’s imperfect. But it’s alive. It stays with you.”

You swallow, something cracking open in your chest.

God, you really picked a intelligent man.

“Art doesn’t care about symmetry,” Namjoon continues gently. “It cares about presence. About the truth of something. And you…” His voice drops, reverent now. “You’d be a masterpiece. No matter how you look.”

Your eyes sting suddenly. You don’t know what to say.

Namjoon leans in, kissing your cheek, your jaw. “I want to see you,” he murmurs. “Only if you want me to. But I promise, there’s nothing here that could scare me off.”

You hesitate one last second. Then you nod.

And when he lifts your tank off, slow and careful, his eyes don’t drift. They stay locked on yours, until the fabric slips away and your skin meets the air between you.

Namjoon exhales. A soft, almost awestruck sound.

His hands glide up your sides, reverent, and he murmurs something in Korean under his breath you don’t quite catch. But you can feel the meaning in the way he holds you. Tender. Certain. Present.

Like you were never anything less than art.

And then his mouth is on you again, kissing a path down your collarbone, over the swell of your breast. His hand comes up to cup you while his lips close around your nipple, tongue swirling, sucking gently. New sensations storming through you with these actions.

“Namjoon–” you gasp, threading your fingers into his hair.

“They’re beautiful, just as i thought.”

He moans against your skin, one hand lifting up your skirt to rub at your clit covered by your blue panties. It only pushed Namjoon further seeing that you matched your lingerie just to come hang out with him. You rock into his touch, needy, grinding down onto his hand and the firm press of his cock beneath you. The pressure is maddening. Delicious. Not enough.

You both move like you’re chasing something–chasing release, connection, the safety of each other’s hands. His thumb rubs slow circles where you’re aching, and your whole body shudders. You’re soaking through your underwear, can feel the wet heat smeared against the curve of him through all the layers between you.

Namjoon’s head falls back, eyes fluttering shut as your hips roll harder, faster. “Fuck, if we keep going–”

“I know,” you whisper, lips brushing his jaw. “But I want to.”

He kisses you again–desperate now. Bruising. Starved. You rut against each other in sync, messy and quiet, until both of you are trembling.

Your breath hitches. Your stomach coils tight. You’re so close.

“I–” you start, but your voice breaks. He hears it anyway. Feels it in the way your body tenses.

“Come for me,” he whispers, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Just like this. I’ve got you.”

You do. With a broken cry muffled against his shoulder, you shake in his arms as your orgasm hits. It rips through you, drawn out by the relentless friction and the heat of his voice in your ear.

Namjoon curses low, grinding up into you a few more times before his hips stutter beneath you. He buries his face in your neck, breath shattering as he comes hard, cock twitching in his shorts against the soaked heat of your center. His grip on you tightens, then softens.

The silence after is thick. Heavy with breath. With everything that just passed between you.

Eventually, you both go still. Your forehead rests against his, your chest still heaving.

Namjoon chuckles softly, breathless. “Shit, so much for taking it slow.”

“Agh, I’m actually embarrassed.” You laugh weakly, arms still wrapped around him. “We didn’t even make it off the couch.”

He chuckles, “Don’t be embarrassed. I don’t regret this at all,” he murmurs, voice low and tender.

You kiss the corner of his mouth, smile against his cheek.

“Neither do I, though now i can’t go home like this.” you groan, carefully getting off of him not trying to stain his likely very expensive grey couch. “Just throw your ruined clothes in the washer,” he says, nodding toward the laundry area. “Stay the night.”

“Stay the night?” You blink, caught off guard.

He reaches for your hand and threads his fingers through yours. “It’s late anyway. I don’t want you out there with all the drunkards on a Saturday night. I’ll get you one of my shirts…”

Wearing one of his oversized shirts does sound dangerously comfortable, but then he adds with a smirk:

“After we move to the bed and finish what we started.”

Oh my god.

“Kim Namjoon?!” you gasp, then lower your voice with a sharp whisper. “Did you plan this all along? Are you really that deprived of sex as an idol–?”

“Yes. God, yes,” he giggles, dimples flashing. “But hey–I didn’t know you’d actually feel the same way. You played into it too, so we’re in this together.”

You roll your eyes, heart thudding wildly. You had thought about it, of course. But the risk, the reality of getting involved with someone like him always held you back. And yet, he’s the one making the moves. Making it real. And harder to resist.

“I was perfectly content being art buddies,” you mutter, teasing.

“But now we’re doing more than just talking about art. Doing art,” he grins.

“Clearly.”

“Starting again…right now,” he declares before scooping you up into his arms. You yelp in surprise.

“W–Woah! Hey!”

He mutters something under his breath–probably praying he doesn’t drop you–and somehow makes it to the bed in one piece. He sets you down gently, brushing your hair back from your face.

“I have condoms,” he says, already reaching for the drawer in his nightstand.

“Good to know,” you reply, then cock an eyebrow. “But… you’re not gonna make me sign an NDA or anything? This is kind of a big risk, no?”

Namjoon looks at you seriously, hand pausing on the packet. “I already told you. I trust you. There’s no need for all that.” “I admire that,” you say softly. “And I’d never dream of telling anyone. Not even my K-pop-loving friends from back home. They’d combust on the spot and probably crucify me.”

“Glad to hear it,” he murmurs, then leans in to kiss you again.

The kiss deepens quickly, all tongue and hunger. He lifts your knees gently, unbuttoning your skirt, fingers hooking onto your underwear and skirt and sliding them down with care. You shiver when the cool air hits your skin, but it’s quickly replaced by his touch–his fingers slipping between your thighs, finding your slick heat.

He strokes you slowly at first, kissing you through each quiet moan, then teasing your entrance with one careful finger, then two. When he feels how wet you are, he pulls back from your lips and shifts lower, eyes full of dark, focused hunger.

You barely have time to catch your breath before you feel his mouth on you–warm, insistent, devoted. His tongue slips inside you and your head falls back with a strangled cry. He groans against you like he’s starving for it, like the taste of you is something he’s imagined far too many times.

You buck your hips against his mouth, chasing the wave rising in your core–but just as you’re about to tip over the edge, he pulls away.

“Wait–what–”

Immediate sexual frustration hits you.

But then he flips you gently onto your stomach, his hand sliding under your hips to raise them. You hear the soft rustle of clothes being shed, followed by the rip of a foil packet.

“I’m going to put it in, that okay?” His voice is hoarse with restraint.

You nod into the pillow, voice a breathy whisper. “Y–yeah–ah!”

He presses into you slowly, the stretch making your eyes fly open.

“Oh fuck–” you choke out, nails gripping the sheets. “Couldn’t even wait, damn..” “I’ve been waiting a bit too long, baby.”

Oh, baby…

You haven’t even seen his dick–but you can feel how big he is. Each inch pushes deeper, and your body trembles around him, overwhelmed. 

Is it even possible to fit it inside you? You’ve been thoroughly prepped, but still! You haven’t done this in a few years.

Namjoon lets out a low groan behind you, hands gripping your hips like he’s trying to anchor himself. “You feel–fucking amazing…”

Namjoon’s thrusts start slow–but deep. Each drag of his hips feels like he’s trying to memorize the way your body fits around him, how you twitch and squeeze at every pullback. But it doesn’t take long for him to build rhythm, and then he’s pounding into you like he can’t help himself.

“F-fuck, Namjoon–!” you cry out, forehead pressed to the sheets, grabbing the same said sheets for dear life.

He grunts in response, fingers digging into your hips as he drives himself in again and again, filling you completely every time. You’re reeling–your body not used to this kind of stimulation. No one has ever stimulated you this way. No one has ever wanted to make it known how much they wanted you. Or how badly they wanted to ruin you.

You’re definitely soaking him and these sheets. The sounds between you two are obscene, and it only turns you on more.

Your mind spins. How did this happen so fast? You’re usually so cautious, so calculated when it comes to sex. But he has you unraveling. There’s something about the way he takes you–how open and vocal he is, how tender and filthy all at once. It makes your pulse pound with something deeper than just lust.

Another orgasm sneaks up on you before you can even brace for it.

You clench hard around him with a gasp, your whole body seizing with pleasure. “Shit–shit–I’m cumming again–!”

Namjoon groans loud into your neck, the sound vibrating through your spine. “That’s it, baby. Let go for me.”

Your arms give out under you, and you collapse against the bed, panting into the sheets. He slows for a moment, breathing heavy, eyes searching your face.

“You okay?”

You’re flushed and pissed–and not at him.

“No,” you snap weakly, breathless. “I’m fucking mad.”

He freezes. “Wait–what?”

“I lost myself too quickly,” you groan, turning your face to look at him. “I told myself I’d take it slow, and now I’m already cumming twice like I’m in some kind of fever dream.”

Namjoon’s lips twitch in a smile, clearly amused.

“Don’t laugh,” you warn. “I can go for more.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“I want to make you cum this time,” you declare, sitting up and pushing your messy hair from your face. “Let me ride you.”

That wipes the grin clean off his face, replaced by something darker.

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough. He is gonna fucking love this.

“I’m sure.”

He smirks, impressed. “Alright then. Let’s see what you can do, baby girl.”

You roll your eyes, move quickly, both of you shifting positions. Namjoon lies back, head propped against his pillows, arms resting behind him in a slow, cocky sprawl. His eyes track your every move, and now that you have space to look at him fully–fuck.

You finally see him.

Your gaze drops–and your breath catches.

Holy shit.

His cock, slick and flushed and painfully hard, looks even bigger now that you’re seeing it properly. Veiny, thick, girthy in a way that makes you second-guess every confident thing you just said.

You’re about to put that inside you again? You’ve officially lost your mind, L/N F/N.

Still, you climb over him, hands trembling slightly as you wrap your fingers around the base.

“You good, baby?” he murmurs, watching your expression with quiet concern. Constantly calling you baby… God…he will be the death of you. This man feels the same too, though you don’t know that.

“Y-Yeah, just processing your... situation,” you mutter.

He laughs, husky and low. “Take your time.”

You hover over him, grip tightening as you angle him toward your entrance. Slowly–so slowly–you lower yourself down.

The stretch makes you groan instantly, your thighs trembling from the effort.

Namjoon’s eyes flutter closed, brows furrowing in pleasure. “Fuck, you feel good.”

You inch down further, and further–until you’re seated fully in his lap, completely filled. Your nails dig into his abs for support.

“God,” you pant, adjusting your hips. “How are you fucking real?”

He gently rubs circles into your back with his palm. “You’re doing amazing, baby. Just go at your pace.”

You nod, focused, letting your body settle before testing the motion–shifting your hips in a slow, grinding roll.

Namjoon opens his eyes to look at you–and the moment your rhythm picks up, his mouth parts in awe.

She’s beautiful, he thinks. Completely unfiltered. The way your brows pinch in concentration, your bottom lip caught between your teeth, the way your chest bounces slightly with every motion–he’s fucking obsessed.

He swore he’d let you take the lead. He swore he’d hold back.

But that restraint doesn’t last long.

Your pace quickens, and the look on your face–the pleasure, the determination, the way you ride him like you own him–it breaks him.

“Shit–” he groans, hands flying to your hips. “Sorry, baby–I need to–”

He slams up into you with force, taking control again, driving himself deeper as you gasp out his name.

“Namjoon–!”

He pounds into you from below, hands guiding your hips down to meet each brutal thrust.

You can barely breathe, let alone think. All you can do is ride the wave of it–the rhythm of his cock stretching you open again and again, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the walls.

You’re both already close–so close–and the heat between you builds to another breaking point–

You ride him hard, the slap of skin-on-skin echoing in rhythm with your quickening breath. Namjoon’s grip tightens on your hips, grounding you through the rapid push and pull of pleasure mounting on both ends.

He watches you through half-lidded eyes, his chest rising and falling sharply beneath you. You’re barely holding on–thighs trembling, eyes fluttering shut as another orgasm builds low in your belly. And then it crests, stealing the air from your lungs as you cry out, clenching hard around him as your body shudders from the release.

Namjoon gasps under you, brows furrowed deep, his voice cracking in that final second as he comes too–hips jerking up as his cock twitches and empties inside the condom, thick and warm, filling it far more than you expected.

He groans, head tipping back, completely undone. “Shit…”

You collapse forward a little, hands splaying out on the solid plane of his chest, using him to steady yourself. He’s warm, his heart thudding against your palms, the faint sheen of sweat across his skin glowing soft in the low light.

You're spent. Or at least, your body should be. But your mind is still racing. You want more. Want to see him fall asleep completely relaxed–without tension in his jaw or worry in his eyes. You want him to feel cared for, too, in a way you’ve never really offered to anyone else.

Carefully, you lift yourself off of him with a whimper at the sensitivity, reaching between your bodies to gently roll the condom off his softening cock. It’s heavy with his release, warm in your hand.

Namjoon lets out a slow, almost incredulous breath as he watches you. “Already eager to keep going?” he asks, a lazy smirk curling on his lips.

“Of course,” you murmur, tossing the condom aside and shifting your body again. You crawl up between his legs, knees pressing to either side of his thighs, hands sliding along his skin. “Now doing this…”

You lower your head and give the underside of his cock a soft, lingering lick–kittenish and slow. His body jolts faintly, oversensitive but already responding. You glance up at him, eyes wide, a faux innocence in your expression that makes his throat bob with a swallow.

You let your tongue trail up from the base to the tip, deliberately teasing, holding eye contact the whole time. His cock twitches against your tongue, not yet fully hard but already awakening under your gentle attention.

“Fuck, Y/N…” he rasps, watching you like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

You press a kiss to his tip and then lick again, this time with a firmer stroke. “Wanna help you sleep like a king tonight,” you whisper against his skin. “No tension. No stress. Just melt into the pillows and let me take care of you.”

He exhales shakily, his hand lifting to brush your hair back from your cheek. “You’re so dangerous,” he mutters, but the way his fingers linger says he likes that about you. 

You giggle softly and wrap your lips around the head of his cock, coaxing him back to life with every warm, wet suck. One hand cups his balls gently while the other strokes the base of his shaft, your mouth working in slow, tantalizing pulls. You can already feel him growing hard again under your care–eager, despite just having cum.

Namjoon groans, one hand clenching the sheet beneath him. “You’re seriously gonna make me fall for you deeper by doing shit like this.”

You hum around him–intentionally letting the vibration tease him deeper–and keep going.

You suck him slowly, deliberately, coaxing him into full hardness again with your mouth, your tongue teasing every ridge and sensitive vein along his length. Namjoon’s hands slip into your hair, not forcing, just grounding himself in the sheer pleasure of your lips around him. His breath grows ragged, eyes fluttering as he tries–really tries–to hold back.

But then your tongue swirls around the head of his cock and you moan just a little, like you enjoy the taste of him, the feel of him stretching your lips. That’s all it takes.

“Fuck–baby, I’m gonna–”

He chokes on the rest of the warning as he comes hard, cock twitching in your mouth, hot spurts of cum hitting your tongue–and more. A thick, sudden spill lands warm on your cheek. You close your eyes and take it all in stride, swallowing every last drop with ease.

It tastes…surprisingly good. Slightly sweet, salty, clean. He really must eat well. Idol diet and all.

You finally pull off with a soft pop, licking your lips, and wipe your cheek with the back of your hand as you glance up at him. Namjoon looks absolutely wrecked–mouth parted, chest heaving, the remnants of disbelief in his eyes.

“Damn…” he exhales, voice hoarse.

His head tips back against the pillows, muscles twitching with aftershocks. He wants to go again–you can see it in the way his eyes trail over you, hungry and dazed–but this time, his exhaustion catches up to him first. For the first time in a long while, his eyelids actually start to flutter shut on their own.

“That…was so fucking hot,” he mumbles, still breathless. “But we need to take a hot shower before we sleep. I also need to change the sheets…”

You glance at the state of the bed and smile lazily. “If we go in together, we could finish faster and head to sleep?” you tease.

Namjoon laughs and instantly reaches for you, sweeping you into his arms again. “Yeah. Let’s go with that.”

He carries you–again, praying he doesn’t trip over his own feet (he’s a bit clumsy) and brings you into the bathroom just to the left of his room. It’s massive. Double sinks, a wide soaking tub set in dark marble, and a luxurious glass-enclosed shower with rainfall and handheld settings.

You both step in, the hot water already running and filling the space with gentle steam.

Namjoon pulls you under the spray and wordlessly reaches for the body wash. His touch is gentle as he lathers his hands, then begins softly washing your arms, your shoulders, your back. His fingers linger, not overtly sexual, but reverent. Almost too reverent. It makes your insides twist with tenderness.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, voice husky and close to your ear.

You nod, but your voice is small. “Yeah. Just…sensitive.”

He leans in and kisses your temple. “I know. You don’t have to push yourself for now.”

You shake your head, eyes closed as his hands gently trace suds over your waist. “It’s not that. It’s just–this feels really nice. And it’s making it hard to go back to a professional relationship.”

Namjoon’s hands pause. His chest presses into your back. “That wouldn’t be a bad thing,” he says, almost too softly.

You don’t reply. Not yet. You simply turn and take the body wash for yourself.

“Your turn,” you say with a little smile, wanting to keep things light.

You gently start working the lather across his chest, over his broad shoulders, and then down his back. The muscles move under your hands like smooth, sculpted marble. He sighs deeply at your touch.

“You know,” you murmur as you wash down the center of his spine, “your back looks like a landscape to me.”

He chuckles. “A what?”

“Like a canvas. Like–I could paint a tree on it. Or wings. Or maybe a river cutting through hills.”

Namjoon hums low, smiling to himself. “You’re such an artist. Everything you touch turns poetic.”

“You’re the one who quoted nude paintings during sex, remember? You even make music about poetic euphemisms of riding you,”

He laughs, the sound echoing off the tile. “Touché.”

When you’re both finally rinsed and clean, he shuts off the water and steps out, grabbing the largest, fluffiest towel and wrapping you in it first. Then he ruffles another towel through your hair, drying you gently like you’re the most delicate thing in the world.

Once you're mostly dry, he hands you one of his oversized white t-shirts. It swallows you completely, falling down to mid-thigh, and smells just like him–earthy, clean, with a hint of something musky and expensive.

“You look really good in that,” he murmurs with a grin as he pulls on his own sweats.

You help him strip the bed, tossing the stained sheets into a hamper tucked in the corner of the room. Then, together, you remake the bed–Namjoon smoothing the fitted sheet while you fluff the pillows and pull the new comforter into place.

When everything’s set, you both crawl under the covers, bodies warm and damp and soft with sleep.

Namjoon pulls you into his chest, your back to him, his arm draped protectively over your waist. He exhales one last time, burying his nose into your hair.

“Can’t believe I’m going to sleep without checking my phone for hours,” he mumbles, already dozing. “You’ve gotta be magic.”

“That’s honestly all just you,” you smile to yourself, your eyes fluttering shut. “Goodnight, Joon.”

“‘Night, baby.”

And just like that, for the first time in a long time, he sleeps soundly through the night.

+

That night became the catalyst for a series of sexcapdes with Namjoon. You started visiting his place regularly–what started as late-night hangouts became something far more intimate, far more regular. Despite the chaos of his world tour preparation, long hours at the dance studio, late-night recording sessions, and relentless content filming, Namjoon always made time to see you. He'd slip home in the narrow windows between his schedules just to wrap his arms around you, to kiss you like he’d been starved, and to fall into bed tangled together.

Your sex life evolved into something rich and varied, a secret world just for the two of you. Namjoon, surprisingly attentive and open-minded, explored your body with curiosity and care, never rushing, always wanting to understand how you responded to every touch, every angle, every rhythm. You enjoy this too, and opt to go on birth control after some time just to ease the process for you both, while still using condoms at times to maintain protection. These are risky activites after all.

The kitchen table became your first unconventional setting. One late night, dressed in one of his oversized T-shirts and nothing underneath, you’d leaned against the marble countertop while making kimchi jjigae. One look from him, slow and hungry, and somehow you were up on the dining table seconds later. He tugged your hips closer until your toes barely touched the floor, then lifted one of your legs to rest on his shoulder as he thrusted his cock into you. The cold contrast of the table made you shiver, but his body was warm and grounding. His hands gripped your thighs tightly as he shoved himself into you, slow and deep, each movement echoing off the kitchen walls. The stew became cold, forgotten. Namjoon’s breath came heavy against your collarbone as he muttered, “Fuck, I could take you like this every night. Watching your body shake just from this angle–God.”

Another time, in the living room, you’d found yourself in his lap one late afternoon, straddling him while his back sank into the plush couch. You were both reading a book, which soon became forgotten. The light from the window cast golden streaks across his chest. You pressed your hands against his shoulders and sank down on him slowly, the stretch sharp and perfect. You moved with languid rhythm, your knees digging into the cushions, hips circling as your eyes fluttered shut. Namjoon couldn’t look away. His large hands spanned your waist and guided you as you rode him harder, your rhythm growing frantic, both of you getting lost in the slick, slapping sounds filling the space. One hand slid up your spine, fingers curling around the back of your neck as he pulled you in for a messy kiss. She’s so fucking beautiful when she’s above me like this, he thought, hips bucking upward. “Just like that, baby… keep using me.”

The shower was chaotic in the best way. Slippery skin, fogged-up glass, and steam curling around your bodies as he pinned you against the wall. Your legs up, wrapped around his waist, water cascading down his broad shoulders as he thrusted into you, the sharp clap of wet skin muted under the patter of the spray. You gasped against his neck while he braced one hand against the tile and the other held your ass, adjusting your angle so he could hit even deeper. “You drive me fucking insane,” he growled into your ear, barely holding back. And even when he was losing control, he still reached down between your bodies to rub you gently, expertly, pushing you over the edge even as his own release built.

And then even at times, the bathtub. It started as a soak, your back against his chest, legs resting atop the edge, wine glasses on the side. But the moment you turned to straddle him under the water, your mouths met in a slow, heated kiss, and his cock slipped between your thighs. You guided him inside, gasping as the hot water surrounded you both. Your movements were slow and indulgent, bodies rocking beneath the surface, water spilling over the sides with every rise and fall of your hips. Namjoon held your waist with reverence, marveling at how your breasts bounced gently with every motion, your lashes wet and cheeks flushed. He whispered, “Baby, you look like something out of a dream,” just before his head fell back against the rim of the tub, lost in the pleasure you gave him.

One night, he brought up the Kama Sutra. You were sprawled on the bed, still slick and panting from a particularly intense session, and he casually flipped through the app on his phone, showing you diagrams. “For art and science,” he teased, nudging you with his elbow. You grinned, your curiosity piqued.

You laughed. “You’re actually such a pervert, Kim Namjoon.”

“You’re no different from me!” “I’m not even going to argue with that, let’s just try one.”

It wasn’t just pleasure. It was a ritual. It helped him sleep better, too. You felt more livelier again after living in such a draining city. A surprising bonus.

He wanted to visit your place next, but you lived in Myeongdong, right above a busy alleyway filled with cafés and foot traffic from both tourists and locals. Too risky. One slip and someone might spot him, and you refused to be the reason his privacy got breached. So instead, his Hannam-dong apartment became your second home. His sanctuary turned into a shared one.

You started leaving things behind–changes of clothes, your favorite moisturizer, a toothbrush. Eventually, you even had a drawer, then a shelf. He didn’t mind. His closet was massive. You began using his place to rest after museum shifts, sometimes staying the night even when he wasn’t around. He’d given you the door passcode weeks ago, murmuring how precious you were to him while he typed it into your phone himself.

There were quiet nights when things were reversed. Sex first, then lounging, late night talks about music, art, artists, exhibitions, life, etc. One evening after a steamy sex in the shower, still wrapped in towels and slightly damp, Namjoon brought up something you’d mentioned during your first night over.

“You said you wanted to paint a tree on my back,” he says, rummaging through the closet.

You blink. “You remembered that?”

“I bought some body-safe paints and brushes. Even got a canvas drop cloth so we don’t ruin the floors.” He lays everything out with boyish excitement. “I thought it might be fun.”

Your eyes light up. He smiles, gently patting your head. “You’re seriously so cute.”

You both sit naked on the drop cloth, backs resting against the couch, warm lighting casting shadows across the room. Namjoon sits in front of you with his back to you, strong shoulders relaxed, spine straight. You dip your brush into black paint and start with the roots, then move slowly upward–every stroke intentional.

“So… what are we?” you ask suddenly as your brush moves along his lower back.

He chuckles. “Isn’t it a little late to ask that? We’ve been seeing each other for three months.”

“Just checking,” you say with a smile. “We’ve never put a label on this, so I want to know how you feel.”

He pauses for a moment before speaking. “I don’t mind labels. Or not having them. Some of my members don’t like being tied to those terms, especially with our jobs. But… being able to call you my girlfriend?” He turns slightly, flashing you that warm, dimpled smile. “That makes me even happier.”

You blush, caught off guard by his honesty. “Stop… you’re making my cheeks heat up…”

He laughs with his whole body, shaking his head in amusement. “What about you, baby?”

You hesitate. “I’ve been scared of labels, to be honest. I wasn’t sure if that would burden you. I didn’t want to add pressure on top of what you already deal with as an idol.”

Namjoon tilts his head slightly, sensing the sincerity in your voice. “If it’s you, I don’t mind it. Honestly, I think it’d give me more energy if you called me your boyfriend.”

You smile to yourself and dip your brush back in the paint. “Then, okay, my lovely boyfriend, I have finished the art.”

He stands and walks over to the mirror in the hallway between his bathroom and the closet. His eyes widen. “Is this a plum blossom tree in traditional Korean ink style?”

You walk over beside him. “It is. Plum blossoms symbolize resilience, hope, and perseverance in adversity. I think you embody that completely, especially after everything you’ve told me about your journey as an idol.”

Namjoon looks at you softly through the mirror, your reflection beside him glowing with warmth. His expression softens. His heart swells.

He turns and hugs you close, your bare chest pressing against his. You feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek.

“I truly love you, you know that?”

You giggle softly. “Yeah… of course I know. And I love you too.”

He pulls back with a playful smirk. “Now it’s my turn to paint you. Maybe I’ll put some flowers on your chest.”

He’s so precious. You burst out laughing at his cuteness, already reaching for the brushes again.

“Go for whatever your heart desires.”

January. After months of constant hangouts and long, ongoing conversations, itt’s been two weeks since Namjoon last texted you.

You don’t really mind the lack of communication. You know better than to assume the worst. He’s an idol. He’s juggling a packed schedule with rehearsals, interviews, late-night studio sessions, choreography tweaks, and the constant pressure of the public eye. Silence isn’t always rejection. Sometimes, it’s just exhaustion.

Still, the quiet lingers in your phone like an unopened letter.

You consider texting him to let him know you’ll be at Frieze Seoul, the international art fair held annually in the city, known for bringing together global collectors, artists, and institutions. It's one of the biggest events of the year–a week-long celebration of contemporary art spanning prestigious museums and galleries across Seoul. This year, the after-party for opening night is being hosted by Artue in a private rooftop space above Itaewon.

You’ve seen past articles–photos of Namjoon quietly observing installations at events like this, tucked in black caps or sponsored by a prestigious brand in branded clothing. He’s no stranger to Frieze. He even reposted a sculpture from the fair two years ago. But you doubt he’ll make it this year. With the tour prep underway and pressure all on as the comeback nears, it seems impossible.

Still, you hover over your phone screen. Should you let him know?

Would that be weird? Does he even care about your schedules?

Would maybe seem to him that you’re fishing for attention? Or worse–assuming he’ll be there? You don’t want to seem like a clingy girlfriend and you also don’t want to interfere with whatever he’s been up to. You get it. Maybe you should just get back to work.

You lock your phone without sending anything.

The COEX Convention Center is buzzing by the time you arrive, bright white lighting softened by the elegant glow of uplights bouncing off glass panels and floral installations. You walk through the tall revolving doors beside the Kukje Gallery Chairwoman Hyun-Sook Lee, CEO Charles Kim, as well as 3 other big gallery staff members you closely work with. Your heels click quietly across the marble.

Your For Love & Lemons Ophelia Gown, a floral satin slip dress clings to your figure, swaying at the hem with each step. The corseted bodice shapes your waist, soft ivory fabric catching flecks of light like pearls. You blend in–yet stand out. Clean and classic. Soft and smart.

“Y/N,” the Chairwoman leans in slightly, speaking over the hum of jazz and clinking glass. “You look lovely tonight. Walk with me.”

You heard the big lady boss, so you do.

“Tonight’s about presence. You don’t have to say much–just listen, absorb, and know who to recognize. Frieze is where art meets capital, and relationships are the real investment.”

“Yes, Chairwoman,” you nod, adjusting your clutch as you follow her into the crowd.

You’re introduced to gallerists from Tokyo and Berlin, a Swiss collector who apparently has a soft spot for Korean post-war art, and a British curator who mentions she follows your gallery’s Instagram. You smile graciously, thank her, accept the champagne flute a waiter hands you. Every few minutes, Director Bokyung Park sweeps past with a whispered cue–“That’s the Arario team. Oh, and the woman in green? She used to work with Zwirner.”

Jiwon and Sekyung, fellow Kukje Gallery assistants, are more relaxed now with drinks in hand, joke quietly near the sculpture exhibit by a Norwegian artist–tall slabs of glass stacked precariously like a frozen Jenga tower. You recognize a few celebrities from afar. One of them, a K-drama actor, brushes past your shoulder and nods with a grin. You smile politely, tucking hair behind your ear.

Matthew Thompson, the international liaison working at the Kukje Gallery with you, leans over and murmurs with his usual British charm, “You’re handling this well. Most first-timers freeze up at events like this.”

“I’ve worked under people like Curator Sungah Serena Choo for far too long to freeze up at events like these,” you reply with a small laugh. “That’s impressive of you, especially at your age being in this world.”

The night rolls on with curated elegance. Music swells from a live quartet in the corner, and the soft chatter of artists, dealers, critics, and collectors swirls around you like the fizz of your champagne. You’re perfectly composed, but something nags at the edge of your mind.

Would he have come here tonight?

Would he walk through those doors?

And if he did… would his eyes look for you, with the same thoughts that you’d likely be here?

You sip your champagne, gently sway your hips to avoid a passing waiter, and smile at someone you half-recognize from an online networking panel last year.

You remind yourself you're here for the art.

Not for the chance to see him.

But your eyes still glance toward the entrance.

Just once. Maybe twice.

A sudden roar erupts from outside the COEX venue–louder than anything you’ve heard all evening. It crashes through the air like a wave, spilling into the open glass lobby from somewhere far beyond the polished walls.

You glance up. Fans have been camped outside since sunset, hoping to catch a glimpse of their favorite idols and actors as they arrived for Frieze Seoul’s opening. Most can’t even get past security, but they wait anyway, with cameras in hand and phones pressed to barricades.

But this time, the noise is different. Sharper. Higher-pitched. Sustained.

Something tugs at your heart.

Could it be…?

“Oh my god–it’s BTS RM and J-Hope! They’re here!”

Gasps flutter across the floor like startled birds. Conversations falter. Glasses pause mid-air. And then the migration begins–art professionals, dealers, and curious attendees flock toward the mezzanine railing of the second floor, eager to catch a glimpse.

You follow slowly, stuck behind a few people in the crowd forming, your heels clicking against the marble as you try to peek between shoulders and heads. Eventually, you find a sliver of space near the glass edge–and there he is.

Namjoon.

Wearing a VISVIM Crosby short-sleeve leopard print shirt, black slacks, and a sleek crossbody bag. Next to him stands J-Hope, dressed in Louis Vuitton, just as effortlessly casual. Both are flanked by tight security and rich older socialites sponsoring the events, surrounded by camera flashes and waves of cheers from fans outside the building’s lower entrance.

Namjoon’s calm in the chaos, nodding politely to a curator you know who greets him. He lifts a hand in soft acknowledgment toward the crowd below. You just barely catch his profile. His sharp jawline, the lines of concentration that crease his brow.

You freeze. It’s glamorous moments like this that remind you how different your worlds really are. The privacy you shared, your bodies tangled together in the quiet of his apartment, feels so far removed from this spectacle. Still, you can’t help the soft awe that creeps in. He’s so composed. So charismatic. So... him. Yet, so different from the Namjoon you know.

You turn away before he can spot you. Not like you think he would amongst such a big room with a lot of people. Back to the exhibit you go. Back to the safe familiarity of your team, who’ve now scattered into small groups across the gallery floor. Just before adjusting the strap of his bag, Namjoon looks up toward the mezzanine. He catches sight of a figure turning away–your silhouette. Was that really you? The thought tugs at him, feeling bad that he hasn’t had the time to message you, or anyone really.  He needs to finish two more tracks on the album so he’s locked himself in the studio with the occasional Yoongi and Pdogg to help him with producing. Today was just lucky enough for him to have a schedule that pulled him out from the hell pit of work. And to see the sight of you after so long, it leaves his heart feeling excitement, yet sorry. He feels bad to cast you aside a bit, but he hopes you understand. But for now, he has other matters to attend to.

The rest of the evening passes in a haze of polite smiles and steady conversation. You network with visiting curators, directors from European museums, and several artists whose work you've followed since grad school. Champagne flutes come and go, passed around by white-gloved staff. You laugh at a lighthearted comment from Matthew Thompson about Americans trying to understand makgeolli, and smile as Bokyung Park introduces you to a pair of Paris-based collectors interested in your last exhibition.

But there’s a dull ache in your chest. You haven’t seen Namjoon again. Not even once.

And yet, you remind yourself–this is your job. He’s doing his. There’s nothing wrong here.

Later, an art world acquaintance you haven’t seen in a year waves you over, and you catch up while waiting for your ride to Artue’s exclusive rooftop after-party in Gangnam. You consider skipping it–your heart feels too unsettled–but something inside you says to go. To loosen up. To reclaim the night for yourself.

And so, you do.

At Artue’s rooftop after-party in Gangnam, you try to loosen up. Lights twinkle above like stars tethered to wires, casting a soft glow across the rooftop. The skyline hums around you, music pulses through the crowd. You sip your drink and sway a little to the sounds of H.E.R. performing, followed by Rosé and Se So Neon. Then Crush, then Dean. It’s electric. Dreamy. The air smells of night-blooming flowers and expensive perfume.

You sip your drink and let your body sway to the rhythm, willing yourself to dissolve into the crowd. For most of the night you’ve managed to stay on the edges, drifting between familiar faces, nodding through conversations, pretending the distance in your chest doesn’t ache.

And then you see him.

There he is.

Front and center near the main bar, Namjoon stands with J-Hope at his side, both of them animated in easy laughter. Two idols flank them, and then Minju Kweon–Head of VIP & Business Development, Asia at Frieze–glides into the circle, her tailored dress catching the light as she leans in to greet them. You recognize a few more faces orbiting in, industry players and rising artists eager for a moment, a smile, a photo. Phones flash discreetly, capturing proof of proximity.

Namjoon poses, not resisting the camera. His hand rests casually in his pocket, his expression gentle, open, polite. He bends down slightly when Minju says something, the corner of his mouth tugging into that warm half-smile that you usually see from him. J-Hope throws his head back at a joke, and Namjoon’s laugh follows, low and familiar.

From where you stand –maybe twenty feet away, tucked into a pocket of the crowd–it feels like a universe. You are close enough to trace the slope of his shoulders, to notice how the glow of the rooftop catches on his rings, yet far enough that he might as well be untouchable. He hasn’t seen you. And a part of you wonders if you want him to.

The divide between you sharpens under the music. Him: easy in his element, at the center of gravity, people orbiting without hesitation. You: an observer on the edge, glass sweating in your hand, caught between the pull of wanting to belong and the urge to disappear.

You start to turn your head, already imagining the neatness of a discreet exit. Better to leave the moment untouched than to risk being pulled into a spotlight you’re not sure you’re ready for. You sway, feeling a bit dizzy. Snap out of it. This isn’t good for you to ponder about. “Y/N.”

A hand taps your shoulder, jolting you out of the thought. You blink and turn.

Sekyung.

"There are a couple of idols who said they wanted to meet you. They’re fans of your works."

You blink. "Oh?"

She steps aside, and you’re introduced to two young men–Ricky and Matthew from Zero Base One.

"You curated the Origins of Silence exhibition at Kukje, right?" Ricky says, shaking your hand with a surprisingly warm smile, followed by Matthew complimenting and doing the same. 

"It was incredible. Your curation notes alone had me googling artists for hours."

"Thank you, that means a lot," you reply, your nerves smoothing into flattery.

You speak in Korean for a while about a few specific pieces with both men, before Ricky nods politely and excuses himself to mingle further. Matthew lingers.

"You’re American?" he asks in perfect English.

You blink. "Yeah–I’m from California, originally. Are you…Canadian?"

"Yeah, how’d you know?,” He chuckles. 

“I can hear it a bit from the accent!”

“Haha, it feels relieving to talk in a language I’m comfortable with." He leans slightly closer, still casual. "I’ve just started tagging along with Ricky at these events, but it feels so awkward trying to act so sophisticated and professional."

You laugh, the tension in your chest loosening more than you expect. "No worries, I feel the same, but hey, you’ve found another international person here to make you not feel too alone."

From across the party, Namjoon spots you.

He had lost sight of you hours ago, but he was sure he saw you earlier. Now, seeing you again–standing so close to Matthew, laughing–it triggers something deep inside his chest.

He knows about Matthew. Funnily enough, before a specific Weverse post of a fan accidently copy pasting the wrong korean meant for Matthew, instead of him. Young, talented, bright-eyed, full of momentum as Zero Base One ride the high of fourth-gen stardom. It’s not that Namjoon doesn’t respect him. It’s that Matthew represents something Namjoon is beginning to fear.

Time. Change. Relevance.

Namjoon clenches his jaw. He hates when he does this–spirals. Doubts. Wonders if he’s too old, too worn down, too deeply embedded in a life of late-night studio sessions and leadership roles to be someone’s... boyfriend.

Especially yours.

You're younger. Bright. Blossoming in your own career. So perfect for him it almost hurts. But maybe… not meant for him after all?

No. Fuck that.

He pulls out his phone and calls you.

Your phone buzzes in your hand. You glance at the screen. Namjoon.

Your breath catches.

“I’m sorry,” you tell Matthew gently. “I have to take this.”

He nods. “Of course.”

You step aside, barely hearing the music over your own heartbeat as you answer.

“Turn toward the center,” Namjoon says.

Your gaze shifts. And there he is.

Eyes locked on yours. A stillness in a sea of bodies.

“You’re here,” you whisper.

“Meet me by the emergency stairwell door in the back. We can’t talk here.”

His voice is low, firm. Sweet beneath the command.

“Okay.”

You weave through the crowd. He moves too, both of you drawn together like magnets. The stairwell is hidden behind a catering table and a black curtain. He reaches you first, hand closing gently around your wrist before tugging you behind the wall and through the heavy metal door. "Woah, Namjoon–"

"So when I'm not here, you decide to go talk to other idols?"

"Huh? What?"

"I saw you talking to Matthew, all smiling and shit. What was that about?"

"Huh? Matthew?" The idol you were just talking to? You had already forgotten his name. "Ah, the member from Zero Base One? Our gallery sales assistant introduced me to him were just talking about art and our upbringing abroad. Nothing more!"

"Really? Because it didn't look like that to me, or maybe even others."

"Absolutely not. What the hell are you on about? Are you jealous or something?"

Namjoon sighs, feeling stupid that he let his emotions get the best of him. "No, I'm not.." He scans you and the dress you're wearing. the way it hugs your body, the way it shows your cleavage. 

"Doesn’t sound like it to me!"

He looks away, "Ugh, let's go home. We've clearly been apart for a little too long and we’re taking this frustration out on each other." Two weeks doesn't feel too long, but dammit, it does to him. And to you too.

"Woah, wait!" He pulls your arm, pulling you walk down the emergency stairwell. He calls his manager to get the car to pick him up from a backdoor emergency exit that leads out an alleyway. no one should be able to see you two leave from here. He texts J-Hope to tell him that he's leaving ahead of him.

"I'm gonna fuck you so hard that you won't dare to talk to another idol and only think of me," he says  as the car arrives and takes you to his place.

You swallow hard.

Tonight is far from over.

The car pulls into the underground parking garage at Nine One Hannam, its tires whispering against the smooth concrete. Namjoon’s hand is already on your thigh, jaw clenched and unreadable, the tension in his body palpable.

The second the door opens, he’s out first, rounding the car to open yours. He doesn’t speak. Just grabs your hand, intertwines your fingers with his, and walks you briskly toward the elevator. His palm is hot, firm, grounding.

The elevator doors close behind you.

It’s like a dam breaks.

His mouth crashes against yours with a hunger you haven’t felt from him in a while–raw, claiming, desperate. He cups the back of your head, tongue sweeping into your mouth, breathing heavy through his nose. Your hands curl around his shirt collar, pulling him closer, gasping when he angles your head and kisses you even deeper. You worry the elevator will open at another floor and someone will enter, but luckily, it doesn’t happen. It seems the stars have aligned just for you and Namjoon here.

When the elevator dings at his floor, he doesn't stop. Just pulls away with a firm, “Come on,” voice dark and low.

He unlocks his apartment with one hand while the other holds your waist, already pawing at the curve of your hip. As soon as the door shuts behind you, he pins you to the wall beside the entryway, one hand gripping your jaw while the other slides down your side.

“This dress,” he growls softly, eyes raking over your body as though he’s just now really letting himself take it in. “God, baby… you look incredible.”

You barely have time to murmur a breathless “Thank you,” before he adds, voice lower, rougher, “But you look better out of it.”

He tugs at the zipper at the side, peeling the floral satin from your body slowly, watching your expression like a man starving. You step out of it, heat rushing to your face as you’re left in your lace white thong and heels. Namjoon’s already undoing his shirt–each button flicked open with precision–but he doesn’t take his eyes off you.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs, like it’s a fact. Not a question. So domineering, you think.

Your fingers brush at his lips slowly, as if sealing them will silence him and his urge to consume you. “I know.” 

Then he’s kissing you again. Guiding you backwards toward his bedroom without breaking contact, walking you there with strong hands and stolen breaths. Clothes trail behind the both of you: his shirt, his pants, your heels. When your knees hit the bed, he pushes you gently onto it, palms braced on either side of your thighs.

His voice dips. “Lie back. Spread your legs.”

You do–eyes wide, heart pounding–and he climbs over you, muscles taut and tense with restraint. His cock, thick and flushed, presses against your slick folds as he settles between your legs. You reach for him, but he catches your wrists, pinning them above your head.

“You think I didn’t notice?” he says softly, hips grinding forward so the tip of his cock drags through your wetness. “You think I didn’t see the way he looked at you?”

“It was seriously nothing–” you breathe, but he cuts you off with a thrust.

It’s rough. Deep. Your eyes flutter shut.

“Then you won’t mind me reminding you who fucks you like this.”

He pounds into you again, each stroke controlled and precise, angled perfectly to hit the sensitive spot inside you. He lets your wrists go only to push your thighs up higher, spreading you open more obscenely so he can drive deeper. You moan, high and needy, and he growls as he pulls out, slapping the length of his cock against your soaked entrance–once, twice–before plunging back in. He’s gritting his teeth, forehead pressed to yours, watching you unravel. Your legs are trembling around his waist as he fucks you deeper, harder.

“You like that, baby?” he growls against your mouth. “Only I get to feel this tight little pussy. Only I can make you cry like this.” Thrusts continue as the wet slap of your bodies echoes in the room.

“You’re so…a-ah, f-fuck..Namjoom, please” you moan.

Hell, you are even crying a little–more from pleasure than anything. His pace is ruthless, but he still keeps checking in with soft touches, lips brushing your temple, whispers of “you okay?” that only you can hear.

At one point, he pulls out and flips you over. Presses your chest into the mattress and grips your hips hard enough to leave imprints. When he sinks back into you from behind, he lets out a broken moan–like he’s finally letting his jealousy melt into pure, greedy need.

“Look at you,” he pants, fucking into you with long, possessive strokes. “Taking me so good, even when I’m this deep?”

You whimper something like a yes, your cheek pressed to the sheets, barely coherent.

Then he leans down over your back, lips near your ear. “Let me see that face,” he says.

He grabs your waist, pulls you upright, your spine flush to his chest as he continues fucking you from behind in this new angle. One hand circles your throat lightly, keeping you steady. The other slips between your thighs, rubbing your clit in tight, focused circles. His thrusts grow sloppier as you clench down on him–your body tightening and pulsing in time with the strokes of his fingers.

“Come on, baby. Come with me. Show me who you belong to.”

You explode immediately. Trembling, gasping, your nails dig into his thighs as pleasure rips through you in waves.

He follows, only seconds later, with a guttural moan that sounds ripped from the base of his throat. His hips jerk as he fills you, pulsing deep inside until he has nothing left to give.

Then he pulls out suddenly, breath ragged. “On your knees,” he orders.

You scramble onto all fours, but he doesn't go behind you just yet. Instead, he walks around, grabs your chin, and presses the tip of his cock to your lips.

“Open.”

You do, and he slides in slowly–so slowly–until your mouth is stretched full, lips wrapped around the base. He lets out a shaky groan, hand cupping the back of your head. He doesn’t thrust at first. Just holds you there, watching tears prick the corners of your eyes. Then he begins to move. Controlled, deep strokes that leave you gasping and drooling.

“You take it so well,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your spit-slicked cheek. “All that smart mouth and now look at you. Fuck.” You give me a sly, silly smile. You’d love to argue a little bit more to rile him up, but your headspace is all over the place right now. Let’s just accept this fate being devoured by one of the finest men in Korea.

He pulls out with a wet pop and slaps his cock across your tongue–once, twice–before giving your ass a sharp smack. “Back on the bed. Face down.”

You scramble into position again, heart racing, and he doesn’t waste another second. He slaps your ass once more before grabbing your hips and driving back inside in one deep, punishing thrust. You cry out into the sheets as he pounds into you from behind, rougher now, voice rasping, “That’s it. Let me fuck the thought of anyone else out of your head.”

“Y-yes!! Fuck!”

Your orgasm crashes through you hard and fast, made sharper by the sting of another slap to your ass as you come. And he doesn’t stop–he keeps fucking you through it, body trembling with effort, until his own release overtakes him with a low, guttural growl.

You both collapse after a few more rounds, tangled in sweat-slick sheets and each other, your breathing uneven, hearts thudding out of rhythm before slowly syncing again. His hand strokes your waist lazily, thumb drawing idle circles into your skin. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “I really lost myself… after not seeing you for so long, and then suddenly seeing you talking to another man.”

You giggle, tilting your head toward him. “Ooh, you were jealous? Did you think I lost interest already?”

“Stop, baby,” he groans, hiding his face against your neck. “No. But… I wouldn’t have blamed you, honestly. I’ve been neglecting you.”

“Namjoon…”

“No, really. I’m sorry. I’ve wanted to text you, but I’ve been drowning in work. The album..we’re pushing for release in the next 2 months, and I haven’t been able to–”

“It’s okay, my love.” You cut him off gently. “I figured as much.”

“I missed you so much,” he admits, voice breaking with honesty. “More than I could even say.”

“I missed you too,” you whisper. “But next time… just let me know. Even a short text, so I don’t worry. You were completely M.I.A.”

“I know.” He exhales, brushing a strand of hair back from your face with aching tenderness. “I thought I could power through and surprise you with big news when it was done, but… I was wrong.”

You press your forehead against his, closing your eyes as his warmth seeps into you. “Joonie. Like I’ve always said, don’t worry about it. I’m here now. My worrying yapper king.”

Namjoon chuckles, dimples deepening, eyes soft as he looks at you. “Yeah. You are.”

He lingers like that a moment longer before carefully rolling out of bed, his body still languid from the intensity. He pads to the kitchen and returns with a tall glass of water. The kind of post-sex gesture that’s not flashy, but intimate–like he knows your needs before you do.

You sit up, muscles sore, and take the glass from him gratefully. As you sip, he sits at the edge of the bed beside you, his fingers ghosting down your back.

He hesitates. Then, quietly:

“Y/N… do you want to come by the HYBE building sometime?”

Your lips part, the glass freezing halfway to your mouth. “Huh?”

“I want to introduce you to the members. Officially.”

Your head snaps toward him. “Wait. Really?”

“I think it should be fine,” he explains, careful, like he’s rehearsed this in his head. “People already know I like art. If anyone sees you with me, they’ll just assume you’re an ‘art friend’...someone I know through exhibitions or gallery connections.” His tone softens into something more vulnerable. “But to the guys… I want them to know who you really are.”

The words sink in, spreading through your chest in a way that feels almost too big to contain. Meeting his members. The people he’s built his entire life and career with. The people who have seen every version of him you’ve only caught glimpses of in photos Namjoon has shared with you or just mentions in your late-night conversations with him.

It hits you like a tidal wave. This is real. Not just a pocket of time you’re stealing together, not just secrecy behind closed doors. He wants to bring you closer, to fold you into the circle of trust he holds so tightly guarded. Your excitement prickles with nerves. What if they don’t like you? What if you say the wrong thing? But beneath all that anxiety is something brighter, warmer: the thrill of being chosen, of being claimed, of being seen. By the person you love so dearly.

Namjoon has always moved with intention. Never rushed, never careless. And this? This feels monumental. Like he’s opening a door you hadn’t dared imagine he’d ever unlock.

Your throat feels tight, but you manage a whisper. “Okay.”

His gaze flickers to you, searching. “Okay?”

You nod, a smile curling shy but sure across your lips. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Relief washes over him, loosening his shoulders. “I think the guys’ll love you.”

“You sure they won’t hate me for monopolizing your time?” you tease, though your heart’s racing too fast to sound casual.

“Are you kidding?” His grin is wide, boyish, the kind that makes your chest ache. “They’ll thank you for keeping me sane.”

You both laugh, soft and sleepy, and lean back into each other, your head resting on his chest, his arm wrapped around your waist again like muscle memory.

The bath can wait. Sleep can wait. For now, it’s just the two of you. Breathing. Holding. Wondering how everything is somehow moving forward.

Namjoon

You approach Namjoon next. He is on his way to workout. When you ask him the question, he looks offended for just a moment, before another emotion takes its place. “Well, since he wants to turn it into a contest,” he says, sharply, “Me.” His smile is smug, but you can’t help but notice him fidgeting with the ring Jin gifted him for his birthday.

Yoongi

Next is Yoongi. As usual, you slowly approach Genius Lab. When you raise your fist to knock on the door, you glance down at his welcome mat, the cat is still flipping you off.

You knock three times. He doesn’t answer right away. When you are about to give up hope, the door cracks open. "Jin," he says, simply.

"No, it's (Y/N)," you reply.

"No," he asserts, "I'm voting for Jin."

Before you can ask how he knew about the poll, or his reasoning, he has already closed the door again.

Hoseok

You find both Hobi and Jimin in one of the practice rooms, learning a new dance challenge. They listen to your question carefully.

For Hobi, the question almost sends him spiraling into an existential crisis. Who is the better princess? he wonders to himself. Should he base it on looks? On vibes? Should he remain loyal to his fellow, rap line member - the one who spent countless hours, teaching him about rap and hip-hop, before they debuted? Or should he remain loyal to Jin, his other half of 2Seok? Although, he continues to think to himself, Jin did make me do a Zombie escape room the day after my discharge.

"Hobi," you say, interrupting his thoughts, "I need an answer."

"Seokjin!" he exclaims, clearly panicking from having to choose.

Jimin

After receiving Hobi's vote, you turn to Jimin, who has been patiently waiting. Before you can open your mouth, to repeat the question, he has an answer.

"Namjoon," he says, matter-of-factly.

"Why?" you question, curiously.

"Because MiniMoni."

Taehyung

With the score now Seokjin - 3, Namjoon - 2, you go to find Taehyung. He is sitting with Jungkook, still clearly proud of himself over his Instagram post regarding this Princess matter. He doesn't typically like to stir the pot, but in this case - how could he not?

When you approach, he looks up at you as if he was waiting for your arrival. "I am ready to cast my vote," he states.

"Go on," you reply.

"Namjoon," he declares. Little do you know, he flipped a coin to decide prior to your arrival.

Jungkook

With a sigh, you turn to Jungkook, who is in his own battle against jet lag. "Jungkook, you're the tie breaker," you inform him.

He blinks. "Wait, what?" he asks.

You catch him up to speed, sharing all the details with him - the tiara, the posts on social media, Jin requesting that all the members vote for who is the better Princess. As you explain the situation to him, he seems to catch a second wind - he looks more awake, seems to have more energy. These is suddenly a devious twinkle in his eyes.

When you pose the question to him, he responds quickly. "Namjoon," he replies, slapping his hand on his knee for emphasis.

His confidence takes you off guard - you would have never thought he would vote against Jin. Unless, you pause to think, unless Jin did something wrong. You rewind the past few days until it dawns you. Seokjin one-upped Jungkook by giving Namjoon that ring. This is Jungkook's revenge.

It was as though the entire eighteen months did not happen. Hybe, their own kingdom, welcomed them with open arms, fans were roaming the streets in show of their unwavering support for the group and media from all over the world were broadcasting of their return. Likewise, the boys headed straight to the company as soon as they stepped out of the military compound as though they couldn’t wait a single second to reclaim their thrones.

Except for the apparent changes in their bodies as they adapted to the rigorous routine of the military, it was like nothing changed. It was evident by the way he was shamelessly staring at you as the meeting presided. Unwavering. Unblinking.  You could feel the hair at the back of your neck stood up from the crushing uncomfortableness brought by his unwanted attention. You kept your gaze fixed forward, refusing to meet his eyes, except for that one slip—when you caught him sitting back, arms crossed, eyes heavy on you. Taehyung chuckled lowly at the sight of his hyung who looked like he was barely constraining himself. Meanwhile, you wanted to leave the building and perhaps if not for the ironclad contract, the country.

You had gone without this for eighteen months.

You thought those months were enough to extinguish whatever fire he had for you.

You couldn’t have been more wrong.

You should have known that a man such as Kim Namjoon wasn’t someone who let go so easily as evident by the way he persevered to lead BTS from a small company’s gamble to a worldwide phenomenon.

You should have known that he was someone who held promises in high regard, especially when it came from you.

“And so, that concludes our meeting!” Bang PD announced with a clap before addressing Namjoon and Taehyung. “Welcome back, boys and let’s take over the music industry once again.”

The staff cheered for them, some clapped their backs, congratulating them. You, on the other hand, were already one foot out of the room, so close to freedom when Bang PD called you. You groaned inwardly. There just went your escape. “I’m sorry for pulling you out of the TXT team. I know how much you like working with them. But you know how particular Namjoon is,” he sighed, his tone apologetic. “He didn’t want to proceed with his schedule if his usual team is not there.”

You didn’t know how to react. It wasn’t that he was particular with his team. No. It was just that he was particular when it came to you. You must admit that the entire time you spent working for them was one of the best years of your life. Despite the job being demanding, the boys made it worthwhile with the salary, benefits and of course, the friendship you built with them. The job honestly opened a lot of doors for you, doors that you could walk through any moment had it not been for one foolish mistake.

Everyday felt like living your dreams. You were literally living the life people dreamed of until he turned it into a nightmare. Or was it you who sabotaged yourself? Was it you who flew too close to the fire only to find out that the fire would rather burnout than let go?

It honestly started with a simple, harmless admiration.

You were with them almost every single day. You weren’t blind. You saw how the boys held this unexplainable charm that inevitably drew the fans. You noticed. But it was harder not to notice Namjoon more. He was charming, polite, a true leader in every sense of the word, intelligent, and well… he was like a man written by a woman.

As someone who had to work closely with his face, you could see the dark bags in his eyes, the tiredness that could only be hidden by makeup. He was always quiet while you worked with him, only greeting you a quiet good morning before closing his eyes and letting you do the work while the other members filled the room with noise and energy.

The next schedule with him, you were sure to buy him coffee after asking around the staff what he preferred. When you placed it on the table in front of him, he blinked at it, bleary-eyed.

He looked surprised, blinking his sleepy eyes before slowly drinking the coffee, hiding his dimpled smile. It became a quiet ritual after that. You’d bring the coffee; he’d give you a warm smile and a soft “thank you.” And each time, those simple gestures were enough to warm you far more than the drink ever could. It started with coffee.

Then came the conversations—short at first, until one day he asked about the book in your bag. The next thing you knew, the two of you were trading thoughts about novels while you brushed powder across his skin.

He smiled more now. His eyes seemed brighter. And in those moments, it was easy to believe he was warmer too.

If there was a thing such as a slow burn, yours was probably the slowest.

You didn’t even think your crush would turn out to something more, and at that point you just truly felt bad for the guy. He was falling asleep from working too hard. You’d been pulled from your usual schedule and assigned to another group, accompanying them overseas for an entire week. By the third day, you were exhausted, halfway through a late dinner in your hotel room, when your phone lit up.

Where are you?

You stared at the unknown number.

I’m sorry. Who’s this?

A pause. Then—

Namjoon.

Before you could even process, another message came through.

Where are you?

You hesitated, fingers hovering over the screen.

I’m in Japan. Do you need anything?

When will you come back?

On the 28th. Why?

The next day, you were asked by the company to come back immediately. You weren’t told why.

When you walked in the makeup room once again, you heard someone muttered thank god.

Namjoon was already there, one leg crossed over the other, glancing up from his phone—not at you, but at your reflection in the mirror. His gaze was sharp, unblinking, the kind of look that pinned you in place.

Looking back, that should have been the first red flag.

You weren’t assigned to another group since then.

 Suffice to say, it was the beginning of Namjoon monopolizing your time —one subtle scheduling change at a time, until every shift, every day, every hour seemed to circle back to him.

“What are you two?” Hoseok once asked, the ever-present smile in his face was as wide as ever.

His question caught you off guard you until he clarified that he was asking about you and the group’s leader. You said that you were friends. Hoseok lost his smile right then and there.

You weren’t delusional to hope that a simple harmless crush of yours would turn into a relationship. First, you didn’t think you would survive being in a relationship with an idol and second, Namjoon didn’t even like you.

You shrugged off that peculiar interaction.

“You should come to the party!”

You were already shaking your head before they could even finish their sentence. Parties weren’t your scene, and after the exhausting wrap on their album shoot, all you wanted was to go home and collapse into bed.

“Just stop by, noona! We promise we’ll have the drivers take you straight to your apartment!” Jimin pleaded, leaning forward with that disarming smile that made it harder to say no.

“I don’t want to be an imposition, really—” you began, already rehearsing your polite refusal.

“I’ll give out a bonus if you come,” Namjoon said suddenly, his voice cutting cleanly through the room.

You turned to him, startled. He’d been quiet through the entire exchange, absorbed in his phone—or so you thought. But now his eyes were on you, calm, unreadable, as if he’d been listening the whole time.

“…I’m going.”

Jimin whooped in victory. Namjoon just went back to his phone, but you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth in the mirror.

It was where it all truly went down.

The party was exclusive only for Hybe, everyone was having fun with all the drinks, food and the music. The members were obviously enjoying themselves as they should. They deserved it after the crucial several months of back-to-back schedule. You’d been content to ride the wave of celebration for a while, but the alcohol was beginning to blur your thoughts, the heat of the room pressing in. Fresh air seemed like the only solution. You weren’t sure why the balcony called to you, but you went, slipping out into the cool night. The muted bass of the party thudded faintly behind you as you inhaled deeply, the crisp air clearing your head.

Leaning against the railing, you tilted your head back to admire the stars—until a puff of smoke curled into the air on your right.

You turned.

There, half-swallowed by the shadows, stood Namjoon. The glow of the ember lit the edge of his face, the cigarette resting casually between his lips. His eyes met yours through the haze, unreadable.

You blinked, owlishly.

He looked at your lips, heat in his eyes apparent. It was quiet, no one dared to say a word. Namjoon stepped closer to you, his thick thighs enclosed by dark slacks and he didn’t stop until he was just a shy inch from you.

Your eyes were at his chest, and ever so slowly, you met his draconic eyes.

He smiled.

And you were gone.

His hand was on the back of your head, the other tilting your jaw up to meet his as he kissed you.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t soft. It was hungry, ravenous, dangerous. Namjoon drove you back until your spine hit the wall, hidden in shadow. His lips devoured yours, his tongue claiming without asking, playing with yours as if it already belonged to him. He tasted right—alarmingly right.

His hands roamed lower, gripping your thigh, thumb tracing along the strip of skin your dress exposed. The restraint in his touch was thin, trembling.

“I’ve wanted to do this,” he growled against your mouth, “every single fucking day.”

A beat.

Your breaths filling the air.

“…What’s stopping you?”

That was your second mistake.

The night was a blur.

Not because it was unmemorable, but because everything happened so fast.

Before you knew it, you were in his apartment. You heard the door click shut behind you, and as ominous as it sounded, you remembered thinking you just sealed your fate. Namjoon was looking at you, the apartment dark saved by the moonlight from the floor to ceiling window.

His hand slid across your jaw, his eyes fascinated by you.

You touched his hand, grappling with a semblance of control even when his erection was pressing against your stomach. “I..I don’t usually do this-”

His smile was slow, dangerous, the kind that promised nothing good.

“Good.”

It was all he said before he lifted you by the waist and hoisted you up the table. He pushed your legs apart, his hips in between them as he kissed you, his lips soft against yours. You couldn’t help but moan as he peppered kisses down your shoulders then his lips landed on top of your breast.

He was patient, but not when it came to this as he ripped down your bra and suck on your nipples like he had been starving for so long. His fingers went down to your core, pressing on your clothed clit and without any preamble, ripped your panties.

“Fuck, baby, you’re wet just for me,” he growled before he lifted your legs over his broad shoulders. He thrusted his tongue while sucking your clit. He was animalistic, hungry, savage as he made you come and come again until your begged him to stop. At one point you did try to crawl off the table only to be stopped by his strong arms.

“Where are you going, baby? We’re not yet done,” he crooned at you as he fingered you, too overstimulated to notice that you didn’t once discuss about protection.

“N-Namjoon–”

“Yes, baby girl?” he whispered and you heard zipper and the buckle of belt. You looked down and your eyes widened at his size.

“I…I don’t think that’s going to fit..”

“Of course it will,” he assured and wondered what you were talking about when you were made for him.

He guided the bulbous head of his cock, bumping your clit every so often. You mewled from the sensation. You were a mess. He knew it and he loved it.

“Namjoon…baby, please daddy–”

“What do you need baby?”

“Y-your cock. Daddy please!”

“Hmm,” he pushed the head of his cock in you and you knew you came a little from being so overstimulated, his thumb rubbing your wet clit. “I only take what’s mine,” he murmured. “Are you mine?”

“D-daddy –”

“Are you mine, baby girl?”

“Y-yours –”

You didn’t even finish when he slammed in you. you were squeezing your tight cunt around his hard cock. You could feel everything. You could feel the vein, the hardness and how deep he was in you. To Namjoon, this was nirvana. He could feel himself already becoming addicted. Obsessive, even. This was why he never allowed himself to indulge on his desires.

He was an obsessive man.

He never expected it to feel this fucking good. His fingers were going to leave marks, your neck would display his ownership.

“You’re doing so good for me, baby. You feel incredible.”

He could feel you tremble as he shuddered out of his orgasm, his hot cum inside you.

You remembered waking up the next day with your body sore and his arm wrapped around you. You didn’t know how you made it out of his apartment quietly, but you did.

Shame burned through you, vivid and suffocating. You kept replaying the night in your mind—his hands, his voice, the way you’d let go of every line you’d sworn you wouldn’t cross. It wasn’t just unprofessional. It was reckless.

He must think you were the kind of person who let desire dictate their choices. You couldn’t even bring yourself to blame him if he did.

So when your phone began lighting up with message after message from him, you didn’t open a single one. You didn’t have to—not when you’d already decided you were taking the month off. No work, no meetings, no chance encounters in dim-lit rooms with him standing far too close.

“What do you mean I am off the group’s shoot?”

The manager exhaled heavily, like he’d been dreading this conversation. Around the conference table, the other staff avoided your eyes, staring down at papers, coffee cups, anything but you.

“Y/N,” he began carefully, “I wish I could give you a better answer, but… BTS specifically requested for you to be exclusive to them.” He hesitated before adding, “They said Kim Namjoon is… very particular.”

And there it was. The consequence of your actions. The price for leaving his bed.

The weight of it settled in your chest, cold and suffocating. You didn’t have to ask why. You already knew.

It only worsened from there. Namjoon wanted you around all the time—on sets, in meetings, in the shadows of every event. You weren’t just working with BTS anymore; you were orbiting him, tethered by something you didn’t remember agreeing to but somehow couldn’t break free from.

You were starting to suffocate. How could you even know that that horrendous mistake would turn your life into a nightmare?

You didn’t want to be in this situation, much less being in a pseudo-relationship with the leader of one of the biggest groups in the world. You wanted your old life back. In fact, you tried to break it off whatever was between the two of you one dinner.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you said, barely able to meet his eyes. “It’s not… right. I want things to go back to normal.”

Namjoon, with that practiced calm that made you want to scream, simply asked, “And what happens if the industry finds out you left because you fucked one of the members… and you’re in a relationship with one of them?”

You blinked at him, pulse skipping. “You’re not my boyfriend—”

He tilted his head slightly, setting down his chopsticks with deliberate slowness. “You’re right,” he said, voice soft but unyielding. “A husband and wife sounds better. More ironclad.”

Your stomach dropped. “Are you insane?” you asked, half-hoping he would laugh and tell you this was all some sick joke.

But he just shrugged, like the idea of marrying you on paper to keep you locked in his orbit was the most natural thing in the world.

The air in the meeting room was already taut, but the moment the door opened, the tension doubled. Seokjin walked in during his rare break from service—still in casual military uniform, the air of authority he’d gained during service clinging to him.

You and the other staff scrambled to your feet out of habit, but Seokjin’s eyes didn’t waver from Namjoon.

“Stay,” he said—not to the room, but to you specifically.

You froze, halfway standing.

His gaze slid back to Namjoon. “Are you changing our plans because of her?”

Namjoon leaned back in his chair, hands folded loosely on the table as if this was nothing more than a routine discussion.

“She’s going to leave once I’m in there.”

The bluntness of it hit like a slap.

You opened your mouth to protest, but Seokjin’s eyes cut to you sharp, assessing before returning to Namjoon.

“That’s not a reason to disrupt the schedule,” he said, voice clipped.

“It’s reason enough for me,” Namjoon replied calmly, though his eyes flicked toward you like a silent warning.

And suddenly you understood: This wasn’t just about enlistment. It was about making sure you had nowhere to run.

And now, you saw an out. A rare opportunity for you to be free from him.

Eighteen months of freedom.

Eighteen months of breathing space.

Seokjin rubbed his forehead, the kind of motion that said he’d been dragged into too many of Namjoon’s storms before. He leveled his gaze at his younger brother.

“This isn’t you, Namjoon.”

“Is she not going to run?” Namjoon asked, voice calm, but the words were like a blade. “If I enlist?”

Your stomach sank. Hypothetical, he said—except you knew he already believed the answer.

Seokjin exhaled through his nose. “What if we get her to sign a contract? Will that be enough?”

Namjoon didn’t hesitate. “I want her to promise me that she’ll marry me after.”

Your head snapped toward him. “What?!”

He didn’t even flinch. He just looked at you—steady, deliberate—like the idea was no more outrageous than asking you to pass the salt.

“Promise me,” he said quietly, “and I’ll go.”

What would a false promise cost you, right?

This.

This was what it cost you—eighteen months of deliberate silence.

Eighteen months of ignoring every call, every text, every midnight voicemail where his voice cracked as he told you he couldn’t sleep without you. That he was wasting away. That he didn’t know how to breathe in a world where you didn’t look at him.

And maybe you should’ve felt something—guilt, pity, even the faint ache of what used to be but you didn’t. You were just counting days, waiting for the lock on your cage to rust.

Your contract was almost up. One more month and you could be free from HYBE, from the constant eyes, from him.

You’d already mapped out your exit like a military operation. No forwarding address. No lingering contacts. No chance encounters in dim-lit corridors with him standing too close.

You thought he got over you now.

You were wrong.

 “It’s just for one two days. Think of it as the last thing you’ll have to do for the company before you leave,” Bang PD said with a smile before leaving the room. You sighed, shoulders sagging, and turned—only to freeze.

There he was, blocking the hallway like he’d been waiting all morning just for this exact moment.

You blinked, owlish and unprepared, words stuttering in your throat. What did you say to someone you’d ghosted for almost two years? Someone whose messages you’d ignored, whose calls you’d silenced until the sound of his ringtone felt like a warning siren?

“W-welcome back, Namjoon,” you managed, voice too soft, too unsure.

He didn’t return the greeting. His eyes stayed locked on you, dark and unreadable, his arms folded across his chest as though he had every second in the world to stand there and dissect you.

“You’re resigning?”

It wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t even a question, not really. More like a quiet confirmation of something he already knew.

You hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

A beat passed.

“Okay,” he said finally, turning slightly to let you pass. “See you in the shoot.”

And that was it. No anger. No plea. No demand.

For a second—just a fleeting second—you thought maybe he really had gotten over it. That maybe eighteen months had dulled whatever hold he thought he had on you.

The shoot happened to be six hours away from Seoul. The company car dropped you off with your things in front of what seemed to be a rest house.

It was too quiet to be a shoot.

You were used to chaos—the constant hum of chatter, the thud of heavy equipment being hauled around, cars lined up outside ready to transport anything that needed moving. But now? Nothing. Not even the faintest echo of footsteps.

Peculiar didn’t even begin to cover it.

But still, this was your last work for the company. After this, you were done, you told yourself. You just had to suck it up.

You opened the door only to be met with silence. Despite the house being homey filled with paintings and books, there was something eerie about it that you just couldn’t put your finger to. You walked deeper into the house, your phone on your hand calling your co-worker about where they could possibly be.

“Honey, what shoot? We are all in a break.”

You froze. “What?”

A low, velvety whisper brushed against your ear. “Welcome home, baby.”

You gasped, spinning around only to find Kim Namjoon standing far too close. Shirtless, his broad chest damp and glistening, grey sweats hanging low on his hips. His hair was tousled, droplets still sliding down his temple.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. “I didn’t know you’d be this early, but I cooked just in case. Come on.”

Before you could process, his hand wrapped around yours, warm and firm, pulling you toward the kitchen.

You struggled, twisting your wrist. “W-what’s going on? Where’s the shoot? W-ha—”

Namjoon chuckled, finally stopping. He turned to face you, closing the distance in a single step, his hand sliding to your waist until your bodies were flush. His breath was warm on your skin as he dipped his head to inhale at your neck.

“God, I missed you,” he murmured. “I barely slept in there, did you know that? I was losing my mind not being able to get to you.” His grip tightened, possessive. “Ah, but regardless… you’re here now.”

You attempted to push him away to no avail. “Namjoon, seriously, where is everyone? My team was supposed to—”

“They’re not coming.” His tone was casual, almost lazy, but it landed like a brick in your chest.

Your phone was still in your hand. You glanced at it, thumb hovering over the screen to call again only for him to pluck it away with ease. He set it down on the counter like it was nothing.

“You…” Your mouth went dry. “…you set this up.”

Namjoon didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned in again, brushing his lips against your temple. “Do you know how many strings I had to pull to make sure you were here alone?” he murmured, almost proudly. “No interruptions. No distractions. Just you and me.”

The warmth of the house now felt suffocating. Your gaze darted toward the front door, but Namjoon’s body shifted subtly, blocking the way without even touching you.

The air between you crackled with something you couldn’t quite name—part longing, part danger.

You swallowed hard. “Namjoon… what do you want from me?”

He grinned then, eyes crinkling in a way that would’ve been charming anywhere else, with anyone else.

“Your promise, my dear wife.”

You froze. “That was… I didn’t mean it, Namjoon. We would never work out, and you know that.”

His gaze darkened—not with anger, but with a strange, unshakable certainty. “You know what I realized in there? I realized that I want… no. I crave a family. I was hoping the seed I kept on planting in you would bear us a child, but maybe it wasn’t time. I was so disappointed every time your period came. But we have all the time in the world now… wife.”

Your stomach churned. “I’m not your wife. I will never be your wife—”

“Baby,” he interrupted softly, almost pitying. “You already are. Didn’t you think I wouldn’t… pull strings for you?”

You shook your head, taking a step back, but his hand caught your wrist with the precision of someone who had imagined this moment a thousand times.

“What strings?” you demanded.

Namjoon’s smirk deepened. “Immigration can be so… accommodating when the right documents cross their desk. You signed things you didn’t read, remember? When you thought it was just for a work visa?” He leaned in, eyes locked on yours. “Turns out you signed our marriage license, too.”

The room tilted. The paintings on the wall blurred. “No—”

“Yes,” he murmured, brushing his thumb along your jaw, as if comforting you. “And now there’s nowhere for you to go. Korea is home. I am home.”

You tore your wrist free, stumbling back, breath ragged. “You can’t—”

“I already did.” His voice was gentle, final.

And then, as if to seal it, he reached over to the counter and slid a small velvet box toward you. Inside was a simple gold band.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Kim.”