victoria

꒰⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀🐇 .⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀✿𝆬⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ๑￫ܫ￩՞꒱ა

[a] angst [n] nsfw [f] fluff [smau] social media au

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ bts works ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

✧ premium-what — ot7 | smau · f

✧ mistrust — namjoon | smau · a

✧ tea-sing — jungkook | smau · f ✧ totally my type — jungkook | smau · f

✧ random texts — yoongi | smau · f ✧ the fall of us — yoongi | a ↳ the fall of the night — yoongi | a

✧ admirer — taehyung| f · n

⊹  yoongi's realization — f ⊹ hoseok's realization — f ⊹ jungkook's realization — f ⊹ namjoon's realization — f ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ seventeen works‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

✧ opposites — mingyu | f · a ✧ second chances? — mingyu | a

　 ゛ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ 𓂅 ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ₊ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ౨ৎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ˚

now she felt distant.

untouchable.

on the screen, taehyung stepped closer to her like it was nothing. his hand brushed hers—slow, deliberate.

mingyu’s jaw tightened.

he knew taehyung. they were all friends. he reminded himself of that, over and over, like it should fix the feeling building in his chest.

it didn’t.

because the way taehyung looked at her—

it didn’t feel casual.

it felt warm. focused.

like he belonged there.

like he had a right to be that close.

taehyung said something, and she laughed.

not the polite one. not the one she used for cameras.

that one.

the real laugh. a little louder, a little unfiltered.

the one mingyu had started to think was his.

“they look good together.”

someone said it from behind him.

it hit harder than it should have.

mingyu pushed himself up before he could think too much about it. he walked over, keeping his face neutral, like this was nothing. just another clip. just work.

someone had already put it up on the big screen.

now she was everywhere.

too big to ignore.

“yah, mingyu,” joshua called. “you’ve met her, right? she’s close with jungkook. you think they’re actually—”

“that’s acting,” mingyu cut in.

too fast. too sharp.

the room paused for half a second.

he forced a small laugh. “it’s literally their job.”

“i don’t know,” dino said, still watching. “it looks kind of real.”

mingyu tossed his water bottle into his bag a little too hard.

“yeah,” he said. “crazy chemistry.”

the words didn’t sit right.

on the screen, taehyung leaned in, close enough to whisper something. she laughed again, her hand resting lightly against his chest.

it was nothing.

it had to be nothing.

she’d told him about the shoot weeks ago. complained about the early call time. texted him during lunch about how cold it was.

he knew all of that.

so why did this feel different?

like he was watching something he wasn’t supposed to see.

“they weren’t rumored before, right?” jun asked. “before that singer…”

mingyu swallowed.

he knew exactly who he meant.

that relationship had followed her everywhere. headlines, edits, rumors that never really went away.

even after it ended.

even after it should have stopped mattering.

even after mingyu.

“i think jungkook and taehyung met him once,” vernon added. “i read that somewhere… or my sister told me.”

the conversation faded out.

mingyu stopped really hearing any of it.

he just watched the screen.

how easy it looked.

no hiding. no careful timing. no thinking about who might see.

just… simple.

he moved suddenly.

“you okay?” wonwoo asked quietly.

“yeah,” mingyu said right away. “just tired.”

wonwoo didn’t look convinced, but he let it go.

the choreographer called them back, and the music started again.

mingyu focused on it. the counts, the steps, the rhythm.

he needed that.

something solid.

something that didn’t feel like it was slipping.

but the feeling didn’t go away.

it sat heavy in his chest.

it wasn’t just jealousy.

it was something worse.

something older.

that familiar feeling from his trainee days—like he wasn’t quite enough. like he was always trying to catch up.

on the screen, taehyung looked effortless.

confident. sure.

and mingyu—

felt smaller.

easy to overlook.

by the time he got home, the exhaustion felt heavier than it should.

his apartment was supposed to feel like a break from everything. quiet, clean, his.

tonight, it didn’t.

it felt empty.

too big.

like it was meant for two people—

and one of them wasn’t there.

he dropped his keys on the counter, the sound too loud in the silence. he didn’t bother turning on the lights. the city glow filled the space just enough.

the video replayed in his head anyway.

over and over.

he splashed cold water on his face, but it didn’t help.

he knows she’s with you, a voice in his head said. he wouldn’t act like that if he knew. or maybe he would. maybe he just doesn’t care.

mingyu gripped the edge of the sink, exhaling sharply.

he needed to talk to her.

needed her to laugh it off. to make it feel small again.

but something colder crept in.

what if she didn’t?

what if what he saw wasn’t just acting?

what if it was easier?

lighter than what they had—always hidden, always careful?

the last time she’d been linked to someone, it had been everywhere. that singer—bigger, louder, impossible to ignore.

that feeling hadn’t really left him.

and now taehyung.

another name. another shadow.

someone who could stand next to her in the open.

he poured himself a glass of whiskey and sat down on the edge of the sofa.

his phone buzzed in his pocket.

he didn’t want to check it.

it could be work. could be the members.

could be her.

and he didn’t know if he could handle that right now.

after a second, he pulled it out anyway.

the screen lit up his face.

the article was already trending.

and he scrolled.

he knew he shouldn’t. it felt like willingly walking into something that would hurt. but his thumb kept moving anyway, past the headline and into the comments.

“the way he looks at her omg” “isn’t her ex that singer? taehyung’s an upgrade” “they look perfect together” “of course she dates global stars” “she was hungry and went for dessert” “can’t she just go back to her country and date men from there??”

he locked his phone and tossed it beside him like it burned.

it was just a random comment. some stranger. it shouldn’t have mattered.

but it did. because they didn’t knowabout him.

and that was the problem.

to everyone else, there was no one next to her name. so they filled the space with someone else.

mingyu leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

jungkook had introduced them over dinner. she’d been nervous—not because of who he was, but because he spilled soy sauce almost immediately. she’d laughed, loud and real.

that was when it started. that was when he fell for her.

and then she stayed.

that should’ve been enough.

it should still be enough.

he trusted her. he really did. she’d never given him a reason not to. but trust didn’t stop the images.

taehyung’s hand. her smile. how easy it all looked; and the comments—over and over—until even he started questioning things he knew were real.

mingyu pressed his palms into his eyes until he saw stars.

he knew better.

he knew what her job was like. the long hours, the awkward scenes, the things that looked real but weren’t.

but this felt different.

because this wasn’t just anyone.

this was someone the world would accept with her. someone who didn’t have to hide. and that part—

that part hurt the most.

he thought about her ex. the public dates, the photos, the constant attention. what did he have? late nights when schedules lined up. quick kisses in empty places. her name saved in a way no one would question.

a relationship that only existed in the background.

he took a sip of whiskey.

it didn’t help.

this wasn’t her fault. she’d even offered, months ago to go public, to take the risk.

he was the one who said no.

he was the one who said this was enough. but sitting here now—

he wasn’t so sure.

his phone buzzed.

he let it ring twice before answering, just to steady himself.

“hey,” his voice came out rough.

“hey, you,” she said lightly. “did you see the circus?”

she was laughing.

and for a second, he felt relief.

“they think we’re dating because of a 30-second clip,” she added. “it’s ridiculous.”

there it was.

the normal reaction.

the one he needed.

but it didn’t fully fix anything.

“yeah,” he said. “it’s everywhere.”

“he called earlier,” she went on. “he was with jungkook. we were laughing about it. he even said we should all hang out.”

mingyu’s grip tightened on his phone. no word came out.

“did you eat?” she asked. “i just finished interviews. someone asked me three times if i liked ‘bad boys’ or ‘artists.’ i said i like men who can cook.”

normally, he would’ve teased her.

tonight, it just reminded him that no one knew she meant him.

“hm.”

there was a pause.

“mingyu,” she said, quieter now. “what’s wrong?”

“nothing. just tired. practice was rough.”

another pause.

“don’t go to sleep,” she said. “i’m coming over.”

“you don’t have to—”

“i want to.”

“…okay.”

“stay there.”

“i will.”

the call ended.

the silence came back immediately.

mingyu stayed where he was, staring at nothing.

his thoughts kept looping.

the video. the feeling. something inside him had shifted.

not broken but not steady either.

he rubbed his face. he hated this version of himself. hated how fast things had turned ugly in his head. how easily he started comparing. but underneath all of that—

there was one question he couldn’t ignore:

am i enough… if i can’t even stand beside her?

the twenty minutes dragged.

when the door finally unlocked, the sound cut through everything.

he didn’t move right away, he just listened.

her shoes coming off. her bag being set down. the quiet way she moved through his place like she belonged there.

because she did.

just not in a way anyone else could see and that thought sat heavy in his chest.

then she stepped into view.

soft. real. tired.

nothing like the version on the screen.

“hey,” she said.

he wanted that to be enough.

she held up a bag. “i brought food. thought you might not have eaten.”

she set it down, then looked at him more closely.

“you look exhausted.”

“thanks,” he muttered. “you look nice.”

her expression shifted slightly.

careful.

everything felt careful.

she sat near him, giving him space.

he hated that.

it felt like distance.

“gyu,” she said softly. “talk to me.”

he didn’t.

“you saw it,” she added.

he nodded.

“you didn’t have to come,” he said.

she blinked. “i wanted to.”

“nothing’s going on,” he muttered.

it didn’t sound convincing.

she leaned back slightly.

“you saw the video,” she said again, quieter.

he nodded.

so she tried something else.

started talking about work. schedules. anything normal. "my next job got moved to the afternoon, which is great because the morning slot would have been brutal. and they're saying the campaign is testing really well, which means they might want to extend the contract, but i'm not sure i want to commit to another year of—"

“_____.”

she stopped.

“you didn’t come here this late to talk about that.”

a pause.

“no,” she said. “i came because something’s wrong.”

mingyu let out a breath.

“they were watching it,” he said. “at practice. talking about it.” a short laugh. “i had to stand there like it didn’t matter.”

“it doesn’t,” she said gently.

“i know,” he replied. “but it still feels like shit.”

she leaned forward. “mingyu—”

“do you know what that’s like?” he cut in. “hearing people say you look perfect with someone else?”

he stood, pacing.

“i can’t even stand next to you like that,” he continued, quieter now. “can’t look at you like that in public. can’t touch you. can’t say anything when people talk about you dating someone else.” he let out a hollow laugh. “i have to agree with them.”

she didn’t interrupt.

“this isn’t about him,” she said softly.

“i know,” he said.

and that was the problem.

because it wasn’t just him.

it was everything.

every moment he had to hold back.

every time he had to pretend.

her hand brushed his wrist.

“hey.”

the touch grounded him—and made it worse at the same time.

“it’s just work,” he said. “i know that.”

“then what’s wrong?”

he let out a breath, frustrated.

“what’s wrong?” he repeated. “you’re asking me that?”

he stepped back.

“i see you with someone else,” he said, words coming faster now, “and the whole world thinks it’s real and you call me laughing about it.”

“because it is ridiculous,” she said, sharper now. “it’s my job.”

“it didn’t look fake,” he said, quieter. “the way he looked at you… the way you looked back.”

his voice cracked slightly.

he hated that.

she straightened. “mingyu, you’re being unfair.”

“no,” he said. “you do this for work. i don’t.”

“you think i like it?” she shot back. “having everything analyzed?”

he turned away, staring out the window.

“you’re good at it,” he muttered. “you’re convincing.”

silence.

she stepped closer.

when she touched his arm.

he pulled away.

“this isn’t fair,” she said.

“did you do something wrong?” he asked suddenly. not loud but intense. “because it looked real,” he added. “and i had to watch it. in front of everyone.”

something in her expression softened.

“it’s an ad,” she said gently.

“do you know what it’s like,” he said quietly, “to see you be more open with other people than you can be with me?”

that hung between them.

“i said i could handle this,” he continued. “but saying it and living it… it’s different.”

she was quiet.

then she stepped back slightly.

“do you want to know why i ended things with him?” her voice was quieter now.

it caught mingyu off guard. his brow furrowed slightly, confusion breaking through the lingering frustration.

“ha-”

“you said-” he interrumpted immediately, like hearing his name would burn the city down. “you said… you wanted different things.”

“that’s the simple version,” she said.

she moved toward the window.

“he wanted everything public. at first, it sounded perfect.” she exhaled. “but it turned into expectations. i had to adjust everything for him. choose him over work. over myself.”

mingyu’s jaw tightened. something uncomfortable settled in his chest.

“and it was never enough,” she said. “the line kept moving.” she looked back at him. “i started losing myself.”

that part hit harder than he expected because he could picture it.

“i felt like I was disappearing,” she said. “like the person i am was being replaced by just the girlfriend.”

the words landed heavily. because suddenly, what mingyu had been envying didn’t feel so perfect anymore. it felt suffocating.

“when i met you,” she continued, softer now, “you didn’t ask for that.” she stepped closer again. “you let me be me.”

his chest tightened.

“the secrecy isn’t easy,” she admitted. “sometimes i hate it.”

he hadn’t expected that.

“but i chose this,” she said. “i chose you.”

her voice didn’t waver.

“and you chose it too.”

that landed.

because she was right.

“you were the one who said we should wait,” she reminded him gently.

he swallowed.

“and i agreed,” she said. “not because i had to. because i wanted to.”

she moved closer.

“but you can’t act like this is only happening to you.” her voice quiet but firm. “not when it was a choice we made together.”

guilt crept in, mixing uncomfortably with everything else he was feeling.

because it wasn’t. she was right. he had chosen this. he had convinced himself it was enough.

she reached for his hand.

“i hate pretending i don’t know you,” she admitted. “i hate being careful all the time.”

he hadn’t really thought about that because he had been too caught up in what he couldn’t have to think about what she was also giving up.

“but i didn’t choose you because it was easy,” she said. “i chose you because it’s real.”

something in him softened.

just a little.

“i don’t want him,” she said. “or my ex. i want you.”

simple.

honest.

“don’t make this smaller just because people can’t see it,” she added quietly. “are you still choosing this?”

his breath caught.

“i need you to believe you’re enough,” she continued. “because if this keeps happening… we need to talk about that.”

the words didn’t come out harshly, but they landed like ice water.

mingyu’s stomach dropped.

“are you saying you want to end this?” he asked quickly.

“no,” she said immediately. “i’m saying i need you to be honest.”

she stepped closer again.

“i’m here,” she said. “but i can’t carry both of us.”

he looked at her.

really looked.

the one who was still here. choosing him. even now.

and the noise in his head started to quiet. and in that quiet, something clearer surfaced.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

it came out low, but real. his hand lifted, covering hers where it rested against his cheek, holding it there like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

“i was comparing myself to things that don’t matter.” he exhaled. “i just… got scared.”

that word felt harder to say than anything else.

“scared of losing you.”

her expression softened in a way that made his chest ache

she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

“you’re not losing me,” she said quietly.

he held her back, tighter than before.

like he needed to feel something real.

“i was so focused on what we don’t have,” he admitted, “that i forgot what we do.”

“which is?” she asked softly.

“each other.”

a small smile.

“that’s enough,” he added. “it’s everything.”

she smiled wider.

“i’m all in,” he said. “i’m sorry.”

“good,” she murmured.

then she kissed him.

slow. steady.

not desperate.

just something that carried everything they hadn’t been able to say without words—apology, reassurance, relief, something that felt dangerously close to home.

and for the first time that night—

she didn’t feel far away.

she felt right there.

He stood up quickly, nearly knocking over his coffee mug in the process. "I—I didn't expect to see you here."

"Neither did I." You clutched your purse tighter, suddenly feeling like you needed something to anchor you. "I should go—"

"Wait." His hand reached out instinctively, stopping just short of touching your arm. "Please. Could we... could we talk? Just for a minute?"

Every rational part of your brain screamed at you to leave. To walk away from this man who had shattered your heart so completely that you'd spent weeks unable to get out of bed, who had made you question everything you thought you knew about love. But something in his eyes —a vulnerability you'd rarely seen even when you were together— made you hesitate.

"Five minutes," you said finally, sliding into the seat across from him.

The silence stretched between you, heavy with eight months of unspoken words. Mingyu's fingers drummed nervously against his mug, a habit you'd once found endearing. Now it just made your chest ache.

"You look good," he said eventually, his eyes taking in your appearance. "Happy."

You almost laughed at the irony. Happy. If only he knew about the sleepless nights, the way you still reached for your phone to text him before remembering, the way certain songs still made you cry.

"I'm doing well," you replied carefully. It wasn't quite a lie. You were doing better, at least. "How are you?"

"I'm..." He started to answer, then seemed to really look at himself for the first time. His hand ran through his messy hair self-consciously. "You're not taking care of yourself," you found yourself saying before you could stop yourself.

The words hung in the air between you, and you immediately wanted to take them back. It wasn't your place anymore to worry about whether he was eating enough, sleeping enough, taking care of himself the way he never quite managed to do when left to his own devices.

His jaw tightened slightly, and when he looked up at you, there was a flash of the old defensiveness that had caused so many of your fights. "I don't see how that's your problem."

The coldness in his voice cut deeper than it should have. You'd forfeited the right to care about him the moment you'd walked out of his apartment, your engagement ring left behind on his kitchen counter. You'd made that choice. You'd been the one to end things.

"You're right," you said quietly, looking down at your hands. "It's not."

More silence. You could hear the espresso machine hissing in the background, the low murmur of other customers' conversations, but between you and Mingyu, there was nothing but the weight of everything you'd left unsaid.

"I heard about your promotion," Mingyu said suddenly, his voice softer now. "Congratulations. You worked really hard for that."

"Thank you." You looked up at him, surprised. "How did you—"

"Seokmin mentioned it." He gave you a small, sad smile. "I asked him to stop updating me about your life, but he's terrible at keeping things to himself. You know how he is."

You did know. Seokmin had been trying to play mediator ever since the breakup, convinced that you and Mingyu just needed to "talk things through." He didn't understand that some things couldn't be fixed with conversation.

"Mingyu..." you started, then stopped. What was there to say? That you were sorry? That you missed him? That ending your engagement had been the hardest thing you'd ever done, even though you'd known it was right?

"I know what you're going to say," he said quickly. "That we've been through this already. That we want different things. That I wasn't ready for the kind of commitment you needed." His voice cracked slightly on the last word. "And you were right. About all of it."

You blinked, taken aback. This wasn't the Mingyu you'd fought with eight months ago, the one who'd argued that you were being unreasonable, that love should be enough, that you were giving up on them too easily.

"I was so angry when you left," he continued, his hands now flat on the table, no longer drumming. "I kept thinking that if I could just make you see how much I loved you, you'd come back. I didn't understand why love wasn't enough for you."

"Love was never the problem," you whispered, your throat tight. "We both know that."

"I know that now." He leaned forward slightly, and you could see the sincerity in his dark eyes. "I've been going to therapy."

That surprised you. Mingyu had always been skeptical of therapy, insisting that he could work through his problems on his own.

"It's helped me understand a lot of things," he continued. "About myself, about us, about why I was so terrified of the future we were planning." He paused, swallowing hard. "I was terrified of becoming my father."

Your heart clenched. Mingyu rarely talked about his father, who'd abandoned his family when Mingyu was twelve. You'd always known it was a wound that ran deep, but he'd never been able to articulate how it affected him until now, apparently.

"I was so afraid of failing you the way he failed my mom that I couldn't commit to anything real. I kept one foot out the door without even realizing it." His voice was barely above a whisper now. "And in trying not to hurt you the way he hurt her, I ended up hurting you anyway."

You wanted to reach across the table, to take his hands in yours the way you used to when he was vulnerable like this. Instead, you gripped your purse tighter.

"Mingyu—"

"I'm not telling you this because I expect anything," he said quickly. "I know it's too late. I know I had my chance and I blew it. I just... I needed you to know that I understand now. Why you left. Why you had to leave."

The tears you'd been holding back finally spilled over. For six months, you'd carried the guilt of walking away from someone who loved you, of ending an engagement that everyone else thought was perfect. You'd questioned your decision countless times, wondering if you'd given up too easily, if you should have tried harder to make him understand what you needed.

"I never wanted to leave," you admitted, your voice breaking. "I just couldn't keep waiting for you to choose me. Really choose me. Not just love me, but choose to build a life with me."

"I know." His own eyes were bright with unshed tears. "I know, and I'm so sorry. I'm sorry it took losing you for me to figure out who I wanted to be."

You wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand, acutely aware of the other café patrons around you. This wasn't a conversation for public spaces, but somehow it felt fitting that it was happening here, in the place where you'd shared so many quiet mornings together, planning a future that had never come to pass.

"Are you... are you seeing anyone?" The question slipped out before you could stop it, and you immediately wanted to take it back. You had no right to ask, and you weren't sure you wanted to know the answer.

"No." He shook his head. "I tried, a few weeks after you left. Went on a couple of dates that Soonyoung set up. But it felt wrong. Everything felt wrong without you."

The admission hit you harder than it should have. You'd been trying so hard to move on, to convince yourself that you'd made the right choice, that you were better off without him. But sitting here now, seeing the pain in his eyes that mirrored your own, you felt the careful walls you'd built around your heart beginning to crack.

"I should go," you said suddenly, standing up so quickly that your chair scraped against the floor. "This isn't... we can't do this."

"_____, wait—" Mingyu stood too, following you as you headed for the door. "Please, just—"

You pushed through the café doors and out onto the sidewalk, the cool autumn air hitting your face like a slap. You could hear Mingyu behind you, his footsteps quick on the pavement.

"_____, please stop."

You whirled around to face him, and the desperate look on his face made your chest ache. "What do you want me to say, Mingyu? That I forgive you? Fine, I forgive you. That I understand why you couldn't commit? I do. But understanding doesn't change anything."

"Doesn't it?" He stepped closer, and you could see the hope flickering in his eyes. "You said love was never the problem. We still love each other. We could try again—"

"And then what?" you demanded, your voice rising. "We fall back into the same patterns? You get scared and pull away, and I get tired of feeling like I'm fighting for our relationship alone?"

"It would be different this time. I'm different now. I've been working on myself, I've been—"

"For eight months, Mingyu. Eight months." You shook your head, feeling the tears start again. "Do you know how long I waited for you to work on yourself while we were together? How many times I brought up couples therapy, or suggested we take a break to figure things out, or tried to talk to you about what I needed? And you brushed me off every time."

The hope in his eyes dimmed, and you hated yourself for being the one to extinguish it. But you couldn't let yourself be swayed by promises and good intentions again. You'd learned that lesson too well.

"I know," he said quietly. "I know I don't have the right to ask for another chance. But _____, please—"

And then, to your absolute shock, he dropped to his knees right there on the sidewalk in front of the café, oblivious to the stares of passersby. His hands reached for yours, gripping them tightly as he looked up at you with tears streaming down his face.

"Please, please—just please trust me! Why is it so hard for you to believe me once?"

Your heart shattered at the raw desperation in his voice, at the sight of this proud man on his knees in front of you, begging for something you weren't sure you could give. People were definitely staring now, some even taking out their phones, but Mingyu didn't seem to care about anything except the words tumbling out of him.

"I know I don't deserve it," he continued, his voice breaking. "I know I had my chance and I wasted it. But I'm not the same person who let you walk away eight months ago. I'm not the same person who was too scared to fight for us. I'll do whatever it takes—therapy, couples counseling, anything. Just please give me one more chance to prove that I can be the man you needed me to be."

You stared down at him, this man you'd loved so completely it had nearly destroyed you to leave him. His hair was falling into his eyes, his cheeks were wet with tears, and his hands were shaking as they held yours. He looked nothing like the confident, cocky man you'd fallen in love with two years ago. He looked broken. Human. Real in a way he'd never allowed himself to be when you were together.

"Mingyu, get up," you whispered, tugging on his hands. "People are staring."

"I don't care." His grip tightened. "I don't care about anything except you. Except us."

"There is no us anymore," you said, but the words felt hollow even to your own ears.

"Isn't there?" He searched your face desperately. "Because I see the way you're looking at me. I see that you're crying too. If you really didn't feel anything anymore, you would have walked away by now."

He was right, and you hated him for it. You should have left the moment you saw him in the café. Should have ignored his request to talk. Should have turned around and walked away when he followed you outside. But you hadn't, and now you were both falling apart on a public sidewalk, eight months of suppressed emotion pouring out of you both.

"Please get up," you said again, more firmly this time. "We can't do this here."

Finally, he released your hands and stood, wiping his face with the sleeve of his hoodie. You both stood there for a moment, breathing heavily, trying to collect yourselves.

"Come on," you said eventually, gesturing toward the small park across the street. "Let's go somewhere we can actually talk."

He nodded mutely and followed you across the street to Riverside Park, the place where you'd had your first official date more than two years ago. It felt surreal, being here with him again, like stepping back in time. The trees were different—autumn instead of spring—but everything else was exactly the same. The same bench where he'd nervously asked if he could kiss you, the same pond where you'd fed ducks on lazy Sunday mornings.

You sat down heavily on your old bench, and after a moment's hesitation, Mingyu sat beside you, careful to leave space between you.

"I'm seeing someone," you said suddenly, the words coming out in a rush.

Mingyu went very still beside you. "Oh."

"It's not serious yet," you continued, staring out at the pond. "We've only been on a few dates. But he's... he's a good man. He's stable, and he knows what he wants, and he's not afraid of commitment."

"Do you love him?" The question was quiet, barely audible.

"I could," you admitted. "In time, I think I could love him."

"But you don't. Not yet."

"No," you whispered. "Not yet."

More silence. A duck paddled across the pond in front of you, and you found yourself remembering all the times you and Mingyu had sat on this very bench, making up ridiculous backstories for the various waterfowl. It had been such a silly tradition, but it had been yours.

"I fucked up," Mingyu said eventually, his voice rough. "I fucked up so badly, and now you're going to fall in love with someone else, and I'm going to have to live with knowing that I had everything I ever wanted and I threw it away because I was too much of a coward to hold onto it."

"You didn't throw anything away," you said, finally turning to look at him. "We weren't right for each other. Not then."

"But we could be now." He turned to face you fully, his eyes intense. "I know we could be. I'm not asking you to just forget everything and take me back. I'm asking for a chance to court you again. To prove that I can be what you need."

"Mingyu..."

"One month," he said quickly. "Give me one month to show you that I've changed. If after thirty days you still don't think we can work, I'll accept it. I'll stop asking. I'll let you move on with your good, stable man who knows what he wants."

You wanted to say no. Every logical part of your brain was screaming at you to say no, to protect yourself, to choose the safer path with someone who wouldn't break your heart again.

But there was something different about him. Something in the way he'd apologized, the way he'd acknowledged his mistakes without trying to minimize them or shift blame. The way he'd gotten on his knees in front of a dozen strangers and begged you to believe in him one more time.

"What would that look like?" you heard yourself asking. "This... courtship?"

Hope flickered in his eyes again, but he was careful to keep his voice measured. "Whatever you're comfortable with. Coffee dates. Dinner. Walks in the park. I want to show you that I can be present, that I can make you a priority, that I'm not going anywhere this time."

"And the other guy?"

"That's your choice," he said quietly. "I'm not going to ask you to stop seeing him. But I am going to do everything in my power to win you back."

You stared out at the pond, your mind racing. This was insane. You were finally starting to heal, finally beginning to believe that you could have a future with someone else, someone who wouldn't put you through the emotional whiplash that Mingyu always had.

But what if he really had changed? What if you walked away now and spent the rest of your life wondering what might have been?

"One month," you said finally, and his sharp intake of breath told you he'd heard. "But I have conditions."

"Anything."

"We take it slow. No sleeping together, no moving back in together, no grand gestures. Just... getting to know each other again."

He nodded eagerly. "Of course."

"And I'm not breaking things off with Joshua unless I decide I want to. You'll have to accept that I'm seeing both of you."

The muscles in his jaw tightened slightly, but he nodded again. "I understand."

"And if at any point I decide this isn't working, you accept it. No arguments, no trying to change my mind, no dramatic speeches. It's over, and you let me go."

"I understand," he repeated, though his voice was strained.

You turned to look at him fully, taking in the hope and fear and desperate love in his expression. "Why should I believe that this time will be different?"

"Because losing you nearly destroyed me," he said simply. "Because I spent eight months learning how to be the kind of man who deserves you. Because I know now that love isn't just a feeling—it's a choice you make every day, and I'm ready to choose you every single day for the rest of my life if you'll let me."

Tears spilled down your cheeks again, and this time you didn't try to stop them. "I don't know if I can survive losing you again."

"You won't have to," he said fiercely. "I swear to you, _____, you won't have to."

You sat there for a long moment, looking at this man who had been your whole world, who had broken your heart so completely you'd thought you'd never recover, who was now asking for one more chance to make it right.

"One month," you said again, and this time it sounded like a promise.

The smile that spread across his face was like sunrise after the longest night. "One month," he agreed.

As you sat together on the bench where your love story had begun, watching the ducks paddle across the pond in the fading autumn light, you couldn't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, some things were worth the risk of breaking your heart all over again.

Only time would tell if Mingyu could keep his promises, if he could prove that people really could change, that second chances sometimes led to happily ever after.

But for the first time in eight months, you felt something you'd thought you'd lost forever: hope.

She hated that he meant it. She hated it more than it made her smile.

Fifteen minutes later, _______ stretched out on the couch, Mingyu's hoodie on, make up off and glasses on, her limbs loose from the wine she’d had earlier that evening. The apartment was quiet, the low hum of the city outside the only sound besides Mingyu’s occasional shuffling in the kitchen. He was always moving, always doing something with his hands—whether it was fixing a snack, adjusting the thermostat, or just fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

She watched him through half-lidded eyes as he rummaged through the fridge, again, his brown hair still slightly messy from where she’d run her fingers through it earlier.

"You're like a hyper golden retriever," she muttered, tucking her feet beneath her as she watched him.

Mingyu turned, grinning, popping a grape into his mouth. "And you're like a grumpy little cactus."

_______ scoffed. Habit, more than malice. "How do we got together, again?"

He walked over, flopping onto the couch beside her. His knee bounced restlessly. "I don’t know. But I’m not letting you go." Mingyu’s laugh was bright, unrestrained, and _______ felt the corners of her lips twitch despite herself. He slid across the cushions and buried his face in her lap like a dog who knew he was too big but tried anyway. She sighed and combed her fingers through his hair. Everything was warm. Safe. Them.

Until the group chat popped off.

They’d been out with friends earlier—Their table was long, crowded with fellow idols, stylists, and choreographers—their odd little tribe of music-world chaos. It had been a good night, full of laughter and drinks and Mingyu’s arm slung over her shoulders like he was afraid she’d slip away if he didn’t hold on.

_______ had kept close to him, quiet and content, letting him do most of the social lifting while she nodded and sipped her wine. Mingyu, ever the social butterfly, was in the middle of an animated story, his hands waving as he reenacted some ridiculous studio mishap. She smirked into her drink. He was so expressive—every emotion played across his face like an open book. It was endearing, even if she’d never admit it out loud.

Then Jake, Seventeen’s dancer and self-proclaimed "devil’s advocate," leaned forward with a lazy grin. "I still don’t get it, man. You two are like opposite magnets. She’s all sharp edges, and you’re just… sunshine." He gestured between them with his chopsticks. "You are cuddles and she's stabbing-"

Laughter rippled around the table.

_______ 's smile was tight.

“I mean, opposites attract, sure,” Jaehyun continued, undeterred. “But it’s wild. You look like you belong in a puppy adoption ad. She looks like she could kill with a glare—and I’m not saying that in a bad way.”

Mingyu, ever unshakable, just laughed and slung an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer. "Easy. She keeps me from floating away, and I annoy her into smiling. Perfect balance."

_______ elbowed him lightly, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

Lena, one of their common friends, snorted. "More like she tolerates you like a cat tolerates an overly enthusiastic dog."

Mingyu gasped in mock offence. "Excuse you, I am adored." He turned to _______, eyes wide and pleading. "Tell them how much you adore me."

She levelled him with a deadpan stare. "I tolerate you."

The table erupted into laughter, and Mingyu clutched his chest like he’d been wounded. "Betrayal! After all I’ve done for you!"

_______ rolled her eyes but didn’t shrug off his arm.

But _______ noticed how another one of the backup dancers—a young guy, barely twenty—hadn't taken his eyes off her all night. He’d been quiet at first, but the longer they stayed, the more starstruck he got. He leaned in when she spoke, stammered compliments about her dancing, and blushed when she smiled at him.

Mingyu noticed too.

His arm, already possessive around her shoulders, pulled tighter.

“You okay?” she murmured.

“Yeah,” he said, voice light but jaw clenched.

Later, as the group spilled out onto the sidewalk, tipsy and full, someone suggested walking to a nearby park to sober up before heading home. The night air was cool, and _______ lingered at the back of the group, content to watch Mingyu’s animated chatter from a distance.

Until she saw her.

Hana, one of Mingyu’s friend backup dancer, had stumbled over a crack in the pavement, and before _______ could even blink, Mingyu had swept her up into a bridal carry, laughing as Hana squealed in surprise.

"Put me down, you overgrown puppy!" Hana giggled, swatting at his shoulder.

"Never! This is your punishment for doubting my strength!" Mingyu declared, spinning her once before finally setting her down.

_______'s nails dug into her palms.

It wasn’t that she thought anything was going on—she knew Mingyu, knew he was just like this with everyone—but something hot and possessive coiled in her chest anyway.

"She’s cute, I guess," a stylist had said when she thought _______ wasn’t listening. "But they don’t match. She’s all... serious and chic. He’s like a human golden retriever. You know? Like, what do they even talk about?"

_______ didn’t say anything at the time. She never did. But the words had sunk claws into her mind, and now they were scratching to be noticed. 

She didn’t realise she’d stopped walking until Mingyu was suddenly in front of her, tilting his head. "You okay?"

"Yeah," she said flatly.

Mingyu studied her for a second before his eyes flicked back to where Hana was still laughing with the others. A slow, infuriating grin spread across his face. "Ohhh. You’re jealous."

"I am not."

"You are." He looked delighted.

_______ scoffed and tried to step around him, but Mingyu caught her wrist, tugging her back. "____"

"What."

He leaned down, voice dropping to a whisper. "You’re the only one I’d carry home."

Her traitorous heart skipped a beat.

"Shut up," she muttered, but the heat in her chest had already started to fade.

Now, in the warm hush of the apartment, she couldn’t shake it. Everything replaying in her mind, including the feelings that came even stronger.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Mingyu said, poking her forehead gently. “You get this little line right here.”

She swatted his hand away. “Stop.”

“Make me.”

She glared. He grinned.

Then he spoke, voice oddly casual. "So. Hwang couldn’t stop staring at you tonight."

_______ blinked. "Who?"

"Hwang. My dancer. The one who literally tripped over his own feet when you walked past him."

She snorted. "I didn’t notice."

Mingyu turned his head to glare up at her. "I noticed."

_______ smirked. "Oh? You’re jealous?"

Mingyu huffed. "No. I just think it’s rude."

"Uh-huh." She tugged lightly on his hair. "You’re ridiculous."

He sat up suddenly, crowding into her space. "Yeah? Well, you’re mine."

_______ arched a brow. "Possessive much?"

Mingyu’s gaze dropped to her lips. "Only when it comes to you." And then he was kissing her, slow and deep, his hands framing her face like she was something precious.

She melted into it.

Later, _______ sat on the edge of the bed, picking at the hem of her nightdress, while Mingyu shuffled around the room, still buzzing with leftover energy from the night. She watched him—always moving, always bright—and something heavy settled in her chest.

"You two are like opposite magnets."

Jaehyun’s words echoed in her head, mixing with the memory of Mingyu effortlessly carrying Hana, the way his bandmates looked at him like he was the sun itself.

And then there was her—sharp-tongued, guarded, curled in the shadows like the cat everyone compared her to.

Mingyu paused mid-step when he noticed her silence. "Hey." He nudged her knee with his. "You’ve been quiet."

_______ shrugged. "Just thinking."

"About?"

She hesitated, then exhaled. "Do you ever wonder if… this is enough for you?"

Mingyu blinked. "What?"

"This." She gestured between them. "Me. Us. I’m not—" She bit the inside of her cheek. "I’m not like you. I don’t… glow."

Mingyu’s expression shifted, something like alarm flashing in his eyes. He dropped onto the bed beside her, close enough that their knees touched. "What the hell are you talking about?"

_______ kept her gaze fixed on her hands. "You are you. Everyone loves you. You could have anyone... someone who matches your energy, who doesn’t drag you down—"

"Stop." His voice was sharp, uncharacteristically serious. He caught her chin, forcing her to look at him. "Where is this coming from?"

She swallowed. "Jaehyun wasn’t wrong. We don’t make sense."

Mingyu’s grip on her tightened, just a little, like he was afraid she’d slip away. "Since when do you care what Jaehyun thinks?"

"I don’t," she muttered. "But what if he’s right? What if you wake up one day and realise I’m just… a burden? Or worse—boring?"

The second the words left her mouth, Mingyu flinched like she’d struck him.

"Boring?" His voice cracked. "_______ , you’re the furthest thing from boring. You’re—" He let out a frustrated noise, running a hand through his hair. "You’re the only person who gets me. The only one who doesn’t just see the ‘happy fun clumsy’ act. You call me out when I’m being an idiot. You challenge me. That’s not boring—that’s everything."

_______ ’s throat tightened.

Mingyu cupped her face, his thumbs brushing her cheeks. "And a burden?" His voice dropped, rough with emotion. "You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. If anything, I’m the one who’s scared you’ll realise you could do better."

Her breath hitched.

He pressed his forehead to hers, his next words barely above a whisper. "Don’t you dare doubt that I love you. Don’t you dare."

_______ closed her eyes, her chest aching. "Mingyu—"

"I need you to believe me," he said, voice trembling. "Because I’m not letting go. Not now. Not ever."

She didn’t realise she was crying until he kissed the tears away.

And then she was kissing him, pouring every unsaid I love you into it, her fingers clutching his shirt like an anchor.

When they finally pulled apart, Mingyu’s eyes were red-rimmed, but he was smiling. "We’re meant to be together. Got it?"

_______ nodded, her voice steadier now. "Got it."

He hugged her then, so tight she could barely breathe, but she didn’t mind.

“ I've known since the first time you scowled, curse at me and told me to get my iced Americano off your lyric notebook that you were it for me."

She cracked a smile, despite herself. "You ruined three pages."

"And you still called me the next day."

"To yell at you."

"Which I found hot."

She laughed, just once. Mingyu softened. He always did when she let her guard down. He scooted closer and cupped her jaw.

"Also," he added, more quietly, "if I ever carry anyone like that again, it’ll be you. You looked like you were ready to set the city on fire."

She flushed. "Maybe I was. And maybe I did notice Hwang eye-fucking me across the table all night."

Mingyu blinked. Then his whole body tensed. "What?"

"Funny, right?”

He growled. Actually growled.

Then kissed her.

Hard. All the softness left behind.

The kiss turned into hands. Her hoodie—his hoodie—got tugged off, and her nightdress straps slipped down like silk. He lifted her into his lap like she weighed nothing, like bridal-carry round two, but this time just for them.

"See," he whispered into her neck as she gasped under his touch, "only carry I care about."

Their mouths found each other again—hot, hungry, claiming. Clothes vanished. Skin met skin. She arched beneath him, breath catching.

“We work," he whispered back, thrusting into her like he meant it. "We always will."

The rest of the world disappeared in the way he moved with her, against her. Golden warmth and black silk, colliding like it was fate.

She clawed at his back, whispered his name like a secret and a prayer. He took his time—slow, worshipful, then wild and unrelenting. The kind of love that silences doubt.

They didn’t match. They clashed like sunlight on obsidian. But maybe that’s why it worked.

Love, after all, wasn't always about symmetry. Sometimes it was about choosing the same chaos, over and over, and letting the world wonder why.

And _______? She was done wondering.

She knew.

He sat quietly in the audience, his gaze locked as you accepted your award gracefully—thanking fans in multiple languages, your smile radiant enough to eclipse the stage lights.

He told himself it was just curiosity. Just curiosity, he thought, even as his eyes kept finding you throughout the evening—watching the way you tilted your head in conversation, how your laugh bubbled out effortlessly, how you sat poised yet relaxed, completely untouched by the industry’s usual need to please.

The internet noticed too. Fans picked up on his lingering stares, compiling clips with hashtags like #IStareTooHeAintSpecial and #StaringKing—ARMYs analyzing every lingering glance and every soft smile.

But Taehyung didn’t care. All he could think about was how to get closer to you. How to make you look at him the way he looked at you.

It took a few more awards shows, several accidental run-ins, and way too many pep talks from his members before Taehyung finally approached you. The moment presented itself at a charity event—a more intimate affair, where you stood in soft candlelight, chatting easily with mutual friends.

You were even more devastating up close. Eyes sharp and warm, smile patient and amused.

“Hi, Taehyung, right? I’ve seen you around,” you said, voice smooth, tilting your head ever so slightly.

He blinked—mind scrambling. “Yeah, that’s me,” he stammered. Smooth, Taehyung. Real smooth. “I’m a big fan of your work.”

“Likewise,” you replied, smile widening. “Your music is incredible. I’m a big fan.”

It was over for him then. The conversation flowed like water after that. Natural. Easy. The two of you orbiting each other as if you’d been doing so for years.

“Maybe we could grab tea sometime?” he blurted suddenly, heart leaping into his throat.

The second it left his mouth, he cringed. Tea? He hated tea. You hated tea. He knew you hated tea—he’d read that damn Vogue interview twice. Why the hell did he say tea?

Your lips twitched, eyes glinting with mischief. “Tea, huh? You don’t seem as the tea type.”

He let out a breathy laugh. “I’m not. Honestly, no idea why I said that. It just sounded… polite? British? You lived in the UK for a while, right?"

Well, fuck me. Now I look like a damn stalker.

You chuckled, warm and bright, and his heart tumbled. “Well, I don’t like tea either. How about a museum? Or a gallery? Something more… us.”

His breath caught. His smile spread. “I’d love that.”

The gallery date was electric. You moved through the exhibits side by side, exchanging thoughts about brush strokes and color palettes, slipping into deeper conversations about life, art, dreams. You were sharp, quick-witted, curious—and it captivated him. Just as much as his quiet observations and slow, thoughtful comments captivated you.

When he walked you to your car that night, he couldn’t help but linger. “I had a really great time,” he said softly, gaze steady.

“Me too.” Your eyes twinkled under the soft glow of the streetlights. Then, bold and unhesitating, you leaned in and kissed his cheek.

His breath stalled—and the grin that split his face after you drove away stayed for days.

The relationship blossomed after that, but you both decided to keep things low-key. As much as you appreciated your fans, you valued your privacy, and so did Taehyung.

You kept it private. Secret dates at hidden cafes, late-night gallery visits, stolen afternoons curled under blankets with music floating low in the background.

But secrets, especially when drenched in love, don’t stay hidden long.

During one of Taehyung’s IG Lives, he was casually chatting with fans when someone noticed something in the background—your latest album cover, prominently displayed on his bookshelf.

The chat exploded with questions, speculations, and theories. Taehyung tried to play it cool, but the way his ears turned pink gave him away. "Ah, that? I just really like the album," he said, trying to laugh it off. But the fans weren’t buying it. They knew that look, that smile—it was the look of a man in love.

But what really gave him away was that square smile he gave every time he managed to get his way. After that, his eyes kept wandering to another place, as if he were following someone with his gaze. There was nothing that could hide his bright eyes from the sight that only he had.

Within minutes, the clip went viral, and fans everywhere were convinced that Taehyung and you were more than just friends. They dissected every interaction, every glance, and soon enough, #TaehyungAnd____ started trending worldwide.

The two of you knew it was only a matter of time before the rumors reached a point of no return. You weren’t opposed to going public, but you wanted to do it on your own terms. So, you and Taehyung decided to confirm the relationship with a simple, yet meaningful post.

On a quiet afternoon, Taehyung uploaded a photo to Instagram. It was a candid shot of the two of you at the gallery, both of you laughing at something only you could understand. The caption was simple.

At the same time, you posted a picture from another date—After a successful secret date, you both decided to go for coffee at a place that only you knew about in your group of friends. The cafe that saw you go from simple fans of each other to a couple in love.

The internet exploded. Fans were overjoyed, showering you both with love and support. The two of you spent the evening reading through the comments, laughing at the memes and edits, and feeling a sense of relief that you no longer had to hide.

With the world now aware of your relationship, things felt different—more open, more real. You and Taehyung didn’t have to sneak around anymore, and it made everything feel more natural, more comfortable.

One evening, after a long day of schedules and rehearsals, Taehyung invited you over to his place for a quiet night in. The two of you cooked dinner together, playfully arguing over the right way to chop vegetables, and laughing as you attempted to dance around the kitchen.

After dinner, you curled up on the couch together, a movie playing in the background, though neither of you were really paying attention. Taehyung had his arm around you, his fingers gently stroking your hair as you rested your head on his chest.

"Do you ever think about how crazy it is that we ended up together?" You asked, your voice soft in the dim light.

"All the time," he admitted, his hand tracing lazy circles on your back. "It’s like something out of a movie."

You smiled, tilting your head up to look at him. "A really good movie."

He chuckled, his eyes filled with warmth as he gazed down at you. "The best."

There was a moment of silence, the air between you charged with an unspoken tension. You could feel the heat of his gaze, the way his hand stilled on your back as his eyes darkened with desire.

"Come here," he murmured, his voice low and husky.

You didn’t need to be told twice. You shifted in his arms, straddling his lap as his hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer. The first kiss was soft, tentative, as if he was savoring the moment, but it quickly deepened, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that made your heart race.

Your hands tangled in his hair as you pressed closer, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. The kiss was slow and deliberate, each movement filled with a growing urgency that left you breathless.

Taehyung’s hands roamed your back, tracing the curves of your body as his lips moved to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there. You let out a soft moan, your fingers tightening in his hair as you tilted your head back, giving him more access.

"Taehyung," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of your racing heartbeat.

He hummed against your skin, his hands slipping under your shirt, the touch of his fingers against your bare skin sending shivers down your spine. "I’ve wanted this for so long," he murmured, his voice thick with desire.

"Me too," you breathed, your hands sliding down to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms.

He pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting yours, filled with an intensity that took your breath away. "Are you sure?"

You nodded, your heart pounding in your chest. "I’m sure."

That was all the encouragement he needed. In one swift motion, Taehyung lifted you up, carrying you to his bedroom, his lips never leaving yours as he gently laid you down on the bed. He hovered over you, his eyes scanning your face as if committing every detail to memory.

"You’re so beautiful," he whispered, his voice filled with reverence.

You smiled up at him, your heart swelling with love. "So are you."

The next few moments were a blur of kisses, soft touches, and whispered words of affection as you slowly undressed each other. Taehyung took his time, his hands and lips exploring every inch of your body, worshipping you as if you were the most precious thing in the world.

When he finally joined your bodies together, it was slow and deliberate, a perfect union of love and passion that made you both gasp. The world seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of you, lost in each other as you moved together in a rhythm that felt natural, instinctive.

Each movement bringing you closer to the edge, the tension building with every breath, every touch, until you were both trembling, teetering on the brink of ecstasy.

"Taehyung," you moaned, your fingers digging into his shoulders as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak.

"Cum for me, baby," he murmured, his voice a soft, soothing balm as he brought you to the edge and pushed you over, sending you spiralling into a wave of bliss that left you breathless and shaking.

He followed moments later, his body tensing as he buried his face in your neck, muffling his moans as he found his release, his arms tightening around you as if he never wanted to let go.

For a long moment, you lay there together, your bodies still entwined, your breaths mingling as you slowly came down from the high. Taehyung pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his heart pounding against your chest as he held you close.

"I love you," he whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

You looked up at him, your eyes filled with tears of joy as you smiled. "I love you too."

The words hung in the air between you, a promise, a declaration, and a truth that you both knew would shape the rest of your lives.

The next morning, the two of you woke up to a world that had changed in subtle but significant ways. The fans were still buzzing about your relationship, the media was still speculating, but none of that mattered. What mattered was the love you had found in each other, the connection that had grown from a glance across a crowded room to something real, something beautiful.

As you lay in bed together, Taehyung pulled you close, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin as he smiled. "So… what’s next?"

You grinned, your heart filled with happiness as you leaned in to kiss him. "Whatever we want."

you’re at a private charity gala hosted by the country’s top culinary institute. invited for your critically acclaimed essays on food culture—pieces laced with dry humor and sharp insight that caught the eyes of chefs and critics alike. jin arrived later, slipping under the radar in a tailored suit and loosened tie, blending in seamlessly among the glittering crowd.

your dress is deep red silk—fluid, sharp, confident. a slit high up your thigh, delicate jewelry catching the light. you’re every inch composed and magnetic, skimming through conversations with ease. jin watches you from afar, lips twitching every time your wit slices clean through a pompous comment.

and then one of the event organizers slides in beside you. older, distinguished, charming in that well-traveled, silver-fox sort of way. he leans closer than necessary, complimenting your writing, your dress, your smile. hints at exclusive tastings and private tours—professional, technically, but layered with something smoother, sweeter.

you handle it like you always do. polite. cool. warm enough to be graceful, distant enough to draw the line. but jin sees everything. he always does.

from across the room, his gaze lingers longer now—sharpened behind the soft curve of his grin. when your eyes flick toward him, he tilts his head just slightly, brows raised, as if to ask: having fun? you hide a smirk, tucking it behind your wineglass, and turn back to your conversation.

📱

Jin: making friends, sweetheart? or collecting tasting invitations? You: just working the room, handsome promise I won’t sample anything off-menu Jin: good because I’m already setting the table at home and dessert’s going to be you

later, when you step into the quieter lounge near the balcony, jin is already there. leaning lazily against the railing, city lights scattering like jewels behind him. his tie loose, glass of red wine poised effortlessly in his hand.

he doesn’t greet you right away. just watches, gaze slow and steady over the rim of his glass.

“good company tonight?” he asks eventually, voice smooth as aged whiskey.

you hum, sliding closer. “not bad. a few offers for private tastings.”

his smile curls at the corners—but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“lucky you,” he murmurs. “sounds like you’re very… sought after.”

you step even closer, fingertips brushing the lapel of his jacket. “are you fishing for something, seokjin?”

his smile deepens, slow and dangerous. he sets the glass down carefully, turning fully toward you.

“not fishing. just reminding.”

one hand slips around your waist, palm pressing warm and deliberate over silk.

“reminding you that no matter how many tastings you’re offered,” he leans in, voice dipping lower, “there’s only one kitchen you’ll be cooking in tonight.”

your breath catches subtly. his gaze drops to your lips, then drags back up—steady, unflinching, dark with intent.

you tilt your chin, sass cutting through the heat. “i could’ve handled him, you know.”

“i know.” his thumb drags idly along your waist. “i just like watching you remind people you’re already taken.”

he leans in, lips ghosting along the shell of your ear. “i like it even more when i get to remind you.”

later that night, jin doesn’t rush. he never does. he moves with that same unhurried confidence—like he has all the time in the world to savor what’s his.

fingers trail down the line of your spine, lips mapping slow, deliberate kisses along the slope of your shoulder. he peels silk away inch by inch, like unwrapping something rare and expensive, eyes dark and molten.

when you tug him closer by the loosened tie, breath catching against his mouth, he exhales soft against your lips.

“still jealous?” you whisper, teasing.

his grin is lazy, dangerous, beautiful.

“not jealous,” he murmurs, voice thick and low. “just making sure you remember where you belong.”

his mouth finds yours—slow, thorough, claiming. and as he drags you beneath him, warm palms spanning your hips, his touch leaves no room for doubt.

you already know.

— kim namjoon

he is quiet, rational on the surface. possessive underneath. checks himself constantly. but when pushed, he can’t help the flicker of dominance in his tone—especially when he thinks someone’s trying to outsmart him for your attention.

you’re an up-and-coming actress. sharp, striking, all slow-burning charm. namjoon fell for your brain first, but that doesn’t mean he’s blind to the way people look at you.

tonight is no different — a private after-party after the film festival, where you’d been invited as a presenter. like always, you and namjoon arrived separately, pretending to be nothing more than distant acquaintances.

the problem is the actor by your side tonight — respected, smooth, and just clever enough to be a threat. namjoon doesn’t interrupt. he trusts you. but trust doesn’t erase the slow flare of possessiveness when he sees the man leaning in too close or making you laugh a little too hard.

you’re in the middle of a casual, low laughter conversation when you feel it—eyes. his eyes. you turn slightly and see namjoon across the room, his jaw flexed, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a drink he’s barely touched.

he’s watching. always watching.

you feel confident. you’re used to this kind of attention and you know how to handle it. you aren’t playing into it—not really—but you're not rushing to walk away either. it’s more fun when you make him wait. watch. simmer.

he won’t interrupt. namjoon trusts you—he always has. but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel the flare of something hot and territorial when another man leans in too close or makes you laugh just a little too freely.

he waits. always waits. he knows how to check himself. But when pushed, when tested, there’s always that flicker—that low, deliberate shift in him that feels like gravity pulling tighter.

tonight is no different.

fifteen minutes later, you finally excuse yourself smoothly, your dress swaying as you slip toward the quieter lounge. you know exactly where he’ll be waiting.

he doesn’t look at you right away. instead, he stands in the dim hallway light, broad shoulders relaxed but his posture coiled.

“good conversation?” his voice is even. almost too even.

you smirk, unhurried as you cross your arms. “jealous?”

a breath. his eyes finally lift—soft brown, now darkened with something molten.

"i’m not jealous,” he says, measured. “just wondering how long i’m supposed to stand there listening to someone else flirt with my girlfriend like he wrote the damn dictionary.”

your brow arches, amused. “was it bothering you? you looked so calm.”

he steps closer, slow and steady, one hand ghosting the curve of your waist. his body heat slides against you as he leans close enough that only you can hear.

“i don’t like sharing your attention.” his lips graze the shell of your ear. His next words are velveted steel. “and I don’t like the way he looked at you like he was trying to figure out how you taste.”

a shiver skips down your spine. your smirk deepens, but your eyes soften with something warmer.

“he didn’t touch me,” you say, voice honeyed but edged.

namjoon’s lips curve—just barely. "he didn’t need to. that was his way of touching you.”

your fingers trail teasingly along his lapel. “you know… you could’ve walked over sooner. staked your claim.”

“i wanted to see how long you’d keep me stewing,” he murmurs, leaning in until his nose brushes yours, “i should’ve known better. you like making me wait.”

“i like making you watch,” you correct sweetly, batting your lashes. “you’re hot when you simmer, joon.”

his breath hitches, a soft chuckle rumbling from deep in his chest. his lips press deliberately against your cheek, a slow drag that lingers near the corner of your mouth.

📱

You: was someone feeling territorial tonight? 👀 Namjoon: i let it go longer than i wanted to. if he touched you i would’ve ended up in a scandal. You: he didn’t. you know I’m yours, right? Namjoon: yeah. still hate watching someone want what I already have. you looked good tonight. too good. You: say that again when I’m on your lap, baby Namjoon: get home. i’ll say it with my mouth. everywhere.

later that night, the door clicks shut behind you, and before you can even toe off your heels, namjoon’s hands are already sliding against your waist. he moves like he’s reclaiming something—not rushed, not frantic—just deliberate, confident, consuming.

he presses you back onto the sheets, his weight settling heavy and comforting. his mouth traces a slow, reverent path down your throat, across your collarbones, teeth dragging lightly at your skin as his fingers splay against your hips to anchor you in place.

“you were jealous,” you whisper against his jaw, voice thick with amusement as your nails skim his biceps, “just admit it, baby.”

he breathes out a soft laugh against your sternum, warm and low.

“of course I was,” he murmurs, lips dragging to the inside of your thigh, his voice roughening as he speaks against your skin, “but only because you’re everything. and everything that’s mine should never be touched by anyone else but me.”

you grin, tipping your chin proudly. “damn right, joon.”

he hums approvingly. His hands tighten on your thighs. his lips seal against the inside of your knee like a silent oath. and that night, he shows you—with touch after touch, kiss after kiss—exactly how much he meant every word.

— min yoongi

yoongi’s jealousy isn’t loud. it doesn’t explode or unravel messily. it brews—low, lethal, precise.

he doesn’t interrupt. doesn’t stomp across the room or tug you away like he’s staking a claim.

no, yoongi lets the irritation sit in his chest, slow and smoldering, until it finally sharpens into a single line you’ll hear echoing in your head for days.

a sentence that slices cleaner than a scream ever could.

yoongi doesn’t like loud scenes. he doesn’t do crowds unless they’re under the blinding lights of his profession, and even then, it’s work—not pleasure.

which is why tonight is the perfect setting: a small, private gallery event tucked inside a quiet art collective, recommended by one of your professors as extra credit for your film studies course. quiet, dim, curated—yoongi’s pace entirely.

you invited him because you knew he’d like the obscurity. he came because he likes you even more.

he lingers behind you as you move through the exhibit. you—sharp-eyed, brilliant, articulate—you’ve always loved pulling apart the composition of other art forms, finding parallels to film. that’s what caught his attention when you first met: your mind sharper than your eyeliner, wit faster than your smile.

tonight, though?

you’ve attracted the eye of one of the event’s featured guest curators. a man a little too well-versed in indie cinema. a little too eager to quote obscure 1960s directors at you.

a man who clearly likes the way your lips part when you get passionate explaining shot composition.

yoongi watches from across the room—leaning against a polished concrete column, dressed lowkey and muted. black cap, dark bomber jacket, silver rings glinting faintly under gallery lights.

he sips slowly at his drink, one brow slightly raised, expression unreadable—but his gaze is cutting and direct.

you feel it before you see it.

the weight of his stare sliding across your shoulder blades like warm silk. you don’t falter—you’ve always been good at handling attention—but your smirk twitches wider.

you angle your body slightly toward yoongi (just enough to let him know you know), while still entertaining the curator’s chatter. confident. untouchable. you’re not flirting, not exactly—but you’re not running, either.

after a while, you wrap up your conversation with practiced grace and glide over to yoongi, the heels of your boots clicking quietly on the polished floor.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t even look up immediately. just tilts his head slightly toward you, deadpan but razor-sharp.

“nice lecture you got there,” he says dryly, voice low and unimpressed. “i almost enrolled in his class.”

you let a slow smile curl your lips. “were you eavesdropping, min?”

he finally lifts his gaze to yours—dark, amused, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s trying very hard not to grin.

“didn’t need to eavesdrop. the dude was practically panting when you started breaking down italian neorealism.”

you huff a laugh, cocking a brow. “jealous?”

“not jealous,” he says smoothly, sliding a hand into your back pocket with infuriating casualness. his thumb brushes slow circles into your hipbone.

“just bored. watching him trip over his tongue trying to impress my girlfriend was sad.”

your lips part in faux surprise. “oh? your girlfriend? i don’t remember you coming over to claim me.”

yoongi’s smile sharpens.

“i don’t need to claim what’s already mine, baby.”

he leans in—his nose brushes the shell of your ear, voice a hushed growl.

“i just remind you who’ll be unzipping this dress later.”

your breath catches—just slightly.

but you recover fast. always do.

you hum coyly, tilting your chin up. “don’t make promises you won’t keep, yoongi.”

his chuckle is low, sinful, hand squeezing tighter at your waist as he drags you flush to him in the darkened corner.

“i don’t make promises,” he whispers, lips ghosting your jaw.

“i just keep receipts.”

📱

You: you were broody tonight, min. jealous of the film nerd? 👀 Yoongi: broody? you kept tossing around french new wave terms like foreplay. i almost dragged you into the supply closet. You: almost? coward. Yoongi: get home. say “mise-en-scène” in that voice again. i’ll show you exactly what scene i want to set. You: bold of you to assume i’m wearing anything under this dress might have to “explain” it to me in detail, professor. Yoongi: keep talking. i’m locking my door right now.

he doesn’t say much as he pulls you into bed. hands grip firmer than usual—commanding but unhurried, fingers biting at your hips like a quiet claim. his lips drag rougher kisses along your throat, teeth grazing just enough to leave blooming marks in their wake.

when you arch against him, breath catching on his name, he leans close—breath hot against your ear, voice husked deep.

“don’t let another man talk to you like that again.”

you smile against his mouth, exhaling a soft, cocky laugh.

“don’t let another man think he has a chance, baby.”

his breath shudders, smirk ghosting against your jawline.

“smart girl.”

his mouth traces slow, burning paths along the curve of your neck and down your chest—every kiss a silent reminder of exactly where you belong.

you sigh, teasing lazy against his jawline—“still jealous, min?”—

his only answer is teeth against the inside of your thigh, slow and claiming.

“no,” he rasps, voice rough with want.

“just making sure you remember who gives you real lessons, baby.”

and by morning, you’ll have marks on your skin like underlined citations.

— jung hoseok [ nsfw ]

hoseok has always been magnetic.

he’s the light in the room, the warmth at the center of every circle. he laughs easily, listens deeply, and never lets discomfort linger in the air. he’s thoughtful. polished. sharp. but everyone who truly knows him—everyone close enough to see past the glitter—knows one more truth:

hoseok is possessive. quietly. beautifully. the kind that doesn’t say “you’re mine.” he just makes sure everyone else feels it.

he takes care of what’s his. he keeps things neat, under control, exact. and when something crosses a boundary—when someone crosses you—his shine doesn’t crack. it drops.

it’s a friend-of-a-friend party. not flashy. a cozy rooftop with warm lights and too many drinks. you’re in a soft knit dress and a jacket he gave you before you left home. not a celebrity. not a name anyone recognizes. you like it that way. you belong in the quiet.

and hoseok stays close. hand at your back, brushing your waist. always aware of where you are in the room.

but eventually, you wander. grab a drink. laugh with someone—some guy who works in media, apparently. you don’t know him. he’s too loud, too sure of himself. but you’re being polite.

what you don’t see is hoseok’s face from across the space.

he’s not smiling anymore. mouth set. jaw stiff. someone asks him something, and he answers too fast, eyes already gone back to you.

and the guy?

he’s leaning too close. not touching. but it’s the lean that does it. the way he looks at your legs. how he says something and nudges your arm like you’re sharing some private joke.

you step back half a pace. just enough to reclaim the space between you. but it’s not enough.

not for hoseok.

📱

Hoseok: baby. come here.

you look up. he’s still on the other side of the rooftop. watching. the look in his eyes pins you in place.

another buzz—

Hoseok: he’s looking at you like he wants to fuck you. don’t laugh at his jokes. they’re not funny.

your stomach flips. heat rises behind your ears. you shoot him a quick look across the space, mouthing sorry.

he doesn’t blink.

Hoseok: if you laugh one more time i’m going to drag you out of here and make you remember who makes you laugh like that for real

you swallow. hard. and excuse yourself.

you find him leaning against the hallway wall near the stairwell. arms crossed. one eyebrow lifted. not speaking.

“hey,” you say softly.

he tilts his head. “having fun?”

“it wasn’t like that.”

“wasn’t it?” his voice is low. too low. “you smiled at him.”

“i was just being nice—”

“no.” he steps in. close. “you don’t smile at people like that. not men like that.”

you exhale, frustrated. “hobi, i wasn’t flirting—”

his hand slides up your jaw so fast it stuns you silent. thumb pressed just under your lip. his eyes are dark. voice quieter now.

“i don’t like being jealous.” his tone is a whisper against your mouth. “i hate how it makes me feel. but baby, if someone else looks at you like they want you… and you give them anything…”

he leans in, lips brushing your cheek, your ear.

“…i get so fucking mean about it.”

when you’re back at your place he doesn’t waste time. the second the door shuts behind you, hoseok crowds you back against it—mouth claiming yours in a kiss that steals the air from your lungs.

It’s not rushed—but it’s deliberate. hands gripping your hips hard, fingers digging in like he’s anchoring himself to you.

when he drags his mouth down to your throat, biting lightly, you gasp—hands threading into his hair.

his jacket is on your floor. so are your panties. your hands are flat against your wall. his hips are locked behind yours. he’s been taking his time.

not fast. not desperate.

punishing.

“still think he was funny?” he whispers it right against your shoulder as he pushes into you again.

you gasp—eyes squeezed shut, nails biting into the paint.

“n-no—hobi—”

he thrusts deep. slow. deliberate.

“think he could make you come like this?”

you shake your head, but he waits. still inside you.

“say it.”

“…no.”

“say why.”

you whimper, breath catching in your throat. “’cause you’re the only one. the only one who gets to—fuck—gets to touch me like this.”

a pleased hum. a kiss to your spine.

“that’s right. you’re mine. don’t forget it again.”

you wake to the soft rustle of sheets and the smell of coffee brewing. hoseok walks into the bedroom, setting your cup on the nightstand—his hair messy, a soft hoodie hanging off one shoulder.

he sits on the edge of the bed, gaze fond but still serious.

“i’m not usually like that,” he says quietly.

you smile sleepily, fingers lacing with his.

“i like when you’re like that.”

his lips twitch—half-smile returning.

namjoon, who noticed you first not by your body, but by your mind. the way you tilted your head when you listened. the way you tapped your pen against your lips when you were thinking. the way you didn’t rush to fill silences, but let them stretch like silk, soft and sure, as if you were never afraid of stillness. you, who didn’t hide your emotions behind clever words like he did. you, who fought him on theories just because you wanted to. you, who left your sweater draped over the wrong chair, your handwriting scribbled in margins, your laughter in the corners of his mind.

you were a highlighted page left open on a breakroom table. a half-finished coffee forgotten by the window. a question blurted out in the middle of his careful lectures — too loud, too real, too alive.

namjoon, who should have been reading in the corner of the breakroom that day, but instead found himself staring at your book — left open, spine soft with wear, margins annotated in neat, precise handwriting. your handwriting. he didn’t touch it. didn’t dare. but he sat there for twenty minutes longer than he meant to, eyes fixed on the ink where your thoughts bled into the author’s.

namjoon, who told himself — for months — that it was nothing.

namjoon, who started gravitating toward the places you were without meaning to. who found excuses to linger in hallways longer, to join conversations he normally wouldn’t, just to hear your voice — low and curious and warm. a voice that wrapped around him like velvet and stayed long after you left the room.

namjoon, who felt a twinge of something dark and sharp the first time you leaned too close over a shared report of his next album. your shoulder brushing his, your breath hitting his neck as you murmured a the results. his jaw clenched so tightly it ached for hours afterward. he didn’t answer you right away because all he could think about was how easily he could have turned his head, tilted two inches, and pressed his lips to the skin below your ear. soft. reverent. claimed you before he even understood why he wanted to.

that craving your approval was natural. that feeling calmer when you sat next to him was just friendship. that the way his fingers itched to touch you — to trace the vein in your wrist when you pushed your sleeves up.

namjoon, who chastised himself for days afterward. who ran longer that week, pushed himself harder in practice, kept his hands busy — because if they were busy, they weren’t shaking. because nothing made him shake like you — wasn’t dangerous.

it was harmless.

right?

he couldn’t sleep.

he tried reading. the words blurred. he tried writing. the lyrics turned sticky and soft, tangled with your name even when he didn’t mean to.

he tried everything except facing the truth clawing its way up from his ribs.

but eventually, inevitably, it broke him.

sometime past 2 a.m., he gave in.

it wasn’t graphic. it wasn’t desperate. it was worse.

it was intimate.

he touched himself slowly,

deliberately, thinking of how your lips shaped words. thinking of how your fingers danced over your mug when you drank coffee. thinking of how you’d smiled at him yesterday, soft and tired, eyes crinkling at the corners as you murmured, “you’re overthinking again, joon. breathe.”

it wasn’t your body that undid him. it was your care. your presence. your mind folding around his in a way no one else had ever touched.

he came quietly, breath ragged, biting his lip hard enough to bruise — as if silence could save him from what he knew in that moment.

laying back against his pillows, restless, skin burning from the inside out. hand slipping low, mind buzzing with your voice — soft, curious, trusting — asking him once if he believed in fate. he hadn't answered then. he hadn’t known how.

but now, in the dark, alone, with the heat of you haunting every nerve — he did.

"this is more than desire."

it terrified him.

and for the first time in his life, he admitted it aloud.

a whisper. a confession. a surrender.

his voice broke halfway through.

"this is... love."

he didn’t sleep that night. he watched the sun bleed into his room through half-open blinds, feeling too raw, too fragile. but he didn’t run.

he never ran from fear.

and when he saw you the next morning — sleepy, hair messy, holding your third cup of coffee like a lifeline — he smiled.

soft. sure. destroyed and rebuilt.

namjoon, who brushed his hand against yours and saw you look at him—really look—and smile, slow and knowing. and he had to clench his fists to keep from reaching for you.

namjoon, who told himself love would feel like peace. but with you, it felt like a storm waiting to be touched.

namjoon, who stopped mid-sentence one afternoon while you were laughing, head tilted back, sunlight painting your skin— and thought, i’m fucked. because he wanted you in every way a man could want someone. intellectually. emotionally. physically. soul-deep.

namjoon, who showed up to your office the next day, unsure of what he’d even say. but you looked up from your chair and smiled, tired and warm. “you okay?”

he nodded. “can i talk to you?” “of course.”

you stood, closing your laptop, and his voice cracked before he could stop it. “i think i’m in love with you.” your breath caught. his hands trembled. he kept going. “i don’t know when it started. i just know that i can't stop thinking about you. and it's not just—it's not just physical. it's everything. you're everything.”

and you— you stepped forward. you cupped his face. and said, quiet but steady, “i know.”

You hadn’t spoken to him in five years.

Not for lack of trying on his part.

At first, it was letters. Long-winded apologies that sat in your inbox, unopened. He sent gifts—things that once would have made you smile. A book from your favorite artist, a necklace you’d mentioned wanting in passing. Small things that showed he still knew you better than anyone.

The first few months were unbearable. You thought of him every day. Wondered what he was doing, if he was eating well, if he was happy. But time dulled the ache. You stopped flinching when his songs played in cafés. You stopped searching for him in crowds.

Namjoon helped.

After everything, he remained one of your closest friends. He never spoke about Yoongi unless you asked, never pushed, just stood by your side as you rebuilt yourself. And through it all, he reminded you that you were more than what happened to you.

The first year had been unbearable. He had tried—God, had he tried.

You remembered it all too well.

The first letter. You almost didn’t open it.

Handwritten, folded carefully inside a plain envelope unmarked except for your name — written in the handwriting you knew better than your own, sent to the address of a friend because he didn’t know where you were staying. Your fingers sliding over the ink he had pressed onto the envelope.

Yoongi’s handwriting.

You stared at it for hours. Touched the edge of the envelope, flipped it over, back again. You’d left Seoul to rebuild yourself, to run from the wreckage he left behind. And now, not even thirty days later, he was here — in ink, in your hands.

Eventually, you broke.

The paper inside was folded neatly. The first line was scratched out and rewritten twice.

I don’t know where to start.I’m sorry. That’s the start.

Your breath caught in your chest.

I was scared. I thought that if you went to Berlin, I’d lose you. And I did — but because of what I did. You were never the problem. I was.You were brilliant. You ARE brilliant.And I fucking wrecked it. You don’t owe me forgiveness. I don’t even expect a reply. But if you’re reading this, just know... I haven’t gone a day without thinking about you. I love you.I think I always will. Forever yours, M.Y.

You folded the letter slowly, pressed it to your chest for a long moment, then placed it in the back of your drawer and cried like the heartbreak had just happened all over again.

The second letter came six months later. Longer this time, messier, like he had written it in a hurry, emotions bleeding through the ink.

Tucked into a parcel with a carefully wrapped copy of an art magazine you had been featured in. You hadn’t even told anyone about it, only someone who followed your work religiously would have known.

Yoongi had circled your interview. The note inside was raw, rushed, less polished than the first.

I saw this and I cried.You looked happy.Not just “I’m succeeding” happy. Genuinely, radiantly, peaceful. I’m sorry that I ever stood in the way of that. I don’t know if you miss me. I hope you don’t. I hope you never look back. But I wanted to tell you that I’ve been following your art, every piece, every city. I tell people I knew you, once. I’m so fucking proud of you. I wish I could tell you that in person.

There was a smear of ink in the corner — like maybe he’d been crying when he wrote it.

You didn’t cry that time.

But you didn’t stop thinking about it for a week.

And then came the gifts. Three months after the second letter, a package showed up this time to your flat studio with no return address.

Inside your favorite record. A rare vinyl, first press, signed by the lead singer. One you and Yoongi used to play on Sunday mornings when you made breakfast in his apartment.

Taped to it was a note on a napkin, in messy handwriting.

“For the mornings I’m no longer part of.”

You sat on your bed for ten minutes holding it before putting it away in your closet.

You came this close to playing it.

But you knew you weren’t ready.

But the worst was when he flew out to find you.

You had been in Paris then, working on an installation, when a mutual friend mentioned seeing the Yoongi from BTS at a café near your studio. You hadn’t believed it at first, but the panic had been immediate. Your hands had trembled as you checked your phone, expecting to see his name pop up any second. When the messages came, you couldn’t bring yourself to open them.

That night, you turned off your phone and hid. You never met him, never gave him the chance. Because you knew that if you did, if you looked him in the eyes and saw the regret there, you might have forgiven him. Run back to him.

And you couldn’t afford to.

Not when it had taken you so long to stitch yourself back together.

And then, one day, you heard the rumors.

Yoongi was dating.

Namjoon had hesitated to tell you, but you asked, and he was honest. And the strangest thing happened.

It didn’t hurt.

It should have. You should have felt anger, jealousy—something. But all you felt was relief. Because it meant you were free.

And now, five years later, you were back.

The cab pulled up in front of your friend’s apartment, and you shook yourself from your thoughts, pushing them aside. Whatever ghosts lingered in this city, you wouldn’t let them haunt you.

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to leave the past behind as you stepped out of the car. Your friend’s apartment was warm and familiar, a temporary home until you figured out how long you were staying.

Seoul was still home.

But you weren’t sure if you belonged here anymore.

Days passed in a whirlwind of press, interviews, and gallery showings. The exhibition was everything you had dreamed of, the culmination of years of struggle and triumph. Your friends came, their faces glowing with pride, their support unwavering.

The first night of your exhibition was surreal. The gallery was filled with people—critics, artists, admirers, friends. You had made something of yourself, carved out a space in this world where your art mattered.

Namjoon was there, of course. He had been one of your biggest supporters, a steady presence throughout the years. You had worked on Indigo together, and after that, your friendship only grew stronger.

“You’re glowing,” he said, nudging you with a grin. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You exhaled, looking around. “Yeah. It does.”

And then, hours later, when the crowd began to thin, your phone buzzed.

Unknown: Congratulations.

You frowned. You had recently changed your number, so only family and friends had it.

You: Who is this?

A pause. Then—

Unknown: I guess you really deleted my number, huh?

Your breath caught in your throat. A cold sweat broke out on your body and only one name crossed your mind. Could it be?

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

Your fingers hesitated over the screen, a thousand emotions clashing inside you. And then, as if drawn by some unseen force, you replied.

You: Yoongi?

There was no immediate answer, perhaps they were wrong. Maybe it's just some friend you didn't book. Maybe-

Yoongi: It’s been a long time.

You: Yeah. It has.

A beat. Slowly and quietly you moved to the side where you could not draw attention to yourself or get in anyone's way.

Yoongi: I meant what I said. I’m proud of you.

Something in your chest clenched. You stared at the message for too long, your mind a mess of memories and feelings you thought you had buried.

The world around you was still moving. Everyone talking to each other, moving around the place looking at your art, your work, while you stood to the side feeling your hands sweat with a knot in your stomach that you couldn't figure out what it was hiding.

You shouldn’t reply.

But you did.

You: Thanks.

Silence.

Then—

Yoongi: I’d like to see your exhibition. If that’s okay.

Your hands tightened around your phone. Would it be okay? Could you face him after everything?

You didn’t know.

The last you heard of him, after serving in the military, he returned to his music with the band and released another solo album as AgustD. An album you haven't dared to listen to yet. Even if you did, according to what you had read, contained romantic lyrics, which confirmed that he had also moved on with his life. Maybe he was in a relationship and you would never find out because it was no longer your business. You no longer had a place in his life.

Against your better judgment, you still typed back.

You: It’s open to the public. Last night is in three days.

Yoongi: Would you mind iaf I came?

You exhaled slowly. Thought about it. Thought about the past, about the person you were now. Your heart was at rest. Your life was flowing. You had nothing to hold on to and no need to hide or run away.

You: It’s up to you.

Yoongi: You still write in blue ink when you're nervous?

You: Still think too much when I’m scared.

Yoongi: Then nothing’s changed.

You: Everything’s changed.

Yoongi: Still. I want to see the version of you I never got to know.

You didn’t reply to that.

But you also didn’t tell him not to come.

And he also didn’t reply after that.

And for the next eight days, you found yourself holding your breath, wondering if he would actually show up.

The gallery buzzed.

The soft hum of voices, camera clicks, gentle clinks of champagne glasses. You stood at the heart of it all, a living ghost among your own work. It was the final night of the exhibition — your homecoming, they called it.

Your name was on a banner, on pamphlets, and in every whispered conversation.

"Did you hear she stayed in Berlin after the fellowship?""She’s worked with European and Japanese houses now — insane range.""They say her next residency might be in New York." "I even heard she dated an idol." "She worked with RM from BTS, that's kinda obvious." "He got her contacts."

Still, you smiled politely, took photos, accepted compliments with the quiet grace of someone who had grown used to being seen, but not always known.

And yet, you couldn’t shake the surreal weight of being here again. In Seoul. In this gallery. With your name in lights..

Five years ago, this version of you was just a blueprint. A dream Yoongi nearly destroyed — no, did destroy, in his own way. And yet, you were here. Whole. Rebuilt. Brilliant.

Namjoon approached you with a smile that could only be described as soft. He looked good — more relaxed than usual, wearing one of those clean cream jackets that made him look more like a curator than an idol.

“Final night. You did it,” he said, gently clinking his glass with yours.

“I did.”

“Are you okay?”

You hesitated. “Yeah. I think so.”

He gave you a knowing look. “Did he message again?”

A breath caught in your throat, but you nodded.

“He said he wanted to come. I said he could.”

Namjoon didn’t respond at first. Then: “If he does… be honest. Don’t protect him.”

You looked down into your drink. “I’m not the girl who would.”

He smiled, full of pride. “I know.”

You gave him a small look — gratitude, grief, all bundled into one. “You always believed in me.”

Namjoon’s voice dropped, soft but firm. “Because I knew what he tried to take from you. And I knew you’d rise anyway.”

A silence passed between you that didn’t need filling.

Later, in one of the quieter corners, you caught up with a few of your oldest friends — ones who had watched you crawl through heartbreak and self-doubt and still show up anyway.

Minnie leaned in, whispering, “Did you see the journalist from Vibe&Art? She said she felt chills at your third installation.”

You laughed. “She felt chills because it was freezing in that section.”

Lia, who had always been the dramatic one, grabbed your arm. “Seriously though — people felt this. You turned heartbreak into language. You turned Seoul into a church and let us all pray in it.”

"Amen."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart clenched.

Because that’s what it had been, hadn’t it? A quiet, sacred reckoning with your past. A last goodbye stitched into canvas and light.

By the time the crowd had thinned and the gallery emptied, a strange peace settled in your chest.

You stood alone in front of your final piece — the one that took the most from you. A towering sculpture of broken glass, copper wire, and painted photographs — fragments of your life reassembled into something brutal and luminous.

You stared at it for a long time, letting your own story echo back at you.

And that’s when you felt him.

A shift in the air. A stillness.

You didn’t turn right away.

You waited. Just to feel what it felt like — knowing he was here.

“...You always did know how to leave a room breathless.”

His voice.

Warm. Worn. A little heavier.

You turned.

Yoongi stood near the archway, dressed in all black — of course — and holding the gallery program loosely in his hand. His hair was shorter, neater. His frame still lean, but more solid now. And his face…

His face looked like he’d lived through the same kind of years you had.

Your mouth was dry. “You made it.”

He nodded. “I’ve been standing here a while. I just… didn’t want to interrupt.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you simply looked at him. Let the silence do the talking.

Then he stepped closer, slowly. Carefully. Like you might run away. He didn't want that.

“I don’t know how to start,” he said almost in a whisper. “Every version of this conversation in my head ends with me regretting something I said.”

You raised an eyebrow and almost smirked. “That would be poetic.”

He huffed out a laugh feeling nervous. “Still sharp.”

You tilted your head. “Still dramatic.”

A moment. A beat.

He shifted a little bit, feeling nervous, uneasy, anxious, agitated. As if everything depended on the fine thread tying him to his next words. Words that he went over day and night on those days when he regretted his decisions a little more than on other days. Considering all his ‘what ifs’.

All the alternate universes created in his head, all the possible endings. Happy, sad, uncertain. At this point he would take anything, but he was sure, convinced, determined that, whatever your decision, he would try until the last of his breath to keep you in his life. In whatever way, friend, acquaintance, co-worker. He would take it.

And then his voice broke, quiet and vulnerable:

“Still in love with you.”

It hit you harder than you expected. Not because it surprised you — but because it didn’t.

He stepped closer. “I thought I could let you go. Five long years. After everything I did, I thought it was the right thing. Let you grow. Let you become everything I was afraid of.”

You swallowed hard. “I became it anyway.”

“I know.”

He looked around the gallery, at the title of your exibition with your name. At the pieces that bore your soul.

“This is the most you thing I’ve ever seen. And it hurts, because I realized… I’m not in any of it. Not even a shadow.”

You looked away. “You don’t get to be.”

“I know that too.”

A long pause.

You ran your gaze around the place biting the inside of your cheek.

You weren't really going to tell him that those pieces were for your eyes only, the pieces that had his name, his face, his essence — all of him that had marked you. Because not only did he leave you with a bitter taste at the end of the relationship, but before that he was the most beautiful thing you had ever had. He was your partner, your best friend, who shared your likes, your dislikes, your whims and your feelings. Laughter, tears, screams, love, pleasure, everything you shared would always be safe in your heart engraved with ink of nostalgia and affection.

“I thought if I ruined it, you’d stay,” he said. “And that’s the part I can’t forgive myself for. Not that I hurt you — though that keeps me up most nights. But that I didn’t believe in you enough to follow you instead.”

That broke something open inside you.

Because he wasn’t wrong.

You breathed slowly, searching for the version of yourself that had once begged for this apology. That had once waited for it.

She was gone.

But you were here.

“I would’ve tried,” you said finally. “If you had let me go, I would’ve come back. Or we would’ve found something. I loved you enough to try... Fuck Yoongi, you were everything to me." You let out a breath you didn't know you had been holding for all these years." I thought you shared the same dream as me, that you supported me in my wildest dreams because that's what you told me. How could you think I would leave you behind? I wanted you by my side, maybe we weren't going to be in each other's presence all the time but I was sure, I could swear we were going to make it work. I could see us growing up next to each other….”

Yoongi’s eyes glistened. “And now?”

You thought about it. Thought about the five years of silence and growth and pain and art.

You were both different now. You changed. You grew up. Everything had changed, there was no way to go back to the past, and you were grateful for that.

“I still love you,” you said, almost hesitating to say it. “But I don’t know if it’s in the way it used to be. I think I love you like a story, like a memory. We were big once, but now, I don't think I can see that.”

He looked down, devastated but accepting.

You stepped back, giving yourself space to breathe.

You really were big. Yoongi was still hopeful at heart. He could still see it, clear as day, in the colours you painted his life. If he tried, maybe… just maybe...

Then he smiled — just a little. Just enough.

“Can I take you out for coffee?” He asked with bright eyes, full of longing.

If his friends, if his parents could see him right now— he was sure they would have said they hadn't seen that sparkle in so long…. They would ask him if he was okay, and he would only nod, say yes if you could only grant his one wish.

You looked at him. Looked at yourself. Looked at the life that still waited for you after tonight.

You could’ve said no. You could say nothing and leave, pretend it was all over. Put an end to it. Tear that chapter out of your life and memory.

But instead, you just said,

“…Okay.”