✨🩶✨

it was a late, blazing july afternoon with the kind of california heat that sticks to everything.

your beater car had just given up on you in the worst possible place it could—pulled over on the stretch of a busy road with no shade, just heat shimmering off the black asphalt and distant palm trees that don't feel helpful at all.

you already tried the obvious things. ignition, gas, trying it all again like it might change something.

it never did.

you leaned back against the passenger door of your car letting out a frustrated breath, hair sticking to your neck as you watched cars pass by with the soft sound of your hazards blinking in the background.

of course it's today. of course it's here.

that was when you suddenly heard the low hum of an engine slow down beside you. a sleek, black bmw—expensive, but not loud about it. it pulled in front of your car, and for a second you think the car is just stopping briefly.

that was before the driver door opened.

he steps out like he’s not in a rush to be anywhere else.

tall—noticeably so, he moves towards you easily, like he’s used to taking up space without ever forcing it.

sunglasses sit low on his nose, shielding his eyes, but not enough to hide the way his attention lands exactly on you. his shirt is simple—lightweight, slightly open at the collar, sleeves pushed up just enough to show his forearms. nothing flashy.

but it fits him too well. everything about him does.

dark jeans, clean shoes, watch on his wrist that you can't recognize but can tell is expensive. you notice all of him in the mere seconds he takes to walk over to you, the feeling hitting you all at once.

dear god, he was fine. the kind that made you straighten up a little bit without realizing; running a quick hand through your hair and fixing your jewelry.

he walks toward the front of your car, unhurried, one hand sliding briefly into his pocket before resting against the hood of your car.

up close, it’s worse.

sharper features than you expected. clean, but not overly polished. there’s something slightly worn in about him—like experience and maturity that sits on him well.

“everything alright?” he asks, voice is low and steady.

you blink for a second longer than necessary before responding. why does he look like that... helping me with my car?

"uh-" you stammer before clearing your throat. "it's- it's dead."

"yeah..." he says, eyes examining your car closer. "i can see that."

you nod and suddenly there's a pause, small but noticeable.

he comes around the side of your car, closing the distance between you to look inside of the window. you fumble while taking a few steps back as he looks at your dashboard then back at you, suddenly flustered by his presence.

"you got jumper cables?" he asks.

you simply shook your head.

"didn't think so," he says simply.

he walks back to his car, and you stand there feeling so helpless in the hot sun as he turns his car around to face yours in a swift manner, opening the door casually before coming around to his trunk like he's done this plenty of times.

when he comes back with the cables, he quickly slides his sunglasses in a way you almost miss a glimpse of his whole face.

you assumed it was because of the sun. but little did you know, it wasn't.

because before he walked back to his car, he had looked at you a little too closely. it wasn't some polite, quick glance. it was one that lasted a second too long.

he noticed everything about you.

the way your top fits—not overly revealing, but just enough to catch his attention without trying. the fabric light, slightly clinging from the heat. your skirt—shorter than it probably needed to be, riding just a little higher from the way you shifted against your car door.

his gaze dropped, brief, controlled—then came back up. your legs, your hands, the thin bracelet at your wrist. rings that don’t match perfectly but somehow work. jewelry that feels personal to you.

he takes note of that. of course he does.

then, your face. slightly flush from the heat, skin warm toned and sun-kissed. there's something effortless about you, like you spent more time living in the sun than hiding from it.

your expression—somewhere between annoyed and trying not to be. and your eyes, focused on him, but not softened. not entirely impressed by him, but more appreciative.

and when he closed his trunk, he forgets to look away. so he pulls his sunglasses back over, quick and casual. like it's nothing.

and not because of the sunlight, but because he was looking at you a little too openly. and he knew it.

he arrives at your car and connects everything smoothly, no hesitation and big hands steady. it was unfairly attractive.

“so,” he says, glancing up while he works, “you live out here or just enjoying the scenic breakdown experience?”

a smile pulls at your mouth despite yourself. “neither. i was just trying to get home.”

“mm.” he clicks something into place. “dangerous thing to try in LA.”

that gets a small laugh out of you, softer now and less defensive.

when the car finally sputters back to life, you visibly relax. he steps back, wiping his hands lightly. “there you go."

you should've just said thank you and left. but something in you doesn't act immediately. because now that the problem was gone, the silence between you two felt different now.

“so how do i… repay you?” you ask, half-joking, half-serious.

he tilts his head slightly. "you don’t.” a beat passes. "just don't break down in the worst place possible next time."

you rolled your eyes a little, a smirk tugging at your lips. "no promises."

that earns a small smile from him. he steps back toward his car, then pauses like he’s deciding something.

“i’m—” he starts, then stops himself, like he’s choosing not to introduce himself the usual way. "i’ll see you around.”

"yeah... thank you."

and you watch him get back into his car, driving away and getting lost in the sea of los angeles traffic as you realized two things;

you didn't get his name, and you would likely never see him again.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

one week later

he's just getting off the phone when it happens.

“yeah, send it over tonight,” he says, already half-distracted. “i"ll listen then.”

a pause. “mm. yeah. i got it.” he ends the call before the other person finishes their last sentence.

he slips his phone into his pocket, stepping onto the sidewalk, the afternoon sun hitting just right—warm, a little blinding, the kind of los angeles light that makes everything look softer than it is.

but he's not really paying attention at first.

he's thinking about work. about a track that still isn’t sitting right. about whether he even wants to go to the next session he has lined up.

and then—he sees you.

just down the block, wired headphones plugged into your ears as you walk towards a small coffee shop.

it takes him half a second too long for him to register it. he slows before stopping in his place on the scorching sidewalk just to be sure.

same walk. same unintentional confidence—like you're not trying to be noticed, which somehow makes you stand out more. your outfit catches his attention again without effort. something light, slightly different from the first time he saw you, but still you.

skirt again—of course. not the same one, but same idea.

he notices that. he notices everything.

you push the door open to the shop before disappearing inside. and for a second—he considers just letting you go, letting the roadside interaction stay that way, a one time street kind of thing that didn't need to turn into anything else.

he exhaled quietly before shaking his head, "yeah, no." he changed his direction subtly like he was always going that way.

by the time he reaches the door, he's already composed again. no rush or urgency in him, just the same steady stride he always carried around.

inside the cafe, it’s quieter than the street. low music, soft conversations, and the smell of coffee swirled in the air.

he scans the space once and it doesn't take long for him to find you, standing near the counter, slightly turned away, looking up at the menu like you're stuck deciding between the same two things.

he watches you for a second. not long, but enough. and suddenly, there's that feeling again rising up in his chest.

he steps into line behind you—close enough to matter, not close enough to be obvious. he lets the moment build naturally. of course he does. he lets you stay unaware just a second longer.

then, as you shift your weight and turn slightly back—he steps forward at the exact right time. light contact, your shoulder to his chest. just enough to capture your attention.

"oh, sorry—" you say automatically before looking up. it took a moment for you to process that the same, gorgeous man who jumped your car last week was the one currently blocking your vision.

he tilts his head slightly, like he’s just as surprised. “well,” he says, calm, almost amused, “this is becoming a pattern.”

you blinked. "you... helped me with my car."

"i did," he agrees. "and now apparently i'm following you around LA."

you narrow your eyes slightly. "are you?"

he puts a hand over his chest, mock offended but calm. “i prefer ‘running into you repeatedly by tragic coincidence.’”

that earns a laugh from you, the first real one between you. the barista calls you next in line, and he trails behind you like you're a couple ordering together. his presence alone makes your heart thump against your chest.

the barista takes your order and before you can even unzip your purse to pay, you already see a large hand coming from behind you, inserting a card in the machine.

the barista hands the man behind you the receipt and you turn around abruptly, tilting your head up to fully face him as you both drift away from the register. "i can pay for myself," you said.

"i know," he says simply.

"i was supposed to pay," you corrected as you picked up your freshly made coffee order.

"why?" he asked genuinely, tilting his head to match the angle of yours. it sent a light pink blush up your cheeks.

you look at him like the answer is obvious. "because you jumped my car."

his eyebrows pulled together. "that was like five minutes of my time." you all but blinked, suddenly at a loss of words under the intense gaze of this mysterious, confident man.

he begins to walk towards a table and you follow him, still protesting under your breath. "that doesn't mean you get to—"

“get to what?” he glances back at you, sunglasses now off, and it’s worse without them in a way—more direct, more readable. more of his perfectly chiseled face exposed to you. “buy you coffee?”

you open your mouth, then close it. because the way he said it made it sound ridiculous to argue.

you both end up choosing a table by the window. endless blue, moving slowly under the late afternoon sun. a few people pass by on bikes, others walking along the sidewalk with iced coffees in hand, like time moves differently here.

not sat too close to him, not too far—just enough space that it could still be casual if either of you decided to pretend it was.

“so, what do you do?” you ask finally, wrapping your hands around the cup.

he leans back slightly in his chair. “music.”

“that’s vague.”

“it's intentional.”

you give him a look. “oh, so you’re mysterious.”

“i’m tired,” he corrects lightly, a smirk of amusement tugging at his lips. “there’s a difference.”

that makes you smile. “what, like a band?” you press.

“no,” he says. “behind the scenes.”

“oh.” you tilt your head. “like a manager?”

he pauses for a moment. "something like that."

it wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the truth either. you nod like you accept that answer, but the curiosity doesn't go away.

“and you?” he asks.

you almost laugh. “i don’t do music.”

“didn’t say you did.”

“i mean…” you gesture vaguely. “nothing like that. i work. i live on the edge of LA where nothing interesting happens.”

his gaze holds on you a second longer than necessary. "that’s not true,” he says.

you frown slightly. “you don’t even know me.”

“i know you broke down on the side of a road in peak heat and didn’t immediately panic,” he says. “that tells me something.”

"like what?" "that you're stubborn," he replies calmly.

you lean forward a little, eyes analyzing his expression. "that's not a compliment."

“it can be,” he says. “depends who it’s about.”

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

you and him slip into easy conversation—half started stories, simple questions, the kind of conversation that doesn't feel like you're trying too hard.

you're mid-sentence, explaining something about where you live—how everything feels slower out there—when he interrupts you, but gently. “how old are you?”

you pause, caught off guard. “that’s random.”

“it’s relevant,” he says, like that should be obvious.

“to what?”

he lifts his cup slightly, studying you over the rim for a second before answering. “to how seriously i should be taking you.”

your eyebrows lift immediately. “excuse me?”

there’s a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “i’m kidding,” he says, calm, unbothered. “mostly.”

you shake your head, trying not to smile. “twenty four.”

he nods once, like he expected that. “yeah,” he murmurs.

“yeah what?” you press.

“nothing,” he says, setting his cup down. “it makes sense.”

“that’s so annoying,” you say. “you don’t get to say that and not explain.”

“i just did.”

“no, you didn’t.”

he leans back slightly, relaxed, completely comfortable letting you be a little frustrated. “you carry yourself younger at times,” he says. “but not in a bad way.”

you narrow your eyes. “that still feels like an insult.”

“it’s not,” he says, softer now. “it’s honest.”

you look at him for a second longer than you mean to. “okay,” you say quietly. “then how old are you?”

he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he tilts his head slightly, watching you like he’s deciding how much to give. “what do you think?” he asks.

you study him now, more deliberately. he doesn’t look older, not really. no obvious lines, no tiredness. and of course, he looks put together in a way most guys your age aren’t.

“twenty-seven,” you say finally. “maybe twenty-eight.”

he lets out a soft laugh—low, almost under his breath.

you frown immediately. “what?”

“nothing,” he says, shaking his head slightly with amusement.

“no, what?”

“you’re off,” he says.

“by how much?”

he pauses, then shrugs like it doesn’t matter. “enough.”

“that’s not an answer,” you says leaning forward closer now.

“it is,” he replies calmly. “just not one you like.”

you stare at him, half-annoyed, half-curious. “you’re not going to tell me?”

“not yet.”

your eyes narrow. “why?”

he meets your gaze fully this time. “because i want to see if it changes anything for you.”

you lean back slightly, thrown off in a way you don't show completely. “why would it?” you ask.

he shrugs after a small pause. he glances down at your cup. “you drink your coffee too slow, by the way.”

your mouth falls open a little as the moment quickly softens again. “oh my god.”

“just saying.”

“you’re unbelievable.”

“and you’re still here,” he points out lightly.

the conversation drifts again after that, easier now. you talk more without meaning to—little things, fragments of your life. he listens in a way that feels attentive, but not invasive. like he’s not collecting information, just understanding your pace.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

you both drift toward the door without really deciding to. the conversation doesn’t end—it just slows, like both of you are aware it has to, eventually.

outside, the afternoon has softened. the heat isn’t as sharp anymore, but it’s still there, hanging in the air between you.

you shift your weight slightly, glancing down the street, then back at him. “this was…” you start, then stop, like you don't want to overdefine it. he watches you, gazed fixed on you patiently.

“unexpected,” you continue on.

he nods once. “yeah.”

“i still owe you,” you say.

he glances down at you. “you don’t.”

“i do.”

“you don’t,” he repeats, softer but final. but after a small beat, “if it makes you feel better, you can get the next one.”

you narrows your eyes. “there’s going to be a next one?”

he paused again, but only for a fraction of a second too long before he shrugged slightly like it was nothing. "if you break down again, i might start thinking it's planned."

you rolled your eyes, but a smile pulled helplessly at your lips. as you stepped out into the light of the sun, you realized two things at once. this man still hadn't told you who he is or his name, and that you somehow already agreed to see him again.

"let me see your phone," he said lowly, pulling his sunglasses over his eyes once again. it wasn't really a question.

and so you reached into your pocket, pulling out your phone, and without asking—he takes your hand gently, turning your palm slightly towards his. the faintest brush of his fingers sent an unexpected warmth up your arm in a way you couldn't ignore.

he picked up your phone that now seemed so small in his hands, typing something quickly before handing your phone back. you looked down at your screen, squinty slightly from the sun.

his name. a number.

joon 213-555-0010

when you look back up at him, he's already watching you—unreadable in a way that sent a pink flush throughout your cheeks.

"joon," you said, like you needed to say his name out loud. like you knew it was just a nickname.

he simply nodded, something small like a smile tugging at his lips from the sound of you hearing his name. "yeah."

he paused, low eyes peering above his sunglasses as he looked at you closely. "you gonna tell me yours?" he asked lowly, the baritone of his voice hitting a little too close.

so you told him, and he repeated it a few times under his breath like he had to let it sink on his tongue. "y/n," he said finally, voice quieter than usual. "pretty name for a pretty girl."

your eyes couldn't help but widely slightly at his bold words, the pink on your face turning into a deep red.

a small pause filled the air before you swallowed, trying your best to lock in your confidence in front of this man. "you didn't ask for my number," you said.

"i know."

"that's a little backwards."

"not really."

you titled your head. "why?"

he took a step back, giving you just a little more space. "because now it's your choice."

you study him for a second, like you're trying to figure out if this is some kind of game. some kind of reality tv show where they prank you with some hot mysterious man. but it didn't feel like one.

"and if i don't text you?" you ask.

a small pause before he shrugged easily. "then i'll assume you didn't want to." but his tone didn't have any pressure or persuasion in it.

"confident," you mutter.

"selective," he corrected.

you almost rolled your eyes—but you don't quite let it happen. he glances past you for a second, like he's remembering that he actually has somewhere to be. then, they quickly averted back to you.

"if you do," he continues, quieter now. "don't over think it."

you let a small laugh. "too late."

that earns a small smile from him, dimples tugging at his cheeks in a way you noticed immediately. "i figured."

another pause before he steps back swiftly, like he's deciding that he couldn't stay any longer than necessary—even if he wanted to. "i'll see you around," he says, for the second time.

before you can respond, he's already turning and stepping away, suddenly gone in the same effortless and casual way he arrived.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

that night, you tell yourself you're not going to think about him.

and you failed immediately.

you failed when you went to dinner with your friends, when you did chores around your house; in the shower and when you laid in your own bed that night—the bed that was supposed to make your thoughts go away. it was the small things at first.

the way he didn’t rush anything. the way he answered questions without really answering them. the way he looked at you like he already understood something you hadn’t said out loud yet.

and as the night continued on, the bigger things settled in your brain, making heat shamefully pool between your legs.

he didn't ask for your number. he didn't try to lock you in. instead, he just left his number with you.

who is he?

your phone sat next to you with the screen dark and off, but it felt louder than anything else in the room. you fell into a cycle of picking it up and putting it back down.

finally, you picked it up again, finding his contact. you flipped it shut, sucking in a sharp breath at the thought of messaging him. you found your thumbs typing, deleting, then typing something again.

you exhale softly, leaning back against your pillow trying your hardest not to overthink it, his voice replaying in the back of your head.

he wasn't some typical guy—you could tell in the way he carried himself. he walked casually, but with assurance. he dressed with stride, but still managed to blend in. he talked with confidence, and every line was coated with experience.

so now, it wasn't just about texting him. it's about what it would mean if you did. because somehow, after one roadside encounter and a cup of coffee—you already wanted more than you should have.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

namjoon's drive back was quiet. not because he wanted it to be—but because nothing else fit how he felt at the moment.

not even any of his music.

he had driven these streets thousands of times. the same turns, the same streets, the same palm trees. usually his mind is somewhere else entirely—work, mixes, deadlines, people who expect things from him.

but not tonight. because tonight, it kept circling back to you.

it all kept replaying in his head—the way you looked at him like you were trying to figure him out. he noticed the way you didn't try too hard. you didn't perform like everyone else in LA.

you didn't know what he is, who he is, or what kind of world he's involved in.

that was the part that was stuck in namjoon's head so deeply. because most people that meet him are already adjusted to him—already well aware, careful with their words and their tones, their intentions.

but you certainly weren't.

because you argued with him. you rolled your eyes and called him annoying. and you meant all of it.

a faint smile pulled at his mouth as he came to a stop at a red light. "twenty-seven," he muttered to himself, shaking his head and laughing slightly.

but still, you didn't hesitate.

he pulls into his place, kills the engine, but doesn’t get out right away. he glances at his phone, sitting in the center console of his car, dark and quiet.

but he doesn't reach for it. because namjoon was a patient man—he always had been. in work, in life, in everything that mattered.

once he gets inside his spacious, sleek home, he dropped his keys on the counter, running a hand through his hair, exhaling.

namjoon had been with plenty of women before. older, younger—in his world and outside of it. he always knows how it goes. he knows how to keep it light and uncomplicated.

but this didn't feel like that. because it felt like something that could get complicated. but instead of pushing it away like he normally would, he leaned into it. just a little.

an hour passes. then two.

namjoon tells himself he's not checking his phone. but it turns out to be a lie, because throughout night—he checks it without picking it up. glancing every time he walks past, like it might light up if he looks long enough. but it doesn't.

he tells himself to relax, that you have a life or that you might not be interested at all. but still—he wonders what you're up to. if you're thinking about him the way he's thinking about you. if you're overanalyzing that moment outside of the coffee shop.

suddenly, his phone buzzed. he doesn't look right away. he just looked at it before reading the unsaved number, no name attached. he picks it up and opens it almost immediately.

unknown: do you always leave girls with this much pressure or am i just special?

he lets out a quiet breath—half a laugh of amusement, half something else. there you finally were, exactly the way he had anticipated. he begins to type before he stops and quickly deletes it.

he leans back against the counter, thinking—not about what to say, but about how much he should give. because namjoon didn't want to rush this. he didn't want to come on too strong.

but he couldn't pretend that he was unaffected either, because he most certainly couldn't even if he wanted to. not with you.

he types again, this time sending it.

him: i was starting to think you wouldn't.

he watches the screen for a second longer than necessary, saving your contact before setting his phone down. it wasn't far, but it was just enough. because now, you know that he was waiting too.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

you exhale softy, rolling onto your back with a smile that couldn't help but tug at your lips.

you: oh so you were waiting

a pause settled on the screen before the typing bubble popped up again.

joon: i was curious

you: that sounds like a more mysterious way of saying waiting

joon: you can call it whatever makes you feel better

and now, you definitely smiled at that. because he was already doing that thing again—side stepping without hesitation.

you: you're too difficult to read

joon: you're trying too hard then

you: i think you're just confusing

joon: only for you sweetheart

you actually laugh out loud at that, shaking your head and ignoring the way the nickname made pink tint your cheeks.

you: wow so is this how you talk to every girl you buy coffee for?

his reply comes faster this time.

joon: i don't buy anyone coffee

you: good answer

joon: an honest one what are you doing right now?

you glanced around your room like he could somehow see.

you: nothing important

joon: doesn’t sound convincing

you: i could say the same about you

joon: i’m working

you: doing your very mysterious job?

joon: still stuck on that?

you: a little

joon: you'll figure it out eventually

you bit your lip slightly, thinking of an answer.

you: you're very sure i'm going to stick around long enough to figure it out

joon: aren't you?

your heart does that annoying little jump again, and you don't answer right away. and he doesn't send anything else. instead, he waits. three minutes later;

you: maybe

joon: that's a start

another painfully long beat passes before your cellphone vibrates again.

joon: you busy tomorrow night?

you stare at the message, blinking twice to make sure you read it right. but somehow, half of you wasn't surprised. you were practically waiting in a way you couldn't admit. but the other half was incredibly in shock.

you started to type.. deleted it.. then typed again.

you: depends what are you planning?

joon: something better than coffee

you smiled immediately, even though you tried not to.

you: that's a little confident

joon: doesn't seem like you hate it

you: i don't

joon: good

a pause settled on the screen again.

joon: 8?

you exhaled slowly, the reality creeping in as you stared at the screen. you were really going to go on a date with this man. the same, confident and attractive man that had jumped your car and saved your day. the same man who's age and job you couldn't quite detect.

you: okay

joon: i'll pick you up don't overthink it

you rolled your eyes, smiling.

you: too late

joon: i know

and just like that, with one text conversation, it definitely was more than just a street thing.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

you almost regret saying yes the moment you hear a car pull up outside, engine rumbling lowly outside your apartment window.

not because you didn't want to go, of course. but because now, it's real.

you check yourself in the mirror one last time, smoothing the bumps in your hair and coating your lips with gloss one last time. simple, but intentional. something that said you tried... but didn't try too hard.

your phone buzzed.

joon: i'm outside

when you step out, you see the car first. the same sleek and clean car that had pulled over in front of you on that busy highway engulfed in heat.

then him.

leaning slightly agains the driver's side door, towering over the car with his sleeves pushed up, looking like he's only been there for a minute—but completely settled anyway. he wore a costly-looking dress shirt, glimmering chain around his neck and a sparkling watch wrapped around his built arm. you swallowed hard.

his eyes flick up from the ground immediately when he notices you. and for a second, he just looks at you. completely, unashamedly taking you in with his eyes slowly.

"yeah..." he says lowly, dragging his lips ever so quickly along his lips as you approached him, heels clicking beneath you. "you're going to be a problem tonight."

you couldn't ignore the heat that sent down your spine, but you simply peered up at him, batting your eyelashes innocently. "aren't i always?"

"i haven't seen you always," he replied.

you rolled your eyes, but a small smile pulled at your lips anyway. then, he stepped back, opening the door for you. you don't the miss the way he does it without hesitation. and when you sit inside, you don't miss the way his gaze burns into you before closing your door.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

the drive was easy, music low in the background, city lights coming to life as the sun started to dip below the horizon.

namjoon doesn't fill every silence—and somehow it makes it easier for you to talk.

"so where are you taking me?" you ask eventually.

"you'll see," he says casually, one hand on the steering wheel while the other rested between you.

"that's not helpful."

"it's not supposed to be."

you shook your head, smiling out the window. he pulls up to a restaurant that sits right by everything—the beach, the water, and the city. it was definitely upscale, but nothing intimidating.

inside, the lighting is warm yet dim, swift music playing and low conversations humming.

you were seated quickly. no waiting or confusion. you didn't quite realize the line of people who were standing for a table, and how you and him were able to breeze right past it.

when you arrive to your seat, it's right in front of the window, city lights and palm trees stretching on the glass in front of you. he pulls your seat out for you, helping you take off your coat and placing it along your chair.

after you place your orders, the conversation flows faster this time. less guarded, and more natural.

"so," he says, leaning back in his chair slightly. "what do you actually do?"

you sigh softly, like you already know the answer isn't impressive, even compared to his incredibly vague one. "i’m a waitress," you say. "nothing exciting."

he watches you for a second. "you keep saying that."

"because it's true."

"or because you think it's supposed to be."

that made you pause. "it's not exactly... impressive," you admitted.

he shrugs lightly. "most things that are don't matter."

you let out a small breath, like you didn’t expect that answer. “you always talk like that?” you ask.

“like what?”

“like you know something i don’t.”

a small smirk pulls at his mouth. “sometimes i do.”

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

you and namjoon are laughing a few minutes later—about something small and stupid—and it feels easy. too easy.

the song currently playing comes to an end and the music shifts. a different song comes on—smooth, familiar, something that's even playing everywhere recently.

you perked up immediately. "oh my god, i love this song."

he stills ever so slightly. it's quick and barely noticeable, but there's a flicker of something across his face. he glances down at the table, then back up at you. "yeah?" he asks, casual.

"yeah," you nod, smiling. "it's so good."

he hums in response, leaning back in his seat like it's just background noise. "not bad."

you narrow your eyes slightly. "not bad?" he shrugs. "it's alright."

you laugh. "you're impossible."

and he doesn't argue. but there's a faint smirk but he doesn't fully hide this time.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

the dinner stretches longer than you expected. because neither of you seem to be in a rush to end it.

by the time the check comes, you reach for it instinctively. because at the cafe, he said he would let you get it this time.

but he's faster. of course he is.

"you don't have to—" you start.

"i know."

"that's not fair," you protest.

"it doesn't have to be," he said.

you sigh, but you're already smiling again.

as he hands the card over, the server pauses. "sorry," the server says, almost hesitant. "are you... are you—namjoon—"

namjoon already knows what's coming. he exhales softly, not annoyed at all, just used to it. "yeah," he says with a polite smile. you blinked.

"sorry- i thought so. i didn't want to assume."

he gives a small, reassuring nod.

"do you think i could-" the server gestures awkwardly. "just like, a quick autograph? my brother and i are huge fans."

you completely froze.

fan?

huge?

he doesn't make it a big deal. "yeah, no problem," he says, like it was normal. like this happens all the time. because it does.

he signs something quickly, hands it back with a polite smile.

"thank you—i appreciate it. you two have a great night," the server said before walking off.

silence settled between you for the brief a second. you were completely staring at him now, trying to control your facial expressions as you processed what just happened.

"you didn't tell me that happens to you," you said.

"i didn't think it mattered," he replied casually.

"well," you said slowly. "what exactly do you do?"

there it was. the question he definitely couldn't avoid this time. he leans back slightly, studying your expression. it was curious, but not intimidated or totally impressed. just curious.

"i told you," he said. "music."

you shook your head. "no, you said behind the scenes."

he huffed a small breath, close to a laugh before he paused. "i produce," he said finally. it was simple and direct—no bragging or boasting.

you blink again. "like... that song?"

a beat passes for a small moment before he nods once. "yeah."

and now, the air between you shifted. because now you knew; he wasn't just some guy who stopped to help you on the side of the road.

and somehow, it almost made things worse. because now, you had to figure out why he's here... with you.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

the air outside feels cooler than before. or maybe it’s just because of the way everything shifted inside.

namjoon pushes the door open for you, stepping slightly to the side to let you walk out first—but as you pass, his hand settles lightly at the small of your back.

guiding. not grabbing or lingering too long. just there, resting on your back. it's subtle, but you can feel the intention seeping through you, especially in the way it instantly sends a shiver up your back.

your steps slow for half a second—not enough for him to comment on, but enough for you to notice yourself.

but he notices too.

you both walk a few steps in the parking lot in silence. it wasn't awkward, it was just both of you recollecting the entire night—including who he really was.

“so,” you say finally, glancing over at him, tone light like nothing’s changed, “you’re kind of a big deal, namjoon.”

he exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “no.”

“that guy literally asked you for an autograph.”

“that happens sometimes.”

you narrow your eyes. “that’s not normal.”

“it is for me,” he says simply. it wasn't cocky or defensive, just the honest truth. it should've been intimidating. but you didn't let it land that way.

you shrugged slightly. "okay. but that still doesn't mean i'm impressed."

there's a pause before he looks at you—really looks this time. and something shifts in his eyes, subtle but sharper. more interested and intrigued by the young woman standing before him.

"good," he said lowly.

you blinked. "good?"

“i’d be a little concerned if you were.”

your lips press together slightly, trying not to smile. “you’re unbelievable.”

“i’ve been told.”

you both reach his car, but neither of you move to get in right away. he leans back against it slightly, arms relaxed and eyes fixed on you.

you cross your arms again. not closed off, just grounding yourself under his gaze. "so you just... make songs people know?"

"sometimes," he said with a shrug.

"ugh, that's such a non-answer."

his lips fought a smile at your remark. "it's an accurate one."

you shook your head, a small laugh escaping you. "you're so annoying."

"but you keep talking to me," he points out.

you finally glance up at him fully, and for a second, the eye contact lingers for a moment too long. it causes you to look away first, pink tinting your cheeks.

and namjoon notices everything.

the way you're holding eye contact a little less now. the way you're slightly more aware of yourself. the way you're trying not to let it change anything. but it doesn’t turn him off—it only pulls him in more.

“you got quiet,” he says.

“i didn’t.”

“you did.”

you look away for a second, then back at him. “i’m just thinking.”

“about?”

you hesitate. “nothing,” you say.

he tilts his head slightly, unconvinced—but he doesn’t push. instead, he steps a little closer. not enough to crowd you, but enough to spark the energy in the space between you even more.

“you’re doing that thing,” he comments quietly, eyes trailing up and down your figure.

your brows knit. “what thing?”

“trying to act like nothing changed.”

your stomach flips—annoyingly and immediate. “because nothing did,” you said.

a pause fills the air. he studies your face, like he’s deciding whether to call it out further. “alright,” he says finally.

you exhale softly. “you’re not going to say anything else?”

“i don’t need to.”

“that’s so—” you cut yourself off, shaking your head.

he watches you, a faint smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth now. “say it,” he murmurs.

you look at him, trying not to react to the way his voice dropped slightly. “it’s just… a lot,” you admit.

your answer was too honest for your liking, yet he didn't laugh or dismiss it. "yeah," he said quietly. "it can be."

a beat passed. "but i'm still the same guy you had coffee with," he said softly. and those words land, harder than anything else he's said.

you study him for a second, searching for something—ego, arrogance, anything that would make this easier to categorize.

but you don’t find it. instead, you're only able to find that same calm, steady version of him. the one who stopped his car for you. the one who let you decide whether to text him. the one who didn’t even bother to impress you.

“…okay,” you say finally. and you mean it.

there was a small shift in the air between you, the tension softening— but not totally disappearing.

“so,” he says, pushing off the car slightly, “you still letting me drive you home?”

you raise an eyebrow. “do i have a choice?”

“you always have a choice,” he said. a beat passes. "but i’d prefer if you said yes," he confessed playfully.

you huffs out a quiet laugh. “you’re very subtle.”

“i try.”

and for the second time that night, namjoon opens the passenger door for you. and this time, when you got in, it felt different; reality swirling around you and settling into your head.

the drive back was quieter than the one there. it wasn't awkward or empty—just filled with unspoken words and incredibly thick tension.

his gaze was fixed on the road, but you couldn't ignore the way you caught him glancing over at you multiple times in the corner of your eye. the music is low, humming softly through the speakers before another song comes on.

you glance over at the console, then over at him. "did you make this one too?" you ask, half teasing.

he doesn't look at you right away, a smirk pulling at his lips, leaving a sharp shadow along his jaw. "maybe."

you roll your eyes, fully smiling now. "you're never going to give me a straight answer, are you?"

"not all at once, pretty girl."

there it is again. not just the nickname that sent heat through your spine and in between your legs—but that confident, indirect promise of you sticking around long enough to unlock every thing about him.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

you're looking out the window, surrounded by the kind of silence that makes everything feel more noticeable. but you're not really seeing or looking at anything, because you're too aware.

too aware of namjoon. the way he drives—one veiny hand on the wheel, relaxed but precise. the way the scent of his expensive cologne and shampoo made your knees weaken. the way he continues to glance over every now and then, quick, like he’s checking something without making it obvious.

you shift slightly in your seat every time he does.

suddenly, his hand moves from the wheel for just a second—resting briefly against the center console as he adjusts his grip. but through that movement, his large fingers brush lightly against your thigh.

he dragged them ever so softly on your thigh for what felt like forever—but only lasted two seconds—before moving his hand back to the center console. his fingers were barely there, not lingering or deliberate enough to call out. but it wasn't exactly accidental enough to ignore either.

your breath catches for just a second, but he doesn't react or apologize. he doesn't even look at you, and somehow that makes it worse.

you swallow hard, turning your head slightly towards the window again. but now you're even more hyper-aware of the space between you. your heart was doing something very annoying again, and you knew it.

he knew it.

he slows the car as you reach your place, parking smoothly before killing the engine. and just like that, everything went still.

neither of you moved right away. you looked down at your hands, then back up like you were about to say something. but you didn't.

he simply watches you for a second, less teasing in his eyes and more focus. he took in every inch of you, sitting so still and pretty in his car. looking at him like he was still the same guy who jumped your car, not like he was a guy who made every hit song. "you got quiet again," he says softly.

you let out a small breath. "you keep saying that."

"because you keep doing it."

you glance at him. this time, you don't look away immediately. "i'm just thinking."

"dangerous," he murmurs, pulling a small smile from you.

you reach for the door handle. "thanks for dinner," you say, like you're trying to keep it normal.

"yeah," he replies with a soft smile.

you open the door, stepping out thinking that the night is wrapped up. that he'll pull away and let you go. but then, you hear his door open too.

he rounds the front of the car, meeting you halfway up the short path to your door. he took his time not rushing—because he never did.

when you stop in front of your door, you turn to face him. and suddenly, it's close. closer than it's been all night. there wasn't a table, a center console, or any distractions now. just him, towering over you and filling your entire vision with nothing but him. his musky cologne quickly filled your nostrils, throwing your mind off balance.

"you don't have to walk me up," you say quietly, close to a whisper.

"i know," he says. but he doesn't step back.

a long pause fills the air, stretching long enough for the tension to feel intentional. his gaze drops briefly, to your lips—then back up to your eyes.

your breath catches again, softer now. but you were too close for namjoon to not notice it. "are you always this—" you start, then stop.

"this what?" he asks lowly, clenching his jaw ever so slightly at the mere sight of you fumbling with your words in front of him.

you shake your head slightly. "i don't even know."

a faint smile pulls at his mouth. "good." he took another step closer, not enough to trap you, but enough for the warmth of his body to wrap around you.

then, his hand lifts, hesitating for half a second before gently tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. he does it carefully, like he was giving you all the time in the world to pull away. but you didn't.

"you're overthinking again," he murmurs, low eyes scanning every inch of your face.

your voice comes out quieter than you expect. "you keep saying that like it helps."

"it does," he suggests casually.

"how?"

he leans in barely. he doesn't completely close the distance between you, but it was enough to send a bolt of warmth down your body. "because you're still here."

you tilt your head up just a little, before he leans in just a sliver more. and for a second, the moment is right there, sitting heavy in the little distance there was between you.

and then, he stops. just barely, coming to a small still when you could practically feel his breath on you. just enough that it didn't happen.

your eyes flicker across his face, confused, a little breathless. he watches your reaction carefully, low eyes trained onto your every movement.

and suddenly, there's that faint smirk again—but it's softer; barely there and more restrained than usual in a way you almost didn't catch.

"goodnight, doll," he said lowly. "sleep well."

like nothing had almost just happened.

he steps back, ripping the thick air that had just sat between you like a third person. breaking it and leaving you there standing with it.

“you’re—” you start, but you don't even know what to call him.

he tilts his head slightly, licking his lips and averting his gaze down you one last time. “what?”

you exhale half-laugh and half-frustration. “annoying.”

he smiles, dimples pulling at his cheeks. “i know," he says, before turning around and walking back to his car.

from the doorstep, you watch him get in, turn on the engine, and leave. leaving you there with more thoughts than your racing heart could keep up with and a miserable dampness in your panties.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

namjoon's place is quiet again. too quiet.

he tosses his keys down, walks a few steps in, then stops—like his body forgot what he was about to do.

because his mind was entirely somewhere else.

it was still at your door. still immersed into that moment.

he leans back against his kitchen counter, exhaling. he's replaying everything now, like dinner—the way you didn't switch up when you found out what he did. you weren't suddenly impressed or started asking the wrong questions.

you stayed the same. maybe you were a little quieter, a tad bit more aware. but you didn't completely fold.

that absolutely sat under namjoon's skin now. he was completely enamored by you, and didn't want to pull a girl like you into his chaotic world. didn't want you to adjust to him because of who he was, like most people did.

but you didn't. you just took it in, and kept going. you stayed exactly the same—you still called him annoying and told him he wasn't impressive.

he looks at his phone sitting a few feet away. he already gave you control once. he let you decide whether or not to text him, to decide if it was going to go anywhere or not.

but he wasn't going to do that tonight.

him: you always look at people like that or was that just for me?

he sets the phone down, but not far. because you've consumed every inch of his mind again without even trying to. he thinks about the your eyes dropped to his lips, the way you didn't pull away.

his jaw tightened slightly. he knew he was in trouble.

his phone lit up again.

her: like what?

he lets out a quiet breath, a smile pulling at his lips. the way you played it off, like you always did, made him only want more. made him think that maybe he should've kissed you right then and there—should've forgot about being a man and taking his time with you and—

he slowly took in a deep breath through his nose, dragging a hand across his face.

him: like you were about to do something you'd regret

her: don't know if i'd call it regret

namjoon liked that a little too much, licking his lips and leaning back. because now, he knows you felt it too.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

a few days and several text conversations later, namjoon sends you a text on a night he knows you're not working. no question or explanation, just;

joon: be ready at 7

when he picks you up, the air already shifts when you walk outside. it was in the way he looked at you, slow and deliberate, like he wasn't hiding it at all anymore. he takes his time, eyes trailing from your shoes, to the way your skirt falls, the jewelry at your wrist, to your face.

"you always dress like this, doll?" he asks lowly, stepping closer to you.

you raise an eyebrow, ignoring the way the name made your brain feel like mush. "like what?"

"like you knew exactly what you were doing when you picked that."

your lips pressed together slightly, trying not to smile. "maybe i did."

a faint smirk pulled at his lips. "yeah," he agreed. "i think you did."

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

the driver is longer, along the coast again. his tinted windows are cracked, music low with the sky fading into the darkest blue that only happens by the water.

you and namjoon talk, but it's far from that careful, first date way. the conversation flowed between you easily. you interrupted each other, went off on tangents. doubled back to things you both said earlier. like you both have done this together longer than you actually had.

when you arrive, the place is even more secluded than last time. a quiet overlook with soft lights and the ocean extending endlessly in front of you. the sound of waves clashed below in a way that was steady and grounding.

it felt private, like the rest of the world didn't exist here.

you and namjoon sit closer this time without question. dinner stretches and the conversation flows. you don't even discuss all the big things, but it's the way you talk about the small ones that makes it feel different.

you tell him about what hobbies you have, about your job—how it's routine, how people underestimate it, and how sometimes you feel stuck. and he doesn't brush it off or give you empty encouragement like most people did.

"you're not stuck," he corrected you firmly.

you scoff every is slightly. "that's easy for you to say."

"it's not about me," he replies softly. "you just need to find what you want."

you pout slightly in a way that makes his heart falter. "and you have?"

he pauses for half a second. "yeah." that same confidence remained in his tone, and for a second it felt like he might have been talking about something else.

at some point, his hand settles at the back of your chair. but this time, it stays. it wasn't touching you directly, but it was close enough to make you aware of it. aware of him.

you shift slightly and his slender fingers brush at your shoulders. they rest there for a second longer than necessary before pulling back. his warmth and his actions sent an unbearable heat between your legs.

after dinner, you both step away from the table, walking along the edge of the overlook. the night air is cooler now, ocean breeze slipping through you. you and him walk a little closer than before, shoulders lightly brushing with every few steps.

you wrapped your arms around you slightly, and his jacket is already around your shoulders before you can say anything.

you glance back at him, stopping in your steps to look at him properly. "you know... you're very sure of yourself."

"that bothers you?"

"no," you admit honestly. "it's just—different."

he pauses for a small moment. "from what you're used to?" he asks.

you nod slightly. he studies you for a second. "you're trying to figure out how old i am again."

your eyes widen slightly. "i'm not—"

"you are."

you exhale. "okay, maybe a little."

he lets your confession sit in the air before he nods slightly toward a couple walking past you two—a generation older than you, quieter, and settled. "you think i'm closer to them, or closer to you?" he asks.

you look back at the couple, then back at him. you really look at him, thinking about the way he carries himself. the way he speaks. the way he doesn't rush anything.

your expression shifts. "...okay," you say slowly. "how old are you?"

he pauses for longer than just a few seconds. "thirty-three," he answers finally.

you can't help but blink. once. twice. "...really?"

"yeah."

you study him again, like the answer didn't quite align with what you were seeing. "you don't look thirty-three."

"i know," he answered casually.

"that's kind of unfair," you said playfully.

he smiled softly. "i've heard that."

a quiet beat passes as namjoon watches you carefully, curiously watching your expression.

you shrug slightly. "okay."

he tilts his head. "that's all?"

"what?" you ask. "were you expecting something else?"

"most people... adjust," he stated.

you look at him deeply, peering up at him through your eyelashes. "well i'm not most people."

he steps closer, lightly closing the space between you. his scent filled your head once again, making your breath catch.

"yeah," he said lowly. "i noticed."

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

later, when you leave the restaurant together, you don't rush out. you never do.

namjoon walks slightly behind you first as you both headed towards the entrance, one hand finding its way onto the small of your back. it became natural now, something you didn't react to—externally, at least.

his hand was there, guiding you carefully down the steps.

two hostesses near the front glance up. then they glance at namjoon. then to you, then back at him.

a quick look exchanged between them followed by a few whispers and positive smiles. he catches it immediately. of course he does.

namjoon doesn’t look directly at them—he doesn’t acknowledge it—but there’s the faintest change in his expression. then his hand presses just slightly firmer at your back.

a quiet, almost instinctive gesture. not to show off. just to keep you close—and slightly focus the attention on you.

you don't notice the whispers, but you do notice the presence of his hand grow warmer. "what?" you ask, glancing back at him.

"nothing," he says easily.

the lights from the restaurant glowed behind you, the cool night air and a soft breeze coming off the water hitting you all at once.

there's a small set of marble steps leading down towards the parking area. you start down them without thinking—mind entirely captured by namjoon—and suddenly your heel catches slightly.

it's quick—barely a stumble, but it's enough to throw you off balance slightly. his large hands instantly find their way to your waist firmly, tightening his grip and steadying you before you could even process anything.

"careful, baby," he murmurs, low and close. the name slipping out like it had always belonged there.

you freeze for half a second, breath catching slightly before you steady yourself, hand instinctively brushing against his arm.

"I'm fine," you say, a little too quickly, beginning to continue a careful ascend down the steps and ignoring the heat on your cheeks.

namjoon however, doesn't move his hands right away. they linger on your waist a second longer than necessary, making sure you're fully balanced. "i know," he says calmly.

you look up at him, trying to play it off. "you don't have to—"

"i know," he cuts in softly.

and when you reach the bottom of the steps, his hand doesn't leave your back. it stays there, steady, guiding you towards his car like you're already part of his space.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

the drive back is quiet, the low vibration of the music and the city lights and palm trees flickering past practically lulling you to sleep.

and namjoon's presence, of course.

his large hand rested on the wheel, the other on the center console. close enough. by the minute, you swear it continues to get closer.

"tell me about him," namjoon says suddenly, the deep baritone of his voice making your thighs press together slightly.

you frown slightly from confusion. "about who?"

"your ex."

it catches you off guard. "...why?"

he shrugs lightly, sharp eyes still on the road. "i'm curious."

you hesitate before sighing. "he was..." you trailed off, trying to find the right word. "lazy."

half a second passed. "immature," you added. "didn't really pay attention to me unless it was convenient."

and as you talk, namjoon's jaw tightens slightly. it's subtle and controlled in a way you don't notice, but it's there.

"he just-" you shook your head slightly, looking out the window. "i don't know. it felt like I was always asking for the bare minimum."

for a long second, silence fills the car. namjoon's fingers tap once against the console. then, they shift. his hand moves unhurriedly, eventually finding its way to rest against your thigh, making a sharp bolt of warmth shoot down your body.

"yeah," he says finally, voice low and rough. "that sounds about right."

you glance at him. "what does that mean?"

he paused for a second. "guys your age," he continues, calm but edged with something sharper now. "they don't know what to do with a woman like you."

your stomach flips in a way that is impossible to ignore. "and you do?" you ask teasingly, trying to keep your tone steady.

his thumb shifts slightly against your thigh slightly. butterflies erupted in your stomach and your thighs shifted in a way you couldn't help, trying to disregard the heat between your legs.

"i wouldn't ignore you," he says simply.

the air in car seems to shift as you swallow hard, glancing out the window before looking back at him. "you barely know me."

"i know enough," he answers.

your breath catches slightly. namjoon's hand stays sat on your thigh steadily, like he knows exactly what it's doing to you.

"and i definitely wouldn't have you asking for anything," he adds. his words land deeper than they should, etching themselves into the back of your mind without asking.

you let out a quiet, almost nervous laugh. "you're very confident."

"i'm honest," he says. he pauses for a moment. then, his voice drops just a little—"big difference."

you look at him again, thoroughly scanning his face this time. "you always talk like that?" you ask.

"only when i mean it."

another silence settles between you, this time sitting thick; heavy with everything both of you haven't said. his hand finally shifts, but not away from you. it only slides higher along your thigh before settling again.

"relax, doll," he murmurs softly, voice low and deep.

you exhale slowly, trying to steady yourself. "you're doing that on purpose."

"doing what?"

you shake your head slightly. "you know exactly what."

a faint smirk pulls at his lips. "yeah," he answers. "i do."

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

suddenly, the rest of the drive feels too short.

namjoon pulls to your curb, parking swiftly with one hand before cutting the engine. silence fills the space, neither of you reaching for the door immediately.

you look down at your hands, then back up, like you're about to say something—but the words don't come as easily now. because everything, from the restaurant, the drive is still sitting in between you. his hand, his voice. doll.

"you got quiet again," he says softly.

you let out a small breath. "you make it hard not to."

he stills ever so slightly, like your words had pulled something out of him. "do i?" he asks.

you look at him, holding his intense gaze this time. "yeah."

he pauses for longer than normal, eventually moving his hand before his mouth. he starts slow—not to your thigh this time—but higher. his fingers lift, brushing lightly along your jaw. just the tips, tracing the line like he needed to memorize it.

your breath catches immediately, peering up at him through your eyelashes as you seemingly couldn't look away from his face. he tilts his head slightly, watching your reaction closely.

"you always look like this when you're thinking?" he murmurs.

your voice comes out quieter than you expect. "like what?"

his thumb lingers beneath just beneath your chin for just a second. then it shifts slightly, guiding your face just enough so that you're looking directly at him and nothing else.

"like you're trying to figure out if this is a good idea," he says.

your heart practically stumbles. because he absolutely was right. "and?" you ask quietly.

a small smirk pulls at his mouth. but this one was softer, like it was more certainty than teasing. "i think you already decided," he murmurs. his gaze drops briefly, down to your lips, then back up again. this time, he doesn't even try to hide it.

"you're dangerous, you know that?" you say, barely above a whisper.

he leans in slightly, his scent taking over your lungs. "yeah?"

your breath is uneven now. "yeah."

his gaze drifts again, over your face, slower this time. fully taking you in. "you still thinking about the age thing?" he asks.

"no," you respond, holding the burning eye contact.

he studies you for half a second, like he's deciding if you're telling the truth. then, he exhales quietly, almost amusedly. "yeah," he says. "didn't think you would."

his hand lifts from your chin before resting lightly at your waist, thumb pressing just slightly before easing.

"probably better for you," he adds, voicer lower now, teasing but grounded in something real and deep, "if you didn't get used to someone like me."

your stomach flips instantly. "who says i'm getting used to you?" you shoot back, trying to play it off.

a smile tugs at his lips. "doll," he murmurs, softer and closer, the warmth of his breath hitting your neck. "you're already here."

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

a few days later, namjoon sends you an address located in the corner of a private street in LA telling you to meet him there. telling you that he wanted to show you something.

a building tucked slightly off the main road, close enough to the water that the air already feels different when you step out of the car.

you hesitate for a half a second before going in. not nervous, but just a little too aware of what you were walking into. with a few instructed taps on the door buzzer, you were let in.

inside, the hallway light is dim, soft lights lining the walls that were decorated with award cases, album posters, and framed vinyls. the floors were sleek and bass echoed through the walls.

you followed the sound the sound down the hallway, until you find a studio door that's slightly open. the gold plate on it reading, "kim namjoon" then below it, "head executive producer."

you exhale softly, heart slightly stopping at that and swallowing a little too hard before you push it gently, and that's when you see him.

sitting at the main console, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting near the soundboard. one hand adjusting a dial, the other resting against his chin like he's listening too closely.

he was so immersed that he hadn't noticed you yet.

the room was lowly lit—colored LEDS instead of overhead lights, the glow from the equipment reflecting softly against his face.

and there's something about him like this—focused, quiet, and completely in his element—that hits differently, making your stomach twist into a knot.

his sleeves are pushed up again, glistening watch catching the light as he moves his hand. a chain rests below his collar, barely visible, but sparkling in the light.

everything about him is so simple, but it fits him all too well. you don't mean to stare, but you definitely do.

and then, like he felt it—namjoon finally glances up. your eyes immediately meet, and you swear you felt a spark flash through your body.

for a split second, he doesn't say anything. he just looks at you, gaze taking you in deliberately.

then, he licks his lips so lightly you almost don't catch it. "you just going to stand there," he says, voice low and soft. "or are you coming in?"

you blink, snapping out of your trance slightly. "i-i didn't want to interrupt."

"you didn't," he replies easily. but his eyes linger on you for a second longer, almost like he knew you were watching him.

you step inside, softly closing the door behind you. the white lighting from the hallway had disappeared now, fully engulfing you into his world—his studio, his creative space—the place where he made every hit even possible. the big room suddenly felt smaller now, more private.

you look around, taking it all in. the walls are boarded with soundproof panels, and large speakers are placed around the sleek equipment. there's two chairs, a beanbag, and couch with folders of music sheets and lyrics scattered on the floor and on counter tops. "this is... really nice."

"mm," he hums, leaning back in his chair and spreading his legs slightly. "it works."

you glance at him. "you say everything like that."

"like what?"

"like it's not a big deal."

a faint smirk. "it's not."

you roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at your lips. he gestures towards the seat next to him. "come here." it wasn't a question.

you walk over, sitting beside him—closer than expected, immediately greeted by his warmth and the musk of his cologne.

he turns towards the console, grabbing a pair of high-end headphones. "listen to this," he says. he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear before carefully placing them over your head.

music plays—smooth and layered. it had no lyrics, but it was already catchy. you hummed in delight. "it's really good," you said softly, gently taking the headphones off.

"i know," he replies casually.

you laugh. "you're insufferable."

he glances at you, a smirk forming. "you're still here though."

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

after a few minutes of namjoon showing you some buttons, he glances at you. "you want to try something?" you look at him, a bit hesitant. "like what?"

he shifts slightly, turning your chair just enough so that your angled more towards the board. "come on," he says, nodding towards the controls. "i'll show you."

"...i feel like i'm going to mess something up," you say.

"you won't."

"how do you know?" he leans in slightly, his breath hitting your neck ever so slightly. "because i'm right here."

your stomach flips again. he reaches around you slightly, one hand bracing lightly against the edge of the console near you, the other guiding your hand toward a dial.

“turn this,” he says, voice lower now, near your ear.

you try to focus. you really do. but namjoon is close. too close. his warmth spilling all over you, hitting you in all the places that made your thighs pull closer together.

you turn the dial slowly—and immediately the sound distorts in a ridiculous way. you both pause.

"...was that supposed to happen?" you ask.

he stares at the board for a second before a short laugh escapes him, dimples tugging at his cheeks. "no," he says.

you burst out laughing. "i told you!"

he shakes his head with another laugh, reaching forward to fix it, his arm brushing yours again. "you didn't break it," he says. "relax."

"i definitely did something."

"you did," he replies with a smile. "just not what i said."

you laugh again, softer this time.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

you're standing now, not sitting anymore.

because namjoon told you to.

“stand here,” he said, guiding you lightly by the waist until you were in front of the soundboard. no asking, just placing you there. you stiffened under his touch that sent a light shock through you.

"relax, doll," he murmurs behind you. the deep baritone of his voice hitting a little too close.

you exhale slowly, trying to focus on the board in front of you—but it's hard when you can feel him right behind you. he steps in closer, practically pressing you together.

one hand reaches around you, bracing against the console. the other finds yours, fingers sliding over yours, adjusting your grip on one of the controls. "not like that," he says, low. "too quick."

"i'm not doing anything fast," you defend weakly, trying your best to sound steady.

you hear a quiet, almost amused exhale behind you. "yeah?" he murmurs deeply.

his chest brushes lightly against your back as he leans in closer, guiding your hand again—slower this time. "you rush when you're nervous."

"i'm not nervous."

"mm," he hums, unconvinced. his hand tightens slightly over yours, turning the dial with you. the sound shifts, smoother this time. "like that," he says.

but he doesn't move away, not even a little bit. you swallow, your body hyper-aware of every point of contact. his hand over yours, his chest behind you, his voice vibrating your ear. and you definitely tried to ignore something hard resting against your ass.

"you do this with everyone?" you ask.

"no," he answered simply.

at to that, your heart stumbled. his hand left yours, but only came to settle at your waist, firm and steady. in his grip he turned you slightly—not fully, but enough to turn your attention away from the board and onto him. "you're distracted again," he murmured.

you let out a soft breath. "you keep saying that like it's my fault."

a smirk pulls at his lips, one that you can practically hear in his voice. "doll," he says lowly, "you haven't been focused since you walked in."

your stomach flips as you turn your head slightly, giving just enough space to look back at him—but it's a mistake. because he's already looking at you, his face much closer than expected and barely any space left between you now.

"you always get like this?" he asks softly.

"like what?"

his gaze drops slowly, then back up again. "quiet." he pauses. "...when you feel something."

your breath catches. "you act like you know me," you say.

"i do," he replies casually. those words shouldn't hit you as hard as they do, but they do anyway—causing your heart to leap.

he shifts you fully this time, making you fully face him as his large hands still rested at your waist, thumbs pressing in ever so slightly.

"or maybe," he adds, voice quieter now. "you're just not used to someone who pays attention."

your chest rises slowly. "and you do?"

"to you?" he asks quietly, something flickering across his eyes. "of course i do."

a small pause. "i wouldn't ignore you," he mutters in your ear, breath hot down your neck in a way that makes your hairs stand up. his hand tightens slightly against you. "not like they did."

his words land, striking the base of your heart deeply. "and i definitely wouldn't have you guessing where you stand."

your breath is uneven now, but you can't seem to look away. "confident," you murmur.

"experienced," he corrects simply. his voice and his head dips lower just slightly—"difference is...i know how to treat a woman like you properly."

and suddenly the last thread holding you steady is already gone. you exhale softy, almost a laugh, but not quite. "you always talk like this?"

"only when i mean it."

silence fills the space around you, heavy and close. one of his hands lifts from your waist slowly before coming to your jaw and tracing along it deliberately, just like he did before.

his thumb sits at your chin, tilting your face up just slightly. it takes everything in you for your knees to not buckle right then and there, taking in his low, piercing gaze.

"you keep looking at me like that," you whisper.

"like what, hm?" he asks, voice low as he tilts his head lower, leaving little space between your noses. you felt like your whole world was spinning, trying to ground yourself properly without clinging onto him.

"like you're about to do something."

he pauses for a split second, licking his lips while his eyes practically swirled with darkness. then—low and certain—"i am."

and this time, namjoon doesn't stop himself. he leans in, fully closing the last bit of distance between you, crashing his lips onto yours. it's immediate—but not rushed. he kisses you slow, deep, like he's been holding it back for too long and finally had decided he was done.

you respond quickly, completely melting under the contact and moving your lips into his. your breath catches against his, one hand instinctively finding one of his big arms, while the other gripped on his shirt to steady yourself— because it hits you all at once.

the way he pulls you closer against him, one of his hands firmly settled at your waist while the other holds your head possessively, gently tilting your head at an angle that allowed him to kiss you deeper.

you lean into him without thinking—and he feels it, of course. he hooks his fingers around the belt loop of your denim skirt, pulling you even closer. the kiss deepens—but it isn't overwhelming. it's certain, like he wanted to take his time with his lips against yours.

your fingers tightened against him, causing him to exhale quietly against your lips, like he had been waiting for that exact response from you.

when you both pull back, you barely move an inch. foreheads close, breath uneven, and neither of you pulling away. his hands remain at your waist, yours still on him.

and after a second of catching your breath—namjoon leans in again. not because he's testing it anymore, but because he wants it—no, he needs it again. and you seem to meet him there just as fast.

his lips capture yours for the second time that night, practically taking your breath with him. your thighs press together slightly as you kiss him back, your hand sliding higher along his arm, gripping his bicep and pulling him closer without even realizing it.

his grip tightens slightly. "don't start something you can't finish, doll..." he murmurs quietly against your lips, voice rough.

the kiss suddenly shifts, not messy or rushed—but hungry. namjoon's hand slid shamelessly down your waist and onto your ass, sliding up and down its curve like it was already his.

that pulled a gasp out of you, and he saw it as the perfect opportunity to slide his tongue into your mouth. you allow him, opening your mouth more to let him further explore it with his tongue. your lips practically molded together, saliva mixing as he swirled his tongue around yours.

"look at you..." he mutters, barely pulling back, his thumb brushing your jaw again. "so responsive."

your stomach flips more times than you can count. "don't—" you start, breath uneven, but you can't even finish the sentence before you feel dampness between your legs.

"don't what, baby?" he asks lowly, smirking faintly against your lips. "don't notice you?" he kisses you again before you can answer. his hand slides up from your ass, up your waist to your side—slower and more deliberate, before settling it there again, like he's grounding you there with him.

your grip on him tightens, deepening the kiss without intending to. "doll..." he murmurs, quietly now like it's a warning.

but he doesn't stop, and you most certainly don't want him to. all of a sudden namjoon is moving, guiding you back without breaking the kiss, step by step, until the back of your legs hit the couch.

you exhale softly in surprise—before you're sitting and he is too, pulling you with him. now, you find yourself on his lap—straddled on top of him with his hands firmly gripping your thighs and with everything much closer.

your hands find his broad shoulders, this time holding onto him like you desperately need to steady yourself, leaning into him once more. and namjoon notices, like he always does.

a low exhale leaves him, almost like a quiet laugh. "not pulling away anymore, are you, baby?" he murmurs, brushing his lips along your jaw slowly while his big palms drag up and down your thighs.

his plush lips trace the line of your jaw, littering soft kisses and your head tilts slightly to give him space without even thinking about it. "good," he praises quietly against your skin, lips trailing their way down your neck.

as he presses soft kisses along your neck, one of his hands presses a little firmer into your thigh, keeping you against him as the other rested gently at your neck—not enough to put pressure—but enough for your mind to go blank and make your thighs noticeably shift.

your breath hitches just above him, and his other hand soothes slowly against your thigh to steady you. "you have no idea..." he murmurs, lightly digging his teeth into your skin, making you shudder. "how hard i was trying to take my time with you."

your fingers tighten against him, struggling to ignore the unbearable ache in your core. "then why aren't you?" you manage softly, voice weaker than usual, knowing you didn't want that.

he paused for a moment, the warmth of his breath tingling down your neck and through your spine. his voice comes lower this time, but steadier. "because you stopped me from wanting to."

he pulls back just enough to look at you again, dark and low eyes trailing every inch of your face. his hand comes up, brushing your hair behind your ear slowly, slower than before.

"you're trouble, princess," he says lowly, another nickname rolling off his tongue with ease. "but i like it."

your breath is still uneven, your heart racing faster than your mind—but you don't look away. "good," you murmur.

namjoon's jaw tightens slightly at that—not in frustration, but in complete restraint. what's left of it, at least.

his hand that rested along your neck slid up, tilting your chin upwards with his thumb once again, making sure that you were really looking at him. "you sure about this, doll?" he asks lowly.

you nod without hesitation. "yes."

a small pause fills the thick, small space between you, but his smoldering gaze doesn't leave yours. his gentle hold on your jaw tightens ever so slightly—not to harm you, but to ground you into the moment. "you understand...i'm not the kind of man you forget after this."

your breath catches, but you don't pull back. "i know," you say softly, holding his gaze.

his hands return to your waist, firmer this time, pulling you just slightly closer to him—close enough that space barely existed anymore. "yeah..." he murmured, his thumb tracing lightly along your skin. "then stay with me."

you nearly shuddered from his words, the warmth of his body on yours surrounding you and making your skin tingle. "i will," you nearly whispered, praying that he couldn't feel the dampness between your legs at the thought of never leaving his side.

"good," he grunted in your ear, hot breath spilling down your neck. he pulled back just slightly before closing the space between you once again, tilting your head with his thumb and pulling your lips in with his unhurriedly.

you immediately softened into him as you moved your lips together, your chest immediately becoming flush against his and practically folding underneath his touch. his hands left your waist, finding their grip lower and onto your ass, holding you steadily against him while his tongue explored you once more.

his lips left yours to litter your neck with kisses—sloppy and open-mouthed this time, sucking harder and marking a trail of red marks down to your collarbone. you whimpered with every suck, thighs noticeably shifting against his legs.

namjoon's slender fingers found their way underneath your top, sliding it up slowly—like he was waiting for you to stop him—but you never did. you only complied, lifting your arms up. and in one swift motion, your top was off, and his lips already found themselves on your cleavage.

"so beautiful, baby," he murmured into your skin, tongue lightly lapping against the mark he had just made on top of your breast.

suddenly you felt his big palms on your waist once again before he manhandled you—lifting you up and lying you gently across the couch before his large figure quickly filled your vision and filling up your entire view.

all you could see in the ambient light of his studio was his broad shoulders, his low, piercing eyes, and glimmering chain now hanging in front of your face before he captured your lips again. you practically moaned into it, fingers gripping tightly into his shirt like you needed more.

"fuck," he murmured against you between kisses, intertwining his long fingers with yours, dragging your palm deliberately up his chest. your hands moved before your mind, tugging him closer by his shirt and immediately fumbling with the buttons.

he smirked, large hands moving to help you take it off. once he tossed it somewhere in the room, your hands danced around his body greedily, trailing over his abs, from his chiseled chest and to his swell back.

"should be taking you to my house like a fuckin' man. should fuck you in my bed slow 'n proper. but i've lost my patience with you, doll," he breathed lowly, licking his lips with hunger.

you could only bring yourself to whimper, as namjoon's big palm creeped around your thigh, trailing every so slowly inwards before stopping. your legs couldn't help but twitch helplessly underneath his touch, causing him to let out an amused breath of air.

"but you don't want that, do you?" he asked lowly in your ear, the desire in his voice making your core ache with unbearable need. his hands trailed closer to your heat, dragging his fingers leisurely against your inner thigh.

you shook your head desperately, but that wasn't enough for him. his fingers hooked around your skirt. "wanna hear you use that pretty mouth of yours, baby."

"i—yes—" you blurted breathlessly, struggling to find the words. "i want it—want you. here, joonie. right now."

his cock strained even harder against his pants. "good girl," he muttered before pulling your skirt down. when it was disregarded, namjoon's hands found your thighs again and you suddenly felt his long fingers trace against slowly against your sopping heat barely shielded by your lacy thong, sending a shiver down your entire body.

"wet for me already and i haven't even started with you," he smirked, finally hooking your panties to the side and letting your soaking core be hit by the cold air. your thighs instinctively went to clamp shut, but he quickly stopped them with his big hands.

"so sensitive, doll," he murmured, placing one big thumb just above your clit while the other fingers outlined your inner thigh. "guys your age don't take their time like this, do they?"

you shook your head immediately, whining out before his fingers glided up slowly against your wetness, his index finger swiping in between your folds. his thumb rubbed your clit in a long circle, pulling out a desperate whine out of your mouth.

finally, he pushed one long finger in between your folds, sliding into your hole that sucked him in, your wetness gushing his fingers. you whined loudly as he dragged it along your walls before plunging back in.

namjoon closed the distance between your faces, capturing your lips in with his and sucking on your bottom lip as he inserted another finger, thrusting into you at a steady pace while his thumb remained on your clit.

when he pulled away, it was only to align his face at your entrance. his hand firmly gripped onto your thighs, holding you in place. his fingers slowed inside of you as his nose came close to your core, the warmth of his breath directly hitting your pussy and making you twitch underneath him.

a small smirk pulled at his lips before he poked his tongue out, licking a light, gentle stripe against your folds. "mm, taste so sweet, baby." you reacted immediately, thighs clenching around his head in a way he enjoyed a bit too much, his free hand wrapping around your leg firmly as he lapped delicately at your entrance.

you moaned his name, legs finally relaxing under his grip as he took his time with soaking your taste on his tongue. namjoon couldn't help but smirk against your folds, his plump lips completely enveloping your pussy into his mouth and sucking your wetness in hungrily.

it wasn't long before you felt his tongue greedily prying through your entrance, crying out in breathless moans. his two fingers stretched open your walls to allow more room for him to explore you with his tongue.

namjoon was absolutely driving you over the edge—his tongue plunged through your tight walls like no other, slender fingers stroking your insides while his thumb massaged your clit vigorously. he ate at you like he had starved for this—your back immediately curving off of the couch as you felt unbearable pressure twine into your stomach.

"that's it, doll," he cooed against your folds, his nose sitting on top of your clit. then, his voice dropped lower—"cum for me."

and so you did—completely letting go as your first orgasm tore through you like lightning. your legs shook around namjoon's head, his free hand rubbing against your thigh gently while his two fingers slowed inside of you. his tongue moved against your folds slowly, taking in every last drop of your release between his lips.

when your body was finally at ease from the state of euphoria he took you to, namjoon trailed kisses from your stomach and up, his hands gently caressing your sides.

"look at you taking me so good," he murmured between kisses, lips on yours now. "think you're ready for my cock, hm, baby?"

you nodded quickly, practically squirming beneath him. "yes joon—need it so bad." your fingers found his belt loop—his large hands finding yours immediately, helping you take off his pants entirely.

it was then when you saw the largest imprint strained tightly against his boxers, making you swallow hard without even realizing. his fingers looped around the hem, taking them off in a swift motion as he stood up.

his cock sprung out in front of you—thick, long, and angry with pre-cum glistening at the end. you sat up straight, jaw slightly slack without even realizing. namjoon's lips fought a smirk as he hovered over you, large shoulders swell and thick member curving up.

his low eyes looked down at you, clouded with darkness. he wrapped his large hand around the thick base of his cock, stroking slightly while taking in the sight of you in front of him.

"fuck," he grunted, "don't got any condoms, baby." "it's okay, joon," you replied softly.

"you sure, doll?" he asked, tracing his fingers lightly against your jaw, tilting your head to look up at him fully.

you nodded. "wanna feel all of you," you said almost shyly.

"have no clue what you're doing to me," he responded lowly, almost to himself. then namjoon leaned down, grabbing your hips and lifting you up swiftly. you yelped in surprise as he sat down, bringing you back on top of his lap. only this time, you were skin to skin, your arousal miserably smearing onto his legs.

but he didn't seem to care. his large hands rubbed softly down your sides as he licked his lips. "you're so small, baby," he muttered in your ear, his thumb pressing into the side of your hip. "might break you."

"that's okay," you whispered, peering up at him with big, needy eyes.

"yeah?" he asked darkly, like your response had just snapped the last bit of restraint left in him. he held onto your hips firmly as he pulled you up, aligning your entrance with his cock. "gonna ruin you then, baby."

your hands gripped onto his broad shoulders immediately to steady yourself, his fat tip pushing through your folds and breaking into your tight entrance. you moaned out in a mix of pleasure and pain, feeling every inch of his width pushing slowly into your walls as you sunk down fully on his lap.

his grasp on you became tighter as he guided you further down, hissing in pleasure as he split you open widely with his cock. your eyes shut tight as your inner thighs kissed his. slowly, the tip of his member found the back of your walls, your head throwing back from the overwhelming stretch.

namjoon held you against him firmly, allow you to fully adjust to his length before he captured your lips into a kiss. "it's okay, doll," he murmured against you. "you're taking me so well."

after a minute of soft, warm coos in your ear—namjoon began to slide you up and down his vast length slowly with his large hands, emitting a loud whine from your lips. soon, he picked his pace, his cock repeatedly kissing the deepest part of your hole. "good baby... that's it," he praised lowly.

your head was filled with nothing but the thought of you, him, and his fat cock curving up inside of you and exploring your walls. he took you to a pure state of euphoria as he thrusted up in you. his hold was firm on you as he bounced you up and down his cock.

your eyes fluttered at your view, melting under his piercing gaze— his jaw tightened in pleasure and concentration, low eyes scanning your fucked-out expression hungrily. you nearly screamed in pleasure.

"such a good girl for me," he grunted in your ear, one large palm trailing up your sides before resting along your neck. his fingers wrapped around it slightly—not enough to hurt, but enough to apply pressure that made your mind dizzy and your pussy clench his member tightly.

his other hand came firmer around your waist before suddenly you were moving—your head being guided back down on the couch while your body was being manhandled by namjoon while he kept his cock buried deep inside of you. one hand settled beside your head while the other remained grazing your throat lightly.

once you both fully adjusted to the new position, namjoon continued to thrust in you, roaming your pussy at an entirely new angle. your wetness gushed around his cock sloppily, filling the room with lewd slapping noises. "you fit around me so well, doll," he muttered breathlessly, breath shooting down your spine as he littered messy kisses along your neck.

his hand traveled from your throat down to your thighs, finding your clit and rubbing it softly. you were a moaning mess beneath him as he fucked you relentlessly now, tip slapping messily against the spongiest part of your walls, making your mind go blank.

his palm found its way around your thigh, lifting it above his shoulder. he closed the distance between you two, cock greedily marking a place inside your hole in a way no one had ever done before as his chest pressed against yours.

he rutted his length inside of you, making your eyes roll back and the couch move back and forth with every movement. "gonna fill you up tonight, doll. gonna make you mine," he murmured. "what do you think, baby?"

you could only moan in response, lost in the feeling of his cock buried so deeply inside of you. "nuh uh," namjoon ticked lowly, his thrusts becoming brutal. "wanna hear that pretty voice of yours, baby."

"mmph—yes~ make me yours, joon," you whined breathlessly.

you cried out—heat coiling unbearably in your stomach, pure bliss clouding your mind as namjoon picked up his pace, feeling your walls hugging him in tightly. "yeah... right where you belong baby," he muttered. "taking me so good like this."

your second orgasm of the night hit you even harder this time—ripping through you like a monstrous ocean wave. he fucked you through your high, your legs shaking violently against him; release spilling all over his cock as you moaned out his name breathlessly.

"that's it, baby," he grunted lowly as he made his final, slower thrusts, burying himself inside you as deep as possible before releasing his hot seed into your walls. "come on my dick, pretty girl."

your vision was practically filled with stars as your body became limp under his grasp. he milked his cock deep in your walls before he pulled out with a sharp hiss, laying down beside you—lengthy body half on the couch and half off of it.

you both laid there next to each other breathless, chests moving up and down in sync as you processed what had just happened.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

suddenly, the studio is quiet again.

it wasn't completely silent—just the low hum of equipment filling the room with one of his tracks still looping quietly in the background.

clothes half-on, curled against him on the couch with his large arm around your waist, holding you close against his chest like he had no intention of letting you drift away.

for awhile, neither of you say anything. namjoon's fingers moved slowly against your side, absentmindedly tracing soft patterns into your skin. the movement only grounded you into him more.

then finally, a low exhale left namjoon's lips. "c'mere," he murmurs softly, even though you were already pressed against him. his big hands slid higher along your back, pulling you in even closer anyway until your head was resting properly against his chest.

it only made your cheeks flush a bright red—the moment feeling possessive in a way that was ever so gentle. like he just needed to make sure you were still there. now, you can hear his heartbeat. it thumps steadily now against his large chest.

"you okay?" he asks quietly.

you nod against him. "yeah," you reply softly.

then his lips brush lightly against the top of your head, placing a soft kiss that lingers. "good," he murmurs.

something about the way he said it made warmth spread through your chest again. his hand settles at your waist once more, thumb brushing lightly beneath the fabric of your top. "you still overthinking?" he asks after a minute.

you let out a small laugh against his chest. "maybe a little."

a quiet hum leaves him. "don't."

you tilt your head slightly to look at him. his expression is softer now. his gaze still intense—because he always looks intense when looking at you—but softer. "you regret it?" he asks gently.

you shook your head immediately. "no," you replied, meaning it with everything in your chest.

at your words, something in namjoon's expressions shifts. it wasn't surprise, it was only something deeper. his hand moves to your jaw, thumb brushing slowly along your cheek.

"good," he says again, quieter this time. then, like his confidence had just made a return—"would've been a problem if you did."

you laugh softly, cheeks warming again. "you're crazy, joon."

"for you?" he murmurs. "starting to think maybe."

your stomach flips all over again. namjoon studies you for a second, gaze moving slowly across your face like he's memorizing it. like he still can't believe that you're here. with him, and in his arms.

his hand slides along your thigh gently. this time, it isn't teasing. instead, it feels familiar and warm. "come back to my place," he says quietly.

you hesitate for maybe half a second, but only because your heart is racing faster than your mind. his thumb brushes lightly against your leg. "you don't have to leave, doll," he murmurs.

"you sure?" you ask quietly. because in your past, once guys were done, they were done with your presence for the night—or even forever.

"of course," he says. then, a faint smile touches his mouth, voice dropping a little. "i'm not doing being around you."

and it only seemed that you weren't exactly done being around him either.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

two months later, being with namjoon feels easy. and it wasn't because he was simple. it was the exact opposite.

he's still intense, but still composed. he still walks through every room like he owns it without needing attention from anyone in it. but with you? he's soft in all the places it matters.

namjoon becomes part of your life so naturally it almost scares you sometimes.

mornings tangled up in his expensive sheets while sunlight pours through the massive windows of his house that overlooks the city. his large hand resting on your waist while he scrolls through emails lazily with the other. his bright smile on display every time he made you laugh or blush.

in his free time, he'd show up to your work with your favorite dinner meal. sometimes, he'd sit at a table in your section and order food just to be able to talk to you any chance you'd get.

afternoons where he pulls you into his lap while he's working on music. he'd barely let you sit more than a foot away from him before he was already touching you again somehow.

his fingers through your hair, your legs draped over his. his mouth against your temple when he quietly tells someone important over the phone that he'll "call back later."

and of course, he spoils you constantly. it wasn't in a loud way either. it was more like taking care of you and putting a smile on your face had just become his instinct.

he buys you things you casually mention liking once. he leaves designer bags on the bed like it's nothing. he'd get annoyed when you'd check price tags. he would sneakily place things in your basket at sephora as he trailed behind you, filling it up with everything you simply picked up and looked at.

you even tried to avoid going shopping with him sometimes because you never happened to pay for anything again.

"doll," he murmured one night, pulling your back against his chest, wrapping his large arms around you while you stared at a pair of brand new, christian louboutin red bottoms that he bought you. "if you like them, they're yours. stop thinking so hard."

and god, he hated it when you worked too much. he hated it even more when work stressed you out.

"you should call out," he tells you one morning, voice rough from sleep while you're leaving his bed for work.

you laugh softly. "some of us have to work, joonie."

his buff arms loop around your waist, pulling you back into the mattress effortlessly. "i know," he murmurs against your neck, nuzzling his nose into your warmth. "that's the problem."

eventually, namjoon starts saying it more seriously.

"quit," he says.

you look at him like he's insane every time. "be serious, joon."

"i am serious."

his hands slide along your thighs as you stand between his knees while he sits at the edge of the bed, looking up at you with that same, calm certainty he’s always had.

“i’ll give you whatever you need,” he says simply. “why are you stressing yourself out when you don’t have to?”

and the craziest part of it all to you, was that he meant it entirely. it wasn't because he wanted control—it was because taking care of you pulled at his dimples and his heart more than anything else ever had.

somewhere along the way, you became each other's favorite part of life. people notice too and eventually, the internet catches on.

a photo of you two start surfacing of you leaving restaurant in west hollywood, his hand firm at the small of your back. then, photos of him opening the door for you. and photos of him looking at you instead of the camera.

one set of paparazzi pictures blow up incredibly fast—you climbing into his car while he stands beside you in sunglasses and all black. one hand casually resting against the roof above your head, the other firm on your thigh as you settled into the seat.

neither of you comment on it, not publicly at least. but namjoon doesn't hide you either. because if anything—he loved being seen with you.

you noticed it in the small moments. the way his hand settled on your thigh more confidently when people recognized him on a date. the way he pulled you closer when cameras appeared. the way he looks almost amused by attention instead of irritated.

it was like he was always thinking, yeah, she's with me.

namjoon flexed you more than the music plaques on his wall or the collection of sleek cars in his driveway.

because throughout his entire career, no success, no hit record, or no amount of money—had ever made him look at proud as you do sitting beside him.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

4 months later~

the city outside namjoon's windows is glowing gold and white beneath the dark sky, soft music playing quietly somewhere in his giant house.

you're curled against him on the couch in one of his hoodies. legs across his lap while he scrolls lazily through something on his phone with one hand resting absentmindedly along your thighs.

you both had been like this all evening. quiet and comfortable; surrounded by the kind of silence that only exists when two people know everything about each other completely.

honestly, it could scare you a little. because somewhere along these four months, you and namjoon had stopped feeling temporary. it stopped feeling like some kind of whirlwind or fling.

instead, it just started feeling right. it just felt like you and him and nothing else completely belonged.

you looked over at him. observed the sharp line of his jaw that was softened by the warm lighting. the expensive watch sitting around his wrist. the reading glasses he only wore at home that sat low on his nose while he checked emails.

the realization hit you about a month ago so hard and your chest had felt tight ever since. you were completely, undeniably, and utterly in love with him. but now, you couldn't seem to hold it in anymore.

"you're staring again."

your heart jumps slightly. namjoon doesn't even look up from his phone when he says it. you roll your eyes. "you're obsessed with yourself."

a smirk touches his lips. "no," he murmurs calmly, finally looking over at you. "just obsessed with you."

you look away before he can see your flushed face, but of course he already noticed it. because there simply wasn't a thing he didn't notice about you. his phone turned off immediately. "hey," he said gently.

your eyes lift back to his. immediately his expression changes into something softer, but more serious. his hands slide up from your thigh to your waist, pulling you a little closer across the couch until you're practically in his lap. "what's going on in that head, hm?" he asks.

"nothing."

"liar."

the words are gentle, affectionate in a way. you laugh softly, but it comes out nervous. he catches that too. one hand comes up, brushing lightly along your jaw. "talk to me, doll."

you swallow. your voice comes out quietly—"what if... i love you more than you love me?"

the room goes completely still. namjoon stares at you for seconds that stretch far too long, like you had just said something completely. unbelievable.

his brows pulled together. "baby," he says softly, confused, "what?"

your heart pounds instantly at the name. you try to laugh it off, suddenly embarrassed now. "i don't know, i just—"

"no," he cuts in, hands tightening gently at your waist. they weren't harsh, but it was enough to stop you from spiraling away. "no, don't do that."

you looked back at him. and the way he was looking at you now—god. like this mattered. like you mattered.

"you really think you're ahead of me here?" he asks quietly, eyes boring into yours.

your breath catches as namjoon shifts closer, forehead resting lighting against yours. "i've been in love with you for a while now," he admitted softly.

for a second, you felt like you actually stopped breathing. his thumb brushed slowly against your cheek. "you just took longer to realize it."

a shaky laugh leaves you instantly, eyes burning now. namjoon smiles softly at that, an expression you only ever get to see.

"i love you," he says again, quieter this time. but it was certain, as if it were the most obvious thing it the world.

and suddenly every fear you had—about the age gap, about his fame, about his feelings for you—had totally disappeared. because this man—this calm, confident, impossible man—loves you so deeply that he didn't even hesitate to say it.

your eyes fluttered in disbelief, laughing away the butterflies in your stomach. "i love you too."

the smile that breaks across is face is small, but almost disbelieving. but it was unquestionably proud, like he had just won something prized. after that, he kissed you slowly. he enveloped your lips with his tenderly, soaking in all of your warmth beneath him.

"there you are," he murmurs softly. like you were always meant to end up here with him.

and somewhere between the side of the road and his arms, your little street thing had become everything.

‧₊˚📀✩♬ ₊˚.

a/n : hope u guys loved this as much as i do eee! sorry there was so much relationship building... this is the longest bts fic i've made (on this app at least) omg..but joon is actually so sexy i could die.

read part two here

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to meet them. It was that you already knew who they were. The kind of people who greeted you with a smile before they asked for credentials. The kind who wouldn’t say “you’re not enough” aloud, but would serve it, slowly, between the wine and the dessert. They were elegant in that old-world way… formal, restrained, suspicious of women who wore chipped nail polish or quoted references from sitcoms and not literature books. He came from a family that knew how to iron silence into dinner napkins. His mother wore perfume that smelled like judgment. His father rarely looked up from his wine. And tonight, tonight, you would meet them.

But now, a year and a half into loving Jin, avoiding them felt juvenile. Cowardly. You two were talking about the future now, after all. Keys. Spaces. Walls painted in colors you would argue over. It was time. So you said yes. Ironed the dress you never really liked. Pulled your hair back the way his mother would like. And told yourself it would be just one dinner… for the year. You were thinking about future excuses already.

You and Jin had a stable relationship. Long enough for routines to settle, for toothbrushes to migrate between apartments, for love to evolve from fire into something slower, steadier. What came next, you two decided, was the future. Or at least the idea of it. The version people hang fairy lights on. A little apartment with windows that kissed morning sun. A coffee table that held two mugs and some kinds of hope. A key with no backup plan. And eventually, maybe something more. Jin had been the first to say it aloud, softly, over dinner one night, while you were halfway through a glass of wine. Not marriage, not yet, but the future, in that way men sometimes say it: like a destination rather than a journey. And you had nodded, smiling, because you wanted that too.

You were still wrapped in the good year. The one where you two laughed too loud in bed and left your groceries out because you got distracted kissing on the couch. The one where Jin touched you like you were glass, not because you were breakable but because you were special.

So you could deal with his family one night.

You were meeting at his parents’ home, an old white house tucked behind a trimmed hedge in the nicer part of the city. The kind of place that looked like it never had loud arguments or takeout containers on the kitchen counter. The kind of place where you never quite knew where to put your hands. The house was exactly what you expected: white brick, vines tamed against the walls, a doorbell that chimed instead of ringing.

Jin squeezed your hand as you two stood on the porch. “Just breathe,” he said. “You’re perfect.”

You didn’t believe that, but you smiled anyway.

His mother opened the door, all cheekbones and pearls. She was beautiful in a way that felt like a performance. Her eyes flicked over you—dress, shoes, hair—before curving into something like a smile.

“You must be Y/n,” she said.

“I am,” you replied. “It’s really lovely to finally meet you.”

His mother didn’t say Likewise. And you knew it was going to be a long night.

Inside, the house smelled like lemon and polished wood. His father was already seated in the living room, glass of red in hand, nodding hello without rising. You extended a polite smile. He nodded again. It felt like a transaction. It felt like you were acting in a movie and nobody had told you your marks or even lines. You just had to improvise everything.

Food was set in the dining room, candles, linen, plates heavy enough to bruise if dropped. His mother had cooked a roast. There were two kinds of wine, but you stuck to water. Your throat was already tight.

The conversation started politely enough. Art, Jin’s new projects, a shared joke about how long it took him to do laundry. You offered small pieces of yourself, carefully selected. You laughed when prompted, nodded at the right places. You didn’t mention your own family, your therapist, or the book you were reading that had a woman falling apart in the bathtub. Some truths didn’t belong at tables like this. Your life didn’t belong at tables like this.

But you belonged to Jin. And this kind of effort was something you were willing and glad to make for him.

Still, there was an edge. A sharpness just under the napkins and smiles. His mother asked questions with a little too much interest in the answers.

“So, Y/n… you’re in art, is that right?”

“I work in gallery curation,” you said, calmly. “Mostly modern pieces. Newer Korean artists, installations, a few international showcases. I also do consulting.”

His mother tilted her head. “Is that a… stable path? I imagine it’s very… competitive.”

“It’s not easy,” you said, “but I love it. And I’ve been very lucky in the area.”

Jin, sensing the shift, jumped in: “She’s brilliant, actually. Her last installation got picked up by a museum in London.”

“Did it?” His mother smiled. “Well, I suppose passion is important too.”

You smiled, but your nails dug into your palm under the table.

The tension was almost elegant in how it dressed itself, threaded between the silverware and side glances. Jin handled it with practiced ease, deflecting small jabs with charm, softening the weight with laughter. It worked, mostly.

Until the moment it didn’t.

You were halfway through dessert, chocolate tart, perfectly sculpted, when Jin, casually, like mentioning a sale at a bookstore, said, “We’ve actually been looking at a few neighborhoods recently. Just browsing for now. There’s this one little house near the park…”

You felt his hand brush yours beneath the table, an unconscious comfort.

His mother didn’t miss a beat. “Looking at houses?”

“Yeah,” you said easily. “Just seeing what’s out there. It’s not serious yet.”

His mother set down her fork. “Well, I hope you’re thinking about marriage first.”

The room paused.

Jin offered a quick smile. “We’re thinking about everything. One thing at a time.”

But you haven’t. You didn’t talk about marriage. You were just talking about moving together. Of course it was a future you were planning but not something that would come soon. Not something you were waiting to come soon.

“Still,” she said. “In this family, we’ve always done things in the proper order. It’s not just about living together. It’s about building something sacred. With structure. With commitment.”

You felt it then… that old, familiar coldness creeping up your spine. Not anger. Not even shame. Just that subtle, suffocating knowledge that you didn’t belong there. That no matter how much Jin loved you, you would always feel like you were entering through a door that someone else was holding closed.

But the thing was, you weren’t in the victorian era. You had spent weeks in Jin’s apartment and he at yours. It wouldn’t be something new to move together. It would be just a step to be closer. Did she thought you guys hadn’t had sex either?. That you were waiting for marriage?. You wanted to laugh. You wanted to tell her it was a crazy vision, because what if you and him couldn’t workout the living together? what if you two weren’t just made to live in the same house?. Why did marriage had to go first before trying those things to see if you’re actually compatible?. It made you think, maybe Jin was going faster than you thought he was.

Jin deflected again, lighthearted, changing the subject to the weather, to a film his father liked. The moment passed, technically. But it stayed, thick in the air, clinging to your ribs.

You smiled through the rest of dessert. Thanked them for lunch. Hugged his mother, who held you just long enough to say, “You looked lovely tonight, dear.”

Outside, walking back to the car, Jin wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

“You okay?”

“Of course,” you said.

He looked at you. “That was a lie.”

“I’ve had practice.”

He kissed your temple and said, “You did great.”

But you didn’t feel great. You felt like a paper doll—neat edges, easy to fold.

And somewhere inside your head, a quiet voice whispered what you wouldn’t say aloud yet, not even to yourself: Maybe this wasn’t the life you were planning.

The road home was quiet, a little tension here and then. Jin didn’t just leave you in your apartment, he went inside like it was his own already. Maybe it was.

The silence was thick and after some hours of just being in your phone you two eat some dinner in silence before taking a shower. He decided to wait for you.

The kitchen smelled like oranges and something buttery. You stood barefoot by the counter, your hair damp from a quick shower, slicing fruit in the dim light of a single overhead bulb. The window above the sink was open, and the late spring air drifted in with the faint hum of the city, softened by the quiet of evening. Jin leaned against the doorway, sleeves rolled, watching you with a look that didn’t ask anything, just waited.

Dinner had been nothing special, toast, scrambled eggs, fruit from a market bag neither of you had unpacked until too late. But you liked nights like this: easy, quiet, unpretentious. No expectations. No performances… Except that tonight, something had followed you home. A thought. A weight you hadn’t named yet.

You took a yogurt and handed him a bowl of cut oranges. He took it without a word, sat at the little table by the wall where your jackets still hung over the chairs. You joined him, curling one leg beneath you.

For a while, you two just ate in silence, the kind that came with familiarity, not discomfort.

Then you said, softly, “Your mother thinks we’re doing it wrong.”

He looked at you, chewing slowly. “She thinks a lot of things.”

You didn’t laugh.

You turned the spoon in your yogurt, not eating. “She said marriage should come before moving in. Before planning houses. Before… all of this.”

He leaned forward slightly. “You don’t believe that.”

“I don’t know if I do,” you said honestly. “But I know she does. And I know she looked at me like I was one bad decision away from ruining your life.”

“She doesn’t get to decide anything about our life,” he said simply, like it was just truth. “And for the record, I already moved into your life. With my record collection and my amazing cooking and my shirts in your drawer. That happened months ago. She just wasn’t invited to notice.”

That made you smile a little. Just a flicker.

“But she’s not wrong about one thing,” you murmured. “Marriage is… big. It’s not just a step, it’s a statement. It’s you saying, ‘This is forever,’ and me saying, ‘I can carry that with you.’ And I don’t know if I can. Not in the way they’d want. Not in the way you deserve.”

He set down his orange bowl. The air shifted, not heavier, just more still. He reached across the table, taking your hand in his, warm and steady.

“You don’t owe anyone a perfect version of love,” he said. “Especially not my mother. Or me. You only owe yourself honesty.”

You blinked slowly. “And if my honesty is that I don’t know if I’ll ever be enough for this?”

“Then I’ll remind you every day that you already are.”

You laughed, but it was soft and painful. “You can’t build a life on just reminding someone.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I can build it beside someone who’s still learning how to stay. You don’t need to arrive perfect, Y/n. You just need to not run.”

“I’m trying,” you said. Your voice was hoarse now. “I really am.”

“I know,” he said, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “And I’m not asking you to promise me anything you’re not ready for. I just want you to know… this is our timeline. No one else’s. If we move in next month or get married next decade, it doesn’t make us less real.”

You looked down at both of your hands. His fingers wrapped around yours like a vow.

“And when the noise gets loud,” he added, “we can choose each other quieter. Right here. At this kitchen table.”

Something broke open in you then— not in a painful way, but like a soft sigh from somewhere deep in your chest. The way your body reacts when it hears something it didn’t know it needed until someone finally said it.

“Okay,” you whispered.

“Okay,” he echoed.

And for a moment, that was enough.

Not a solution. Not a cure. But a place to rest.

A place to begin again.

You didn’t cry in your therapist’s office.

You sat there, legs crossed neatly, fingers tugging at a loose thread on your sleeve, nodding at all the right times. When the word medication came up, you smiled too brightly and said, “But I’ve been better lately.”

And it wasn’t a lie, exactly. That was the cruel thing about it. You had been fine. Productive, even. You had replied to emails on time. You’d remembered to eat lunch. You’d walked past a mirror without flinching. Your thoughts had felt clear—hyper-clear, even—like you were seeing the world in sharp angles, hearing conversations before they happened, planning out grocery lists and imaginary arguments all at once. Everything felt amazing, hypertensive, great… perfect

But your therapist had tilted her head gently and said, “That’s usually when it starts.”

And you had nodded, like you agreed, while something inside you quietly recoiled. You didn’t want to feel defensive. You didn’t want to be the girl who said didn’t need help because things didn’t feel that bad yet. But that’s exactly what your brain had whispered the whole walk home. You’re okay. Don’t overreact. Don’t drag Jin into this. Don’t make this a thing… again.

By Wednesday, you had cancelled plans twice. Thursday, you skipped breakfast and didn’t notice. You stopped returning texts. The world began to sound like it was happening one room over.

When Jin let himself into your apartment on Friday night, he found you curled on the couch under a gray throw blanket, still wearing the oversized t-shirt you’d slept in. The television was on but muted. A half-eaten bowl of cereal sat on the coffee table, milk congealed into something you couldn’t bring yoursel to look at. Clothes all over the floor. The lights were all off, except for the lamp you always left on for him, even when he wasn’t coming.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just dropped his bag and knelt beside you on the floor, fingers brushing back a piece of hair stuck to you cheek.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you murmured, voice flat from disuse.

“You never bother me,” he said softly. “You scare me when you disappear.”

You blinked slowly, as if the sentence took longer to register than it should have. “I didn’t mean to disappear. I just… I didn’t want to hangout.”

He got up and slid onto the couch behind you, pulling you into his arms, the way you hold something delicate, not to fix it, but to witness it. You didn’t cry. You hadn’t cried in days. You just let yourself collapse back into him, his hand resting on your waist, steady and quiet.

“I saw Dr. Han this week,” you said after a long pause.

“Yeah?”

“She wants me to start the meds again.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea?”

You stared at the blank television screen. Both of your reflections barely registered in the glass.

“I don’t know… I just— I hate taking meds and I hate feeling numb” You shifted, fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the couch cushion. “There’s this moment before it hits,” you said quietly. “Before the fall. Where everything goes so still, so calm. Like the ocean right before a storm. And I trick myself into thinking I’ve finally made it through. But it’s just the lead-up. I know that already. But I still want to believe every time will be different. Like I had it under control”

Jin didn’t say anything for a moment. He just held you closer. His warmth made you feel like you were borrowing someone else’s heartbeat.

“You know what I think?” he said finally. “I think it’s brave as hell to admit you need help before the storm even hits. That’s not weakness, Y/n. That’s you trying to meet it on the shore instead of drowning.”

You closed your eyes, breathing in the scent of his skin—something woodsy and familiar, like warm earth after rain.

“I hate that I keep coming back to this place,” You whispered. “Like my life isn’t moving. Like everyone else has gone on ahead and I’m just… stalled here. Always coming back to start again… I always have to start again, and again and again…

“Your life isn’t stalled,” he said, with the kind of quiet conviction that only comes from watching someone too closely to lie to them. “You’re building it from the inside out. It just doesn’t look like anyone else’s.”

“But I want it to look like something.”

“It already does,” he said. “To me, it looks like this. Right now. You, here. With me. And that’s enough.”

You wanted to believe him. Wanted to grab onto those words and let them tether you to something solid. But there was a sadness in you that didn’t answer to reason. A fog that moved even in sunlight. You didn’t know how to tell him that. You didn’t know how to explain that even in his arms, you still sometimes felt like you were watching yourself from far away.

Still, you turned in toward him, pressing your face into the hollow of his neck, letting his breath soothe you. He hummed something under his breath—an old song you couldn’t name but remembered anyway.

“Will you stay?” you asked.

“Always,” he said.

And maybe he meant it. Maybe he’d keep meaning it. But part of you—some small, cracked thing—still wondered how long someone could hold another person without eventually slipping themselves… You didn’t say that part aloud. You just lay there with him, listening to his breathing, trying to match the rhythm. Trying to believe that wanting help didn’t make you weak. That loving someone while being unwell didn’t make you unlovable. That this numbness was just too much emotions being mixed not the dead of your feelings for him.

You tried to remember this was momentary…

And in that quiet room, with nothing left to perform and no one left to impress, you whispered the two hardest words you knew:

“I’m trying.”

And Jin, without hesitation, whispered back:

“I know.”

The house was beige. Not warm, creamy beige—the sterile, somehow-off kind. A tired color clinging to the walls like regret. The kind of place that felt like it had been rented out to too many strangers, each of them leaving behind a thumbprint or a scuff mark, but not enough to make it lived-in. The tile was cracked in the kitchen, the backyard was more gravel than grass, and the ceiling fan in the bedroom drooped slightly, as if even it had given up.

Jin looked around the living room, hands on his hips, brow furrowed like he was trying to picture you two inside it. You, standing in the corner by the window that refused to open, squinted at a discolored patch of wall.

“Well,” he said at last, voice bright with forced optimism, “this dorm was once a madhouse.”

You didn’t even blink. “Perfect. It’s made for me.”

There was a pause. Then his laugh broke out, full and warm, cutting through the stale air like sunlight cracking blinds. “Shut up.”

You smiled faintly. “I’m serious. I’m one step away from alphabetizing my breakdowns.”

He came over, wrapped an arm around your shoulder and kissed your temple. “Okay, well, if this place starts whispering to you at night, we’re leaving. Immediately. No negotiations.”

“And give up that charming murder basement?” you deadpanned. “Never.”

You two wandered through the rest of the house, pointing out flaws like you two were in a museum of disappointment. The bedroom closet had a broken hinge. The water heater growled. There was a light switch that turned on… absolutely nothing. You two joked. You two touched fingers in every room. He pulled you against him and dipped you like you were in a ballroom when he saw the hallway mirror. For a little while, it felt like you were building something. If not a home, then at least a story to laugh about later.

“I don’t hate it,” Jin said as you walked walked back to the car, eyes squinting at the afternoon sun. “But I also don’t hate root canals, and I still wouldn’t choose them.”

You laughed, genuinely. “That’s a glowing review. You should go into real estate.”

You were meeting some friends afterward. Erin and Jihoon, a couple you both liked. Old friends of Jin and yours. People who knew how to ask the right questions without pushing too far. The kind of people who remembered your coffee order and didn’t make you explain why your smile was a little slower some days.

Dinner was at a small Korean bistro tucked into a street corner, the kind of place with steamed-up windows and jazz humming just under the conversation. The table was small, the food came fast, and the laughter came faster.

You all talked about books, about weird apartment neighbors, about the fact that Jihoon once ran into a famous actor at a dog park and only realized it later when his dog went viral. You added stories of your own, galleries with broken elevators, an artist who once refused to title anything and claimed “silence” was the title itself. Everyone groaned. You liked that part. You felt almost present. You laughed. You drank plum tea. You leaned into Jin when he whispered dumb commentary in your ear about the couple two tables over who hadn’t spoken in thirty minutes.

And then—

It hit.

That silence.

That terrible, drowning silence that happened inside you, even when the room was loud.

It didn’t start like a panic. There was no spike. Just a fade. A slow dissolving of your edges. A numbness blooming behind your ribs. You stopped hearing the conversation even though you were still nodding like a robot. You stopped tasting the food. A part of your mind whispered: This is good, why don’t you feel anything? And then: This is boring. This is all pointless. Everyone’s just pretending. And then: You’re pretending too. And when you stop pretending, what’s left?

You looked around the table at their happy faces and felt something twist. Not jealousy. Not anger. Just grief. Quiet, bottomless grief for something you couldn’t name.

Jin reached for your hand under the table, laced your fingers together. His thumb traced circles on your palm. You held on, but you couldn’t meet his eyes.

Why is this good? your brain whispered again, bitterly. What’s the point of all this if everything will end eventually anyway? What’s the point of another house, another dinner, another hand holding yours if you can’t even feel it the right way?

And then there was no noise…. not anything.

The thing about depression, when it was quiet like that, was that it didn’t shout. It didn’t demand anything. It just sat with you. Like a shadow stretching across the floor you forgot to sweep. And you were tired of sweeping.

You made it through dinner. You smiled when they said goodbye. You kissed Jihoon on the cheek and thanked Erin for dessert. But on the ride home, you stayed silent. Jin glanced over more than once.

“You’re quiet,” he said gently, hand on your knee.

“I’m just really tired,” you lied.

And you were. But not in the way he thought.

One year ago.

It had been one of those rare Sundays where the city felt half-asleep and no one expected anything of you two. No gallery openings, no work calls, no performances, no dinners with friends or plans to untangle. Just the soft hush of a rainy afternoon, the windows fogged slightly, and the steady rhythm of water tapping the balcony railing. You and Jin were curled together on the couch, a lopsided blanket half-sliding off the cushions, Your legs were on top of his tights, back in the sofa armrest. The television was on, low and ignored, something vintage and black-and-white, flickering like a memory on the screen. Outside, the world blurred into gray.

Jin was sketching. Not seriously, just lines and shapes in a notebook he kept for nonsense, the kind of doodles you do when your hands are busy but your mind is somewhere else.

“You know,” you said lazily, tracing circles on the sleeve of his sweater, “I think if we died right now, no one would know for at least two days.”

“That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me,” he replied, deadpan.

“I mean it. The neighbors are quiet. Your mom assumes you’re busy. My coworkers never call on weekends. We could be bones and the cat would be snacking before anyone blinked.”

Jin set down his pen and looked at you. “You realize you’re the only person who can make casual death sound like a love language.”

You grinned. “Well, it is. Think about it. I’m saying I’d die next to you on a Sunday afternoon, and I’d be fine with it. Isn’t that the dream?”

He laughed, but there was a softness behind it. A quiet sort of reverence. Jin looked at you like people only look when they know they’ve found something rare, not flashy, not dramatic, just real. Something solid enough to hold.

“You want to die next to me,” he said, nodding, “and here I was thinking I’d get a romantic speech and some fireworks.”

“I can give you fireworks,” you teased. “You just have to light the stove with the wrong match again.”

“That was one time.”

“And I almost had to repaint my ceiling.”

He reached for your hand, warm and calloused and so utterly familiar it didn’t feel like a gesture anymore. Just a continuation of everything you two already were. Your fingers locked together without effort.

You two were quiet for a moment. The kind of quiet that only exists when two people are completely certain they don’t need to fill the space. Rain fell harder for a moment, a rolling percussion against the windowpane.

Then Jin said it… not like a confession, not even like a plan. Just a simple, unvarnished truth.

“I want to do this forever.”

You didn’t blink. Didn’t startle. You just looked at him, eyes soft and calm, and said:

“Me too.”

He tilted his head. “Even if we’re old and forget where we put the remote every day?”

“I already forget where I put my keys.”

“Even if I get fat and bald and can’t carry you up stairs anymore?”

“I’ll carry you.”

“Even when I’m annoying?”

“You’re already annoying.”

He grinned. “Wow. The romance is really alive in this one.”

You leaned over, pressing your mouth to his shoulder, your smile muffled by his sweater. “I love you, you idiot.”

And it wasn’t the first time you’d said it, but it felt heavier now. Not in a burdensome way but like the weight of something chosen, again and again. Like a vow where you didn’t need a ceremony to make.

Jin kissed the top of your head. “Forever, then.”

It wasn’t a proposal. It wasn’t grand. There were no cameras, no champagne, no milestones. Just you two. A couch. A rainy day. And a quiet agreement to keep choosing each other, even when the roof leaked and both of your coffee went cold and the world forgot your names.

Later, when things were harder, when words started cutting instead of comforting, when time and silence began building walls between both— you two would both think back to that afternoon. The window fogged with rain. The couch with the bad springs. The way your hands fit. And how, for a moment, it had felt like the easiest thing in the world to believe that forever was possible.

Present.

You felt wrong.

You were supposed to be with Jin right now. Having a nice date in some fancy restaurant. You had to cancel. You didn’t want to move. You didn’t want to take a shower, you didn’t want to see him. You just wanted to stay in bed and watch TV, just turning off the thoughts for a moment. At least for one damn second.

The rain returned on a Wednesday. Not a storm, not anything dramatic, just a persistent drizzle that made the city look like it had been exhaled from a sigh. You sat on the floor of your bedroom, your back against the side of the bed, legs pulled to your chest. Dirty hair, clothes already dying to be washed. The world outside your window was washed in grey. The lamp beside you buzzed faintly. You hadn’t turned on the overhead light.

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d laughed without faking it. Couldn’t remember the last night you’d slept more than three hours without waking to some invisible panic, heart pounding, thoughts loud. Jin still looked at you like you were magic. And that—more than anything—was what made it worse. Because you couldn’t feel like magic anymore. You didn’t feel like anything. You didn’t feel anything else than tired.

The silence around you were a different kind now. Not soft. Not peaceful. It was sharp. A silence with teeth. It bit at the edges of your mind, whispering that this was your fault. That you were too tired to be loved. That Jin was losing you, not because he wanted to but because who could love someone who disappears while standing right in front of you?. Who could love someone who couldn’t fight to be love?. Who could love someone who couldn’t even get up of bed or even respond a text because they were sad?

You let your head fall back against the bed and closed your eyes.

And there it was. That memory.

That damn, quiet, rainy, beautiful afternoon. The couch. The rain. Jin drawing something ridiculous and you teasing him about dying together unnoticed. That warmth. That ease. The blanket slipping to the floor. Your hands knotted without needing to speak.

“I want to do this forever.”

“Me too.”

It gutted you.

Because it had felt so true at the time. As real as the ceiling above you now, as true as the pain gnawing in your chest. You hadn’t been lying. you had wanted forever. Still wanted it, maybe. But what no one told you—what the songs and the vows and the montages left out—was that sometimes forever becomes a burden instead of a promise. Especially when the mind lies. Especially when you forget what it means to want anything at all.

The tears didn’t fall. Not yet. You hadn’t earned that kind of release. Instead, you felt the ache start to swell in your throat, quiet and tight. The kind that turns everything inside to glass.

From the kitchen, you heard Jin’s footsteps. He’d come back early. You didn’t know why. He’d said he had meetings after you had cancel the dinner. But maybe he’d felt it too, that something was fraying between you two. That the silence in you had finally begun to leak into the room. You stayed still as he approached the bedroom. Didn’t wipe your face. Didn’t move.

He leaned against the doorframe, a grocery bag in one hand.

“I got those spicy noodles you like,” he said softly, eyes scanning your figure on the floor. “The ones that burn your soul but in a good way.”

You tried to smile. Couldn’t. Just nodded. He came closer, set the bag down, and sat across from you. Cross-legged. Like you were kids at a sleepover.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he reached out, touched your knee gently. “Hey.” Your eyes met his. They were glassy. You didn’t try to hide it. “You’re somewhere else,” he said. You nodded. “Can I meet you there?”

You wanted to say yes. Wanted to say, Please. Please find me. Drag me back. Remind me that I’m still the girl who said ‘me too’ without a second thought.

Instead, all you managed was, “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t flinch. Just scooted closer and placed his palm over your, warm and steady.

“I don’t need you to be okay,” he whispered. “I just need you here. With me.”

Your lips parted. You wanted to say you were trying, again. That you hadn’t left. That the version of you who once joked about dying beside him on a couch still existed. But the words jammed in your throat. He pulled you into his arms. You didn’t resist. Let your body lean into his, let your head rest against his chest. The heartbeat beneath your ear was fast. Maybe his fear had rhythm, too.

And there, in that fragile silence, with the rain still tapping the glass and forever feeling like a ghost between you two, you whispered, almost inaudible:

“I’m sorry, Jin.”

He held you tighter.

“I know, baby,” he said. “It’s okay.”

But you didn’t say anything else, Because you knew it wasn’t. You weren’t being a girlfriend anymore, not even a person. You were just a burden. Something in you had already begun to drift.

The morning had started gently.

The light came in dappled through half-open blinds, washing your small kitchen in a kind, golden hue. Jin had made coffee, his specialty, strong and a little too sweet because he knew you always added sugar anyway. He stood at the stove flipping something in a pan, humming a lazy tune you recognized as the chorus of one of his older songs. You sat at the table, hair still damp from your shower, wearing one of his old sweatshirts. There was something peaceful about the way the morning moved, like time was still stretching itself out for you two, giving you space.

He set a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of you with a theatrical bow.

“Gourmet,” he said. “By the Michelin-starred Seokjin.”

You smiled, faintly. “So refined.”

He grinned and sat down across from you, balancing his coffee on one knee. You two ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the soft clink of cutlery filling the space. You picked at you toast more than you ate it.

“You’ve been really quiet today again,” Jin said suddenly. Not accusing. Just noticing. “Everything okay?”

You hesitated. The answer was too big. And too tired.

“I’m just… going through a low,” you said finally.

Jin nodded, taking a sip of coffee. “Yeah. I figured.” He paused, then added with a soft smile, “You’ve had your emo playlist on loop for four days. It’s like living with a sad French film.”

You gave a small laugh. “It’s a good playlist.”

“It’s all rain and piano. I miss when you used to play the loud ones in the shower.”

You looked down at you plate, still smiling, but your shoulders stiffened a little.

“I will play it in the next shower then.”

“Have you thought about doing something to, like… shake it off a bit?” he said. “We could take a weekend trip. Go somewhere sunny. Vitamin D. A beach. Maybe it’ll pull you out of it.”

You didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t being dismissive just… hopeful. Like he truly believed there might be a simple fix. A weekend. A change of scenery. A better breakfast.

He looked at you with that earnestness you usually adored. “I just hate seeing you like this, you know? You’re not you when this hits. And I miss you. The you that, you know, laughs at my jokes and doesn’t look like she’s fighting for air all the time.”

You set your mug down too gently. “I didn’t know that version of me was off duty.”

He looked over, puzzled by your tone. “Hey— I didn’t mean anything. I was just…”

“Yeah, I know.”

The words landed softly, like feathers, light, even affectionate.

But still, they landed.

Your hand curled around your coffee mug. Your chest ached in that vague, hollow way that didn’t even feel like pain anymore. More like absence. A space where something used to live.

You didn’t say anything. Jin reached for your hand across the table and squeezed gently.

“I know I don’t totally get it,” he said, trying. “I mean, I’ve never… had that cloud or whatever it is. But I just want to help. I want to make you happy.”

“I know,” you whispered. “You do.”

And you meant it. You knew he loved you. You knew he was trying. But something in your had already begun to shrink inward. Not because he said the wrong thing but because he didn’t know he had. He didn’t know how heavy it was, carrying yourself through a fog while the person you love wonders where you went. He didn’t know that offering sunshine didn’t cure the night inside you. That saying “I miss the old you” was like handing you a mirror you didn’t want to look into.

The toast grew cold between you two.

Jin kissed your temple before heading to his studio. And you sat there long after he left, staring at the uneaten eggs, feeling like someone had pressed pause on your insides. You call off sick at work. And you stayed home. You didn’t cry. Not yet. But the weight was there. Soft. Lingering. Waiting to grow.

The next day was the storm.

It started the way it always did, quietly. There wasn’t a trigger. Not really. Not a fight. Not a sudden failure. Just an afternoon that felt too long and too silent. A dirty dish in the sink. A missed call from your mother. A pile of clothes you meant to fold two days ago still slouched over a chair. The weight of it didn’t hit you all at once it crept, slowly, like a chill through the seams of a house that had once been warm.

You had been sitting on the couch, laptop open on your thighs, an email half-drafted, when the noise in your head began to rise. Not sound exactly, but thoughts, layered and restless.

Is this really it?. Is this your life?

You closed the laptop slowly, as if movement could quiet your own mind. Your hands were shaking before you noticed they were. You pressed them to your chest, feeling your own heartbeat trip over itself. Your lungs tightened. Your fingers were cold. There was a familiar ringing in your ears. That buzzing panic you’d tried so hard to outgrow. And then— it hit harder.

You haven’t been a real artist in months.

You’ve been a terrible partner.

He’s going to leave you.

You’d leave you too.

For someone better, someone happier. Someone who wasn’t depressed about their simple life.

You stood up too fast, stumbled toward the bathroom like you could outrun it. You flipped the light on. Looked at yourself in the mirror. It was you. You. Same face. Same eyes. But everything behind them felt wrong. Not just tired… gone. You grabbed the edge of the sink, gripping porcelain like it might anchor you.

And then it came.

The panic. The spiral.

Tears welled up too fast, too much. Your breath hitched. Not the soft, cinematic crying of movies. No, this was ugly—gasping, hands shaking, breath stuck somewhere between inhale and scream. You slid to the floor, knees folded beneath you, forehead against the cold tile wall. Your ribs felt like they were trying to escape your body.

Why does everything feel so heavy?

Why do I ruin everything that’s good?

Why can’t I just be okay?

The thoughts weren’t kind. They never were.

Nothing means anything.

You’re not enough. You never have been.

Jin would be happier with someone stable. Someone softer. Someone whose sadness didn’t eat the room

You hated it. Hated the way your mind lied. Hated how convincing the lies were. Hated the ache in your chest that had no name, no origin, just weight. Hated how you could have everything—love, work, a future—and still feel like you were drowning inside your own skin.

You pressed your hands to your mouth to muffle the sobs, like shame was part of the ritual. The sob cracked you in two. And it wasn’t that you wanted to die. Not really. It was that existing like this—half-lit, half-there, never enough—felt unbearable. It was the exhaustion of surviving a war no one else could see, of waking up every day and playing a version of yourself that didn’t cry on bathroom floors and didn’t feel like staying in bed all day.

You sat there for a long time. Minutes? An hour? You didn’t know. Your body trembled, your eyes burned, your chest ached with the rawness of grief for something you couldn’t name.

Eventually, the sobs softened. Your breath steadied, barely. The panic began to loosen its grip, though it still hovered at the edges of your vision like a ghost. You pulled your knees tighter to your chest and rested your head on them. And finally you realized something you haven’t being able to accept in a long time.

You didn’t know how to be okay anymore.

And in that moment, that was the truest thing you had.

On the other side of the city, in a quiet house with polished wooden floors and heavy glass vases that hadn’t moved in decades, Jin sat at his mother’s dining table sipping tea he didn’t want. It was too hot, a little bitter, the kind she brewed not for enjoyment, but for symbolism, something about balance and wellness. She poured it for both of them even when he said no. The late afternoon sun streaked across the ivory curtains, casting soft, shifting lines on the tablecloth. Everything in her home had a museum stillness to it. Dustless, controlled. The sort of place where silence was expected, not broken.

“I thought you said you didn’t have time to visit,” she said without looking up from her cup.

“I made time,” Jin replied.

That softened her expression slightly. She was a small woman, elegant in the rigid way people mistake for grace. Pearls. A beige cashmere sweater. Her hair always in place. Her father’s photo still framed beside the window, untouched.

“I need to ask you something,” he said. That got her full attention. “I want to propose to Y/n.”

A beat. Then another. She didn’t say no. But she didn’t smile, either. Instead, she said, “You’ve only been with her a year and a half.”

“Closer to two now.”

“That’s not much.”

“It’s enough,” Jin stated. “I know.”

His mother exhaled slowly and set her cup down with care. “Why now?”

“Because I love her,” he said, not missing a beat. “Because I want a life with her. And because things have been… hard lately. And I think— no, I know — I want her to know I’m choosing her. Always.”

The silence that followed was not warm.

“I see,” she said. “And you came here for the ring.”

He nodded. “I want to use your ring, yes. If you’ll let me.”

She was quiet. Too quiet. Jin knew that pause. It was never indecision. It was strategy. Finally, she leaned back in her chair, folded her hands in her lap like someone preparing to say something that would sound polite, but wasn’t.

“Seokjin,” she began, “I know you think you’re being romantic. But don’t confuse urgency for clarity. You’re trying to fix something with a gesture when the root of it might be deeper.”

He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Your sister mentioned some things. She’s seen her at events, and she says she’s… withdrawn. Strange.”

“Sophie barely knows her.”

“She knows enough. She said Y/n never talks, just stares at things. Like she’s somewhere else.”

“That’s called being observant,” Jin snapped. “She works in art, for God’s sake.”

His mother raised a thin eyebrow. “And she also said Y/n deals with depression.”

Jin didn’t flinch. “Yes. She does. Sometimes. It’s not who she is, it’s something she lives with.”

His mother tutted softly under her breath. “You always did bring home difficult girls.” He froze. She continued, casually cruel. “Why choose a life with someone who’s already starting behind the line? You want a family someday, yes? Children? Stability? She doesn’t seem… well, stable.”

His jaw tightened. “You don’t know her.”

“I know what kind of life builds a marriage. It’s not poetry and moods, Seokjin . It’s steadiness. It’s mornings without drama. It’s being able to trust that the person next to you will hold things together when they fall apart. Not be the reason they do.”

“She’s not—” he started, then stopped, exhaled. “She’s not a burden.”

His mother looked at him. Not angry. Just tired. “I’m not saying she’s a bad person. But maybe she’s not the person for this stage of your life. It sounds like she’s… drowning, and you want to throw her a ring like a life preserver.”

Her words cut. Not because they were true but because he knew, deep down, he had thought that. Not in so many words, not consciously. But yes, part of him thought: ‘Maybe if I propose, she’ll remember the future we wanted. Maybe this will help her hold on.’

He hated how much truth there was in what he didn’t want to admit. But he also hated how little his mother believed in love that was messy.

“She makes me better,” he said. “She makes me more happier. She’s the only person I’ve ever wanted to tell everything to, even the ugly stuff. And I like every phase of her, even this one. And yeah, she’s struggling right now. But that doesn’t make her unworthy of being chosen.”

“You sound like a boy,” she said softly. “Not a man.”

“Then I’d rather be a boy in love than a man with a checklist,” he fired back.

That landed. Her mouth pressed into a thin line.

He stared at her across the quiet, expensive table and suddenly felt a wave of sorrow crash through him, for the way she never once asked how you were, only what was wrong with you. For the way she reduced everything to roles and stability and surface. He hated how this might be something you had to deal with before. And he hated how traditional all had to be, because after all, he still wanted his family to support his decision. Because after all he still wanted his family support.

His mother disappeared for some minutes that it made him anxious. She came back, she sat in front of him and looked down at the ring box on the table between them. Ivory leather, worn from years of being untouched.

“You can take it,” she said at last. “It was mine once. And it’s yours now. But Seokjin…” she looked up, her voice heavy with doubt, “…don’t let guilt or romance blind you. Marriage is not a remedy.”

“I know what marriage isn’t,” he said quietly. “But I also know what love is.”

He took the box gently, like it could break.

And he walked out of the house with his heart pounding, the weight of the ring— and her words— heavier than he expected.

It was a Sunday afternoon when the world felt almost soft again.

The apartment was filled with the faint scent of orange peels and fresh laundry. The windows were cracked open, letting in the late spring breeze, and the sun dripped across the wooden floor in golden pools. Jin was barefoot in the kitchen, playing some half-finished melody on his phone speaker while you leaned against the counter, watching him chop vegetables far too slowly.

“Are you… peeling that zucchini like a potato?” you asked, a smile tugging at your lips.

“I’m giving it character,” Jin replied. “Artistic texture.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re gonna give me a nervous breakdown.”

He shot you a look, mock-offended. “I’m the breakdown now? You’re the one who cried over a commercial yesterday.”

“It was a dog reunion,” you said defensively. “With bagpipes.”

You both laughed. It was real. And yet, not.

Because you had made a decision that morning: today, you would be okay. Not for yourself. For him.

You’d woken up early, sat on the bathroom floor for a while when the ache in your chest was too thick to breathe through, then got up, brushed your hair, put on a little mascara, and told yourself: Smile. Be easy. Don’t drag him under with you today.

So you did. You smiled at his jokes. You laughed when he tossed a slice of cucumber at you and missed. You kissed his jaw when he got sauce on it. You reached for his hand without hesitation, like the weight in your ribs wasn’t threatening to crush you. And then you danced in the living room later, slow and stupid, to an old Stevie Wonder song. Jin spun you once, then pulled you back into his arms, forehead pressed to yours after giving you a soft peck.

“You smell like oranges,” he said.

“I’m trying a new perfume. It’s called I Actually Showered Today.”

“Hot.”

You laughed. He kissed you.

Everything was golden for a second. Warm. Safe. Familiar.

He whispered, “I missed this.”

And that, that was the moment you nearly broke.

Because he didn’t know you had spent the entire day pretending. That the laugh wasn’t a laugh, it was armor. That your hands trembled in the bathroom earlier not from cold, but from panic. That every minute you were holding yourself together with thread and teeth, just to make him feel like he still had you.

But you only smiled and leaned into him, swaying gently.

“I missed it too.”

You didn’t cry. Not there. Not then. You saved it for later, in the shower, where the sound of the water could muffle the sob you bit back so hard it made your jaw ache. Because you loved him. God, you loved him so much.

But you were drowning quietly, and today you decided to make it look like floating.

Three weeks later.

The train hummed beneath you like a lullaby stretched too thin. Outside the window, the late-November landscape unfurled in patches of frost-kissed fields and sleeping trees, your bare branches scribbled across the sky like broken ink. Fog clung to the ground like a secret, and every few minutes, the tracks rattled under a bridge or dipped into shadow before breaking into light again.

You leaned your forehead against the windowpane. It was cold against your skin, and you liked that, the small clarity of temperature. Your breath fogged up a small patch of glass, and you drew a lazy circle in it with your fingertip. Jin sat beside you, knees brushing yours, headphones around his neck, his arm draped casually along the back of your seat. He was watching you in that way he always did when he thought you weren’t looking— quiet and steady, like your presence was still his favorite thing to study.

He nudged your shoulder with his. “You’re quiet.”

He always pointed it out. Like he always knew there was something else.

“Thinking,” you murmured.

“About what?”

You shrugged, eyes still on the passing scenery. “How November looks like a ghost town.”

“That’s dark.”

“Not really.” You said. “But you do love dark things.”

“I do.” He smiled. “Deeply tortured. Very poetic.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t hide your grin.

You two lapsed into silence again, but this one felt easy — no pressure to fill the air with noise. Just the rhythm of the train and the subtle gravity between two people who had known each other through more than light.

After a few moments, he spoke again. “We’re almost there.”

You turned to look at him. “Where is there exactly?”

“You’ll see.” His eyes sparkled. “It’s this chalet my family has. In the mountains. Not too far. We used to go every winter when I was a kid.”

“And now you’re bringing me?”

“Well,” he said with mock seriousness, “you passed the ultimate test. You didn’t kill me in my sleep during your depressive spiral.” You elbowed him — gently, but pointedly. “Okay, sorry,” he said, chuckling. “That was a terrible joke.”

“You’re lucky I’m medicated,” you said flatly, and you both burst out laughing.

Jin leaned in and kissed the top of your head, letting his lips linger in your hair. “I just wanted to do something quiet,” he said. “Something… cozy. For us. We’ve been through it this year. And you’re here. We’re here. That means something.”

You looked at him.

And something in your chest flickered. A softness, a guilt, a love that hurt.

“You’ve been really sweet lately,” you said.

“I’m always sweet.”

“No,” you corrected, “you’re charming. But lately… you’ve been gentle.”

Jin didn’t answer for a second. Then: “Maybe I’m just trying to be what you need.”

You turned your eyes back to the window, your fingers tracing the condensation again.

“I don’t always know what I need,” you admitted. “I wish I did.”

“Well,” he said softly, “then I’ll be here until you figure it out. And even after.”

The train pulled into the station then, the sudden lurch of the brakes shaking you forward in your seats. The snow hadn’t quite settled yet, but the platform was damp and cold, the sky a heavy slate. People gathered their coats and bags, pulling scarves tighter as you stood. Jin stood and pulled down both of your bags, slinging yours over his shoulder before you could argue. He reached and tugged off his jacket.

“Here,” he said, draping it over your shoulders. “It’s freezing.”

You blinked. “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not,” he said with a wink. “You have arms made of twigs and absolutely no survival instincts.”

“You’re such a romantic.”

He smiled, brushing your hair back from your face. “Come on, baby. Let’s disappear for a little while.”

You followed him off the train, bundled in his jacket — which smelled like cedar and something warm, like the closet where he kept his guitars and worn notebooks. The chalet wasn’t far, a short drive up the mountain roads that twisted like a memory. You sat beside him in the taxi, watching the fog roll across the peaks, your fingers resting lightly on his knee.

And you let yourself believe, just for a moment, that maybe things really were getting better.

The chalet looked exactly like something pulled from a snow globe, all honeyed wood and wide windows, with ivy curling along the stone base and a curl of smoke rising gently from the chimney. The air was mountain-pure and thin, and the hush of the altitude gave everything a kind of reverent quiet, like the world had paused its chaos and held its breath.

You stood in the doorway for a moment, Jin beside you, both of you taking it in.

“Okay,” you whispered. “That’s… obnoxiously pretty.”

He grinned. “Right? Told you.”

He dropped your bags in the front room, where a fireplace already crackled lazily and a faint smell of pine and cinnamon clung to the thick air. Jin pulled you by the hand toward the back deck. The chalet overlooked a frozen lake, its surface milky and still, ringed by tall black trees. There was a small outdoor spa just down a stone path, steam curling upward from the heated water into the chilled air like ghosts dancing toward the sky.

“We’re doing that later,” he said, pulling you close. “I booked it for us. Just us.”

“No awkward old people naked in a communal tub?”

“Nope. Just us, semi-naked and deeply underdressed for this climate.”

You laughed, your breath coming out in little white clouds. “You really did plan this.”

“I really did.”

And for the next few hours, it was exactly what he wanted it to be. You both changed into swimsuits and robes and made your way to the hot spa, giggling like teenagers as the cold bit at your ankles before sinking into the steaming water. You let yourself lean against him, your head resting on his shoulder, both of your hands entwined beneath the surface. He told you stories from his childhood winters here, how his sister once got a sled stuck on the roof, how he learned to ice skate badly on the lake and had a scar to prove it. You asked him how long he believed in Santa, and he admitted he still kind of did.

You two ate cheese and bread and figs on the deck afterward, wrapped in thick wool blankets, drinking cider from little ceramic cups. The sun dropped behind the ridge slowly, spilling pink and orange across the lake. For the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like you were pretending. Or maybe you were— but it didn’t ache as much.

Later, as you two were both dressing in the bedroom — you still in soft socks, hair damp from the spa — Jin zipped up the back of your sweater and kissed your neck before saying, almost too casually, “Hey, can you dress up a little? I booked us dinner at the restaurant downstairs.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “Dress up?”

He shrugged, trying not to smile. “I mean, not a ball gown. Just… you know. The black one you like?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You never tell me what to wear.”

“I’m branching out.”

“Okay…” you said slowly, still suspicious. “But if this is one of those ski resorts with overpriced burgers served on slate and Canadian people… I’m throwing you to the frozen lake.”

He laughed, too hard, and tried to cover it. “Wow. So specific.”

You turned to look at him, suddenly quiet. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not,” he said quickly, too quickly. “I’m just… excited. I want this weekend to be nice. That’s all.”

You studied him for a beat longer, then nodded. “Alright. But if I wear heels and the menu says ‘deconstructed mashed potatoes’, I’m leaving.”

“Fair,” he grinned.

You dressed. The black dress. A deep wine-colored lipstick. Your earrings brushed your neck. You hadn’t worn them in months. Something about the moment made you want to try. Not just for him, but maybe for yourself too. Maybe it could be soft again.

When you reached the restaurant at the foot of the chalet, you immediately noticed the crowd. Not packed, but fuller than you’d expected for a mountain hideaway on a freezing November night. Low lights glowed golden over dark wood beams, the flicker of candlelight dancing off wine glasses and heavy silverware. Laughter floated through the air in soft waves, underscored by the gentle tug of a piano melody. Old jazz, slowed down until it felt like memory.

Jin held the door open for you, his hand gently resting at the small of your back as you stepped inside. Your heels tapped softly against the stone floor.

Then you froze.

You recognized someone. Not just someone. His cousin, sitting at a table near the window, raising a glass toward them. Then another… his sister. And at the far end of the room, near the hearth, his parents. All here. All smiling.

Your stomach tightened.

Before you could say anything, Jin leaned in and said softly, “I forgot to mention… my family’s here too this weekend. Just for the weekend. They had the same idea, apparently. To come up and relax. I didn’t plan it, I swear.”

You turned to look at him sharply. “You didn’t plan this?”

He raised both hands. “Not the whole thing, no. But I figured if they were here, why not say hi? Just a nice dinner. No pressure.”

Your eyes darted around the room again. There were even a couple of your friends, or maybe acquaintances, you couldn’t be sure in the low light, but it felt… curated. Intentional.

Something was happening. You didn’t know what yet. Your mind started to going fast, your eyes decided to ignore your visions. The moment and place felt like something you wanted to forget already. Your head wasn’t giving you strength to remember anything that was happening… something was going wrong.

You gave him a look. “This isn’t a setup?”

Jin widened his eyes playfully. “What? Me? Setups? Never. I’m just trying to get you drunk enough to admit you don’t like my mom.”

You let out a breath, trying to keep the panic from rising. “I knew something felt off.”

He reached for your hand, lacing your fingers with his. “You’re okay,” he said gently. “I swear, it’s just a dinner. Let me be good to you tonight. That’s all.”

You didn’t answer immediately, but when he tugged you gently toward the open floor near the bar, you let yourself follow. You went to greet some people and drink some wine. Jin usually made you calmer, relaxed. Like things around weren’t that deep. Like everything could be okay if you thought about it hard enough. You sometimes were jealous about his easy mindset. You usually wondered how much time took him to get there— how much it would take you.

There was a small area where the pianist played, and next to it, enough space for two people to sway if they didn’t care too much about being watched. The piano player gave Jin a nod, like they knew each other, and the melody shifted— slower, dreamier.

“Come here,” Jin said. “Dance with me. No one else is brave enough to be cheesy.”

“I’m in heels,” you muttered, but he was already pulling you into his arms.

“I’ll carry you if you break an ankle.”

“That’s romantic.”

“Tragic romance. Very 19th century of us.”

You gave a small smile, trying, really trying, to relax.

The music was soft, and he held you close. Not too tight. Just enough to make you feel like maybe, for a moment, the tension wasn’t sitting in your chest like a glass shard.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.

You looked up at him. “You’re suspicious.”

“You’re paranoid.”

“I’ve earned it.”

He laughed, kissed your forehead, and you kept swaying. Around you two, the restaurant buzzed. Someone popped a cork. Glasses clinked. His mother raised hers in your direction. The smell of roasted garlic and wine drifted through the room.

You closed your eyes, resting your head on his shoulder.

The music slowed again, a shift in tone— something softer now, a little older, the kind of song that wraps around you like a warm coat and leaves your heart too exposed. You felt the notes curl along your spine as Jin moved his hand to your waist, pulling you just a breath closer. You two were still dancing, half-laughing, half-swaying beneath the amber glow of the restaurant’s low-hung lights. Around you, people were beginning to settle back into their conversations. Your wine glass sat mostly untouched on the edge of your table, you were starting to miss it. The fire by the stone hearth had softened to an amber pulse.

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and the humor left his expression like a tide receding. Something else took its place.

Stillness. Purpose.

And you knew.

The knowing came quietly. Like recognition. Like dread. You felt it in the sudden hush of his touch, the way his thumb moved slowly across your spine as if trying to memorize the shape of you. The way his mouth twitched like he was about to say something too big to fit inside a room this small.

You froze.

No.

Please no.

But he was already speaking.

“You know,” he said softly, almost shyly, “this year… it’s been hard. Really hard. But I never doubted one thing.” You blinked at him. You dropped his hand. “I never doubted you,” he said.

A few people at nearby tables were beginning to look toward you two again. Conversations dipped. Someone leaned in to whisper. The pianist adjusted the tempo, as if sensing the shift in air. Jin smiled, and it was the most honest expression you’d ever seen on him— open, hopeful, almost childlike in its purity.

“Wait, Jin—.”

“You’re everything I want. Even when things were bad. Even when you couldn’t see it for yourself. I always saw it.” You shook your head, just a little. But he kept going, unaware… or unwilling to stop. “I used to think love was supposed to feel like certainty. But then I met you, and I learned it’s actually just the thing I’d risk everything for.”

He took a step back. You reached for him, instinct, panic, desperation, but it was too late. He was already getting down on one knee. The whole room turned. Your heart dropped straight to your stomach. The air vanished. The lights felt too hot, the wine too sharp in your throat. Your vision tunneled as Jin pulled the small Ivory box from his vest pocket and opened it slowly, reverently.

“Y/n,” he said, voice low and cracking, “marry me.”

You couldn’t breathe.

People were smiling. Some were already raising glasses, poised between hope and celebration. His sister reached for the Dom Pérignon they’d brought specially for the occasion. A waiter hovered nearby, ready to deliver the cake you hadn’t seen earlier. There was a camera. Of course there was.

It was all planned. Everything… Except your answer.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came. No yes. No no. Just silence. Your hands were trembling. Your expression became guilty and scared.

“Y/n?” Jin said again, quieter now.

Your face had gone pale. Your eyes, wide, glassy, didn’t match the smile you tried to force into place. The kind of smile you give a stranger who’s asked too much of you. You took a step back. Jin faltered. Confusion flickered across his face, followed by something rawer— a wound opening in real time. His breath caught. And then, in the slowest, most human motion imaginable, he dropped from one knee to both.

Kneeling, begging without words. Still holding the ring.

“I thought…” he whispered. “I thought you wanted this.”

“I don’t know,” you said. It cracked out of you like thunder.

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, Jin. I don’t— I don’t know how to say yes to something I don’t know I can survive.” you whispered.

The room had gone still. Even the music had quieted. A few people looked away. His sister was still holding the bottle, now unsure what to do with it. The waiter took a quiet step backward.

“I love you,” he said, voice fraying. “I love you more than anything. If you’re scared, we can be scared together. We’ll figure it out. I don’t care how long it takes—”

You shook your head. “You should care. You should want someone who can say yes without choking on it.”

“Don’t do this,” he whispered. “Please.”

“I’m not doing anything,” you said. Your voice was quiet. Hollow. “I just don’t have the answer you want.”

And that, that broke him.

Not dramatically. Not loudly. But deeply. Like watching a ship sink with all the lights still on. He stood slowly, closing the ring box with a soft, final click. You looked at him, and something in your face tried to apologize. But it couldn’t. Not really. He had brought the champagne. He had brought the ring. He had brought the belief. And you had brought nothing but the hollow ache of someone who couldn’t keep pretending forever was possible when making it to next week still felt impossible.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

He nodded. Once.

And that was the end of it.

The night had collapsed. What should’ve ended with music and a kiss beneath clinking glasses had instead spilled into silence— jagged, shivering silence.

—

Back at the chalet, the rooms were too warm. The fire flickered in the hearth, untouched since you two left hours ago, casting shadows on the walls that stretched and shrank with every breath. You stood in the middle of the bedroom, your suitcase open on the bed. The closet door creaked slightly on its hinge as you folded the black dress you’d worn only minutes earlier, now inside out, clinging to itself like something ashamed. You couldn’t look at it. Everything had happened so fast. You had run out of the place hearing whispers and your mind killing you slowly. You couldn’t stay there, it would been a mess.

You were going crazy and the fact that he thought a ring would be the great thing to do today was making you feel like you were drowning even more. And again, you couldn’t breathe anymore.

The door opened behind you.

Footsteps.

Then Jin’s voice, sharp and already breaking. “You’re leaving?” You didn’t turn. He stepped further into the room, disbelief hardening into anger. “You’re not even going to talk to me? You’re just going to walk out?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t do this.” You closed the suitcase with a soft, decisive click.

“That’s it?” he asked, louder now. “After everything we’ve been through? One bad night and you run?”

“One bad night?” you finally snapped, turning around. Your eyes were rimmed with red, but your voice was steady, too steady. “You humiliated us, Jin. In front of your family. Strangers. You proposed without even asking me if that was what I wanted. For God’s sake, my family is not even here.”

“I’m glad they’re not because that would be more embarrassing.” He joked, you didn’t move. He sighed frustrated. “I knew what you wanted,” he fired back. “Or I thought I did. I thought I knew you. I thought we were planning a life together.”

“You thought planning a life meant putting me on a stage I didn’t ask for?” you shot back. “You never asked how I wanted it. If I was ready. If I even felt like I deserved that kind of love.”

His jaw clenched. “You do deserve it. You just won’t let yourself believe it.”

“That’s not love, Jin. That’s a fairytale. And I’m not the girl you get to rescue with a diamond and a dinner party.”

“I didn’t propose to rescue you.”

“You proposed to save us. Because you thought this would fix everything.”

“I proposed,” he said, his voice cracking, “because I love you.”

“And I love you too,” you whispered. “But love doesn’t cure everything. It doesn’t cure me.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and something inside him collapsed.

“Then what does?” he asked quietly. “Tell me, Y/n. What can I do? What can I say? I’ve stood by you through everything. I’ve been patient, and soft, and scared, and in love with you in every way I know how to be. But if this isn’t enough—”

“It’s not about you not being enough!” you shouted, your voice finally rising. “It’s me. I don’t know how to build a future when I don’t know how to exist in the present.”

Silence.

“I wake up some mornings,” you said, softer now, but shaking, “and I can’t breathe, Jin. I can’t move, I don’t want to move. I stare at the ceiling and wonder how many more mornings I can take. And you— you come in with breakfast and kisses and talk about houses and paint colors and forever like it’s a choice I’m just refusing to make. But you don’t understand.” You pressed a trembling hand to your chest. “I can’t see forever, Jin. I can’t even see next week.”

His face contorted. “Then why didn’t you tell me that before tonight? Why didn’t you just say you weren’t ready?”

“Because I wanted to be. I wanted to be the girl who says yes. Who smiles and lets you slide that ring on her finger and drinks champagne like she believes she has a life worth celebrating. I wanted that.”

“But you didn’t say yes.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t want to lie to you.”

He flinched.

The silence between you two was no longer still. It burned. It vibrated with everything that had gone unsaid for too long.

Jin ran a hand through his hair, pacing now, unraveling in motion. “I brought you here because I thought we were coming out the other side. I thought—hell, Y/n, you’ve been trying again. Going to therapy. Taking your meds. Laughing. I thought we were finally okay.”

“I was trying for you,” you said. “Because I didn’t want to take you to hell with me.”

His voice cracked. “You didn’t have to protect me from your pain.”

“I did,” you said. “Because every goddamn day say you remind me how much you miss me.” Your voice cracked, your lips twitched. Tears falling from your eyes. “And do you know how much that sucks? I miss me too. And your love deserves something whole.”

“I never asked for whole.”

“But you deserve it.” You two both stood there, trembling. The snow fell thick outside the window. The fire crackled. You finally looked at him — really looked at him. Broken, hurt. And your heart broke all over again. “I can’t give you what you want, Jin.”

“I just want you.”

“I can’t give you me either.”

He turned away, pressing the heels of his hands to his wet eyes. His breath was uneven, like he was choking it back. And then, suddenly, he punched the side of the dresser— a thud, not violent, just desperate.

“I asked for the ring months ago,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s my mother’s. I kept it in my guitar case. Every time we argued, I thought: no, we’ll get there. I was so sure we would get there.” Tears spilled down his cheeks too. He looked back at you. “You left me standing there, thinking you were going to say yes. And you didn’t. You couldn’t.”

She swallowed hard. “You think I don’t want to say yes? You think I don’t lie awake at night wishing I could be the person you deserve?”

“Then be her!,” he shouted. “You owe me at least that, Y/n. Fight for it. Fight for us.”

“I’ve been fighting for my life!.”

That silenced him.

And that was the truth. He saw it then, not in your words, but in your face. Your exhaustion. Your trembling hands. Your empty eyes. You weren’t saying no because you didn’t love him. You were saying no because you couldn’t survive another promise you might not keep. You could say yes because you couldn’t work in something that wasn’t you, you couldn’t even work in you. You couldn’t say yes to something that was defined to be forever when you couldn’t even see yourself moving to be okay tomorrow.

You two stood in the wreckage of what could’ve been, too shattered to even hold each other.

You picked up your suitcase and walked toward the door. Your voice was barely audible when you said, “You need someone who can toast with you in front of your family. Someone who smiles when they say forever.”

“And you’re not her?”

You looked over your shoulder. “No,” you said. “And right now… I don’t think I’m anyone at all.”

Then you stepped into the cold. And he didn’t follow.

Forever is scary when you’re not sure you’ll make it through the week

—

The carriage was nearly empty, the muted hum of the train cutting through the silence like a distant heartbeat. Outside the fog blurred the edges of the world, gray and unyielding, as if the landscape itself mourned what was unfolding within these walls. Jin sat stiffly on the worn leather seat, hands clenched together, the weight of the night before pressing down like a suffocating blanket. Beside him, his mother was a rigid silhouette against the window’s dim light, and his sister lounged opposite, eyes sharp and distant, flicking between her phone and the bruised expression on Jin’s face.

His mother’s voice came first, quiet but cold as the November morning.

“You don’t need her, Seokjin. You deserve someone better. Someone who doesn’t bring you down with all that… baggage.” He said nothing. His jaw tightened. He stared at the floor, the pattern of the worn carpet no longer comforting but somehow fracturing, like the pieces of his heart. His mother continued, as if she hadn’t noticed his silence, or perhaps didn’t care.“She’s fragile. You’re strong. You need someone who can stand beside you, not pull you under.”

His sister snorted softly, the sound harsh in the confined space. “Honestly, Jin, what were you thinking? She’d make a lovely bride, sure — if she weren’t so fucked up in the head. Who says no to a proposal like that?” His sister shook her head. “You’re better off without her. Trust me.”

A dry laugh escaped Jin, bitter and hollow, but no words came. The weight of their dismissal, their lack of understanding, was crushing. And he couldn’t believe how he had ruined everything because he thought the deal was a great idea… maybe he still was his mother’s soon.

For a long moment, only the steady rumble of the train filled the space between them. Then Jin’s body began to betray him. His hands shook, fingers trembling as they clenched the invisible threads of control. His breath hitched, short and ragged, catching somewhere between his throat and his chest.

His mother glanced over, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. “What is it?” she asked, voice slightly softer, uncertain.

“I…” Jin’s voice broke like thin ice. “I thought… I thought if I just held on, if I was patient enough, if I loved her hard enough— maybe she’d stay.”

A shudder passed through him, uncontrollable now. Tears spilled, first a few, then a flood. He buried his face in his hands, sobbing in a way that ripped through his ribs, shaking his whole frame. The quiet and funny man they’d always known was gone, replaced by a torrent of grief and loss. His sister’s mouth fell open in shock. His mother reached out a hesitant hand, unsure whether to comfort or step back. Jin choked out between sobs. He kept breaking. He didn’t look up, didn’t try to stop the storm inside him. It was raw, naked, and in that moment, utterly real.

The train sped on, carrying him away from what was and toward a future he couldn’t yet imagine but knew would never be the same.

—

The boxes were gone. The mess was gone. Everything that had once been his. The jacket that still carried his scent, the old notebook he never touched but insisted on keeping, the half-used bottle of his shampoo in your bathroom… everything had been packed with numb hands and sent away that morning. Two weeks after the failed proposal. Not handed to him, not explained, not spoken of. You couldn’t see him. You couldn’t look at his face and explain why you were too tired to love him the way he deserved. Why even standing upright today had felt like a war.

Now, all that remained was the silence. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that suffocates. The kind that follows you into the corners of a quiet room and presses on your chest like invisible hands.

You sat on the floor of your bedroom, legs drawn to your chest, your back against the cold radiator that hadn’t worked properly in weeks. The sun had already disappeared behind gray clouds, and your room, cast in half-light, looked like something from a painting someone gave up on. Your eyes were red, not from one good cry, but from the long, slow weeping that comes when nothing makes sense anymore, when the sadness isn’t sharp but dull, heavy, thick like syrup in the veins.

You weren’t crying because you missed him— though you did. You weren’t crying because you regretted what you’d done— though that guilt throbbed like a bruise just under the skin. No. You cried because none of it mattered. Not really. Because even with Jin, even with love, with plans, with warmth, you still felt the same. Empty. Restless. Unanchored. And you hated yourself for it. What was the point of trying to build a life if every morning felt like dragging yourself through mud? What future could you possibly build if you could barely hold on to the present without feeling like it was slipping between your fingers?

You tried to imagine yourself five years from now, where you might be, who you might be. And the only thing that filled your mind was… nothing. Blank space. The absence of light. Not tragedy, not death, just… nothingness. As though the future had shut a door in your face and didn’t care to explain why.

A shaky breath rattled out of you. Your body trembled, not from cold, but from the terrifying tightness wrapping around your chest. Your fingers clawed at the fabric of your sweater, as if by gripping hard enough, you could keep yourself from unraveling entirely.

You broke him. And it still doesn’t fix anything. That didn’t offer comfort. Only truth. You could give everything away, every part of yourself, every good thing, and still be stuck in this darkness. Still feel like a weight, a burden, a constant disappointment waiting to happen. The idea that Jin could be free now, find someone healthier, brighter, someone who didn’t wake up with the crushing thought that life was meaningless.

That idea was meant to be comforting. But it just made you feel even worse…

No one wants the girl who’s always tired. Who cancels plans. Who can’t explain why she’s crying at 2 a.m. on the bathroom floor or three minutes after walking up. No one builds a life with the girl who’s convinced every good thing is a ticking bomb with no meaning.

You leaned your head back against the wall, eyes burning as fresh tears spilled over, hot and angry. Your shoulders shook silently. Your lips trembled with things you couldn’t say to anyone anymore. Nothing mattered. Not love. Not promises. Not even hope. It all felt like sand in your hands, soft, slipping, leaving behind only the shape of what was supposed to be.

And the worst part, the part that made you ache deep in your gut, was knowing you’d still have to wake up tomorrow and pretend to try again.

Pretend to want a future you couldn’t picture.

Pretend to be okay.

Pretend to exist.

Eight months later.

The city hadn’t changed, not in any meaningful way. The streets still pulsed with that particular blend of exhaustion and movement, cafes still spilled out onto sidewalks, and people still walked fast with nowhere urgent to be. But you felt different in it now. Like you’d been underground and were just now remembering how to breathe surface air again.

The days had been… indistinguishable. Some loud. Some silent. Some filled with small victories like brushing your teeth before noon. Others with bone-heavy defeats, like forgetting what joy was supposed to feel like. Your therapist said healing wasn’t a staircase. It was a maze. One where you hit the same walls again and again, and still have to convince yourself to keep walking. It sucked, but it had been the reality of all your life, and every time it had become less hard to accept it. But it still sucked.

On this particular Thursday, you wandered into a bookstore for no real reason. You didn’t have the focus for reading anymore, hadn’t in months, but you liked the smell— paper and ink and quiet ambition. It made you feel like you used to have dreams. Like you might still be made of more than just shadow. It made you believe you could find yourself again. It also made you not being at home, which helped. Since going out just to walk was something you were supposed to do everyday to help you deal with things.

You were running your fingers along a row of poetry books when you heard someone say your name.

Soft. Disbelieving.

“Y/n?”

Your hand froze mid-reach. Your heart didn’t race, not exactly. It tightened. Like it was bracing for impact. You hadn’t heard that voice in months, but it still felt like a memory you’d been holding too tightly in your palm.

When you turned, Jin was there. Standing just behind you, a bottle of water in his hand, a blue cap on his head. He looked the same. Not exactly, a little more tired maybe, a little more at ease somehow, but the same eyes, the same gravity in the way he looked at you. Like time hasn’t passed. Like you were something he’d been trying not to look for, and still always hoped to find. It made you feel less heavy not seeing that broken expression you left on him the last time you saw him.

“Jin,” you said. Your voice cracked on the edge of it. “Hi.”

A pause. The kind that held weight, not tension, just history. He smiled a little, as if unsure whether he was allowed to.

“You look good,” he offered, then immediately corrected, “I mean— you look like you’re doing better.”

You gave a tired sort of smile. “I’ve been worse.”

“That’s something,” he said. Then, gently, “Would you… want to grab a coffee or something? If you have time?”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you knew what that coffee could mean. Because the shape of his face still lived behind your eyelids some nights. Because your therapist kept saying “closure” and “boundaries” but you still dreamed in “what ifs.”

“Okay,” you finally said.

The café was warm, filled with the soft hum of early evening conversations and the clink of spoons against porcelain. You two sat by the window. The same city outside, the same lights, but something in you felt fundamentally different— like you were sitting slightly out of time, watching a version of your life that used to make sense.

You didn’t talk about what happened.

Instead, he asked how your job was going — you said you weren’t working right now, but you were trying to paint again. He told you about his sister’s wedding coming up, a small thing, nothing like what their parents wanted. You two laughed, gently, and it almost didn’t hurt.

Eventually, you guard dropped— just a little. “How have you been?.” And then he hit you with the question.

“Not as bad.”

At one point, he looked at you, the only way someone who knew every piece of you could, and said, “I meant to say… I’ve been thinking about you. Not in a weird way. Just… wondering how you were.”

You stirred your tea. The cup had gone cold.

“I’ve been trying,” you said quietly. “I’m still trying. You know... Therapy. Meds again. Breathing exercises. Writing. Things that suck but actually help” you dryly chuckled. “Some days are okay. Others feel like walking on broken glass.”

“And you?.”

“I don’t know. Some days I wake up and think maybe I can build something again. Others… it feels like I’m the thing that ruins everything I touch.”

His expression didn’t shift. No discomfort. Just listening.

“You don’t ruin things, Y/n.”

You let another dry, fragile laugh. “I left you standing in front of your family on one knee. You don’t think I ruin things?”

He looked down. Didn’t answer right away. “You were in pain.”

“And I still am.” You paused. “That’s the thing no one really gets. Depression doesn’t leave just because someone loves you well. Or because you want to be happy. Or because you should be happy.”

“I know,” he said, quietly.

“No,” you said. “You don’t. Not really. You were always the one making the plans. Buying the champagne. Carrying the future in your back pocket like something certain. And I just— I couldn’t hold it. It felt too big for me. Like I’d drop it, ruin it, the way I always do.”

Maybe the cruelest part of depression is how it convinces you that love is a burden, and you are the weight.

The silence between you two was different now. Not awkward. Not angry. Just heavy. Full of unspoken things.

“It wasn’t you completely” he said, looking at you softer. “I thought— I knew you were slipping away and I wanted to keep you somehow. I just wanted you.”

“I’m sorry” was everything you could say.

“You don’t have to.” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have corner you that way. I should have approached things different.”

“Me too.”

There was another silence. This time softer, kind. A silence where both of you left your thoughts cloud your minds. A silence that was full of ‘what if’s’ and “maybe”.

He sipped his coffee and didn’t look at you. “I used to think love was enough. But maybe it’s not about that. Maybe it’s just… timing. And capacity.”

You nodded. Slowly. “I guess so.”

There was a silence. Not uncomfortable, but comforting. And then he said: “it’s not selfish to want someone when you know you’re still not okay.” He looked up at you, his eyes steady. “I think it’s human.”

You didn’t respond. Didn’t say yes or no. Didn’t reach for his hand or retreat. Just let the words sit between you two like fragile glass.

Outside, the sun had started to go down. You noticed the soft gold light on his cheek. The way he still sat like he belonged across from you. Like he could wait, even now. Maybe he still wanted something. Maybe not. He didn’t say, “I miss you.” He didn’t say, “Let’s try again.” But he didn’t need to.

You watched the people walk past outside, coats buttoned, hands clasped, faces pink from the wind. And you wondered— just wondered— if someone like you, still cracked, still crawling through the fog, could ever try again. Not for him. Not for a ring. Not for a bright future. But for the terrifying possibility that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t have to be fixed and perfect to be loved. That maybe someone wouldn’t grow tired of watching you fall again and again.

The question echoed as the lights dimmed.

And in that moment, you didn’t answer it.

You just sat there.

Still breathing.

Still here.

Still trying.

did i eat or what?

changed things a bit because i love my man and who wouldn’t want to marry him???

depression sucks fr, i tried to write it based on my own experience dealing with it but ik it’s different for everyone so might not be accurate for every1

anyway hope u guys fuck with it >_< i hope i made justice to the song 🙏🏼

You moved slowly, deliberately, the way someone does when they’re unsure if what they’re doing is brave or stupid. Your fingers hesitated over every item. The scarf from the Amalfi trip. The beanie he used to steal from your drawer because he said it smelled like your shampoo. A mug he bought at a gas station in Seoul because it had a crooked cat on it and made you laugh for five minutes straight. You touched those things like they were burning.

Should you throw it or keep it?

That line had been circling your brain for weeks now. At the gallery, on the subway, even during your meetings, where you were supposed to be discussing lighting angles and shipping crates but instead you were wondering how it was possible to be surrounded by beauty and still feel so hollow.

You didn’t even know when the emptiness started. That was the cruel part. It wasn’t a moment. Not one big, ugly heartbreak. It was slow. Like rot beneath paint, like silence growing in a house until it swallowed everything else. The pain had become numbness and then just… nothingness.

You were tired of waiting for something, of just waiting for basic things. You were tired for even trying to ask for basic things your partner was supposed to give you in a relationship. Romance, touch, a place— nothing. You hated how you started not expecting, not making it such a big deal. Trying to understand had become a task, a reflex. And you hated it. You were so understanding that it had become a fight for your standards. Now nothing was accomplished. Nothing was expected anymore.

And you had stayed. For too long. Giving CPR to a relationship that hadn’t had a heartbeat in ages. And mow you moved quietly through the bedroom you two had once made it feel like home. Your home. Your place to land, a place for you. Now it was just a big, boring apartment.

You folded the last shirt and paused. Your eyes landed on the nightstand. His nightstand. And you hated yourself for opening it one last time to see it.

There it was. The ring.

In a box that was already more than eight months old, waiting for the right moment that was never going to arrive. It was just… there, like him. You hadn’t put it on. Not the first time you accidentally found it, excited. Not when he told you he was waiting for the right time to ask you to marry him. Not three months later when you were bored. Not ever. And not because you didn’t want to. But because you had been waiting. Waiting for the moment he’d really ask the question. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for the fight. Waiting for him to see you.

But he hadn’t.

You sat down slowly at the edge of the bed, ring glinting dully in the low light. Your throat felt like it was full of water, like if you opened your mouth, it would all come spilling out. And you looked at the ring and thought that maybe you could’ve stayed. Maybe if he had just said something. Done something. Fought for you… But all you’d gotten was silence. And silence had a way of becoming truth.

Your hand hovered over the nightstand, opening the drawer to leave the box inside. Down all the mess of papers and cables. You left it there, becoming dust as it already was. And you hated yourself for a second, for staying there more than necessary, wishing for a change of heart. For a fight that was never coming. For a life that you had planned with him in your mind. For him. For something… but nothing came. It was just you. Like always.

Your gaze drifted to the window, where the city lights blinked in soft, distant rhythms. And somewhere in the quiet, somewhere in the ache, a memory stirred—of an art gallery.

Of a man in sunglasses.

Of the first time Namjoon made you smiled.

< Four year and a half ago. Manhattan, USA. >

The late afternoon sun filtered softly through the gallery’s floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, warm shadows across the polished concrete floor. You moved quietly among the canvases and sculptures, your heels clicking against the cold surface. The space smelled faintly of turpentine and fresh paper. An honest scent, one that grounded you even on the most restless days.

You were adjusting a label next to a large canvas when the front door chimed. A man entered, head low, wearing a faded baseball cap and oversized sunglasses that hid most of his face. The kind of low-key disguise that almost screamed the opposite. Definitely trying not to be noticed, which was always the most noticeable thing a person could do in a room like this.

Some visitors needed to be approached. Others needed to be left alone until the silence got too heavy. He was the later one. You let him wandered, let him take his time since there wasn’t a lot of people to entertain as it was getting late.

He drifted toward the centerpiece of the current exhibit you were standing in front of a sprawling, abstract piece by Maya Lin, whose sculptures and installations played fluidly between form and space, light and shadow. This particular canvas was a riot of twisted metal shapes and soft washes of color, both chaotic and meticulous. The man lingered, taking his glasses and studying it with the kind of focus usually reserved for something personal.

After a moment, he said quietly, “It’s strange. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to feel unsettled or calm looking at this.”

You nodded, folding your arms thoughtfully. “Well, Maya’s work isn’t about giving you an answer. It’s about making you sit with the tension, between order and disorder, permanence and fragility. This piece, ‘Fragmented Horizon’, is her take on how modern life fractures time and memory. There’s a sort of… simultaneous push and pull in the shapes.”

He nodded slowly, eyes tracing the jagged lines. “Like trying to hold onto something slipping away.”

“Exactly,” you said. “But without nostalgia or softness. More like… acceptance of the messiness.”

He chuckled. “That’s one way to make chaos feel elegant.”

You smiled, watching how the afternoon light hit the canvas and made the colors shift. “That’s Maya for you. Always precise but never neat.”

He tilted his head, curiosity sharpening his tone. “Do you come here often? I mean, to places like this.”

You considered the question. “Well, they send me here since I was in the city for vacation and they were exposing Korean artists. They needed someone to speak the language so—”

“Working in holidays, you must like your job.” he muttered, interested. “Are you a translator?.”

“I’m an art dealer. I mostly work with living artists, commissioning pieces, managing exhibitions, negotiating with collectors who want to own a bit of that chaos.” you shrugged.

His eyes sparkled. “Sounds like you get to know the chaos pretty well.”

You laughed softly. “More than I care to admit.”

He paused, then said, “I talk a lot about art. I like to come to galleries and met new artists, they always have good stories to tell with their art.”

“Stories are everywhere,” you replied, “but it’s rare to find someone who listens.”

He smiled, a genuine, almost shy expression that softened the guarded set of his jaw.

“Speaking of stories,” he said, “what about the piece over there?” He gestured toward a smaller sculpture. A delicate, twisting form made from layered sheets of transparent resin.

You followed his gaze. “That’s by Lee Ufan. He works with space and material in a way that makes the invisible visible. Like, the silence between sound, or the emptiness around matter. It’s minimal, but it forces you to rethink presence and absence.”

He looked impressed. “I like that. It’s… quiet. But it says a lot without saying much.”

You nodded. “That’s the goal with good art. It’s always better when you can discuss it with someone.” your eyes met his briefly.

A beat passed.

He hesitated. “Do you… do you usually give your number out at galleries?”

“No,” you said slowly, “I don’t unless is work related.”

“Lucky for me.” He smiled. “I’m an art activist. I know a lot of small artist who are dying to have a place. As an art dealer I think you would be great for that. You have a place in Korea, right?.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Do you have credentials?”

“Uhm…. not really, but would you pass an opportunity like that?.”

He looked a little nervous. You liked his courage. You thought for a moment, then walked to the counter to grab your card. A small business card that said your name, work number and the gallery you worked in back in the city.

“You’ll have to book a meeting if you want an actual art deal.” you said.

“Work phone” he nodded, slipping the card carefully into his pocket. “Y/n, I like your name.”

“And you are?.”

He stretched his hand and you grabbed it, delicate and soft. He had a musician’s hands, long and unpolished.

“Kim Namjoon.”

For a second, the hum of the gallery seemed to quiet around you two.

You knew that name. Of course you did. The disguise might’ve fooled most people, but not someone who paid attention for a living. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t let the recognition bloom on your face. And for that, he looked almost grateful.

“Do you usually ask for numbers in art galleries, Kim Namjoon?.”

He chuckled. “I usually don’t ask for numbers at all. But I’d knew I regret it if I didn’t.”

You smiled. “I’m hoping it is because of my great work.”

“That, and something else.” He didn’t let you say anything more, turning around to leave. “Y/n. I’ll be in touch.”

And then he was gone. But his absence stayed in the air, like music that had just stopped.

— — — — —

It took Namjoon only a day to text you. A Saturday night.

Unknown Number: Hi. I keep thinking about the sculpture made of resin

Unknown Number: The one about presence and absence. That stayed with me

You were curled on the hotel’s couch when the message came through, bare feet tucked under you and a cup of green tea slowly going cold on the table. You read it twice before replying. You’d given your number before and never expected much from it. This felt different. Still uncertain. But thoughtful. You typed slowly.

You: Lee Ufan

You: He’s brilliant. Still refuses to overexplain anything, which makes everyone else write 6,000-word essays about him to cope

A minute passed.

Unknown Number: So basically he’s a mystery that intellectuals are desperate to solve

Unknown Number: Sounds familiar

You smiled.

You: Are you referring to yourself or to the sculpture?

Unknown Number: …. maybe both

Unknown Number: But I’m easier to approach in daytime

You: And without sunglasses?

Unknown Number: Maybe

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then you typed:

You: I’m not sure that’s true

You: you walked around the gallery like you’d been briefed on how not to be noticed by anyone

Unknown Number: Was I that obvious?

You: Obvious in a very practiced, low-effort kind of way

You: The hat was a nice touch, very 2010s indie musician energy.

Unknown Number: Ouch

Unknown Number: Now I regret not buying the resin sculpture to distract you

You: You couldn’t afford it

Unknown Number: You don’t know what I do

You: I know that people who buy art like that don’t wear converse with holes in them

Unknown Number: You noticed my shoes?

You: I notice everything

There was a pause, a longer one. You wondered if you’d overstepped.

Unknown Number: So do I

Unknown Number: That’s probably why I came back

A small knot twisted in your chest. You stared at the screen.

You: You came back? Wdym?

Unknown Number: Three times before I said anything

Unknown Number: You were always rearranging a frame, or telling a couple that “meaning variates” with that one eyebrow lift you did a lot when we talked

Unknown Number: I think I liked that more than the art

You snorted at how cheesy that was.

You: So what do you do for living?

Unknown Number: Music

Unknown Number: bit of writing, some pretending I’m not in music.

Unknown Number: still an art dealer?

You chuckled at that.

You: Yes, but not in the evil capitalist way

You: I find work for the artists who still rent apartments with roommates

Unknown Number: That sounds noble

Unknown Number: also so suspiciously underpaid.

You: I also make deals with big people, that’s where I get my checks from and how I can get not-much-known artists to the gallery

Unknown Number: Very smart

You: That’s why I accepted your number request

You: High risk, high reward

Unknown Number: Is this your way of saying you want to meet again, or of keeping me guessing?

You: … maybe both

There was a pause again. A beat that stretched just long enough to make you think the moment had passed. Then:

Unknown Number: Next Friday, in Seoul. I’ll be in your gallery

Unknown Number: Of course, asking for a tour

Unknown Number: This is a business thing

You: I see, only professional matters.

You: I have a group at 7pm you can join

You: Only if you agree to remove the hat this time

Unknown Number: Done

—————

Friday next week came pretty quickly.

And the gallery had never felt so still.

It was 8:52 PM. The lights were dimmed— soft, intimate track lighting casting long shadows over the concrete floor. Outside, the city was moving in its usual Friday-night blur, but inside, everything had slowed to a hush. Specially since it was 8 minutes from closure and the person you had been waiting for didn’t show up to the tour you had given an hour before. But you were okay with that. Finally able to get a rest while finishing the closure.

You stood barefoot behind the front desk, about to flip the lock on the gallery door. You’d swapped your usual heels for flats and hour ago and pulled your hair up into a loose twist that had started to fall by the time he arrived. Namjoon walked in wearing a dark coat and no hat this time, his sunglasses tucked into his front pocket, not on his face.

Good. He was trying.

“Evening,” he said softly, stepping inside.

“You’re late,” you said, not looking up from the wine you were uncorking.

“Traffic.”

You understood it was probably because he didn’t want to be notice by so many people. You could deal with that. So you handed him a glass without asking his preference. He took it with a small nod of thanks.

“No hat. New shoes. You kept your word,” you noted, glancing down. He was wearing clean boots. Expensive ones, slightly scuffed. Still lived-in.

“I felt like the gallery deserved more respect this time.” His tone was dry but sincere. “And I didn’t want to get roasted again.”

You smirked and walked toward the center of the room. “Come on then. You wanted the tour.”

You moved from piece to piece, your voice low but certain. Not a script, just fluid context. Enough to make him look twice at something he thought he understood.

“This one,” you said, pausing at a large mixed-media piece hung on raw linen, “was done by Hyun Seo Kim. She uses burned textiles, thread, and ash in her work. Her whole process is destructive, controlled chaos. But then she stitches it back together. The idea is that memory can’t be preserved, only reconstructed.”

Namjoon stepped closer. “I’ve never seen ash look… gentle.”

“That’s because she bleaches it after. She doesn’t want the trauma to be obvious. Just present.”

He studied it in silence. “That feels honest.”

You turned to him. “Most honest things do.”

He didn’t say anything to that. Just nodded, like he was storing it for later.

You two moved through the space in slow, deliberate loops, glass in one hand, silence in the other. You weren’t trying to impress him. You didn’t perform your intelligence. You just let it unfold, like a door left half-open for him to walk through if he wanted. And he did. When you both reached the back alcove, you stopped in front of one of your favorite works. A minimalist installation of hanging wires and glass, perfectly balanced so that even the weight of breath shifted the alignment.

“It reacts to people,” you said. “Subtly. Like the way someone’s mood changes the feel of a room.”

He leaned in, careful not to disturb the piece. “So it’s never still.”

“Exactly. But the movement’s so small, most people miss it.”

He looked at you. “You don’t.”

You shrugged. “I spend a lot of time with things that don’t speak.”

He took a sip of wine, but his gaze didn’t leave yours. “That’s funny. I make a living off speaking and I still can’t say half the things I mean.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your fingers traced the edge of your glass. “What is it you want to say right now?”

The question hung between you two like one of the wires, weightless, waiting.

Namjoon’s brow furrowed slightly. Not defensive. Just… unpracticed. Like no one asked him questions he didn’t already have answers to. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “But I haven’t thought about music once since I got here. That feels… rare.”

You tilted your head, curious. “That’s a compliment or a warning?”

He smiled. “Both.”

You two stood there in the hush, just watching each other for a few long seconds. Then you turned, setting your glass down on the narrow bench against the wall.

“Well, since you didn’t book an official tour, this is where the curated experience ends.”

“No encore?” he teased.

You walked back toward the front desk, your voice thrown over your shoulder. “You’ll have to come back and pretend to like conceptual video art like the rest of our donors.”

“I might do it.” He followed you slowly, letting his fingers brush the edge of a sculpture as he passed.

When you reached the desk, you glanced at him sideways. “So?”

“So…?”

“Was it worth it?”

He didn’t smile this time. He just said, “Yes.”

You exhaled, a laugh almost escaping. “Good. I was worried I’d have to break into the champagne fridge to rescue the night.”

He stepped closer, not touching, just close enough that you could smell the trace of whatever cologne he wore, something cedar-based and quiet.

“You still might have to,” he murmured.

Your pulse kicked just slightly. “Maybe next time,” you said, steady. “We close in five minutes.”

“I thought we were already closed.”

“I’m very professional,” you said. “Even during off-hours.”

He looked at you for a moment. Then pulled his phone from his coat pocket and opened a new contact.

“Remind me to thank Lee Ufan,” he said. “Without him, I’d still be pretending to care about Rothko in Chelsea.” You took his phone, typed your personal phone number and name before handed it back. And just before he left— hand brushing the door handle, head half-turned— he said: “Y/n?”

“Hmm?”

“I haven’t wanted to stay somewhere in a long time. But this was… good.”

You watched him go. You said nothing… But as the lock clicked into place behind him and you turned off the lights, you realized you were smiling. And you hadn’t done that in days.

< Four years ago. Seoul, Korea. >

It started with tea.

Neither of you two had wanted more wine. It was already past one, the air inside heavy and comfortable, and you had stood, stretched, and mumbled something about chamomile. Namjoon had followed you into the kitchen, because he couldn’t not. Now, two mugs sat cooling on the coffee table, untouched. You were curled at one end of the couch, socked feet tucked under you, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. Namjoon lay on his side across the other end, head propped on a throw pillow.

He didn’t want to go home. Not yet.

“I still think you’re lying about never writing a book,” you said, pointing a finger at him like it was a scandal.

“I told you,” he said, grinning, “I tried one time and I got so stressed for it to be perfect I had to throw it out. I almost had to take pills for anxiety.”

You snorted. “You probably are better just writing music and poems.”

“You’re cruel.”

“I’m honest.”

He looked at you then, a little too long. Your hair tied back in a loose knot, a small smudge of eyeliner still clinging to the corner of your eye. To him you always looked like you were halfway between leaving and staying forever.

“Your turn,” he said, lazily. “Ask something.”

You pressed your lips, thinking. Then: “What do you miss most about before things got big?”

Namjoon blinked. “That’s a surprisingly good question.”

“I’m full of them.”

“I miss…” He paused. “Having time to be bored. Back then, I used to wander for hours. Not even writing. Just… looking. People, cracks in the sidewalk, signs on buses. Now everything’s either scheduled or monetized. Or both.”

You watched him. “You sound older when you say that.”

“I feel older when I say it.”

“Do you regret it?”

“The music?”

“No. The scale of it. The attention.”

He thought about it. Then shook his head. “No. But sometimes I wish I could mute it. Like— have it without the echo.” You nodded slowly, as if you understood without needing him to explain more. “Okay,” he said, recovering his grin. “Now you, what’s something no one knows about you?”

“I once wanted to be a florist.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“For about four days when I was twelve. I used to rearrange bouquets from the grocery store and get upset when they were ‘imbalanced.’ I told my mom I was going to run a flower shop where people could come in and say how they were feeling and I’d match them to a bouquet.”

Namjoon’s mouth twitched. “That’s actually adorable.”

“And extremely impractical.”

“You’d make a very judgmental florist.”

“I’d be selective,” you corrected. “No carnations. No baby’s breath. And absolutely no Valentine’s Day roses.”

He laughed, soft and full.

There was a moment of quiet again. Not awkward, just long enough for the air to shift. Then he asked, “Do you believe in soulmates?”

You looked at him for a moment, eyes unreadable.

“I think some people fit. In a way that doesn’t have to be explained.”

“Not fate?”

“No,” you shook your head. “More like… they recognize something in each other. Something old. Something familiar.”

Namjoon watched you for a long second. “You sound like someone who’s already met theirs.”

You smiled, but didn’t answer. Instead, you asked, “What’s your worst habit?”

He grinned. “Interrupting people when I’m excited.”

“Accurate.”

“Also… leaving too soon. From everything.”

You raised a brow. “Even from people?”

“Especially from people,” he said, then added, more quietly, “Until now.”

You looked down at your hands, picking at the hem of your hoodie. He could tell you were deciding whether or not to believe him. Eventually, you said, “You haven’t left yet.”

He nodded, and said, “Ask me something else.”

You smirked. “What’s my middle name?”

Namjoon grimaced. “…Do I get a hint?”

“No.”

“Is it tragic?”

“That depends on your taste in poetry.”

“Oh god.”

You leaned in, eyes sparkling. “Guess.”

“Something with vowels. It feels like vowels.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Something French?” You shook your head. He sighed dramatically. “Is it… Eleanor?” You blinked. “Is it Eleanor?!”

You smiled, then mouthed, “maybe.”

Namjoon threw his head back. “I am a genius!”

“It’s not Eleanor.”

“Yah!” he frowned. “I got excited.”

“I just wanted to break your hopes of being a genius.”

He smiled, like you just told him the biggest compliment. “You’re in love with me.”

“I am not.”

He smirked. “You’re very close.”

And you said nothing, but didn’t look away.

Outside, a car passed. The candle flickered. The playlist looped again. And somewhere between the questions and the not-quite confessions, you both realized: whatever was growing wasn’t temporary.

—————

You were lost.

Not metaphorically. Actually lost.

A wrong turn, a closed road, and a stubborn GPS had led you two somewhere outside of Busan city, into a mess of winding hills and stone walls and olive trees that all looked like something from a postcard Namjoon had definitely lied about sending once… It was your first road trip/travel with him. Now that you were dating you were spending more and more time together so a little travel while you two had time off was great. Specially since it was only the two of you. But this, this was a mess. And it had been funny for the first twenty minutes…

Now you had your feet on the dash, sunglasses slipping down your nose, and Namjoon was squinting at his phone like it had personally betrayed him.

“Why don’t you just ask someone?” you offered, trying not to roll your eyes.

“Because I’m a man and I’m supposed to figure it out through trial, error, and unnecessary detours.”

“That’s not charming. That’s a cliché.”

“Exactly. And clichés are comforting.”

You finally did roll your eyes and leaned over to look at his phone. “We’re fifteen minutes from the villa. You just missed a left after the sheep farm.”

“That could describe this entire region.”

You smirked. “So dramatic.”

He pulled the car to the side of the dirt road, sighed, and finally looked at you. “Okay,” he said. “Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Whatever sarcastic thing you’ve been holding in for the last twenty minutes. I deserve it.”

You tilted your head. “I was going to say this might be the most relaxed I’ve ever seen you.”

Namjoon blinked.

“That… wasn’t sarcastic.”

“I know.”

He looked at you. Really looked. The sunlight was pooling in your lap, catching the hem of your linen shorts, the small scar on your knee, the lazy twist of your smile. Your hand was curled around a bottle of water, your nails chipped, your phone face-down on your thigh. You were quiet. Present. Not curating anything.

He hadn’t written a song in two weeks and hadn’t even cared. And maybe that should have terrified him. But instead, what slipped out of his mouth, simple and sudden, was:

“I love you.”

You stilled.

He felt it immediately. The way the air changed. Not colder. Not distant. Just heavier, like the room had shrunk and the road had stopped moving and time was now very, very slow.

You looked at him, your eyes unreadable behind the glasses.

“You said that like you didn’t mean to.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

He swallowed. “Because it’s true.”

A beat.

Then another.

You reached up, slid your sunglasses into your hair, and studied him. Not like a critic. Not like a curator. Just a girl who’d been kissed in the middle of a detour and hadn’t expected it to feel like a beginning.

“I don’t think I can say it yet,” you said softly.

“I know.”

“But I’m not getting out of the car.”

He smiled, something small, barely there, but real.

“Good.”

You reached over, laced your fingers through his, and said, “Now turn the car around before I start doubting your sense of direction and your emotional timing.”

He laughed. It shook out of him without resistance.

And when he drove back toward the sheep farm, your hand stayed in his the whole way.

—————

It was late.

Not late like the night you’d always stayed up talking till sunrise. This was the quiet late. The end of a long day, the kind that left your bones a little heavier, your thoughts a little slower.

You had come back from a full weekend at the gallery. An opening, a surprise artist visit, two canceled deliveries, and a handful of clients who talked too much and bought too little. Namjoon had waited up for you. Not because you asked him to. He just always did. He liked to be in your apartment, waiting for you when he was available. Seeing you, being with you anytime he could. He liked being available for you, even in your worst moods.

You came in, dropped your bag, kicked off your shoes with one hand still holding your phone, hair messily pinned, and your lipstick worn off in the center. He didn’t say anything at first, just handed you the takeout he’d ordered and a glass of water. And you two sat on the couch like you’ve been doing the last couple of months when you gave him the key to your apartment, when you came home like this: your legs over his lap, your head leaned back on the armrest, one of his hands tracing slow, lazy lines down your tights.

“You smell like oil paint,” he said quietly.

You didn’t open your eyes. “Someone spilled gesso all over the hallway. I slipped in it. My knees are a war crime.”

He laughed under his breath. “You’re very sexy when you’re bruised and tired.”

“I’m always tired.”

“You’re always sexy.”

“Your standards are deeply flawed.”

He smiled. “They’re deeply yours.”

And then there was quiet for a while.

You were finishing your noodles slowly. His fingers hadn’t stopped tracing your skin. The TV was on but muted, some cooking show with too much steam and too many close-ups of butter. It wasn’t a romantic night. There were no candles. No dramatic pauses. Which is why it felt exactly right when you suddenly said it.

“I love you.”

Namjoon blinked, mid-chew. He swallowed too quickly and coughed once. You didn’t laugh. Didn’t tease. You just looked at him with this almost-shy, almost-tired certainty, like the words had been sitting under your tongue for weeks and simply slipped free before you could second-guess them.

He opened his mouth, but you spoke again, softer this time. “I didn’t say it before because I didn’t want it to sound like… thanks. Or obligation. Or like I was catching up.” He nodded slowly, still not trusting himself to speak. “But I do,” you added. “I love you. I know it. And it’s quiet, but it’s… constant. Like breathing. I don’t have to check if it’s there anymore.”

Namjoon didn’t say anything right away. He just reached for your hand, lifted it gently, and kissed the inside of your wrist, the same spot he’d brushed his thumb across that first night on the floor you two spent together. And then, without needing to say it again, he smiled that slow, stunned smile people only make when they hear what they didn’t know they’d been waiting for.

“About damn time,” he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, but let him pull you close.

And in the quiet, with nothing grand or profound around you both, you thought: this is great. This is perfect.

< Three years ago. Seoul, Korea >

You two were cooking.

Or trying to. The kitchen was a mess. Half-sliced vegetables, three open spice jars, a pan smoking slightly on the stove. You had flour on your cheek, and Namjoon was holding a wooden spoon like he was conducting an orchestra.

“Okay,” he said, voice stern. “I don’t want to alarm you, but we may have invented a new form of food poisoning.”

You glanced at the pan, then at him. “That’s just… slightly over-caramelized garlic.”

“It looks like regret.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m a realist. A realist with a fire extinguisher under the sink.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned over to nudge him out of the way with your hip. “Move. I’m saving this.”

“You’re gonna dump it.”

“I’m going to elevate it.”

“Oh, now it’s Chopped?”

You gave him a look. “You’re lucky I love you.”

He paused. Still every time you said it. Like it rearranged something in him.

“You’re even luckier,” he said, quieter. “Because I would eat your elevated garlic poison a thousand times.”

You two grinned at each other for a moment. Then you turned back to the pan. He didn’t move. Just watched you. Then, softly: “Do you think about where this is going?”

You didn’t turn around, but he saw the way your shoulders shifted.

“Sometimes,” you said, casual but not distant. “Do you?”

“All the time.”

He stepped closer. Rested a hand on the counter beside your hip.

“I think about what it would be like to wake up next to you somewhere quieter. Somewhere with windows that face east and a real coffee machine.”

Your voice was light. “You hate waking up early.”

“For you, I’d tolerate sunrises.” You smiled at the pan. Stirred once. He went on. “I think about your bookshelves of art history in my space. My guitar in your hallway. Arguing over what color to paint the bedroom.”

“We’d never agree.”

“Exactly. That’s how I know it would work.”

You turned then, leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, wooden spoon still in hand. “You’re making this sound a little like a proposal.”

Namjoon stepped closer, but didn’t touch you. “I’m making it sound like a possibility.”

You studied him, eyes sharp, searching, soft.

“And you’re not scared?” you asked.

He shrugged. “Terrified.”

“But?”

“But I love you more than I fear the part where it could all fall apart.”

A silence passed, then you said, “I think I’d want a balcony. Wherever we are.”

Namjoon grinned. “See? That’s already a ‘we.’”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t deny it. And then you reached out, quietly, fingers brushing his.

“We could take it slow.”

Namjoon nodded. “We could take it together.”

The garlic burned. The pan hissed. Neither of you moved. Because in that moment, over smoke and risk and flour on your cheek, the future stopped feeling theoretical. It started to feel like something you could build.

Not in one night. But maybe, If you two kept choosing it… Every night after.

—————

The gallery was already humming.

Rows of suited collectors, critics, young interns holding wine glasses too tightly. Warm lighting made everything glow just a little too perfectly. You stood near the entrance to the main room, your talk scheduled in less than twenty minutes. You weren’t nervous. Not about the speaking. You’d done this before. Art history, curation, your specialty in contemporary Korean painters, this was your terrain. What was sitting heavy in your stomach was the ghost of Namjoon’s absence.

You hadn’t expected him to come. Really. He was across the country, prepping for an upcoming televised performance that morning, stuck in rehearsals and press for the next week too. He’d sent a voice note that morning. Tired but warm. “You’ll be brilliant, and I’m not only saying it because I love you but because I know you. You don’t need me there to see it. I’m proud of you, baby.”

And you understood. You always understood. Still. You kept catching yourself glancing at the door.

“Y/n,” someone said. Sophie, your co-curator, adjusting her headset. “They’re ready for you in five.”

You nodded, adjusted your blazer, smoothed your palm against the small stack of notes you wouldn’t end up using. You moved toward the front of the space, where the podium stood framed by two large pieces from the exhibit. Bold, saturated strokes and raw canvas textures behind you. It was a big night. You were hoping to expand your contacts, specially after your conference. The microphone gave a small feedback pop as you stepped forward.

You were two lines into your opening when it happened.

A flicker of movement near the back of the room. Someone slipping in quietly. You didn’t pause. Not really. Just a half-breath longer between phrases. But your eyes caught him— Namjoon. Hair a little messy, jacket half-buttoned, eyes red-rimmed from a redeye flight. His body carried the energy of someone held together by caffeine and adrenaline and the sheer force of trying.

He was here. He shouldn’t have been.

But he was.

You kept going, finished your opening, sliding into your thoughts on spatial symbolism and absence in modern Korean brushwork, but your heart was no longer still. It beat like it knew him again. Like it was grateful. When the talk ended, the applauses were polite, enthusiastic, a few flashes from someone with a press badge. But you stepped down and walked past all of it, past compliments and handshakes and gallery assistants offering you wine, and headed straight toward him.

Namjoon stood near the wall, half out of the spotlight, holding a paper cup of truly terrible gallery coffee.

“You’re not real,” you said, quietly, breathless.

“I’m very poorly rested, but real,” he answered.

“You said you—”

“I changed my mind at 1 a.m. Took the first flight out. Rehearsals be damned.”

You stared at him. “Did you just show up?” you asked, voice smaller now.

“No,” he said. “I came through. There’s a difference.”Your throat tightened. “You were amazing,” he said. “I mean, I only caught the last twenty minutes, but I wanted to stand up and yell like a lunatic.”

You exhaled a shaky laugh. “I didn’t ask you to come.”

“I know.”

“And I wouldn’t have blamed you if you didn’t.”

“I know that too.” He looked at you gently. “That’s why I had to.”

You stepped forward then, and for a moment you didn’t hug him, didn’t kiss him. Just stood in front of him, looking.

“Are you flying back tonight?” you whispered.

“No. We’re going back to the apartment. I plan to sleep for eighteen hours and then take you to that place you love. The one with the ugly chairs and perfect tiramisu.”

You smiled. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything,” Namjoon said.

“I love you so much.” You leaned into him. Tired. Grateful. A little stunned.

And he kissed you hair, right there between gallery walls and strangers, and whispered, “I love you.”

—————

You knew how Namjoon’s world worked… barely. He knew yours pretty well since every time he had an open space he tried to spent it with you at work or home. It was really rare for you to tag alone with his since it was mostly out of country or when you were working. The most you had been with him at work was at concerts, small shows or when he was working in music in his studio at the company.

So when you were on vacation for two weeks, you decided to tagged along to one of his normal days.

“It’ll be boring,” he warned. “Just me in a chair and people talking too fast.”

But you’d smiled, kissed his shoulder, and said, “I like chairs.”

So you went. And it wasn’t boring. It was… relentless.

From the moment you two arrived at the studio, people swirled around Namjoon like a weather system. Stylists, managers, PR handlers, producers. His name was said in every sentence, but never to him. He was always in motion: adjusting in front of a camera, changing his shirt, signing something, nodding through directions, practicing lines.

You sat on a folding chair in the corner of the dressing room, half-listening to the buzz. You pulled out your laptop to answer emails, but your eyes kept drifting back to him. And at one point, he caught you watching. He mouthed, Rescue me. You smiled.

Later, when there was a brief break, he slumped beside you, stealing your water bottle.

“How do you do this every day?” you asked.

“I don’t,” he said. “Some days I hide in closets.”

“Respect.”

He leaned against you lightly. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Just absorbing it all.”

“It’s not always like this,” he added quickly. “This week is… extra.”

You didn’t challenge him. But you also didn’t say, It seems like it’s always ‘extra.’ Instead, you said, “Do you have an actual lunch break?”

He made a face. “Technically, yes. Practically, no.”

You pulled something from your bag. A sandwich you’d picked up that morning, wrapped in wax paper and still a little warm. Namjoon stared at it like you had pulled gold from a shoe.

“I forgot what love tasted like,” he said dramatically, taking it.

You nudged his foot with yours. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I haven’t eaten since… yesterday, I think?”

“You’re the reason I carry snacks.”

He grinned around a bite. “Marry me.”

“I’ve seen how you cook. Absolutely not.”

He laughed, mouth full.

You two sat like that. Your laptop balancing on your knees, him chewing too quickly, his head resting briefly on your shoulder. Just a moment, in the eye of the storm. And still… you felt the distance. Not between you two exactly, but between his life and yours. Between the slow, curated hush of gallery walls and the frantic, blinking pulse of his world.

You didn’t resent it. But it felt… heavy.

When he got pulled into his next segment, you stayed behind. Alone again in the dressing room. You looked at the schedule taped to the wall. Seven more things to go. A different building after this one. No end in sight. You opened your phone and scrolled through your messages with him. A few voice notes. A photo he’d sent last week of you eating breakfast half-asleep, captioned “Exhibit A: cutest person alive.”

You smiled. But something inside you tugged. You started typing: “Can we maybe block a day off next week? Just us? Nothing huge. Just… be still?”

Then you stared at it. Deleted it. Instead, you sent:

You: You’re killing it today, proud of u

He replied seconds later.

Namjoon: Only cause ure here

You locked your phone. Stared at your reflection in the makeup mirror. Still smiling. Still here. Still wondering how long you could keep up with the pace of a life that never paused. But you were sure you could as long as you want it, because you love him. And if he was always trying for you. You could try for him too.

—————

Rain tapped lightly against the kitchen windows, the kind of soft, even rain that didn’t interrupt plans so much as cancel them without asking. You had moved in only three months ago, bare walls, bare windows, the kind of clean that felt temporary. But tonight, it was warm.

You stood barefoot in front of the stove in an oversized sweatshirt that definitely used to belong to Namjoon. Your hair was twisted into a low bun, lazy and lopsided, and you were humming, off-key and quietly, to a song playing through the tiny Bluetooth speaker on the counter. Something old. Sam Cooke, maybe. Or Ella. You liked to listen to music that made you feel like you were in a slower decade. And your boyfriend always had great recommendations.

Namjoon leaned in the doorway, holding a peeled orange in one hand, watching you stir something in a small pot.

“You’re doing it again,” he said.

“Doing what?”

“That thing where you pretend you’re not a domestic goddess, but you are. Like— look at you! Apron, slippers, vintage jazz, homemade jam?”

“This is store-bought jam,” you said.

“Doesn’t matter. The energy is jam you made at midnight while processing intergenerational grief.”

You turned slightly to glare at him. “Why do you talk like that?”

“Because I’m in love with a woman who makes toast look romantic,” he said, stepping closer and placing the orange in you mouth before you could protest.

You laughed, cheeks puffed, chewing exaggeratedly. “You’re ridiculous.”

He gave you a peck. “You like it.”

“I tolerate it.”

“You adore it.”

“You’re pushing your luck.”

He wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder as you stirred. You leaned into him, sighing softly.

The world felt quiet here. Warm, not in the literal sense—though the stove certainly helped—but in the way your back pressed into his chest, in the rhythm of the rain, in the simple reality of two people with nowhere else to be.

“What are we making again?” he asked.

“Chai.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s enough.”

He smiled into your hair. “You’re enough.”

You didn’t answer immediately. Just reached for the mugs and poured, carefully, like it was a spell. He watched your hands, how precise they were, how steady, and thought about all the things you touched that weren’t meant to last but somehow lasted anyway. You two sat at the little table by the window, legs tangled under the chairs, sipping the tea in silence for a while.

Then Namjoon said, “When we’re eighty, can we still do this?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think you’ll still like me when I’m eighty?”

“No,” he said dramatically. “I think I’ll worship you. I’ll be the weird old man in the building who writes poems about his wife and forgets to wear matching socks.”

“Joke’s on you,” you said. “I’m going to make you wear orthopedic shoes.”

“I’ll write a song about that too.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re smiling,” he said, nudging your foot under the table.

You were .

And in that tiny kitchen, with your knees touching and the storm rolling gently outside, you thought: If it always feels like this, I’ll never want more.

< Two years ago. Seoul, Korea >

It was late afternoon when he showed up.

You weren’t expecting him to be back yet. He’d been in back-to-back rehearsals for days, barely texting, let alone appearing in person. Specially since he was supposed to be in another country soon. But there he was. Sweaty, hoodie half-zipped, hair messy under a cap. The kind of entrance that always made you pause halfway through whatever you were doing.

“I had a twenty-minute window,” Namjoon said, breathless, stepping inside. “Thought I’d spend it doing something irresponsible.”

You raised a brow, arms crossed. “Oh? And what exactly is your idea of irresponsibility?”

He grinned. Walked toward you like he already had the answer.

“Kissing you until I forget how time works.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Bold plan. Does it come with snacks?”

Namjoon leaned in, hands settling lightly on your waist. “Just me. Very limited edition.”

You didn’t move away. Not when he bent closer. Not when his mouth brushed yours, slow and soft like a question he already knew the answer to. The kiss deepened easily, like you’d missed it. Like you two had both been holding tension in your shoulders, your spines, your jaws. He kissed you like he was catching up, and you responded like you’d been waiting. His hands slipped beneath the hem of your sweater, fingers brushing warm against your skin. You gasped slightly, which only made him smile against your mouth.

“I forgot how good you smell,” he murmured. “Like coffee and painting and whatever it is you put on your neck that drives me insane.”

“I can’t believe that works on someone famous.”

“I’m extremely weak for you,” he whispered, kissing the edge of your jaw. “Pathetically so.”

You laughed, pulling him down onto the couch with you, your legs sliding around his. His body pressed into your, heavy and warm, and for a second, it felt like everything outside that room had stopped. No shows. No flights. No noise. Just him. Just you.

Your hands were in his hair. His fingers curled under your thigh. Both of your breathing picked up, uneven, mouths parting between kisses like you were saying each other’s names without sound. And then—

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

His phone, on the floor. Lighting up like it knew exactly what it was doing.

Namjoon groaned into your shoulder. “No.”

You didn’t move. “Ignore it.”

“I want to.”

“Then do it.”

But he was already reaching for the phone. Still half on top of you, reading the message with a growing frown.

“Shit.”

You sighed. “You have to go.”

“I do,” he said, not moving. Still hovering above you. Still touching you like he didn’t want to stop.

You stared at the ceiling. “You always have to go.”

Namjoon looked at you then. Really looked. “I don’t want to leave.”

“But you will.”

“I’ll come back.”

“And I’ll wait.”

A beat.

Then he kissed you again. Slow. Like a promise. Or maybe an apology.

When he stood, he adjusted his hoodie, cheeks flushed, lips still red. “I’ll text when I land.”

Yoy nodded, quiet. And when the door closed behind him, the room stayed warm. But only with the ghost of him.

You curled into the couch, your body still tingling with all the things you two didn’t have time to finish. And outside, the sun dipped behind the buildings. An unhealthy understanding was growing.

—————

The golden hour fell across the apartment like spilled honey.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, a glass of wine balanced on the edge of a book you weren’t really reading. Namjoon was curled up sideways on the rug beside you, head resting in your lap, hair still damp from a shower, one sock missing. His eyes were half-closed. Music played low from the speakers, something string-heavy and slow, the kind of instrumental that made the windows feel like museum glass.

You two hadn’t had a day like this in months. No flight, no soundchecks, no exhibitions, no rehearsals. Just that. Sunlight and soft clothes, the smell of jasmine from the candle you always forgot to blow out, the quiet hum of domestic peace. You had called in sick to have a moment for you two, you had missed it.

You trailed your fingers through his hair. “You’re shedding.”

“I’m molting,” Namjoon murmured. “It’s part of my rebranding.”

“To what? A golden retriever?”

“No. A misunderstood sculptor. Quiet, mysterious, tragic.”

You snorted. “You’re none of those things.”

“I’m trapped in rap persona, Y/n. Don’t mock my inner artist.”

“Your inner artist drinks chocolate milk and watches anime at 3 a.m.”

He grinned, eyes still closed. “Exactly.”

You two sat like that for a while, just breathing. Just being. Then Namjoon said, “You know that piece we saw in Berlin? The one with the floating glass?”

“The installation with the suspended shards?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.”

“Why?”

“It looked fragile,” he said slowly, “but it was all anchored by invisible tension wires. If you didn’t know the structure, you’d think it was about to fall apart.” You nodded, thoughtful. “And it made me think,” he continued, voice softer, “that love is kind of like that.”

“Like invisible tension wires?”

“Yeah. It looks like it’s floating, like it could fall any second— but there’s stuff holding it together that you don’t always see.”

You looked down at him, touched. “That’s very you,” you said.

“What? Romantic?”

“No. Structural.”

He laughed. “I’m trying to be profound, woman. Don’t ruin it.”

You smiled, leaned down, and kissed his forehead. “I love your brain.”

“I love that you’re the only person who never makes me feel like I have to perform smart.”

“You are smart.”

“You’re smarter.”

“True.”

You two grinned at each other. His hand found yours, fingers tangling like habit.

The apartment smelled like soy candles and laundry. The light was amber and fading. The dishes from the late lunch were still in the sink. Your blouse was hanging from a chair, his hoodie on the floor. Everything was a little bit messy, a little bit imperfect.

But he was there. And you were there. And time, for once, wasn’t the enemy.

So you took everything to make that day even better. Deciding in the night to have a cozy dinner to chat and just be homebodies, at least for a day.

At night the apartment smelled like garlic, olive oil, and ambition. You stood barefoot at the stove, chopping cherry tomatoes with practiced ease. Your hair was half up, your sleeves rolled, and you moved like someone who actually knew how to cook without setting off the smoke alarm. Namjoon, meanwhile, stood to your left, holding a bell pepper like it was a small animal he wasn’t sure how to approach.

“You’re watching it like it’s going to blink,” you said, not looking up.

“I’m observing it,” he said defensively. “I believe in understanding your enemy.”

“It’s not an enemy. It’s a pepper.”

“It’s raw. Which I believe is an important stage in its villain origin story.”

You rolled your eyes. “Cut it into strips. Not chunks. Not chaos. Strips.”

He squinted. “Define ‘strip.’”

You turned, raised an eyebrow, and took the knife from him. In one fluid motion, you sliced a piece and handed it to him. “This. This is a strip.”

Namjoon took it. Bit into it dramatically. “Incredible. Revolutionary. Culinary genius.”

“You’re lucky you’re hot,” you said, taking the knife back.

He grinned, stepping closer behind you, resting his chin lightly on your shoulder. “And smart,” he murmured.

“Depending on the topic.”

“Rude.”

“Or honest?.”

You nudged him away with your hip, still focused on the sauce pan.

“Okay,” he said, hands in his hoodie pocket, “book question.”

“Hit me.”

“Would you rather live inside a Haruki Murakami novel or a Donna Tartt novel?”

You paused, considering. “So, either surreal existentialism with a chance of magical cats and jazz… or beautiful ruin, Greek references, and murder?”

Namjoon nodded solemnly. “Exactly.”

“I’d die in a Tartt novel.”

“You’d thrive in a Tartt novel,” he corrected. “You’d be the one saying devastating things about beauty over a glass of wine right before the plot collapses.”

“And you?”

“Murakami,” he said. “I already feel like a guy wandering through metaphors, missing the point, haunted by dreams.”

You smiled at that. “You just want to talk to a ghost as well.”

“Maybe.”

You stirred the sauce. “Do you ever miss reading just for pleasure?”

“Always,” he said. “Sometimes I get two chapters in and then I get a call or an edit note and it’s over. Makes me feel like my brain is made of bubble wrap.”

“I know the feeling,” you said. “I miss reading slowly. Like… the kind of slow where you reread a sentence five times because it sounds good in your mouth.”

Namjoon walked over to the counter and perched on it, stealing a cherry tomato from the bowl. “What’s the last sentence you did that with?”

You looked over your shoulder at him, smiling softly. “Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it.”

Namjoon blinked. “Tartt?” You nodded. He whistled low. “Yeah, okay. I’d die in her world too.”

“Probably in a linen shirt. Tragic and elegant.”

“Promise me if I get murdered by aesthetics, you’ll make it sound romantic in the eulogy.”

You smirked. “I’ll say you died holding a first edition and looking mysterious.”

“Perfect.”

He slid off the counter and came to stand beside you again, watching you stir the bubbling sauce. “You’re really good at this,” he said softly.

“At what?”

“This,” he said, gesturing around. “Making things feel warm. Real. Like we’re just… people.”

You looked over at him, eyes soft. “We are just people, Namjoon.”

“Sometimes I forget.”

“Then remember.”

And you leaned over and kissed him, fingers brushing his jaw lightly.

Outside, the city glowed through the windows. Inside, the pasta boiled over, and neither of you two moved to stop it right away. Because sometimes, you let the water spill, when the conversation is that good. When the love feels that close. When time, for once, is yours.

—————

You were late to your own morning.

You’d woken up disoriented, your phone lighting up with a 9:17 a.m. alert and three missed calls from Sophie. You hadn’t meant to sleep in. But Namjoon hadn’t come in until 3 a.m., and when he did, you’d stayed half-awake for an hour listening to him wind down in pieces, shower running, suitcase unzipping, soft cursing as he looked for a charger. He’d crawled into bed around four, smelling like cold air and exhaustion. And even then, he reached for you.

So you stayed awake a little longer. Just so he wouldn’t feel alone.

Now, your hair was still damp from the fastest shower in recorded history, and you were pulling on a wrinkled blazer with one hand while tying your boots with the other. You texted Sophie. “On my way, sorry, cabbing now.”

Your calendar pinged. You’d missed your standing espresso run with Mina, the new artist you had brought in to curate a modernist reinterpretation series. A small thing. Just coffee. But it was already the third time this month.

In the hallway mirror, you caught herself. Tired eyes. Lipstick half-finished. You used to be early to everything. Precise. Present. Punctual. Now?. You’d started sleeping in his rhythm. Eating in his rhythm. Turning down dinners with friends because he might be back in town that night. You’d canceled a trip to Berlin because his rehearsals shifted and he “might have a free weekend.” He didn’t, in the end. You never rebooked.

You smoothed your collar. Stared at your reflection. Said out loud, “You’re still you.”

And for a second, you weren’t sure if you believed it. Because that night, you got home after 8. Namjoon was already there, sprawled on the couch in sweatpants, hair damp from a shower. There was takeout on the table, he’d actually ordered this time, and a bottle of wine he must’ve picked up on the way back.

“You look like capitalism chewed you up,” he said, grinning.

You dropped your keys. “I feel like it.”

He opened his arms. “Come here.”

You did. You sat beside him, tucked yourself into his chest. Let yourself sink. You loved him so much. You were exhausted and tired, but there, with him now, it felt good. You were risking so much, your job, your money, your time. But everything disappeared in a moment like this, when you were tangled in his arms and he was whispering sweet things in your ear…

So you had something to eat. You two watched something neither of you really paid attention to. He kissed your temple and made you laugh. Everything felt okay.

But later, when he dozed off, arm still draped across your waist, you looked over at your laptop. Unanswered messages. Missed calls. That gallery invite you meant to RSVP to. A workshop you forgot to confirm. Your life was shrinking. Not disappearing. Just… folding around his.

And you weren’t sure he’d noticed.

< A year ago. Seoul, Korea. >

You had never been one for anniversaries.

Not the showy kind, at least. No big speeches, no couple selfies with champagne flutes. But you did believe in marking things. Quietly, intentionally. A special dinner. A handwritten card. A night with no interruptions. A day that reminded you why you’d stayed. Namjoon was good in that too. At least for the first one, he had flew you to Paris and took you to an art museum you were dying to go. The second one he was in a tour but bought you a ticket to Barcelona where you two had dinner and he introduce you to a painter you loved. Everything was magical with him.

This year, the anniversary fell on a Tuesday.

You had work all day—client meetings, artist calls, a minor crisis about a mislabeled shipment. You were exhausted by the time you got home, but you still lit the candles in the kitchen. Still set the table for two for later to drink some wine. Still wore the green dress Namjoon once said made you look like you were about to ruin someone’s life in a French film. And he loved it. Namjoon wasn’t in the country. He and the group had a show overseas, a major one.

You hadn’t expected him to cancel it. But the show had wrapped the night before. You’d watched it from your laptop in bed, wine in hand, wrapped in his old sweatshirt. He’d looked beautiful under the stage lights. Exhausted, yes, but alive.

He hadn’t said he was flying back. But he hadn’t said he wasn’t, either.

And Namjoon was always good at the last-minute surprise. The unannounced flight. The knock on the door just when you’d given up. He had that kind of magic, the kind that made you believe in things even when you knew better. So in a special night like that day, when you knew he was only eight hours and could make it in time, you decided to go on with the schedule.

You went to your share favorite restaurant, the one with the rooftop and the quiet view of the city lights. You already had a reservation, Namjoon had made it weeks ago thinking it would be a great place— before the show was confirmed. However, he didn’t cancel it, nor he say he wasn’t going. He did tell you he might not make it and it was very obvious it would be a surprise if he actually did but he always did that. Specially since he didn’t text you all day. So, you decided to wait for him, like always.

At 8:00 p.m., you ordered a glass of red.

At 8:15, you declined the menu, just in case.

At 8:40, you checked your phone.

At 9:00, the waiter asked gently if you’d like to order. You shook your head, throat tight.

The food smelled amazing. The candle flickered between empty seats. Your phone buzzed at 9:12.

Namjoon: Happy anniversary. I love you.

That was all it said.

You stared at the message for a full minute before locking the screen.

The waiter came back. “Still waiting?”

You smiled, small and practiced. “No. I think I’ll take the check.”

You walked home slowly, heels in your hand by the end of the block, the city alive around you in a way you weren’t. You didn’t cry. You didn’t text him back. You didn’t even take off the dress when you got home, just sat on the edge of the bed, lights off, wondering when it had started to feel like this. Like something one-sided. Like hope was an embarrassing thing to hold onto.

It was embarrassing now waiting for him. Did it make you a bad person?. After everything he did for you, was this something to punish him for?. But he had made you have big standards about him, about how he could do anything to see you. But why now it felt like you shouldn’t be hurt?. Was it wrong to hold him to the standards he had made you put him on?. A little mistake, a little thing under the bridge. Was it something to worry? or was it just something you were making a big deal?.

Was waiting for someone to show up too much now?.

The light was soft and grey when you woke. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep on top of the covers, still in the green dress from the night before, makeup smudged beneath your eyes like a fading memory. You sat up slowly, your body stiff, your mouth dry, your phone still beside you on the bed, screen black. You didn’t reach for it right away. The apartment was quiet—almost aggressively so. The kind of silence that hums in your ears, that dares you to fill it. You made coffee without thinking, poured it into the chipped blue mug he always used when he was home. Then, almost accidentally, you poured yourself a second cup.

You stared at them both for a while.

The phone buzzed around 8:45 a.m. Namjoon

Incoming call

You hesitated only a second before picking up.

“Hey,” he said. His voice was rough with sleep, but too alert. The kind of voice that knew it was calling a fire it couldn’t put out.

“Hi,” you answered. Calm. Soft. Nothing in your tone gave you away.

“I wanted to call last night, but everything was chaos. Press, crew dinner. I tried to find a flight, but there was nothing that would get me to you in time.”

“I figured,” you said.

“I thought about video calling, but I didn’t want to…” He trailed off.

“Don’t worry.”

A pause. “How was dinner?”

“I didn’t stay long.”

Another pause.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it. “I should’ve done more.”

You sipped your coffee. It was still too hot, but you didn’t flinch. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

“No,” you agreed quietly. “It’s not.”

He was silent on the other end. You imagined him sitting in some hotel bed, probably still in stage makeup, phone pressed to his cheek, trying to read you through the static.

“You’re mad,” he said.

“No,” you said again, and this time it wasn’t soft—it was far. “I’m just tired.”

“Of me?”

“Of hoping for things you used to do without thinking.”

He exhaled hard. “Y/n…”

“I’m not going to fight with you over the phone,” you said gently.

“I’m not trying to fight.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I love you,” he said finally, quiet and uneven.

“I know.”

Another silence. This one worse than all the others.

“I’ll be back in two days,” he said.

You nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see you. “Okay.”

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You closed your eyes. Hating that word. You hated hearing that, always did. But more so now than ever.

“Okay,” you repeated, and it sounded like maybe.

Not yes. Just… maybe.

He didn’t come back the next day. It was a week later he finally had time to come back to the country. And almost two days later he was able to be back home. But by that time, it was already too late to talk about something that has already passed. So you two stayed quiet. And for the first time and not last, that night it was just something small that happened.

—————

You found it on a Wednesday, tucked in the back of the nightstand drawer he never used. You were searching for a charger. His drawer was chaotic. Full old receipts, ticket stubs from cities he barely remembered, notes of night thoughts. And then, under a stack of guitar picks and a long-dead pen, you saw it. A small, square box.

You paused. Everything in you stilled. Your fingers hovered above it for a breath, then two. You opened it.

Inside: an engagement ring.

Simple. Elegant. A soft, brushed gold band with a quiet, imperfect diamond that looked more chosen than flashy.

Your heart gave a quiet, panicked lurch. You didn’t cry. Didn’t gasp. Just closed the box slowly and put it back exactly where you found it. You didn’t say anything to him either Not that night. Not the next. You didn’t know why. Maybe because it felt like looking at a letter addressed to you that hadn’t been sent yet. It felt like love in transit. Like something that belonged to his timing, not yours. And you trusted him. Even if everything was hectic. Even if you were fraying around the edges.

You trusted him to get there.

It was two weeks later, near midnight, when he finally told you.

The night was unusually quiet. Outside, the city seemed to hold its breath. No honking, no sirens, just the low hum of a world that had finally decided to rest. Inside your share apartment, the windows were cracked open to let in the cool air, and the sheets tangled loosely around your legs as you two lay there, close but not speaking yet. It had been one of those rare days when the two actually had time. Real, unscheduled time. A slow morning. Grocery shopping. Making pasta without burning it. Watching a movie neither of you finished because you fell asleep halfway through, limbs knotted, breath in sync.

Now, the lights were off. Only the occasional gleam from a passing car painted stripes across the ceiling. You lay on your side, your fingers tracing slow, absentminded lines along Namjoon’s chest. His arm was wrapped around your waist. He hadn’t spoken in a while.

Then, softly, almost like he wasn’t sure if he should say it: “I’ve been thinking about marrying you.”

You didn’t move, didn’t stiffen. Your fingers paused briefly, then continued their path across his skin.

“I mean, not just thinking,” he said, a small, sheepish laugh escaping. “Planning, really. Secretly. Clumsily.”

Your smile was audible, even in the dark. “That sounds very on-brand.”

He let out a breath, clearly relieved you weren’t panicking. “I keep trying to find the perfect moment. The kind you tell stories about later. But every time I think I’ve got it, something happens—another show, an art event, a delay, a rehearsal running late. You didn’t interrupt. “I just…” His voice grew a little quieter. “I want to do it right. For you. You deserve something beautiful. Not rushed. Not after a long flight or in a hallway or between meetings.”

You turned slightly, tucking your face into the space where his neck met his shoulder. You could hear the nervous flutter in his chest. Like your silence was the only thing louder than the city.

Namjoon gently shifted his hand to cradle your face. “Can I ask you something?”

“Mm-hm.”

“If I asked you… someday soon,” he said carefully, “would you say yes?”

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, fixed on you like you were the only thing he could see.

Your voice was steady and warm, no hesitation. “Of course I would.”

Namjoon’s face softened completely. He looked stunned by how easy it was for you to say. Like part of him had been bracing for uncertainty, and instead got home. “Yeah?” he asked, because part of him needed to hear it again.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “Without blinking.”

He exhaled like it was the first full breath he’d taken all day, burying his face in you shoulder with a groan. “God, I love you.”

You laughed softly, brushing your fingers through his hair. “I know.”

“I mean it,” he mumbled. “I want all of it. Boring weekends. Matching mugs. Bad schedules. Waking up next to you every day until we’re old and weird.”

“We’re already weird.”

“Okay. Older and weirder.”

You kissed the top of his head. “I want that too,” you said. “All of it. And more.”

Namjoon looked up at you again, eyes sleepy and full of so much love you almost couldn’t hold it. “I’ll find the right time,” he promised. “It won’t be long.”

“I’m not in a hurry,” you said. “As long as it’s you.”

He kissed you once. Lazy, warm, and deep with knowing. And when you two fell asleep, it was with yours hands clasped between both, like two people who had already chosen each other, formally or not.

The ring stayed hidden. And you let it. Because you already had the answer. And he already had your heart.

< Seven months ago. Seoul, Korea >

You two were supposed to go away that weekend.

Just the two of you. A quiet place in the countryside, two hours outside the city. No cameras. No phones. No work. Just a cabin, a fireplace, books, and each other. You had planned it for weeks. Namjoon hadn’t had a proper day off in months. You wanted to give him a weekend where he didn’t have to perform, or talk about a setlist, or be anything except yours.

He seemed excited when you told him. He even kissed the tip of your nose and said, “God, I need that. You. Us.”

You booked it that night.

But on Thursday evening, two days before the trip, he called while you were at work. His voice was careful.

“Babe, listen, I know we had the cabin this weekend, but I might need to stay in the city. Something came up with Badu’s label and they want to do a session on Saturday. I know, I know, it sucks.”

You sat in the storage room of the gallery, your phone pressed to your ear, surrounded by crates of borrowed sculptures. You didn’t say anything for a moment.

“Is it urgent?” you asked finally.

“It’s… time-sensitive. I think they’re trying to fast-track something before Badu flies out to Tokyo. I can say no. I mean— if this is a big deal for us, I’ll say no.”

But he said it the way people do when they don’t want to say no. When they’re already halfway to saying yes.

You smiled, though he couldn’t see you. “It’s okay. We’ll reschedule.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. You should do it.”

“Rain check?”

“Rain check,” you repeated, soft.

You hung up, and you stared at the weekend itinerary you had printed out. His favorite bakery for the drive. A wine tasting in a small town. That local bookstore you thought he’d love. Even a museum you wanted to visit… You folded it all up and slid it into a drawer.

When you got home that night, he was already asleep. Studio hours were brutal. You curled in next to him, your arm across his back, your nose against his shoulder. You didn’t cry. You didn’t get angry. You just waited for him to say something about it the next day. Maybe suggest a new weekend. Maybe show up with coffee and a smile and say, “Hey, let’s pick a new date.”

He didn’t. It was just one weekend, you told yourself. Just one plan. People get busy. People cancel. Still, it sat with you, quiet and dull, like a match that never got lit.

Not a flame. Not yet. But something you wouldn’t forget. Something was changing.

< Six months ago. Seoul, Korea. >

You locked yourself in the gallery’s back office and let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding since 10 a.m. The artist had walked out. Just like that—mid-meeting, hands flailing, voice raised—and declared he wouldn’t be participating in the upcoming show. Something about the press release tone being “too colonial,” which you had tried to explain wasn’t even written yet. Your director blamed you. The interns stared at you like a live grenade. And to top it all off, you’d spilled coffee on your blouse five minutes before a meeting with one of the museum board members.

By the time it was 7:00 p.m., you felt like the whole day had been gnawing at you from the inside out.

You didn’t want to go home. Not yet. Instead, you curled up on the lumpy chair in the corner of the office, legs pulled up, jacket still on. The gallery lights were out except for a low amber track that lit the sculptures like ghosts. You pulled out your phone and called Namjoon.

He answered on the third ring, his voice half-absent. “Hey, love. You okay?”

“No,” you said.

You didn’t mean to sound so small, but it leaked out anyway.

He hummed. “What happened?”

You exhaled. “Everything.”

“Specifics?”

You tried to organize it, the chaos of your day, into something coherent. “The artist dropped out. Just walked out mid-meeting and said we were culturally tone-deaf. My director was furious. I got blindsided in front of the entire board.”

“That sucks,” Namjoon said, still distracted.

There was a pause. You could hear faint voices in the background, maybe someone talking over a beat. Music. Studio noise. You imagined him in his headphones, half-listening. You waited. Nothing else came.

“I just feel like I’m failing,” you said quietly, more to yourself than to him. “Like I’m drowning in details and no one else sees the full picture. Or me.”

Namjoon clicked his tongue. “You’re not failing. You’re just being dramatic because you’re tired.” You went quiet. He didn’t notice. “I’ve gotta finish this mix,” he said after a beat. “But do you want to come by later? We’ll order something.”

“I don’t really want to be around people tonight,” you said, tears starting to form in your eyes of frustration you couldn’t get out. “I just wanted to talk.”

“You’re the strongest person I know,” he replied, not unkindly. “You’ll be fine.” Then, softer: “I’ll text you when I’m done, yeah?”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “Sure.”

“Love you.”

“You too.”

He hung up.

You stayed in the dark a little longer.

Your phone screen dimmed in your hand, and you didn’t move. You weren’t angry, at least not in the dramatic sense. No door slamming. No actual tears. Just a subtle ache, like the one you get when you realize a song you loved doesn’t hit the same way anymore.

You had needed to feel heard. Held. Instead, you’d been reassured like a child with a scraped knee.

“You’ll be fine.”

You always were. You always had to be. Of course you will be fine later but you wanted someone to actually hear you out. For the first time, you wondered what it would be like to be with someone who didn’t expect you to already have the answers. Someone who wouldn’t call your strength a reason not to show up.

You stood, stretched your legs, and grabbed your bag. The gallery was quiet, but you left the light on in the main room as you walked out. Let it shine for someone, even if it wasn’t going to be you.

< Five months. Seoul, Korea. >

It wasn’t an anniversary. Not a birthday. Not anything capital-I Important. It was just a Wednesday night you two had agreed on a week ago, in the quiet way people do when they’ve both been slipping through the days without touching each other long enough to notice. You both. were sitting on the couch when Namjoon had looked over at you—half-asleep, feet on his lap, a half-finished script on your tablet—and said, “We should have dinner together next week. Just… be normal for a night. Just us.”

You smiled. “Wednesday?”

“Perfect,” he said. “Wednesday.”

You had marked it in your mind like you do when you don’t want to hope too much, but still want to remember. It had been so long since you two had made time. The kind that wasn’t reactionary. The kind that wasn’t just falling asleep next to each other with takeout on the floor and emails still open. So you planned.

On Wednesday, you left the gallery early. You picked up fresh pasta from that little place down the hill, the one with the handmade ravioli Namjoon once called “dangerously life-changing.” You bought wine, nothing fancy, just something warm and red and meant to be shared. You even found the candle you two used on your first official dinner date, now half-burned and tucked into the back of a drawer.

By seven, the table was set.

By eight, the pasta was cold.

You texted him around 7:30.

You: Everything okay?

He didn’t respond.

You waited until 8:10 before calling. It rang four times before it went to voicemail.

You tried not to spiral. He probably lost track of time. Maybe a recording session ran late. Maybe he was caught in traffic or had bad signal. You checked his location, then immediately felt guilty. It pinged from his studio downtown. You opened the wine anyway. Not to be dramatic, hust to keep your hands busy.

At 8:44, your phone buzzed.

Namjoon: Shit. Fuck. I’m so sorry.

You stared at it for a second. No follow-up. No call. Just those four words blinking on your screen. That’s it?. You typed something. Deleted it. Typed again.

You: It’s okay.

You put your phone down, slowly, and stared at the food. The wine bottle. The candle burning low. It wasn’t the missed dinner that hurt most. It was how easily it had happened. How he hadn’t thought about it until too late. How you didn’t even feel surprised.

At 9:03, your phone buzzed again.

Namjoon: I have an open hour but I’ll have to go back to the studio later

Namjoon: I’ll go now, should I bring dessert or something?

You closed your eyes. Bit the inside of your cheek.

You: It’s late. I’ve got work early.

Namjoon: I’ll make it up to you. I swear.

You didn’t answer.

You turned off the candle. Put the wine in the fridge. Packed the cold ravioli into a Tupperware. You washed the dishes slowly, methodically, like you were erasing the evening in reverse. The bubbles slid over your rings. The water turned lukewarm. The kitchen dimmed as the sun fully disappeared. When you finally sat on the couch, the apartment was quiet. Not sad, exactly. Not angry. Just… silent. Like nothing had happened. And that, you thought, was the worst part.

Because this was supposed to be the night you two tried. The night you looked at each other again, for real. But instead, you looked at your glass of wine. Still full. Still waiting.

And you wondered, When did I start doing this by myself?

< Four months ago. Seoul, Korea. >

You had told him about it a month ago. You had brought it up at dinner, early, gently, the way you do when you’re trying not to pressure someone into caring about something that matters deeply to you.

“I’m giving a talk,” you had said, slicing your vegetables with slow precision. “It’s for the Rothko Foundation event. Big gala. Black tie, way-too-much-champagne type of thing.”

Namjoon glanced up from his phone, nodded absently. “That’s amazing.”

“They picked me to speak about the new acquisitions,” you continued, not hiding your excitement. “I’m going to be in the program. I have ten minutes. It’s kind of a huge deal for the gallery.”

He smiled. “Look at you, Miss Spotlight.”

You’d laughed. “It’s important for me. Would you be there?.”

Namjoon smiled slightly, nodding slowly, like a promise. “Of course I will.”

You’d worked your ass off for it. Navigated donor egos and fragile artists, put together the exhibit proposal in a week, fought for your voice at the table when everyone else wanted a safer, duller speaker. And they chose you. That night, you sent him the event details. He RSVP’d yes.

But it would have been less disappointing if he had just tell you that he’ll try to be there.

The night of the gala, you stood in front of the mirror in your shared bedroom, adjusting the sleeves of your navy-blue dress. The fabric fell just below your knees, structured and classic, the kind of thing that made you feel confident without trying too hard. You wore your hair up. Your earrings shimmered when you moved. There was a part of you, stupid and stubborn and hopeful, that still expected him to knock on the bathroom door with a “Wow,” and a kiss on the cheek, and a “Let’s go make rich people uncomfortable with your brilliance.”

But the apartment was quiet. Namjoon wasn’t home.

At 6:34 p.m., you checked your messages.

Namjoon: Hey, baby. I hate this so much. They moved up the shoot. We’re filming all night now. I’m so, so sorry.

There was a second message.

Namjoon: I sent something to the venue for you. Should arrive before the talk. I love you.

You didn’t reply.

You sat down on the edge of the bed, staring at the carpet. Your heart was doing that thing, folding in on itself like paper too many times creased in the same place. He’d known. He’d known this was important. Not optional. Not a charity auction or a friends-of-the-gallery dinner. This was your night.

And once again, work had won.

The way to the gallery was quiet, frustrated and almost too annoying. Specially since it was a special night where you were supposed to be excited or nervous— Instead you were angry with your boyfriend.

The venue was beautiful, if clinical. Crystal chandeliers, champagne flutes, lacquered smiles. You shook hands with people whose names you couldn’t remember. Your name was printed in the program beneath a black-and-white headshot you hated. And at 8:12 p.m., just before your speech, an usher approached you with a bouquet of white orchids. There was a small card attached. Handwritten.

You’ll kill it tonight. So proud of you.

— N.

You stared at it like it had come from a stranger.

“You’ll kill it tonight.” you repeated.

It sounded like something you’d write to a colleague, not a partner. Not the man who knew what this moment cost you, who’d kissed your forehead while you wrote your talking points and rubbed your back during your mini spiral about what to wear. Not from a man that promise that he would be there tonight when you told him it was important for you.

You folded the card and threw it in the trash.

The worst thing that night was that your speech was perfect. You spoke for ten minutes. Didn’t stutter. Didn’t shake. It was flawless, perfect in any way a good and smart speech could be. Everyone clapped. Someone on the board teared up. The director beamed at you like you were an investment finally paying off.

And Namjoon wasn’t there.

When you stepped off the stage and walked backstage alone, the applause didn’t stick. What did was the silence waiting for you in the dressing room. The hollow space where he should’ve been. No hug. No “You did it.” Just orchids in a vase, propped against a wall.

You pulled out your phone and called Namjoon.

It rang once. Twice.

He answered, breathless, wind muffling his voice. “Hey, babe. I’m still on set. Can I call you in a bit?”

“I just finished the talk,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

He hesitated. “Shit—already? How did it go?”

“Well,” you said quietly. “It went well.”

“That’s amazing. Knew you’d kill it,” he said. There was a clatter on his end, voices shouting something in the background. “Sorry, hang on—what was I—yeah, we’re good—sorry, babe, what were you saying?”

Your throat was tight. “I just… I really wanted you to be here.”

A pause.

“Y/n,” he sighed, and not unkindly, just tired. “I wanted to be there too. You know that.”

“I know. I do.” you leaned against the edge of the vanity, your hand clutching the phone tighter. “But it mattered. It wasn’t just about the speech—it was about you seeing it. Being in the room. With me.”

More voices. A door opened and shut.

“I sent the flowers,” he said, gently. “Didn’t they get there? I thought they’d be there before you went on.”

“They did,” you replied. “They were… fine.”

He chuckled, not catching the edge in your voice. “That’s the most Y/n response ever.”

You closed your eyes. “Namjoon.”

“I know this sucks. Believe me, I know. But I can’t get into this right now. We’re literally rolling in ten minutes, and I still have to fix my makeup. I just—I need to focus for a bit, okay?” You didn’t speak. “Can we talk later?” he added. “I want to talk. I just need to get through tonight.”

You almost nodded out of habit. Almost said, Of course, it’s fine, I get it, go be brilliant.

But something inside you ached to say it out loud. To ask him to stay, to make it a big deal and fight. Instead, you murmured, “Sure.”

“You’re amazing,” he said. “Love you.”

You didn’t answer. He didn’t notice. He’d already hung up.

You sat still for a long time, phone in your lap, your hands folded like someone waiting for a train that wasn’t coming.

That’s when it hit you.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love you. It’s that now he loved you comfortably.

He loved you like something that would always be there, even when neglected. Even when ignored. Even when standing alone in a velvet dressing room with someone else’s applause still echoing in your ears. And your pain? It didn’t fit in his schedule anymore. it was only an imposition.

You blinked hard, once. Twice. And then the tears came. Not loud. Not messy. Just steady. A soft unraveling, like thread pulled from the edge of a seam that no one bothered to sew back up.

You cried for ten minutes. Then you stood. Smoothed your dress. Wiped your eyes and went outside to continue the event. Because even if he was not there, it was still your night.

< Three months ago. Seoul, Korea. >

Another fight unraveled the same week. Fight after fight without any income had been followed you two. And the last one came because of laundry.

You had asked him, gently, to please not mix your wool sweaters with the rest of the wash—again. You were tired. You’d been working weekends. The gallery’s next exhibit was massive, and you were overseeing three interns who didn’t know the difference between a loan form and a press release. And Namjoon—half-distracted, headphones slung around his neck—said something like:

“It’s just laundry, Y/n. Not a crisis.”

That was it.

That was the crack that splintered into something bigger than either of you two meant it to.

“Do you know how much I’ve been doing lately?” you asked, trying to stay calm, even as your voice wavered. “I ask for one thing. One thing.”

“You always make everything sound like an indictment.”

“And you make everything feel like it’s not worth your energy.”

He turned then, clearly hurt. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” you said, and your voice was rising now, sharp with every silent moment you’d swallowed those past months. “Do you even know what I’m working on? Who I’m curating next? Have you even asked?”

“I’ve been drowning, Y/n.”

“So have I. The difference is I still check in. I still try.”

He rubbed his face, eyes heavy. “I didn’t come home to fight.”

“You barely come home at all.”

You two stared at each other. The apartment was still. The dryer buzzed in the background. It wasn’t the first fight but you were with the same exhaustion as the ones before.

After a long pause, he dropped his shoulders. “You’re right,” he said, quieter now. “I’ve been selfish.” You blinked, a little surprised. “I’ve been stretched so thin I stopped noticing what I was letting go of,” he continued. “I hate that I made you feel like I wasn’t trying. I am trying, Y/n. I know it doesn’t look like it, but I am.”

You didn’t say anything. Not right away. Not because you didn’t believe him. But because you weren’t sure if it mattered anymore.

He stepped forward, reached for your hand. “Can we start over tomorrow? I’ll make dinner. We’ll talk. I’ll actually show up.”

You nodded. You let him hug you. Let his arms wrap around your waist. Let him kiss the side of your head and tell you how much he loved you. And you said it back, softly, automatically.

Later that night, you two lay in bed, facing each other in the dark. He whispered one more apology, then fell asleep with his hand over your waist like a promise. And you stared at the ceiling. You weren’t sad. You weren’t angry. You were just… tired. Tired of trying to be the whole relationship. Tired of reminding him who you two used to be. Tired of convincing yourself that love should be this hard all the time.

And the worst part? You realized you didn’t feel much of anything anymore. No ache. No flutter. No rage. Just quiet. Like your heart had packed its bags long before your hands ever would.

Next week was normal, it felt natural. But two weeks later Namjoon was leaving again. And with him, his word of trying too. And your empathy and understanding were no longer there. Because words meant nothing anymore. Because love can survive almost anything… except being met with indifference

< Two weeks ago. Seoul, Korea. >

It started with nothing.

No fight. No harsh words. Just a missed message. A day passes. Then two. You didn’t text first. You told yourself it wasn’t a test—but of course it was. Not the childish kind. Not a game. Just a quiet question you couldn’t bring yourself to say out loud:

If I stop trying… will he even notice?

The weekend blurred. You worked a long day at the gallery, came home to a half-empty apartment, cooked yourself pasta you didn’t finish. The wine bottle you two opened earlier that week still sat on the counter, uncorked and flat. You kept checking your phone, out of habit more than hope. But there was nothing.

No hey, how’s your day?

No sorry, been crazy, thinking of you.

Not even a meme, a song, a voice note.

It felt surreal. The kind of surreal that doesn’t hurt yet, just itches at the edges. Like something vital is missing but you don’t realize it until you go to touch it.

On the third day, You ran into Sophie, your coworker of years, the one you almost tell everything. You two chatted about curation and studio space until she tilted her head and asked, “How’s Namjoon?”

You smiled too quickly. “Busy.”

Sophie nodded, awkward. “You two are so… I don’t know. Solid. I love that.”

You laughed, soft and brittle. “Yeah. Thanks.”

You didn’t mean to lie. You just weren’t sure what the truth was anymore.

That night, you lay in bed scrolling through old photos of the two of you. Namjoon at the park in spring, lying in the grass, one arm shielding his face from the sun. Namjoon holding a cat that didn’t like him, grinning anyway. Namjoon in your old kitchen, burning pancakes, laughing while you mocked him. It used to be like that. We used to be like that.

At 1:23 a.m., you turned off your phone. Not out of drama, but fatigue. Not to make a point. Just because the ache of waiting was heavier than the ache of stopping.

He finally texted on the fourth day.

Namjoon: Hey. Sorry, this week’s been brutal. Everything okay?

You stared at it.

Not I missed you.

Not I’m sorry for going silent.

Just… a check-in. Like you were a loose appointment on a calendar he’d finally flipped back to. You could’ve said so many things. But all you wrote was:

You: All good. You?

He replied twenty minutes later.

Namjoon: Tired. Always tired lol.

You didn’t write back.

You weren’t angry. You weren’t even sad. Just… done.

Not the kind of done that comes from bitterness or rage. The kind that comes from knowing. From finally understanding that what you’d been holding together with two hands for months was already slipping through the cracks, because he wasn’t holding it with you. Because loving someone isn’t enough if they don’t love you back in the same language, with the same weight.

And sometimes, silence tells you everything you need to know.

< Three days ago. Seoul, Korea >

The apartment was too quiet when Namjoon came home. It was almost midnight, but every light was on. He kicked off his sneakers by the door, half-listening to the click of the lock behind him, the low hum of the refrigerator. He spotted you at the dining table, still as glass. Your coat was still on. Your hair pinned up like you hadn’t touched it since morning. There was a glass of wine in front of you, mostly full. You weren’t drinking it.

“Y/n?” He stepped toward you, rubbing his temple. “Hey. Today was a nightmare, my phone died in the studio, then we lost the mix and—”

“Namjoon.”

The way you said it. Low. Level. Like a wire pulled tight. He looked at you properly now. And he saw it. Not the exhaustion, he was used to that. But something else. Something quieter, colder. Final.

He straightened. “What’s wrong?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stared at him with eyes that looked like they’d already wept and dried a hundred times in silence.

“We need to talk,” you said.

He glanced at the clock on the microwave. It was 11:43 p.m.

“I leave for Tokyo in six hours,” he said gently. “Can this wait?”

“No,” you said. “It can’t.”

At first it was small things. Your voice low, steady, almost rehearsed. It started with you asking questions.

Did he know how long it had been since you spent a whole day together? Did he remember the last time you two laughed without checking the time? Did he remember you, even… outside of the girlfriend title, outside of the steady, convenient role you played in the margins of his life?

He got defensive. You got louder.

And then it all came out… The missed dinners. The forgotten promises. The way he used to look at you like you were art, and now you felt like a painting nobody wanted to take.

“You think I’m being dramatic,” you snapped. “But I’ve been trying for months, Namjoon. You didn’t even notice I was disappearing.”

He paced. Ran a hand through his hair. “That’s not true. Don’t make this into—”

“What?” you shouted. “Into what it is?”

“I’ve been doing everything I can to keep things together—”

“No,” you cut in. “You’ve been doing everything you can to keep your life together. Your job, your music, your deadlines. And you expect me to just—what—applaud from the sidelines while I shrink myself smaller and smaller so I don’t get in the way?”

Namjoon threw up his hands. “I don’t know what you want from me anymore, Y/n!”

Your voice cracked. “I want you to do something!” He stared at you, stunned. “I want you to stop making me the only one sacrificing,” you said, trembling. “I want you to stop treating this like a luxury. Like love is this extra thing you do when your calendar clears.”

“I’m not choosing work over you.”

“You are,” you said. “You just won’t admit it because your dream looks noble, and my hurt looks selfish.”

He stepped closer, his voice low and sharp. “So what, you want me to blow up my career? Throw a tantrum? Cancel everything and make myself the bad guy—what, to prove a point?”

You laughed, bitter and sharp. “Not always. Not recklessly. But yes— once in a while, yes!” He opened his mouth, but you didn’t stop. “I want you to risk something! Just once. Not because I asked. Because you want to. Because being here, with me, matters enough to make other people mad. To screw up your schedule. To miss a flight. To let someone down who isn’t me.”

His mouth opened. Closed. You could see it—he wanted to fix it, say something, anything, but there was nothing left that words could fix.

You went on, quiet now, your voice laced with every scar.

“I’ve missed meetings. I’ve rescheduled events. I’ve lied to clients and board members because you needed me. I’ve left rooms I fought to be in. I’ve given things up. Not because you asked me to, but because I love you. And I thought… if I just held on a little longer, you’d meet me halfway.” Your voice broke then. “I don’t want perfection. I don’t want you to quit. I want you to want me enough to inconvenience yourself.”

Silence. It was heavy, crushing.

Namjoon looked away, jaw clenched. “So what—what are you saying?”

“I’m saying I can’t keep doing this alone.”

He looked at you like you’d struck him. “You’re not alone. That’s not what this is.” He shook his head, searching for words. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” you whispered. Silence fell between you two again. You turned from him, brushing your hands down the front of your coat like you were smoothing your own rage. “You love me when it’s easy,” you said. “When I’m quiet, supportive, soft. When I don’t ask you to make space. But the moment I need more, I become a burden. An inconvenience. You treat me like a child who needs attention, not your partner who is asking you for a basic thing.”

“That’s not what this is,” he said, stepping forward. You didn’t move. He lowered his voice. “Y/n, I’m under so much pressure right now. I didn’t think—”

“I know you didn’t think,” you said. “That’s the problem.” Your voice broke again, and he flinched. “I thought we were building something. I thought this was real. But now? Now it feels like I’m holding all the weight while you fly above it all. And you don’t even look down.” Namjoon was silent for a moment. “Say something,” you said, almost begging.

He ran his hands through his hair again. “I can’t fix this tonight. I have to go. I have a flight—”

“I know,” you said softly. “You always have to go.”

He stepped toward you. “Please. When I get back, I’ll fix this. We’ll take time. I’ll plan something. I’ll make this right.” You didn’t answer. He reached for your hand. “Y/n… please. Say something.”

You looked down at his fingers touching yours. But you didn’t hold them back. Because this wasn’t a pause in the storm. This was the end of the rain. He’d leave. And you’d still be here. Alone. Picking up the pieces of a love that had been cracking for months while he sprinted toward a future that no longer had room for you.

“Just go, Namjoon,” you whispered.

“I’m coming back,” he said, almost desperate now. “I’ll fix this—”

But you turned away. Not because you wanted to hurt him. Because you knew: you’d already left a thousand times in your mind. You were just finally listening to yourself.

The tears didn’t come right away. Not that day, or the next. Because this wasn’t the kind of heartbreak that arrived in an instant. This was the heartbreak of staying too long. Of trying too hard. Of loving someone who didn’t even realize they were letting go. You looked around the apartment—your shared apartment—and thought of all the promises you had made in silence. All the ways you had made yourself small to keep you two alive. And then you walked to the closet, pulled out your suitcase, and continued what you had started days ago in your head.

The slow, deliberate act of leaving.

The familiar click of the key turning in the lock was supposed to bring relief — a signal that he was finally home. Instead, it felt like the first note of a dirge. Namjoon pushed open the door, the creak sharp in the stillness. The air inside was colder than he remembered, stripped of warmth. His boots echoed on the hardwood floor, too loud in the silence that swallowed the apartment whole.

He set down his luggage by the door, eyes searching the space instinctively for some sign of life. The small collection of framed photos on the wall, now oddly bare, caught his eye. His breath hitched. The couch where you two used to curl up together was devoid of the usual scatter of blankets and pillows. The side table was clear except for a lone coaster. He moved deeper in, heart thumping unevenly, the pit in his stomach widening. The soft glow of streetlights filtered through the curtains, casting long shadows over the empty rooms.

In the kitchen, his eyes darted to the counter. The bottle of wine from three days ago — gone. The small dishes you always left soaking in the sink — all cleared away.

His throat tightened, a sudden chill crawling over him. He stepped into the dining area. There, a half-packed suitcase sat on the chair, its contents sparse, folded with a cold kind of care. Clothes he didn’t recognize, a scarf you must have left behind, and the space where your things used to overflow. His hands shook as he reached toward the fabric, but recoiled before touching it.

Suddenly, a cold wave of panic swept over him, dragging his breath into a tight, ragged gasp.

“No,” he whispered, voice trembling.

He stumbled back, clutching the wall to steady himself. You’re gone. The weight of it crashed down like a falling building. He pulled out his phone with shaking hands, desperate to hear your voice, see any sign that this was a mistake, that maybe you had a last minute trip, an emergency. Maybe it was a bad dream.

He dialed your number. Ring. Ring But the line never connected. A terse message flashed on the screen.

The number you have dialed is not in service.

He pressed buttons frantically, trying again, but it was the same.

His heart hammered so hard it felt like it might burst through his ribs. He sank to the floor, hands pressed over his face as tears began to fall. His breath came quick, shallow, uneven. A tightening gripped his chest. His vision blurred. He tried to focus on something — anything — but the room spun, the walls closing in.

Please, please, he thought, don’t let this be real.

But it was. The apartment, the ring, the suitcase, everything was proof. And now, the cruelest truth of all: he couldn’t reach you. You had cut him off completely. You didn’t want to see him. Panic seized him fully, and he couldn’t stop the sobs that wracked his body as he crumpled into himself on the floor. He gasped, his hands shook as he reached toward his drawer to grab the little box that was under all his mess. The small velvet box, its lid slightly open. The engagement ring gleamed like a painful secret. He was supposed to asked you this week. You were supposed to be here. “I’m sorry.” he sobbed, his voice breaking through the silence.

He closed his eyes, wishing desperately for a second chance, a sign, anything that could undo the emptiness you left behind. But the only sound was the echo of his own heartbreak.

How could he fix it?.

Namjoon sat on the cold floor for what felt like hours, clutching the engagement ring box like a lifeline. The panic slowly ebbed into a crushing weight, exhaustion threading through his grief. Finally, wiping the tears from his face with trembling hands, he forced himself to stand. He needed to find you.

The cold night air stung Namjoon’s cheeks as he stepped out of the apartment building. His legs still trembled from the panic attack that had clawed at his chest moments before, and his fingers trembled as he pulled the small velvet box from his pocket again—the engagement ring, a symbol of everything he thought he could fix but had only ever endangered. He didn’t know what he expected when he arrived at the gallery — maybe to find you there, or maybe just to stand in the place that had once held your laughter, your quiet moments of shared wonder. It was worst. You were actually there.

The gallery’s lights were low, the air tinged with the faint scent of turpentine and old paper. Chairs had been stacked and art pieces carefully covered, but the quiet hum of closing time lingered like a fragile bubble waiting to burst. He stood just inside the door, clutching the small velvet box in his palm, as if it alone could hold together the pieces of everything breaking inside him. You sat behind the receptionist desk, your shoulders slumped beneath the weight of exhaustion. The sharp lines around your eyes had deepened, etched by months of sleepless nights and silent compromises.

When you saw him, a flicker of surprise and something colder flashed across your face. You said his name quietly, without invitation.

“Namjoon.”

He swallowed hard, stepping forward. “Y/n, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for everything. For the time I missed, the promises I broke, for making you feel like you weren’t enough.”

You didn’t meet his eyes. “Namjoon, I have a lot of work—.”

“Please—”

“I don’t want to hear you. I’m not in the mood.”

“Y/n.”

“What?!” you exploded, looking at him. “I don’t want to hear more words. I’m tired of hearing you out.”

“I know.” His voice cracked. “But I mean it, every time. But this— us, it’s the most important thing in my life. I’ve been a fool to let everything else swallow me up.”

Your fingers drummed on the desk, sharp and impatient. “You say all the right things when you want something. But what about the times you didn’t? The times I was waiting, and you were gone?”

He bit his lip, desperate. “I was caught up, I know. But I want to fix it. I want to make it right.”

You looked up then, eyes tired but steady. “Fix it? Namjoon, you can’t fix things with words. Your words don’t mean anything anymore.”

“I’m willing to try,” he pleaded. “Every day, every moment. I’ll change, I’ll be better. I swear it.”

Your laugh was bitter. “You say that like it’s a choice. Like you can just flip a switch.”

“I know it’s not that simple. But I’m trying — I’m really trying.”

Your gaze sharpened, a flicker of something distant in your eyes. “Trying feels like a job you clock out from. Like it’s not me you’re fighting for, but your own guilt.”

Namjoon’s throat tightened. “I want it to be you.”

You exhaled slowly. “Then why does it feel like I’m the only one bleeding here?”

He reached out, but you pulled back, a wall rising between the two of you.

“Y/n, please. I love you. I know I don’t deserve your patience, but I’m begging you. Don’t give up on us. Not like this.”

Your eyes shimmered with tears now, but your voice was cold. “Namjoon, I’m done.” you said. “I’m tired of being the only one who shows up. I’m tired of carrying us when you’re too busy to hold my hand.”

The words hit him like a blade.

Namjoon closed his eyes, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry I made you feel that way. I’m sorry I made you doubt us.”

You shook your head, voice shaking. “It’s more than doubt. It’s exhaustion. I’m worn down, Namjoon. So worn down.”

His lips pouted, he tried to clean his tears. “I don’t want to lose you— ”

“You already did.”

There was a silence. Hard. Cold. The way you looked at him, like a decision was already made. Like leaving him was something you had planned for months and finally got the courage to do it. It break him.

He took a deep breath. Then, in a fast and crude way took your hand to put the velvet box you already knew very well.

“If you’re leaving,” he said, voice breaking, “take this with you. It’s yours. Always was.”

You stared at your hand, your throats tightened. And you thought how of a bitch he was for making you do that.

“It was never mine.” You pushed to his chest with anger. Leave

He wanted to beg, to get on his knees and fight for you. But the way you were looking at him. The way you were so exhausted, the way you were angry. He knew he couldn’t make you change your mind in the moment, not when you were so out of reach with your mind and heart, so far away from him.

And just like that, the distance became unbridgeable.

< Three months later. Seoul, Korea. >

The city had softened by spring. The cold that once clung to the buildings like regret had lifted, replaced by light that poured between high-rises and cracked sidewalks like apology. You crossed the street with your coat half-buttoned, a coffee in one hand, the hem of your skirt brushing your legs with each careful step. Your heels clicked a quiet rhythm, one that no longer needed to keep pace with anyone else.

You had moved. Not far, just far enough to start again. A new apartment, a quieter part of town. You still worked at the gallery, but now you curated independently, traveling to other cities for new artists, giving talks where your voice didn’t tremble anymore. You were learning how to live without waiting. You didn’t think about him as much anymore… Not like you used to. But sometimes, still, in the stretch of silence between waking and sleep, he would appear in your mind like a fading note of music. Still familiar. Still unfinished.

It didn’t hurt that much anymore. Because you knew he regret it. He was still looking for a way of calling you, sometimes sending you coffee or things you had forgotten in your shared apartment. You hadn’t being able to unblock him, not really looking for another conversation where you knew would just revive everything that had happened. Specially since it was still new. But you tried to keep your mind busy and away from him.

And it was working, at least a little bit.

That day, your last meeting ended early, and you found yourself walking through a museum you hadn’t visited in years. No one knew you were there. No one expected you. You wandered slowly, the hush of the gallery pressing gently around you like a blanket. And then, like muscle memory, you turned the corner and froze.

There he was. Kim Namjoon.

Standing alone in front of a large canvas, hair longer, posture more closed. He looked like someone who had learned how to carry regret without crumbling under it. He saw you immediately. And before you could make a run, he was walking slowly to you. Standing just in front. And you could have left. Should have. But you didn’t. You two stood there in silence for a beat — not the old silence, thick with grief and expectation. This one was gentler. Like you two were ghosts in a place that had once belonged to both.

“Hey.” you said softly.

He swallowed. “Hi.”

Another pause.

You nodded toward the painting. “You still come here?”

“Sometimes.” His voice was rough. “It’s quieter than my apartment.”

A sad smile tugged at your lips. “It always was.” Silence again. “I heard about your solo project,” you said, eyes meeting his. “The foundation. The benefit shows. That’s… big.”

Namjoon shrugged, sheepish. “It felt like the first thing I did for someone other than myself.” You nodded. Then he said it. Gently, carefully: “I miss you.” You didn’t flinch, didn’t say anything. He looked down. “I wasn’t brave enough.”

You looked at him for a long moment. “No,” you finally said. “You weren’t.”

He blinked. “Do you hate me?”

“No.” your voice was soft. “But I think I spent a long time trying to forgive you before you’d even asked for it.”

He looked like he might cry… but didn’t. You stood there, letting the quiet settle in again.

“I’m sorry.”

Finally, you smiled and took a step back. “Take care of yourself, Namjoon.”

He gave you a nod, tight and broken. “You too.”

You turned to leave but he was quick to grabbed your wrist. You looked back confused. Namjoon had a broken gaze and looked nervous. like he was about to break.

“What are you—.”

“Before you leave. I need to say it. Finally. I need to do something.” You didn’t move. “I’ve been waiting days around your gallery wondering how to tell you this and I found you here just like this… It can’t be casual— I need to tell you” he sighed, eyes getting glassy. “You left, and I didn’t stop you. I didn’t even reach out— Not because I didn’t care. Because I was a coward. I thought if I stayed quiet, if I didn’t fight… I wouldn’t lose. But I did.”

“Look Namjoon—“ You looked away but he kept talking, cutting you off.

“You asked me to risk something and I didn’t. You asked me to do something and I stood there like a goddamn statue. I was an idiot, I thought— I don’t know why I didn’t fight harder and I regret it every second. But I’m here now. And I’m risking everything.”

You frowned confused. “What exactly do you think is left to fight for?” you said, voice like a bruise. “There’s nothing now, Namjoon.”

He stepped closer, just one step, but it felt like a hundred miles. He kept holding your wrist “You, you’re the only thing left I want, even if it’s your hate and resentment. Even if you just want to punch me in the face and scream at me or give me the silent treatment. I’ll take it, I swear I’ll take it. I’ll take anything from you, anything I can have… And I see it now— I see you. Everything you gave. Everything I didn’t.” His voice cracked. “You told me I was losing you. And I just let it happen. I kept waiting for something to change on its own. But love isn’t autopilot. It’s not maintenance. It’s war. It’s showing up.”

You shook your head. “There nothing anymore. Why are you telling me this now?”

He didn’t blink. “Because this time, I’ll risk being wrong. I’ll risk hearing no. I’ll risk everything I should’ve risked when you still believed in me— I love you,” he said. “And I’m not asking you to forget what I didn’t do. I’m asking you to give me one chance to do something now. To fight for you the way you fought for me. Because I swear to God, Y/n… I’ll risk everything for you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty, it was holding itself.

You looked at him like you didn’t recognize him. And maybe you didn’t. Maybe now, this time … he was someone new.

i’m so in love with open endings rn

now bitch why tf i can’t write more than 1k paragraphs tfff???? i had to delete so many shit and make the paragraphs bigger i hate itttt

but anyway here’s a namjoon silly little story that i was going to make it a long fic with lot of parts but thought it would be better as just one. i hope you like it >_< my man fr (let’s hate him on here a lil bit tho)

ANIMALS:

catenarwhal: #mandatory 'how cows produce milk' mention#i'll never recover from that one I fear

piromantic: #one time i saw someone fake their way through describing how spiders behave

pluto-lichen: horses

misskittypotter: #stardew valley faking its way through what fresh fish smell like

pa-pa-plasma: #saw someone faking their way through knowing what a seal is once #i still am fucked up over that one to this day. they just straight up did not know #& they were NOT good at guessing it either like it was clear they had never googled that animal ever #& was only just now realizing via answering questions from anons that seals are not!! what they assumed. initially

SEX:

dykevandyke: #what a prostate is #and where it is located #as in. external.

dreamyeyedrose: #I remember back in the ff.net days reading an Ichigo/Renji fic where the writer assumed the penises go inside each other #and I was like “I mean I don't know how it works for sure I don't have one but idk if that's how it works”

SOME OTHER FOOD STUFF:

thetrekkiehasthephonebox: #add another one to the list bloggers#this character is cooking a salad

shosta: #still baffled about the published work that didn't know food could freeze

sun-dari: #once i read a fic where the author didn't understand cinnamon

alto-tenure: #read something recently where the author was just. blatantly wrong about spices

dramatic-dolphin: #i saw someone try to fake their way through what ramen is once. like 14 years ago.#but i remember.#i was very confused about ramen for a few months. they were writing it so authoritatively.

the-celery-stalks-at-midnight: #i will never ever forget someone putting leftover fries in the microwave to reheat them and setting the timer for five minutes

typeghost: #this sparked a memory of a hannibal fic where the author had to fake their way through writing about gravy

draculin: #the one fanfic where the author knows about coffee only as a concept wrote a character as a coffee drinker#was very interesting#I don't remember the fandom or the plot but I was mesmerized by the coffee actions and choices

11235811235811: #there's a lot of faking their way thru congee in the svsss fandom i'll also note

fishali3n: #read one where the person clearly didnt know what tofu is

emmy-everafter: #in the aftermath of shadow and bone s2 i saw a lot of people pretending to know what stroopwafels are #babes they are more like cookies than breakfast waffles #like yes there is a waffle pattern but you're not gonna cut into a stack of them with syrup and sugar#🤣🤣🤣

NON-FOOD STUFF:

red-umbrella-811: Shoutout to Dame Agatha Christie for faking her way through what a wrench is in a very popular published work.

bluebeetle: #once saw someone have a character put an entire phone book in their pocket

nonametis: #- sex talk in languages other than english #<- or just the petnames in a different language other than English

sadisticpony: #the fanfiction i saw this week where op DIDNT KNOW HOW AUTOMATIC DOORS WORKED #and that they arent in peoples homes!!! of course. also opening the automatic door for someone is unironically very funny but its not #its not like. grabbing the door handle to let someone in. helpppp

danmeichael: #reminds me of the fic with the figure drawing class where the character started with the feet. #i love you feet first figure drawing author

meowmix1100blr: #me watching this one fic absolutely obliterate what the board of directors does

vexedhexes: #one time i read an architect character making a doorway bigger by building a bigger door #what a beautiful world. #OH. also gravity falls fic where they go 'oh piedmont is in california so its warm all year round'

leveragehunters: #characters going to a beer garden #And it's literally a garden outside the pub#It was a very cute mistake

fitofpique: #yes! #grown men do not get blind drunk off two beers #but i am possibly guilty of the hypothermia one #assuming it does not make you very horny?

dadvans-likes: #always thinking abt the soup kitchen fic #the entire setting of the fic was 'soup kitchen' #and i very quickly realized #the author did not know what a soup kitchen was #and they thought that soup kitchens only served soup #fic

msmargaretmurry: #i love fanfiction #once read a fic where the characters played 20 questions #but the author seemed to not know how to play 20 questions and was just kind of winging it........ #immaculate

shakespeareaddict: #Look I know not all of us are hockey experts #But it takes about ten seconds of research or any attention paid to the show to realize #That the Stanley cup playoffs are not in fucking September

baejax-the-great: #the funniest one i saw #was someone faking what church is like #like 1. they really didn't have to write an entire church experience for their fic #and 2. they had clearly never even watched a show where people went to church #it was bonkers weird

twosunson: #things ive seen authors faking #knowing how to unclog a drain #knowing. literally any history #knowing what ketamine looks like (apparently- oregano) #(you know who you are)

waterhorseyblues-ao3: #beltane being celebrated in winter #wales being portrayed as a completely separated land from england (i wish) #characters getting up after weeks of bedrest like that dosnt completely fuck you up

violetfairydust: #i once read a fic where the flight time from london to seattle was 3 hours