Charizz Norrizz

Clark Kent

Confessions? Concussions Ancestry results Fortress of hornytude White noise but make it gotham Front paige and drumrolls The bald conspiracy My current boyfriend Superclark New bikini Would you still love me if I was a worm Boobs & Blinding part 1 royalties part 2 Clark Kent Is Dating an Influencer (And Other Lies Lois Refuses to Believe) Hard Launch soft boyfriend Dimples? Dimple What if I feel like you could have been nicer to me today Kiss interruptions Stranger danger The Emma accident National Kiss Your Boyfriend day The Replacement The beard of betrayal

Valarr targaryen

Olenna Tyrell's Handbook for Avoiding Disastrous Husbands A Tale Of Forbidden Desires Were you silent or were you SILENCED The Perils of Betrothal to a Man So Pretty He Must Be Gay Love and death How Not to Escape a Prince The heir within The crown's fool The dragon's secret The Dragon's secret part two Mutual Hatred and Other Courtly Traditions A love written in secret Married at first sight modern au drabble part two The Tetanus Shot That Started It All, crack

SERIES:

I THINK I MISS MY WIFE AU: The first meeting (ITIMMW AU) I think i miss my wife I think i miss my wife part 2 Cut Short by Cruel Gods and a Runny Nose I miss my wife universe: the reader gets hurt edition "Your HoneyPot Is Bare" Valarr Targaryen Will Not Tolerate Head-Shaming No Aelias, your mother is NOT trapped inside that locket

BASTARDS, DRAGONS AND ROYALS

Bastards, Dragons and Royals 1 Batards, Dragons and Royals; The Prince and the Dragon Girl 2 Bastards, Dragons and Royals: Intermediate, Part 2.5 Bastards, Dragons And Royals: The Cave 3 Bastards, Dragons And Royals: The Island 4 Bastards, Dragons and Royals: Home 5

Fan art:

Moonfyre 2n art

Y/N 2

Various characters: valarr, aerion, daeron, maekar, baelor, dunk, lyonel, teleporting in the real world. (DISCONTINUED, i'm sorry i don't enjoy writing these😭)

Them reacting to WAP

Them reacting to godzilla after you told them it was a real story

Them reacting to roller coasters/theme parks

Aerion Targaryen

I think i miss my wife, aerion's version part 2 'Aww So Cute!' 'Get The Fuck Away From Me' The Belt

HOTD!Reader in akotsk:

HOTD!Reader is a DILF fucker Aerion and silverwing Brownhairphobic reader

In the works:

Bastards, dragons and royals part six

Forbidden desires 2

Maekarling reader is kidnapped and raised as a blackfyre

Fourth valyrian dragonriding family

Valarr's neglected wife isekai

time travel au daughter of jaehaerys and alysanne ends up in akotsk

baelor/maekar/daeron i think i miss my wife au

aerion 'itimmw' first meeting

bdr Bastard!Reader alternate ending where she runs away forever but valarr gives up everything for her and follows her

'ITIMMW' AU baelor catching valarr and yn in the library

ITIMMW!Valarr waking up in the body of BDR!Valarr

baelor survives the trial of the seven bc valarr's wife is fucking valarr while he's wearing his armor so he's forced to use an armor that actually fits

valarr x dreamer/dreamwalker reader

Jacaerys i think i miss my wife version

You were going to die.

Not in battle. Not with honor. No, you were going to die because you couldn’t figure out how to piss standing up without someone noticing you were doing it incorrectly.

The latrines were a communal sack of shit—just a ditch with a plank over it, no privacy with men lined up shoulder to shoulder like cattle in a field. You'd been holding your piss in for hours, long past the point of pain, but eventually instinct would win. You'd have to figure this out or your bladder would burst.

Think. There has to be a way, you dumb idiot.

“You sick, boy?”

You jumped. One of your tent mates—Ser Mace, a loud gloat with a broken nose and crooked teeth—was watching you with sparked amusement.

“No,” you retorted. 

"Then why are you hovering round’ the toilet like you've never seen one before?" He grinned. "Unless you're shy? That it? Shy little Davos doesn't want the other boys to see his tiny cock?"

Heat flooded across your cheeks. Damn him.

“Fuck off, Mace.” Petyr—another tentmate, the one with the thick northern burr—spoke from somewhere to your left.

"Ain't nothing wrong with embarrassing the young ones," Mace said, grinning wider. Then, before you could turn away, the fat bastard shoved his breeches down and revealed the thickest—no, the first cock you'd ever seen.

Oh, Seven Hells. 

Your stomach lurched and before you knew it, you were heaving, bent double at eye-level with Ser Mace's obscenely large, hairy, pale cock, vomiting the last of tonight's supper onto the ground.

"Seven hells, the boy's never seen a cock before! What, did your mother raise you in a sept?"

You spat, trying to clear the taste from your mouth, and didn't answer. 

"Come on." Petyr's hand gripped your shoulder, hauling you upright before Mace had the chance to say anything else. "Let's get you away from this shit before you embarrass yourself further."

You didn't protest, and allowed Petyr to steer you away from the latrines, away from Mace's wheezing laughter and the stink of piss and vomit. Your boots dragged in the mud, and the taste of bile still coated your tongue.

"Boy's got a weak stomach," Petyr called back over his shoulder, loud enough for the others to hear. "Probably ate something that didn't agree with him. You know how it is."

A few men muttered in agreement, some laughed. But Petyr kept walking, kept his grip firm on your shoulder, until you were well away from the crowd. He stopped near the horse lines, far enough from the tents that no one would overhear. Then he let go and turned to face you. The dim light cut shadows across his face—you couldn't tell if he looked concerned or just tired.

"You all right?"

"Fine," you managed, your throat burned as you spoke. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine. You look like you're about to be sick again."

"I'm not,” You stopped and took a breath. "Thank you. For getting me out of there."

Petyr studied you for a long moment. He was older than you by at least a decade, with a weathered face and pale eyes that looked like they'd far more battle than most. Northern, definitely—you could hear it in his accent, the flat vowels and rolling r's.

"First time away from home?" he asked finally.

"Yes."

"Thought so." He crossed his arms. "Let me give you some advice, boy. Men like Mace, they can smell fear. Uncertainty. And they'll go after it like hounds on a blood trail. You want to survive this, you need to grow a thicker skin."

You swallowed hard and nodded.

"And for the love of the Seven," Petyr added, his tone softening slightly, "stay away from the latrines when Mace is around. Man's got no sense of decency."

Despite everything, you almost smiled. “Aye.”

"Good." Petyr clapped you once on the shoulder—lighter this time, almost friendly. "Now get yourself cleaned up. We've got drills at dawn, and if you show up looking like you've been dragged through the mud, Ser Alyn will have your head."

He started to walk away, then paused and glanced back.

"And Davos? Next time you need to piss, go at night. Find a tree that’s less crowded."

Then he was gone, leaving you standing alone in the dark.

For a moment, you just stood there, caught between shame and something close to gratitude. Petyr's kindness was strange and certainly unearned. You didn't deserve it—not when everything about you was a lie.

Your feet dragged through the mud as you made your way toward the treeline, away from the glow of cookfires and the noise of the camp. You found a sturdy oak set back from the others, glanced left, then right, and only when you were certain no one was watching did you shove your breeches down and squat.

Finally. The relief was immediate, almost painful.

You rested your forehead against the rough bark and let yourself breathe. Out here, alone in the dark with nothing but the sound of your own piss hitting the ground, the reality of what you'd done settled over you like a weight.

This was a mistake. A grave, monumental mistake.

You'd joined the army in your father's place, wearing his name, pretending to be a son who didn't exist. And for what? Your father had been a strong man once—a knight who'd fought at the Redgrass Field, who'd earned his scars defending the Crown. Now he was weak. Brittle. But at least he was honest.

You were neither strong nor honest. Just desperate and stupid enough to think you could pull this off. Oh Seven Hells, you prayed your parents would forgive you. For stealing your fathers armor, for lying, and above all, for saving him from what would be a certain death.            

Dawn arrived too soon, dragging you from fitful sleep with all the gentleness of a boot to the ribs.

Actually, it was a boot to the ribs.

"Up, you lazy cunts!" Ser Alyn's voice cut through the pre-dawn gloom like a blade. "Prince Valarr arrives within the hour, and if any of you look like the sorry sacks of shit you are, I'll have you mucking out the latrines for a fortnight!"

You scrambled upright instantly, heart hammering against your ribs. 

"Move!" Ser Alyn kicked at another prone form—Mace, who cursed and rolled over with a grunt. "Full kit, weapons sharp, armor polished. I want you lot looking like proper soldiers, not hedge knights that crawled out of a ditch."

The tent erupted into instantaneous madness. Men stumbling over each other in the dark, fumbling for boots and belts, cursing as someone stepped on someone else's hand. You pulled on your father's mail shirt—still too big in the shoulders, too long in the sleeves—and tried to ignore the way your hands shook.

A prince. Gods be good, a prince.

"Davos, you look green," Petyr muttered as he shouldered past you, already half-dressed. "Don't tell me you're going to puke again."

"I'm fine."

"You said that last night too."

You had no answer for Petyr. Your fingers fumbled with the buckles of your sword belt, and you had to start over twice before you got it right. Around you, the other men were doing the same—strapping on armor, checking blades, some of them grumbling about the early hour but most of them looked eager.

And why wouldn’t they be? This was a chance to impress a prince. The prince, to catch the eye of Valarr Targaryen himself, heir to the bloody throne was worth more than winning every fucking upcoming battle. 

You, however, just wanted to survive the day without anyone noticing you were a girl.

The drill yard was a mud-churned mess by the time you assembled, boots squelching in the muck as Ser Alyn paced before the ragged line of soldiers. Fifty men, give or take. Some were knights, others common-born soldiers like you were pretending to be. All of them looked rough and tired, though a few had clearly made an effort—armor buffed to a dull shine, beards trimmed, tabards only mostly stained.

"Listen up!" Ser Alyn ordered. "Prince Valarr is inspecting the camp today. That means you stand straight, you keep your mouths shut unless spoken to, and you do not—I repeat, do not—embarrass me or yourselves. Understood?"

"Yes, ser!" The response was uneven, half-hearted.

Ser Alyn's face darkened. "I said, understood, you fucking lump of idiots?”

"YES, SER!"

Better. You shouted along with the rest of them, throat still raw from last night.

"Good. Now we're going to run drills. Formation work, nothing fancy. When the prince arrives, you'll be in the middle of a proper bloody exercise, not standing around with your thumbs up your arses. Got it?"

"Yes, ser!"

And so, the circus began.

Shield wall drills. Over and over, forming up in lines, shields overlapping, holding the formation as Ser Alyn walked the line and kicked at anyone whose stance was too wide or too narrow. Your shield was too heavy, the rim digging into your forearm, and your shoulder already ached from the weight of the mail. But you held on, you had to.

"Tighter!" Ser Alyn roared. "If a man can shove a dagger through that gap, Davos, you're a dead man! Closer!"

You adjusted, pressing your shield against Petyr's on your left. The man on your right—some grizzled old bastard whose name you didn't know—shoved back, and you nearly stumbled.

"Steady, boy," the old man muttered.

You gritted your teeth and held. The sun climbed higher. Sweat trickled down your spine, soaking into the padded gambeson beneath the mail. Your arms burned. Your legs trembled. But you didn't break, you refused, especially not with a prince coming.

And then—

"COMPANY, HALT!"

The entire line went still, shields snapping up, breaths ragged.

Hoofbeats. From the edge of the yard, riders appeared. Three of them. No—four. The first was a Kingsguard knight, white cloak billowing behind him, armor brilliant even in the morning haze. Behind him came a pair of squires, both young and finely dressed.

Then, Prince Valarr.

You'd expected what exactly? A golden god? A dragon in human flesh?

What you saw instead was a man. Handsome, yes—dark-haired with that telltale streak of silver running through it, bright as a banner. He sat his horse, his armor black enameled steel chased with red, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen emblazoned on his breastplate. Younger than you'd imagined. No more than five and twenty, if even that.

He dismounted and handed his reins to one of the squires, and started toward the formation. You kept your eyes forward, focusing on the back of the man's head in front of you, on the mud, on anything except the prince walking closer. Around you, the other soldiers stood straighter, chests puffed out like roosters.

Valarr walked the line slowly, hands clasped behind his back. You could hear the soft clink of his armor, the squelch of his boots in the mud. He stopped here and there to exchange words with the men—asked their names, where they hailed from, how long they'd been in service. "You're all here because the realm needs you," Valarr said, raising his voice so the whole line could hear.

"Some of you are knights. Some are common-born. That doesn't matter. What matters is whether you can hold a line when steel is singing and men are dying around you. Whether you'll stand for your brothers, for the king, for the realm." He paused, letting the words settle. "Do that, and you'll have my respect. Fail..." He didn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the restless stamp of a horse's hoof and the distant clang of a smithy.

"Carry on, Ser Alyn," Valarr said, turning back toward his mount.

"Yes, Your Grace!" Ser Alyn's voice cracked like a whip. "You heard the prince! Back to it! Shield wall, reform!"

The line broke apart and began reassembling, and you moved with it, grateful for something to do with your hands. Your heart was still hammering, your palms slick with sweat inside your gloves. You'd been so certain he would see through you. That those pale blue eyes would land on you and know, somehow, that you didn't belong here. That you were a lie, but he hadn't even looked your way.

"Not so bad, eh?" Petyr muttered as he slotted into place beside you, shield raised. "Thought you were going to piss yourself when he started talking."

"Fuck off," you said, but there was no heat in it.

Petyr snorted. "There's the spirit. Now shut up and hold your shield higher. Ser Alyn's watching."

Supper was a grim affair.

Stew again—watery and flavorless, with chunks of something that might have been turnip or might have been boot leather. You ate it anyway, scooping it up with stale bread and trying not to think about the meals you'd had at home. Around you, the men were louder than usual, their voices carrying over the crackle of the cookfire.

"Three days," Garrett was saying, grinning wide enough to show the gap where he'd lost a tooth. "Heard it from one of the quartermasters. Supply train's coming in three days, and there's a whole wagon of whores with it."

"About fucking time," Mace said, shoving a hunk of bread into his mouth. "Been here two weeks and I haven't had a woman since we left King's Landing. I'm about ready to fuck a knothole in a tree."

Laughter rippled through the group. Even Petyr cracked a smile, though he didn't join in the commentary.

"You think they'll be pretty?" the young one—Benedict—asked. He couldn't have been more than six and ten, all gangly limbs.

"Pretty?" Tym snorted. "Boy, they're camp followers. They're not pretty, they're available. That's all that matters."

More laughter. You kept your eyes on your bowl, chewing mechanically. 

"What about you, Davos?" Mace leaned across the fire, his grin turning sharp. "You ever had a woman? Or are you still a blushing maiden?"

Your face heated. "I've had women."

"Right." Mace laughed. "You probably pissed yourself the first time you saw a pair of tits, same as you did with my cock."

"I didn't piss myself.”

"Close enough!" Mace clapped his hands together, delighted. "The boy's a virgin. I'm calling it now. When those whores get here, we're all chipping in to buy Davos his first fuck."

"Leave him alone," Petyr said mildly, not looking up from his stew.

"C’mon Petyr, I'm not being cruel," Mace spread his hands in mock innocence. "Every boy needs his first. Might as well make it memorable."

You wanted to tell him to fuck off. Wanted to throw your bowl at his smug face. Instead, you forced yourself to take another bite of bread and said nothing. The conversation moved on—speculation about which whores would be prettiest, arguments over pricing, Tym boasting about some woman he'd bedded in Flea Bottom who could allegedly do things with her mouth that defied the laws of gods and men. You let it wash over you, background noise, and focused on finishing your supper.

You were scraping the last of the stew from your bowl when a shadow fell over the fire.

"Davos Stokeworth."

You looked up to see Ser Alyn standing at the edge of the circle, his expression unreadable in the firelight.

Your stomach dropped. "Ser?"

"With me. Now."

The men around the fire went quiet, watching. You set down your bowl and stood, wiping your hands on your breeches. Petyr caught your eye, gave you a small nod—you'll be fine—but it did nothing to settle the dread coiling in your gut. You followed Ser Alyn away from the fire, into the shadows between the tents.

"You're serving wine tonight," he said without preamble. "The prince is hosting his officers for supper. They need someone to pour, and you're,” he looked you up and down, his lip curling slightly. “Well you’re small boy. We need someone who’s obtrusive. So, you'll do just fine.”

"Ser, but, I'm a soldier." You began to protest.

"You're a boy who can barely hold a shield," Ser Alyn cut you off. "This is where you're useful. Now stop arguing and get yourself to the quartermaster. He'll give you something clean to wear. You report to the prince's pavilion at sundown. If you spill so much as a drop on anyone important, I'll have you mucking out the latrines for a month. Understood?"

Your jaw clenched. "Yes, ser."

"Good. Now go."

He turned and walked away, leaving you standing alone in the dark. Behind you, you could hear the men around the fire laughing again, their voices carrying on the night air. Talking about whores. About their women back home. About things you were supposed to want but couldn't even pretend to care about.

You closed your eyes and exhaled slowly. Serving wine to the fucking prince of the realm nonetheless. To a pavilion full of officers who would be looking at you, studying you, waiting for you to make a mistake.

This was going to be a goddamn disaster.

The quartermaster's tent smelled like sweat, leather, and a mix of other shit. You ducked inside, blinking against the sudden brightness. Lanterns hung from the tent poles, casting flickering light over tables piled high with supplies—boots, belts, rolls of cloth, dented helmets waiting to be repaired. At the far end, hunched over a ledger, sat the quartermaster himself.

He was a wiry man, older, with ink-stained fingers eyes that squinted from too much close work. He didn't look up when you entered.

"Name," he said.

"Davos Stokeworth. Ser Alyn sent me. Said I need—"

"I know what you need." He set down his quill and stood, moving to one of the tables. "Serving the officers tonight, are you? Lucky boy."

He didn't sound like he thought you were lucky. The quartermaster pulled a tunic from one of the piles and held it up, and eyed you. "You're a small one. This should fit." He tossed it to you. "Put it on. Let's see."

You caught the tunic and hesitated. It was clean, at least—dark blue wool, simple but well-made. Better than anything you'd worn since arriving at camp.

"Well? I haven't got all night, boy."

You turned your back, fingers fumbling with the laces of your gambeson. The binding beneath was still tight, still holding, but your ribs ached with every breath. You pulled the gambeson over your head as quickly as you could, then shrugged into the tunic.

It fit. Barely. The shoulders were a bit wide, but it would do.

"Turn around."

You obeyed and the quartermaster circled you slowly, tugging at the fabric here and there, making small disapproving noises. 

"You'll pass," he said finally. "Barely. Do you know how to serve wine, or am I going to have to explain that too?"

"I know how."

"Good. Because if you embarrass Ser Alyn, he'll take it out on me, and I'll take it out on you. Understood?"

"Yes, ser."

"I'm not a ser, I'm a quartermaster. Just call me Orys." He moved back to his ledger, already dismissing you. "The prince's pavilion is at the center of camp. Big one, you can't miss it. Be there before sundown, and for the love of the Seven, don't drop anything."

You nodded and turned to leave.

"And boy?"

You stopped, glanced back.

Orys was watching you with an odd expression—something like pity. "Keep your head down. Don't speak unless spoken to. The officers, they like their wine and they like their talk. You do not exist there remember that and you'll be fine."

"Aye," you said quietly.

Then you stepped back out into the evening air and started walking toward the center of camp.

The prince's pavilion was impossible to miss. It stood at the heart of the camp, twice the size of any other tent, pitch black with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen flying from the peak. Torches burned on either side of the entrance, and two guards in crimson cloaks stood at attention, their hands resting on the pommels of their swords.

You slowed as you approached, your mouth going dry. This was insane. You were about to walk into a tent full of knights and officers and pour their wine like some—like some servant. Like you weren't the daughter of a knight yourself, like you hadn't been raised with tutors and music lessons. 

Stop it. You're not that person anymore. You're Davos. A soldier. A nobody.

"Davos Stokeworth," you said, pitching your voice low. "Ser Alyn sent me. I'm to serve tonight."

One of the guards—a broad-shouldered man with a scar running down his cheek—looked you up and down. "You're late."

"I—"

"Get inside. They're already seated."

He jerked his head toward the entrance. You didn't wait to be told twice.

Inside, the pavilion was warm and bright, lit by what felt like a dozen lanterns hanging from the support beams. A long table dominated the center of the space, and around it sat perhaps a dozen men—knights, officers, all of them older and harder-looking than you'd expected. Their armor was piled near the tent walls, and they'd stripped down to tunics and leather jerkins, sleeves rolled up, looking almost human.

Almost.

At the head of the table sat Prince Valarr.

He was laughing at something one of the other men had said, his head tilted back, that streak of silver in his hair catching the lamplight. He looked different like this. Younger, less a prince and more just a man sharing a meal with his friends.

Then his eyes swept across the room and landed on you and the laughter died.

"Ah," he said, straightening. "You must be the cupbearer Ser Alyn mentioned."

Every head at the table turned to look at you.

Your throat closed up and you managed what would be a very, very, sad, and stiff bow. "Yes, Your Grace. Davos Stokeworth."

"Stokeworth." Valarr's brow furrowed slightly, like he was trying to place the name. Then he nodded. "Well, Davos Stokeworth, welcome. The wine is there—" He gestured to a table set against the side of the pavilion, where several pitchers and flagons waited. "Start with Ser Alyn, if you would. The man looks like he needs it."

A few of the officers chuckled. Ser Alyn, seated near the middle of the table, grunted and held out his cup without looking at you.

"Move, boy," someone muttered. "We're thirsty."

Right. Move. You crossed to the side table, hands trembling as you picked up one of the pitchers. It was heavier than you'd expected, the wine sloshing inside. You carried it carefully to Ser Alyn and poured, focusing on keeping your hands steady, on not spilling a single drop.

The wine filled his cup. You stepped back.

"Next," Ser Alyn said.

You moved down the line. One officer after another, pouring wine, setting down the pitcher, picking up another when the first ran dry. The men barely looked at you. A few muttered thanks. Most ignored you entirely, already deep in conversation.

"—heard Daemon's forces are larger than we thought—"

"—doesn't matter, we've got the numbers—"

"—if it comes to a siege, we're fucked. We don't have the supplies—"

You kept your head down, kept pouring, kept being invisible.

And then you reached the head of the table. Prince Valarr held out his cup, his eyes on one of the other officers as he spoke. "Ser Jorin, you were saying about the Stormlands?"

"Yes, Your Grace." The man—Ser Jorin, apparently—was older, grizzled, with a thick beard gone mostly gray. "Reports say Blackfyre's already taken Bronzegate. If he pushes north—"

You poured the wine. Your hands were steadier now, the repetition helping. The cup filled. You started to step back.

"Careful, boy." Valarr's hand shot out, steadying the pitcher before you could pull it away too quickly. His fingers brushed yours—warm, calloused—and you froze.

He was looking at you now. Truly looking with those blue eyes sharp and curious. Your heart pounded against your chest, and you looked away from the intense gaze.

Seven Hells, get it fucking together. 

"Easy," he said quietly. "No rush."

"Yes, Your Grace," you managed. “My apologies, Your Grace."

He smiled—just a flicker, there and gone. "No harm done." Then he released the pitcher and turned back to Ser Jorin. "Go on."

You stepped back, heart hammering, and moved to the next officer.

He touched you. He looked at you. It's fine. You're fine. He doesn't know. He can't know.

You finished pouring and retreated to the side table, standing with your back to the wall, waiting for someone to need a refill. The conversation at the table continued, voices rising and falling, debates about strategy and supplies and how many men Daemon Blackfyre had really brought with him. You tried to listen, tried to focus on anything other than the way your pulse was still racing.

And then Valarr laughed again, and despite every nerve in your body telling you to do the goddamn opposite, you looked up. He was smiling at something Ser Alyn had said, his whole face transformed by it. He looked, gods, he looked like someone you could actually talk to. 

You forced your eyes back down and prayed for the night to end quickly.

The wine flowed freely.

You'd lost count of how many times you'd circled the table, pitcher in hand, filling cups that never seemed to stay full for long. The officers drank like men who knew tomorrow might be their last day, and the conversation grew louder, looser, as the night wore on.

"—swear to you, she had tits out to here—" Ser Jorin was gesturing wildly, nearly knocking over his cup. You darted forward to steady it, refilled it without a word, stepped back.

"You're full of shit," another officer said, laughing. "No woman in Flea Bottom has tits that big."

"I'm telling you, she did!”

"What about you, Your Grace?" This from a younger knight, his face flushed with drink. "Any ladies caught your eye? Half the realm's probably throwing their daughters at you by now."

Valarr leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine in his cup. His eyes were bright—not quite drunk, but well on his way. "I've had offers."

"Offers!" Ser Alyn barked out a laugh. "The boy's had every lord from here to the Wall trying to marry off their daughters. I've seen the letters."

"And?"

"And nothing." Valarr drank, set his cup down with a soft thunk. "I'm not interested in marrying another lords political ambitions wrapped up in a pretty dress."

"Aye, so you want an ugly wife, then?" Ser Jorin grinned.

"I want a wife I can actually talk to." Valarr's voice was easy, but there was something sharper underneath. "Someone with a mind. Someone who isn't going to smile and nod and bore me to death at the breakfast table."

"Good luck finding that," someone muttered.

"Maybe I'll marry a warrior." Valarr was smiling now, the wine making him reckless. "Someone who can hold a sword. Wouldn't that scandalize the court?"

Laughter rippled around the table. You refilled Ser Alyn's cup, moved to the next man, kept your face blank.

"A warrior wife," Ser Jorin mused. "I'd pay good coin to see that. Can you imagine? Some woman in armor, telling the prince what to do."

"Sounds like a nightmare," another officer said.

"Sounds like a good time," Valarr countered. He drained his cup and held it out. You stepped forward automatically, pitcher raised. His eyes flicked up to yours as you poured—just for a moment—and you felt the weight of it. Your hand trembled, just slightly. The wine splashed against the rim of the cup.

Steady. Steady.

You pulled back before you could spill.

"Thank you," Valarr said quietly.

You nodded, stepped away. Your heart was beating too fast, a sick, fluttering organ trapped behind your ribs. The talk shifted again and someone was telling a story about a brothel in Lys. Another was complaining about his horse. The voices blurred together, and you stood against the wall, hands clasped behind your back, and tried to breathe.

The binding was too tight. Your chest ached, every breath felt like dragging air through wet cloth.

Not now. Not here.

You locked your knees and waited. It was well past midnight when Valarr finally pushed back from the table.

"Enough," he said, standing. The word was slightly softer at the edges, blurred by wine. "We ride at dawn. Get some sleep."

The officers rose—some steadier than others—and began filtering out of the pavilion in twos and threes, clapping each other on the shoulders, still laughing about something. Ser Alyn paused to mutter something to Valarr, too low for you to hear, and then he was gone too. You stayed where you were, back against the wall. You were supposed to wait until the tent cleared. Until someone dismissed you.

And then it was just you and the prince.

Valarr stood by the table, one hand braced against the back of his chair, staring down at the maps spread across the surface. For a long moment, he said nothing. Just stood there, silent, his shoulders tight. Then he spoke without looking up.

"You're dismissed," he said.

You bowed and left, thanking the gods.

You woke to Mace's boot nudging your ribs.

"Up, cupbearer. Can't sleep all day just because you spent the night pouring wine for fancy lords."

You groaned and rolled over, every muscle in your body screaming. The ground beneath your bedroll was hard as stone, and the binding around your chest had left deep aches in your ribs. You'd barely slept three hours.

"Fuck off, Mace," you mumbled.

"Ooh, the boy's got a mouth on him this morning." Mace grinned down at you. "How was it? They treat you nice? Feed you scraps from the prince's table?"

"It was fine." You sat up slowly, rubbing your face. Your head pounded. Around you, the tent was already half-empty. Petyr was gone—probably at the latrines or getting food. Benedict sat in the corner, polishing his sword and looking like someone who had no idea what he was doing. Tym was still asleep, snoring like a dying animal.

"Word is there's archery practice today," Mace said, pulling on his boots. "Ser Alyn wants to see who can actually shoot and who's been lying about it."

Your head snapped up. "Archery?"

"Aye. Apparently we're short on archers, and if Blackfyre's forces have the high ground when we meet them, we're fucked." He stood, stretching. "You know how to shoot, Davos?"

You hesitated. "A bit."

"A bit." Mace snorted. "Well, you'd better pray you're better than 'a bit,' because Ser Alyn's in a foul mood. Anyone who can't hit a target's getting assigned to cleaning shit for a week."

He ducked out of the tent, still laughing. You sat there for a moment, heart pounding.

Archery. Gods.

The range was set up in a wide clearing beyond the horse lines—a dozen straw targets propped against wooden frames, each marked with rough circles of charcoal. Men were already gathering, maybe forty or fifty of them, talking in low voices while Ser Alyn stood at the front with his arms crossed.

You hung back near the edge of the crowd, trying to stay invisible.

"All right, listen up!" Ser Alyn's voice cut through the chatter like a blade. "We need archers. Good ones. If you can shoot, step forward. If you can't, fuck off back to your tents."

A few men stepped forward immediately—older soldiers, veterans with the scarred hands of bowmen. Others hesitated, shuffling their feet.

"Come on, don't be shy!" Ser Alyn barked. "I don't care if you've only shot a bow twice in your life. Get up here."

More men moved forward. You stayed where you were.

"You too, boy."

You looked up. Ser Alyn was staring directly at you.

"Me, ser?"

"Yes, you. You've got the build for it. Small, light. Good for a longbowman." He jerked his chin toward the line forming near the targets. "Get over there."

Your stomach sank. "Ser, I don’t.”

"That wasn't a request, boy.”

You swallowed and stepped forward, joining the ragged line of men. Mace caught your eye from across the clearing and grinned, mouthing good luck. Ser Alyn walked down the line, eyeing each man. When he reached you, he paused.

"You ever shot a bow before, Davos?"

"A few times, ser," you lied. Or—no, it wasn't a lie. You just didn't mention how many times. "My father taught me."

"Good. Let's see what you've got." He moved to the center of the range and raised his voice. "First round! Fifty paces! You'll each get three arrows. Hit the target, you stay. Miss all three, you're done. Understood?"

"Yes, ser!"

One of the soldiers handed you a bow—a simple recurve, nothing fancy, but solid enough. The wood was worn smooth from use. You tested the string, felt the tension. It was heavier than the bow you'd trained with at home, but not by much. Three arrows. You nocked the first one, feeling the familiar weight of it, the way the fletching brushed against your fingers.

The first man stepped up to the line. He drew, aimed, loosed.

The arrow hit the edge of the target. Barely.

"Next!"

Another man. Another shot. This one missed entirely, burying itself in the dirt three feet to the left.

“Fucking pathetic! Next!"

You watched them, one after another. Some hit. Most didn't. Your turn was coming, and your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.

"You! Boy! Step up!"

You moved to the line. Fifty paces. The target looked small from here, just a circle of straw and charcoal. You raised the bow, feeling the weight of it settle into your grip and drew the string back. You loosed and the arrow flew straight and true, slamming into the target dead center.

Silence.

You blinked, staring at the target. You hadn't meant to—you'd just shot. Just let your body do what it knew how to do.

"Well, shit," someone muttered behind you.

Ser Alyn was staring at you, his expression unreadable. "Again."

You nocked the second arrow. Drew. Loosed.

It hit an inch from the first.

"Again."

Third arrow. This one split the difference between the first two, all three clustered in the center of the target so close together you could barely see the gaps. The clearing had gone quiet. Every man was staring at you now. Ser Alyn walked over to the target, examined the arrows, then turned back to look at you. His face was hard to read—somewhere between impressed and suspicious.

"Where the fuck did you learn to shoot like that?" he asked.

Your mouth went dry. "My father, ser. He—he was good. Taught me when I was young."

"Your father must've been a gods-damned master archer." Ser Alyn pulled one of the arrows from the target and turned it over in his hands. "I've seen knights who can't shoot this clean."

You didn't know what to say to that. Ser Alyn looked at you for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "You're staying on the line. Let's see if you can do it again."

The next round started. Seventy-five paces this time. You hit the target. So did a handful of others, but most fell away, their shots going wide or falling short. One hundred paces. You hit the center again. Only three other men managed to hit the target at all.

One hundred and fifty paces. The target was barely visible now, just a smudge of straw in the distance.

You drew. Aimed. Felt the wind against your face, adjusted for it without thinking.

Loosed.

The arrow arced high, then dropped, slamming into the target just left of center. When Ser Alyn walked down to check, he stood there for a long moment, hands on his hips, staring at the arrow.

Then he turned and shouted back toward the range: "Someone get the prince. He needs to see this."

Your blood went cold.

No. No no no—

But it was too late. Across the clearing, one of the squires was already running toward the center of camp.

Prince Valarr arrived on horseback, flanked by two of his knights. He dismounted and walked toward the range as you kept your eyes down, your heart hammering so hard you thought it might crack your ribs. This was bad, very fucking bad. 

Ser Alyn met him halfway, speaking too low for you to hear. Valarr listened, his expression unreadable, then his eyes swept across the line of men until they landed on you. He studied you for a moment and then nodded to Ser Alyn.

"Show me," he said.

Ser Alyn gestured you forward. "Davos. One more shot. Two hundred paces."

Two hundred paces. The target was barely a speck at this distance, the wind strong enough that you could feel it pulling at your clothes. You nocked an arrow with hands that wanted to shake, forced them steady. You could feel every eye on you—the soldiers, Ser Alyn, the prince. Especially the prince. You drew the string back until your fingers touched the corner of your mouth, felt the tension singing through the bow, and let everything else fall away. Just you and the target. Just the wind and the weight of the arrow and the moment before release.

You loosed.

The arrow flew in a long, clean arc, cutting through the air like it had been drawn there by an invisible hand. It struck the target high and right, just inside the outer ring. Not perfect. But at two hundred paces, in the wind, it was more than good enough. Valarr walked down to the target himself this time, Ser Alyn trailing behind him. He pulled the arrow free, examined it, then looked back at you across the distance. You couldn't read his expression from here, but the fact that he was looking at all made your stomach clench.

When he returned, he stopped in front of you, turning the arrow over in his hands. "Your father taught you to shoot?" he asked.

“Yes, Your Grace," you said, keeping your voice low and steady.

"He must have been very skilled." Valarr handed the arrow back to you. "Or you're a natural. Either way, I have use for someone who can shoot like that." He glanced at Ser Alyn. "I'll take him."

Ser Alyn's brow furrowed. "Your Grace?"

"Send him to my tent after midday. I want to speak with him privately." Valarr's eyes flicked back to you. "Well done, Davos. It seems you're full of surprises."

Then he turned and walked back to his horse. You stood there, heart in your throat, arrow still clutched in your hand.

What in Seven Hells have you gotten yourself into?

You stood outside the prince's pavilion, trying to steady your breathing.

Midday had come too quickly. You'd spent the morning in a haze of dread, barely hearing the jokes and questions from your tentmates. Mace had clapped you on the shoulder so hard you'd nearly stumbled, crowing about how "little Davos" had shown up half the camp. Petyr had just looked at you with something like concern and said nothing.

Now you were here, and the guards were watching you, and there was no avoiding it.

"The prince is expecting you," one of them said, jerking his head toward the entrance.

You ducked inside. The pavilion was quieter than it had been last night. No crowd of officers, no wine-loosened laughter. Just Valarr, standing at the table with maps spread out before him, still in his riding leathers. He looked up when you entered.

"Davos. Come here."

You crossed to the table, stopped a respectful distance away. Your hands wanted to fidget. You locked them behind your back.

Valarr studied you for a moment, then gestured to the maps. "Do you know what these are?"

You glanced down. Terrain maps, troop movements marked in different colored ink. "Battle plans, Your Grace."

"Close enough." He tapped a spot on the largest map—a river crossing, forests marked on either side. "Daemon Blackfyre's forces are moving north. We know their general direction, but not their numbers. Not their exact position. If we're going to meet them, we need better intelligence."

You nodded, unsure where this was going.

"I need scouts," Valarr continued. "Fast, quiet, with good eyes. Someone who can get close without being seen and get out again without getting killed." His gaze flicked up to you. "You're small and light. And clearly you can shoot well enough to defend yourself if things go wrong. That makes you useful."

Your stomach dropped through the floor. "Your Grace, I'm not—"

"You're not a soldier?" He raised an eyebrow. "You volunteered, didn't you? Came here in your father's place?"

"Yes, Your Grace.”

"Then you're a soldier. And soldiers do what they're told." He straightened, crossing his arms. "I'm assigning you to reconnaissance. You'll ride out tomorrow with two others, get close to Blackfyre's camp, count what you can, and report back. Think you can manage that?"

No. Absolutely fucking not. This was insane.

"Yes, Your Grace," you heard yourself say.

Valarr's expression softened slightly. "You're scared. That's good. Means you're not stupid." He moved around the table, closer now. "The men you're going with are experienced. They'll keep you alive if you listen to them. And if you see something—anything—you come straight back here and tell me. Understood?"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Good." He held your gaze for a moment longer, and you couldn't look away. His eyes were sharp, assessing, but there was something else there too. "Dismissed. Report to Ser Alyn before dawn. He'll give you the details."

You bowed and turned to leave.

"Davos."

You stopped, glanced back.

"Don't get yourself killed," Valarr said. "I'd hate to lose a decent archer."

You nodded and left before you could say something stupid.

You'd been crouched in the same position for hours, muscles screaming, barely daring to breathe.

The other two scouts—Harwin and a lean, quiet man named Durran—had split off at sunset to circle Blackfyre's camp from different angles. The plan was simple: watch, count, don't get caught. You'd drawn the shortest straw, which meant you got the closest position, tucked behind a fallen log at the edge of the treeline with nothing but darkness and luck to keep you hidden.

Blackfyre's camp sprawled below you, a sea of cookfires and tents that seemed to go on forever. Too many. Far too fucking many. You'd tried to count them at first, but gave up somewhere past three hundred. The prince needed to know this. Needed to know how badly outnumbered you were.

Your shoulder ached from holding still. Your legs had gone numb an hour ago. The night air was cold enough that you could see your breath, and every slight movement made the leaves around you rustle. You'd been here since dusk. It had to be near midnight now.

Then you heard voices.

Close. Too close.

You froze, pressing yourself flatter against the ground. Two men were walking up the hill toward your position, their boots crunching through the underbrush. Blackfyre soldiers, had to be. You could see the dark shapes of them through the trees, close enough that you could hear their conversation.

"—don't see why it matters," one of them was saying. His voice was rough, annoyed. "Just kill him and be done with it."

"Because it has to look right," the other man said. He sounded older, calmer. "The prince dies in battle, fine. The prince dies in his tent with a knife in his back? That raises questions."

Your blood went cold.

"So what, we wait for the fighting to start?"

"We wait for the signal. Martyn's got someone on the inside, close to the prince. When the time comes, it'll look like an accident. Friendly fire, it happens all the time in wars.”

"And we're sure this source is good?"

"Good enough that Daemon's paying him in gold. The Targaryen prince dies, their army falls apart, we win." The older man spat into the dirt. "Just be patient."

They were maybe twenty feet away now. Moving closer. You didn't dare move, didn't dare breathe. Your heart was slamming against your ribs so hard you were sure they'd hear it.

Assassination? Worse, an nside job. This had to be someone close to Valarr.

You had to get back. Had to warn him. Your foot shifted and a branch snapped under your boot. Suddenly, the voices drew to a stop.

"What was that?"

"Over there. By the log."

"Fuck."

You stood at once and ran. Didn't think, didn't plan, just scrambled to your feet and bolted into the trees. Behind you, shouting erupted. Boots pounding. Someone yelled for a bow.

The forest was a blur of shadows and branches tearing at your face. You ran blind, lungs burning, legs pumping. You didn't know where Harwin and Durran were. Didn't know which way was camp. Just ran.

The arrow hit you from behind. It punched into your left shoulder with a force that sent you sprawling forward into the dirt. The pain was white-hot, blinding, and for a moment you couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but lie there with your face in the leaves and feel the warm spread of blood soaking into your tunic.

Get up. Get up get up get up, you fucking idiot, you have to get up.

You dragged yourself to your feet, gasping. Your left arm hung useless, the arrow shaft jutting from your shoulder like some obscene flag. Blood was running down your back, hot and wet. You could hear them crashing through the brush behind you, closer now.

You ran again.

The world tilted and swayed. Your vision blurred. You tripped over roots, slammed into trees, kept going. The sounds of pursuit faded—or maybe you just couldn't hear them anymore over the roaring in your ears.

You didn't know how long you ran. It felt like hours. It felt like seconds.

When you finally saw the lights of camp through the trees, you nearly sobbed with relief. You stumbled out of the forest and into the outer ring of tents, legs giving out. Someone shouted. Hands caught you before you hit the ground.

"Gods—he's been shot—"

"Wake Ser Alyn and the maester—“

You tried to speak, tried to tell them about the prince, about the assassin, but your mouth wouldn't work. The world was going dark at the edges, folding in on itself.

The last thing you heard before everything went black was someone yelling for Prince Valarr.

Pain woke you. Sharp, burning, radiating from your shoulder down through your ribs like someone was twisting a hot poker into your bones. You tried to move and your body screamed at you—don't, don't, stop—and you froze, gasping.

Something was wrong, really fucking wrong.  Not just the arrow wound. Something else. Something worse.

Your eyes snapped open. Canvas overhead with dim lantern light. The smell of blood and herbs and something medicinal that made your stomach turn. You were lying on a cot, blankets pulled up to your collarbone, and your chest felt wrong—loose, unbound, the pressure gone.

No. No no no.

You tried to sit up. Hands pressed you back down—gentle but firm—and a voice spoke from somewhere above you.

"Don't."

You knew that voice.

Your head turned and there he was. Prince Valarr. Sitting on a low stool beside the cot, close enough to touch, his face drawn and pale in the lamplight. He looked like he hadn't slept. His hair was a mess, the streak of silver falling across his forehead, and his eyes, gods, his eyes were fixed on you. Sharp and watching.

"Your Grace," you managed. Your voice came out rough, cracked, barely audible.

He didn't answer right away. Just kept staring at you, and the silence stretched so long your heart started slamming against your ribs. His jaw was tight. Too tight. "Davos," he said finally. "Or should I say—" He stopped. Jaw working. "What's your real name?"

The world dropped out from under you. You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Your hand moved without permission—reached for your chest, felt the bandages wrapped around your ribs where the binding should have been gone. It was gone. They'd cut it off.

"I—" You tried to sit up again, panic flooding through you hot and terrible. "Your Grace, I can explain."

"Don't." His hand shot out, pressed against your good shoulder, holding you down. "You'll tear the stitches."

You froze. His palm was warm through the thin blanket. You could feel the calluses on his fingers, the same ones that had brushed yours when he'd steadied the wine pitcher. When he'd looked at you and you'd thought—gods, you'd been so stupid.

"The maester had to cut away your tunic to get to the arrow," Valarr said. His voice was quiet, too quiet. "He found the binding." A pause. "And then he found everything else."

Your throat closed up. You wanted to run. Wanted to bolt upright and sprint for the tent flap and just fucking run until your legs gave out, but you couldn't move. His hand was still on your shoulder and his eyes were still on your face and you were trapped.

"So I'll ask you again." Valarr leaned forward—close enough that you could see the dark smudges under his eyes, the way his jaw was clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek. Close enough that you couldn't look away. "What's your name?"

You opened your mouth and nothing came out.

He waited. In the corner of the tent, an old man sat on a stool—the maester, grey-haired and sharp-eyed, watching the two of you . He'd seen. He knew. "I sent everyone else away," Valarr continued, reading your panic. "As far as the camp knows, you're still just Davos. Wounded, but alive." His eyes flicked toward the maester. "Maester Harrion has agreed to keep silent for now."

For now.

"But I need the truth," Valarr said. His hand was still on your shoulder. You could feel the weight of it, pinning you down, holding you there. "All of it. Starting with your name."

Your shoulder throbbed. Your ribs ached. Blood had soaked through the bandages and you could feel it—warm and sticky against your skin. Everything hurt. Everything was wrong. And Valarr was looking at you like he didn't recognize you anymore.

"It doesn't matter," you heard yourself say. Your voice sounded thin. "Your Grace, my name doesn't matter—you need to listen to me, there's going to be an assassination—"

"Don't."

The word came out sharp. Hard. Valarr's hand tightened on your shoulder—not enough to hurt, but enough to make you flinch. His jaw was clenched, his eyes blazing.

"Don't you dare try to change the subject," he said, and there it was—the anger you'd been waiting for, finally breaking through. "You've been lying to me since the moment I met you. You stood in formation with my men. You poured wine in my tent. You—" He stopped and swallowed. "I touched you."

His hand jerked back like you'd burned him.

The absence of his touch felt worse than the arrow wound. "You let me believe you were someone you're not," Valarr continued, and his voice had gone quiet again. Dangerously quiet. "You lied to Ser Alyn. To the men in your tent. To me." He stood abruptly, the stool scraping against the ground, and turned away from you. "Do you have any idea what you've done? What this means?"

"I didn't have a choice—"

"There's always a choice!" He spun back toward you, and you flinched. "You could have stayed home. You could have let your father answer the call himself. You could have—" He stopped. Dragged both hands through his hair. "Gods. Gods. You're—you're a woman."

He said it like he still couldn't believe it. Like the word didn't fit in his mouth. You wanted to argue. Wanted to scream at him that your father would have died, that you'd saved his life, that you'd done what you had to do. But the words stuck in your throat because Valarr was looking at you like he'd trusted you. And you'd broken that.

"I could have you executed for this," he said finally. "Lying to the Crown. Deceiving the army. and impersonating a soldier." He paused. "Do you understand that?"

"Yes." Your voice was barely a whisper.

"Do you understand that I should have you executed for this?"

"Yes."

Valarr stared at you. His hand moved—unconscious, automatic—toward the hilt of his sword. You watched it happen. Watched his fingers brush the pommel, hover there for a second.

Then drop.

"Fuck," he muttered, turning away again. He paced to the other side of the tent, put his back to you. His shoulders were rigid. You could see the way his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

The silence stretched. Seconds. Minutes. You couldn't tell. Finally, he spoke without turning around.

"Why?"

"My father," you said again. The words came easier this time, like something inside you had cracked open. "He was called to fight. He's—he's old, Your Grace. Wounded. He fought at the Redgrass Field. He gave everything for the Crown. And they—" Your voice broke and you forced it steady. "They were going to send him anyway. Even though he can barely hold a sword anymore. Even though it would have killed him."

Valarr didn't move.

"So I took his armor," you continued. "Cut my hair. Bound my chest and I came here in his place." You swallowed. "I knew it was treason. I knew what would happen if anyone found out. But he's my father, and I couldn't—I couldn't just let him die."

More silence.

Then, quietly he said, "What's your name?"

You told him your real name. The one only your father had called you for the past month. Valarr finally turned around. He looked at you for a long moment, and you couldn't read his expression anymore. Couldn't tell if he was angry or confused or something else entirely.

"You took an arrow for me," he said.

"I—" You blinked. "What?"

"You heard the assassins. You could have run. Could have disappeared into the forest and no one would have known." His eyes were fixed on yours now, searching. "But you came back. You warned me."

"Of course I did." The words came out sharper than you intended. "Your Grace, they're planning to kill you. Someone close to you, someone on the inside—I heard them talking about Martyn, about waiting for a signal."

"I know."

You stopped. Stared at him.

"You—what?"

"You've been unconscious for hours," Valarr said. "Kept mumbling about assassins. About someone close to me." He moved back toward the cot, sat down heavily on the stool. "I've already doubled the guard. Ser Alyn is questioning everyone who has access to my tent."

Relief crashed through you so hard you nearly sobbed. "Then you—you believe me?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Valarr asked quietly. "You got shot trying to warn me. Why would you lie about that?"

You didn't have an answer and he studied you for another long moment. Then, slowly, he reached out—hesitated—and rested his hand on the edge of the cot. Not touching you. But close.

"I don't know what to do with you," he admitted.

Your heart was pounding. "Your Grace."

"You saved my life," Valarr continued. "But you also lied to me. Deceived me. Committed treason." He exhaled. "I should have you executed. I should. But—" He stopped and looked away, his jaw ticking.

"But?" you pressed.

"But you're the best damn archer I've seen in years," Valarr said. "And you took an arrow in the back trying to save me." He dragged a hand down his face. "And I—" He stopped again. Shook his head.

"I can't execute you," he finished quietly. "I should. But I can't."

The tent was too small. Too hot. You could feel your pulse in your throat, your shoulder, everywhere.

"So what happens now?" you asked.

you are added to the group the last

it's a controversial experiment for Big Hit. debuting a boy band with exactly one female member. they do not hold their breath: they believe in the failure. nobody expects BTS to actually succeed.

as the decision to add a girl is made much later, they are faced with the question whether to change the name of the band from "bulletproof boys" to "bulletproof youth". and they decide against it because of how little they care about the whole group

the bangtan trainees mostly oppose the idea, not only because it's a late addition, but also because it's a girl

they are told that they have to go on living all together, but with a girl. train as usual, but with a girl. share food and allowance, but with a girl

"that wasn't in the contract" - "none of this was in the contract"

the boys are terrified thinking of how this is going to shift things completely

Yoongi is one of the most opposing members, bringing up good points and complaining about it, but there's not much he can do.

a couple of days before you arrive the boys have a meeting with the management. they are told that the girl (you) is coming and there's one rule

no hookups or relationships. it should be clean, friendly and disciplined. if there's even a whiff of anything similar to attraction or flirting, or drama, the member caught is out without the second warning

at the time the members do not see it as a problem, in fact, they do not even consider it a danger because of how preoccupied they are. they don't want to mess with anybody; they don't want anybody

actually they mostly see you as an enemy and an obstacle because they believe you will be a bad addition. nobody's even thinking about the funny stuff; they are cautious, unsure and reserved

when you arrive, you try to be cool and calm, and they try to be polite and non-hostile

the first person you notice is Namjoon: he is going to be your roommate, your companion and most likely your best friend (you couldn't be further from the truth: they will all become your friends soon)

you speak good English, so Namjoon is naturally drawn to you and you click in spite of his initial unwillingness. "hey, that might actually work..."

first impressions:

Namjoon: mature, normal guy, too burdened by his leader role, super focused, kind, helpful. will not make you uncomfortable even if he tries. feels like he is already your friend. you are born in the same year, several months apart, the same zodiac, the same introversion deep down under ambiversion.

Hoseok: painfully shy, glaring at you curiously from a distance. you can see instantly that a smile is his natural reaction to everything, and you actually flinch when the teacher snarls at him, and he smiles. this is the first of many times you get an urge to protect. he seems kinda small, fragile, and only relaxes when he is dancing or sleeping

Jimin: seems like a menace. his smile is too oily, and yet he shifts from being flirty to completely closed down. he seems like somebody you want to know better because at first you can't figure out his role in the group: is he the main dancer or the vocal? or the visual?

Jungkook: b a b y. you drop one look at him and, even though he is already your height, you get motivated to stand on his side. his round cheeks and still childish eyes make you question why the hell the company would hire such small kids. he is already sixteen, but he feels younger, he is super sweet and you do not feel threatened at all

Yoongi: the quiet ghost in the corner of the room giving you contemplating, evil looks. sharp jaw and the eyes that are too expressive. however, once he opens his mouth, he turns out to be polite and balanced. he gives you the trustworthy quiet helper vibe. it feels like acting on camera during making the content drains the energy from him

Jin: sage. he is so tall and adult that you unintentionally keep your back more straight in his presence. you passionately want to earn his respect because you see how he is soft and helpful with the guys but cautious with you. to you, he shows his colder side, and it kicks in the natural instinct of winning him over

Taehyung: soulmate. you click immediately. you joke at the same time, then start laughing, and your laughing voices harmonize, and you look at each other surprised. at the very beginning, he is on par with Namjoon the closest person who provides the initial comfort in a highly uncomfortable situation

you look at them seven and the hammer strikes. if you can't match them, you must at least do everything not to hold them back as a team. they are already familiar with each other, and now your job is to force them to accept you and see you as equal. it's going to be brutal

the first genuine contact:

you help Jungkook with his English homework. and by helping, you mean do it for him. he sits next to you at the desk, clicking the pen on it, while you write and try explaining things to him simultaneously

the first week you feel super lonely in the dorm because you and the SEVEN BOYS you live with walk around each other like wild animals, sniffing. all interactions are awkward: reaching for something in the cupboard at the same time and flinching like the hands touching is the worst thing that's happened in the last hundred years

blushing when you meet each other in the vicinity of the bathroom

you don't even pee when someone is nearby

you have a lot of stuff and sometimes it gets mixed up with the boys' things, and they get confused whose towel or shirt it is

the first week, in fact, is wildly stressful, because it's like jumping into ice-cold water while surrounded by sharks who don't bite but give you weird, awkward side eyes. Namjoon is too nerdy to provide insightful comfort, and Taehyung gets flustered in others' presence so he starts saying stupid shit

however the ice starts melting when you find Jungkook sobbing at that tiny desk punctured in between the clothes rack and the dinner table

it's about homework, but also his leg hurts, but also he misses his mum, and he is behind on his studies, and his voice isn't working properly

he's telling you all this with his head turned around, red like an apple, and you open up and decide that you aren't going anywhere anyway, and these boys aren't either

you hold him the way only a woman can hold a child. the other boys take really good care of Jungkook: he is fed, dressed, he is mostly comfortable and generally happy all the time. but the friendly and protective touch of a woman's hand makes sixteen-yeard old Jungkook break down and cry on your shoulder, while you stroke his head and tell him that he is safe

you try to make it very clear that he is safe with you and you won't tell anybody. try to tell him that getting tired is fine and the best thing he can do is break down when he feels like it

Yoongi witnesses the end of it, when Jungkook is already wiping his nose, and your hand is still on his head, stroking him like a kitten

this incident facilitates the eventual onset of closeness

suppose Yoongi clocks a certain feature in you, that he himself also has: the impulse to protect and comfort, and it makes him a little relieved

the hyung line starts taking care of you subtly: first of all, the boys get rid of the habit of avoiding eye contact. then you start smiling at each other.

a week later you have a collective conversation in the kitchen at night, warming up to each other

who initially has a crush on you

everybody

for most of them (6/7) it's short, the shortest for Namjoon because you're not his type. instead, he amalgamates into the older brother persona with quite a lot of satisfaction about it. he already has a younger sister and has experience, he is familiar with the problems that arise with having one, and sees that you need him in that way

Jimin drops it when he sees you aren't the ideal girl he has been picturing you as. as he knows you more, his infatuation dissipates into respect and reliability. he relies on you in many things because he has that childish persona and really likes to be taken care of. he actually exploits this quality of yours a little bit, seeing that, in the impulse to be perceived as good, you go out of your way to help them

Taehyung isn't even sure if he had a crush on you, he hadn't noticed. he just knows you're cool and he was the one who opposed the girl member addition the least of them all. he was never fully against it

Jungkook has a crush on you in a surprisingly innocent way even though he is almost an adult. he knows it's more of an awe because he just imprinted slightly when you love-bombed him in the very beginning. he grows fiercely protective of you and is the first of all the boys to start calling you sister

Hoseok's crush dies quietly when he reminds himself of the rule that management enforced on them. he understands why it's there and totally agrees with it. he is an incredibly focused and motivated person, so he takes a second look at you, and goes, no, and switches it off for good. he is cautious and quiet around you, and for the longest time you feel like a wild nature photographer that is chilling on the ground, waiting until the antelope loses alert

Jin's crush was more out of curiosity and the whiplash of change. it doesn't last and wouldn't have even if all of a sudden you told him you liked him. instead, he gains respect for you when he sees your striving to work as much as they do and even more. Jin ends up being the most perceptive protector of yours, who clocks your exhaustion first. he approaches you very soon into the shared living and working, and tells you not to run too fast, or you'll burn out

Yoongi doesn't do anything about his crush and isn't alarmed when it doesn't cease. he thinks it's irrelevant. two things are unchangeable: you are not going away. and second: you are off limits. coexisting with his liking of you is easy because he sees you literally every waking minute

actually for the longest time he believes that all the other members are in love with you and it's a norm, and is very surprised when they talk about it and say, uh, no, not really

then he's like, uh oh. while Hoseok's crush floats up and bursts like a bubble, Yoongi's feeling suddenly sinks down and cements itself somewhere deep

you don't call the older ones oppas: you absorb their habit and call them hyungs

the first year together:

you debut all together, after some time during which you grow close and start trusting each other. the first year is tough because it's still friction. would've been much easier if you were a boy, of course.

there are inconveniences, awkwardness and surprises in every aspect of your lives

they need to adjust choreo for you because it needs to reflect on the female presence and make it your collective IT factor

the boys need to kiss all their previous concepts goodbye: that they will be a boy band; that they will all be equal (now there's this 'we have a special factor' dynamic); that they will do exactly what they were promised; that they can fart into each other's faces in the morning as a method of waking up those who don't hear the alarm clock

for some reason they cannot see themselves farting into your face

you prove to become spicy if tackled.

people aren't having it at all. BTS are bullied, ridiculed, ignored and talked down to all the time

the boys gather around Jungkook and focus on the work, trying to ignore the negativity

they are surprised when they find out yet another feature of yours

you laugh off the hate towards you, which you get a lot, but become feral when someone insults them

you hesitate whether to accept me? well, tough luck, i accepted you

because you told yourself "we are stuck together, so I'll better make the most of it" and now you live by this

you feel so lonely; the only girl, the weakest one, the shortest one, different dancing style, different voice, different rhythm, different low points. in order to survive this loneliness, you shut your feelings off and concentrate on getting them on your side

also, that one time you comforted Jungkook gave you an idea that boys are just that - boys, and not stone-cold machines, and might even react positively to your friendly attitude

long story short, you start releasing your tension out on people who dare to insult them

you lash out at radio hosts who speak to them in a condescending way

"you think you guys can be rappers?" "they already are. care to explain your problem with it?"

you bite back at the people who don't believe in them and ridicule them: "let's take it outside? or you just gonna pick on an eighteen year old boy?"

"so, how's that Korean rap boy band going?" - "it's going super well, and not sideways, but your jaw will"

a couple of times the hyung line has to restrict you physically

Seokjin realizes these reactions may be a problem

Namjoon indulges your temper because for the first time, he is partially relieved of his weight. he isn't the only one who speaks English; he isn't the only one who is in the avant-garde

Yoongi sees through your anger and the short fuse and is like, oh shit. she is going to snap sooner or later. he understands this aggression is a response to the tension this work puts on you

he starts taking care of you little by little, like a doctor, but not medically

he does it humanly. a coffee. brings you the hoodie you'd forgotten at the studio. surrenders the window seat to you. pushes you behind when the reporters or staff are male and look at you for too long

you start associating Yoongi with safety

there's a talk about you having to visit a certain hotel to meet a certain "business partner", and before you can respond, the boys go "no" in unison

you realize, even if you aren't all best pals yet, and you've only been with them for six months, and debuted like two months ago, they will protect you at least on the very basic level

it finally kills your stress-induced insomnia

you start feeling like a team

you harmonize the best with Jimin and Taehyung

you start training even more, running yourself into the ground, to prove to them that you have earned your spot here; that they won't regret standing up for you; that they won't have to pull their punches because you're a girl

exhaustion blackouts for which you feel very guilty

your periods sometimes don't come for months because of the stress

you have a specific conversation between the eight of you, where you discuss the situation the company put you in. it was an experiment. it also felt like they were setting you up for failure from the beginning. trying to clash you and them. inconveniencing them by bringing a girl. antagonizing you.

you all look at each other and decide to succeed in spite of the company

from then on, you begin to intentionally learn to live together

"good morning", "how are you?" "did you sleep well?" "let's do it" "you go first please" "you did great". positive sabotage

they start saying "pads" without fainting. start living with the idea that the shower cabin where they stand naked, is the same spot where you also stand naked

they become more okay with touching you when it's not during the training and not a part of choreo

hugs

they do not let you do the dishes or clean the bathroom. for the whole first year you do not do either of those things; they take turns instead of you

how they deal with your stress:

Jungkook is the sweetest and is direct. "What can I do? Why are you crying?" and you cry A LOT. after some time, you stop hiding when you feel like crying, and stop feeling guilty when you get injured. there's no way to escape them anyway. there's SEVEN of them. at any given point of time, you're bound to be walked in on by a member.

Jin talks to you like a wise elder, providing practical advice

Jimin is the fairy that flaps around and tries to distract you or make you laugh so that you stop crying

Taehyung cries with you and offers his shoulder. he is the first who invents the lifehack: how to stop Y/N from crying. he begins sharing his own troubles, and you switch immediately and forget about yours

Hoseok tries to make himself scarce, hoping that someone else will handle you. when there's no other choice, he just sits next to you quietly, horrified

Yoongi provides efficient physical comfort; when there are other people around while you're in tears, he pulls the hood onto your head; if it's due to an injury, he caters to it; if it's just stress and loneliness, he elects to call Jungkook or Namjoon because he himself avoids hugging you

and it's not even embarrassment (sometimes he is so tired that he doesn't even get a boner); he is just distant like that

Namjoon = bear hugs. he is the authentic older brother who lets you cry on his chest

Yoongi is the only one who isn't affected by your rage. when you snap, whether it's at a person, or at an object that inconvenienced you, he doesn't get scared like the others. he is the mediator who pulls you away or picks the broken parts of a chair, and his silent courtesy makes you feel very guilty for the outbursts

his gentle acceptance of your character is the factor that pushes you to practice better control of your emotions

Seokjin also tells you that it's super nice that you are ready to murder people to protect the boys, but it has to stop, because it only creates more trouble

you become known as, at best, the wild card of the band

at worst, you're the attention seeker

in truth, you are in the inherently losing position. no matter what you do, you will be the scapegoat and the target. a girl in a boy group

as the fandom gradually grows, many of the fans see you as the red cloth. if you're quiet, you're boring. if you're loud, you're trying to get attention. if you're smart, you're a know-it-all. if you act silly, you're flirting with your mates. you're ugly. you're too pretty. you're fat. you're too thin. you dance too girly. you sing too high. you eat too funny. you speak too loud. you sleep wrong.

the boys gradually understand that this is your designated spot, and this is the weight you take upon yourself. as they get familiarized with the public and how it perceives you, their love for you grows

what unites you with each of them:

Namjoon: shares everything with you. you are the two smart ones who speak good English. you are also roommates and he is the last person you see before you go to sleep

Seokjin: at the moments of lethal social exhaustion, when you are both drained to zero, you sit in the kitchen with glassy eyes and chew on cornflakes straight out of the pack, without speaking. you are the only one who understands the visceral hatred for people he sometimes has; you recharge off of each other a little

Jimin: similar voices. you are paired for the performances often; and your roles are playful mates. you joke a lot together. with time, you start mimicking his uninhibited charisma, and he starts mimicking your dry, zero-bullshit snappy attitude

Taehyung: he feels like a soulmate. you like the same movies, the same books. he has impressive emotional vulnerability coupled with purely artistic selfishness, and you instinctively want to keep it alive in him. he appreaciates your attention and the fact that you forgive him for anything he does. he feels you treat him like a piece of art

Jungkook: becomes loyal to you. where you go, he goes. what you eat, he wants a bite of. when you fall down, he is on the spot in a flash, picking you up. when you're sick, he is the first to puff his chest and argue with the management to get you at least one day off

Hoseok: for the longest time, you just coexist together, trying to find common things. until you catch him in the kitchen one night, watching youtube and sobbing. he has soft, vulnerable darkness to him. you don't dare to wrap your arms around him like you do with Jungkook as he guards his personal space. the thing that unites you is the mutual respect of people who start growing similar habits. you start eating at the same time. you have similar headaches and both become sadder in November.

Yoongi: is a mystery to you. he is like the mountain that provides you haven when you need it. he has that dry laughter that betrays his maturity. he is ready to give you the shirt off his back, but doesn't let you in. he'll be like, eat my portion and go away ok? you both like your alone time and often prefer to stay in the dorm during the free hours, so you end up in the different corners of the rooms. clashing in the kitchen. you develop huge respect for him because you write a lot of lyrics, and he writes music. you think you should bond about it. Yoongi really starts looking you in the eye after you begin bringing your prose to him, asking to take a look

how you inconvenience them:

the thing that irritates them the most is crying. each member reacts differently to it: Hobi and Seokjin are almost openly annoyed when they realize that you cry too often. Jungkook is always wounded by it. Namjoon isn't very annoyed, neither is Taehyung. Taehuyng also cries often, so he isn't affected by it. Yoongi is always trying to get to the root of the problem. studies your reactions like a scientist. he is the first one to clock your heightened emotional reactivity. he tells the others about it and they ask well, how do we cure it. Yoongi laughs and says, we don't. we deal with it

you are a little messy and even though you work on it, sometimes the natural forgetfulness makes you leave things untidy or your things scattered. Hoseok and Jin are usually the ones to yell about it

loud singing in the shower. you and Namjoon are the main perpetrators

"you are supposed to be the vocalist, not the dying alpaca"

you get stress-induced insomnia and sometimes wander around at night. the only one who isn't mad about it is Yoongi because he works at nights

you get periods (when you do). sometimes you get tired more than them. you are physically weaker, and no matter what you do, or how much you strain yourself, you will never have their stamina. they never show it, but you know they do not run as fast as they could have without you, and it actually becomes a very, very deep sore in you and creates this sort of trauma and complex in you. coupled with the public reactions, it cements the perception of yourself: you're the weak point of the band. the members don't think that. in the second year they realize the concept grows on them. they stand out among mono-gender groups. they are easily recognizable. they have a draw of male fans because of you. in a twist of irony, the more they like your presence, the less you like it.

sooner rather than later you decide to make them get used to your body. you are, after all, bound to get revealing outfits for performances, as well. in the dorm, when it's hot, you walk around in shorts. you don't hide. sometimes you might walk around in the towel after the shower, looking for something. they know they need to get accustomed to it

hair everywhere

the female energy. you chat during breakfast. yelp about things. nag to keep the movie on and not switch the channel

low pain limit

they sometimes fight about 'spoiling you'. "you only bought this xyz food because you know Y/N likes it. but we are all going to eat it!"

trying not to exploit their natural male impulses to give in to you. if they want to ride bikes along the river, and you want to go to the park, they are inclined to go to the park. you start demanding they do what they want

trying to kill the 'it's okay, she's a girl' ideology. it means you bear the same responsibility but also the same agency. you start doing dishes and cleaning the bathroom in the second year.

you are delicate. they are boys. you get blisters on your feet - you do not hide it and whine about it

hair ties everywhere

how they inconvenience you:

brutal jokes that they need to tone down sometimes

pranks aren't always pleasant

SEVEN LOUD BOYS

feet into your face. rude nudging to wake you up (they do not see it as rude. it's just "gentle" wake up shove)

bring you all the wrong food when you're on your period or sick. for some reason, their brains (except Yoongi who seems to be a professional at caring for a woman) switch off like they think girls eat inherently different foods

their FUCKING UNDERWEAR in the shower

SPITTING IN THE MIRRORS AND TOOTHPASTE IN THE SINK

kicking the garbage away from sight: "i tidied up"

burping

shorter hair everywhere

"can you pluck my armpit"

they leave the mess after themselves way more often than you

you can't cope with them when they start playing games or mess around

sometimes they eat too much too fast

"Y/N'll deal with it" because you are tough in public/speak English/read books/are witty/can communicate with women/pretty/a girl

if you do something funny, they never let go of it. now it's the butt of the joke forever

you mention a celebrity crush once and now you're doomed

SNORING

if Seokjin accidentally pushes Hobi, he sways a little. if Seokjin accidentally pushes you, you fly over and crash into the floor. if Namjoon accidentally slaps you during the change of position, your head hoots for the rest of the night. if Jimin wants to catch and tickle Yoongi, Yoongi smacks him and it's over before it began. if Jimin wants to do that to you, he simply lifts you above the ground and you have no way of escaping

"you won't get it, you're a girl"

"sorry, this is balls only zone"

they watch MMA and SCREAM

one day you're the group princess, the other day you're the punching bag

you start boxing because sometimes it's impossible to break out when they get agitated, they forget that even the smallest of them is still very big and heavy against you

how they protect you:

at the airport, they quickly learn that sweeping you off your feet is too easy. they invent the oval walk. they form an oval around you and you walk all together, you hidden by their shoulders from the cameras and hands. you witness Jungkook's cheek getting scratched once, and he just shrugs it off with the most loving look

NO. Y/N isn't going to a "meeting" in a "hotel".

they check the fanmail and remove the creepy letters that are addressed to you. for the first couple of years, while the mail is handled within the group personally, you have no idea what male fans want to do to you. after, as the amounts of mail begin to overflow, and it is delegated to managers, you are left in the state of shock

"this whole time they have been writing poems about my tits??"

they do not expect you to perform on a male level. sometimes you do and they don't mention it either. they treat you as an equal.

Yoongi is the one who fences sexist questions with the sharpness of an assassin. he doesn't smile about it either, doesn't try to turn it into a joke.

"so, Y/N, which member do you find the most attractive?" Yoongi: "why didn't you ask me this question? i have a favourite one, it's Jimin". "Y/N, what diets are you on to keep that pretty body of yours?" Yoongi: "she only consumes human male meat". he makes a point to mention that you write a lot of lyrics, all the time. after Yoongi, the others pick up on this habit and try to focus on your lyrical and artistic input more than your looks and 'female presence'.

Seokjin's version: "y/n, so do you cook for the boys?" he snorts loudly. "you should see the attempts. no-no-no"

covering you when you're in revealing outfits. Hoseok will pretend to suddenly get very interested in the camera lense when you are in a short skirt and need to do splits on a variety show. Jungkook will outstretch his arm point at something for the other members if your top is revealing too much of your cleavage. Namjoon will put a towel on your knees

when the outfits get ridiculous, they won't wait for your protests. Yoongi will be like: is that for Seokjin? no? huh

giving deadly looks to people who clearly try to get too close to you

they secretly enjoy being the 'go through us first' bunch for you. each of them has this soft, gender-bending persona to some extent. but they switch back to very manly when there's a need to keep an eye on you

adjusting their whole existence to your presence: you are never the tail of the walk. at least one pair of eyes is on you when you're not at the dorm

Jungkook definitely jumps a guy at least once to protect you.

when the hopes are low:

while you are still struggling to lure people to your shows, you blame yourself for being the dragging factor. you always think that if they were a purely boyband, they would already be successful. after all, they are called "bulletproof boys", not "bulletproof boys and Y/N".

you express this self-doubt rarely because you don't want to be an even bigger burden. the response is always the same:

yah! who put this nonsense into your head? you shut up, you write like 50% of the songs! what are we supposed to do without you? sing na-na-na for three hours straight?

Jungkook won't find his shoes without you

don't say that, i just learnt to tie a ponytail!

sharing modest dinners

them secretly deciding to eat less; if each of them gives up just one spoonful of soup, you will get more. they see you are growing thin; they gaslight you by saying you're imagining things and the portions are absolutely identical. in fact, they say, you're undereating

sharing clothes, painkillers and bandaids. emergency muscle rubs. incredible survival-level health hacks to stay conscious learnt from great-grandmothers. carrying each other literally. "hold on one more hour, okay?" drinking one can of red bull all together

you teaching Jungkook to sew the holes closed. Yoongi teaching you to fix your night stand. you teaching Jimin to stop the nose bleed. Seokjin teaching you to make a sustainable meal out of two noodles, an egg and a pepper with salt. you teaching Namjoon to pick the lock. Hoseok teaching you to cover the cuts with foundation. you teaching Taehyung to sleep in sitting position. amalgamating into each other.

by the third year they know how many pairs of underwear you have and which colours can't be washed together. you know which foods upset their stomachs and read their exhaustion from the hum

the only time they come even close to exploiting you is when you wander around the city in America, handing out flyers to your show, and they notice that guys accept them eagerly from you. they ask you to tell the passersby that it's a girl group. you agree.

sleeping together on the dance studio floor, only to discover they had huddled around you, warming you with their bodies like badgers. even Hobi and Yoongi.

A synth-heavy, bass-dropping, borderline techno K-pop anthem with lyrics all about speed, chassis, turbo engines, red flags, and emotional heartbreak disguised as a racing metaphor. It charted #1 in 12 countries within 48 hours.

You didn’t even mean for it to blow up. You just missed the racetrack.

Your obsession with F1 wasn’t new. BTS fans already knew about it—there were compilation videos of you doing deep dives into carbon fiber strength on V-Lives and explaining the 2022 porpoising crisis on Weverse.

But when you were offered to perform "Ferrari" live at the Italian Grand Prix in Monza?

Yeah. That made it real.

The sun was setting over the paddock, golden rays kissing the tops of every team garage, the scent of fresh rubber and motor oil oddly comforting. You stood next to your performance tent near the Ferrari hospitality suite, still breathless from your soundcheck.

Someone cleared their throat.

You turned around to see Charles Leclerc.

"Hi," he smiled, hands in his fire suit pockets. "You’re Y/N, right? The one who sings about my car."

You grinned. "Only if you’re the one who drives like heartbreak."

He laughed, shoulders relaxing. "Touché. Can I say something slightly crazy?"

You tilted your head. "Go for it."

"I watched your MV four times. I was trying to figure out if you actually understood the ERS system or if it was just for the lyrics."

You blinked. "I built my own PC. I modded it with an F1 sim wheel. I’ve been watching telemetry since 2019."

He looked visibly impressed. "D'accord. That’s legit."

"Ask me anything."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "Okay, what’s the weight limit on a 2025 car, including the driver?"

"798 kilos. Unless you’re Lance and brought a baguette onboard."

Behind you, Lewis Hamilton burst out laughing. Apparently, he’d been listening in.

It didn’t take long for the rest of the drivers to find you.

Franco Colapinto was the first to ask for a selfie. "My sister is ARMY. She’s going to cry when she sees this."

Isack Hadjar tried to keep it cool. "So, you, uh, like the Red Bull aero this year?"

"Downforce balance is solid but the floor edge design might be too exposed," you replied casually.

He blinked. "Wait. How do you know that?"

Ollie Bearman came running, dragging Kimi Antonelli behind him. "I told you she knew! She predicted Ferrari’s tire strategy last week!"

You laughed, palms up. "What can I say? I study."

Logan Sargeant stared in awe. "Are you secretly an engineer disguised as a K-pop idol?"

"I mean, music and motorsport both require rhythm."

"Fair."

You’d barely made it to the performance stage before Esteban Ocon stopped you with a question about fuel flow limits. Lando Norris wanted to know what mic brand you used. Fernando Alonso asked for your thoughts on Honda’s engine revival.

The performance itself? Electric. You danced in a custom red racing suit-dress hybrid with Ferrari’s prancing horse stitched on your boots. Pyrotechnics flared behind you as you hit the high note in "Shift me into overdrive, love’s a redline I can’t survive".

Half the pit wall was filming.

After the performance, you found yourself on a bean bag in the McLaren motorhome, legs curled up under you as Oscar Piastri handed you a juice box. "You’re honestly one of us."

"An honorary driver?"

"More like a paddock gremlin. The best kind."

Kimi Antonelli flopped beside you. "If I ever forget the diff settings, I’m calling you."

You grinned. "My fee is one lap in the sim rig."

Carlos Sainz walked by and laughed. "She’s gonna take all our seats."

You had dinner in the Mercedes motorhome that night. Toto Wolff pulled up a chair across from you.

"So. BTS. F1. Hit songs. And you still managed to know the difference between toe angle and camber."

"My brain’s weird," you said with a shrug.

"Your brain is brilliant. You remind me of someone."

You tilted your head.

He smiled. "My daughter, before she started lecturing me on downforce at the age of eight."

You chuckled. "I memorized Ferrari’s engine layout before I could read."

You didn’t expect to become a regular in the paddock.

But weeks later, there you were: dropping by the simulator at Red Bull’s factory, FaceTiming George Russell to argue about tire deg, playing Mario Kart with Lance Stroll during a rain delay, sitting on a stack of tires next to Zhou Guanyu as he translated Chinese F1 slang for your next single.

They’d pulled you into their chaos.

And somehow, you fit perfectly.

Your next solo track?

It was called "Chicane".

Lewis smiled when he heard the demo. "You know, Y/N, you might just be the fastest pop star alive."

You winked. "Let’s race and find out."

🏁

End.

“Y/N, stop it right now.” 

Your boyfriend breathes the command faster than you can even open your mouth to greet him. With a roll of your eyes, you put your phone on speaker and sit it on the floor beside you. Rummaging through the cardboard boxes littering your apartment is easier done with both hands. 

“Why hello, Taehyung. What a pleasure to hear from you.”

“Are you seriously mad at me right now?” From the whine in his voice you’re positive he’s wearing a deep pout, bottom lip jutting out as far as it can. You love kissing his pouts away. 

But not this time! And not just because you’re on opposite sides of the world. 

“Shouldn’t you be asleep? It’s so late there and I’m sure you’re very tired from displaying your dick to all of America for three hours.” 

The cardboard box in front of you has “BEDROOM” scribbled in your father’s handwriting on the side in thick, black Sharpie. It’s full of little trinkets and random decor. A Shooky plushie is crammed into the corner in between a cracked Army bomb and a small framed photo of you with your parents. You smile to yourself despite your boyfriend’s huffing over the phone. Your father had given you a strange look as he helped you pack the items as if to ask, Really? Do you really need these? 

Just because you’re dating a member of BTS now doesn’t mean you can’t cherish your old BTS merch! It’s not weird, in your opinion. It would only be weird if you made it weird. And you weren’t making it weird. 

“I did not display my dick!” 

You roll your eyes for probably the fifth time while you ponder where to put Shooky. You’d kept it on your dresser in your old home in the States. Something tells you Taehyung won’t appreciate the lack of a Tata beside it. 

“You were thrusting and throwing it around! And pointing at it while doing it, too!” 

“Y/N!” 

“Don’t Y/N me! I have my TikTok evidence!” 

With your cracked Army bomb in hand, you open the app in question, scrolling through your favorited videos until you get to the one. The one uploaded only a day before. The one you’d texted to Taehyung which prompted his immediate phone call. 

“And what does the caption say?” you ask but then cut Taehyung off before he can answer the question. “It says, and I quote, ‘I will never forget Taehyung doing this. I looped this for hours. Kim Taehyung lives in my head rent-free.’ Hashtag Taehyung. Hashtag HipsDon’tLie. With the woozy face emoji. And do we need to discuss the music choice?” 

“Y/N, can you please-” 

“Slut Me Out,” you deadpan in a monotone voice. “That is the song they chose for you.”

The other end is silent for so long you start to feel bad. Every time your jealousy spikes, you seem to act on impulse rather than thinking through how you might make Taehyung feel. Yes, he sometimes plays his part in the group a little too well, but you also knew that this was his job. It’s his job to make people get excited - excited for the music, the group, and himself as an idol. 

Still, your opinion is the most important to him, and you know that. 

“Jagiya…” Taehyung sniffles and you feel your heart shatter. 

Fuck, you really are a bitch, aren’t you? 

“Tae, I’m sorry.” 

“No, I’m sorry. I just… I don’t know, I didn’t really think anything of it. It’s just an act, y’know?” 

You did know. Away from the stage and the cameras, Taehyung is quiet, almost shy. He’s happy to be a silent observer of whatever chaos his members create. He gifts everyone with puffy cheeks and boxy grins, sometimes a boisterous laugh that manages to make your heart soar every time. But the soft-spoken soul you listen to old school R&B with while you smoke strawberry swisher blunts on the balcony late into the night, and convince that yes, the apartment is soundly built and no, the balcony will not randomly fall out beneath you… That person is different from the person you see wearing a resting bitch face in interviews or the person who chews away at imaginary gum during concerts. 

You find all versions of Taehyung endearing, although the fake gum chewing is kind of embarrassing if you wanted to be perfectly honest. 

“I know, Tae. I’m sorry I’m being judgmental for no reason,” you insist and you hope he believes you. Complaints about his idol status typically resulted in red eyes and sniffles, yet sometimes you couldn’t stop yourself from pushing his pressure points despite his sensitivity.  

Your apology puts Taehyung in a better mood because his following comment is cheekier than you expect. 

“You get jealous a lot, jagi.” His smug tone is close to bringing back your irritation. 

“I am not jealous of some fans in a stadium, thanks.” 

“Good,” he says more cheerfully. “‘Cause I only have sights for you.” 

That makes you laugh and you feel your earlier heaviness disappear. “You mean, you only have eyes for me?” 

“Isn’t that what I said?” 

You shake your head as if Taehyung can see you. A few photo strips are beneath Shooky in the cardboard box. You silently curse your father (respectfully and endearingly) for casually placing something so fragile in the bottom of a box. The photos are of you and Taehyung in a photo booth at a birthday party for an idol you didn’t know. An actor, you think. You thumb at one of the corners of the photo strip that has curled inward. Taehyung’s hair was straight then, and short, falling just above his ears. You much prefer the thick waves he wears now. 

“You’re so cute.” 

“Only for you.” 

“Oh shut up, now you’re being corny.” 

You’re not sure why, but you try to suppress the smile Taehyung’s light flirting coaxes out of you, even though he can’t see you. Accepting his teasing affection has always been hard for you. All the boys are too caring; it makes you uncomfortable, but not in a bad way. You’re just not used to men acting like that. They’re all very different from the men you’ve been around growing up. There’s a reason Taehyung can’t listen to you talk about your ex-boyfriends without getting pissed. 

“Mmm, maybe. I’m also sleepy,” Taehyung slurs. His voice is so soft you almost can’t hear him, so you lift your phone to your ear rather than use the speaker setting. The smoothness feels like a lullaby gentle enough to carry you to sleep, even though it’s still daylight in Seoul. 

“Goodnight, Kim.” You decide for him, knowing he would stay on the phone if you let him. 

Confirming your thoughts, Taehyung grumbles when he speaks next. “I love you, jagi.” 

“I love you, too.” People always talk about the “honeymoon phase” when the butterflies disappear and couples no longer feel the exciting draw toward each other anymore. It’s been less than a year since you started dating Taehyung, but you’re confident that your heart will always flutter when you hear those three words so confidently spoken. Taehyung had been the first to say it; something about that makes you even more sure of your relationship. 

“Can’t wait to see you soon so I can slut you out.” 

“… please go to bed and never say that ever again.” 

In the distance, you hear someone start yelling. The noise is accompanied by a rather aggressive ruffling sound, as though Taehyung’s phone is being rubbed against fabric. 

“Are you two having phone sex?” The second voice accuses, this time sounding much clearer. 

“Hyung, leave me alone,” Taehyung whines. “Y/N, tell him to go away.” 

You let out a long sigh, but the grin finally cuts through the hardened expression you try to maintain. “Goodnight, Jimin.” 

It sounds like the two boys start physically fighting each other before Taehyung lets out a breathy, “Goodnight, baby,” accompanied by Jimin screeching something you can’t understand before the call ends. 

With a shake of your head, you leave your phone on the floor and get up to position Shooky and your Army bomb on your dresser. You’ll figure out what to do with it later, you decide.

Later ends up being three more days of you giving a half-assed attempt to sort through the boxes. Your bedroom is mostly organized by the end of the week with only one more box remaining, shoved into the corner of the room. It’s a bunch of family keepsakes that will make you cry if you start looking at them. 

Right now you want to make a beeline to the kitchen. 

It’s hard not to trip over all the boxes that litter your apartment, most of them already torn open and half-empty. The kitchen hasn’t been fully unpacked, either, so you opt for instant ramen in the microwave rather than dig for utensils to cook a proper meal. It’s pretty bad. You and Taehyung are a terrible match; you both have no idea how to cook. There’s no point in all the fancy kitchenware your parents bought you. You’ll never master any of it. It’s not because you don’t put in any effort, like Taehyung. You’re genuinely shit at cooking. 

And baking? That’s even worse. 

You stand in the middle of your living room while you shovel ramen in your mouth. It’s too hot, so you inhale loudly through your teeth to cool the food off before it scorches your throat. There’s so much you need to do, and it’s making you nauseous thinking about it. Somewhere in the mix of boxes are your Hangeul textbooks that you should be studying in your free time instead of playing video games and video chatting with your friends. It’s only been a week and a half, but you already feel lonely without the constant presence of your friends and family. The boys have been on tour the entire time. Namjoon decided you moving to Seoul while they’re on tour would make your arrival less suspicious, and everyone would be more focused on the tour than whatever an unknown American music producer is doing. 

In your opinion, Namjoon was overthinking the whole thing as he is wont to do. But you let him be bossy because you know his heart is in the right place. It’s not like the public knows you’re dating Taehyung. There hasn’t been any press or rumors about you at all. You’re genuinely unknown.

You prefer it that way. 

Your fork scrapes the bottom of the bowl and you realize you’ve scarfed down the ramen without much thought. You suppose it’s easier to do that when you aren’t using chopsticks. (You’ve managed to master them, for the most part, but you prefer to fall back on forks when you’re alone at home.) 

You place the bowl on top of the large cardboard box in front of the couch. It has the pieces for your coffee table inside, but you haven’t had the energy to put it together yet. The part of you that allows your feminism to leave your body whenever the boys are around is kind of hoping you can get one of them to build it for you. Maybe Yoongi. He’s into that kind of stuff. 

With a sigh, you flop onto the couch and slip your phone out of your back pocket. A few Whatsapp and KakaoTalk notifications light up the screen. You used to be terrible at responding to texts, but moving halfway across the world has made you a better texter. It’s a way to fill the loneliness. 

[Alex] hey bitch

[Alex] this 15 hour time difference sucks ass

[You] I’m sorry 

[Alex] its fine. i’ll forgive you for chasing money and dick

[You] I’m not chasing dick omg

[Alex] dont lie

[Alex] whats that tiffany pollard meme

[You] Stop

[Alex] i know his dick is big. i know it! i know it’s big!

[You] I hate you

[Alex] you didnt deny it. anywayyy did you see this? 

As much as you adore Alex, she’s an expert at getting under your skin. You remind yourself that it’s all harmless as you click on the link she texts you. 

BTS’ V woos fans with his casual rockstar visuals on his return from world tour

Kim Taehyung, also known professionally as V of BTS, was spotted at John F. Kennedy International Airport on Friday. The singer is reportedly returning early to South Korea ahead of his band members after completing the final performance of their…   

You don’t know why you read the shitty k-pop tabloids. You figure it’s the same reason why people make a hobby out of watching bad movies. There’s a weird itch in the back of your brain that can’t be scratched unless you open the link Alex texts you— teasingly, of course, because she thinks she’s being funny. Your friends don’t understand the nauseous feeling you get when you scroll through the article and accidentally click on a link that takes you to an external website flaunting doctored photos of your boyfriend with Jennie Kim. 

BTS’ V and BLACKPINK’s Jennie Spend Romantic Weekend in Paris 

You know it’s a lie because the weekend in question was the same weekend Taehyung flew you to Seoul to do a final walkthrough of your apartment before you signed off on it. Taehyung spent every second of that weekend by your side. 

The article makes you sick anyway. 

You’re so caught up in trying to craft a text to Alex to explain why she needs to leave you the fuck alone that you don’t hear the sound of your apartment’s front door open over the music you’re listening to. 

“I’m gone for a few months and I come home to you listening to some other band?” 

“Holy shit, Tae, you can’t do that to me,” you yelp when Taehyung leans over the back of the couch to hover over your shoulder. 

“Explain yourself.” His voice is warm honey and milk even when his strong eyebrows point downward in mock disappointment. The expression is almost convincing, his naturally sharp features making conjuring up a dark appearance easier. 

“You can’t tell me Stray Kids’ new album isn’t good.” 

“Jagiya, I just got home,” Taehyung whines. “Kiss me and stop thirsting over Australian boys.” 

He touches your chin to tip your head backward. You lean your head against the back of the couch and look up at him. The position makes you think of the iconic Spiderman kiss, seeing Taehyung’s face upside down above yours. 

“Y’know, I worked on a few of their songs. Before I met you.” 

The confession is meant to tease him for making fun of your music choice. Of course, words’ impact often diverges from intent. It’s in the twist of his face and the way he pulls back slightly just before his lips brush against yours that you know you’ve made him jealous. 

“Oh did you?” His hair hangs around his face as he leans over you.

“Mhm, Bang Chan’s accent is really cu—” 

You shouldn’t be shocked when strong hands squeeze your waist and Taehyung hauls you off the couch to stand in front of him. He wraps his arm around your waist to pull you tightly against his chest. 

“You didn’t work with any other groups before us, okay?” 

You purse your lips to hold in the laughter that threatens to explode from your chest. All you can do is nod in agreement. It reminds you of girls getting upset when they remember their boyfriends dated other people before them. 

“Good.” 

Taehyung dips his head down to connect his lips with yours. The closeness of his body forces you to inhale his cologne and feel goosebumps travel down your arms. It’s been months since you’ve so much as held Taehyung’s hand and you feel like you’ve been starved. Your body trembles so severely that you dig your nails into his biceps to hold yourself upright. You moan into his mouth, already open and ready for you because Taehyung is nothing but giving. 

The kiss isn’t bruising, not yet. It’s slow and deep. Taehyung takes his time reminding himself of your taste. You grip the nape of his neck to pull him down as you meet him by standing on your tiptoes. His height has always been one of your favorite aspects of his physical appearance. Dark, watchful eyes that pierce into your soul might be at the top of the list. 

His tongue swirls around yours, only retreating to suck your bottom lip into his mouth. His teeth graze along the plump skin, each nibble making you dizzy in the head. You normally hate wet kisses, but there’s something satisfying about seeing Taehyung’s lips pink and shiny with your spit when he finally pulls away. Pride thrums in your chest; you did that. You made his tan skin flush pink. You made his eyes dark and sharp. You made his breathing ragged and desperate. 

And, fuck, does it feel good. 

You run your fingers along his sharp jawline and watch the muscles flex beneath his taunt skin. “Don’t clench your jaw like that. It’s not good for you,” you muse, allowing your fingers to skim over his Adam’s apple. 

“I’m trying to stay calm.” 

Your eyebrows fly up with concern. “What’s wrong?” 

“Wanna bend you over the couch and fuck you until you can’t walk,” Taehyung says with such a gentle tone that the stark difference between what he says and how he says it has your body trembling once again. 

You inhale sharply and let your hand fall from his throat. Instead, you reach for the lapels of his leather jacket and squeeze them. 

“Why don’t you?” 

You can’t look at him when you ask. Even though you’ve been dating for almost a year, Taehyung still intimidates the hell out of you sometimes. The darkness of his eyes when he gets horny sends you reeling. You’re sure if you look up, you’ll see The Look. He stares at you unabashedly with an expression of desire so strong you feel like he might consume you just by looking at you.

“You haven’t eaten yet and I need to take a shower.” 

“How do you know I haven’t eaten yet?” With a pout, you finally dare to look your boyfriend in the face. The way he gapes at you is judgmental and doesn’t make you feel devour-worthy at all. 

“I know you,” he scoffs. “You’re just like Jimin. I bet you haven’t even been awake more than two hours.” 

Barely a year into your relationship and he’s already reading you like an open book. You can’t stay salty about it when his bread cheeks come out and he’s giggling at the frustrated “hmph” you let out. 

“I’ll be fast,” he promises with a smirk that collapses into another fit of giggles. The hearty slap on your ass encourages you toward the kitchen while Taehyung makes his way to the bathroom. 

You did already eat, but today is an outlier. Normally, you are like Jimin, staying up too late and sleeping in longer than everyone else. And sometimes you’re like Yoongi, too. You get so caught up in the songs you’re working on that you forget to stop to eat or pee or look somewhere other than at a computer screen. 

The move to Seoul threw you off your usual work schedule. Everything you need to get done is looming over your head like a dark cloud. If Namjoon comes back before you finish editing the English lyrics of his upcoming single, you might die of embarrassment, no matter how many times Taehyung insists that Namjoon won’t be disappointed. 

Taehyung wasn’t lying about being quick. He’s wearing a white cotton t-shirt and grey sweatpants when he returns, hair damp and swept away from his face. You’re still standing at the fridge, painfully aware of how little food you have. Plenty of grapefruit soju, though. Priorities. 

“Do you want ramen?” You eventually ask. When Taehyung doesn’t respond, you turn to give him a sheepish smile. He probably thinks you’re ridiculous. 

Taehyung is sitting at the kitchen table with your phone in his hands. His eyebrows scrunch together and he turns to you with narrowed eyes. 

“Why were you looking at this?” 

He lifts your phone in your direction. The doctored photos of him and Jennie glare back at you. You feel your heart drop into the pit of your stomach.  

“Tae, I didn’t—” You snap your mouth shut because, honestly, it looks bad. It looks bad no matter how you explain yourself because Taehyung’s bottom lip is already quivering and you know you’re both replaying the stupid TikTok phone call in your heads right now. 

The two of you stare at each other for only god knows how long. You’re the first to break; not many people can hold their own in a staring contest with Kim Taehyung. Yoongi is probably the only one. Jungkook would give a valiant effort, but he’d ultimately crumble in a fit of nervous giggles. Taehyung is scary when he wants to be. 

Dating Taehyung started as an unbelievably exciting experience. You had your brush with fame before meeting the boys, but Taehyung was the first idol to give you genuine attention beyond whatever job needed to be done. Not that you’d ever sought it out; you had more dignity than that. No, Taehyung pursued you. Who could blame you when you fell head over heels for the sinfully gorgeous man who seemed larger than life? The long legs, big hands, and chiseled features were dangerous enough. Throw in a glowing personality, quirky sense of humor, and a big-hearted desire to care for others and you had a man who was too good to be true. 

And who are you? Some dumb American kid with average looks, a standoff personality as a result of having a bit of social anxiety (and trouble acclimating to a new country), and a penchant for fucking things up. Maybe it was your fault for not seriously considering how hard it was going to be to date an idol.  

“C’mere, jagi,” Taehyung murmurs, beckoning you. 

You expected waterworks— hell, you’re ready to start crying yourself. Instead, Taehyung wears a tired but soft smile. He holds your waist as you climb into his lap, straddling him. He wiggles a little in the chair to adjust you more comfortably on his thighs. 

“Koreaboo, really?” He gathers your face in his hands, thumbs running across your cheeks. His hands are soft and you regret not washing your face when you woke up. Sometimes it’s not fun to date someone as beautiful as Taehyung. 

“It was an accident.” 

You avoid his gaze, but Taehyung coaxes you back to look him in the eyes. It’s hard. There’s so much passion swimming in them. He blinks up at you with an earnestness that makes your heart ache because you’re always the one causing problems. 

“They could have at least used better pictures of me,” he complains with an exaggerated pout. 

“Maybe I’ll send them some from my private collection.” 

“You wouldn’t dare.” Taehyung grins as he threatens you, so you grin back. 

“Oh, I dare.” 

Quick fingers dig into your sides and you let out an embarrassing squeal. Taehyung doesn’t let up on tickling you until you’ve got tears in your eyes and your threats to elbow him in the face start sounding a bit too real. 

“Please don’t torture yourself with shit like that, okay?” He mumbles the request into your neck because your arms are thrown around his shoulders. 

You slide your fingers into his hair to cradle his head against your chest. When you dig your nails into his scalp he lets out a low groan. Nothing about the position you’re in is sexual, but you’re quickly reminded that this is the most skin-on-skin contact you’ve had with your boyfriend in months. With that fact in mind, you don’t feel bad when you scoot further into his lap and squeeze his thighs with your own. 

“Tae?” 

“Hmm?” When he tilts his head back to look up at you, he’s got that spacey, blissed-out look on his face. 

“Tell me you love me.” You place your finger against the little freckle on the tip of his nose.

The slow, boxy grin is almost better than hearing the words. Your finger migrates to touch the freckle on his lip. 

“I love you with all my heart.” He punctuates the confession with a kiss on the tip of your finger. “Your turn.” 

You roll your eyes, but it’s the reaction he’s looking for. 

“I love you, too. You dork.” 

“So romantic,” he laughs, but the amusement doesn’t reach his eyes. Instead, he watches you with lust darker than what consumed his expression earlier. 

You sit with your breath burning in your lungs as Taehyung slips his hands beneath your baggy t-shirt. His smooth palms slide up your rib cage until he reaches your tits, palming one in each hand. The tilt of his chin tells you he wants another kiss, and who are you to deny him what he wants? You dig your nails in his hair harder while you kiss him, tugging to angle his head in the direction you want. Small moments like this give the appearance that you’re in control. And Taehyung loves domming while you both pretend you’re the one in charge.

He pulls back with a wet smack. If it was anyone else, you’d be ashamed of the whimper that sounds from your throat as Taehyung removes his hands from your shirt. You grip his hair tighter, but Taehyung just chuckles. 

“So needy. What am I going to do with you?” 

You could give him a couple of ideas. There isn’t time, though. Taehyung is already grasping your chin and tilting it down. 

“Open up for me, okay?” 

Your cheeks grow hot as you open your mouth. You already know where this is going, so you stick out your tongue. Still, it’s difficult not to squirm when Taehyung presses his index and middle fingers flat against the wet muscle. 

“Suck.” 

You swallow around his fingers, sucking as best you can as he begins to thrust them into your mouth. It’s vulgar, the wet suctioning sound of his fingers dragging against your tongue. In and out, a steady pace that doesn’t go too fast. Taehyung has such long, gorgeous fingers. You quite enjoy when he wrecks your insides with them until you’re on the brink of tears. Which you’ve come to find is something Taehyung thoroughly enjoys doing. 

“You miss having your pretty mouth stuffed?”

You know any attempt at a spoken response will come out as a garbled mess. You whimper, eyes fluttering closed as you swirl your tongue around his fingers. You push your tongue in between his fingers and curl around them. 

“Gonna suck my cock like this, jagi?” He purrs the question, ending it so breathy it’s almost a moan as he eases over the term of endearment. “Show me how much you miss me, hm?” 

Maybe it’s the deep, sensual way he purrs jagi with heavy eyelids and that crooked smirk on his face. Maybe it’s because he bites his lip when he says it or that he lets his lip go with such slowness that you can see the way his teeth scrape across his plump bottom lip as it falls back into place. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s shoving his fingers just a bit deeper into your mouth. Maybe it’s all of these things that make you shift so that you can press your clothed pussy against Taehyung’s thigh. 

He flexes the muscle as you start rutting against it, rolling your hips to the rhythm of his fingers gliding in and out of your mouth. 

“Look at you.” His lips brush against the curve of your ear, sending a shiver down your back. “So desperate for me that you’re going to get off on only my thighs?” 

You’re not the type to be able to orgasm just from rutting and friction like this, but Taehyung has managed to learn your body faster than you ever expected. He slips his free hand beneath the waistband of your leggings and underwear. It’s the quick circling of his thumb against your throbbing clit combined with the rutting of your hips that sends you over the edge. 

“That’s it, baby, you did so well,” Taehyung whispers praise against the skin his lips have access to on your collarbones as you shudder in his lap. “Love seeing you cum, fuck, doing this shit over KakaoTalk fucking sucked.” 

Taehyung finally removes his fingers from your mouth when you stop moving. Seeing the string of spit that connects his fingers to your lips makes you feel weak, but you’re riding the high of his praise and skillful fingers, so you don’t care. 

He wipes your spit onto his sweatpants and gently holds your chin with his other hand. He gives you a soft smile and rubs his thumb over your bottom lip. You can taste yourself when you flick your tongue over the trail his thumb left.  

“I missed you so much,” he admits with a gentle kiss on your lips. “And not just because of this. I missed all of you, everything about you, just being with you.” 

“I missed you, too.”

It’s meant to be a confirmation of your mutual love, but it comes out like a whine. You know Taehyung doesn’t mind from the way his eyes zero in on your tongue running along your bottom lip. You don’t have to say anything more for him to know what you want. He nods once and you’re almost immediately on your knees between his legs.  

“Fuck.” He leans back in the chair and lifts his hips so you can tug his sweatpants down his thighs. “Gonna be good for me, baby?” 

You quickly nod your head, though you’re focused on gently taking Taehyung’s cock in your hand. Alex isn’t wrong. Taehyung’s dick is big, but that doesn’t mean you have to go around talking about it. That’s for you to know and for others to wonder about. 

You had to sign an NDA before you were allowed to see it, anyway, but you’d keep your mouth shut even if no legal action would be taken against you for gossiping. 

“Kiss it first.” 

He tongues the inside of his cheek as he watches you. His eyelids droop lower when you plant a puckered, open-mouthed kiss on the head of his cock. You press the tip of your tongue against the slit to lick at the precum already leaking from him. The buck of his hips isn’t unexpected, but you feel like you need to remember how to do all of this after being away from him for so long. Not to mention how tired your jaw is about to be. 

Taehyung seems to sense your hesitation because he allows his body to go slack beneath you. The hand that has reached down to dig into your scalp doesn’t let up, but he doesn’t push your head down like he normally would when you finally slide his cock down your throat. 

He doesn’t buck his hips again, even when you drool so much that the inside of his thighs become just as wet as yours. You squeeze the base of his cock, twisting your wrist to the rhythm you’ve established when you can’t take all of him into your mouth. 

You reach down to gently roll his balls with your free hand. His cock twitches against your flattened tongue and you hum with satisfaction. 

“God, your fucking mouth–” 

You make eye contact with Taehyung as your hand ventures lower. There’s nothing more beautiful than the way his face crumples with pleasure when you massage his perineum. 

“Shit, I’m gonna cum if you don’t stop,” he whines. 

You ease up slightly but still suckle on the head of his cock for longer than Taehyung wants. Why not have a little fun? All you’ll end up doing is riling him up even more, and that can only be a good thing for you. 

Taehyung digs his fingers into your hair and yanks you up. It stings, but the pain might as well be white-hot pleasure once Taehyung is praising you with a gravelly voice. 

“You’re too fucking good at that.” 

You don’t even like sucking dick, but you’d do it all day, every day if Taehyung asked you to. But since he made you stop, you have other priorities to take care of, like the fact that there are way too many layers of clothes separating you from your boyfriend. While you were on your knees for him, Taehyung removed his shirt. The white cotton is discarded on the floor beside the chair and his half-dry hair is tousled around his head in a messiness only he could successfully pull off. 

After wiggling out of your leggings and underwear, you climb back onto Taehyung’s lap. His broad chest shudders beneath your touch as you run your hands down to meet his soft tummy. His responsiveness strokes the ego you didn’t realize you have. 

“Y’know, you never gave me the chance to ask you how travel went.” 

“Seriously?” He knows you’re teasing, but you like the mock-irritated tone of his voice. It makes his chest rumble. 

You use your grip on him to stabilize yourself as you grind into his lap. You scrape your nails at the nape of his neck and suck on his bottom lip. Taehyung moans into your mouth, low and throaty, when his cock glides through your wet folds as you roll your hips. He lets you pull his hair, head falling back to expose the smooth plane of his throat. Your lips leave his to latch onto his throat instead. The kisses you give him are slippery and biting and hot. 

“No hickeys, Y/N.” 

Taehyung’s scolding is deep and sharp; you both know he’s not fucking around. It’s a command he has had to throw your way more than once. The idea of marking him up is just so appetizing, but you know you can’t. Sure, makeup can make just about anything disappear, but it’s annoying to deal with and Taehyung isn’t particularly a fan of the side looks the makeup artists give each other when they see dark bruises littering his neck and collarbones. 

Maybe you’ll give him just a tiny one and suffer the consequences later. 

You cling onto him tighter when you feel two of his fingers slip inside of you. Spreading your thighs as wide as you can without throwing off your balance on the chair, you roll your hips into Taehyung’s hand to take his fingers deeper. 

“Please,” you moan against his neck. You can smell your shampoo and body wash on him. Something about him smelling like you makes you feel overwhelmingly possessive. He’s yours. Kim Taehyung is yours. 

He turns his head to the side to capture your lips with his own as he snakes his arm around your waist. The position allows him to pull you tightly against his chest. He holds you in place as he starts thrusting his fingers into your pussy just as he had thrust them into your mouth.   

Taehyung grunts as he keeps his legs spread in the chair, which in turn forces your thighs open when you try to squeeze them closed around his hand. 

“Stay still.” 

“Can’t.” You shake your head and thread your fingers through his hair, tugging the strands harder. 

It’s too much; Taehyung lights a fire against every inch of your body each time he touches you. If he was anyone else, you’d be singed, but Taehyung takes such good care of you. You’re not singed. You’re ignited. 

“You have no fucking idea,” Taehyung takes a deep breath, “No fucking idea how badly I’ve been craving you.” He warms you up with each thrust of his fingers, adding a third until you’re clawing at his shoulders. 

“So, ahh fuck, fuck me,” you gasp, your mouth hot against the corner of his jaw. Your teeth scrape against his skin and he merely lets his head fall back to give you more. 

“No please?” 

You bite his cheek in defiance and get a slap to the ass that only makes you want to bite him more. 

“Don’t be mean to me,” you whimper. 

Taehyung’s steady rhythm against your front wall has your orgasm burning so hotly in your core that you feel like you’re going to cum if he even so much as turns his head to look at you one more time. 

Your thighs are already sore by the time Taehyung removes his fingers from your pussy. He uses your sticky arousal as lube to stroke his cock and you don’t want to think about how excited you are about this. 

“Hurry up.” 

Taehyung raises his eyebrows at you just as he grips the inside of your thigh with one hand. The other he uses to line his cock with your body. You can feel the head press against your entrance, and you try to push your body down to swallow him whole, but Taehyung holds you up to stop you. 

“Impatient cockslut, aren’t you?” Taehyung chides. 

His previously spacey look is sharpened by the sparkle of mirth in his eyes. Your body tenses when he spits the insult at you, and he knows it’s making your clit throb even harder. 

“Tae.” You bite your lip because you’re close to begging at this point. 

Luckily, you don’t have to. Taehyung presses down your hip and you quickly take the lead, easing yourself onto his cock until you’re fully seated on his firm thighs. 

Your body burns from the stretch it has to make to accommodate him, but you knew it would. Even when you’re fully adjusted to him, there’s always a bit of a stretch. He also knows he has to let you ease into it to avoid slamming himself straight into your cervix. The first time it had happened, Taehyung genuinely thought he’d broken you. You kind of thought so, too, if you were going to be perfectly honest. The struggle of having a big-dicked boyfriend. 

“Okay?” He’s watching you with those lustful, dark eyes.

“Mhm,” you hum because you’re afraid of the way your voice will quiver if you try to say real words. 

You’re so full, it’s a bit overwhelming. Not just physically, but emotionally, too. You missed Taehyung a lot, but holding onto each other in such an intimate position is making you realize just how lonely you were without him. 

“I’m gonna move, okay?” 

He waits until you silently nod your head before he adjusts in the chair, scooting down slightly to spread his legs better. You allow him to adjust your legs, bending them at the knee and hooking them over the arms of the chair. With a tight grip on your ass, Taehyung pulls you down onto his cock at the same time he thrusts up into you. 

The pace Taehyung sets is desperate, but you don’t care. Your second orgasm is approaching at an alarming speed. It feels like it’s taking all of your energy to simply stay grounded with reality as Taehyung squeezes you and your hips crash into each other. You don’t even try to do anything, just let him take over your body as he pounds into you. For the most part, you’re a pillow princess and you both know it. Besides, how can you possibly keep up with someone so athletic? Taehyung’s stamina is ridiculous. Neither of you has an overstimulation kink, but Taehyung’s ability to just go and go and go might as well have given you one. None of this has ever bothered Taehyung, though. He likes giving more than receiving. 

“Oh fuck.” Taehyung nips at the base of your neck when you clench around his cock just to feel him shiver. 

There aren’t any rules about him marking you up. The petty side of him likes when you wear the dark bruises in the open, with no makeup or clothing to hide them. It’s a satisfying game he likes to play. He likes that everyone knows you’re getting dicked down and, therefore, are taken. 

You like the secret satisfaction of knowing it’s Kim Taehyung who gives you those marks, and no one even knows. 

What you don’t like is thinking about all the other people Taehyung may have enjoyed giving marks to. 

It’s hard not to let your mind wander. Taehyung has never talked to you about his previous relationships, and there’s no way for you to know about them if he doesn’t tell you. The media can’t be trusted to accurately report idols’ love lives; today has been a perfect example of that. You’re stuck with only your imagination to make up all kinds of scenarios. Maybe Taehyung has been with other k-pop idols, or models, or actresses - people with more money, who are prettier and more sophisticated than you. Hell, you’ve never even asked him about his sexuality. What if he really has been fucking Jungkook! What if they’re in love and you’re just something temporary? 

“I was made for you, jagi. You know that?” Taehyung’s breath is hot against your skin. His words are gentle, but the power with which he thrusts up into you is bruising. “Made for you.” 

It’s as if he can read your mind, as if he can somehow sense the insecurities threatening to pull you out of the moment. As always, Taehyung manages to bring you back to the present. 

Fuck, sometimes you wish he wouldn’t do shit like this to you. You’re already pathetically in love with him. You can’t imagine what more could come next, yet you feel yourself practically bursting from the seams with love.  

Your moans fall in line with the sound of the chair scraping the floor and your skin slapping against Taehyung’s with every thrust. When your mouth falls open, Taehyung presses his thumb against your tongue. With eyes fluttering closed, you suck on his thumb and try to hold on as your body rocks up and down. 

“Fuck, fuck, oh, god, Taehyung.” 

“Yeah, jagi?” Taehyung pulls down on the corner of your mouth until his thumb is dragging spit across your cheek. “Tell me.”

His voice is so soothing it makes you want to cry. It’s unfair. 

“You feel so fucking—“ 

It’s the slick pressure of his thumb massaging your clit that finally has you arching your back with a scream of Taehyung’s name. You’re so loud that you worry your neighbors heard you. There are plenty of people named Taehyung in the world, though, right? He could be any Taehyung. 

If you ask Taehyung later, he’ll probably say he can’t even remember his own name because of how tightly you clench around his cock when you cum. The feeling is so overwhelming that you think you might pass out from holding your breath. You gasp, inhaling more air than you exhale, but Taehyung keeps going. Every subsequent thrust knocks the air out of you until you have the opposite problem and now you can’t keep any air in.

“I’m gonna…”

“Go ahead, baby. Cum inside me.” 

Taehyung whimpers into the crook of your neck as he cums, the suggestiveness of your permission not lost on either of you. You’re on birth control and Taehyung knows a kid would probably ruin his career. So it doesn’t actually mean anything when you tell him he can stay inside; you’re not getting pregnant any time soon. Still, he gets off on coming inside of you, even if he doesn’t want to admit it. 

“I was going to make a joke that I should go on tour more often if that means I’ll cum that hard again, but I think I don’t want to go on tour ever again,” Taehyung admits with a shaky laugh. 

Just the idea of Taehyung leaving you for months on end again makes your stomach twist. He brings so much life to everywhere he goes, and you felt like much of that life left you when he did. Even if it was only temporary. 

Taehyung holds you until his cock is no longer twitching inside of you. Once his arms finally fall to his side, you try to untangle yourself from the chair as his body, but your limbs might as well belong to someone else.

“Help,” you squeak hoarsely. You feel like covering your face when Taehyung laughs. 

Taehyung helps you out of his lap, though you both are so wobbly on your feet that you hold onto the edge of the kitchen table when you stand. Taehyung looks wrecked, and you feel wrecked. You’re not sure your knees will ever work properly again. 

“Why are we still listening to Stray Kids?” Taehyung grumbles when he realizes the speakers are still playing in the background. 

“It’s a good album.”

“We should be fucking to my songs.” Taehyung pauses for a moment, thinking.“‘Christmas Tree’ is a fuckable song, right?” 

“You’re joking.” 

Taehyung shakes his head and reaches for your phone. His face is programmed to unlock your phone, just like your face unlocks his phone. You don’t understand how he can stand butt naked in the kitchen, cum all over his thighs, and search for the jazz playlist he made on your Spotify account. 

(“Jazz Hands, Y/N. It’s a vibe.”) 

Once his playlist has replaced Stray Kids, Taehyung wraps you up in a giant bear hug that lifts you off your feet. The hug nearly knocks the air out of you. 

“Can’t believe you made me dirty after I just showered.” You can’t see his pout, but you can hear it. 

“You’re the one who started this.” 

Taehyung scoffs. He starts walking down the hallway, practically dragging you in his arms as he goes. Your toes barely reach the ground, but you’re more content to let your body fall slack and make him do all the work. 

He kicks open the bathroom door and sits you down on the counter. 

“No, you did this. You looked at me with those pretty eyes and said, ‘Tae’.” He tries to mimic your voice by moaning his name. “I’m a weak, weak man. You influenced me. I just wanted you to eat.” 

“Well, I did eat.” 

Taehyung presses his lips together. “Don’t say it.” 

“I’m gonna say it.” You lean forward on the edge of the counter, trying to get in Taehyung’s space, but he’s ignoring you as he prepares the shower.

“Y/N.” 

“I ate…”  

“Stop.” 

“Deez nuts.” 

Taehyung drags his hands down his face, leaving his skin red. His reaction makes you giggle. 

“Technically you only played with deez nuts. Your mouth, sadly, did not ever come near my—” He tries to correct you, but you’re already throwing a scrunchie at his face. 

“You’re ruining the joke!” 

“It’s a bad joke!”

Maybe your sense of humor is way better than his, but as you suffer another Taehyung tickle attack, you can’t help but feel ridiculous for how you’d behaved earlier. How can he look at you with sparkling eyes and a boxy smile that makes him laugh with his teeth, hand coming up to cover his face when you give him your poutiest of pouts— how can you see such genuine kindness and think Taehyung would ever do anything to jeopardize what you have?

“Wassup motherfuckers!” 

You raise your eyebrows at Namjoon and tap the end of your chewed pen against your computer screen. Biting pens isn’t sanitary or cute but you do it anyway. The man’s eyes aren’t on your pen cap, though. He’s staring a hole into the podcast you pulled up because you know he doesn’t want to look at you. 

“Namjoon, why did you start the episode like that? This is not your Automatic Dick era,” you say with a deep sigh. 

“Beoryeo.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“The song. It’s called ‘Throw Away’, not… Automatic… Dick…” His correction dies on his tongue when he sees the exasperated look on your face. 

“That is not the point.” You shake your head and exit the website. You’re not in charge of PR. That’s someone else’s problem.

Your attention turns to the newest draft of the song you’ve been stressing out about since you arrived in Seoul. 

“This, though? This is fucking beautiful.” You adjust your laptop on the coffee table so Namjoon can better view the document. The two of you are at the dorm, lounging in the living room. 

There are a lot of highlighted lines and many comments throughout the document. You wish you were like the members who scribbled their lyrics in cute leather journals, but your brain is too much of a disaster and broken by technology. If you don’t have your laptop, you can’t write lyrics for shit. 

“How are you so eloquent in Korean, but in English, you’re so…” You wave your hands around like you’re rifling through the air for the rest of your sentence. 

“Casual?” 

“Yes.” Sure, we’ll go with that, Joonie. 

“Well, that’s why I’ve got you!” 

At least he thinks you’re eloquent. The boys probably think you’re spending all your time in your office easily pulling masterpieces out of your ass when in reality you’re Googling, “what’s the word for when you can’t remember a word?” 

It’s lethologica, by the way.

You love Namjoon, but sometimes you think he has too much faith in you. Writing songs is hard. He of all people would know that. The difference between you and Namjoon is that when Namjoon struggles with writing he gets all emo, buys a bunch of weird furniture, and flies to another country to look at foreign art. When you struggle with writing, you just go home and play video games with Taehyung until you’re ready to try again. 

You’re both practicing avoidance, but Namjoon’s method just looks a little more dramatic than yours. Despite his assumptions, that doesn’t mean you’re better at handling yourself. You just do things differently. 

“We’re so lucky to have Jagi PD!” 

Namjoon groans and covers his head with the hood of his hoodie as Jungkook flies into the living room. 

Strong hands cup your armpits to lift you off of the couch. While Jungkook is crushing every bone in your body as he hugs you, all you can think about is how you were kind of a little bit sweaty, and now Jungkook has his hands all in your armpits. 

“Jungkookie, don’t pick people up without their consent.” 

Hobi enters the room behind the younger man and gives him a stern look which makes Jungkook immediately put you down on your feet. 

“Sorry, Y/N,” Jungkook says with a pout and galaxies in his eyes. You give his shoulder a playful smack. His baggy black t-shirt sticks to his skin, and you’re less worried about being sweaty. Jungkook is soaked. 

“Don’t worry about it, kid. I’m tough.” You flex your nonexistent muscles to make the precious maknae laugh his pout away.

“You should come train with us, Jagi.” 

“Jungkook,” Namjoon exclaims from where he still sits on the couch. 

He turns to his friend with wide eyes. “What?”

“Stop calling Y/N ‘jagi’. Taehyung is going to kill you.” This time Jimin pipes up. 

You hadn’t realized he’d entered the room, too. The three newcomers are varying degrees of sweaty with pink cheeks and wearing workout clothes. You suppose they’ve just come back from working out or perhaps a dance practice. They’ve all been back from tour for a few weeks now, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned about the Bangtan Boys it’s that they never fucking rest. 

It’s exhausting just to think about it. 

“It’s okay,” you say with a shrug. “I think ‘Jagi PD’ is pretty fucking funny, to be honest.” 

The nickname Jungkook created for you is cute in your opinion. You are a music producer. Jagi PD is better than using your last name. It could be like your stage name. Maybe you can get Namjoon to credit you as Jagi PD under the songs you write. Using your first and last name seems lame when it’s paired with fun names like SUGA, RM, j-hope, and Slow Rabbit.

“Pretty fucking funny,” Jungkook repeats. He gives the other men a triumphant look before launching himself onto the couch with Jimin. 

Hobi chooses to sit on the couch on the opposite side of the room with Namjoon. From the way Namjoon has nestled back into his seat, it’s clear that his song will have to wait. It’s for the best. You’re not thinking about music anymore. 

You can’t blame Jungkook for interrupting your work, but the true source of distraction saunters into the room with his arms full of grocery bags. 

“Hey, jagiya,” Taehyung greets you sweetly with a kiss on your forehead as he walks through the living room to get to the kitchen. The final two men, Jin and Yoongi, trail behind Taehyung with their own bags. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jimin give Jungkook a pointed look when Taehyung uses the term of endearment. 

“What are you guys making?” Jungkook is curled up against the arm of the couch with his phone in hand. He’s holding it sideways which makes you think he’s probably playing In The Seom. The app is old news by this point, yet Jungkook’s attention is still consumed by it. It’s hilarious. 

You wish you could meet the game developers. Whoever made Taehyung’s character look so fucking feral deserves a raise. 

“You’re gonna cook?” You don’t hide your shock at the idea that Taehyung would be cooking anything, and that makes everyone laugh.

“I’m making dinner,” Yoongi clarifies. “And it’s a surprise, so stop paying attention to me.” He shoos Jin and Taehyung out of the kitchen. 

Jin sits on the couch with Jimin and Jungkook, while Taehyung sits with you. The armchair really only seats one person comfortably, but you wiggle so Taehyung can sit half next to you and half under you. He arranges your legs to drape over his lap. It’s nice, being this close. You can snuggle into his side and let him wrap his arms around you without worrying about who can see or what people think. All the boys are supportive of your relationship with Taehyung. It’s a bit frustrating that there’s no way for you to fully express how appreciative you are. 

“Well, what are we supposed to do?” From the couch in the living room, Jungkook shoots Yoongi a glare as if Yoongi’s request for some alone time while he cooks is a personal attack. 

Yoongi snorts and turns his back on Jungkook to begin unloading the groceries. “I don’t know, talk to each other.” 

“You guys are boring. I only want to talk to Y/N.” You’re not sure how you’ve become Jungkook’s favorite, but it’s exceptionally endearing. 

“You’re not even going to pay attention,” Namjoon points out. “Always on that damn phone.” 

He’s still got his hood up, and he looks like he was half-asleep. No one but you gets the joke, so Namjoon nods his head in your direction before returning to his slumped position. 

“I like watching Jimin-ssi’s character spin around in little circles.” 

“It’s cute, isn’t it?” Jin chimes in. “He looks so small.” 

The glares Jimin shoots everyone in the room are terrifying. You think about something you’d heard someone say: the shorter the person, the closer to hell they are. Something dramatic that only a tall person would say. 

“All the characters are the same size,” he exclaims. “And I don’t do that!” 

“Yes, you do. There are fanmade compilation videos of you spinning around, Jimin-ssi! I’ve watched them,” Jungkook confesses with full confidence. 

A small squeal sounds from the opposite side of the room. You turn to see Hobi practically bouncing on the couch. 

“Please, can we watch some? I want to hear the cute sound effects.” 

A pillow flies across the room, and Hobi just barely dodges it. Jimin crosses his arms firmly against his chest and scowls as Jin and Jungkook enthusiastically agree and Hobi snatches the TV remote before anyone else can. 

“At least watch a video that isn’t about me doing something embarrassing,” Jimin breaks down enough to plead (not beg!) with Hobi. He eyes the room and his gaze falls on Taehyung. A small smirk twitches at the corner of his mouth and you feel Taehyung slowly exhale. “We should watch one about TaeTae.” 

You try to cover your laughter with a cough, but Taehyung applies a light slap to your thigh in retaliation. 

“Why me?” he pouts. 

“Yes! Let me pick!”

“Jungkookie, no. It was my idea.” Hobi scrolls through his phone until his face lights up with glee. “I’ve watched this one before and it’s so cute, Y/N, you’re going to love it.” 

“The suspense is killing me.” You wiggle your eyebrows at Taehyung. The rolled eyes you’re met with feel like a victory. 

“Okay, it’s called, BTS struggling to understand ‘Tae-tae language’,” Hobi prefaces while the video loads on the TV. 

Jin laughs at the loud snort you let out. “TaeTae language is hard to understand.” 

“Maybe you guys aren’t creative enough to understand me,” Taehyung scoffs. 

“Hey! I understand you!” Yoongi protests from the kitchen. 

Taehyung looks like he might say more, but the video interrupts him. It starts with highlights from the comments section of previous videos. One comment mentions Namjoon being their bias. 

“Is that weird? Like, to watch this kind of stuff and hear people talk about their biases?” If you were famous, you were absolutely positive that you’d never Google yourself. You would not want to know what kind of weird shit was out there about you, even something as seemingly innocent as silly compilation videos. 

“I think it’s funny,” Jimin says with a smirk and half-moon eyes. “I’m everyone’s bias, anyway.” 

“That’s not what TikTok says.” Jungkook turns his nose upward at Jimin, though his eyes never leave his phone. It’s a shame In The Seom didn’t allow him to drown Jimin in the ocean, or he totally would have done it by now. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Just check how many videos there are under my hashtag.” 

Jimin snorts with a roll of his eyes, seemingly dismissing Jungkook’s claims. But you see him twist on the couch so the younger man can’t see that Jimin pulls up TikTok on his phone. As if TikTok was the end all, be all. You want to tell them it’s impossible to know who’s the most “popular” or whatever, but you know that conversation is futile. 

“Y/N, you were Army before you started dating Tae!” You can practically see the light bulb going off in Hobi’s brain. Or, rather, the Army bomb. “Who was your bias?” 

Hobi’s question barely leaves his lips when the room grows quiet. Seven pairs of eyes stare at you expectantly, including your boyfriend’s. You keep your eyes on the TV, though you aren’t seeing the compilation video playing anymore. 

“I don’t know. I didn’t have a bias. Y’know, OT7 and all that shit.” 

Suddenly, the room erupts. Screeches of protests and arguments are shouted across the living room, the boys yelling on top of one another and slewing insults at each other. 

“Oh come on, Y/N, tell us!” Hobi whines.

“Yeah, we wanna know! We won’t judge you.” Pulling this precious information out of you is so vital that Jungkook looks away from his phone long enough to give you a pouty face. 

“It’s obviously me. I’m Worldwide Handsome.” 

“Leave her alone, guys.” Taehyung shifts in his seat and adjusts how your legs drape over his lap. His large hands massage soft circles into your calf muscles. “This is so childish.” 

“Right. A bias is just whoever a fan is partial to,” Namjoon says with a shrug. “What matters is that fans support us as seven.” 

“No, a bias is the one the fan wants to fuck the most.” This time Jungkook doesn’t look up from his phone when he speaks. 

Jin hums in agreement, winking in your direction and making Taehyung scowl. 

“You’re just scared it’s not you, Tae.” For someone Taehyung calls his soulmate, Jimin seems to jump at every opportunity to fuck with his friend. He turns to you with those haunting siren eyes that lure in even God’s strongest soldiers. “Is he, Y/N? Is your bias Taehyung or someone else?” 

“I thought Hobi’s question was, who was my bias? Not is.” 

His siren eyes narrow at you. “Stop arguing semantics and answer the question.” 

You can’t hold a staring contest with the now-paused Youtube video, and Jimin’s sudden snappiness makes you feel the need to look away. Right into the eyes of your answer, the only person who hasn’t spoken during the entire bias conversation. 

Yoongi’s sharp eyes catch yours when you look away from the TV. Never one to miss a beat, he raises a perfectly-shaped eyebrow at you, the ghost of his classic Yoongi smirk barely lifting the corner of his mouth before the entire room erupts into shouting again. 

“YOONGI?! REALLY?! OUT OF ALL OF US, YOU PICKED HIM?” Jimin jumps up from the couch, knocking pillows all over the floor. 

“Watch it, Jimin-ah,” Yoongi scolds the younger man for his informal language. Jimin only rolls his eyes. 

“Damn, Jimin was right. You aren’t her bias, TaeTae.” Jin shakes his head with a solemn look. He gets up to leave the room, giving your boyfriend a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as he walks past. “I’m going to my room to play Mario Kart. This is too depressing for me.” 

At the mention of video games, Jungkook perks up. “Wait Jin hyungie, I wanna play, too!” He tosses the last couch pillow in Jimin’s lap and scrambles to catch up with Jin halfway down the hall. 

Yoongi wears a full-blown smirk now. You watch with wide eyes as his tongue slips out to drag across his bottom lip before he’s drawing his lip between his teeth. “Cute.” 

“Fuck off,” Taehyung hisses at the older man, lifting your legs off his lap. 

“Tae…” You reach out to grab his arm to stop him, but he’s already heading to his bedroom. The door slams shut so hard that the photos on the walls shudder. 

You turn back around to glare at the remaining men. “Did you have your fun, hmm? Was it worth it?” 

“I really… I didn’t think…” Hobi fumbles his words, clearly uncomfortable with the outbursts he’d unwittingly caused. 

“If it doesn’t work out with Taehyung, call me, yeah?” Yoongi sends you a wink, his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. 

You feel your face heat up and you refuse to look at him. You wait until he goes back to preparing the food before you stand up. Without another word, you follow in Taehyung’s footsteps until you reach his door. It’s locked, but you expected as much. 

“TaeTae,” you call softly. “Please let me in.” 

You wait in silence long enough that you consider going home. If Taehyung doesn’t want to talk to you, you aren’t going to push him. Even if you think the reason for his outburst is stupid and that he’s acting like a child. 

Eventually, the door is opened wide enough for you to slip inside. Taehyung doesn’t look at you when he shuts the door. Instead, he sits on his bed and leans his back against the wall. He keeps his eyes on his hands delicately folded together in his lap. His eyes are already red and slightly puffy. The sight is glass in your veins. 

“Tae, please don’t be upset,” you start slowly. Climbing into his bed, you scoot until you’re lounging next to him. He doesn’t pull away when you rest your head on his shoulder. 

“It’s embarrassing.” 

You let out a small sigh, not because you’re frustrated with him but because you’d known watching fanmade videos would turn out to be a bad idea. 

“If it makes you feel better, you were still in my bias line.” It’s probably not the best way to reassure your boyfriend, but it at least makes him look at you. 

“Who else?” His eyes are narrowed.

“I don’t think I should answer that.” 

Taehyung’s bottom lip droops and you feel your heart seize. 

“Okay, okay!” Maybe holding his hand will make it better. “Jimin, but, no don’t give me that look! Just listen.” 

Taehyung’s pout deepens, but he doesn’t interrupt you. 

“It’s not like when I hang out with Jimin or Yoongi I’m thinking about those things, okay? It’s just a natural thing that happens. Anyone can be drawn to specific people in a group; the same thing happens with friendships. Like you and Jimin. It’s normal.” 

Taehyung doesn’t seem convinced, but he laces his fingers through yours. You interpret the light squeeze he gives you as permission to continue talking. 

“Yoongi is cool because I always saw him as this, like, mental health icon for me. He talks so much about mental health and fans see how he has grown and gotten healthier over the years. It’s inspiring, right? You’ve seen it firsthand.”

“That’s true,” Taehyung sniffles. 

You nod your head. “Exactly, I respect him as a person and an artist. And with Jimin, I’ve always been almost jealous? of him. Because he can so beautifully balance both masculine and feminine qualities and aesthetics. He looks good no matter what and has learned to accept himself instead of forcing whatever weird masculinity shit y’all had when you debuted. That’s inspiring, too.” 

Taehyung is silent for a while. You give him the space to process what you’ve said, and you hope that it’s enough to make him understand that a bias is not just about who you want to fuck. Jungkook is such a flirt; of course, that’s how he would interpret things. 

“Why did you like me?” He finally looks at you. His eyes are a little pink from his tears, but his cheeks appear dry. The innocent curiosity in his expression tugs at your heart. 

You reach up to run your fingers through his fluffy hair, combing out any tangles and gently massaging his scalp. This is probably how Taehyung feels when you worry about fans, paparazzi, and sasaengs. 

“Well, you’re hot,” you say with a grin. You feel a bit lighter when Taehyung’s mouth curves slightly, too. 

“Is that it?” 

“Of course not.” You stick your tongue out. “You were my favorite in the vocal line. I loved how smooth your singing voice is, and how thoughtful you sound when you talk about how important the members and Army are to you. How could someone not love the inventor of I purple you?” 

It feels weird to talk about how you liked Taehyung before you knew who he was. You never made your status as a fan obvious in the beginning. Professionalism is more important than fangirling. Even now, you only casually discuss your interest in the group before meeting them.

“Your sense of fashion made me laugh. You always seemed so happy, even though people like to focus a lot on how mean you can look. And I thought your relationships with Yoongi and Jimin were cute. You’re a great example of how men can and should be soft and loving.” 

They’re all highly-simplified explanations for why Taehyung caught your eye in a group of seven, but they seem to put him at ease. He slides into the bed so he’s lying on his back under the covers. With his eyes locked on yours, he pats his chest. 

“C’mere.” 

You lie down under the covers next to him. It feels nice to rest your head on his chest and throw your leg over his waist. Ever since Taehyung came back from the tour, you’ve wanted to be attached at the hip. It’s not that you can’t handle being alone, but you don’t think it’s a bad thing to want to be with the people who bring you joy— especially when you live in a new country. 

“You know I’m in love with you, not Yoongi or Jimin.” 

“I know.” 

“Do you actually?” You shift your head so you can look up at him. 

Taehyung meets you halfway. You let your eyes close as he slots his lips with yours, allowing your body to melt into his. The desperation the two of you had for each other when Taehyung first returned to Seoul eventually died out. Now, you’re okay with taking things slow. You can savor the feeling of his body on yours, firm and warm beneath you. You can savor the smell of his cologne and his taste as you breathe him in and slip your tongue inside his mouth. 

“I do,” he responds with a heavy exhale once you pull away. “I’m sorry I got upset. I just got so angry when hyung…” Taehyung scrunches his eyebrows and his nose scrunches along with them. 

You massage his forehead and try to forcefully smooth the wrinkles there. “Yoongi is just being an ass. He loves you, too,” you point out. 

Taehyung can’t argue that, so he leans down to kiss you again. You know how important physical contact is to him, especially when he’s upset. With that in mind, you slip your hands beneath his t-shirt. Splaying your hands flat against his chest feels nice. It’s a reminder that he’s real, and he’s here. He’s safe and healthy and yours. 

“We both get pretty jealous, huh?” 

Taehyung gives you a sheepish smile, all cheeks and pretty lips. You love his little lip freckle, but your favorite will always be the one under his eye. 

“Not as bad as Jungkook, though.” 

“Mhm, please don’t break up with me over a perilla leaf or anything.” 

Taehyung giggles and you feel like you’ve got helium inside you. If you don’t hold onto him tightly enough, you might float away with how light and carefree being with him makes you. 

“You won’t get rid of me that easily,” he says as he nibbles your earlobe. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

His hands find the hem of your t-shirt, and you sit up to allow him to undress you. It’s a delicate process because Taehyung wants to take his time, too. It might seem like the two of you use sex to solve your problems, but you never see it like that. For you, letting Taehyung take his time breaking you down, just to build you back up again, is an act of emotional intimacy, just as it is physical. When Taehyung gets comfortable between your thighs, dark eyes locked with yours as he sucks your clit into his mouth, the hold he has on your wrists grounds you. And when he hovers over you with your legs wrapped around his hips as he thrusts into you, you whisper gentle praises against his throat to remind him that you are his and he is yours.

You spend the rest of the afternoon in Taehyung’s bed. It feels good to snuggle with him while he talks to you about all the jazz clubs he forced Jimin to go to during the little free time they had on tour. It seems the tension in the house fades because the rest of the boys are loud and energetic; it’s impossible to tune them out when their laughter bleeds into the room despite the door being closed. 

“Do you think Taehyung and Y/N are done having make-up sex?” 

“It’s pretty quiet in there. Maybe they fell asleep.” 

You groan and bury your face in Taehyung’s side. It’s almost as if Jungkook and Jin are purposefully talking outside of his bedroom to make sure you can hear them. Knowing them, it’s not a far-fetched idea. 

“Probably tired themselves out. The screaming was really—” 

“JUNGKOOK!” Taehyung sits up so abruptly that you fall back onto the bed. “SHUT THE FUCK UP.” 

Jin and Jungkook’s laughter eventually fades down the hallway, but Taehyung gets out of bed anyway. 

“Yoongi is probably almost done with dinner,” he grumbles. You watch him zip up his jeans and admire how tall and lanky he is. Sorry to Yoongi and Jimin. 

He manages to get his arms caught in his t-shirt somehow, so you begrudgingly get out of bed to help. You tease him endlessly because obviously fucking you is so good that he doesn’t know how to use his limbs anymore. 

Your teasing is nothing compared to the way the other boys drag you the moment you step out of Taehyung’s bedroom. 

“You okay, Y/N? Sounded like you might be dying,” Jimin grins as he prepares the kitchen table for dinner. 

Jin snickers, throwing out his own commentary. “Taehyung, you got it pretty good even though you aren’t her bias, huh.” 

Before Taehyung has a chance to bite anyone’s head off, you chime in. 

“Yeah, yeah, Yoongi was my bias when I was a fan,” you say with a roll of your eyes. You can practically see Jungkook registering that you said “was a fan”, and that makes him pout. As if you aren’t still a fan. What a baby, just like Taehyung. 

Yoongi snorts as he retrieves a dish from the oven. “I cannot fathom why.” 

“Me either,” Jimin agrees with a giggle. He’s completely unfazed by the dark look Yoongi shoots him. 

You join in on Jimin’s laughter, and you’re pleased to see that Taehyung is smiling too. The whole thing is so ridiculous. Maybe you’re feeling a bit too comfortable because you start oversharing. 

“And I was a Yoonmin shipper, I’m not gonna lie.” You’re laughing so hard that you don’t realize neither Jimin nor Taehyung are laughing anymore. After a few seconds pass, though, your smile slowly falls. Jimin’s face has turned bright pink and Yoongi has his back to the table. 

“It was one time, okay?” Jimin’s eyes burn holes into Yoongi’s shoulder blades from across the room. “Okay, two times.” 

The older man doesn’t comment. 

You nudge Taehyung’s leg with your foot under the kitchen table. He presses his lips together as hard as he can, but the smile just gets pushed into his cheeks. A rush of air explodes from his lips in a loud raspberry, and that’s what triggers your laughter again. 

“Oh my god, I really wish I was surprised but I’m not,” you confess with a wheeze. 

You’ve clearly touched on a sensitive topic. Jimin blabbers away about how it’s not that big of a deal, all while Yoongi silently finishes arranging the dishes on the table. It would feel uncomfortable, but Jimin’s flushed face and the tiniest of smiles curving Yoongi’s lips make you think it meant a lot more than what Jimin wishes to admit. 

And that’s really fucking cute. 

As the rest of the boys come piling into the kitchen, Taehyung scoots his chair until yours are touching. You bump shoulders and tilt your face up so he can press a kiss against your jaw. 

“I love you,” he whispers. “With all my heart.“ 

“I love you, too.” You lace your fingers with his and let your hands rest against his thigh. “You dork.” 

The kitchen is chaos, but all you can focus on is the boxy smile Taehyung gifts you.

The sun was just beginning to dip behind the trees in the sleepy little town of Marlowe Springs, a place so small it barely had a proper downtown. But what it did have was charm, and an old diner called Lila’s, with checkered floors, red leather booths, and the scent of fresh pie always hanging in the air.

Inside, the bell over the door jingled softly as two men stepped in. A few heads turned not because they recognized them, but simply because strangers were rare here.

Jungkook adjusted the collar of his oversized flannel shirt, glancing around curiously. Jimin followed behind, smiling brightly, the camera crew entering discreetly a few moments later.

“Is this okay to film in?” Jimin asked softly, his English clear but accented.

The manager nodded, already buzzing with excitement after recognizing who they were. “Of course! Just… please ask the waitress if she’s comfortable with it first.”

And then she appeared.

You, Y/N, walked out from behind the counter with a tray in your hand and not a hint of makeup on your face. Your hair was tied up in a messy loose bun that somehow made you look effortlessly stunning, and the tattoos peeking from your forearms matched the vibe of your loose band tee and worn-in jeans. You weren’t trying that was what made it work.

Jungkook’s breath caught for a second.

He turned slightly toward Jimin, who had already noticed the way Jungkook was staring. With a playful nudge, Jimin whispered, “Don’t be obvious, JK.”

But it was too late his gaze was fixed.

You walked up to the table, offering a shy smile, and even that seemed to light up the dim diner.

“Hey there. You guys need a table?”

Jimin stood up a bit straighter, putting on his most respectful tone. “Hi... yes, please. Um… also, we’re filming a travel show for Disney+. Is it okay if you’re in a few shots? You don’t have to speak or anything unless you want to.”

Your eyes widened just a little, surprised but not overwhelmed. “Oh. Uh… yeah, sure, I guess. That’s okay.”

Jungkook’s voice came in gently. “Only if you’re comfortable,” he said, voice low and kind. His Korean accent softened the words, and his eyes — warm, slightly nervous — met yours briefly before flicking away.

You nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Yeah, I’m okay with it.”

They took a booth by the window. You handed them menus, and even that felt oddly important somehow. Jungkook watched you as you moved, quiet and graceful and completely unaware of just how much space you were suddenly taking up in his thoughts.

When you brought out their drinks iced Americano for Jungkook, sweet tea for Jimin they both stood up to take the tray from your hands, catching you off guard.

“Oh! You don’t have to—”

“It’s okay,” Jungkook said softly, smiling. “We help.”

Jimin chuckled. “He’s very polite when he wants to be.”

You laughed lightly, the sound making Jungkook glance at you again. He couldn’t help it. He noticed everything the way your tattoo wrapped around your wrist like a secret message, the small freckle near your collarbone, the way you moved like you belonged here and yet somehow didn’t.

As you walked away, Jimin leaned across the table. “You’re staring.”

“I’m not,” Jungkook muttered, clearly lying.

“She’s your type, huh?”

Jungkook just looked out the window, then back at the counter where you were chatting quietly with another server.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Exactly my type.”

Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon, and inside, the camera rolled quietly as something entirely unscripted began.

The diner had settled into a soft hum — the clinking of silverware, quiet conversation, and the occasional laugh from the booth near the back where a group of older locals sat, sipping their coffee like they had nowhere else to be. You floated between the tables with practiced ease, balancing plates and filling mugs, exchanging inside jokes with the regulars.

Jungkook and Jimin had just placed their order: Jungkook chose the grilled cheese with tomato soup ,simple, comforting — and Jimin ordered the special of the day, a fried chicken plate with sweet corn and biscuits.

“You’ll love it,” you said with a little grin, writing it down. “Miss Edna in the back makes the biscuits fresh every morning. She’s seventy-nine and swears by Crisco and country music.”

Jimin laughed. “We trust her already.”

Jungkook gave you another soft smile. “You seem close with everyone here.”

You shrugged, eyes flicking to the booth where two old men waved at you with identical grins. “It’s a small town. We all kinda grew up in each other’s kitchens.”

As you walked away with their order, you couldn’t help glancing back. They weren’t what you expected when the crew walked in. Both of them — polite, low-key, curious. Jimin had already asked one of the locals for recommendations on where to find good vinyl. Jungkook was quiet, but not in a distant way he watched everything. Especially you.

Behind the counter, while you waited for their food to be ready, one of the regulars nudged you gently. “That boy keeps looking at you like you’re the main course, sugar.”

You rolled your eyes, flushing just a little. “He’s just being polite.”

“Polite?” the old man chuckled. “Maybe. But I’ve got eyes, and so does he.”

You laughed under your breath and shook your head. When the food was ready, you grabbed the plates, but before you could even reach their booth, they were both standing again.

Jungkook reached for the soup. “Let us help.”

“Seriously,” Jimin added, “We’ve been carrying cameras and gear all day. A couple plates? Easy.”

You blinked, a bit stunned. “You’re not supposed to carry your own lunch. That’s my job.”

“You’re helping us,” Jungkook said with a gentle smile. “So we help you.”

You surrendered the plates, and the three of you sat them down together. You lingered for a moment as they settled back in.

“You guys filming more after this?” you asked, casually wiping a hand on your apron.

Jimin nodded between bites. “We’ve got a few shots to get outside. The sunset, some walking around town kind of stuff.”

You hesitated, then said it before you could talk yourself out of it. “Do you… want help? I mean, I don’t know what you need, but if you want someone to show you around or hold a mic or, I don’t know, carry a tripod…”

Jungkook’s head lifted quickly, his eyes locking with yours. “You’d help?”

You nodded, feeling slightly shy. “I’ve got another hour on shift, but after that… sure. If you need.”

Jimin grinned at Jungkook. “Looks like we just hired a local PA.”

Jungkook’s voice was soft, but there was something more behind it. “We’d be lucky to have you.”

You felt heat rise in your chest, but you just smiled and nodded, then turned to check on another table — heart a little faster than before.

Back at their booth, Jimin whispered under his breath, “She’s gonna steal the show.”

Jungkook didn’t respond. He just watched you move through the room like gravity didn’t apply, like everyone in this diner spun quietly around you.

And maybe, for tonight, he did too.

An hour later, the dinner rush was over, and the neon sign outside Lila’s glowed softly in the deepening twilight. You untied your apron, tucked your hair up again, and met the crew outside, where Jimin and Jungkook stood under the golden light of a streetlamp, their jackets zipped and cheeks a little pink from the evening chill.

“You sure you’re not tired?” Jimin asked as you approached.

You shook your head. “I’m good. Long shifts are normal. Besides, I don’t get to show two world-famous guys my hometown every day.”

Jungkook smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair from his forehead. “We’re lucky you’re up for it.”

You led them down the quiet main street, where the buildings were old but full of character. String lights wrapped around lampposts. A vintage record store closed, but glowing sat beside an old barbershop with checkered tiles and a spinning red-and-white pole.

“There’s a mural around the corner,” you said, pointing down a side alley. “A local artist did it after she lost her brother. It’s kind of beautiful, if you don’t mind graffiti vibes.”

They followed you, cameras rolling at a respectful distance. Jimin murmured a soft, “Wow,” when he saw it a painted swirl of sky and stars with handwritten messages scrawled around the edges from people all over town. Jungkook crouched down to study a part where someone had written, “Even the quiet ones shine.”

“She painted that part for him,” you said quietly. “He never said much, but he loved the stars.”

Jungkook glanced up at you. “Thank you for bringing us here.”

You shrugged with a soft smile. “I figured you’d want something real.”

From there, you showed them your favorite overlook just outside of town a short walk past the trees. Fireflies blinked in the tall grass as the last of the sunset dipped behind the hills.

Jimin took a deep breath. “This is like a movie.”

You nudged him gently. “You are in one.”

He laughed, and even Jungkook chuckled, eyes still scanning the sky like he didn’t want to miss a second of it.

As you all headed back toward the center of town, the energy had shifted calmer now, quieter, closer.

And then, like it was nothing, you said, “You know what you guys should do tomorrow?”

They looked over at you, curious.

“Kayaking,” you said with a grin. “There’s this river just outside town. Nobody ever goes during the week. It’s peaceful, clear water, trees all around. You’ll get insane shots for the show.”

Jimin raised an eyebrow. “Wait, really?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I know the guy who runs the rentals. I can talk to him. It’s safe, super chill. You won’t regret it.”

Jungkook looked intrigued. “You kayak?”

You smirked. “Better than I waitress.”

That made both of them laugh.

By the time you reached the diner again, you were already texting the rental guy and clearing the idea with the crew. The producers were hesitant at first, but after a quick call with the management team — and maybe a bit of convincing charm from you — it was greenlit.

“They’re in,” you said as you tucked your phone away. “Tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you here and we’ll drive out together.”

Jungkook looked at you for a moment, longer than usual, like he was trying to memorize something.

“Thanks for doing all this,” he said.

You shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

But the way his eyes stayed on yours — gentle, curious, grateful — told you he didn’t think it was nothing at all.

The sky over Marlowe Springs had turned velvet black, scattered with a thousand stars. Out past the edge of town, the crew had set up camp at a quiet riverside spot, ready for an early start in the morning.

Jimin and Jungkook sat near the fire, bundled in hoodies, each with a tin mug of something warm in hand. The cameras were off now, the crew mostly tucked away in their tents. Crickets chirped softly in the background, the flames crackling in between lulls of easy silence.

Jimin poked at the fire with a stick. “So,” he said, voice low, teasing. “You’ve been really quiet tonight.”

Jungkook took a sip of tea, not looking up. “I’m tired.”

Jimin gave him a look. “You’re never this quiet. Not unless you’re overthinking something.”

Jungkook didn’t answer right away, but the pause said enough. His gaze flicked toward the river, where the moonlight shimmered on the surface.

Jimin tilted his head. “You keep thinking about her, huh?”

Jungkook smiled slightly but didn’t deny it.

“She’s cool,” Jimin went on, more seriously now. “Different. Real. I can see why you’re… you know.”

Jungkook exhaled slowly, finally admitting it. “She just… she’s not trying. That’s the thing. She’s not trying to be anything, and that’s what makes her everything.”

Jimin raised his brows, impressed. “Wow. Poetic.”

“Shut up,” Jungkook muttered with a quiet laugh, rubbing his face. “I’m just saying—like… the tattoos, the way she wears that band tee like she’s been living in it for years, her laugh… She’s not trying to get attention. She already has it, and she doesn’t even know.”

Jimin’s expression softened. “She made you grilled cheese and then offered to carry your camera bag. You’re already doomed.”

They both chuckled at that.

Jimin leaned back, resting his head on his hands. “You know, the fans are gonna love her if she shows up on camera.”

Jungkook frowned. “She didn’t sign up for that kind of attention.”

“No, but she could handle it,” Jimin said. “She’s got that grounded energy. She wouldn’t care about clout. She’d care about you.”

Jungkook was quiet again, staring into the flames.

“I don’t even know her,” he said finally. “Not really.”

“Then get to know her,” Jimin replied simply. “Start tomorrow. Talk. Ask. Listen.”

Jungkook looked over, half smiling. “You sound like a therapist.”

“I’ve been your bandmate for over a decade. That is a type of therapy,” Jimin joked.

The fire popped softly. Jungkook poked at it this time, watching the embers fly.

“She said she kayaks better than she waitresses,” he murmured after a moment.

Jimin raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

Jungkook nodded. “Guess I’ll find out tomorrow.”

Jimin grinned. “I think you already know the answer.”

They both leaned back in their camping chairs, the sounds of the river and the night filling the space between them.

Tomorrow would bring water and trees and cameras again — but maybe something more, too.

And somewhere on the other side of town, you were brushing your teeth, unaware that the two men who’d walked into your world just hours ago were now sitting around a fire, talking about you like you were the best thing they’d seen since the tour started.

The morning air was crisp and clean, and a fine mist rose gently off the river as the sun crept over the trees. It was early — just past seven — but the crew was already halfway through setting up, cameras checking exposure against the soft gold light.

Jungkook stood near the van, adjusting the straps of his life vest when he saw you walking toward them.

And for a moment…

He forgot to breathe.

You wore black biker shorts that hugged your legs just right, a loose, faded oversized tee hanging just off one shoulder, revealing the strap of your sports bra — and the curve of a vine tattoo trailing up your arm. Your hair was braided into two long plaits, framing your face naturally. No makeup, just fresh skin and the morning sun catching the curve of your cheekbone. You wore beat-up white sneakers, the kind that had clearly lived through years of adventures.

You looked like a movie still.

No — you looked like you.

And that was better.

“Hey, stranger,” you called with a little wave, already in motion as you headed toward an older man near the dock.

“Gino!” you said with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder.

The man — probably in his late sixties, tan with sun-worn skin and a salt-and-pepper beard — grinned when he saw you. “There she is! My best guide who refuses to ever officially work here.”

You laughed. “That’s because you don’t pay well and you still use paper receipts.”

Gino barked a laugh. “She’s got jokes today. Must be the company.”

You glanced back at the guys, and Jungkook was still watching you, one hand frozen halfway through tying his vest.

You turned back to Gino, dropping your voice just a little. “They’re filming, but I told them you’d be cool. We’ll be respectful. No faces unless people consent, and they’ll keep it low-key.”

Gino nodded easily. “If it’s you asking, it’s always a yes.”

Jimin walked over as you were finishing up, already camera-ready with sunglasses perched on his head and that easy smile that could get him out of a parking ticket in any country.

“Morning!” he said brightly.

You offered a smile in return. “You ready to paddle?”

Jungkook finally joined you both, quiet but warm, his eyes dropping briefly to the tattoos lining your thigh before he looked up at your face. “Nice shirt.”

You looked down — oversized MCR band tee.

You raised an eyebrow. “You know them?”

He nodded. “One of my favorites.”

You tried not to smile too obviously. “Good taste.”

The producer gave the go-ahead, and soon enough, you were helping load gear into dry bags, handing out paddles, and demonstrating how not to tip a kayak with the grace of someone who had done this dozens of times.

“Want to ride solo or double?” Gino asked, glancing between the three of you.

You looked at Jungkook.

“I’ll go with you,” he said quickly, then paused, realizing how fast he’d answered. “If that’s okay.”

You gave a little shrug, casual. “Sure. Hope you don’t mind a little steering.”

Jimin gave Jungkook a knowing look behind your back, mouthing smooth before walking off toward his solo kayak.

As you helped Jungkook step into the tandem kayak behind you, he hesitated for a beat, looking down at the black ink trailing across your calves and up your arm.

“Your tattoos…” he said quietly, adjusting his grip on the side of the kayak. “They suit you.”

You glanced back over your shoulder, braids swinging slightly. “Thanks. I got them all during some sort of emotional crisis, so I’m glad they at least look good.”

He smiled, really smiled this time. “I get that.”

With a push from the dock, the kayak slipped onto the water, smooth and quiet, gliding past the reeds as birds scattered overhead.

And just like that, you and Jungkook drifted into the river, away from town, away from cameras, and slowly, toward something neither of you had quite expected.

The kayak glided quietly along the river, the early morning stillness broken only by the dip of paddles in the water and the soft chirping of birds in the trees. Dew still clung to the grass along the banks, and a layer of fog shimmered above the surface like a veil.

Jimin wasn’t far behind in his solo kayak, occasionally paddling closer to snap a picture with the small film camera slung around his neck. Every now and then he’d grin and wave like the proud older brother capturing prom photos. You and Jungkook just laughed.

It didn’t feel like a show anymore. It felt like a break from the world.

You sat in the front seat of the tandem kayak, occasionally turning your head to speak to Jungkook, who was behind you and listening very intently.

“So…” he began, voice low but clear through the morning hush, “what’s your first tattoo?”

You smirked, glancing back at him. “You really wanna know?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I want to know everything.”

You raised a brow, amused. “Dangerous thing to say to someone you just met.”

He smiled. “I meant it.”

You looked ahead, thinking. “Okay. It’s this little one—” You lifted your left wrist slightly, showing a tiny, faded crescent moon. “I was seventeen. Total impulse. My mom was furious.”

He chuckled softly. “I like it. It’s… honest.”

You twisted slightly in your seat. “What about you? First tattoo?”

He hesitated. “The one on my hand. It was for ARMY. I got it when I needed a reminder of why I started. Not for fashion. For me.”

You turned back, letting that sit in the air for a moment. “That’s a really good reason.”

He nodded, then asked, “What would you be doing if you weren’t working at Lila’s?”

You exhaled, thinking. “I don’t know. Something creative, maybe. I sketch sometimes. I thought about learning graphic design but… life, you know?”

“You still can,” he said softly, like it was obvious.

You glanced back, and for a second, you weren’t on a river. You weren’t filming. You weren’t two people from completely different worlds.

You were just two people who liked each other, sitting in the same silence, paddling in the same direction.

“You ask a lot of questions,” you teased lightly, dipping your paddle again.

He shrugged. “I don’t get to talk like this much. Not about real stuff.”

You looked at him. “What don’t people ask you?”

He was quiet for a second. Then: “No one asks how it feels to be alone when millions think they know you.”

That hit deeper than you expected.

You didn’t say anything. You just let the silence fill the space between you again — warm, not awkward. Understanding.

Jimin paddled closer a few minutes later, camera raised. “You two look like you’ve been doing this for years.”

Click.

“Jimin!” you laughed, shielding your face.

He grinned. “You’ll thank me later. You’re glowing.”

Jungkook didn’t say anything, but his gaze lingered on you longer than usual.

After a while, the current slowed, and you rested your paddle across your lap. Jungkook matched your movement

You looked over your shoulder again, voice soft. “This okay for your show?”

Jungkook nodded. “Better. It’s the only part I’ll remember.”

You smiled, cheeks warm and not from the sun.

The kayak drifted, the cameras forgotten, and somewhere between the strokes of the paddle and the echo of quiet laughter, something started to settle into place.

The river had widened, curving gently through tall reeds and willows that whispered with the breeze. After an hour of calm paddling and slow, thoughtful conversation, you all drifted to a quieter stretch, where the water stilled and the sun broke through the trees in warm, golden streaks.

You stretched your arms overhead with a content sigh. “Alright, muscle man,” you said, glancing back at Jungkook. “Think you’re ready to try this on your own?”

He smirked, cocking a brow. “Obviously.”

Jimin, who had been floating nearby with his paddle across his lap, raised an eyebrow. “Oh? That was fast.”

Jungkook leaned forward slightly, grinning. “I’ve got this.”

You laughed, spinning your kayak gently with one hand. “You sure? It’s harder when you’re not in the front seat just cruising while someone else does the work.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully. “You trying to challenge me?”

“Not me,” you said, turning toward Jimin. “He might be.”

Jimin grinned, eyes already sparkling. “Okay, golden boy. Race you to the bend and back. You flip, you owe me dinner.”

Jungkook smirked, cocky now. “Deal.”

You paddled the tandem kayak to the side as they lined up near the middle of the river.

“One,” you called, raising your hand. “Two… three—go!”

And they were off — or at least, Jimin was. He shot forward with clean, steady strokes. Jungkook, on the other hand…

Two seconds in, he swayed too far to the left, tried to correct it too hard on the right, overcompensated with a fancy turn—

And then: SPLASH.

The kayak tipped violently and dumped him straight into the river.

You gasped, then burst into uncontrollable laughter, the kind that bent you in half. “Oh my God—!”

Jimin was already circling back, shouting, “I KNEW IT!”

You didn’t hesitate. You dropped your paddle, jumped out, and sprinted along the muddy riverbank, shouting, “I’m coming!”

Jungkook surfaced with a dramatic shake of his head, blinking water out of his eyes, hair dripping into his face, completely soaked — and still laughing.

“Are you okay?!” you called, skidding down the slope near the bend.

“I’m fine!” he shouted back, laughing, wiping water from his mouth. “But I want to die of embarrassment!”

You waded in up to your knees, extending a hand through the splash and current. “Come on, river boy. Let me save your dignity.”

He grabbed your hand, strong fingers wrapping around yours, and you both laughed as you pulled him up toward the shore.

The camera crew, still filming at a distance, caught every second — but somehow it didn’t matter. The laughter, the water, the ridiculousness of it all made everything feel weightless.

“Okay, maybe I wasn’t ready,” Jungkook admitted as he stood, water dripping from every inch of him.

You were still breathless with laughter. “You lasted thirty seconds.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Dinner and dessert,” Jimin called from his kayak, smug. “I want pie. A slice for every second you stayed upright.”

Jungkook groaned, but when he looked at you — cheeks flushed from laughter, eyes gleaming in the sun — he didn’t regret a thing.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d flip a hundred more kayaks just to hear you laugh like that again.

Back at the riverbank, Jungkook was standing in the grass, dripping wet, looking like a sad but very handsome golden retriever. His shirt clung to his chest, his jeans were soaked through, and his pride had clearly floated somewhere downstream.

You tossed him a towel — a big, faded blue one that smelled faintly of sunscreen and fabric softener.

“Thanks,” he muttered, running it through his hair, avoiding eye contact.

You crossed your arms, still grinning. “So, Mr. ‘Obviously,’ how’s it feel to lose to someone in sunglasses and a bucket hat?”

Jungkook looked up, gave you a mock glare, then smirked. “It was sabotage. You distracted me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “I distracted you?”

He nodded, deadpan. “Yes. With your tattoos. And your laugh. And the way you said ‘muscle man.’”

You blinked, caught off guard for half a second — and then laughed. “That’s not how distraction works.”

“Tell that to the kayak,” he mumbled, rubbing his neck.

You walked over and gently tugged the towel from his hands, then started drying his hair for him, ruffling the already-messy strands with care.

“God, you’re soaked,” you said.

“You pushed me in.”

“I ran to save you,” you corrected, still toweling his hair. “Big difference.”

He stood still, eyes fluttering shut for a second under your touch. When you stopped, he caught your wrist gently, holding it in his.

“Thanks for today,” he said quietly. “Not just the kayaking. For… being like this. Normal.”

You looked up at him, and for the first time, neither of you were laughing.

The air between you shifted. Warm. Curious. Charged.

“You’re easy to be normal around,” you replied.

“Maybe that’s the dangerous part,” he murmured.

Before either of you could say something else, Jimin called out from across the clearing. “Hey lovebirds! You done with your rom-com moment? I’m hungry!”

You rolled your eyes and stepped back, but you didn’t pull your wrist away until Jungkook let go first.

The towel hung around his shoulders now, and he looked at you like he didn’t want to blink. Like maybe this small town had just turned into the most interesting place he’d ever been.

“Come on,” you said, nodding toward the trail. “You owe Jimin pie.”

Jungkook chuckled. “I owe you more than that.”

And as you walked side by side up the dirt path, sneakers brushing, fingers almost touching, you had the feeling this day — this ridiculous, beautiful, soaked day — would stay with both of you long after the cameras stopped rolling.

The sun had already dipped low behind the hills by the time you all made it back into town. Marlowe Springs looked golden again, the same way it had the night before — but everything felt different now. Lighter. Closer.

Jimin had jokingly insisted on dinner at “the only restaurant that matters,” so of course you all ended up back at Lila’s Diner

This time, there were more people inside. Word had spread — not loudly, not in a fan-crazed kind of way, but in that small-town hush-hush manner that meant the locals were curious but respectful. A few cell phones peeked out. Some whispered. Most just smiled and nodded as the camera crew entered again.

You were already behind the counter, changed into a fresh tee, hair still braided, this time tied back with a pen stuck into the knot. The owners had been thrilled when you said you’d come in to help for the evening — even more thrilled when you casually mentioned you’d be filming with them again.

The “Are You Sure?” crew had set up two cameras, more subtle this time one tucked near the jukebox, the other by the pie case.

Jimin and Jungkook walked in to soft applause from the staff, and you couldn’t help but smirk when Jungkook immediately scanned the room for you.

You leaned on the counter when he approached. “Back for round two?”

He leaned forward a little, mirroring your posture. “Couldn’t stay away.”

“You’re dripping river water on the floor.”

“Worth it.”

Jimin cut in with a dramatic groan. “Can you two flirt after I get fed?”

You laughed and tossed a menu onto their usual table. “Sit. I’ll bring you something that doesn’t float.”

The camera caught it all — the way Jungkook watched you as you walked away, the way Jimin leaned in and whispered something that made Jungkook duck his head and smile behind his hand.

You moved through the diner like you always did, quick on your feet but grounded, unfazed by the lights or lenses. The regulars still cracked jokes. Gino came in and shouted, “You dry yet, hotshot?” to Jungkook, who just laughed and held up his towel like a white flag.

In between taking orders and refilling mugs, you’d wander back to their table.

At one point, you brought over two slices of peach pie.

“This is Jimin’s,” you said, setting the first plate down. “Three scoops of vanilla because he’s a diva.”

Jimin gasped. “You get me.”

“And this,” you said, placing the second plate in front of Jungkook, “is on the house. River tax.”

He looked up at you, eyes soft. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

The moment hung there for a beat too long. One of the crew cleared their throat. You both laughed nervously, breaking it.

As the night went on, you helped clear dishes, carried trays, even handed Jimin a notepad so he could take orders “for the bit.” The director loved it. The locals loved it. And you?

You felt something you hadn’t in a long time: seen. But not just by cameras.

It was late now. The “Open” sign had just flipped to “Closed,” and the crowd had thinned to only a few lingering regulars finishing up their pie and coffee. The soft glow of the diner’s hanging lights cast a cozy amber haze over everything, and the radio played faintly in the background — old vinyl-style soul music, just the right amount of scratchy.

You were behind the counter wiping down surfaces when the bell above the door jingled again.

“Last call already happened, Frank,” you called without looking. “But if you beg, I might find another slice of that pecan pie.”

The voice that answered was weathered and warm. “Didn’t come for pie. Came to steal a dance before your shift’s up.”

You looked up and smiled.

Frank , easily pushing 80, always in the same olive green jacket — stood near the jukebox with a grin and a gentleman’s hand extended.

You laughed. “You’re lucky I’m soft on you.”

You stepped out from behind the counter and took his hand, letting him lead you gently to the center of the floor. The music shifted to a slow, swaying tune — Sam Cooke — and Frank wrapped one arm loosely around you while the other held your hand just right.

You danced like you had a dozen times before: slow, comfortable, like two people who knew the rhythm of each other’s lives.

Near the booths, Jimin and Jungkook had just finished packing up for the night, but the second they saw you and Frank, they stopped in their tracks.

Jimin gave a soft chuckle. “She’s so cool.”

Jungkook didn’t say anything at first. He just watched.

You in your faded t-shirt, sneakers, hair still in two slightly messy braids moved like it was the easiest thing in the world. Nothing about it felt like a performance. It was just you being you.

He couldn’t take his eyes off you.

As the song came to an end, Frank dipped you slightly, and you laughed that full laugh again the one Jungkook had been thinking about since the river. You gave Frank a kiss on the cheek and helped him back to his booth.

While you poured him a decaf refill, someone else approached Jungkook from behind the counter.

Lila the diner’s cook and namesake short, strong, and always wearing a bandana and a no-nonsense attitude, plopped a fresh towel down in front of him.

“You dry yet, Romeo?” she said without looking up.

Jungkook smiled sheepishly. “Almost.”

Lila finally looked up at him and her eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

“She’s one of the good ones,” she said calmly. “Been through enough in her life. She’s kind, but she doesn’t play.”

Jungkook blinked. “Sorry?”

“I’m not sayin’ anything bad,” Lila continued. “Just sayin’ if you’re here to break her sweet heart with your shiny life and your pretty face, I will personally dump you back in that river and hold you under until you apologize.”

Jungkook blinked again wide-eyed, stunned and then let out a soft, nervous laugh. “No, ma’am. I… wouldn’t.”

She studied him a moment longer, then nodded, satisfied. “Good. Now eat the damn pie she saved for you. Before Frank asks for it.”

And with that, she was gone again, shouting something about burned hashbrowns as she disappeared into the kitchen.

Jimin leaned over, clearly having heard the whole thing. “You really made an impression, man.”

Jungkook didn’t answer. He just looked across the room at you, still chatting gently with Frank, smiling, tucking a stray braid behind your ear and something settled in his chest.

Yeah. He was definitely in trouble.

The clock above the pie case ticked past midnight. The last plates were cleared, the lights were dimmed to that cozy after-hours glow, and the final notes of a lazy jazz tune faded into silence. The diner felt like a sigh that warm exhale after a long, full day.

The crew had already packed up. Jimin was near the front counter, flipping through photos on his camera with a sleepy smile, and Jungkook stood by the door, hoodie on, hair still a little unruly from earlier, eyes soft as they followed you.

You wiped your hands on a towel, tossed it over your shoulder, and walked toward them.

“That’s it for me,” you said, sounding lighter than you felt. “Kitchen’s closed, show’s over, time for this waitress to go become a blanket burrito.”

Jimin grinned and gave you a gentle side-hug. “You were the highlight of the episode. And of Jungkook’s entire personality today.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “Good night, Jimin.”

Then you turned to Jungkook.

There was a moment just a breath where neither of you moved.

He didn’t step closer. You didn’t step back. You just looked at each other like there was something else being said that didn’t need words.

Finally, he spoke, voice soft. “Today was… one of my favorite days in a long time.”

You smiled, slower this time. “Mine too.”

A silence bloomed not awkward, but full. Something delicate resting between you.

You gave him a small wave, fingers brushing your braid as you reached for your bag.

“Well, I’ll let you guys get some rest,” you said, voice a little too casual. “We open at 6, so I better pretend I’m responsible.”

Jungkook hesitated. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

You paused in the doorway, hand on the frame, looking back over your shoulder.

“You’re not that easy to forget,” you said, lips curling. “I think we’ll manage.”

Then you stepped outside, into the cool night air, sneakers crunching softly on gravel as the diner door jingled shut behind you.

Jungkook stood there for another full minute, staring at the door like maybe you’d turn back around.

But you didn’t.

And yet somehow… it didn’t feel like an end.

Just the pause between chapters.

The motel room was dark, save for the low glow of a streetlamp leaking through the blinds. Jungkook sat on the edge of his bed, damp hair still dripping from his shower, towel slung over his shoulder. He was dressed down — black shirt, jeans, his boots halfway on — and staring blankly at the wall like it was supposed to answer something for him.

Jimin was stretched out on the opposite bed, arms behind his head, scrolling through his phone. He didn’t look up when he said, casually, “You’re doing it again.”

Jungkook blinked. “Doing what?”

Jimin sighed. “Thinking so loud I can hear it.”

Silence.

Then, after a long pause, Jungkook exhaled and dropped his head into his hands. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”

Jimin didn’t look surprised. He just turned off his phone and rolled onto his side, propping his head up on one arm. “Yeah. I know.”

“She’s not even trying. She’s just… real. I feel like I can breathe around her,” Jungkook muttered, voice low. “It’s not like other people I’ve met on the road.”

Jimin gave him a quiet smile. “You should go.”

Jungkook looked up, surprised. “Now?”

“Yes. You’ll regret it if you don’t,” Jimin said simply. “If you’re sitting here hoping tomorrow happens the way tonight felt? It won’t. Go make it happen.”

Jungkook stood before he even realized what he was doing.

⸻

Five minutes later, the motel door clicked shut behind him. The air was crisp against his damp skin as he swung his leg over the black motorcycle the crew had rented for him to get around town. The helmet glinted faintly in the moonlight, and the keys jingled as he pulled them from his pocket.

Freshly showered, hoodie zipped up, and nerves twisting under his ribs, he started the engine.

The bike rumbled to life a low growl in the silence of the night.

No cameras.

No lights.

Just him, the road, and the feeling that he’d waited long enough.

⸻

It took less than ten minutes to reach your street. The town was still, sleeping. He slowed when he spotted your porch light — the only one still on. A cozy, yellow glow spilling out from behind gauzy curtains.

He parked the bike quietly and took off his helmet, hair tousled by the wind. He walked up the path slowly, hesitating only once at the bottom step before making his way up to your door.

His hand hovered over the wood.

Was this crazy?

Definitely.

Did he care?

Not even a little.

He knocked.

Soft.

Once.

Twice.

And then waited, heart pounding like he was about to walk onstage only this felt more important.

After a moment, there was movement behind the door. A sleepy shuffle. Then, the click of a lock turning.

You opened the door in a soft, oversized hoodie, shorts just barely visible, hair a bit messy from sleep, no makeup — still unmistakably you.

Your eyes widened when you saw him. “Jungkook?”

He swallowed. “Hey.”

“…Are you okay?”

He smiled, nervous. “I couldn’t sleep.”

You leaned against the doorframe, blinking at him in the porch light, taking in the motorcycle behind him, the way he looked like he didn’t quite know what to do with his hands.

“…Did you just drive here to see me?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Your lips parted half-surprised, half-something else.

“I keep thinking about you,” he said softly. “And I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to see if you were thinking about me too.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just stepped back and opened the door wider.

“…Come in.”

And with that, he stepped inside.

The door clicked shut behind him.

You stood there for a second, just breathing. The air between you had shifted warmer now, heavier, expectant.

Jungkook’s hoodie was still zipped, his hair damp and curling a little at the edges, his chest rising and falling like he was trying to steady himself.

You tilted your head. “You okay?”

“I will be,” he said, voice low, “once you tell me this isn’t a mistake.”

Your throat tightened — not with nerves, but with something hotter, deeper.

“I’m not the one who knocked.”

He took a slow step forward.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he repeated, softer this time. “The way you laugh. How you talk with your hands. Your tattoos. You dancing in the diner like you didn’t care who was watching.”

You swallowed, pulse hammering.

He reached up and gently brushed one of your braids behind your shoulder. His fingers lingered on your collarbone, grazing the edge of your hoodie.

“You make it really hard to think straight,” he whispered.

“Then stop thinking,” you whispered back.

That was all it took.

In a breath, he closed the space between you. His hands cupped your face with a reverence that felt like worship, his lips brushing yours like a question — and when you answered by kissing him back, the kiss turned urgent, deeper, real.

You clutched the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer, walking backward until the backs of your knees hit the couch. He followed, kneeling between your legs as you sat, his hands sliding under your hoodie to your bare waist, fingertips skating over skin like he wanted to memorize you.

You broke the kiss only to whisper, “Take it off.”

He obeyed without a word hoodie hitting the floor, revealing inked arms, toned chest, damp skin still warm from the shower. Your hoodie joined his a heartbeat later, leaving you in just your shorts and the faint moonlight pooling through the window.

His hands gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking the skin as he looked at you like really looked.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, voice wrecked. “Even more now.”

Your breath caught as his mouth found your neck slow, open kisses that left heat trailing down your spine. His hands slid up under your thighs, lifting you gently, laying you down on the couch with care that made your chest ache.

His mouth traveled lower, exploring like he had all night to learn every sound he could pull from you — and when your hands gripped his hair, when you gasped his name in that cracked, breathless way, he smiled against your skin like he’d just found his favorite song.

You lost count of how long you stayed tangled together whispering, kissing, breathing each other in like it was the first and last time.

And afterward skin warm, hair mussed, limbs wrapped around each other in the hush of early morning he tucked a blanket over you both, pressed a kiss to your temple, and whispered:

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The living room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the ceiling fan and the two of you breathing uneven, shallow, tangled.

Jungkook hovered over you now, one hand braced on the back of the couch, the other spread warm against your stomach. His pupils were blown wide, gaze flicking between your eyes and your lips like he couldn’t decide where to worship first.

“You’re dangerous,” he whispered, voice low and husky. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

Your hips shifted against his, and the way he exhaled sharp, shaky made your core tighten.

“I know,” you breathed. “I can feel it.”

That pushed him over the edge.

His mouth found yours again, but this time there was no hesitation, no sweetness just need. His kiss was hot and claiming, tongue sliding over yours, teeth catching your bottom lip until you whimpered into him. That sound soft, real, raw made him groan low in his throat.

“Say that again,” he muttered against your mouth, moving his hand beneath your shorts, fingers skimming higher and higher. “That little sound you made. It—”

You arched into him. “Jungkook—”

Your name on his lips was reverent and filthy all at once as he dipped his head to your neck, mouthing at the sensitive skin just below your ear. His hands were everywhere now — palms dragging up your ribs, fingers tracing every line of ink on your body, thumbs brushing under your breasts like he wanted to memorize you by touch alone.

You were already trembling when he finally slipped one hand between your thighs, cupping you over the thin fabric. You gasped, hips rolling into his touch desperate now, breathless.

He grinned darkly against your throat. “So wet for me already?”

You pulled his hair in response, just hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth. He kissed you harder — open-mouthed, biting, like he needed to taste how much you wanted him.

Then he leaned back, just enough to look at you, chest heaving, fingers still teasing.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, eyes burning into yours. “If you don’t… I won’t.”

You didn’t say a word

Instead, you lifted your hips, pulled your shorts down and off, and reached for his belt with a boldness that made his breath stutter.

“Don’t stop,” you whispered. “Don’t you dare.”

And when he finally pressed into you — slow, deep, with a growl that came from somewhere primal your body arched into his like you were made for this. For him.

You moved together like you’d been waiting forever. No rush. No lights. Just sweat-slick skin, quiet moans, and the sound of his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

And when you came nails digging into his back, head thrown back, thighs shaking around him he followed with a low, broken groan of your name that he buried against your neck.

The silence afterward was intimate.

Sated.

Sacred.

He stayed inside you for a long moment, just breathing with you. Kissing your shoulder. Your jaw. Your lips, softly now.

Then, quietly:

“Still think I should’ve waited until morning?”

You smiled, eyes still closed, hand resting over his heart.

“No,” you murmured.

“You came exactly when you were supposed to.”

The morning sunlight filtered lazily through the half-closed blinds in your bedroom. Outside, birds chirped and the world began to stir — but inside, the house still felt wrapped in night. Warmth. Secrets.

You were already gone from the bed when Jungkook blinked awake, hair tousled, arm outstretched over the spot you’d filled.

He sat up slowly, the blanket slipping down his bare back. He could hear the faint sound of water running the bathroom door slightly ajar, steam curling out like an invitation.

And he didn’t hesitate.

Quiet, barefoot, he crossed the room and pushed the door open just enough to see you through the fogged glass of the shower. You didn’t see him at first — your back was to the door, water cascading down your spine, gliding over your tattoos, your braids now unwrapped and clinging to your wet skin.

He exhaled, soft and reverent.

He couldn’t not touch you.

Jungkook peeled off the shirt he’d thrown on in the night yours, actually, still smelling like you and stepped into the shower behind you. The moment the steam hit his skin, he let out a low sigh, sliding his arms slowly around your waist.

You gasped softly then relaxed, smiling without turning. “Took you long enough.”

His lips were already at your neck. “I wanted to see you like this. Thought I was dreaming.”

You turned in his arms, letting his gaze travel over you in full now — wet skin, flushed cheeks, hair clinging to your collarbone. His hands found your hips instinctively, pressing you gently into the tiled wall.

“You’re unreal,” he murmured, kissing along your jaw, your shoulder, down your collarbone. His voice dropped, gravelly from sleep. “How am I supposed to leave after this?”

You kissed him this time slower, deeper, with that same heat from the night before but now with something softer threaded in between. Your hands slid down his chest, water streaming between you, and when your fingers curled around him, his head fell back against the tile with a groan that echoed through the steam.

“Jesus,” he breathed. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled against his throat. “You’ll die happy.”

Then you dropped to your knees.

He watched you one hand bracing against the tile, the other gently tangling in your wet hair, a string of soft curses falling from his lips as your mouth moved on him with slow, devastating control. The heat of the shower, the sight of you on your knees, the feel of your tongue, your hands — it all blurred together until he was cursing your name, low and wrecked.

When you stood again, he pulled you to him with almost no strength left, kissing you hard, breath ragged.

“My turn,” he rasped, spinning you gently to face the wall.

You braced yourself as his hands slid down your sides, fingers spreading over your thighs before gripping your hips. His voice was in your ear a promise and a warning all at once.

“Hold on.”

And when he pushed into you, slow but deep, your hands pressed to the tile, breath catching in your throat. He moved like he wanted you to feel every second, every inch, every part of him — and you did. Over and over.

Your moans bounced off the walls. His name fell from your lips again and again, echoing through the steam, matched only by the low, breathless curses in Korean spilling from his mouth as he buried himself deeper.

By the time you both came — bodies shaking, water long forgotten — you were clinging to each other, foreheads touching, lips brushing with every gasp of breath

You stayed like that, quiet, water washing everything else away. His hands tracing lazy lines along your waist. Your fingers tangled in the damp hair at his neck.

Eventually, he kissed your shoulder again.

“You ruin me,” he whispered.

You smiled.

“Good.”

The scent of coffee filled the kitchen, mingling with the soft crackle of toast and the faint drip-drip-drip of water still trailing down your hair from the shower.

You stood at the counter in an oversized shirt — Jungkook’s, again — bare legs peeking out, skin still warm from his touch. You were making coffee like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t just been thoroughly ruined in the shower twenty minutes ago.

Jungkook sat at the table, hair damp, cheeks flushed, eyes lazily tracking your every move like you were the sunrise and he’d waited all night to see it

He had one hand wrapped around a steaming mug.

The other was resting on the back of your thigh, thumb stroking your skin like he needed constant contact. He hadn’t stopped touching you since he woke up.

Then—

Knock knock knock.

“Y/N?” a familiar voice called, far too cheerful for 9:00 a.m. “You up? I brought breakfast!”

You froze.

Jungkook’s eyes widened. “Shit.”

You mouthed, Jimin?!

He mouthed back, Don’t panic.

But you were already panicking.

The knock came again, followed by the front door creaking open. You forgot you hadn’t locked it last night.

“Yah, you told me to show up early,” Jimin called, stepping inside. “I got those egg sandwiches you like and—oh.”

He turned the corner into the kitchen.

And stopped. Dead.

Jungkook was sitting shirtless at your kitchen table.

You were standing barefoot in his oversized shirt, cheeks red, hair still wet, with Jungkook’s hand suspiciously disappearing behind your thigh.

Jimin blinked once.

Twice.

Then:

“…Are you serious right now?”

Jungkook didn’t move. Just slowly, slowly, slid his hand back onto the table and picked up his mug like nothing had happened.

“Morning, hyung.”

Jimin stared between the two of you. “Morning? Bro. You’re half-naked. She’s in your shirt. I’m holding hot coffee and trauma.”

You burst out laughing, covering your face. Jungkook grinned shamelessly.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, voice cracking from trying not to wheeze. “We were gonna tell you…”

“You were gonna tell me eventually, or were you just hoping I’d never wake up and put things together like an adult?”

Jungkook shrugged, unapologetic. “I figured you’d guess when I didn’t come back last night.”

Jimin blinked. “I thought you two went for a walk. Not a—home visit.”

Then he paused. Narrowed his eyes.

“Wait. Is this why you were staring out the window all yesterday like a lovesick golden retriever?”

You choked on your coffee.

Jungkook rolled his eyes. “Hyung.”

Jimin just held up the breakfast bag like a peace offering. “Alright, alright. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear anything through these very thin walls later. For now, everyone eat something before Y/N passes out from… calorie loss.”

You and Jungkook both groaned at the same time.

Jimin just grinned.

The morning moved faster than either of you wanted.

The breakfast Jimin brought turned into laughter. Into lingering looks. Into shared glances that said more than either of you could put into words.

But then the crew van pulled up outside.

And reality returned — not cruel, just quietly inevitable.

The show had to go on.

The next town, the next shoot, the next miles on the road.

You stood by the front door with Jungkook, the sunlight casting soft lines across your face as he zipped up his hoodie. Jimin waited outside, already giving you space.

He looked down at you and smiled — a little crooked, a little sad.

“Wish I met you somewhere else,” he murmured

You laughed under your breath, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “Somewhere without a tight schedule and five cameras?”

“Exactly.”

You hesitated, heart tugging. “If you weren’t… who you are. And if I wasn’t here—”

He nodded, gently tucking one of your braids behind your ear. “I’d ask you to come with me.”

That made your throat tighten.

“And if I said yes?”

He swallowed. “I’d find a way to make it work.”

You both knew it wasn’t that simple.

You had your life here. Your job. Your quiet, rooted world.

And he was in motion. Always.

You stepped into him, wrapping your arms around his waist. His lips pressed to the crown of your head, and for a long second you just held each other. No plans. No promises. Just the weight of what was and what wouldn’t be.

Finally, you whispered against his chest, “This was more than just a moment for me.”

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eye. “Me too.”

Then he kissed you — slow, deep, like a goodbye and a thank you all at once.

When he finally let go, he stepped back, eyes lingering

“I’ll remember this,” he said.

You smiled softly. “So will I.”

⸻

He walked out the door and into the sun, where Jimin waited by the van.

You stood at the threshold, watching him go.

And he looked back once, hand raised in a wave, eyes lingering like he was trying to memorize your silhouette one last time.

Then the van door closed.

And they were gone.

Five months passed like a quiet tide.

The days at the diner rolled on, familiar and warm. Locals came and went. Coffee was poured, playlists looped, the kayak season faded into fall — and the memory of him… stayed.

He’d become something unspoken, tucked between pages of your days. Not haunting. Just there. Soft and heavy in the chest.

Then, one Tuesday afternoon, you found the envelope.

It was waiting for you on the counter at the end of your shift, slipped between your apron and the guest check pad. Gino, grinning ear to ear, just said, “Some fancy courier dropped it off. Said it was urgent.”

Your name was written in his handwriting — that distinct, fluid way he signed autographs, but this time, just for you.

Inside was a flight ticket.

Departure: LAX ➝ ICN

Date: Friday, 2:45 PM.

Passenger: Y/N [your full name].

Tucked beside it: a simple white card.

A short, neat message in black ink.

⸻

Y/N,

I meant it when I said I’d remember. And I haven’t stopped.

We’re premiering the show. It’s loud and messy and everything I used to want — but it’s missing one thing.

Come if you can.

No pressure. Just… hope.

The fitting is at 2pm. Seongsu, address below.

I’ll be there.

— JK

You sat on the breakroom bench for a long minute, rereading it three times before you smiled — the first real one in weeks.

There was no if. You were going.

You called in two weeks’ leave. Gino covered your shifts without question. You found your passport in the bottom drawer and stared at it like it was a key.

Three days later, you were on a plane.

The lights dimmed. The hum of the cabin filled your ears. You rested your head against the window and let yourself picture it.

Him.

In Seoul.

Waiting.

And somehow, all the distance between you began to feel smaller.

Seoul was crisp in the early evening — the kind of weather that hinted at autumn, but the city’s pulse kept you warm. Fast, beautiful, and humming with life. It had been years since you’d left the country, and you’d never come here.

But now you were walking through Seongsu’s narrow, stylish streets, past art galleries and quiet cafés, until you reached a discreet black door with your name taped in small letters on white paper.

You buzzed once. It clicked open immediately.

Inside: white walls, soft jazz playing low, and racks of clothing that looked like they belonged in a magazine spread. A woman with sleek hair and red lipstick looked up from her tablet and smiled warmly.

“Ah—Y/N-ssi? Welcome,” she said in practiced English. “We’ve been expecting you.”

You followed her inside, where a team — makeup artist, hair stylist, and a quiet, confident designer named Haneul — greeted you like you were royalty. You tried to apologize for being a little overwhelmed, but Haneul just waved a hand and said:

“Jungkook told us to take care of you. So, we will.”

Your heart skipped at the mention of his name.

They led you to a pedestal platform near a large mirror. The room smelled faintly of fresh fabric and green tea.

Haneul returned with a gown draped carefully across her arms — deep midnight blue silk, strapless, with a dramatic slit and structured bodice that looked impossibly elegant but effortless. Like something made just for you.

“You ready to try it on?” she asked, smiling.

You nodded, and within minutes you were stepping into it, the team gently adjusting the fabric, pinning it just right, whispering to one another in quick Korean.

When you finally looked in the mirror — you barely recognized yourself.

And the transformation had only just begun.

⸻

An hour later

You sat in the styling chair, bare-faced, hair wrapped in a soft clip, robe tied loosely as the makeup artist studied your features.

“I love your skin,” she said softly. “Natural. We’ll keep it soft. Let your face speak.”

She worked with a light hand — no heavy foundation, just a touch of glow. A soft champagne shimmer on the eyes, lashes curled, brows brushed and lifted. A nude-rose lip. Just enough to highlight what was already yours.

Then the hairstylist took over, unraveling your braids from earlier and weaving them into a loose, intricate updo with a few tendrils framing your face.

You stared into the mirror as they finished.

And for a second — you didn’t see the small-town diner girl.

You saw someone he might be proud to stand next to.

“You ready?” the stylist asked, smoothing your shoulders.

You nodded slowly. Your voice was quiet.

“Yeah… I think I am.”

Just as you stood, the studio door creaked open.

You turned — heartbeat wild.

And there he was.

Black suit. No tie. Loose waves brushing his jaw, earring glinting softly. He looked freshly styled but not overly polished — like himself.

He stopped when he saw you. His jaw twitched. His eyes swept over you once, then again, slower.

His voice dropped.

“Damn.”

You laughed, cheeks flushing. “That bad?”

He took a step closer. “That beautiful.”

You stood there, breath catching as he reached out, brushing one of the curls near your ear. He didn’t say anything more — just looked at you like he’d finally found something he’d lost months ago.

Then he leaned in and whispered, “I was scared you wouldn’t come.”

You smiled, heart racing.

“I never even hesitated.”

The last stylist smiled knowingly as she packed up her brushes. “I think we’re done here,” she said softly, glancing between the two of you. “We’ll give you a minute.”

You barely heard her leave — the room had shrunk around just the two of you.

Jungkook stood there, hands in his pockets, watching you like he still wasn’t convinced you were real.

And you?

You couldn’t stop staring either

The way his black suit hugged his frame, effortlessly sharp and soft at once. The way his collar sat open just enough to tease. His lip ring. The way his eyes held yours like there was no one else alive.

You exhaled a laugh, nervous and low, trying to ease the tension curling like heat beneath your ribs.

“God,” you said, stepping a little closer, “you look so damn good in that suit…”

You looked him up and down once more, slowly, then locked eyes with him.

“I have to be careful not to lose control immediately.”

He grinned — lazy, dangerous.

“Immediately?”

You shrugged, pretending to be casual, but your voice was lower now, silkier. “It’s the way you look at me.”

He took a step closer. “How do I look at you?”

You swallowed, heart thudding. “Like you already know what I’m thinking.”

He tilted his head, smiling now with that devilish softness that always made your knees weak. “I do.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mhm.” He leaned in, close enough for his breath to graze your cheek. “And if you’re thinking what I’m thinking, we’re not making it to the red carpet on time.”

You laughed — half breathless, half wanting to test that theory

But then you caught your reflection in the mirror.

The two of you, side by side. Radiant. Powerful. Like the start of something that couldn’t be kept secret much longer.

You touched his lapel gently, grounding yourself. “We should probably… behave. At least until after the cameras.”

Jungkook smirked. “You behave.”

He took your hand in his.

“I’ll be busy staring at you.”

The premiere hall was glowing — velvet ropes, soft spotlights, glimmering floor-to-ceiling posters of Are You Sure? lined the entrance. The crowd was a mix of industry insiders, fans, press, and a select few guests personally invited by the cast.

You weren’t here to be seen.

But all you could see… was him.

Jungkook stood near the step-and-repeat with Jimin, both suited up like they belonged on the cover of every magazine in the world. They were laughing, answering questions, doing interviews with ease — polished, charming, natural.

But every few minutes, he glanced around the room like he was looking for something.

For you.

You stayed back at first, slipping through the space quietly, not ready for the flashbulbs or the questions — not yet. You grabbed a champagne glass from a passing tray, nerves fluttering, and wandered toward the artfully lit lounge near the edge of the venue.

That’s when you heard a familiar voice.

“Didn’t expect to see you here. But I’m glad I did.”

You turned.

Namjoon.

Soft smile, sharp suit, hands tucked casually into his coat pockets. There was something grounded and deeply kind in the way he looked at you.

“I’m Y/N,” you said, almost awkwardly, offering your hand.

“I know,” he said gently. “Jungkook talks about you like you’re a song he hasn’t stopped listening to.”

That made your breath hitch — unexpectedly, but deeply.

“He does?” you asked.

Namjoon gave a small nod. “Not in many words. But I know that look. It’s rare. For someone like him… that kind of connection sticks.”

You didn’t know what to say — so you just smiled, heart full.

He nodded toward the hall. “Come. It’s starting soon.”

⸻

Inside the screening room, it was warm and quiet — lights dimmed low, anticipation humming in the air. You found your seat behind Jungkook and Jimin, your name carefully printed on a small card.

He turned as you sat.

His eyes found yours immediately, his smile soft but deep — like this whole night was just for this moment. Just to have you here.

You didn’t speak. You just let your hand brush the back of his chair as the lights went dark.

And then — the screen lit up.

“Are You Sure?” — Episode 1

A montage of their road trip began. Rolling countryside. A map with red pins. The show’s voiceover, warm and full of banter.

And then—

There it was.

Your little diner.

You.

No makeup. Loose bun. Tattoos peeking from your sleeves. The way your eyes crinkled when you laughed. The moment you looked up at him for the first time. The way he looked at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.

The room was still.

And then the next scene: You suggesting the kayak trip. The boys teasing each other. Your voice, soft and sweet on camera. Your laugh when he tipped over.

It was all there — unfiltered, tender, real.

You watched it unfold, stunned. You hadn’t known how much they had captured — how gently, how honestly.

And when the episode ended, and the lights came up, Jungkook turned again in his seat.

His eyes searched yours, just for a second.

Then he whispered, so only you could hear—

“You were my favorite part of all of it.”

The air backstage was electric — the buzz of success, the smell of champagne and designer perfume, the occasional clatter of a camera lens being changed out.

Everyone was glowing.

Jungkook and Jimin were surrounded by staff, stylists, and executives beaming with pride. The first episode had been a hit — raw, human, funny, and unexpectedly emotional. People were calling it “the softest side of BTS yet.”

And somehow, you were part of it.

You stood to the side, letting them have their moment, until Jungkook caught your eye through the crowd. He didn’t say anything — just gave a small tilt of his head, that familiar “come here” signal — and your feet moved on instinct.

The flash of a camera caught you mid-smile as you slipped between them.

“Can I steal one?” you asked, sliding next to Jimin.

He grinned. “Steal two. Get in here.”

The three of you posed together — you in the center, the boys on either side, beaming.

Click.

Then Jimin slung his arm around your shoulders, glanced at the photo, and smirked. “Okay, now one just you two. Come on.”

You hesitated.

But your heart whispered, Do it.

You turned to Jimin and asked softly, “Would you mind taking it?”

He winked. “I was waiting for you to ask.”

Jungkook turned toward you immediately, smile widening.

You stepped closer, his hand instinctively finding your lower back, the warmth of it grounding you like always. The world around you faded a little.

Jimin lifted the phone. “Okay. Look at each other.”

You turned.

Jungkook was already looking at you.

And not like a friend. Not like someone remembering something.

He looked at you like you were his.

Click.

“Cute,” Jimin said, glancing at the screen. “Now one more. Serious.”

You turned again — this time your hands slid across Jungkook’s chest lightly, resting just under the lapel of his suit. His jaw tensed at the touch. He leaned in just enough for your foreheads to brush.

The camera flashed again.

Jimin lowered the phone, shook his head, smiling. “Yeah… this one’s going to break a few hearts.”

You turned away, shy but happy — something fluttering low in your belly.

Jungkook leaned in close, voice low in your ear.

“Can you send that to me?”

You smiled up at him.

“Only if you promise to send me one back. From your camera roll.”

He grinned.

“I’ve had a folder with your name on it since the diner.”

The celebration rolled deep into the night — glittering lights, pulsing music, a blur of voices and champagne flutes. Every few minutes, someone clinked a glass and toasted Are You Sure?, the team, the bond between Jimin and Jungkook, or just… the magic of the night.

But somewhere between laughter and the third glass of something sweet, your eyelids started to feel heavy.

You were standing near the back balcony of the rooftop venue, a cool breeze brushing against your skin, when you felt a warm presence at your side. Jungkook.

He leaned against the railing, his sleeve brushing yours, eyes watching you more than the skyline.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

You gave him a tired smile. “Yeah… just fading a little.”

He nodded, thoughtful, then tilted his head. “You heading out?”

You nodded, glancing at your phone. “Think I’ll call a car back to the hotel.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Or…”

You looked up.

“…come with me,” he said gently. “To my place.”

He wasn’t flirting. He wasn’t teasing.

His voice was low, honest — almost a question.

You blinked.

Your heart picked up pace.

“You sure?” you asked quietly, though the answer was already curling warm in your chest.

He gave you a soft half-smile. “I’ve wanted to be alone with you since you walked into that fitting room.”

You laughed under your breath. “You weren’t exactly subtle.”

“Didn’t want to be.”

He reached out, brushing a hair from your cheek, fingertips lingering.

“You don’t have to,” he added, voice steady. “I’ll send a car with you, if that’s what you want.”

You shook your head slowly, heart loud in your ears.

“No,” you said, stepping a little closer. “I want to come with you.”

His eyes softened, then darkened just slightly — something unspoken passing between you.

And without another word, he took your hand.

The drive to Jungkook’s apartment was quiet — the kind of quiet that’s thick with tension, not awkwardness. Your hand rested lightly on your thigh, while his lingered near yours between the seats, occasionally brushing — warm, deliberate.

Neither of you spoke much

But every time your eyes met in the passing streetlights, it said enough.

By the time the elevator opened to his floor, your chest was fluttering.

He unlocked the door, stepped aside to let you in first, and you took in the space: minimal, clean, bathed in soft, dim lighting. A few art pieces. His guitar resting by the wall. The faint smell of cedar and vanilla.

The moment the door clicked shut, you turned slowly.

He was watching you again — the same way he had at the diner. At the fitting. On the red carpet. Like you were something he couldn’t touch too quickly… or he’d lose himself.

You whispered, “Are you nervous?”

He shook his head, stepping closer.

“No,” he said quietly. “I just don’t want to rush something I’ve wanted for too long.”

Then his hand found your waist — warm and grounding.

Your fingers slid up his chest, finding the collar of his suit, loosening it gently. You felt the tension in his body as he leaned in, mouth ghosting over yours.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispered.

“Yes,” you breathed.

He did.

And it wasn’t soft. It was slow, but deep — all tongue and heat and tension finally let loose. His hands moved to your back, pulling you closer, your bodies pressing together in sync. You gasped softly into his mouth when he backed you gently against the nearest wall, lips trailing to your jaw, your neck.

You tugged his jacket off and let it fall to the floor.

He kissed down your throat, voice hoarse against your skin.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he murmured.

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes — dark, blown wide with want.

“I really don’t want to stop.”

That was all he needed.

Clothes came off piece by piece — your fingers in his hair, his hands mapping every inch of your body like he wanted to memorize it. You laughed softly when he groaned at the sight of your tattoos — like he’d been imagining it this whole time.

“You’re unreal,” he muttered, lips at your collarbone.

You whispered his name as he laid you back onto the bed — his body over yours, strong and slow and careful at first. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, needing more.

And he gave you more.

Every thrust, every touch, was a conversation — months of distance, longing, and that quiet “what if” melting into movement and sound and skin. You whispered his name like it was yours to claim. He moaned against your ear when he came, chest trembling against yours, fingers clutching your hips like he never wanted to let go.

Afterward, your bodies tangled together, slick with sweat and soft laughter.

He kissed your temple. Your shoulder. The curve of your spine.

And when you turned to face him in the low light, you found him already watching you — eyes tender, voice raw.

“You wreck me,” he whispered.

You smiled, brushing your fingers over his lips.

“Good.”

The morning light was soft — golden and diffused through half-closed blinds. His sheets were warm, wrapped around your bare legs, your body still humming with the memory of the night before. You stirred slightly, your cheek against the pillow, the scent of him still clinging to your skin: musk, cedar, and something warm and uniquely Jungkook.

You didn’t remember falling asleep.

But you remembered everything before it.

A slow breath against your shoulder pulled you from the edge of dreams. Then… lips. Gentle, lazy kisses trailing along your upper back. Your spine arched instinctively, a soft hum escaping your lips.

He smiled against your skin. You felt it.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” Jungkook whispered, voice rough and thick with sleep.

“You didn’t,” you murmured. “Not really.”

But then his hand slid beneath the sheets — down your side, slow and warm, until he found the curve of your hip. He pressed himself closer behind you, and you felt just how awake he already was.

“Mhm,” you sighed, teasing, “guess I’m not going back to sleep, huh?”

“No chance,” he murmured against your neck.

His hand moved lower — between your thighs now — and he kissed your shoulder again, open-mouthed, as two fingers slid gently through your already-sensitive warmth.

“Still so ready for me,” he whispered, voice strained now, like he was trying to hold himself back.

You pressed your hips into his hand, back arching again. “You’re really gonna start like this?”

He chuckled darkly, kissing just below your ear. “I’ve been hard since you rolled into me twenty minutes ago.”

His hand kept moving — just enough pressure, just enough rhythm. Your breath hitched, and your legs spread instinctively. He slid two fingers inside you slowly, groaning quietly at how soft and warm you still were.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You feel even better in the morning.”

Then he shifted behind you, pulling your thigh up gently, opening you to him.

No words this time — just movement.

He slid inside you with a deep, slow thrust that made both of you groan. Your eyes fluttered closed, his hand wrapping around your waist as he rocked into you from behind — slow, deep, like he wanted to stretch it out as long as possible.

You bit your lip to muffle the sounds, but he wasn’t having that.

“I want to hear you,” he whispered. “All of it.”

You gave him what he asked for — soft moans, quiet gasps, breathless curses as he moved deeper, harder now, chasing the edge for both of you. His hand found your chest, then your throat, then your hand — fingers laced as he pushed you both over.

You came first, tightening around him, your body trembling with the wave. He followed a moment later, groaning into your shoulder, burying himself deep.

The room went still.

Heavy breath. Damp skin. Your body wrapped around his, chest to his back, hearts thudding in sync.

You smiled lazily, eyes still closed.

“Good morning to you too.”

He kissed your shoulder again. “We should do mornings more often.”

You thought it might end there — tangled in each other, lazy kisses and post-high whispers.

But Jungkook didn’t move.

Not far. Not away.

He stayed pressed against your back, his chest rising and falling slowly. And then you felt it — subtle at first…

But unmistakable.

Him.

Already getting hard again.

You turned your head slightly, a teasing smile curling on your lips. “Already?”

His voice was deep, husky, sleep still clinging to the edges. “Couldn’t help it. You make these little sounds…”

He rolled onto his back, pulling you with him, your bare thighs straddling his hips now. Your hair fell around your face in messy waves, and his hands found your hips like he’d been waiting for this position all night.

You leaned down, kissing him slowly — dragging your tongue across his lower lip before pulling away just enough to murmur, “Then don’t help it.”

He growled softly under his breath, fingers tightening at your waist.

“You sure you can take it?” he teased, eyes darker now, more dangerous.

You rocked your hips forward, brushing yourself against the length of him — slick, ready. “I’m not breakable, Jungkook.”

His hands slid up your thighs, gripping you just tight enough to feel owned. “That’s exactly the problem.”

You reached between you and lined him up, sinking down slow, letting him stretch you inch by inch, until he filled you completely again. His head fell back with a sharp breath through his teeth, one hand flying to your hip, the other splayed across your lower back.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You feel… unreal.”

You rolled your hips deliberately, taking your time. “So take your time with me.”

He did.

But it didn’t stay slow for long.

You rode him harder now — the slap of skin, your breathy moans, his low, broken groans every time you clenched around him. His thumb found your clit between your bodies, rubbing tight, fast circles, and your legs started to shake.

“Look at me,” he said, voice like gravel.

You did.

And he looked wrecked. Flushed. Jaw clenched. Watching you like he couldn’t believe you were real and also like he was about to lose every last bit of control.

When you came again, it hit fast — intense — curling you forward into his chest, your moan sharp and raw against his neck. He flipped you over before you could even come down from it, pinning your hands above your head with one arm and pounding into you hard, fast, filthy.

“Say my name,” he demanded, voice tight.

You gasped, breathless, overwhelmed — “Jungkook—”

That broke him.

He came with a deep groan, buried so deep inside you, his body trembling with the force of it.

The room fell quiet again.

But this time, he didn’t roll away.

He hovered over you, his forehead resting against yours, still breathing hard.

And when you finally opened your eyes, he was already staring.

Still breathless.

Still wanting.

“Round three,” he whispered, smirking, “after coffee?”

You laughed, body wrecked but heart full. “You’re insane.”

“I’m insatiable,” he corrected, and kissed you again.

The apartment smelled like soap and skin and something unspoken. You were wrapped in one of Jungkook’s oversized black shirts, no pants, your legs bare against the cold tile. His scent clung to the fabric like a second skin.

You both had finally made it to the kitchen — exhausted, glowing, and definitely starving — only to find his fridge was… embarrassingly empty

“Hyung left me nothing,” Jungkook muttered, head in the fridge like he expected it to magically fill. “Literally expired kimchi and a protein shake.”

You laughed from the counter, scrolling through a delivery app. “Okay, we’re ordering. You want sweet or savory?”

He leaned over your shoulder, shirtless, hair still damp from the shower, voice low in your ear. “Both. Just like you.”

You smacked his chest playfully, blushing. “Behave. You’re not getting a fourth round if you keep that up.”

“Noted,” he grinned.

You’d just hit “place order” when the front door clicked open.

Jungkook froze.Then came the bark

Your head whipped toward the hallway just in time to see a massive brown Doberman galloping in — all muscle and speed — a leash dragging behind him, tongue lolling out of his mouth like he’d just been released from a race.

“Wait, Bam!” Jungkook called, too late.

The dog didn’t slow down — just launched straight at you.

“Whoa—!” was all you managed before Bam skidded into you at full force, nearly knocking you off your feet.

You stumbled back, catching yourself on the counter, laughing hard as the Doberman licked your thigh, your hand, your arm — tail wagging like a propeller. You knelt, ruffling behind his ears as he panted happily in your face.

“Okay, okay! You’re very enthusiastic!”

Jungkook rushed over, face somewhere between horrified and embarrassed, barefoot and shirtless.

“I’m so sorry,” he groaned. “Bam’s just—he’s friendly, he’s not usually—he never jumps like—”

“Are you kidding?” you laughed, letting Bam nuzzle into your lap. “He’s perfect.”

“Good,” came another voice from the doorway.

Low. Amused.

You looked up to see a tall guy with sharp features and broad shoulders — similar eyes to Jungkook’s, dressed in sweats and holding the now-useless leash.

Jungkook groaned. “Hyung. Seriously?”

“Hey, you told me to drop him off,” his brother smirked, tossing the leash on the hook. His gaze flicked from you — barely dressed — to Jungkook, then back again. “I didn’t realize you’d be… occupied.”

You flushed a little but stood up confidently, scratching Bam’s head.

“Hi,” you said warmly, smiling despite the very revealing state you were in. “Sorry for the outfit. I didn’t expect to be tackled before breakfast.”

He grinned, offering a small bow. “Nice to meet you. I’m Jung Hyun.”

“Y/N,” you replied.

Jungkook finally stepped in between you like some flustered human shield.

“This is Y/N,” he said, glancing between the two of you with a breathy laugh. “She’s… someone special.”

That made your stomach flip.

His brother raised an eyebrow but smiled knowingly.

“I can see that,” he said. “Alright. I’m out. Bam’s all yours.”

As he left, Jungkook wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you close again as Bam flopped dramatically at your feet.

“Sorry about the chaos,” he whispered.

You leaned back against his chest. “Please. That was the best welcome I’ve ever gotten.”

The apartment was suddenly alive — not just with movement, but with laughter, fast footsteps, nails skidding across the floor, and the thump of a hundred-pound Doberman chasing after the only person he seemed to love more than Jungkook.

You darted through the living room barefoot, still in that oversized black shirt and nothing else, squealing as Bam chased you with pure joy radiating from his whole body. Every few seconds, you’d stop, crouch, and let him pounce — tongue out, tail wagging so hard it slammed into the couch.

“Okay, okay!” you gasped, trying to dodge him as he came around again. “You’re fast! Too fast!”

Jungkook leaned against the doorframe to the kitchen, fresh coffee in hand, utterly still.

Watching you.

Completely gone.

You were glowing — wild hair, flushed cheeks, eyes full of light. You didn’t seem self-conscious in the slightest. Not even half-dressed. Not even sweaty and barefoot in his home. You laughed with your entire body, holding Bam’s massive face in your hands like he was your own, talking to him in that soft, teasing voice that even he was jealous of.

“He’s obsessed with you,” Jungkook finally said, chuckling.

You turned to glance at him, breathless. “He’s perfect. He’s got good taste.”

Bam barked happily, jumping up to nudge your shoulder with his nose.

“He doesn’t do that with strangers,” Jungkook added, quieter now.

Your smile softened as you sat down cross-legged, letting the dog settle into your lap — which was absurd considering his size. He rolled onto his side dramatically, letting out a groan like he’d been waiting all his life for this moment of attention.

“I’m not really a stranger anymore, am I?” you said softly, fingers stroking through Bam’s silky fur.

Jungkook’s heart thudded in his chest.

“No,” he admitted. “You’re not.”

He took a sip of his coffee, but his eyes never left you. You were the calm after the storm — after the chaos of touring, of filming, of holding your breath between deadlines. You hadn’t asked for anything. You didn’t try to impress him. You weren’t chasing his fame — just playing with his dog barefoot in his living room like you belonged there.

And something about that scared the hell out of him.

Because it felt like he was already losing you — even though you hadn’t left yet.

You looked up at him, as if you felt him thinking too hard.

“You okay?” you asked, voice light, but your gaze serious.

He smiled softly and nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m just watching the two loves of my life fall for each other.”

You blinked.

But didn’t say anything.

Not yet.

Instead, you leaned down, kissed the top of Bam’s big head, and murmured, “Good boy. You picked a good human.”

You were still on the floor with Bam, smiling lazily as he dozed against your thighs, when you felt it — that heat in the air again. Not from running. Not from laughing.

From the way Jungkook was looking at you.

When you glanced up, his expression was darker than before. His coffee forgotten. His jaw tight.

You raised an eyebrow, breath slowing. “What?”

He didn’t answer.

Just set the mug down.

Took a slow step forward.

Bam’s ears perked up, sensing a shift. But one look from Jungkook and the dog, somehow, understood. He stood, stretched, and trotted calmly out of the room.

You swallowed. “Okay, that was hot.”

Jungkook reached you, crouched, his hand sliding beneath your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek.

“You think I didn’t notice,” he murmured, voice low, “the way you look when you play like that. All wild. No pants. My shirt barely covering your ass.”

Your breath caught as he leaned closer, nose brushing yours.

“You were driving me insane.”

Your fingers curled in his shirt, pulling him closer, your voice a whisper. “What are you gonna do about it?”

A wicked smile tugged at his lips.

“I haven’t decided yet.”

He stood in one smooth motion and reached down, lifting you easily into his arms. You yelped, laughing into his neck.

“Where are we going?”

“Bedroom,” he said simply. “But you don’t get to choose what happens next.”

Your breath caught. “Oh?”

He laid you down gently on the bed, but his touch was firm now — claiming.

“You want soft?” he asked, kneeling above you, eyes burning. “Or do you want me to wreck you again?”

You pulled him down by his necklace, lips brushing his. “I want both.“

That broke him

He crashed into you — mouth hungry, hands everywhere. He tugged his shirt from your body in one rough pull, tossing it somewhere into the dark. Your legs wrapped around his hips, needy and aching already.

His mouth moved down your neck, biting softly, then harder — marking you. Worshipping and ruining all at once. His fingers slid between your legs and found you soaked.

“Fuck,” he groaned. “You were ready before I even touched you.”

“Because I knew what was coming,” you whispered, grinding up against his hand.

He didn’t make you wait long.

He slid into you slowly, deeply — eyes locked to yours — until you couldn’t breathe.

Then he set a rhythm.

Hard, deep, possessive.

You clawed at his back, gasping, your moans getting louder with every thrust. His hand found your throat, thumb resting against your pulse point — not squeezing, just feeling you. Feeling how hard he was making your heart race.

“Say it,” he growled, voice thick. “Say who’s making you feel this good.”

“You,” you gasped. “You, Jungkook—fuck—don’t stop.”

He didn’t.

He kept going until you were crying out beneath him, body arching, coming undone with a wave so sharp it ripped the air from your lungs.

And only when you were clenching tight around him, wrecked and trembling, did he finally let himself go — spilling inside you with a hoarse groan, head buried in your shoulder, both of you completely undone.

He stayed there, body heavy on yours, both of you breathless, hearts pounding in sync.

After a long pause, you whispered, “So… that was soft and rough.”

Jungkook chuckled, pulling back just enough to kiss you.

“You haven’t seen rough yet.”

The sun filtered through the half-open blinds, casting golden streaks across the hardwood. You padded into the kitchen barefoot, wrapped only in one of Jungkook’s soft black hoodies. It swallowed you whole, the hem brushing your thighs, his scent clinging to every inch of fabric.

You were sore. In all the best ways.

Still warm between your legs from how he’d wrecked you last night — and again, half-asleep, when he’d pulled you into his arms before dawn, whispered something low and filthy into your ear, and slid inside you slow.

Now, it was quiet. Almost too quiet.

Jungkook stood by the stove, shirtless, hair a wild mess, tattoos flexing along his back as he poured coffee. He hadn’t noticed you yet.

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, lips curving into a sleepy smile.

“You know,” you said softly, “for someone who said he doesn’t cook… this looks dangerously domestic.”

He turned with a slow smirk, eyes raking over your bare legs. “And you look dangerously distracting.”

You padded toward him, fingers brushing along the counter as you passed. When you reached him, he handed you a mug without a word, then stepped in behind you — chest pressed to your back, arms sliding around your waist.

“You smell like me,” he murmured into your neck. “That should not turn me on as much as it does.”

You took a sip, lips curling. “Might have something to do with the fact that you kept me up all night.”

He chuckled, hand slipping under the hoodie, palm spreading low over your stomach.

“Not sorry.”

You turned slightly, resting your mug down on the counter, and looked up at him.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

There was too much to say.

And not enough time.

He lifted a strand of your hair from your cheek, tucking it gently behind your ear.

“You leave today,” he said quietly. “And I have to go too. Next city.”

You nodded, eyes soft. “I know.”

Silence again.

Then he stepped forward, pinning you gently to the counter, his hands finding your hips. His voice dropped into a whisper.

“One last time?”

You met his gaze.

No teasing. No cocky grin. Just… need. Yours. His.

You set the mug aside.

“Yes,” you breathed. “One last time.”

⸻

He didn’t rush.

This wasn’t the desperate kind of heat from the night before. This was reverent. Slow. His hands slid beneath the hoodie, pulling it over your head until you stood bare in front of him, back arched against the cool edge of the counter.

He kissed you — long, deep, tongue sweeping over yours as his fingers traced every curve, every freckle, every place he wanted to remember.

When he lifted you onto the counter, you gasped softly, legs parting instinctively for him. He stood between them, chest pressed to yours, his length hard against your thigh. You reached for him, wrapping your arms around his neck, eyes locked to his.

He sank into you slowly, forehead pressed to yours.

You both exhaled at the same time.

He moved inside you with a rhythm that was all feeling — soft moans, trembling hands, breathless kisses between each thrust. It was slow. Deep. Intimate.

He whispered your name like a secret.

You whispered his like a promise.

And when you came — clinging to him, eyes shut tight, every muscle shaking — he held you close, mouth at your ear, whispering “I wish I could keep you.”

Moments later, he followed — hips stilling, body trembling, a low groan against your skin.

Neither of you moved for a long time.

You just stayed there, wrapped around each other in the kitchen light, breathing the same air, memorizing everything.

Because this morning… was the last one.

You stood by the window, coffee in hand, wrapped again in that hoodie — his hoodie. The bed behind you was a mess of sheets and memory. The morning had been soft, slow, real… but now?

Now, it was quiet in that other way.

The way that comes before a goodbye.

Jungkook moved around the room, quietly packing the last of his things into his bag. You watched him in the reflection of the glass. Focused. Careful. Avoiding your eyes.

You swallowed hard and finally said it — the question that had been clawing at your throat since you woke up in his arms.

“What happens now?”

He stopped.

Just stood there for a second, back to you, shoulders stiff.

Then he turned.

His face wasn’t cold — just honest. And that somehow hurt more.

“I don’t know,” he said.

You gave a soft, humorless laugh. “You do. You just don’t want to say it.”

He exhaled slowly. “I can’t promise anything. My life…” He gestured vaguely toward the air. “It doesn’t stop. It doesn’t slow down. You saw it.”

You nodded. “I know. And I’m not asking you to change it. I just… wanted to know if this—if we—was something that lives past this weekend.”

Silence stretched between you.

And in that silence, you already had your answer.

He stepped closer, cupped your cheek with one tattooed hand. His eyes were soft now — that kind of soft that comes with regret.

“You made me forget everything else,” he whispered. “But we both know this can’t last. Not with the lives we have.”

You leaned into his touch anyway. Just for one more second.

“I know,” you said.

user2 okay.. f1 driver, got it

user3 it has to be lewis from her insane outfits

user4 RIGHTT. AND I'VE SEEN THEM INTERACT MULTIPLE TIMES.

user5 PLS BE MAXY/N

user6 no way they literally have no chemistry

user7 betting on lando rn no joke

user8 no way orange doesn't fit her

user9 idk if you're insulting y/n or lando..

user10 I NEEDAAA KNOWW.

maxverstappen1

liked by ynln, redbullracing, and 987K others

maxverstappen1 simply lovely.

( view all comments )

user5 IM TELLING YOU ALL MAXY/N IS REALLLLLLLLL

user11 its just a coincidence lol

redbullracing simply lovely indeed, congratulations! liked by maxverstappen1

user12 Spill the tea ??

redbullracing 👎

user13 y/n getting engaged and him also getting engaged and winning?? this is heaven news

user14 WHO'S THE LUCKY GIRL.

user5 im literally serious that's y/n

user15 dont force that ship💔👎 they have no chemistry

user16 ITS OKAY I BELIEVE IN YOU

user5 thank god

lando wait what 👀

maxverstappen1 keep your mouth shut

lando okay...

user17 lando knowing ?????

ynln congrats! ❤️❤️❤️ liked by maxverstappen1

user5 notice how she put 3 for ily

user18 dont be delusional

f1

liked by lewishamilton, ynln, and 897K others

tagged: @/ynln

f1 it looks like someone is visiting the paddock!

( view all comments )

user19 AHHH MY LEWISY/N HEART.

user5 he's lit 40 why yall shipping him with y/n ?

user20 no one is gonna feed your maxy/n delusions

user16 REAL MAXY/N FOREVER

redbullracing hey! that's our guest !

scuderiaferrari not anymore :))

user16 the concept of y/n being seen with max and in the redbull garage cures me.

lewishamilton a very fashionable guest!

maxverstappen1 ❤️‍🔥

ynln love being here!

user5 "maxy/n is real!" i yelled as i got dragged into a familiar white padded room.

user21 they're not subtle about ITTTT 😛

f1wagsupdate

liked by 456K others

f1wagsupdate the look of love !!

user22 ACK MY PARENTS!!

user5 this is so not it they're literally just bestfriends !!

user23 PEAK.

user24 THEY KEEP FEEDING IN MY LEWISY/N FANTASY

maxverstappen1

liked by ynln, danielricciardo, and 689K others

tagged: @/ynln

maxverstappen1 don't 'ship' her with another driver, it's not simply lovely. 🙃

( view all comments )

danielricciardo FINALLY.

ynln acting like you're the engaged one here..

danielricciardo oh cmon i saw those lewis and you edits 💔

maxverstappen1 😐

user5 I KNEW IT. TO THOSE WHO DIDN'T BELIEVE CAN SUFFER (thanks user16)

user16 YUHHH

user20 bruh

user25 OH.

user26 ig everyone jus delusional 💔

lewishamilton i guess the cat's out of the bag, can't believe someone called her my wag lol

maxverstappen1 im so sick of it

ynln my bad

user27 the concept of not believing the internet

©lecz3li 2026 , 01.15.26. masterlist

note: IM SORRY FOR NTO WRITING LATELY</3 I HAVE TONS IN MY DRAFT AND WILL GET RELEASED SOON I GOT 4 DAYS FREE OF SCHOOL ❤️

two toothbrushes

folded jeans

wire frames

the good sheets

awkward questions

baseball gloves

practice run

spare key

blue duffels

midnight dishes

spare room

it won't fit

alone time

nightstand coffee

tearstains

yells vs shouts

top drawer

vanilla cake

dinner date

kitchen knives

SEASON ONE. the lost children of Hawkins, Indiana

ONE. - TWO. - THREE. - FOUR. - FIVE.

SIX. - SEVEN. - EIGHT. - NINE. - TEN.

ELEVEN. - TWELVE. - THIRTEEN. - FOURTEEN.

FIFTEEN. - SIXTEEN. - SEVENTEEN.

SEASON TWO. the return

EIGHTEEN. - NINETEEN. - TWENTY.

TWENTY-ONE. TWENTY-TWO. - TWENTY-THREE.

TWENTY-FOUR. - TWENTY-FIVE. - TWENTY-SIX.

TWENTY-SEVEN. - TWENTY-EIGHT. - TWENTY-NINE.

THIRTY. - THIRTY-ONE. - THIRTY-TWO.

THIRTY-THREE. - THIRTY-FOUR. - THIRTY-FIVE.

THIRTY-SIX. - THIRTY-SEVEN.

SEASON THREE. the cruel summer

THIRTY-EIGHT. - THIRTY-NINE. - FORTY.

FORTY-ONE. - FORTY-TWO. - FORTY-THREE.

FORTY-FOUR. - FORTY-FIVE. - FORTY-SIX.

FORTY-SEVEN. - FORTY-EIGHT. - FORTY-NINE.

FIFTY. - FIFTY-ONE. - FIFTY-TWO.

FIFTY-THREE. - FIFTY-FOUR. - FIFTY-FIVE.

FIFTY-SIX. - FIFTY-SEVEN. - FIFTY-EIGHT. - FIFTY-NINE.

SEASON FOUR. the deal with god

SIXTY. - SIXTY-ONE. - SIXTY-TWO.

SIXTY-THREE. - SIXTY-FOUR - SIXTY-FIVE

SIXTY-SIX - SIXTY-SEVEN - SIXTY-EIGHT

SIXTY-NINE - SEVENTY - SEVENTY-ONE

SEVENTY-TWO - SEVENTY-THREE

SEVENTY-FOUR - SEVENTY-FIVE - SEVENTY-SIX

SEASON FIVE. the end

They always know.

It starts with a blurry paparazzi shot, you walking hand-in-hand with a little girl and a slightly taller little boy, both blonde, both laughing. Your other hand is resting on your belly. A very pregnant belly.

Then there’s another photo. You, again. This time crouched beside the kids while they point at a fountain. You’re smiling. Radiant. Sun-warmed. Glowing like someone who hasn't read a script in years and doesn't miss it one bit.

The internet goes feral.

“IS THAT HER?” “SHE HAS KIDS???” “WHO IS THE FATHER?” “IS SHE MARRIED?” “DID SHE SECRETLY VANISH TO A FRENCH VINEYARD?”

And the best part? You’re at home, curled up on a white couch in Max’s living room, reading headlines out loud while he feeds grapes to your daughter like some smug, post-retirement Roman emperor.

“She vanished and came back barefoot and knocked up,” you read, laughing so hard you snort. “Iconic.”

Max grins. “They’re losing their minds.”

“They think I ran off with a French prince.”

“Please,” he says, plucking another grape. “Like you’d ever date royalty. Too boring. No risk.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And you’re risky?”

He smirks. “You tell me, mama.”

Your daughter makes a face. “Papa said mama.”

“Papa’s flirting,” you tease, ruffling her curls.

She giggles, clearly not understanding, then hops off the couch and runs to find her brother, who’s likely reprogramming your smart fridge for the third time today.

Max turns to you the second the kids leave the room. His hand slides to your thigh. His eyes drop to your belly. “You’re really showing now.”

You glance down. The bump is undeniable. Firm and round and absolutely beautiful. Your third child. Max’s third mini-clone.

“You like it?” you ask softly.

He kisses your shoulder. “I love it. Can’t believe I ever lived without this.”

“Without me?” you tease.

“Without us.” He says it like a vow.

When you met Max, you weren’t famous anymore.

Not really. You were hiding, not from shame or scandal, but from the noise. From the scripts and the press and the fans who cried when you told them you were done. You weren’t sad. You weren’t broken. You were just… finished.

You moved to Monaco quietly. Bought a small flat. Grew tomatoes. Took long walks at dawn when no one knew your name. And then one day, Max Verstappen nearly hit you with a golf cart outside Casino Square.

“Are you okay?” he’d said, jumping out and looking horrified.

You’d looked at him. Blinked. And said, “Did you just try to kill me?”

And he’d laughed. And then you’d laughed. And then you had coffee. And then it was two years later and you were pregnant with twins, sleeping in his oversized t-shirts and whispering Dutch nicknames in his ear at night.

It had never been a PR relationship. No statements. No leaks. No soft launches. Just silence. Sacred. Yours. He never asked you to go public. You never asked him to explain.

It was perfect.

And now? Now the world has noticed.

“You want to tell them?” he asks one night, months into the speculation storm.

You’re sitting on the edge of your bathtub, brushing your teeth while he rubs cream into your swollen feet. “Who? The public?”

“Yeah.”

You shrug. “What would we even say?”

He smirks. “That I knocked up Hollywood’s most iconic actress three times in four years?”

You roll your eyes. “Subtle.”

“I like our chaos,” he says, kissing your knee.

“I like our privacy.”

You spit out toothpaste and meet his gaze. He’s serious. Hands still. Eyes soft.

“We don’t need to tell them,” you say gently. “We’ve always known what this is. I don’t need a headline to prove it.”

He nods. “I just want to protect you.”

“You already do.”

And you mean it.

Every night you come home to this life, two kids, a third on the way, Max’s hoodie around your waist and his hand on your belly, you remember what it means to live. Not for applause. Not for cameras. Just for this.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not even another Oscar. And he smiles. Because it’s you.