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Soon soon! I’m planning it now. Also solo parenting a 2 year old at the moment and working while my husband is gone so please keep that in mind 😅 adulting is hard.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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SUMMARY: A quiet British art curator and a world-renowned songwriter discover they’re soulmates when a bond begins echoing the emotions they refuse to say aloud. As Charlotte and Namjoon navigate long distance, growing love, and the quiet belief that some people are worth preserving more than themselves, they learn that the greatest works of art aren’t always hung in museums—they’re the lives we choose to remember.
WARNINGS: Soulmate AU, slow burn, emotional angst, long-distance relationship, social anxiety, orphan themes, language barriers, suspense, threats of violence, injury , insomnia, swearing, eventual smut (18+).
Masterlist
—————————-
Charlotte arrived at the museum before eight, which was earlier than she needed to be there and later than she had intended.
She had woken before her alarm, spent too long standing in front of her wardrobe deciding whether a black jumper was noticeably different from the other black jumper, and then left her flat with enough time to walk instead of taking the Tube. London was still half-asleep when she crossed the river. Delivery vans idled along the curb. A café near the station had just opened its shutters, spilling warm light across the pavement, and the air smelled faintly of rain even though the sky had not committed to it yet.
By the time she reached the staff entrance, she had talked herself into behaving normally. She had work to do. A great deal of it, in fact. The exhibition was close enough now that every small issue seemed to arrive with the urgency of a structural collapse. There were revised labels waiting for approval, a lender who wanted another update on the light levels in Gallery Four, a transport schedule that had been altered twice since yesterday afternoon, and an email from the exhibition designer marked urgent, though Charlotte had learned that the designer’s definition of urgent included anything involving a font size.
The evening was not the point of the day. It was a walk through the Tower with someone who had asked her a question…That was all.
She repeated that to herself as she unlocked her office, set her bag down beneath the desk, and began sorting through the stack of papers waiting in the tray beside her keyboard. The room was still cold from the night, and she left her coat on for the first ten minutes while the radiator made a determined but unimpressive effort to catch up.
There were already three new emails. By half past eight, there were nine. Charlotte answered the first few quickly, then spent longer than she meant to on a message from the royal collections liaison concerning a revised loan condition. It was not difficult work, exactly, but it required the kind of attention that made time disappear. She checked the environmental reports, cross-referenced the terms of the agreement, and drafted a response that said the same thing in three increasingly careful ways before deciding the first version had been fine.
When she opened the lower drawer of her desk to find a previous exhibition schedule, her hand brushed against a thick blue folder tucked beneath a row of catalogues. She paused.
The folder had once lived on the corner of her desk, full of archive copies, half-finished chapter plans, and notes written in the margins of whatever she had been carrying when an idea arrived. Her doctorate was in Modern British History, though the work had led her into museums more than she had expected. She was interested in the way public history was built—how people remembered a country through ceremonies, collections, family stories, newspaper photographs, and the objects that survived long after the people connected to them were gone.
She had expected to keep working on it alongside the exhibition. At first, she had tried. Early mornings, Sunday afternoons, trains home with articles open on her phone. But the exhibition had kept growing, and each new problem seemed to arrive with a deadline attached to it. Eventually the folder moved from her desk to the drawer beneath it.
She still meant to return to it once the exhibition was open and the galleries no longer needed something from her every day. But the exhibition had a way of expanding to fill every available space. She closed the drawer before she could start reading through old notes.
At ten, Amelia appeared in the doorway with a takeaway coffee in one hand and a sheet of label proofs in the other.
“You’re here early,” she said.
“So are you.”
“I have an excuse. I brought caffeine.”
Charlotte looked at the coffee, then at Amelia. “Is that an offer?”
“It is now.”
Amelia set the cup down beside Charlotte’s keyboard and spread the label proofs across the desk. They spent the next twenty minutes arguing politely over whether one phrase sounded too academic for the public gallery text. Amelia wanted to simplify it. Charlotte thought the simplified version made the object sound less interesting.
“You are aware that most visitors will not be carrying a dictionary,” Amelia said.
“They have phones.”
“Charlotte.”
“I’m kidding.”
Amelia narrowed her eyes at her. “You are, but not…”
By the time they had reached a compromise, the museum had begun to wake around them. Doors opened and closed in the corridor. Someone wheeled a trolley past the office with a squeak that had been there for months and never been fixed. A group of schoolchildren gathered somewhere near the main staircase, loud enough that Charlotte could hear one of the teachers repeatedly asking them not to touch anything.
She liked that part of the day, when the building changed around the people inside it. The quiet before opening had its own appeal, but once the museum filled with visitors, staff, school groups, and the small disruptions of ordinary work, it felt less like a collection of rooms and more like a living place.
Just before eleven, the preparation studio asked for a second pair of hands with the miniature mounts. Charlotte went without thinking twice. The studio was warmer than her office, with padded trays laid out beneath the lights and a row of royal portrait miniatures waiting to be secured for display. She did not get much time for this kind of work now. Most days were spent approving schedules, answering lenders, and making decisions other people needed before they could continue. Here, she only had to adjust the supports, check the tension, and make sure each small object sat safely in place.
It was slow work, almost repetitive, and she found herself settling into it before she meant to. By the time the last miniature was secure, the noise in her head had eased enough for her to notice how late it was getting.
Her phone buzzed against the worktable. Charlotte glanced at it without thinking. A message from Namjoon. Not a new question. Only a short note asking whether seven was still alright and apologizing that he might be a few minutes late depending on traffic.
The warmth that moved through her was immediate and inconvenient. She typed back that seven was fine, that the Tower would still be there if he arrived late, then deleted the last part because it sounded too much like she had been waiting to send it. Her second attempt was shorter. She put the phone facedown on the table before she could look at it again.
When she returned to her office a little after noon, the day had gathered speed without her. Amelia had left two messages. The exhibition designer had sent another urgent email, this one about the placement of a donor acknowledgment. Someone from Communications wanted her approval on a caption before a press release went out. Her calendar had acquired a meeting she did not remember accepting.
Charlotte paused at her office door, looking at the desk she had left only an hour earlier. Nothing had changed, really. The same reports waited where she had abandoned them, her calendar was still crowded, and someone had added a fresh stack of papers to the tray beside her keyboard. She went back to it because there was nothing else to do.
Still, she caught herself checking the time before she had even opened the first email, and the small lift in her chest at the thought of seeing him later was impossible to ignore once she noticed it. She had spent the whole morning pretending the evening was simply an extension of a conversation, nothing more complicated than that, but now the idea of Namjoon arriving at the Tower made her feel strangely light and restless….That was the part she did not know what to do with.
Charlotte was not used to carrying that kind of anticipation through a workday. She was used to plans, deadlines, quiet routines. Not smiling at her phone in the preparation studio, not wondering whether he would be tired when he arrived, not feeling as though seven o’clock had become the most important part of the day.
She sat down, pulled the next report toward her, and made herself begin.
————————
Namjoon had spent most of the afternoon pretending he was not looking forward to seven o’clock. The campaign schedule made that easier at first. There was not much room to think between fittings, interviews, and the short filmed segments they had added at the last minute. Someone was always adjusting a cuff, checking the light, asking him to repeat an answer with a little more energy or less formality. He moved through it the way he always did, attentive and polite, answering carefully when the questions became broader than the brief in front of him.
London came up more than once—What did he enjoy most about the city? Which places had he managed to see before? Was there anything he still hoped to do while he was there?—He gave the expected answers. Museums. Walking when the schedule allowed it. Bookshops, if he had time. The interviewer smiled, wrote something down, and moved on.
It should have been simple.
Instead, every question about London seemed to bring Charlotte back into his mind. Not in a way that distracted him from the work, exactly. He was still listening. He still answered properly. But somewhere beneath the conversation, he kept remembering the way she had stood beside the painting that morning, more interested in the light moving across the river than in whether he was impressed by her explanation. He remembered her message about the Tower and the particular ease of her invitation, as though she had not spent the better part of the afternoon wondering whether he would accept it. He had felt that uncertainty before he understood what it was. The memory stayed with him longer than it should have.
During the final interview, the host asked what he had been reading lately. Namjoon had expected something simpler—perhaps a question about music, or travel, or the campaign itself—but he answered without much thought.
“A book about Richard III.”
The host looked surprised. “That is very specific.”
“I have been reading about the Princes in the Tower.”
“Do you think he did it?”
A few people behind the cameras laughed softly, waiting for the answer to become a joke. Namjoon only smiled, “I don’t know yet.” It was the most honest answer he could give.
By the time the cameras were packed away and the staff had begun discussing the next schedule, the sky outside had turned the dull blue-grey London seemed to settle into before rain. His manager was waiting near the exit with his phone in hand, already speaking with security about traffic.
“Dinner was moved back half an hour,” he said once Namjoon was close enough to hear him. “You still have time for the Tower, but you should leave soon if you want to avoid being late.”
Namjoon nodded. “I’ll change first.”
The hotel felt quieter after the set, though that was probably because the noise of the day was still caught in his head. He stood in the lift beside his manager while the numbers moved slowly above the doors, looking down at his phone without opening the conversation already waiting there. He had checked the time more often than he wanted to admit.
When Namjoon stepped out of the lift, Jungkook was outside his room with a bottle of water and his phone, apparently waiting for someone to send him a revised schedule. He looked up, saw the jacket over Namjoon’s arm, and then looked at him properly, “Where are you going?”
“The Tower.”
Jungkook blinked. “Now?”
“I said I was meeting Charlotte.”
“I know, but I thought you meant later this week.” He glanced at the time on his phone. “You have dinner.”
“Dinner was pushed back.”
“So you’re going to the Tower before dinner.”
Namjoon gave him a look. “Yes.”
Jungkook’s mouth twitched. “Okay. I’m just making sure I understood.”
They started down the corridor together, Jungkook heading toward his own room while Namjoon slowed near the door beside it. For a few seconds neither of them said anything. Namjoon could feel Jungkook looking at him without being obvious about it, which was irritating only because he knew exactly what that look meant.
“She asked me a question at the museum,” Namjoon said. “About the painting. Then I asked her about Richard III.”
“The princes?”
“Yeah.”
“And she invited you to the Tower.”
“She said it would make more sense there.”
Jungkook nodded, accepting that with a seriousness that almost made Namjoon laugh. “It probably does.”
“You don’t have to pretend you care about Tudor history.”
“I don’t,” Jungkook said. “I care that you’ve checked the time about ten times since lunch.”
Namjoon stared at him.
Jungkook took a drink from his water as if he had not said anything strange. “You were doing it in the van after the shoot too.”
“I was checking the schedule.”
“Sure.”
Namjoon shook his head and reached for his door, but Jungkook’s voice stopped him before he went inside.
“Hyung.”
He turned.
Jungkook had lost the teasing expression. “You’ve looked happier the last couple of days. Not all the time. You still look tired.” He hesitated, then added, “But you’re not disappearing into your head as much.”
Namjoon did not answer right away. Jungkook did not seem to need one. He only shrugged, a little awkward now that he had said it aloud, “I noticed,” he said. “That’s it.”
For some reason, that was worse than if Jungkook had made a joke. Namjoon looked down at the jacket in his hand, then back at him. “She’s easy to be around,” he said.
Jungkook smiled, small and genuine. “Good.”
Then he opened his door, leaving Namjoon standing in the hallway with a few minutes left before he had to go downstairs and a strange, unfamiliar awareness of how visible he had apparently been.
He changed slowly, though he had no real reason to. Dark trousers, a soft knit jumper, a jacket that would survive the rain. He changed his mind about the jacket once, then put the first one back on because there was no sensible reason to keep standing in front of the chair as though the decision mattered. His book lay open by the window, the receipt still holding his place in the chapter about Richard III. He picked it up, read the same paragraph twice, and realized he had not understood any of it.
His phone buzzed.
His manager:
Car is ready when you are.
Namjoon looked at the time, then at the message thread with Charlotte. He had not told her about the security detail, the car, the manager who would need to know where he was going and when he planned to return. He had been trying not to think about how different the evening might look from her side.
To him, it was ordinary. It had been ordinary for so long that he sometimes forgot there was anything unusual about it. Someone checking the route before he went anywhere. Someone waiting nearby. Staff needing to know where he would be, not because they wanted to intrude, but because that was how his life functioned now.
For Charlotte, it might feel like too much. She had offered him an evening at the Tower, probably imagining a walk and a conversation. Not an SUV pulling up at the curb, security keeping their distance, a manager quietly making sure every detail was covered before Namjoon could step out of the hotel. He did not want her to feel as though she had been handed a responsibility she had never asked for.
Downstairs, his manager was waiting near the entrance with two members of security. The hotel lobby was busy enough that Namjoon could already see a few people glance up when he crossed it, though no one approached. His manager stepped closer once they reached the car.
“We’ll stay nearby,” he said. “You can walk around the grounds, but we need to know where you are.”
Namjoon nodded. “Of course.”
The manager hesitated, then added, “Do you want me to explain it to her?”
Namjoon considered the question, “No,” he said finally. “I’ll tell her.” He wanted Charlotte to hear it from him directly. It wasn’t an apology, nor was it about needing her permission to be there; it was because she deserved to know what the evening would entail before it started.
The car pulled away from the hotel a few minutes later. Rain streaked the windows, turning the city lights into blurred lines of gold and white. Namjoon watched London pass by and tried not to imagine Charlotte waiting near the Tower, checking the time, wondering whether he had changed his mind. When the dark outline of the walls appeared ahead of them, his chest tightened with a nervousness that had nothing to do with the traffic or the weather.
He was not worried about what she would say. He was worried that the reality of his life might make her step back before he had the chance to show her that he wanted her there anyway.
——————
Charlotte had chosen a place just beyond the main flow of people heading toward the Tower, close enough to see the gates without standing directly beneath them. She told herself she had picked it because it was easier to spot someone there. In truth, she had arrived early and then kept shifting farther from the entrance whenever another group passed too close.
She noticed the car before she saw him. Two men got out first, not obviously enough for anyone else to pay attention, but Charlotte had spent enough time around museum security to recognize the way they looked at the street rather than at the building. A manager followed a moment later, speaking quietly into his phone.
Her stomach tightened. She knew this was part of Namjoon’s life. She had seen it at the gala, seen the staff around the group at the museum, but those had been work events with enough people around that it had all blurred into the background. Standing there alone with her map folded in one hand, it felt different.
Then Namjoon stepped out of the car. He found her almost straight away. The tension in her chest eased before she could stop it. He had traded the clothes from his schedule for something simpler, dark trousers and a knit under his jacket, his hair slightly flattened from the rain. He looked tired around the eyes, though not unhappy. More like someone who had been moving all day and had finally reached the part he had been waiting for.
“Hi,” he said when he reached her.
“Hi.” Charlotte lifted the map a little, suddenly aware she had been holding it too tightly, “I brought this, which is a bit silly because I know where we’re going.”
Namjoon looked at it, then at her. “No. It’s good.” He paused, searching for the next words. “Very prepared.”
She smiled. “That is kind of you to say.”
“I mean it.”
Behind him, his manager and security had stopped a short distance away. They were trying to give them space, Charlotte could see that, but it was impossible not to notice them.
Namjoon followed her glance. For a second, he looked uncomfortable, “They’ll stay around,” he said. “Not with us. Just… near.”
“I guessed.”
“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck once, then let his hand fall. “I should tell you before. I’m sorry. It can be… a lot.”
Charlotte looked back at him. He was clearly waiting for her to say it was fine, but he did not seem certain she would, “It is a little different from meeting someone after work,” she said. “But I understand.”
His shoulders loosened slightly, “You don’t have to understand everything,” he said. “I only don’t want you to feel uncomfortable because of me.”
The honesty of it caught her off guard. Charlotte tucked the map into her bag, then adjusted the strap over her shoulder, “I’m alright,” she said, though her eyes moved briefly toward the people gathering near the entrance. A few had noticed him by then. Nothing disruptive, only the small shift that came when recognition passed between strangers. Charlotte looked back at him. “I was more worried about whether this was going to make the evening difficult for you.”
“With people noticing you,” she said. “And fans, and everyone else. I know you have people here to help, but it still must be exhausting sometimes. Having to think about where you stand and who is watching before you can go anywhere.”
He looked at her for a moment, as though he had expected her to be worried about herself instead. “It can be,” he said slowly. “Not always. But sometimes, yes.”
Charlotte nodded. “I didn’t want to bring you somewhere and make you feel like you had to manage all of that on top of everything else.”
Namjoon glanced toward the security team, then back at her. His English faltered slightly when he answered, not because he did not know what he meant, but because he was trying to say it carefully, “You didn’t make it harder,” he said. “I wanted to come. And they are here because they know how to do this. You don’t have to worry about them.”
“I know. I only meant…” She adjusted the strap of her bag. “You spend so much of your life being watched. I suppose I wanted to make sure you were still allowed to enjoy the evening.”
Namjoon smiled at her thoughtfulness, at her sincerity, “I think I can,” he said. “With you.”
The words were simple, almost awkward in their directness, and Charlotte felt the warmth of them settle somewhere low in her chest. She glanced toward the Tower gates, then back at him, “Are you ready for the longer answer?”
He looked past her at the dark stone walls and the evening tours moving through the entrance, “I think so,” he said. “But you have to tell me if I ask stupid questions.”
“I’m afraid that is the whole point of tonight.”
He laughed under his breath, and when they began walking toward the entrance, the manager and security followed at a distance that let Charlotte pretend they were not there at all.
———————
The rain had thinned by the time they reached the gate, leaving the stone dark and reflective beneath the lamps. Charlotte kept her hands in her coat pockets as they walked, partly because of the cold and partly because she had no idea what to do with them. She had spent the whole day looking forward to this, which felt ridiculous now that Namjoon was beside her, close enough for her to notice the faint crease that appeared beside his mouth whenever he was trying not to smile.
He looked different outside the museum. Not less himself, exactly. Just less arranged. At the gala, he had been surrounded by cameras, staff, and people who seemed to know where he needed to stand before he did. Here, with rain still caught in his hair and his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, he looked more like the man who had stood in front of the Wootton painting that morning and asked her a question as though he actually wanted the answer. Charlotte had to remind herself not to stare at him.
“You said you were reading about Richard III,” Charlotte began once they were through the entrance and moving with the evening visitors toward the older buildings. “What did the book tell you?”
“That he killed them,” Namjoon said. “Very confidently.”
She smiled. “That does tend to be the version people arrive with.”
“Is it wrong?”
“It might be. It might not. But before Richard becomes the villain, there are two boys and a succession crisis.”
Namjoon looked at her, waiting.
“In 1483, King Edward IV died unexpectedly. His eldest son, Edward, was twelve and was meant to become Edward V. His younger brother, Richard, was nine. Their uncle, Richard of Gloucester, was appointed Lord Protector until Edward was old enough to rule.”
“The Richard who became Richard III.”
“Yes.” Charlotte nodded. “Edward was brought to the Tower before his coronation. That was not automatically alarming at the time. The Tower was a royal palace as well as a prison, and kings often stayed there before a coronation. His younger brother joined him later.”
They passed beneath one of the old archways, the stone darkened by rain.
“Then Richard said their parents’ marriage had not been valid,” she continued. “If that was true, the boys were illegitimate and could not inherit. Parliament accepted it, Richard became king, and after that summer the princes stopped being seen in public.”
Namjoon glanced back toward the walls behind them. “No one ever saw them again?”
“No confirmed sighting.” Charlotte tucked her hands deeper into her coat pockets. “That is why people assume they were killed. Richard had access to them. He had the clearest reason to remove them. But we do not have an order with his name on it, and a lot of the accounts people know best were written later, after the Tudors had taken power.”
“So the Tudors wanted him to be the bad king.”
“They had every reason to.” She looked over at him. “Henry VII defeated Richard in battle and founded a new dynasty. A dead, child-killing uncle is very useful if you want people to believe the old king deserved to lose.”
Namjoon was quiet for a few steps, thinking it through.
“And the princes?” he asked. “Their mother?”
“Elizabeth Woodville tried to protect them. She had already lost her husband, and then both of her sons were taken from her in different ways.” Charlotte paused before adding, “There were rebellions partly because people believed the boys were still alive. Later, other men claimed to be one of them. That is how badly people wanted an answer.”
He looked at the old buildings around them again, his expression more serious now.
“They became a story before anyone knew what happened to them.”
“Yes,” Charlotte said. “And after five hundred years, the story has become larger than the boys themselves.”
He looked as though he was turning that over in his mind, and she had the sudden, inconvenient thought that he was very handsome when he was thinking. His brow pulled in slightly. The little dimple in his cheek appeared when he finally looked up again, “Do you think he did it?”
Charlotte smiled. “You brought me all the way here and you still want a simple answer.”
“I came here because I thought you would give me something.”
That made her laugh, properly this time, and Namjoon smiled too. It changed his whole face. She had seen him smile on stage, on screens, at the gala when someone important had said something expected of him. This was different. Smaller. Less guarded. It made something nervous and bright move through her chest.
She looked away before he could catch her looking, “I think he could have,” she said. “I think there are enough reasons to suspect him. But I also think people forget they were children before they became a mystery. Edward and Richard get turned into evidence for whichever argument someone wants to make. I always find that the saddest part.”
Namjoon’s expression softened, “They were just boys.”
“Yes.”
Charlotte slowed when they reached the Bloody Tower, its stone darker than the surrounding buildings in the damp evening light. A small group had gathered near the entrance, listening to a guide, so she led Namjoon a little to one side where they could still see the doorway without standing in anyone’s way.
“This is the place most people mean when they talk about the princes,” she said.
Namjoon looked up at the tower, then back at her. “They were here?”
“Tradition says they were kept in these rooms after Richard took the throne.” Charlotte rested one hand against the strap of her bag. “And this is where people believe they were killed.”
He was quiet for a moment, looking at the building rather than at her, “But you said we do not know.”
“We don’t.” She nodded. “We know Edward and his brother were brought to the Tower. We know they stopped appearing in public. We know Richard became king. What happened inside these walls after that is where the evidence falls apart.”
Namjoon’s eyes moved back to the entrance. “So this place is part of the story, but not proof.”
“Exactly.” Charlotte smiled a little. “That is why I wanted to bring you here. A book can make it feel as though historians are arguing over one answer. Standing here, you can see why it is harder than that. This is a royal palace, a fortress, a prison. The boys may have walked through it as future kings before anyone understood that they were prisoners.”
He looked at her then, his expression more serious than before, “And people still call it the Bloody Tower.”
“Yes. The name came later, after the story attached itself to this place.” Her gaze went back to the old stone. “Sometimes history decides where something happened before it can prove that it did.”
Namjoon looked at the display, then at her, “You care about them.”
“I care about people being remembered properly.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Or at least being allowed to be more than the worst thing that happened to them.”
He did not answer immediately. His gaze stayed on her for a second longer than it needed to, and Charlotte felt herself become painfully aware of the space between them. It was not much. A sleeve’s width, perhaps. Still, she could feel the warmth of him beside her through the cold evening air.
“I think you are good at that,” he said.
The compliment was simple enough that she almost missed it. Then it settled somewhere beneath her ribs, and she had to look down at the map in her hands as though she suddenly needed to check where they were. “You have only known me for three days,” she said, trying for something lighter.
“Four,” he corrected.
Charlotte looked up. Namjoon seemed to realize what he had said at the same moment she did. Color rose faintly at the back of his neck, and he glanced toward the path ahead as though it had become very interesting. “I mean,” he said, slower now, “since the first museum day.”
She bit back a smile. “Of course.”
They started walking again, and this time neither of them hurried to fill the silence. Charlotte could hear people moving around them, the low voices of tourists, the scrape of shoes against stone, security at a distance behind them. Yet the evening had narrowed somehow. There was the Tower, the rain, the story he had asked to hear, and Namjoon beside her looking at the place as though it mattered because she had brought him there.
She had not expected that to feel like anything. She had certainly not expected to be this aware of the fact that he was still smiling when he looked at her.
—————————
Charlotte fell quiet when she had finished explaining, and Namjoon looked through the glass again.
The room was smaller than he had expected. The story had always felt large in his head because of the books, the paintings, the way people talked about it as one of those mysteries everyone knew even if they did not know much else about English history. Here, it came down to two boys who had been brought inside these walls and then stopped appearing in the world.
He kept thinking about the way Charlotte had described them. Not as clues or political problems or a question historians liked to argue over, but as children whose lives had been swallowed by the story of what might have happened to them. That part stayed with him.
BTS had been boys too when they started. He remembered how young all of them looked in old photos now, even though at the time they had felt old enough to handle anything. They thought the hard part would be practice. Money. Debuting. Finding people willing to listen.
They had not known how quickly other people would begin telling their story for them. A few pictures could become a rumor. A badly translated answer could become proof of something none of them had meant. Someone would watch one short clip and decide they knew who he was, who Jungkook was, what the group was like behind closed doors. Then other people repeated it until it stopped sounding like an opinion and started sounding like fact.
Most days, he could live with it. He had learned how. But there were times when the hotel felt too much like a very beautiful place he was not free to leave without planning it first. The same was true of home sometimes. Cars waited downstairs. Security had to know the route. There were people outside with phones ready before he had even decided whether he wanted to be seen.
It was nothing like what happened to the princes. He knew that. The comparison felt wrong the moment it formed. Still, Charlotte’s words had touched something familiar in him. The idea that people could become symbols before anyone bothered to remember they were people.
He looked over at her. She was studying the room again, one hand still tucked into the sleeve of her coat. She did not seem to expect anything from him. She had answered his question and brought him here because she thought seeing the place mattered.
He liked that more than he should have. He liked her more than he should have. And for once, he did not try very hard to talk himself out of it.
—————
They left the room without deciding to. Charlotte folded the map and put it back in her bag, and Namjoon followed her out into the open air where the rain had stopped completely. The grounds were quieter now. Most of the larger tour groups had moved ahead, leaving only scattered visitors beneath the lamps and the sound of shoes against wet stone.
Charlotte pointed out a few things as they walked, though she did not try to turn the rest of the evening into a lesson. A gateway that had been rebuilt after a fire. The place where the river had once come much closer to the walls. A narrow stretch between buildings where prisoners, guards, royal servants, and visiting officials would all have passed through one another’s days without ever sharing the same version of the place. Namjoon listened, then asked questions that led them somewhere else. He wanted to know how she decided what mattered enough to preserve. Whether museums ever had to choose between what was important and what people were interested in. Charlotte told him those were often two different things, and that the work was partly trying to make people care about something before it disappeared into storage or became only a line in a catalogue.
At first, Namjoon had been aware of the time. Dinner was later now, but not infinitely later. His manager and security were somewhere behind them, giving him room without ever quite leaving his sight. There was a point when he should probably check his phone, confirm how long they had, decide when the evening needed to end. He did not.
They drifted out into the grounds without really deciding to leave. Charlotte pointed things out when they came to them—a gate that had been rebuilt, the river beyond the walls, the way the Tower had been a palace before it became the version people remembered best—but she stopped trying to explain every corner after a while. Namjoon asked enough questions that she knew he was interested, and the rest of the time they walked quietly beside each other.
It should have felt awkward, Charlotte thought. They had only met a few days ago. He had a manager and security somewhere behind them, even if they were doing their best not to be obvious. There were still visitors around, people moving past in small groups, a few glances that lingered when they recognized him. Instead, she kept finding herself aware of stupid things. The way he looked down when he was thinking. The small dimple that appeared when something genuinely amused him. The fact that he listened as though he had nowhere else to be.
They stopped near one of the outer walls, where the city lights showed beyond the river. Namjoon looked out for a while before he spoke, “People make stories very fast,” he said.
Charlotte turned toward him.
“About us.” He rubbed his thumb against the edge of his sleeve, looking down at his hands instead of at her. “Sometimes one photo. One thing from interview. Then people decide.” He searched for the next words, “They think they know who we are. But they don’t know us.”
Charlotte did not rush to answer. She had seen enough interviews to understand that he was not talking about ordinary misunderstanding, “That must be difficult,” she said.
“It’s okay most days.” He gave a small shrug, but it did not quite reach his face. “You get used to it. But sometimes…” He paused. “Sometimes it feels like people want the story more than the person.”
The words sat between them.
Charlotte looked back toward the Tower. “That is probably why I care so much about things that seem unimportant.”
Namjoon glanced at her. “Like what?”
“Small things. Letters. Receipts. Things people leave behind without thinking.” She tucked one hand further into her coat pocket. “They are usually more honest than the big story.”
He nodded slowly.
“My parents kept a few things for me,” she said, before she could decide whether she wanted to. “From before I was adopted.”
Namjoon’s expression changed, not with pity, more like attention.
“I was very young,” Charlotte continued. “I don’t remember much myself. There were photographs, a little cardigan, some papers. Nothing dramatic.” She gave a faint smile. “My mum put everything in a box and never made it feel like something sad I had to be careful around. She would take it out when I asked. That was all.” Charlotte looked down at the wet stone beneath her shoes. “I think that is part of why I like objects. They don’t tell you everything. But sometimes they give you enough to know someone was here.”
Namjoon looked at her for a moment, then back toward the river, “Your parents sound good,” he said.
“They are.” The answer came easily. It always did.
For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. Somewhere behind them, a guide was gathering the last of an evening group near the exit. Charlotte could hear a child asking a question too quietly to make out, followed by an adult’s patient answer.
Namjoon shifted beside her, “I think BTS has those things too,” he said. “Not objects maybe. But small things.” His mouth lifted slightly. “The things fans don’t see. Us eating together. Fighting over nothing. Someone sleeping on the sofa.”
Charlotte smiled. “That sounds more real than most documentaries.” He laughed, and she had to look away for a second because she was suddenly too aware of how much she liked that sound.
“I don’t want people to only remember the big version,” he said. “The stage. The numbers. All that.”
“I don’t think the people who love you properly will.”
He looked at her then, properly this time. Charlotte felt the words after she had said them and wished, briefly, that she had chosen something less open. But Namjoon only nodded, his expression softening in a way she could not read.
They started walking again when the cold became harder to ignore. Neither of them mentioned the time, though Charlotte knew they should probably begin heading back soon. Namjoon did not seem in any hurry. Neither was she.
—————
They started walking again, though more slowly than before. Charlotte had one hand on the strap of her bag, the other holding the folded map she had been carrying since she arrived. When the wind caught the edge of it, the paper slipped loose.
Namjoon reached for it at the same time she did. Their fingers touched. Charlotte stopped so suddenly that the map nearly fell again.
It was only a brush of skin. Nothing dramatic. But something moved through her before she could make sense of it—a quick, sharp warmth, followed by a feeling that did not belong with the cold or the rain or the Tower around them.
Someone was tired. Not the ordinary kind. Not the kind that came from one long day. It felt deeper than that, like carrying too much for too long and never quite putting it down. Then it was gone.
Namjoon had gone still beside her. For a second neither of them said anything. He was looking at their hands, and Charlotte could not tell whether he had felt it too or whether she had only startled herself.
“Sorry,” he said, pulling his hand back.
“No, you didn’t—” She stopped. There was no sensible way to finish that.
He looked at her properly then, his expression careful, “Did something happen?”
Charlotte swallowed. “I don’t know.” It sounded strange when she said it out loud.
Namjoon glanced down the path, then back at her. “I felt something.”
Her grip tightened around the map, “What?”
He hesitated, as if he did not want to make it bigger than it was. “Like…” He looked for the words. “Like I was not alone for a second.”
Charlotte did not know what to say to that. The feeling had already faded, leaving only the memory of it and the warmth still sitting in her hand where he had touched her. Around them, people kept moving through the grounds. Someone laughed nearby. A guide was talking to a group farther ahead. Everything looked exactly the same.
Namjoon shifted his weight. “Maybe it was nothing.” Maybe it was.
Charlotte nodded, though neither of them sounded convinced.
He held out the map this time without touching her hand again. “You should keep this. You are the guide.”
That made her laugh a little, mostly because she needed to. She took it from him carefully. “That is probably wise.”
They walked for a few minutes without saying much after that. Charlotte told herself it was because the grounds had narrowed near the next turn and there were more people passing close by. It was easier to let the silence belong to the place than admit she still did not know what to do with the warmth sitting in her hand where his fingers had brushed hers.
Namjoon did not seem much more settled. He kept his hands in his jacket pockets now, and every so often she caught him looking at her as if he was waiting for the right moment to ask a question neither of them knew how to answer.
The Tower began to thin around them. The last of the evening visitors were moving toward the exit, their voices carrying in the damp air. Somewhere behind them, one of Namjoon’s security staff spoke quietly into an earpiece.
Charlotte glanced toward the gate, “You probably need to go soon.”
Namjoon looked at her. “Probably.”
Neither of them moved any faster. That made her smile, though she tried to hide it by looking down at the map.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
“It’s only that you said probably, and then continued walking in the wrong direction.”
Namjoon looked ahead, realized she was right, and laughed under his breath. The sound deepen the dimples at the corners of his mouth, making him look too good for a casual laugh. Charlotte looked away first.
“I have dinner,” he said after a moment. “With the other members.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It is usually loud.”
“I gathered.”
He smiled again, then looked toward the exit. For a few seconds, he seemed to be considering something. Charlotte could see it in the way his expression shifted, the thought arriving before he had decided whether to let it become words. Then he looked back at her.
“You can come,” he said.
She blinked. “To dinner?”
“Yes.” His hand came briefly to the back of his neck. “I mean—if you want. You don’t have to. It is very… sudden.”
It was sudden. Dinner with the BTS members meant more than dinner. It meant walking into a room full of people who knew him in ways she did not, people who had shared years of his life before she had even become a passing thought in it. It meant managers, security, staff, probably a great deal of Korean she would not understand, and the very real possibility of sitting there feeling like a misplaced museum label attached to the wrong object.
Namjoon must have seen some of that cross her face, because his voice softened. “It’s okay if no,” he said. “Really. I just…” He looked down for a moment, searching for something honest enough to say. “I don’t want to go yet.”
The simplicity of it caught her completely off guard. Charlotte held the map a little closer, suddenly aware that she was smiling and doing a very poor job of stopping it. “I don’t want you to go yet either,” she admitted.
His eyes came back to hers. For a moment, the noise around them seemed to move farther away. Then Charlotte took a breath, because she was still herself and dinner with BTS was not exactly the sort of invitation one accepted without pretending to think sensibly, “Will they mind?”
“No,” he said quickly. Then, with a small laugh, “No. They will be curious. But they are kind.”
“Curious is more frightening than unkind.”
“That is true.” His smile widened. “But I think they will behave.”
“You think?”
“Ahh..I hope.”
That startled a laugh out of her, and the nervousness in her chest loosened enough to let the excitement through. The evening was becoming larger than the one she had prepared for. Larger, and less predictable, and far more terrifying than a walk around the Tower with a man who asked good questions.
Still, when she looked at Namjoon, he seemed as nervous as she was. That helped.
Charlotte looked once more toward the exit, then back at him.
“Alright,” she said. “I’ll come.”
Namjoon’s face changed before he could hide it, “Okay,” he said, smiling down at the pavement for a second. “Good.”
Charlotte smiled because he did. Because his relief was so plain and unguarded that it made something warm open in her chest. For once, she did not try to talk herself out of it. She was happy he had asked.
SUMMARY: A quiet British art curator and a world-renowned songwriter discover they’re soulmates when a bond begins echoing the emotions they refuse to say aloud. As Charlotte and Namjoon navigate long distance, growing love, and the quiet belief that some people are worth preserving more than themselves, they learn that the greatest works of art aren’t always hung in museums—they’re the lives we choose to remember.
WARNINGS: Soulmate AU, slow burn, emotional angst, long-distance relationship, social anxiety, orphan themes, language barriers, suspense, threats of violence, injury , insomnia, swearing, eventual smut (18+).
Masterlist
--------------------------
By the time Namjoon returned to the hotel, the peaceful morning he had spent wandering through London already felt strangely distant.
The hours that followed unfolded with the familiar precision that always accompanied a promotional schedule. Stylists ushered him from hair and makeup to wardrobe fittings before he was led across the hotel to a suite that had been transformed into a temporary studio for a magazine photoshoot. Between outfit changes, there were interviews to film, photographs to approve, and hurried conversations with managers about the following day’s itinerary. Lunch arrived sometime after one o’clock in paper cartons that grew cold long before anyone had the chance to finish them.
It wasn’t until the middle of the afternoon that the pace finally eased. His manager had managed to carve out an hour before dinner, insisting they all disappear into their rooms while they still had the chance. Namjoon was grateful for the instruction. Even after all these years, there were days when the constant movement left him craving nothing more than a closed door and the rare luxury of uninterrupted quiet.
His room overlooked one of London’s busier streets, now alive with red buses, cyclists and office workers making the most of the unexpected sunshine. It was a very different city from the one Charlotte had shown him that morning. The flower stall outside the little florist would be crowded by now. The museum galleries would be full. Visitors would be standing in front of John Wootton’s painting without ever knowing that, only a few hours earlier, the first light of the day had found the painted Thames before anyone else had stepped into the room.
The thought stayed with him longer than he expected.
It wasn’t simply the painting he remembered, remarkable though it was. What lingered was Charlotte herself, standing quietly beside it with no desire to explain every brushstroke or catalogue its history. She had been perfectly content to let him arrive at his own understanding, answering only the questions he chose to ask. It struck him that very few people had the patience to do that. Most were eager to fill silence before it had the chance to become comfortable. Charlotte never seemed afraid of it.
He smiled to himself as he loosened the sleeves of his shirt and settled into the chair beside the window. His eyes drifted almost absently to the museum guide resting on the desk, the one he’d tucked into his bag before leaving. Opening it more out of habit than intention, he found the page devoted to the special exhibition and, sure enough, there it was: A View of the Thames at Henley, reproduced beautifully on glossy paper beneath a brief paragraph describing its arrival from the Royal Collection.
The photograph was excellent. It captured every detail of the composition with remarkable clarity. Yet somehow it felt incomplete. It couldn’t reproduce the way the morning sun had slowly travelled across the painted river, nor the quiet anticipation with which Charlotte had waited for it to happen. Without those things, it was simply a beautiful painting.
He closed the guide and reached for his phone. Only then did he remember that he had her number. His thumb hovered over her name for a moment, not because he was uncertain whether to message her, but because he found himself smiling at the reason he wanted to.
She had told him that morning she would rather ask questions than pretend she knew all the answers. It seemed only fair to take her at her word.
He opened a new message:
Hello, Charlotte.
I hope your afternoon has been less busy than mine.
I believe I’ve found my first question.
He read it once before pressing send, setting the phone back on the desk with every intention of returning to the exhibition guide. It buzzed before he had even reached for it again. A smile found him before he had read a single word.
——————
Charlotte had every intention of spending the afternoon catching up on paperwork. Like most intentions at the museum, it lasted less than ten minutes.
The exhibition office settled quickly into its familiar rhythm after opening. Emails accumulated faster than she could answer them, a courier arrived with documents requiring three different signatures, and Amelia appeared in her doorway twice before lunch—first with a question about object labels, then again because she’d found a discrepancy in one of the exhibition catalogues.
Charlotte didn’t mind. It was, in many ways, her favourite kind of day. Predictable. Steady. Full of the quiet work that visitors never saw.
Beyond her office, the museum had found its voice. Guided tours drifted from gallery to gallery, schoolchildren asked questions loud enough for three rooms to hear, and every so often she caught the familiar murmur that rippled through a space when someone encountered a painting that stopped them in their tracks.
By four o’clock, the morning already felt strangely distant. She had almost convinced herself she’d imagined wandering through London before sunrise with the leader of BTS…Almost.
A soft knock sounded against her open office door, “Come in.”
Michael stepped inside, a treatment folder tucked beneath one arm.
“There you are,” Charlotte said, looking up from the report spread across her desk. “I was wondering when those conservation notes would make their way upstairs.”
“They’ve finally escaped the studio.” He crossed the office and laid the folder on the corner of her desk, “The updated treatment report.”
“Perfect. Thank you.” As Charlotte reached for it, her phone vibrated quietly beside her keyboard.
She glanced down without thinking—Namjoon
A smile appeared before she had even opened the message.
Hello, Charlotte.
I hope your afternoon has been less busy than mine.
I believe I’ve found my first question.
She read it once. Then, almost instinctively, she read it again.
“You look pleased.” Michael’s voice pulled her attention back to the room.
She looked up, “I’m sorry?”
He nodded toward the phone, “You smiled.”
Charlotte blinked, genuinely surprised, “Did I?”
“A little.”
She glanced back at the screen before locking her phone, “I suppose I did.”
“Good news?”
She considered the question for a moment, “A new friend.”
Michael smiled politely, “I’m glad.”
He picked up the now-empty folder and gave a small nod, “If you need anything else from Conservation, let me know.”
“I will. Thanks, Michael.”
Once the door closed behind him, the office settled back into its familiar quiet.
Charlotte unlocked her phone again, reread Namjoon’s message, and found herself smiling for exactly the same reason as before. There was something wonderfully appropriate about it. He hadn’t written because he felt obliged to keep the conversation going. He’d written because he’d found another question.
She opened a reply.
Good afternoon, Namjoon.
I was beginning to wonder how long it would take before your first question arrived.
She read it once, decided it sounded enough like herself to leave alone, and pressed send. Her phone buzzed almost immediately. It seemed his questions weren’t inclined to wait.
————————
The notification appeared while Namjoon was still looking out across the city. He hadn’t expected Charlotte to reply quite so quickly. For a moment he simply let the message sit there, smiling to himself before unlocking his phone.
He read and reread her message. He could almost hear her saying it. There was something quietly understated about Charlotte’s humour that reminded him of London itself. It never announced its arrival. It simply appeared in the middle of an otherwise ordinary sentence, expecting the listener to keep up.
His smile lingered as he set the phone on the table beside the museum guide. It had been there since yesterday evening, along with the book he’d bought almost on impulse from the museum shop after the gala. At the time, purchasing it had seemed like a perfectly reasonable decision. He’d always enjoyed history, and British history was hardly unfamiliar territory. Only now did he have to admit that, had the evening unfolded differently, he probably would have walked straight past the display without giving it a second glance.
Charlotte had done that. Not intentionally. Simply by talking about history with the kind of affection that made curiosity feel contagious.
He picked the book up again and returned to the page he’d folded over during lunch. It was a chapter on Richard III, and before long he found himself reading, once again, about the disappearance of the Princes in the Tower. The author wrote with absolute confidence, presenting Richard’s guilt almost as though it were settled fact, yet Namjoon remembered reading another account years ago that argued just as convincingly for the opposite conclusion.
He frowned slightly. It wasn’t the disagreement that interested him. History was full of disagreement. It was the certainty. How could two respected historians look at the same evidence and arrive at completely different conclusions?
Without really thinking about it, he reached for his phone.
I think I’ve found my question.
I’m reading about Richard III and the Princes in the Tower.
One historian seems completely certain Richard ordered their deaths. Another is just as certain he didn’t.
When the evidence points in different directions, how does a historian decide what to believe?
He read the message once before pressing send. There was something oddly reassuring about asking someone who would be just as comfortable saying we don’t know as she would be offering an opinion.
The reply didn’t come immediately this time. He imagined Charlotte exactly where he’d left her that morning, somewhere behind the galleries with paperwork spread across her desk, answering emails between conversations with colleagues and visitors.
When his phone finally vibrated several minutes later, he found himself setting the book aside before opening it.
You’ve managed to stumble into one of Britain’s favourite historical arguments.
The honest answer is that we don’t decide what to believe. We weigh the evidence, question the sources, and accept that some questions may never have definitive answers.
The less honest answer is that historians have been arguing about Richard III for over five hundred years and will probably continue arguing for another five hundred.
If you’d like the longer answer, I’ll happily show you the Tower after work tomorrow. It’s a much better place to discuss the Princes than a phone screen.
Namjoon read the message twice before looking back at the book lying open beside him. Somewhere between the museum gala and a quiet morning spent watching sunlight move across a painting, he’d acquired both a book on English history and an invitation to discuss it with the person who had unknowingly convinced him to buy it. He wasn’t entirely sure when either of those things had happened. He only knew that he was looking forward to tomorrow.
————————
For perhaps three seconds after sending it, Charlotte felt perfectly fine. She looked back at the report open in front of her, reached for the pencil she had set down beside her keyboard, and made it halfway through rereading a paragraph on revised display conditions before the meaning of what she had done caught up with her.
She had invited him out. Not in the vague, harmless way people suggested places they might visit someday. She had given him a day. A time. A reason to say yes or no.
Charlotte sat back in her chair, the pencil still held loosely between her fingers, and tried to remind herself that it had been a reasonable offer. He had asked about the Princes in the Tower. The Tower was the obvious place to talk about them. It was not as though she had asked him to dinner or suggested something intimate enough to require interpretation.
Even so, she had known him for less than a week. And he was Kim Namjoon.
The thought made her press her lips together. Not because she had forgotten who he was while they had been talking that morning, but because it was easier, in the quiet of the museum before opening, to think of him simply as Namjoon: thoughtful, a little tired around the edges, genuinely curious about things most people only pretended to care about. It was easier to forget the scale of his life when he was standing beside a painting, listening carefully while she spoke.
But he did have that life. A crowded one. A life arranged around rehearsals and interviews and flights and six other people who had known him for years, who would always have a more natural claim on whatever pieces of time he managed to keep for himself. The thought did not hurt. It only made her suddenly aware that she might have been careless with his evening.
Her fingers drifted toward her phone again. She could add something light, perhaps, give him an easy way out before he felt obliged to explain why he could not come. Something that made clear she understood his schedule might change, or that she had only meant it as a suggestion.
The more she considered it, the worse every possible follow-up became. Anything she wrote now would only reveal that she had been sitting at her desk worrying over one invitation, and Charlotte was not entirely sure she could survive him knowing that.
So she turned her phone facedown and tried to return to work. For several minutes, she managed it. She answered two emails, made notes in the margin of a catalogue draft, and opened the schedule for the following day with the determined concentration of someone who had decided she would not check her phone again until she had finished the page in front of her.
Then it vibrated against the desk. Charlotte looked at it immediately. She did not let herself reach for it at first. That seemed important somehow. She waited long enough to take one breath, then another, before turning it over.
His reply was simple.
I’d really like that. Thank you.
For a moment, she only stared at the words. The relief was embarrassingly immediate, softening something she had not realized had tightened in her chest. He had not offered an excuse. He had not answered vaguely. He had not made her feel as though she had asked for more than he could give—He wanted to go.
Charlotte lowered her gaze, smiling despite herself. The feeling that followed was not dramatic enough to name. It was only a small, warm certainty settling quietly into the middle of an ordinary afternoon.
She typed back before she could start doubting the invitation all over again.
Then I’ll bring the longer answer.
After a moment, she added:
And a map. The Tower is much less forgiving than it ought to be.
This time, when she sent the message, she did not try to take it back.
———————
Namjoon had already begun forming an answer when someone knocked on his door.
“Come in,” he called, looking up from the phone in his hand.
Yoongi stepped inside, still half-focused on the schedule open on his own screen. “Are we leaving together for dinner, or did security change the cars again?”
Namjoon glanced toward the printed call sheet beside his laptop. “Separate. The restaurant only has one usable entrance.”
Yoongi made a quiet sound of resignation, crossed the room long enough to confirm it for himself, then left with a brief reminder that everyone needed to be downstairs in forty minutes. It was an ordinary interruption. Their lives were full of those moments: doors opening without ceremony, questions passed between rooms, someone needing to know where they were meant to be before the rest of the day could continue. Namjoon barely thought about it while Yoongi was there. The feeling returned the moment the door shut.
At first, he assumed it belonged to him. He had been restless since the afternoon schedule ended, unable to settle into the quiet of the hotel room even with the book open beside him and nowhere he urgently needed to be. There was always something waiting beyond the next hour—a rehearsal, an interview, a responsibility that had not yet made itself known—and his mind had learned long ago to stay prepared for it…But this was not quite that.
The anxiety sat beneath his ribs with a softness that made it harder to identify. It was not sharp or urgent. It felt more like hesitation, the uneasy awareness of having said something that might have asked too much of another person.
Namjoon looked down at Charlotte’s message again. Nothing in it was demanding. She had offered him something she cared about, a conversation and a place that mattered to her, and she had done so with the same calm certainty she seemed to bring to everything else. Yet the feeling in his chest remained, quiet and unmistakable now that he was paying attention to it.
He did not understand why it seemed connected to her. He only knew that the longer he waited to answer, the more it gathered.
The answer itself was easy. He had wanted to accept before Yoongi interrupted him. He wanted to see the Tower with her, wanted to hear how she spoke about the princes when she had more than a few lines of text to work with, and wanted—though he was less willing to say this plainly to himself—to spend another evening in the kind of quiet conversation that had stayed with him long after the museum closed.
He sent his reply before he could make it more complicated.
For several seconds, nothing changed. Then the tension faded. It did not disappear from him all at once, but loosened gradually, as though someone somewhere had finally allowed themselves to exhale. The shift was so gentle that he might have dismissed it if he had not been sitting still, phone resting in his hand, listening to the quiet settle back into the room.
Namjoon looked toward the window, unsettled by the certainty that followed. Charlotte had read it. He could not have said how he knew. He only knew that whatever had been pressing at the edge of him had softened into relief, and the warmth that followed did not feel entirely like his own.
When her next message appeared a moment later, he smiled before he opened it. The book remained open beside him, forgotten for now. Outside, London moved through the late afternoon beneath a pale, clouded sky, and somewhere across the city Charlotte was probably sitting at her desk, returning to the work she had set aside while waiting for an answer.
Tomorrow, he thought, he would see her again. The thought should have felt small. Instead, it stayed with him long after he put his phone down.
———————
By the time Charlotte left her office, the museum had settled into the softer, slower part of the afternoon, when the school groups had mostly gone and the galleries belonged again to visitors who moved quietly between the rooms. She carried the updated treatment report downstairs with her, telling herself she was only checking on progress before tomorrow’s meeting. The portrait had been scheduled for installation in a fortnight, and there were still a dozen small decisions waiting to be signed off before then: final lighting levels, frame glazing, transport documentation, the wording of the accompanying label. There was no reason for her to be anxious about it.
The conservation studio was tucked behind the public galleries, beyond a corridor that smelled faintly of old wood, paper dust, and the particular chemical cleanliness of spaces where no one was allowed to be careless. Through the glass partition, Charlotte could see Michael at one of the central benches, bent over the painting beneath a broad lamp. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms, gloves pulled on, his attention narrowed in the way it always was when he worked.
He looked up when she entered.
“Sorry,” Charlotte said, lifting the report slightly. “I know you said the notes were finished, but I wanted to have a look before I sign off on the next stage.”
“You don’t need to apologize.” He moved aside from the bench, giving her room. “I was just checking the surface before I packed up.”
The portrait rested upright in its temporary support frame. It was one of the exhibition’s most significant loans, a seventeenth-century royal portrait with a history almost as complicated as the family it represented. Charlotte had spent months working through its loan conditions and provenance paperwork, and she knew its face well enough now to recognize the smallest changes in colour, finish, and expression.
At first, everything appeared exactly as it should. The varnish had been lifted carefully from the darker edges of the background, revealing more depth in the fabric and architecture behind the figure. The paint surface looked stable. The restoration had brought back a softness around the jaw and eyes that had been lost beneath years of yellowing varnish.
Michael stood quietly beside her as she examined it, “Better?” he asked.
“It’s beautiful,” Charlotte said, and she meant it. “You can actually see the blue in the sash now.”
“That was the goal.”
She leaned in slightly, careful not to cross the line marked on the floor around the bench. Her attention moved over the familiar details: the clasp at the collar, the faint gold thread along one sleeve, the shape of the hand resting against the chair.
Then she paused.
It was such a small thing that at first she wondered whether she had invented it simply because she had looked at the painting too many times. The left hand had always seemed slightly awkward to her, not badly painted but unusually stiff, as though the artist had changed its position late in the process and never entirely reconciled the adjustment. In the earliest condition photographs, there had been the faintest suggestion of another line beneath the visible contour, a shadow of an earlier choice beneath the paint…Now she could not see it at all.
Charlotte shifted to the side, studying the surface from another angle.
Michael noticed. “Something wrong?”
“No,” she said automatically, though she kept looking. “I thought there was more movement here before.”
He followed her gaze. “There was some discolouration around the hand. The older varnish was catching in the texture and making the underlayer look more visible than it really was.”
Charlotte looked at him. He said it easily, without defensiveness, and it was a perfectly reasonable explanation. Conservation changed the way a painting could be read. That was part of the difficulty of it, and part of why she never forgot that she was not the conservator in the room.
Still, she found herself reaching for the treatment photographs on the nearby table. Michael handed them to her before she could ask. The earlier image showed the same section of the portrait beneath the old varnish. The faint line was there, or seemed to be, but the lighting was different and the image quality poorer than she remembered. Once she knew what she was looking for, she could see how easily shadow and surface texture might have created the impression.
Charlotte let out a quiet breath, “I think I’ve been staring at this painting for too long.”
“It happens,” Michael said, not unkindly. “Especially when you’ve spent months with the same object.”
She smiled, though it did not come as easily as it should have. “I’ll blame the catalogue proofs.”
“Blame the catalogue proofs,” he agreed.
She set the photographs back where he had left them and made herself look at the painting once more, this time as a whole rather than a collection of details. It was beautiful. It was stable. It was exactly where it was meant to be. There was nothing wrong with it.
Michael returned to the bench, and Charlotte thanked him before leaving the studio with the report tucked against her side. By the time she reached the corridor, she had already begun to feel faintly foolish. She had interrupted someone’s work because a line beneath an old layer of varnish did not look quite the way she thought it should.
It was a difference in lighting. A change in surface. An effect of treatment. Nothing more. But when she reached her office and sat down at her desk, the image returned anyway: the portrait’s hand, the missing trace beneath it, and the quiet certainty she could not quite explain that something had looked different before.
———————
Like, Comment, Reblog. Let me know what you think? I love hearing from yall!
cant wait for the 8th member series! also my request dont make the oc british again! also use less advanced eng as it makes the fic look real as we dont use the heavy eng irl!
I like to write how I would talk In the situation sooo that usually how the dialogue is presented. My grammar may not be great, but I am not uneducated lol. However, I can change up the nationality. I agree it’s time to change it up a bit :) I appreciate the feedback.
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SUMMARY: A quiet British art curator and a world-renowned songwriter discover they’re soulmates when a bond begins echoing the emotions they refuse to say aloud. As Charlotte and Namjoon navigate long distance, growing love, and the quiet belief that some people are worth preserving more than themselves, they learn that the greatest works of art aren’t always hung in museums—they’re the lives we choose to remember.
WARNINGS: Soulmate AU, slow burn, emotional angst, long-distance relationship, social anxiety, orphan themes, language barriers, suspense, threats of violence, injury , insomnia, swearing, eventual smut (18+).
Masterlist
——————————
Namjoon woke a few minutes before his alarm, lingering beneath the duvet as he listened to the unfamiliar quiet surrounding the hotel suite. Beyond the curtains, London sat somewhere between night and morning, the sky washed in a pale blue that softened the outlines of the buildings beyond the glass.
He reached for his phone. The screen read 6:08 a.m. For a long moment, he simply lay there. Sleep had never come easily to him. Some nights his mind refused to slow down, chasing lyrics, unfinished conversations and responsibilities in endless circles until dawn arrived whether he was ready for it or not. Other nights he drifted in and out of shallow sleep, waking often enough that the hours between midnight and morning blurred together.
It had been that way for a while now. This morning was different. Not because he’d slept late. Not because he’d slept longer. Simply because, when he’d opened his eyes, his mind had been… quiet. The thought lingered as he stared at the ceiling.
The Louis Vuitton campaign had wrapped the evening before, and today’s itinerary looked very different. Rather than moving through the city together, the members had all been pulled in different directions. Taehyung had an editorial photoshoot later that morning, while Jungkook and Jimin were filming content elsewhere in London. Jin, Hoseok and Yoongi each had their own interviews, fittings and meetings beginning later in the afternoon.
Namjoon’s first call wasn’t until nearly lunchtime…A rare gift. An entire morning with nowhere he needed to be.
His gaze drifted toward the notebook resting on the desk. The page he’d been wrestling with for weeks was still open where he’d left it the night before, the ink finally settling into something that felt honest. It wasn’t finished—not really—but it no longer felt as though he was forcing the words into place. Close enough. Sometimes that was as truthful as a song ever became.
As he sat up, another thought quietly found its way back into his mind—The museum before it opens is my favourite place in London. Charlotte had said it so matter-of-factly, not as though she were recommending an attraction, but as though she were sharing a small ritual that belonged only to her.
At the time, he’d smiled. Now, with an unusually peaceful mind and an unexpected morning to himself, he found that he understood exactly what she’d meant.
By the time Namjoon stepped into the corridor, the hotel floor was still wrapped in the quiet that only existed before a working day truly began. Most of the doors remained closed, the conversations and laughter that usually echoed through the hallway replaced by the distant hum of the lift arriving somewhere below. He adjusted the brim of his cap, takeaway coffee warming his hands as he walked toward the lifts.
The manager waiting in the lobby looked up from his phone, his expression shifting briefly into surprise, “I wasn’t expecting to see anyone this early.”
“I couldn’t get back to sleep.”
The manager nodded knowingly. After years together, there was little need to explain further, “Where are you thinking?”
Namjoon smiled,“I don’t actually know.”
That earned a quiet laugh, “You’ve got a few hours before your first schedule. As long as we stay close enough to get back comfortably, it’s your morning.”
A member of their security team, who had already been waiting near the entrance, slipped on a jacket and pushed open the hotel door for them. The cool morning air greeted them immediately. Namjoon paused just outside. London looked entirely different from the city that had welcomed them two days earlier. The rain had finally stopped. The pavements still shimmered with the last traces of the night’s moisture, tiny beads of water clinging to iron railings and the petals of window boxes beneath the terraces. The sky overhead had cleared into a pale blue, and the early sunlight stretched cautiously between the buildings, gilding chimney pots and slate rooftops without yet carrying the warmth of the afternoon.
It felt… fresh. As though the city itself had only just woken.
He took a slow breath. The air carried the scent of damp stone, budding trees and fresh bread drifting from a bakery somewhere farther down the street.
“It’s nice,” he said quietly.
His manager glanced around, “You’ve brought the weather with you.”
Namjoon laughed, “I thought London was supposed to rain.”
“It usually does. Enjoy it while it lasts.”
A black SUV waited at the curb. The driver stepped out as they approached, “Morning.”
“Morning.”
“Anywhere in particular?”
Namjoon looked down the nearly empty street before shaking his head, “Historic London.”
The driver smiled, “That’s a fairly large request.”
“It doesn’t have to be famous.” Namjoon looked back toward the city, where the first commuters were beginning to emerge from the Underground stations and cafés had only just started setting tables outside.
“I think…” He searched for the right words, “I just want to see the parts people walk past.”
The manager smiled to himself, “That’s a very you answer.”
The driver nodded, “I know where to start.”
They climbed into the car, pulling away from the hotel at an unhurried pace. London passed quietly beyond the window. Rows of townhouses gave way to narrow lanes that seemed untouched by time, their uneven brickwork and weathered stone carrying centuries of stories beneath the morning light. Church spires rose unexpectedly between modern office buildings, while blue plaques appeared on façades with such regularity that Namjoon found himself reading each one he could catch before it disappeared from view.
He wondered how many thousands of people hurried past them every day without looking up. Charlotte wouldn’t. The thought came so naturally that it made him smile. She had said that history hid in plain sight. Looking out at the city unfolding beyond the glass, he found himself beginning to understand exactly what she meant.
———————
Charlotte’s alarm sounded at precisely 6:30. She silenced it before the second chime and lay still for a moment, listening to the familiar sounds filtering through the open window of her flat. Somewhere below, a delivery lorry rattled over the uneven road before continuing toward the high street. A pigeon landed noisily on the windowsill, only to be chased away moments later by another. The city was waking slowly, one sound at a time.
She had always liked mornings. Not because she considered herself particularly energetic, but because they belonged to people who weren’t in a hurry yet.
The kettle clicked on while she disappeared into the bedroom to get dressed. By the time she returned, steam curled lazily from the spout, and the small kitchen filled with the comforting scent of English Breakfast.
Breakfast was simple as it usually was—toasted sourdough, a little raspberry jam, and tea balanced beside the book she’d been reading the night before. She managed three pages before glancing at the clock.
“So much for getting ahead,” she murmured with a small smile.
Closing the novel, she slipped it into the canvas tote she carried almost everywhere. It joined a notebook already filled with exhibition notes, two sharpened pencils, her museum pass, and the pair of white cotton gloves she always seemed to forget she’d packed until she reached for something else. Old habit.
She shrugged into a light trench coat before stepping outside. The cool spring air greeted her immediately. Rain during the night had left the city washed clean, but this morning the sky stretched clear above the rooftops, the kind of bright blue London seemed almost reluctant to admit it was capable of producing. Dew still clung to iron railings and the edges of newly opened leaves, catching the sunlight in tiny flashes as she walked.
She smiled to herself. It wouldn’t last. Someone would almost certainly complain that a proper London spring lasted all of twenty-four hours before the rain returned.
Charlotte turned onto one of her usual streets, her pace unhurried. At this hour, London belonged to the people opening cafés, unlocking bookshops and sweeping yesterday’s leaves from the fronts of their businesses. It was a version of the city she had always loved most.
As she approached the next intersection, something farther up the pavement caught her attention. A man stood beneath one of the familiar blue plaques fixed to a Georgian townhouse, takeaway coffee in one hand, his head tilted upward as he read every line with quiet concentration.
Even beneath the baseball cap pulled low over his forehead and the oversized charcoal hoodie, she recognized him immediately. She couldn’t help smiling. Of course he’d stopped to read the plaque.
She crossed the remaining distance before speaking, “Good morning, Mr. Kim.”
Namjoon turned at the sound of his name, surprise giving way to a warm smile as recognition settled in, “Charlotte.”
“I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“I could say the same.”
She glanced up at the plaque, “I see you’ve already discovered one of my favourite things about London.”
He followed her gaze before looking back at her, “I’ve caught myself looking up all morning.”
The admission made her laugh softly, “I warned you.”
“You did.” He took another sip of his coffee, “I don’t think I’ve ever visited a city where so much history is just… built into everyday life.”
“It becomes very easy to stop noticing.”
“You haven’t.”
She shook her head, “I don’t think I know how.”
For a moment they simply stood together beneath the plaque, the city continuing to wake around them. A cyclist coasted past, a delivery driver wheeled crates of fresh produce into the café across the street, and somewhere nearby church bells marked the quarter hour.
Charlotte glanced at her watch before slipping it back beneath the cuff of her coat, “I’ve got a little time before I need to be at the museum.”
Namjoon followed her gaze down the street she’d been about to take, “You probably have a route you always walk.”
“I do.” A small smile found its way onto her face, “…It’s a rather good one.”
The words lingered for a moment before she spoke again, almost absentmindedly, “If you’re interested…” She gestured farther down the street, “There are a few places between here and the museum that most people never notice.”
The invitation escaped before she had properly thought it through. Charlotte’s expression changed almost immediately, “Oh.” She let out a quiet, self-conscious laugh, “I’m sorry.” She shook her head, “That was rather presumptuous of me.”
Namjoon frowned slightly, “How so?”
“I’ve just invited you to wander around London as though you don’t have a schedule to keep.” She looked briefly toward the nearly empty street before adding, “…or thousands of people likely to recognize you.”
He couldn’t help smiling, “My first commitment isn’t until later.”
She looked at him, surprised.
“And London seems to have decided to keep everyone else in bed.”
That earned a laugh from her.
He glanced down the quiet street lined with townhouse terraces, the morning sunlight catching the dew still clinging to the railings, “I’d like to see your route.”
For just a moment, Charlotte looked caught between pleased and slightly flustered. Then she smiled, “In that case…” She turned toward the narrower of the two streets, “…we’ll take the interesting way.”
——————
They left the main road almost immediately. Instead of following the wider pavements toward the museum, Charlotte turned down a narrower Georgian street shaded by rows of plane trees just beginning to unfurl their spring leaves. The city felt different here. Quieter. Less concerned with getting somewhere.
Namjoon noticed it straight away, “I don’t think my navigation app would have sent me this way.”
Charlotte smiled, “It prefers efficiency.”
“And you don’t?”
“I prefer interesting.”
He laughed, “I’ve gathered.”
As they continued down the street, Charlotte glanced over her shoulder toward the two men following several paces behind. They had kept a respectful distance from the moment she’d joined Namjoon, close enough to do their jobs without intruding on the conversation.
She slowed slightly, “Are they alright?”
Namjoon looked back, “My manager and security?”
She nodded, “They’ve been walking at your pace because of me.” A faint crease appeared between her brows, “I hope they don’t mind.”
Namjoon smiled, “They’re quite used to it.”
“Even so…” She looked back again, “They’ve hardly had a chance to enjoy the morning.”
His manager, having clearly overheard, smiled, “We’re perfectly happy, Ms. Charlotte.”
She returned the smile, visibly relieved, “I just wanted to make sure.”
“They’re used to me wandering off to look at old buildings,” Namjoon admitted.
His manager laughed, “It’s usually bookshops. Or museums.”
Charlotte laughed softly, “Then perhaps this isn’t quite as unusual as I thought.”
She nodded toward a weathered church tower rising above the rooftops, “That’s St Bartholomew-the-Great.”
Namjoon followed her gaze, “It doesn’t look like the buildings around it.”
“It shouldn’t.” She smiled, “It was founded in the twelfth century.”
His eyebrows lifted, “Really?”
“I’ve always liked places like that.”
She looked up at the ancient stonework catching the early morning sun, “London changes constantly, but every now and then you find something that’s simply… stayed.”
They crossed another street, where the scent of fresh bread drifted from a bakery opening for the morning. A little farther on, Charlotte slowed beside Cecil Court. Rows of old bookshops lined the short street, their windows still dark as owners unlocked doors and arranged displays.
Namjoon’s eyes lingered on the handwritten signs outside one shop, “I could spend hours here.”
“So could I.” She smiled, “One of these specialises in eighteenth-century travel journals.”
“You have a favourite bookshop?”
“I have several.”
“I should have guessed.”
Charlotte laughed quietly, “I spend far too much money here.”
The conversation drifted naturally from books to travel, then to history itself.
“You’ve seen more of the world than most people ever will,” Charlotte said as they continued down the quiet street. “Does visiting so many countries change how you think about their history?”
Namjoon considered the question before answering, “I think it mostly reminds me how much I don’t know. I visit incredible places, but unless I’ve taken the time to learn about them beforehand, I’m only seeing the surface.”
Charlotte nodded in understanding, “I know exactly what you mean,”
Namjoon glanced at her, “I thought history was your thing.”
She laughed softly, “It is. British history.”
He looked at her expectantly, inviting her to continue.
“I spend most of my life buried in Britain’s past,” she said with an easy smile. “Maybe parts of Europe, simply because our histories are so intertwined. Beyond that, I fear I am but a tourist.”
He smiled, “That’s not what I expected you to say.”
“Most people assume historians know everything.”
“Don’t they?”
She shook her head, “I think the more you learn about one subject, the more you realise how many other subjects deserve the same amount of time and respect.” She glanced up at the buildings around them, “I know enough to appreciate the history of the places I visit, but I’d much rather ask questions than pretend I’m an authority on someone else’s country.”
They walked a little farther in comfortable silence, passing a café where someone was setting chairs outside beneath the early morning sun.
After a moment, she glanced over at him, “Can I ask one, then?”
Namjoon smiled, “Sure.”
“When you’re home… do you ever go looking for historical places? In Korea, I mean.”
He looked ahead, thinking, “Sometimes.”
“Only sometimes?”
He laughed softly, “My schedule doesn’t give me much time to wander.”
“No, I imagine not.”
“But when I can, yes. I like old places.”
Charlotte smiled, “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“Not always famous places,” he added. “Sometimes just… a street. A temple. Somewhere quiet.”
She nodded, listening, “I only know Korean history in very broad strokes,” she admitted. “Enough to know I’m missing most of it.”
He glanced at her, “That’s already better than pretending.”
That made her smile, “I suppose I was wondering whether it feels different when it’s your own history.”
Namjoon was quiet for a few steps, “Yeah,” he said eventually. “It does.”
“How?”
He searched for the words, then gave a small, almost apologetic laugh, “I don’t know how to say it well in English.”
“That’s alright.”
He looked toward the old buildings ahead of them, “It’s like… you stand there, and you know people before you stood there too. They were worried about different things, but maybe not so different.”
Charlotte’s expression softened, “That’s a lovely way to put it.”
He smiled faintly, “It’s not very smart.”
“I think it’s very human.”
That seemed to please him more than she expected. They walked on, the morning opening slowly around them.
———————
The museum appeared at the end of the street almost without warning. Charlotte found herself slowing, as she always did. Even after all the years, the building never quite lost its ability to make her pause. The pale stone façade caught the soft morning light, and for a brief moment it stood almost alone before the city fully claimed it for the day.
The queue hadn’t quite formed yet. A few early visitors lingered near the front steps with takeaway coffees, while members of staff drifted toward a far less impressive entrance tucked around the side of the building. A conservator balanced a large portfolio beneath one arm as she hurried inside, pausing only long enough to hold the door for a colleague wheeling a padded crate behind her.
Charlotte smiled, “I like this part.”
Namjoon looked from the building to the people quietly moving around it, “The morning?”
She nodded, “It feels different.”
He watched another member of staff wave to the security guard before disappearing through the side entrance, “It does.”
For a little while, they simply stood there, watching the museum wake up. No announcements. No crowds. No guides holding coloured umbrellas above their heads. Just people arriving for work.
“I never really think about museums before they open,” Namjoon admitted.
“I don’t think many people do.” Charlotte’s eyes followed the conservator she’d noticed earlier, “They’re easy places to visit.” She smiled faintly, “It’s easier to forget someone has to look after them.”
Namjoon found himself watching the staff rather than the building itself. The security guard greeted everyone by name. Someone arrived carrying fresh flowers. Another stopped halfway through the courtyard to help a colleague who’d dropped a folder full of papers. It looked less like one of the world’s most famous museums…and more like people simply going to work.
“I like this better,” he said quietly.
Charlotte looked at him, surprised, “So do I.”
She turned toward the narrower path leading around the side of the building, “Come on.”
After a few steps she stopped, an expression of realization crossing her face, “…Actually.” She looked from Namjoon to his manager and the security officer walking a respectful distance behind them, “I’ve just realised I’ve made a rather large assumption.”
His manager smiled, “What assumption?”
“That I could borrow him for a little while.” She laughed softly at herself, “I probably should have asked before deciding to show one of the world’s most recognisable people around a closed museum.”
The manager chuckled, exchanging a quick glance with security, “We’ve still got some time.”
Charlotte looked genuinely relieved, “I promise I’ll give him back.”
“I have no doubt.”
She smiled before reaching into her coat pocket and pulling out her staff pass, “There’s something I’d like you to see.” She glanced at Namjoon, “I’ve never actually shown it to anyone before.”
———————————
Charlotte led them through the museum without ever needing to think about where she was going. Years of walking the same corridors had turned the route into instinct. She no longer noticed the turns or the staircases, only the people she passed along the way. A conservator carrying a portfolio smiled in greeting as they crossed the central hall, while one of the security officers looked up from unlocking a gallery and offered a familiar wave
“Morning, Charlotte.”
She looked up and smiled, “Morning.”
David held the heavy gallery door open as they passed, offering Namjoon a polite nod before returning to the keys hanging from his belt.
Charlotte murmured a quiet, “Thank you,” as she walked through.
“Any time.” The conversation ended as naturally as it had begun, each of them continuing on with the quiet rhythm of a working morning.
Namjoon noticed the ease with which she moved through the building. At the gala, Charlotte had been composed and professional. During their walk through the city, she’d been thoughtful, quietly curious about the world around her. Here…Here she simply belonged. She knew which floorboards creaked beneath their feet. She slowed instinctively to allow a conservator pushing a padded crate to pass before stepping aside again without either of them needing to say a word.
A cleaner smiled as Charlotte stopped to hold open a heavy oak door, “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
It struck Namjoon that nobody seemed surprised to see her. She wasn’t the curator. She was simply Charlotte. Someone who had become part of the building itself. He found himself smiling at the thought.
“What?” Charlotte had noticed.
He shook his head, “Nothing.”
She looked unconvinced, “You smiled.”
“I was just thinking…” He searched for the words, “…everyone knows you.”
A quiet laugh escaped her, “I’ve worked here a long time.”
“It feels like more than that.”
She looked around almost absently, “I suppose museums are rather small communities. You spend enough years with the same people…” She shrugged lightly, “…they become part of your everyday life.”
Before he could answer, she slowed outside a gallery he might have walked straight past without a second glance. There was nothing especially remarkable about the entrance. No grand sign. No gathering crowd. Just a pair of tall wooden doors standing slightly ajar beneath a simple brass plaque.
Charlotte rested one hand lightly against the door, “This is the room.”
Namjoon looked at her, “The one you wanted to show me?”
She nodded, “I come here every morning.”
There was something almost shy about the admission, as though she wasn’t entirely certain why she had decided to share something so personal, “I don’t always stay long.” Her fingers lingered on the edge of the door, “Five minutes, perhaps.” She smiled to herself, “Sometimes less.”
Without another word, she pushed the doors open. The gallery beyond was almost empty. Morning light streamed through the tall east-facing windows, filling the room with a soft golden glow that hadn’t yet reached the overhead lights. Dust drifted lazily through the beams of sunlight, turning the quiet air itself into part of the exhibition.
At the far end of the gallery hung an enormous landscape. The river wound gently through rolling countryside beneath an expansive English sky while riders gathered along its banks, their horses caught in the stillness of an ordinary morning. It wasn’t dramatic. There were no storms, no battles, nothing demanding attention. Only quiet. Only light.
Charlotte crossed the gallery without speaking. She stopped several feet from the painting—not directly in front of it, but slightly to one side—and folded her hands loosely in front of her. Namjoon joined her.
The gallery remained quiet around them. Morning had begun elsewhere in the museum. Somewhere beyond the closed doors, footsteps crossed polished stone before fading into another corridor. A radio crackled briefly. Someone laughed. Then the building settled once more into the gentle rhythm of people preparing it for another day.
Charlotte didn’t seem to notice any of it. Her attention rested on the painting before them.
Namjoon let his eyes travel across the enormous canvas. It was unmistakably English. The River Thames curved gently through the landscape, reflecting a sky still touched with the cool blue of morning. Riders gathered along the riverbank while horses drank from the water’s edge, the countryside stretching quietly into the distance beneath towering trees that framed the entire composition.
Nothing about it demanded attention. There was no great battle. No royal procession. No dramatic storm rolling across the horizon. It was simply a peaceful morning beside the Thames. For some reason, he found himself unable to look away, “It’s beautiful.”
Charlotte nodded, “It is.” She didn’t elaborate.
After a moment, he looked at the small brass plaque mounted beside the frame, “A View of Henley-on-Thames.” His eyes moved to the final line beneath the title, “Royal Collection.”
“It’s on loan from Windsor.” There was a quiet pride in her voice—not ownership, but gratitude, “We’ve been trying to bring it here for nearly two years.”
Namjoon turned toward her, “You worked on that?”
She nodded, “Not by myself.” A small smile crossed her face, “There were a great many meetings, an alarming amount of paperwork, and more emails than I’d care to remember.”
He laughed, “So this is your reward.”
She looked back at the painting, “I suppose it is.”
For a while they stood together without speaking. Namjoon noticed then that Charlotte wasn’t really looking at the painting anymore. She was watching the floor. Or rather…the narrow band of sunlight slowly making its way across it.
His gaze followed hers. The morning sun reached the edge of the gallery first, stretching long fingers of light across the oak floorboards. It moved so gradually that the change was almost impossible to see until, minute by minute, it finally touched the gilded frame.
Charlotte smiled. Not because anything remarkable had happened. Because she knew what came next.
The light climbed slowly into the painting. It caught the river first. The surface of the Thames, which had looked cool and still only moments before, seemed suddenly to breathe. Silvery reflections softened into warm gold, the painted water beginning to shimmer as though the river itself had remembered the morning it had been painted. The sunlight continued across the landscape, brushing the grass, then the horses gathered along the bank, before finally finding the upper branches of the great trees that framed the scene.
The transformation was almost imperceptible. Had Charlotte not been waiting for it, most visitors would have walked straight past without ever knowing it happened.
She spoke so quietly it was almost as though she were afraid of disturbing the moment, “For about five minutes every morning…” She never took her eyes from the canvas, “…the light falls almost exactly where John Wootton painted it.”
Namjoon found himself looking at Charlotte instead. The careful curator from the gala had disappeared. The thoughtful woman who had spent the morning guiding him through London wasn’t here either. This Charlotte asked for nothing. Expected nothing. She was simply standing in front of a painting she’d helped bring across the country, watching the sunrise find it exactly as it had the morning before.
And, somehow… That quiet happiness settled over him too. His thoughts, so often racing from one idea to the next, seemed to slow until there was room for nothing except the light moving gently across the river.
Charlotte finally glanced toward him, “I know.” She smiled almost apologetically, “It’s a terribly small thing.”
Namjoon shook his head, “No.” He looked back at the painting, “I think…” He searched for the right words, “…small things are usually the ones we remember.”
Charlotte’s smile deepened, “I was rather hoping you’d say that.”
Neither of them spoke again. They simply stood together while the morning light completed its slow journey across the Thames, knowing that in another few minutes the spell would be broken as the museum opened its doors and the gallery filled with visitors who would admire the painting without ever realizing they had missed its most beautiful moment.
The silence lingered until a quiet voice drifted into the gallery.
“Namjoon-ssi.” His manager stood just inside the doorway, offering an apologetic smile, “I’m sorry to interrupt. We should probably head back if we’re going to stay on schedule.”
Namjoon glanced at his watch and let out a quiet breath, “I didn’t realize the time. It goes quickly when you’re enjoying yourself.”
Charlotte smiled faintly at that, “I suppose that’s my fault.”
“Not at all,” his manager replied warmly. “Thank you for looking after him this morning.”
She rested her hand over her heart, “It was my pleasure.”
Together they walked back through the museum, now noticeably more awake than it had been when they’d arrived. Staff crossed between galleries carrying folders and coffee cups, conversations murmured from behind half-open office doors, and somewhere near the entrance, the heavy front doors unlocked for the first visitors of the day.
By the time they reached the staff entrance, the morning had settled into its familiar rhythm. Charlotte stopped beside the door, “Thank you for indulging one of my favourite mornings.”
Namjoon smiled, “No… thank you.”
There was a brief pause. Just reluctant.
“Charlotte?”
She looked up.
“Can I ask… one more question?”
Her smile returned, “I thought you liked asking questions.”
“I do.” He laughed quietly before rubbing the back of his neck, “You said something earlier.”
She waited.
“You said… you’d rather ask questions than pretend you know everything.”
Recognition softened her expression, “I remember.”
“I like that.” He hesitated for only a moment, “There are a lot of things I don’t know.” He smiled, a little self-conscious now, “I was wondering… would it be alright if we exchanged numbers?”
Charlotte blinked, visibly surprised, “My number?”
He nodded, “I think… you would be a good person to ask.”
A quiet laugh escaped her, “So this is entirely for educational purposes?”
He smiled, “…Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“I think your book recommendations would probably be better than mine.”
“I somehow doubt that.”
Still smiling, she reached into her coat pocket and unlocked her phone before offering it to him with both hands. The gesture caught him slightly off guard. He accepted it the same way, entering his number before carefully returning it.
“And if I have a question about Korea?” She asked.
He smiled, “Then you ask me.”
“I think that’s a fair arrangement.”
His manager glanced discreetly toward the waiting car outside, “Namjoon-ssi?”
He nodded, “Coming.”
Before leaving, he turned back to Charlotte and gave a small, respectful bow. She hesitated only a heartbeat before returning it, her inclination a little uncertain but entirely sincere.
His smile warmed, “See you again.”
“I hope so.”
She watched them disappear through the courtyard before turning back toward the museum, slipping her phone into her coat pocket as another member of staff called her name from somewhere deeper inside the building. Charlotte smiled to herself. By now, the sunlight would have moved on. So would the day. but the morning felt worth remembering.
SUMMARY: A quiet British art curator and a world-renowned songwriter discover they’re soulmates when a bond begins echoing the emotions they refuse to say aloud. As Charlotte and Namjoon navigate long distance, growing love, and the quiet belief that some people are worth preserving more than themselves, they learn that the greatest works of art aren’t always hung in museums—they’re the lives we choose to remember.
WARNINGS: Soulmate AU, slow burn, emotional angst, long-distance relationship, social anxiety, orphan themes, language barriers, suspense, threats of violence, injury , insomnia, swearing, eventual smut (18+).
Masterlist
----------------
Charlotte had always preferred walking to work. It wasn’t the quickest route to the museum, nor the driest on mornings when London lived up to its reputation, but she’d never minded adding twenty minutes to her commute if it meant seeing the city wake up.
London rewarded people who looked up. Most commuters hurried past the beautiful townhouse on the corner without a second glance. Charlotte never did. A small blue plaque beside the front door marked it as the former home of a naval cartographer whose charts had guided ships across the Atlantic more than two centuries earlier. Half a block farther on, a narrow alley disappeared between two modern office buildings. It looked entirely unremarkable unless you knew that it followed almost exactly the same route as a medieval lane that had once led merchants down to the Thames.
She smiled to herself as she crossed the street. Charlotte had never been able to walk through London without noticing the stories tucked between its buildings. History had a habit of hiding in plain sight. People only needed someone to point at it.
The city was quieter than it would be in another hour. Delivery vans unloaded fresh produce outside cafés, shopkeepers pulled open heavy wooden doors, and the smell of coffee drifted onto damp pavements still glistening from the night’s rain. Somewhere nearby, church bells marked the hour, their sound echoing gently between buildings that had watched London change for centuries.
Charlotte adjusted the canvas tote on her shoulder, the corner of a research file poking out beside a well-worn hardback book she’d borrowed from the museum library the previous afternoon. She made a mental note to return it before lunch. If she forgot, Margaret in archives would undoubtedly remind her with the sort of disappointed look reserved for people who mishandled sixteenth-century manuscripts. The thought made her smile.
The museum came into view at the end of the street, its familiar stone façade catching the first pale light of the morning. The banners for CROWN: Preserving a Nation still hung proudly on either side of the entrance, fluttering gently in the breeze.
She paused for a moment on the pavement opposite. It was an odd feeling, seeing people stop to photograph something that had lived almost entirely inside her own head for the better part of three years.
She wasn’t looking at a successful exhibition. She was remembering late evenings in the conservation studio, loan agreements that had taken months to negotiate, condition reports spread across her dining table, and the quiet excitement of opening shipping crates carrying objects she’d only ever seen in books.
Visitors saw the finished exhibition. She still saw the years it had taken to build it.
Crossing the street, she held the door open for a museum volunteer balancing two takeaway coffees, “Morning, Charlotte.”
“Morning, David.”
“You survived last night.”
“Barely.”
He laughed, “I thought you looked quite at home.”
Charlotte smiled as they stepped into the entrance hall together, “I assure you, appearances were doing a tremendous amount of work.”
David chuckled, already shaking his head, “I’ll believe that when I see you willingly attend another gala.”
“I’m hoping to postpone that particular miracle for at least a few months.”
The museum was still waking up around them. Security staff exchanged greetings with conservators carrying portfolios under their arms, cleaners polished the marble floors before the first visitors arrived, and somewhere deeper inside the building, someone had already switched on the radio.
Charlotte breathed in instinctively—Old stone. Polished wood. Paper. Varnish…Home.
She headed downstairs toward the conservation studios, entirely unaware that, across London, someone else had woken that morning thinking about museums before they opened.
———————
By seven o’clock, an entire floor of the hotel had already been awake for hours.
Garment bags bearing the Louis Vuitton logo hung from rolling racks outside the suites, stylists moved briskly between hair and makeup stations with coffees balanced in one hand and brushes in the other, and production assistants called out timing adjustments that somehow everyone seemed to understand despite three different languages being spoken at once.
To an outsider, it might have looked like complete disorder. In reality, it ran with remarkable precision. Stylists, photographers, managers and the members themselves moved around one another with the ease of people who had done this hundreds of times before.
Jungkook wandered into the lounge still carrying his breakfast, earning an immediate look from one of the stylists, “You are not getting egg on that jacket.”
“I won’t.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“I meant it yesterday too.” Laughter rippled through the room as Jungkook surrendered his plate with exaggerated reluctance.
Across the room, Hoseok was already camera-ready, patiently letting someone make a final adjustment to the sleeve of his blazer while Jin attempted to convince a photographer that his left side was objectively more handsome than his right.
“I don’t make the rules,” Jin declared.
“You absolutely do,” Taehyung replied without looking up from his phone.
“I’ve tried.”
Namjoon smiled to himself as he stepped around a clothing rack, accepting a coffee from one of the staff with a grateful nod.
There were interviews first. Then campaign photography. Behind-the-scenes content. More interviews. The schedule taped to the wall looked as though someone had challenged themselves to fit an entire week’s worth of work into a single day…Nothing unusual.
A production assistant appeared in the doorway, “We’ve got about ten minutes while they change the lighting.”
The room scattered almost instinctively. Somebody reached for snacks. Someone else disappeared in search of another coffee. Jimin wandered over to where Jungkook had reclaimed his breakfast.
Namjoon found the quietest corner he could and pulled a small notebook from his bag. He flipped past pages filled with crossed-out lyrics, unfinished thoughts, and fragments of melodies that had arrived at inconvenient moments over the past few months. Near the back, he stopped on a page he’d been returning to for weeks.
The verse wasn’t working. It wasn’t bad. It simply wasn’t honest enough yet. He uncapped his pen and read the lines again…Nothing.
He tapped the end of the pen lightly against the paper before letting his gaze drift toward the tall windows overlooking London. The city looked different in the morning. Grey. Unhurried.
For reasons he couldn’t explain, he found himself thinking about the museum before it opened. Not the gala. Not the exhibition filled with visitors. The quiet Charlotte had described. Conservators arriving with takeaway coffees. Footsteps echoing through empty galleries. Paintings waiting patiently for the first visitor of the day. He smiled faintly. He wondered what it looked like now.
The thought settled over him with an unexpected sense of calm. The constant awareness that usually sat somewhere in the back of his mind—the schedule, the interviews, the responsibility of making sure everyone else was where they needed to be—grew strangely quiet. It hadn’t disappeared. It had simply stepped back far enough for him to hear his own thoughts without interruption.
His pen moved before he realised he’d started writing. One sentence. Then another. He stopped only when he reached the end of the page.
For a moment, he simply looked at what he’d written. It wasn’t perfect. It never was. But it was closer. Much closer.
“Hyung.” Jungkook dropped into the chair opposite him, still chewing the last bite of breakfast, “They’re ready.”
Namjoon blinked, looking up from the notebook, “Already?”
“You’ve been writing for almost fifteen minutes.”
Had he? He glanced back at the page. It hadn’t felt like fifteen minutes.
Closing the notebook, he slipped it into his bag and stood, “I’ll finish it later.”
Jungkook grinned, “That’s a good sign.”
Namjoon looked at him.
“You only say that when you know you’ve finally figured something out.”
For a second, Namjoon considered asking how Jungkook could possibly tell. Instead, he smiled, “Maybe.”
Together, they headed back toward the set, where cameras were already being repositioned for the next series of photographs. As Namjoon stepped back beneath the lights, the quiet he’d been carrying dissolved almost imperceptibly into the rhythm of another busy day. He didn’t notice it leave. He only noticed, hours later, that it had been there at all.
————————
By mid-morning, the campaign had settled into a familiar rhythm. Photographs. Wardrobe changes. Interviews. Hair and makeup touch-ups. Then another round beneath the lights.
Every so often, the production team paused to adjust the set or change the lighting, giving everyone ten or fifteen minutes to breathe before the next sequence began. The members gravitated toward the talent lounge almost instinctively.
Jimin claimed the stretch of carpet nearest the windows, absently working through his hips while scrolling through his phone. Jin had somehow convinced one of the catering staff to part with an extra packet of crisps and was now insisting they tasted better because they were British. Hoseok leaned over a monitor with one of the photographers, laughing as they reviewed the morning’s campaign images, while Taehyung wandered through the room with the small film camera he’d brought everywhere lately, stopping whenever something caught his eye.
Jungkook dropped onto the sofa beside Avery, handing her the iced coffee he’d promised to bring back, “You remembered.”
“I always remember.”
She raised an eyebrow, “You do not.”
“I remembered today.”
“I’ll give you that.”
He grinned, pleased enough with the partial victory.
Across the room, Namjoon settled into an armchair near the windows. He reached into his bag, pulled out the notebook he’d been carrying all morning and opened it again, reading over what he’d written during the break. He didn’t add anything. He simply read the page once, smiled almost to himself, and closed the notebook.
Avery watched the movement without really meaning to. She’d known Namjoon long enough to recognize the difference between someone putting a notebook away because they’d given up and someone putting it away because they’d finally found what they were looking for.
She glanced at Jungkook, “Has he been writing all morning?”
Jungkook followed her gaze, “Pretty much.”
“Hm.”
“What?”
She watched Namjoon lean back in the chair, accepting a bottle of water from one of the staff with a grateful smile before looking out at the London skyline beyond the windows, “…He seems different today.”
Jungkook looked again, “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” She considered it for another second, “He just seems…” She searched for the right word, “…lighter.”
Before Jungkook could answer, Jin wandered over, still carrying his crisps, “What are we looking at?”
Avery nodded discreetly toward Namjoon. Jin followed her line of sight.
Namjoon looked up just as their eyes met, “What?”
Jin pointed at the notebook resting on his lap, “You finished it, didn’t you?”
Namjoon looked down at the notebook before smiling, “I think I did.”
“I knew it.”
“How?”
“You’ve stopped glaring at the page.”
The room laughed. Even Namjoon.
Hoseok looked up from the monitor, “Actually…” He studied Namjoon for a moment, “You’ve smiled a lot today.”
Namjoon frowned, “I have not.”
“You have.”
“I don’t think I have.”
“You definitely have,” Hoseok said with a laugh. “More than usual, anyway.”
Namjoon looked around the room as though searching for someone who might disagree. Unfortunately for him, no one did.
Avery smiled, “I like it.”
He looked at her, “What?”
“This.” She gestured vaguely in his direction, “You seem… happier.”
The word hung between them for a moment. Namjoon considered it, “Happier?”
“I don’t know if that’s the right word.” She tilted her head. “Maybe…less tired.”
He let out a quiet laugh, “I slept well.”
“Really?” The question came from Jimin, who looked genuinely surprised, “Actually…”
Namjoon nodded, “Yeah.”
“Huh.” Jimin smiled, “That’s nice.”
From the far end of the sofa, Yoongi looked up from his coffee. His gaze lingered on Namjoon for only a second before he gave the smallest nod, “Whatever you’re doing…” He took another sip, “…keep doing it.”
Namjoon smiled, “I’ll do my best.”
A production assistant appeared in the doorway, “They’re ready for you.”
Almost instantly, the room came back to life. Phones disappeared into pockets. Half-finished drinks were abandoned. Jin folded the empty crisp packet into a perfect square before dropping it into the bin on his way out.
As everyone filed back toward the set, Avery fell into step beside Jungkook, “I meant what I said.”
“What?”
She glanced back once toward Namjoon, who was already talking with one of the photographers, “I’m glad.”
Jungkook followed her gaze, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “…Me too.”
——————————
By the time they returned to the hotel, the novelty of luxury fashion had long since worn off. Everyone was tired. The kind of tired that came from smiling for cameras, repeating the same interview answers, and changing clothes often enough that nobody could quite remember which jacket belonged to which look anymore.
Someone—none of the members knew who—had ordered enough takeaway to feed twice as many people as were actually in the suite. The coffee table had disappeared beneath paper bags, cartons of chips, noodles, fried chicken, and enough sauces to start an argument.
As usual, very few people chose the chairs. Jimin sat cross-legged on the rug, his back resting against the sofa while he reached into the middle of the table without bothering to look.
Mina caught his hand halfway to her chips, “You’ve got your own.”
“I know.”
“So why are you stealing mine?”
“They taste better.”
“They’re exactly the same.”
“They’re yours.”
She sighed dramatically before sliding the carton toward him anyway, “You are impossible.”
“I’ve been told.”
Jin looked up from the opposite sofa, “Finally, someone else says it.”
“I’ve been saying it for years,” Jungkook replied.
“You’ve all been saying it for years,” Jimin corrected.
Laughter rippled through the room.
Across from them, Avery had claimed one corner of the sofa, her legs tucked comfortably beneath her as she listened to Jin and Taehyung argue over whether the photographer had intentionally captured Jin at his worst angle.
Without saying a word, Jungkook dropped onto the cushion beside her. He reached for her hand almost absentmindedly. Avery intertwined their fingers with his just as automatically, neither of them looking away from the conversation. It was such an ordinary gesture now that no one in the room paid it any attention.
“You made me look asleep,” Jin complained.
“You were asleep,” Taehyung replied.
“I was resting.”
“You had your mouth open.”
Hoseok leaned over to look at the photograph and immediately burst into laughter, “Hyung…”
Jin pointed accusingly, “I trusted you.”
Yoongi watched the exchange over the rim of his coffee, saying nothing as the room dissolved into overlapping protests. It was loud. Comfortably loud. The kind of noise that only existed when nobody felt the need to fill silence.
Eventually, the conversation drifted elsewhere. Hoseok glanced toward Yoongi, “When does Ellie get in?”
Yoongi looked up, “Thursday afternoon.”
“So she’ll make both shows.”
“That’s the plan.”
Jungkook grinned, “You’ve already checked her flight, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
The answer came so quickly that it took the room a second to process. Then everyone laughed.
“You weren’t even going to pretend you hadn’t?” Jin asked.
“No.” Yoongi took another sip of coffee, “I don’t see the point.”
Avery leaned lightly against Jungkook’s shoulder, “You’d do exactly the same.”
Jungkook looked genuinely confused, “I have.”
“You have?”
“When you flew to Seoul last month.”
Avery blinked, “…You tracked my flight?”
“I tracked your taxi to the airport too.”
She stared at him for a beat before laughing, “That’s somehow both incredibly sweet and slightly concerning.”
“I thought so too,” Yoongi said. The room erupted again.
Namjoon watched the exchange from his place on the floor, an easy smile settling across his face before he looked back down at his food.
Jin noticed first, “There it is again.”
Namjoon looked up, “What?”
“That smile.”
“What smile?”
“The one you’ve had all day.”
Namjoon frowned, “I’ve been smiling a normal amount.”
“You absolutely haven’t,” Hoseok said, “You’ve been suspiciously cheerful.”
Avery smiled as she looked at him, “It’s nice seeing you have a good day.”
Namjoon looked up from his food, a little puzzled, “I have good days.”
Before Avery could answer, Jin snorted from the opposite sofa, “You have productive days.”
The room laughed. Hoseok pointed his chopsticks toward Jin, “He’s right.”
“Those aren’t the same thing,” Jin continued. “You’re usually thinking about work, or music, or the next schedule before you’ve even finished the current one.”
Namjoon looked around the room in mock disbelief, “I didn’t realize I was being evaluated.”
“You live with six people,” Taehyung replied without looking up from the photographs spread across the coffee table. “Everything is evaluated.”
Even Yoongi smiled at that.
Avery simply shrugged, “Whatever the reason…” She smiled, “It’s nice to see.”
The room grew quiet for just a moment. Namjoon looked from one face to another, “I slept well.”
Jimin looked up, surprised, “Really?”
Namjoon gave a small shrug feeling like he was repeating himself today. Not understanding what the big deal was with his sleep habits (or usual lack thereof), “Yeah, I guess.”
From beside Jimin, Mina glanced up from her tea, “Good. You’ve been running on fumes lately.”
Namjoon opened his mouth as though to argue, then thought better of it. Maybe he had.
For a little while longer, the conversation drifted aimlessly between terrible British crisps, Taehyung’s photographs, and whether Jin had intentionally posed with his eyes closed in at least half of them. No one commented further that, for the first time in a long time, Namjoon wasn’t carrying the room. He was simply sitting in it.
——————————
The museum always lingered with her. Even after she returned home, changed into an oversized jumper and soft cotton trousers, and curled beneath the blanket on the corner of her sofa, traces of the day seemed to follow her. A conservation report rested unfinished on the coffee table beside a half-empty mug of tea, while a well-worn hardback lay open across her lap, its pages illuminated by the warm glow of the reading lamp tucked beside the window.
Outside, London had settled into its familiar evening rhythm. Rain tapped softly against the glass, buses rumbled through the streets below, and somewhere in the neighbouring building someone was practicing the piano with more enthusiasm than precision. Charlotte smiled despite herself.
She turned another page. Read the paragraph. Realized she hadn’t absorbed a single word. With a quiet sigh, she slipped a bookmark between the pages and closed the book.
Her mind drifted back to the museum. Not the gala. Not the speeches. The afternoon prior.
She thought about Jin’s effortless humour, how quickly he’d managed to make an entire room laugh. About Hoseok’s curiosity, moving through the galleries with an infectious enthusiasm that made everyone around him look twice. Taehyung had lingered over photographs almost as long as he had the paintings themselves, noticing reflections and light in ways she hadn’t expected. Jungkook’s questions had come one after another, genuine and unfiltered, while Jimin had studied movement in portraits with the quiet focus of someone who understood the body behind the brushstrokes.
And Yoongi… She smiled faintly. He had spoken the least, yet somehow managed to make every observation feel deliberate.
They had all surprised her. Not because they were famous. Because they had been… people. Curious people. Thoughtful people. People who had allowed themselves to be fascinated without worrying whether they looked knowledgeable enough. It had been refreshing.
Her thoughts settled, almost inevitably, on Namjoon.
She remembered the way he’d paused before speaking, as though he preferred to consider a thought properly rather than fill silence for the sake of it. The questions he’d asked hadn’t been designed to impress anyone. They’d come from genuine curiosity, each one building naturally on the last. She’d liked that. More than she’d expected.
Most conversations at galas left her counting the minutes until she could politely excuse herself. She hadn’t done that once with him.
Charlotte rested her head against the back of the sofa, listening to the rain. It was odd. She could still picture standing beside him on the museum balcony overlooking the city. Neither of them had been trying to entertain the other. Neither had seemed uncomfortable with the silence. It had simply… existed.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d met someone who treated quiet as though it deserved to be left alone. The thought made her smile. Not because he was a member of BTS. Not because of the gala. Simply because, in a city filled with millions of people, she’d happened to meet someone who seemed to understand that silence could be just as meaningful as conversation.
She reached for her book again, settling back into the sofa. This time, when she began to read, the words came a little easier.
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