c.

What does it matter. You’d be here either way, because you’ve made peace with knowing there are things that are built to last and things like what you and Yoongi have: things that make you hesitant, things that make you yearn, things that sit in your stomach all wrong, taste caustic on your tongue.

It’s logical, then, that you just need something to do. A distraction. You push yourself up from the couch with a sigh, joints cracking, and you feel old. Exhausted, more like; something bone-deep and not easily cured. You pass through the dining room on the way to the kitchen, and all those wedding photos taunt you. Happier times, the two of you smiling into a kiss, Yoongi’s hands on your waist, fingers tangled in chiffon.

You wonder which one of you will stay here after it all goes to shit.

Him, if you were a betting man.

You scrub at the dishes in the sink until your hands are nearly cracked from the scalding water. Yellow gloves sit unused on the counter—sometimes you want the burn because pain is familiar, and a physical pain is easier to solve than your failing marriage. So you scrub away the remnants of a dinner that found you and Yoongi eating in silence. Nothing to say to one another after another year gone by. Not much to look back on fondly. And then you scrub some more, like you could get rid of all the scabs inside of you just as easily.

Some things circle the drain and wash away. Others stain.

You already know which one Yoongi is.

From the living room, the muted sounds of a countdown. Palpable excitement you should be able to feel, but find only numbness instead. Yoongi must have changed the channel. There’s a supercut playing in your head, all the past celebrations. All the parties the two of you have gone to, the years spent alone but together. All the people you’ve kissed in front of. All the quiet, private ways Yoongi used to tell you he loved you. When was the last time? What does it matter. There’s seven seconds until the new year and Yoongi hasn’t come looking for you, so what does it fucking matter.

Fireworks explode outside. A sob wracks your body as you crumble to the floor. There’s a small puddle of dishwater that seeps into the hemline of your shirt. Yoongi hasn’t come looking for you and he can’t hear you, so there’s no one to witness your breakdown but the fucking dishes in the sink. Yoongi had chosen the countertops.

You’re going to miss this place when it’s no longer your home.

instincts are misleading / you shouldn't think what you're feeling / they don't tell you what you know you should want.

Kim Namjoon wouldn’t have been your first choice, if you’d had the luxury of choice.

You like him enough, though. Wicked smart, patient to a fault, pragmatic when it’s required. There’s not much more you could ask for in a marriage counselor besides not needing one at all, but that hadn’t been in the cards. The first time you and Yoongi had met him, you’d cracked a joke that hadn’t landed. The embarrassment of it still stings, made worse by the discomfort of the couch in his office.

“How are things?” he asks. He always dresses impeccably. Today he’s in a sage green sweater and tan trousers that must’ve cost a fortune to get tailored. Even his notebook is genuine leather; sometimes it squeaks when he jots down notes too fast, friction against the fabric of his clothing.

Yoongi is quiet. If you’re embarrassed over a joke, he’s embarrassed over everything else. At least you’re willing to work on things. Getting Yoongi to do anything these days is akin to pulling teeth, and you’ve got a mouth full of blood. “Fine,” Yoongi answers, eyes locked downward. Namjoon’s office has hardwood floors. Tigerwood, he’d said once. Yoongi had complimented them. That had stung, too.

Wicked smart. Namjoon turns to you, glasses slipping a little down his nose. “Would you agree with that?”

You wouldn’t, but the urge to make this easy on Yoongi is hard to fight off. Everything is hard. It’d taken him twenty minutes past midnight to come find you in the kitchen all those weeks ago, chest still heaving, eyes swollen. He’d been distraught, tried to kiss your tears away, apologized over and over like they were the only words he knew. Things aren’t fine, but at least you’ve been willing to fight, and the cost of that persistence feels like the weight of the world.

“No,” you admit, and Namjoon just nods. Writes something down. You don’t have the courage to look at Yoongi. Sometimes it’s easier to let go of a dying thing.

“Okay. How were the holidays?”

It’s hard to breathe around the lump in your throat. All you want to do is hold Yoongi’s hand, scream at him, shake him and ask why he’s doing this to you. Why he’s giving up. Why you aren’t worth more effort—not worth it anymore, when you used to be. If he doesn’t love you anymore you’ve already said you’ll go, and he begs you not to, says he’ll do better, he’s sorry, please don’t.

“They were hard,” you answer, and Yoongi nods his agreement in your peripheral. “We didn’t exchange gifts this year. First time ever.”

“And why is that?”

Yoongi stays quiet. Like pulling teeth, you think, and there’s a flashbang of anger, resentment. Sometimes you want to hurt him. Sometimes you want to make him feel as awful as you do, want him to suffer, want him to atone. It isn’t fair, the things you think, and all you want to do is love your husband without guilt, without wondering if there’s someone out there who’d appreciate it more. Still, you’ve got a nasty streak, and you can’t help but press on the bruise. “Because I knew I’d be the only one.”

“Can you expand on that?”

You shrug. Pick at invisible dirt beneath your nails. “Yoongi said he’d be busy this year. I know what that means.”

“That’s not—” Yoongi sighs, cuts himself off. Runs his hands over his face, sick of this same argument. “Baby, that isn’t fair. I asked you if you wanted to do gifts this year and you said no.”

The laugh that bubbles out of you is derisive, cruel. You’re sick of the same arguments, too. Sick of feeling stuck, some helpless animal in a glue trap. Sick of this office, with Namjoon’s priceless art that doesn’t mean a fucking thing to you; the tigerwood floors that got nicer words out of Yoongi than you have in months; the low thrum of the baseboard heat. Sick of asking Yoongi what you can do, what you can change to make this work, and getting nothing besides a self-deprecating sigh.

Yoongi loves you. Doesn’t want to hurt you. Doesn’t want you to put those kinds of burdens on your shoulders, but taking on all that water himself does nothing but make the both of you sink.

He’ll write about it, though. That’s the thing. Yoongi will write about it, and it used to bring you comfort—listening to those old songs, an aural timeline of your and Yoongi’s relationship. The shy sounds of falling in love, the tinkling of a ring in a dish, the inevitable crash and burn. All those songs aren’t so comforting anymore, when you’d do anything to keep him and Yoongi’s got one foot out the door.

“Because I listened to the song,” you say, and it should feel relieving, should alleviate some of that weight you’ve been carrying around. Instead, you just feel guilty, confessing to some cardinal sin. Yoongi goes stock-still, doesn’t dare to breathe, spine straighter than it’s been in years, and all you feel is guilt.

Namjoon quirks an eyebrow. “The song?”

this is the moment that you know that you told her that you loved her, but you don't / you touch her skin and then you think that she is beautiful but she don't mean a thing to me.

“It wasn’t meant to be about you,” Yoongi says, and his words are pleading, like if he uses the right inflections he can get you to understand. “It was just—shit, I don’t know, I just. I was just writing. I needed to do something with the way I was feeling.” His words take on more panic the longer you’re quiet, and by the end there’s a dazed look in his eyes. They’re taking on water, too. “Baby, please. Did you really think—”

This isn’t the kind of argument meant for an audience, and you’d said as much in therapy. Told Namjoon you’d like to discuss it with Yoongi in private and maybe you could all hash it out during your next session, because you knew this would happen. Knew you’d break down, knew you’d be embarrassed. How do you say your husband wrote a song about not loving you anymore and make it out still feeling whole? How do you swallow all that anger and remember all that bullshit Namjoon had taught you about how to communicate? Your stupid fucking “I” statements.

“Silver Lake?” you retort, resentment burning in your veins. “That wasn’t supposed to be about me? What, are you fucking someone else out there?”

Your husband looks like you’ve slapped him, and sometimes you want to. Sometimes you want to opt out of this life—where they’re just words to Yoongi, but a little too biographical to you. Because you’re not the only one who listens. Yoongi writes these songs and people listen to them and they think, isn’t he married. They think, did he really write a song like this about his wife. They think, that’s a little fucked up. Because they’re just words to Yoongi, and the rest of the world doesn’t know. They’re not in on the joke, and neither are you.

There are few words you can use to explain your hurt. How you’ve sat with that song these past few weeks, scouring each line for something to tell you it hurts now, but it’s going to be okay. Always coming up empty. Those lines you’ve fixated on, refused to let go of—

So when you ask, "Is something wrong?" I think, "You're damn right there is, but we can't talk about it now.”

—because that’s how it is, how it goes.

“This is my fucking life, Yoongi.” There’s only heat where there used to be patience. “You write these songs and you don’t spare a single thought for how they might affect me. You write these songs instead of talking to me, and I’m supposed to know how to fix everything, right? Aren’t I? You can’t even tell me how to fix this fucking marriage, but you’ll write a song about how I don’t mean a goddamn thing to you.”

There are tears rolling down your face. You hadn’t realized you started crying, but everything feels wet, feels wrong. Feels like you’re occupying a body that isn’t yours. You’re having this argument in someone else’s bedroom. You’re watching someone else’s marriage fall apart. Someone else’s life. “Either help me fix this and put in the work or let me go.” Everything boils over eventually. There’s only so much you can stave off before the inevitable, and now it’s come for you. “Please.” You choke on a sob. “Yoongi, please, I’m so tired.”

And Yoongi—Yoongi’s got a lot of nervous habits. Little things he does when the anxiety gets to be too much, and there’s one you share, one of those couple things where you pick up one another’s mannerisms, ways of speaking, specific inflections. Yoongi fidgets with his wedding band, pushes it up to that knobby fourth knuckle with his thumb, twirls it around.

Usually, when he pushes it far enough, there’s a strip of even paler skin. A place the sun hasn’t touched; a place that bears proof that Yoongi is yours. Yoongi pushes his wedding band with his thumb and that strip of skin matches the rest, and it strikes someplace deep that’s irrational and unfair. Because it makes sense that there isn’t a discrepancy, that everything is uniform. It makes sense, but everything is so fragile that the thought comes unbidden. Maybe there’s no discrepancy because Yoongi isn’t wearing it. Maybe there’s no discrepancy because Yoongi has let go without letting go, and there’s nothing to salvage, no point in begging, in putting the gun in his hand and forcing him to make the decision. It all tastes sour, tastes like your tongue has crumbled to ash, but—

“I’m not letting you go,” Yoongi responds, words just as waterlogged as yours. “I can’t. I won’t.”

“But you want to,” you say, and it sounds like a conclusion but you mean it like a question. A plea. Perhaps that’s the crux of it: you just can’t say what you mean. Sometimes Yoongi’s honesty feels like a brand, a permanent reminder of everything he’s ever felt that you’re forced to carry, but at least there’s honor in that. At least Yoongi doesn’t talk in fucking riddles.

He shakes his head. “No.” At least there’s conviction in his words. “No, I don’t. This is just—it’s hard right now, okay. It’s hard and it fucking sucks, and I don’t know why, but I’m not—” He sucks in a breath. Sometimes Yoongi can’t say what he means, either.

“Just say it, Yoongi.” So, you prod. Sometimes you find the most mottled bruise on his body and you press on it, because when you love someone the way you love Yoongi, you also know all the ways to hurt them. Sometimes you hurt Yoongi when you mean to hurt yourself because it feels the same.

“What do you want me to say,” he answers, defeated and raw. “Tell me what you want me to say, because if I didn’t know better, it’d sound like you wanted me to leave. It sounds like you want that but you want me to be the bad guy. You want me to pull the trigger.”

You don’t. You know that for certain, just by the way it feels excruciating to merely think about. What would your life even look like without Yoongi? What would it be? But you’re still that caged animal. Still resentful of Yoongi’s composure, because you can fall apart at a moment’s notice and Yoongi is always calm, prepared; always the last building standing in a hurricane.

“I don’t want that,” you say, borrowing a bit of your husband’s honesty, his fortitude, “but I need you to know that’s where we’re at. I need you to be able to say it, instead of treating it like it’s some impossible thing—“

“It is,” Yoongi argues, brows pinched, lips pouted. “Baby, what are you saying? It is. Why wouldn’t it be? That’s what you want?”

“You don’t write songs like you did about someone you’re not planning on leaving, Yoongi. I don’t know how you don’t understand that. I don’t—how can you think it’s impossible? You think I’ve just been doing all of this for fun? The therapy, the crying? You think I haven’t already—” Mourned the end of my marriage, you want to say, but you can’t. You need to be realistic. You need to say what you mean, and even if it’s true—even if you’ve mentally divided up everything in this house, thehouse itself—it doesn’t do you any good to create new wounds when both of you are already beaten and battered.

“You’re my fucking wife,” comes Yoongi’s response, and the way he says it feels dirty. Yoongi calls you his wife the way lesser men would use a slur, and sometimes Yoongi is composed but sometimes he’s angry. Sometimes he’s so angry the world becomes too small to contain him. “I’m not gonna—you’ve already what? Given up? Checked out? It’s not fair, this thing you do. Decide how things are gonna play out before they even happen. It’s fucking bullshit. You’re my fucking wife, and the least you could do is give me a little credit—”

“Oh, that’s rich.”

Yoongi’s pupils blow wide. Sometimes you think they’re the darkest thing in the universe. Vantablack. “Yeah, it is. It is fucking rich.”

“At least I’m trying! At least I’m doing something, not just writing little fucking songs about how much I don’t care about you.”

Yoongi slams the door behind him.

For the first time, you wonder if he’s coming back.

i am waiting for that sense of relief / i am waiting for you to flee the scene / as if you held in your hand the smoking gun / and on the floor lay the one you said you loved.

You feel him before you hear him, and he doesn’t wake you up.

It’s dark. Probably sometime between one and two, judging by the pillar of moonlight creeping in through the curtains. Yoongi is quiet as he moves around the bedroom, still so considerate even now, and you just watch. Jeans removed one leg at a time, hung neatly in the closet; socks removed one by one, into the hamper; flannel unbuttoned with calloused fingers, dropped on the floor. He’ll pick it up tomorrow, just like he always does. Down to just a t-shirt, neckline loose and stretched from overwear, and black briefs.

Moonlight suits him, you think. (You’ve always thought.) Casts silver shadows on his skin, fills in the contours, lends credence to the thought that Yoongi is something ethereal, someone wasting his time on earth.

He’s down to a t-shirt and briefs, and he hesitates. Takes a step toward the bed and thinks better of it. Doesn’t know what to do in this liminal space, in this liminal period of time. There’s only two ways to go, and Yoongi will either leave or he’ll stay, and right now he doesn’t know which one it’s going to be.

“Yoongi,” you say, and you try to make the decision for him. “You’re home?”

You see him swallow, watch his shoulders slump. “Yeah,” he says, and it’s quiet like the nighttime. You’re in the middle of the city and this moment is so quiet. “I’m—did I wake you? I’m sorry, I just—”

“No,” you answer. You don’t want to fight. “You’re fine. Do you—are you coming to bed?”

He nods. Seems to fold in on himself just a little more. “Yeah. Yeah, just have to brush my teeth.”

There’s the padding of feet on hardwood. Something that sounds like a stubbed toe. A loud curse. The flick of the bathroom light, the faucet, spit. The padding of feet on hardwood, then the bedroom rug. The depression of the mattress, his phone plugged in and discarded carelessly on his nightstand. An exhale, like he’s finally home after a long day.

Does Yoongi still consider you his home?

“I’m sorry,” you say. Still quiet, just like the nighttime. “I don’t want to fight with you.”

You hear Yoongi swallow again. Smell just the faintest hint of alcohol. “No one’s fighting, baby,” he answers. Woven into his words is a softness you don’t deserve. “We can talk about it in the morning.”

“Can we talk about it now?”

Yoongi suits the moonlight, but so do you. It makes you brave. Sometimes things are easier to say in these in-between spaces: love and heartbreak, midnight and morning. Sometimes the sun is too reflective, and sometimes it burns.

“Do you want to?” You nod, even though instinct tells you to shirk away and take it back. A small piece of honesty to work yourself up to something bigger, more consequential. “Okay.”

Sometimes you get what you want and aren’t sure what to do with it, so you roll onto your side, the one facing your husband, and suck in a breath. Hold it. Count to five. Let it go. Yoongi reserves all his patience for you, always. “I’m really scared, Yoongi.”

His sigh is fractured, watery. “Me too,” he admits. “There’s a lot I want to say and I just—I don’t know how. Which makes it worse, I know, and then I don’t know how to fix it.”

Is that why… “The song?”

Yoongi nods. “I needed to get it out. Like, some call of the void shit, you know? Put those big fears into words in a way that—it doesn’t make sense, looking back, because I thought it was just an outlet. Just, write this hypothetical song about the collapse of our relationship because it fucking terrified me and then let it go. Like how sometimes Namjoon tells us to write letters to each other and burn them.” He fists the duvet. Moonlight gleams off his wedding band. “I’m sorry. I need you to know it wasn’t real… like that.”

“Okay.”

“I—you were right. About the other thing. About me not being able to say it.”

“Can you now?”

Yoongi shakes his head. “I don’t think I can. Makes it real.”

“You also can’t stand in a burning house and pretend it’s not on fire.”

That gets a laugh out of him. Sardonic, a little self-deprecating, but it’s there. “Is that where you’re at? With me.” He makes a sound that’s a lot like a whimper. “Divorce.”

“I don’t want to be,” you answer. Another small truth leading up to a bigger one. “I’m trying not to be.”

“But you are.”

Shakily, you nod. “Yeah, I am. Things just aren’t… they’re not working, even though I’m trying, and I just.” Yoongi’s hand finds yours. It’s sweat-slick and cold. “Sometimes I think it’d be the kind thing to do. Put us both out of our misery.”

“Relationship euthanasia.”

“Yeah, kind of. It’s funny, you know. My vet always used to say you’d know it’s time when there’s more bad days than good, so I guess that really is the best way to put it.”

“What would that even look like?”

You want to say you don’t know. That you haven’t thought about it. Is this the call of the void again or is this for real? But the twilight makes you honest, so you tell the truth. “I would leave,” you say. “I wouldn’t be able to stay here, and I couldn’t ask you to go. It’s always been more your space than mine.”

Yoongi hums an agreement. Not cruel, it just makes sense. “I’m not tied to this place,” you continue. “This city. This state. I’m not sure I’d be able to stay, knowing you’re still here in a house that used to be ours without me in it. But sometimes I’m scared I wouldn’t be able to leave, either.”

“You could,” Yoongi answers. When you look up, he’s crying. Cheeks streaked with tears, eyes swollen. “You can do anything, you know? You’re so much stronger than me. You could do the hard thing and be okay. It’s part of the reason I’ve been so scared to have this conversation. You might leave, and you’d be okay, and I wouldn’t.”

“Yoongi...”

“I know you’re tired,” he says, voice laying his own exhaustion bare, “but I want you to be happy. So I will—I’ll let you go, if it’s what you want.” He’s crying harder now, staccato sobs wracking his body, making him smaller. “I don’t want to,” he whispers. “I don’t think I can, but I will. For you. If it’s what you need. If it’ll make you happy.”

You can’t stand it. “Yoongi, no.” You’re on your haunches, wiping furiously at his cheeks, thumbing beneath his eyes. “Being apart from you would never make me happy.”

You’re in his lap. He’s still too anxious to reach out and touch, maybe still a little scorned, and his hands lay at his sides. Twist into the duvet again. You want them on you. You always want Yoongi on you. “Tell me how to fix this,” he begs. “Tell me and I’ll do it, I promise, baby, please just tell me. I can’t—I don’t want to—”

“Yoongi.” He looks up, meets your eye. Moonlight suits him. “Something has to change, and you know that as well as I do. We can’t keep going like this, but just—just meet me in the middle, okay? Help me. Let’s start there.”

“Okay,” comes his automatic response. He’d agree to anything right now. Take any lifeline. And then the words sink in, and the sobs taper off but he’s still got the shakes, so you hold him. Wrap him in your arms and just let him breathe. “Okay,” he repeats. Measured. Considered.

Still standing, even after a hurricane.

i need you so much closer, so come on.

Morning comes, and with it—tenderness.

Also the mug of coffee on your nightstand, Yoongi’s hand splayed on the swell of your hip, the warmth that seeps into your skin. He’s typing away on his phone with the other, and he abandons it to pull you closer when you stir.

“Morning,” you murmur. Yoongi’s reply rumbles against your back.

“S’the afternoon, baby.”

Your laugh is abrupt, soft. Dissipates into the air as quickly as it’d arrived. “Okay. Good afternoon, then.”

Yoongi shuffles closer, adjusts so he’s pressed fully against your back. The hand that was on your hip moves beneath the hemline of your shirt. Explores the soft skin of your stomach, thumbs at the valleys between each rib. Yoongi’s touch is always laced with soft confidence; now, he still knows the way, still has the map memorized, but he’s reluctant.

You place your hand over his, move it higher. His thumb grazes the bottom swell of your breast and he sighs, presses impossibly closer still. “I love you,” he says quietly, like a secret. “Want you to know that.”

“I do,” you answer. He sighs again at your affirmation—more of an exhale, all relief—and drops his head to the crook of your neck. Presses a kiss there. The heat of him is almost disorienting, especially after being deprived of it for so long. “Haven’t been this close to you in months.”

He nips at your ear with his teeth. “I’ll make it up to you,” he says, and something stirs low in your belly. “Take a shower with me. I still smell like the bar.”

You snort. “Very sexy. Top tier dirty talk.”

He presses another kiss beneath your ear. “Please?”

“Let me drink some coffee first. I’m barely awake.” When you roll onto your side, Yoongi looks small, on the verge of dejection. Soft. You can’t help but smile. Can’t help but reach out to smooth the furrow between his brows, kiss away his pout. “I’ll be there, I promise. Give me five minutes.”

He wants to push it, you can tell, but he just says okay, baby. Presses one final kiss to your forehead before he’s gone, before the sound of bare feet on hardwood returns, before you hear the shower turn on, Yoongi’s low hum as he patters around and talks to himself.

You sit up and take stock. Your eyes are sore, head feels like it’s been split in two, but your heart feels… lighter. Scabbed over. Another battle fought and won, and even though the war isn’t over, you feel cautiously optimistic. Better than you have in a while, and you’re smiling when you press the coffee mug to your lips. Still warm, so Yoongi hasn’t been awake much longer than you. You wonder how many cups he’s already had, if he drank them black.

Half your cup is gone before Yoongi starts yelling from the en suite, complaining loudly that he’s cold and lonely, to hurry up. That he’s going to use all the hot water out of spite, but what if it gets too hot, what if he perishes in here and you have to live the rest of your life overcome with guilt. If it’s too hot, wouldn’t I perish too? you call back. Yoongi’s responding silence is so loud, but you fill it with a wild cackle.

“I’m gonna use all the nice shampoo!” he yells, but you’re already in the bathroom.

“And you’re gonna pay to replace it,” you retort, and he’s so caught off-guard that you’re there that he screams, drops a bottle on his foot, screams again. Up and off goes your t-shirt—Yoongi’s; smells like him and not a bar—and then you’re peeling off your underwear, tossing everything in the hamper. Into the shower. You reach out and touch Yoongi just so he knows you’re there even though he already does, but you press a kiss between his shoulder blades all the same. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he grumbles, all embarrassment.

Yoongi had insisted on a large shower. Something big enough for the both of you to fit in, and he’d blushed furiously when talking about it, but it was never anything sexual. You’d tried shower sex once, back in that shitty Silver Lake apartment, and never bothered again. But Yoongi craved the intimacy of showering together, the vulnerability, and over time you found it almost lonesome to shower by yourself.

So when he says, “Come here,” there’s enough space to maneuver beneath the spray, warm and not perishable-hot, and stand beside him. Enough space for Yoongi to rake his hands through your hair, get the strands wet; enough space to reach back for the nice shampoo he didn’t use all of; enough space for him to lather it in his hands and massage it into your scalp. A practiced song and dance. Something Yoongi could never forget the steps of.

Rinsed out, down the drain. Yoongi works in the conditioner next, brushes it through with his fingers, presses a kiss to your shoulder. “I was talking to Jin,” he says, and your mind is blank for a second. Then—when you woke up and he was on his phone. “About the cabin.”

“The one in Oakhurst?”

Yoongi nods. Turns you around so your back is to the spray, facing him. Lets the water rinse the conditioner away, too, before he’s placing a hand beneath your chin, tilting your face up. “Would you wanna go? Just us?”

“How long?”

A thumb settles in the contour of your cheek. Third finger traces the bridge of your nose. “However long you want. I—I don’t have anything, for a while. Could you work from there?”

You nod, a little delirious on how gentle Yoongi’s being with you. “Ye-yeah. Should be fine.”

You suck in a breath, shuddering as Yoongi brushes your rib cage when he reaches for the loofah. “D’you—” A pause. Time for you to swallow that familiar lump in your throat, keep from crying. “D’you think it’ll help?”

He pauses. Nods, so minutely you almost miss it. “I don’t know,” he admits, “but I want to try.”

“Me too.”

“Okay.” Presses his lips to yours. “However long you want, then.”

After he’s scrubbed the scars from your skin, the sadness, he wraps you in a warm towel. Stands behind you and wraps his arms around you as you both brush your teeth. Presses a kiss to your temple. Watches, so fond it makes you ache, as you dry your hair. Cracks little jokes about each product you use, says surely you don’t need all that, and you swat at him because you do. Because he uses just as many as you do, and sometimes uses yours. Tenderly takes the lotion from your hands and rubs it into your skin. His hands are firm when they run over your calves, your thighs, and your moan is quiet but it’s there, and you watch, mouth open, as Yoongi’s eyes flutter shut. As he takes a second to collect himself, breathe through it.

He just hasn’t heard that sound in a while, is all.

“Can I make it up to you now?” The words are spoken into your skin, pressed into the ditch of your knee, all warm breath skirting along your skin. “Show you how much I missed you? How much I love you?”

Goosebumps erupt all over. Dazed, you nod, and instead of words, you can feel the way Yoongi smirks. “Gonna take my time with you,” he promises. “Gonna take you apart. Would you like that, baby? Want me to take you apart?”

You meet your own eyes in the mirror, quick to forget where you are when Yoongi’s like this. You already look picked apart. Glassy eyes, mouth parted. The towel slips in your slackened grip and you dare another glance in the mirror, already knowing you’ll find Yoongi’s hungry gaze staring back, at full height.

“Look at you,” he chides, tone husky, and it’s not a shock that your husband wants you, that you’re both desirable and desired, but Yoongi is usually so unshakeable. Stable. Seeing him so affected from so little has you lightheaded, has your thighs clamping together unconsciously. “No.” Words firm. “Don’t hide from me.”

You reach back, still staring into the mirror, eyes still locked with Yoongi’s. Your hands tangle in his hair. Dark, longer than it’s been in so long, soft when you pull on it a little. Yoongi groans, buries his face in your neck, nips at the skin there. Through half-lidded eyes you watch as his hands roam your body. Feel the way he grows hard against the small of your back. Briefly, you think you might want it like this. Might want Yoongi to hike up the towel, bend you over the counter.

(Impersonal, because that’s what you’ve grown used to.)

But your hand finds his, slow their travel, lace your fingers together. “Not here.” He bites at your skin again and your whole body flushes when he begins to suck a bruise into your neck. “Yoo—Yoongi. No-not here.”

The bites slowly melt into something taunting, almost cruel. “You sound a little needy, baby.”

“I am.” You’re not embarrassed to admit it. It’s been so long you’re nearly aching with want, and you know Yoongi, know the kind of lover he is. The want is so strong you’re trembling with it. “Yoongi, please.”

Your words are hushed, meant only for the sanctity of this moment. Yoongi looks up long enough to catch your eye—long enough for the corners of his lips to pull into a smirk, to squeeze your hand tighter. “You don’t want it like this?” he asks, even though he knows your answer. But he still makes a show of it. Uses his free hand to grip the edge of your towel, drag it up and over your ass. Pauses to knead the flesh there before planting his hand in the center of your back and bending you over the counter. “Bet I could take you just like this, couldn’t I? Bet I’d just slide right in.”

The whine that escapes you is honestly pathetic, but you’re already so wound up, coiled tight, that you’re long past the point of caring. And you wonder, briefly, why you should care at all; why you care about the sounds you make, the way your body looks, when it’s Yoongi. When it’s your husband and not some random hookup. It’s that thought—this is my husband, my husband, my husband—that has your toes curling against the cold tile. It’s seeing the glint of his wedding band in the mirror.

“Do it here.” Your voice betrays your desperation. “Just—fuck, Yoongi, do it here, I don’t care.”

It’s maddening, the fact that he hasn’t even touched you yet. Not properly. But that’s the thing about space: sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes it’s a dying star, a supernova explosion, and you know what comes after. A black hole. Endless, inescapable, dark dark dark. That’s where the two of you are. That’s what all of this is, just a perpetual pull towards Yoongi, fated. Perhaps nothing more than gravity, but you let it reel you in nonetheless.

If the two of you are fated to go out the same way, the same dying star, you’ll go willingly.

“I’ll give it to you how you wan’ it,” Yoongi slurs. Leaves wet, open-mouthed kisses across your neck. “Get on the bed, baby, I’ll give you whatever you want.”

He’s on you before you even have a chance to drop the towel. Drapes his body over yours and presses you into the mattress, wraps one hand around your throat just to keep you there. Like you might leave. Like you might decide you don’t want this, don’t want him. As if you could. “Tell me what else you want,” he says, words unstable and wavering. He’s so fucking hard.

“Your mouth.”

He cock twitches at your words, your direction, and he smiles down at you in a way that makes you feel like you’re burning. “Yeah? That’s what you want?” A switch flips when you nod, chest heaving. Yoongi gets so serious, laser-focused, and it’s overwhelming when it’s pointed at you. You reach out, trace two fingers over his cheekbones just to make sure he’s real, and Yoongi captures them, presses a kiss to the center of your palm.

He’s not so gentle after that.

Yoongi moves slowly, intentionally, and you feel like prey, all part of the show. He trails his tongue down the column of your throat, the space between your breasts, your stomach. Spreads your legs and settles between them, places them over his shoulders. Stares. You can only imagine what you must look like: how wet, how open. His breath is so warm against you when he speaks. “You have to come on my tongue before you can have my cock.” He presses his thumb against your clit and circles slowly, and you can’t remember the last time he touched you like this. “Do you understand, baby?” A few months at least, maybe longer.

You nod. You’d agree to anything to feel Yoongi’s mouth on you, and he knows this, laughs before he leans in to lick a fat stripe against your slit. It’s instinct, the way your hands fly to his hair, trying to pull him closer. Having him here isn’t enough; you need to be consumed by him, need him to ruin you from the inside out, even though he already has. It’s also instinct, the way you know you belong to him, the way everyone who might come after him will pale in comparison.

As diligently as ever, Yoongi works you over. Eats you out so sloppily you can feel it pooling between your legs, seeping into the sheets below you, and the way he’s moaning around you makes you writhe. Has you gripping at the duvet, his hair, his hand. Has you rolling your hips against his face, groaning when Yoongi just takes it. When he says like that, yeah, so fucking hot, baby, love when you use me. When he reaches up to shove two fingers in your mouth and gives you no warning before he presses them inside.

“Fuck, fuck—”

Embarrassing, the way you can hear yourself, the way you can hear every wet pass of Yoongi’s tongue. Embarrassing that he’s only had his mouth on you for a few minutes and you’re already teetering on the edge. Embarrassing how hard Yoongi has to grip your hips to keep you where he wants you. Embarrassing that you welcome the bruises, want to be marked by him. “Are you close?” You think you nod. It’s hard to do much of anything when Yoongi crooks his fingers, presses firmly against your g-spot. “Is my beautiful girl gonna come from my fucking fingers? My mouth?”

(You are beautiful, but you don’t mean a thing to me.)

You try not to go there. You squeeze your eyes shut and try not to think about the words in that song, try to remember that’s all they are. If Yoongi had meant to hurt you, though, he’d hit his mark. Just words, you remind yourself, but they take you out of your body completely.

And it’s a funny thing, this almost-grief, because you’re hurting so badly it feels like you’re drowning, but with the pain comes guilt. What do you do when the person who cut you is the only one who can bandage it? What do you do with this pain when you want to talk it to death, make sense of it, but you don’t want to make Yoongi feel worse?

You hide—hide the pain, hide yourself.

You’ve gotten good at it over the last few months, too much practice, so you let Yoongi suction his lips around your clit and get you off just the way he said he would. You let him kiss you after, taste yourself on his tongue, and you think, This is what you deserve, I hope you taste like me forever, I hope it never washes away. You tug your lip between your teeth when you push him away and reach for his cock. Spit into your hand and say something dirty as you jerk him off, and Yoongi falls for it. Moans brokenly and thrusts into your hand, gets greedy just the way you had before reality humbled you.

“Ba-baby,” he whines, rutting a little harder, a little faster. Everyone gets selfish eventually. “Gotta fuck you.”

It should feel satisfying, seeing him desperate like this, seeing firsthand how badly he wants you, the fucked-out look on his face, but it all rings hollow. So you finish the show—push two fingers into yourself and coat Yoongi’s cock once more with your own slick—and roll over onto your stomach, arch your back the way you know he likes, and beg him to fuck you.

Yoongi falls for it. Yoongi pushes inside and groans, and you moan because you should and not because it’ll cover the sound of your sobs. Yoongi rolls his hips and lets whatever he thinks come out of his mouth, all filth, and it should do something for you but instead you’re wondering what he’d say to someone else. Would he fuck someone else like this? Would he be as desperate for it?

Eventually you forget to keep moaning but you don’t stop crying. You wonder if it should feel cathartic or if it’ll just feel like this forever. You think about New Year’s Eve and crying alone in the kitchen, how Yoongi hadn’t known. You think, I’m scared I could eventually hate him. I’m scared that line gets blurrier everyday.

“Baby?” Yoongi realizes this time.

You think, Another dying star.

“Did I hurt you?”

You think, Maybe I’ve already burned up. Maybe this is all that’s left.

“Baby, talk to me, please—”

You think, How many holes can you patch before it all sinks anyway?

“I’m sorry—”

You think, I’m scared of how much I want to hurt you. I’m scared I’m going to be angry forever.

Yoongi turns you gently onto your back. Takes a long, hard look at the tears rolling down your cheeks. Seems to commit them to memory. Starts crying, too, and it’s nothing more than vindication that doesn’t feel satisfying. Everything just tastes like ash: remnants of the supernova, the crash and burn, a thousand cuts.

Yoongi loves you. “Keep going,” you say, because you both need it. Not every problem can be fucked through, but you think this one can. “Please, keep going.”

Yoongi hesitates. Must find whatever he’s looking for as he stares down at you before he nods minutely and pushes back in. This is not the way you thought you’d heal, but there is only one way this is going to end, so you might as well. The first time was always going to be the hardest.

“I love you,” Yoongi says, and it’s raw. It’s real, the way he drops his head to the crook of your neck and cries. The way he finds your hand and laces your fingers together. His wedding band is cool against your skin. “I fucking love you. I’ll love you for the rest of my fucking life, you know that?”

He’s got something to prove. Wants to fuck devotion into you, wants to promise you impossible things. You wrap your legs around his waist and whimper, ask him to fuck you harder, but he doesn’t. Fucks you steady. “We’re gonna go to that cabin,” he rasps. “We’re gonna figure this out, and we’re gonna do all those things we talked about years ago. I’m gonna fuck you in every room in that place, just like this. I’m gonna make sure you know—even if you leave, you’re gonna know how much I love you.”

He’s going to be the end of you. “Yoongi.” He already is.

He moves your hand to your clit, tells you to make yourself come. Tells you he wants to see it. Fucks into you just a little faster, a little deeper, and you can feel the coil tightening again. Another supernova, you think as your body surrenders and shudders, and buries himself to the hilt and comes with you.

Sometimes space is a dying star, and sometimes it’s salvation.

and when i see you, i really see you upside down / but my brain knows better. it picks you up and turns you around.

There had been a time, years ago, when you and Yoongi would sit at your cramped kitchen table and pluck scraps of paper out of a bowl.

A lot had been left to chance back then. Probably too much, in hindsight, but that’s just the way life was. Carefree, a summer breeze, blissfully naive. The two of you were young and love-drunk and warm from the sun. Yoongi had worked endlessly—gigs for shit pay in shittier bars, overnights in his studio, fingers calloused from guitar strings and networking—to put a ring on your finger, nothing certain except how he felt about you, and that had been enough.

It’d gone like—

(“What’d you write on that one?” you ask, trying to peek over the bowl between you to see. Yoongi laughs, swats your hand away, says oh my god, go away, you’ll see if you pick it. “You’re no fun.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I’m no fun because I don’t want to spoil a surprise.”

“But you know what’s on all of mine!” you argue, and you feel more in love with Yoongi than ever, picking a place out of a bowl, leaving things to fate.

It’s your pout that does it. You jut out your bottom lip and turn on the puppy dog eyes, and Yoongi folds like a bad hand. Yah, yah, don’t do that! he says, laughing harder than before, covering his eyes with those calloused hands. There are so many stories in those hands.

So Yoongi laughs and unfolds his scrap of paper and pushes it in your direction. Refuses to meet your eye as you read it over, and you can’t figure out why he’s embarrassed of it. “Jin’s cabin? It’s up in Oakhurst, right? That’s only a five hour drive.”

“For a honeymoon, though?” Yoongi’s question is quiet, small. Still embarrassed. “Isn’t it kind of lame?”

“No, it’s not lame. You’ve wanted to go to Yosemite forever.”

“Yeah, I’ve wanted to go. And it’s mostly just for Horsetail Fall—”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, sighing dramatically. “Yoongi. Put it in the bowl.”

“But—”

“Put it in the bowl.”

A flush creeps up his neck but he listens nonetheless, re-crumpling the paper and tossing it into the bowl. You’ll be picking soon, and you know the odds are slim, but you put a silent hope into the universe for Jin’s little cabin in Oakhurst to be the one, to be able to do this one thing for Yoongi when he’s been working himself to the bone to do so much for you.)

—and it hadn’t worked out, that cabin trip. The two of you had gone to Italy, Yoongi having been the one to pull it, and you rented scooters and ate gelato and soaked in the coastline. You’d dragged Yoongi on a tour of the catacombs and he spent hours at the Roman Forum, reading all the plaques and taking it all in.

You hadn’t felt like you’d missed out. Time hadn’t been wasted, and you still look back fondly at those pictures—the one of Yoongi with powdered sugar on his nose from too much sfogliatella, the two of you at Lake Como, you with all the stray cats at the Gatti di Roma, one in your lap, all gray, that you said had looked like Yoongi.

But, going to that little cabin in Oakhurst now, it feels a little like redemption. It feels like the universe is handing you the keys on a silver platter, saying, it’s okay to do it again; even if you got it right the first time, who says you can only do it once. So you take a day off for the drive and your boss gives you the week; you pack as many clothes as you can fit in your suitcase; you set an alarm for seven o’clock and try to stay grounded.

First, though, you have to survive Namjoon.

“How are things?” he asks, folding one endlessly long leg over the other.

Beside you, Yoongi radiates nervous energy. Jittery but not anxious. The kind of pent-up energy a runner might have: in position, awaiting the gunfire before a race. Composed to a fault, it’s not often you see him like this. Maybe right before an album drop or a big show, but never in marriage counseling.

So it doesn’t feel like a lie or lip service when you say, “Better,” and Namjoon and Yoongi both swallow down the same kind of smile.

“And why is that?”

“We’re going on a trip,” Yoongi says, and this surprises you, too. Protective, fiercely private Yoongi. “To, um. A friend’s place. Up in Oakhurst.”

Namjoon looks excited. “Near Yosemite,” he says. Not a question. “Is this a getaway or just a change of scenery?”

You look at Yoongi; Yoongi looks at you. “I’ll have to work some of the time, so I guess it’s a little bit of both,” you answer, “but it feels… good, exciting. I’m looking forward to it.”

“Yeah?”

You’re fidgeting, digging imaginary dirt from beneath your nails again as your cheeks warm. “Yeah. I know Yoongi has wanted to go for a long time, so I’m excited for that. I think… I think it’s important for him to do something like that, right now. Something big, you know? Or, something that feels big, I guess. I think it’ll be good for him, and—”

“It’ll be good for us.” Yoongi’s correction is gentle, dandelion-soft. He can’t look you in the eye as he says it, but he doesn’t need to. His neck is flushed and Namjoon’s expressive enough for all three of you. “Anything that’s good for me is good for us.”

If you’re stunned, Namjoon is shell shocked. It lasts all of five seconds before he’s coughing to cover his grin, jotting down notes like a mad professor, and it’s a little tooreminiscent of the way your parents had pushed you out the front door on your prom night—that same brand of giddy excitement, like they knew something you didn’t. But, Namjoon is a professional before anything else, so he simply asks, “How long are you going?”

“TBD,” Yoongi answers again.

“You’re able to take the time off?”

Right back to earth. Another sore point, because sometimes, like now, it’s easy to forget who you’re married to; easy to forget when you’re the pinnacle of American suburbia—standard nine-to-five, family health insurance plan, a maxed-out Roth IRA—and Yoongi is anything but. It’s easy to forget when your lives are so different. When Yoongi’s got songs and albums to write, for himself and everyone else, and shows and tours to plan, for himself and when someone else needs him as a fill-in, and you’re gearing up for another half-year spent alone at home.

Sure, it sucks sometimes, but getting to watch Yoongi live out his dreams tampers down all that negativity. When it’s two a.m. in Los Angeles but midday where he is and he sends you pictures of whatever he’s doing, what he’s eating, candids of his tourmates, all the sights and sounds. Yoongi’s doing exactly what he’s always wanted, what he’s meant to, and it’s okay.

What’s good for him is good for you, after all.

“I, uh—” He pauses, rubs at the back of his neck. The flush is still there. “I put a pause on the stand-in work for the rest of the year. Told everyone I wanted to focus on writing and producing and… stuff. Everything else. Getting my shit together.” You can hear it when he swallows, can see the slight tremor of his hands. Yoongi has never done well when he’s not working himself to the bone—when he has too much free time to spend in his own head. “And I can do that from anywhere, so.”

Namjoon catches your eye over the rim of his glasses. Seems to ask a question you’re not sure the answer to so you just stare back, and then his attention turns back to Yoongi. “When you say ‘stuff,’ what do you mean?”

“Well, I wound up here, didn’t I?”

From anyone else, it would sound snappy and bitter, but from Yoongi it’s just… self-deprecating, wounded, like it’s nothing more than a personal failure. Like Yoongi is the only reason the two of you are in marriage counseling and not a million little things the two of you have done. “We,” you correct, dandelion-soft just like Yoongi had been, and his head turns toward you so sharply you worry his neck is going to snap. “Don’t do that, Yoongi.”

He’s stock-still, back uncharacteristically ramrod straight, jaw dropped slightly. “Don’t take on the full burden of this. We wound up here. It’s okay to say that.”

Namjoon tries so hard to hide another smile that his dimples look more like craters.

i roll the window down and then begin to breathe in / the darkest country road and the strong scent of evergreen.

“Hi.”

Yoongi is slouched in the doorway of your office, beanie pulled down low. Strands of curls stick out of the bottom and you shoot him a smile, distracted from your task of packing up your work equipment. “Hi. What’s up?”

“Are you all packed?”

You shrug. “Just about. I don’t really have that much stuff. Just my laptop and some files.” You eye him skeptically, already sensing where this is going. “Are you?”

Your husband pouts, and it’s such a pathetic expression that you swear you can feel your heart grow three sizes. “In my defense—”

“Oh my god.” You try to look stern, but a laugh bubbles out of you anyway. “Why do you always do this?”

“I don’t like packing,” he whines. “And I need help.”

“With what?”

“Some of my production stuff.” He pouts deeper, sends you an impressive pair of puppy dog eyes. “Please help me. You’re my only hope.”

“How much are you bringing?”

“Not that much,” he answers in a way that sounds like a promise. “I wanted to bring the Yamaha because the cabin has that screened in porch and I think the acoustics could be really interesting in there, but it’s really heavy—”

You sigh. Look down at your laptop and stack of paperwork and wireless mouse and sigh again, then nod your agreement, because it’s not the first time you’ve helped Yoongi lug his gear in and out of your place and it won’t be the last. You’ve all but perfected it by now.

The car looks more like you’re moving than going on a trip. Your neighbor’s such a shithead you’re surprised he hasn’t poked his head out by now and asked when the house is getting listed so he can buy it and flip it for three times the price. Another brainless capitalist shill, Yoongi always says, and you laugh to yourself as you force another duffel bag of god-knows-what into the trunk. And we’re his neighbors, so what does that say about us? you always reply.

It takes the better part of twenty minutes, but then it’s done and you’re left with sore arms and a sweaty brow. Yoongi looks like the weight of the world’s been lifted from his shoulders rather than his hefty digital piano, and the thankful smile he shoots at you is worth any price.

“Do you need help with anything?” he asks, and you shake your head.

“No,” you respond, picking up the stack of files only to drop them back down on your desk. “It’s really just my laptop and this stuff. I’m fine; go do whatever it is you’ve got left to do. I’ll take care of it.”

There’s a look Yoongi gets when he’s laser-focused. Intense, unmistakeable, intimidating, especially when it’s trained on you. That’s how he’s looking at you now: looking at the sheen of sweat on your skin, the way your tongue runs along your bottom lip, your mussed-up hair. Both of you know exactly what he wants, and it drives you a little crazy when he’s shameless like this. When he’s not shy about looking, about wanting.

So Yoongi bends you over your desk and fucks you right there, right in your office in front of the street-side window. It’s hazy and primal but he takes his time, does and says exactly what he wants, has you a trembling, incoherent mess in record time, and it works. You come so hard you don’t think about the song, you don’t cry, and those threads of optimism start weaving something you can hold in your hands.

—

“Shut it off,” Yoongi slurs, voice deep and raspy from sleep.

You snort, turning off your alarm, seven a.m. sharp, and roll over to press a kiss to his forehead. “Wake up, sleepyhead, I got breakfast.”

He opens one eye, looks at you questioningly with it, blinks in confusion. “How long have you been up?”

“A while. Now, come on, I ordered your favorite.”

That piques his attention. “The breakfast sandwich?” You nod. “And the little strudels?” You nod again. “Coffee, too?”

You grab the plastic cup and shake it, rattling the ice. “One large iced Americano, at the ready. I even got you one of those bottled horchata cold brews for the road, even though you swear you don’t like them.”

“They’re too sweet,” Yoongi answers. It might be early, but apparently not early enough to not lie right through his teeth.

You glare. “You steal mine every time I order one.”

“That’s not true,” he grumbles, accusations forgotten as he spots the greasy takeout bag. “I should brush my teeth first,” he whines, looking agonized. “I should, right?”

“Says who?”

“I don’t know. The universe or whatever.”

You laugh. Watch, fond, as he drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom. Watch, even more fond, as he returns with a little toothpaste on the corner of his mouth that you thumb away. Watch, hopelessly and forever endeared, as he buries himself back under the duvet, pulls it up and over his nose. You can see the way he’s pouting from his eyes alone, and he starts whining about the cold, how early it is, how the only thing that’ll cure him is a kiss.

Which you give. Freely, without thought.

(And the two of you barely make it to Santa Clarita before Yoongi cracks open the cold brew he didn’t want. Doesn’t say a word about it being too sweet, just sits quietly in the passenger seat, half asleep, as he scrolls through his playlists. Queues up something soft, easy to listen to, and talks your ear off about Jeff Beck when one of his songs comes on.

Beck’s Bolero, which is not as soft and easy as the songs that played before it, but it makes Yoongi’s eyes light up. Has him seemingly speaking in tongues as he spits guitar terms to you, half of Jeff Beck’s life story interwoven with endless praise and awe, all the while he drinks his horchata cold brew and doesn’t say a word about it being too sweet.

You want to listen to him for the rest of your life.)

—

Oakhurst is small.

Only two traffic lights before you reach the road Seokjin’s cabin is on—a sharp right turn off the main highway, an acute angle, a steep decline. You’re glad you’re doing this in early March and not the dead of winter. Doubly glad you’d ignored the judgmental stare Yoongi had given you at the car dealership when you’d insisted on an SUV, all-wheel-drive.

You’d know the cabin was Jin’s even without an address. Baby blue exterior, pink front door. Blends in but still manages to stick out, much like the man himself. More like a bungalow, maybe. Looks, from the outside, like the kind of place that might be good for starting over. Someplace small and unassuming—someplace with a screened-in porch with two rocking chairs. A place where you can drink coffee. Decompress from the city. A place where the only thing you know is Yoongi, so he’s your focus.

A place that makes you smile.

You kill the engine. Just sit in the silence for a moment, hesitant to wake up Yoongi. Unsure, honestly, how he’d slept through the last leg of the trip, all the hairpin turns and uneven roads, but you close the car door gently and punch in the lock code for the house and lug in everything except Yoongi’s gear and let him sleep. Then, when he stirs awake, looking confused and a little lost, you press a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth and gesture theatrically at the baby blue bungalow with the pink door and say, “Surprise! We’re here!” even though it’s not a surprise.

Yoongi laughs anyway.

There isn’t much to unpack, nor is there much space to put it. Only a closet in each of the bedrooms, so you dump everything out of your suitcase and thread your clothes through velvet hangers. Laugh at the thought of Yoongi doing no such thing—of Yoongi living out of his luggage for the next couple weeks, everything wrinkled and looking lived-in.

He comes and finds you, places a hand on your hip as he asks for the car keys, says he’s going to the store. Seokjin had stocked the pantry, but he wants to get fresh stuff, and you know that means he’s going to come back with more coffee than groceries. So you just nod, say okay, ask if he’d like you to unpack and put away his clothes. His nose scrunches; you hide your smile and leave it alone.

When he’s gone, you crack a window in the living room to air out the lingering emptiness. Suck in a mouthful of fresh air that seems to sting your lungs, all evergreen. There’s still so much to do, and you should probably stretch your legs after so long in the car, but the temptation to sink into the couch is strong. Seokjin’s got a soft blanket thrown over the back that you arrange over your legs, and then you’re asleep, some stupid paranormal show playing on the television to greet Yoongi whenever he gets back.

You dream of forgiveness, endless sprawling mountains, and the smell of coffee.

the rhythm of my footsteps crossing flatlands to your door / have been silenced forevermore. and the distance is quite simply much too far for me to row. it seems farther than ever before.

There’s a dive bar up the highway that does karaoke on Friday nights. You crack a joke about going.

“Fat chance,” Yoongi answers. He’s driving this time, and his hands are gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles have gone purple-white.

It shouldn’t mean anything. It doesn’t. Yoongi isn’t a dive bar karaoke kind of guy anymore. Left those days back in college, where you were suffering through your economics courses at USC and barely had two nickels to rub together. Yoongi would play open mics during the week just to cover the bus fare for the two of you to go into Koreatown on Fridays—enough to cover a noraebang for an hour, just to sing some girl group song horribly off-pitch just to make you laugh.

So it shouldn’t sting when Yoongi scoffs and says fat chance about singing karaoke at the dive bar when you drive past it, because Yoongi isn’t a dive bar karaoke kind of guy anymore. Now he’s the kind of guy who gets up on a stage and sings songs to thousands of people. They don’t laugh; they take pictures and videos and sing along to words he wrote, so it shouldn’t sting, and you try not to let it.

Instead, you focus on the blur of scenery: all the greens and browns; whites and deep grays from all the trees that have burned; the blue of the endless sky; the color of the asphalt, the edge of the world, like you could tip right over and disappear, nothing beyond the margins. Yoongi drives the thirty minutes to the park and it doesn’t sting, and you wonder if it’s just because it doesn’t or if it’s because you’re numb.

—

Yosemite is hard to put into words.

You feel small, wrapped in the expanse of the mountains, in this ancient nature that has existed long before you and will persist long after you’re gone. Maybe insignificant is a better word for it, because there’s so much to see—so much that’s known and unknown—and it feels like counting grains of sand. Feels like you could never possibly catch up.

So you sit on the ledge of an overlook and just exist. You don’t watch Yoongi take pictures on an old point and shoot, the one he’d ordered from Japan, because this is just for you. Whatever happens between you and Yoongi, these memories will only belong to you, and you don’t want to override something that’s happy with something that could eventually be sad.

The two of you get back in the car. The drive to Yosemite Village is slow, made even slower when you pass a bunch of cars pulled over. There, about thirty feet from the road, is a baby bear and a crowd. There’s a woman standing too close in order to take a picture and ten more people screaming at her for it. Yoongi looks awestruck when you catch his eye.

“I’ve never seen a bear before,” he says, and you nod. Neither have you.

Maybe you were a little stung before, about the karaoke, even though it’s stupid. But the fact that you and Yoongi have been together for so long and still manage to see new things together eases it a little. Plants a tiny, hopeful little seed.

All you have to do is water it.

—

The weather in the village is bitter cold.

Both of you are wrapped up tight, only your noses peeking out from between the layers of your scarves, tinged pink. Yoongi had wanted to go to Mirror Lake; didn’t seem at all deterred when he found out the shuttles were only doing basic routes so the two of you would have to follow the trail from the shuttle stop. Just under two miles. Hadn’t seemed so bad at the time, but now your lungs ache.

Snow and ice cover most of the lake. It isn’t as reflective as it’s known for, but you’re glad to experience it nonetheless. The sand crunches beneath your boots as you look for a log to sit on, the chill seeping through your clothing as you rummage through your backpack for a protein bar. Yoongi’s off taking pictures again, and it’s another moment you’re content to sit in the quiet.

Gives you time to take stock, figure out how you’re feeling. Instinct wants to say better, but you know it’s wishful thinking. Immature. The tendrils of hurt are still wrapped around your heart, and it’s only been a few days. Not enough time to hack them away. But you’re… at ease. For the first time in a while, it feels like you can breathe, and doing so doesn’t make you feel heavy, doesn’t weigh you down with guilt. Things might not be okay right now, not all the way, but you think your compass is finally pointed in the right direction.

Your husband joins you once he’s done. Doesn’t say anything, just sits beside you on the log and accepts when you offer him half of your protein bar. He’s got a nervous energy about him, like there’s something he wants to say but can’t figure out how to, and that feels familiar. That feels like the status quo. Two people who love each other but can’t figure out how to talk to one another.

So you say, “It’s gorgeous here,” and hope it’s enough. You’re not going to push him if he doesn’t want to talk, but it feels necessary to extend an olive branch. It feels necessary to try.

“It is,” Yoongi agrees. Rubs his hands together. Watches his breath dissipate in front of him. “It feels different.”

“What do you mean?”

A bird lands on a branch in front of you. Orange chest, vibrant blue on top; striking against the dreary backdrop of winter. You watch as it ruffles its feathers, shakes off the snow, and Yoongi cocks his head to the side. A guy who knows a little about a lot, full of knowledge, so you aren’t surprised when he says, “That’s a western bluebird.”

You hum an acknowledgment, because you know what it means to see a bluebird. You know the symbolism, but it feels a little too heavy to bear right now. “Pretty.”

“Yeah.” Then he’s sucking in a breath. Says, “There’s a ramen spot in Mariposa, if you’d wanna go there for dinner.”

It’s not what you were expecting him to say, but you nod anyway. “Sure. Whatever you want.”

Yoongi finally turns to you, then. Raises an eyebrow in question. “But is it what you want?”

“It’s just dinner,” you shrug. “Something warm will be nice after this.”

That nervous energy amplifies. Turns all those words clearly biting at the back of his teeth into a tangible thing. “Something warm—yeah, okay. Sounds good. They have matcha cheesecake.” He smiles, like he doesn’t want to but can’t help himself. “Seemed like something you’d like.”

Two things strike you, then: that your husband is always centering you in his world, even when the two of you are like this, and how badly it hurts that you can’t seem to talk to one another. Because you aren’t taking pictures with him because they might turn out sad, and Yoongi is choosing restaurants because they have matcha cheesecake.

And to hell with that, you think. Yoongi is your husband, and if you can’t talk to him then who can you talk to? So you sigh, say, “Look at me, Yoongi,” and you know there’s a fragment of surprise evident on your face when he listens. You know there’s a fragment of sadness on yours when you take in how exhausted he looks. Almost defeated. “Why can’t we seem to talk to one another?”

It must be what he was working up the courage to say, because his shoulders sag immediately. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I’m trying, but it’s just… I don’t know. Sometimes I’m scared I’m gonna say the wrong thing and that’s gonna be it.”

Your brows pinch. “Okay,” you say, because sometimes you aren’t easy to talk to. Sometimes you take things too personally, sort of revel in the hurt. You understand hesitation. “I… want to fix that. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t talk to me.”

Yoongi nods. “Yeah,” he eventually answers. “I do, too. We’re not really gonna fix anything unless we can talk to each other.”

“Yeah, true.” The bluebird chirps from its spot in the tree. Stares down at the two of you with these jerky little tilts of its head. “Do you think that’s our problem? How it got… like this.”

“I don’t know, baby,” he says again, and you immediately want to push back on it. I don’t know doesn’t tell you anything. Doesn’t tell you how to fix it, how not to let it get this bad again. But then he says, “It could’ve been anything, you know? A million things. I think—I know that doesn’t help you, but for me, it’s less important how and why we got here because that’s… gone. I can’t change it, and the more I dwell on it the more I spiral, so I’m trying not to do that.”

A stuttered exhale. “I haven’t felt present in a long time and I guess it just compounded. Like, once I realized something was wrong, it felt like I’d left it too long to try and do something about it. I knew you were hurt, and instead of trying to fix it, I’d just think, of course you hurt her, because you’re good at that.”

“That’s what you think?”

“Sometimes.” You reach over and take his hand, barely able to slot your fingers together with the thickness of your gloves. “I know I explained it to you before, but the song… it wasn’t honesty, it was self-destruction. Because I thought if all I do is hurt you, then you should be with someone who doesn’t do that. Someone who knows what they have and is able to hang onto it.” He hangs his head, guilt-stricken. “I don’t know why I wrote it. Call of the void shit, I guess, like I told you. I knew the whole time it was a bad idea. I just thought… maybe you’d hear it and do what I couldn’t.”

“Leave?”

He laughs, all derision. “Yeah. Stupid, isn’t it? I’m scared to death that you’ll leave me, so I tried to speed up the process.”

You sit with his words for a minute. “I don’t think it’s stupid, Yoongi. Can I tell you what I think? I think you feel like you deserve to be a little sad, like some kind of artist’s curse. I think you think you need to feel tortured in order to create, and I think you’ve appointed yourself the arbiter of my happiness, so you see me being human as a failure on your part. And I think I made a very smart choice when I was twenty-one years old, because I think you’ve taken my heart and kept it safe all these years.

“It… does matter to me, how we got here,” you continue, “because if I don’t know why, I’m scared it’ll happen again. But you told me I need to give you more credit, and that goes both ways. I know I can be a bastard, so I’m going to be selfish and ask for patience, and I’m going to give you the same. Just… please believe me when I say I’m not going anywhere. Not as long as we’re both gonna try to fix this.”

Yoongi stays quiet. Sticks out his pinky, and you hook yours around it.

(You know what it means to see a bluebird. Remember reading about it once, back when you were desperate to find meaning in everything. Right after a time of tremendous difficulty, the bluebird comes to bring good fortune in all things such as love, healing, and happiness.)

and together there in a shroud of frost, the mountain air / began to pass through every pane of weathered glass / and i held you closer than anyone would ever get.

Yoongi’s birthday is soon.

Four days, to be exact. The two of you will be celebrating in Jin’s cabin in Oakhurst, surrounded by nature and a town still foreign to you, Yoongi’s music gear scattered all around like a treasure hunt. Follow the cables until you find him, hunched in front of a glowing computer screen, massive headphones shoved over his ears as he gets absorbed into his own world, strumming his guitar all the while.

You think thirty will look good on him.

The weather’s still mild, still colder than you’re used to, but the breeze feels nice when you open the small windows in the kitchen and let it blow through. It feels nice when you run to the grocery store and stand in the foreign aisles, staring at all the ingredients you’ll need to bake a cake. You haven’t done it in ages; since Yoongi’s twenty-sixth, you think. Almond with chantilly cream. It had taken you ages because the cream kept splitting, and you insisted on meticulously arranging little strawberry slices between the layers, but Yoongi had loved it so much it hadn’t felt like work at all.

So you grab what you need and some things you don’t and you feel as light as the breeze on the drive back to the cabin. You make a last-second decision to stop at the donut shop because it closes in the afternoon and you never catch it when it’s open. Two blueberry old fashioneds, a large Americano for Yoongi, and a mocha iced coffee for yourself. Six dollars, and the woman behind the counter is kind.

“What’s that?” Yoongi asks when you place the coffee and donut on his makeshift desk. The headphones are looped around his neck.

You click your tongue, all sugar. “What does it look like?”

“This looks like a donut and an Americano. What’s in the bag, though?”

“I went to the grocery store.”

“For what?” he pouts. “I was just there!”

That pout fades when you press a kiss to the top of his head. “Don’t pout. I picked up stuff for your birthday cake.”

“My birth—” he begins, seemingly offended by the mere thought of his birthday and that it might be soon, and then he looks at the date on his computer and mumbles an, oh shit. “You’re baking me a cake?”

“Yeah, I thought it’d be nice.”

He tries to peer into the bag. “What kind?” You swat him away.

“It’s a surprise,” you deadpan.

“But I saw strawberries in there.”

“No you didn’t. Now, eat your donut and get back to work.”

Yoongi pouts again. Really exaggerates it. “I’m really stuck on this bit. I might need a kiss for good luck.”

As you press a kiss to his lips, you think you might give him whatever he wants.

—

Yoongi spends the morning of his birthday tucked in bed.

You spend the morning of Yoongi’s birthday beneath the duvet, hands roaming every inch of your husband’s body. Thumbs digging into the muscles of his calves, sore from the overuse they’ve suffered the last few days. Nails grazing the sensitive skin of his biceps, his stomach, the insides of his thighs. Lips pressing open-mouthed kisses to his forehead, his temple, his neck, down his chest, the jut of both hip bones. And then, once he’s whining and writhing and just on the verge of begging, you spend the morning of Yoongi’s birthday making him come with your mouth.

He spends the early afternoon in his makeshift studio with a cup of coffee. Answers a couple emails. Calls his parents. Messes around on Cubase. Fixes the two of you a quick lunch and says he might want to wander around town for a little bit. Check out the antique store down the street, maybe spend a few hours in the park with his guitar, get some fresh air. Thirty feels weird, he says, and you’re anchored to your laptop at the small dining room table, so you just say okay, I’ll see you later for dinner. There’s a crooked smile on Yoongi’s face as he hikes the gig bag over his shoulder, and then he’s gone.

You: He just left. Coast is clear.

Seokjin: Thank fuck, I’ve been sitting at this Starbucks for 500 hours

You: No you haven’t

Seokjin: 499 hours*

When he arrives, Seokjin blows right by you and locks himself in the bathroom. You know I refuse to use public restrooms, he says after, slinging his arm around your shoulders. He’s not a hugger, so it’s the closest you’re going to get to one.

“My car reeks of kimchi and soup,” he says, dropping a bag of groceries in front of the refrigerator. “Won’t be able to get that smell out for weeks, probably.”

“Thank you for your sacrifice,” you intone. “You’re a god amongst men, Kim Seokjin.”

It’d been your idea. Wanted Yoongi to ring in his thirtieth birthday surrounded by as much love as possible, and a cabin-bungalow nearly five hours away from home wasn’t especially opulent. Not to mention Yoongi had been on tour the last two years—spent twenty-eight and nine in grimy venues in Texas and Birmingham, respectively—and the less said about 2020 the better.

So Seokjin had fucked off from his cushy job for the day and made the drive from San Francisco. Made the miyeokguk and myeongnan-jeot himself, and had whined when you told him you already bought the ingredients for a cake because I was gonna pick up mujigae-tteok, to which you replied, pick it up anyway.

Now he’s standing in the small kitchen of his own small bungalow, and you’ve got a one-thirty meeting so you can’t help, but he’s determined to make gyeran mari anyway, even if it inconveniences you. “Maybe I should make it closer to when he’ll be back?”

“Up to you,” you shrug. “You could also stand on the side of the road and resell all those eggs for ten times the price.”

He just sends you A Look.

—

You watch through the small window above the kitchen sink as Yoongi returns just after six, cheeks pink from the wind, arms full of goodies.

“Hey,” he says, kicking his boots off on the porch, “is that—”

“SURPRISE!”

Seokjin’s scream is so shrill you think you black out for a second. Nearly topple over from your spot in front of the island, frosting knife poised to strike. Yoongi’s still out on the porch, and there’s a terrible crash that can only be him startling and knocking into one of the rocking chairs. He’ll appear any second now, brows pinched, and go is that Seokjin? and once he confirms it is, in fact, Seokjin, he’ll start yell—

“Jesus Christ,” he grumbles, appearing in the doorway. Brows pinched. “I was gonna ask if that’s Seokjin’s car outside, but now I don’t fucking need to.”

Seokjin tuts, ladles another bowl full of miyeokguk. “Is that any way to speak to your elders? Now, get in here and sit down. It’s not breakfast, but it’ll have to do.”

Yoongi grumbles the entire time, but you see the way the flush deepens on his cheeks. The way he’s pleased to be fussed over, to have you and Seokjin in the same room as him. Pleased to be celebrating thirty surrounded by people who love him, people he loves in turn.

“Did you call your mother?” Seokjin asks, setting the bowl in front of him. He jokingly tucks a napkin into the front of Yoongi’s shirt.

“Of course I called my mother.” Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Are you stupid? It’s not my first day being Korean.”

“That’s correct! It’s your 10,950th day being Korean.”

“How did you—”

“I knew you would say that so I looked up how many days are in thirty years. Now, is your lovely wife done with the cake?”

You are, just about. Just a few more slices of strawberry to place on top, and you take a step back once you do so. Admire your hard work. Send up a quick thanks that the cream hadn’t split this time. Seokjin and Yoongi are still bickering—

(“Did you make the miyeokguk last night?”

“I’m offended, Yoongi. Of course I made it last night, the broth needs time to develop! It’s not my first day being Korean, either!”

“No, it’s your ten billionth, you decrepit bitch.”)

—and your heart feels full. Content. You see Yoongi laughing, all gums, and feel untethered. Like any second now your ribs are going to crack apart and give way, let your heart tumble right out of your body. Because it belongs next to Yoongi, always. Because it wants to be next to Yoongi.

So you finish the cake and set it aside. Sit down at the place Seokjin set for you, right next to your husband, whose hand immediately goes to your knee; who immediately turns and smiles at you, even though Seokjin is still squawking in the background. Yah, Yoongi, compliment the soup! Tell me how good it is! Yoongi doesn’t, because he’s still smiling, can’t look away from you, and you swear you can hear a fissure forming, except this one doesn’t hurt.

This one doesn’t hurt at all.

—

Yoongi is sufficiently drunk by nine.

That traitorous combination of alcohol and sugar. A shot of soju, a bite of cake, some mujigae-tteok. Seokjin’s endless chatter as background noise. Yoongi’s hand still on your knee, warm warm warm. Liquor loosens him up a little, has him bashful, chin tucked to his chest, when he offhandedly mentions Namjoon and Seokjin says who’s this Namjoon, and Yoongi says he’s our marriage counselor. Seokjin looks to you, then. Connects some dots.

Says, “Ah, Yoongi, did you eat your tteokguk on Seollal? No? See, this is why things are hard right now, because you didn’t eat your tteokguk. It’s good luck, that’s why you eat it,” because it’s easiest to get through to Yoongi, to let him know he’s okay, when you’re scolding him a little. When you treat it kind of like a joke. No big deal.

And Seokjin follows that up with, “How are you settling in here?” when what he really wants to know is are things better, are the two of you doing okay. Yoongi grumbles again, barely coherent at his current level of inebriation, and Seokjin says, “Ah, I bet not well, huh? There’s just the one Starbucks, can’t find your bougie pour-over, LA coffee here, can you? Do they even have oat milk? Are you—”

“It’s still California,” Yoongi argues, “there’s fucking oat milk everywhere. Hey, hyung, did you—did you know there’s, like, the tree nut milk orchard near here? Not far. Close by. I could drive to see the al-almonds.”

“Tree nut milk,” Seokjin deadpans. “You know, Yoongi, I did not know that. Why don’t you tell me all about it.”

—

By eleven, Seokjin is passed out on the couch.

By eleven-ten, Yoongi has convinced you to lay in the grass with him. A minute later he’s staring up at the sky, making wishes on superstitions. His breath vaporizes in the cold, and he’s not wearing a jacket, but he’s still flushed from the alcohol, feels invincible.

“Think the edible’s hitting me.” He laughs, short and raspy, and he doesn’t seem to care that the grass is wet with dew. Doesn’t care that it’s in his hair, seeping through his clothes. “What’s your favorite one of those?”

He’s pointing at the stars, wants to know your favorite constellation. All of them, you want to say, following his line of sight. Because they’re all different. All meaningful in different ways. All have their own story. Instead, you roll your head to the side, take in Yoongi’s profile. Say, “You’re my favorite,” and laugh at how flustered he gets, laugh at his gravelly protests.

“Yah, you can-can’t say that,” he whines. “That’s so greasy, you can’t say that, it doesn’t count. Give me a real ans—”

“Then why are you smiling?” You laugh as he grows even more thunderstruck, completely caught-out, and it’s nearing midnight but it does nothing to hide the blush creeping down his neck, tingeing the tips of his ears. “You’re so red. That’s exactly what you wanted me to say, you absolute—”

“Real answer, please.”

You decide to take pity on him. Poor thing, can barely look you in the eye because of one terrible pick-up line. “Fine. Pisces.”

His responding groan is so loud you have to slap your hand over his mouth. The grass is so cold but Yoongi’s laughter, the way his shoulders shake with it, makes you warm. “You’re just saying that,” he says once you remove your hand.

“Am not. Ask me why.”

“Okay. Why?”

“Because you’re a Pisces, first of all—”

“Oh my god, here we fuckin’ go—”

“—but I just like the myth. Aphrodite and Eros transformed themselves into fish to escape Typhon, and tied themselves together with rope so they wouldn’t lose one another.” You sigh, watch your breath dissipate into the dark. “I don’t know. I like to think… I don’t believe in soulmates, but I like to think some people are meant to tie themselves together. Some people aren’t meant to be apart.”

There’s a quiet little oh, and then there’s silence. Just the distant sounds of the highway, a dog howling, and, if you listen closely enough, Seokjin’s snoring from inside. Yoongi finds your hand, brings it to his mouth to press a kiss to the back of it, and he’s oddly quiet. Contemplative, maybe. Usually gets a couple drinks in him and starts talking your ear off, but this is nice, too. It’s nice to just exist in the silence alongside someone else.

“Do you know the myth about Eurydice and Orpheus?” he finally asks, and you nod, suddenly understanding why Yoongi doesn’t care that his hair is wet. So inconsequential to this moment where you can exist in the silence alongside someone else. “I was thinking about it today.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think… I think I’d fuck it up. I think I’d look back. And I think you wouldn’t.” He sighs, and the weight of the world expels alongside it. “What you said about Aphrodite and Eros, that some people are meant to be tied together—if I couldn’t hear you, or touch you… That’s what you are for me, you know? An anchor. The first time I read it, it made me so fuckin’ angry, like why can’t this guy just listen, if he loves her that much wouldn’t he listen, but… I dunno. I think I get it.

“I’m so scared all the time that one day I’m gonna look back and you won’t be there anymore. What would I even do? Baby, what would I do? Sometimes I’m fuckin’ terrified that I don’t think I could have that kind of faith in anything, and I’m finally gonna make it to the end of this cave and they’re gonna lay all my betrayals at my feet.”

Midnight finds you still staring up at the sky, hair wet, breath tangible, wondering how you can be both an anchor and an albatross.

—

(In the morning, Seokjin makes tteokguk and ladles extra into Yoongi’s bowl.)

i'm reaching for the phone to call at 7:03, and on your machine / i slur a plea for you to come home, but i know it's too late / and i should have given you a reason to stay.

The thing about grief is that it’s indiscriminate.

Because it has no context. Grief doesn’t know that things are better, doesn’t know that the two of you have stuck to your appointments with Namjoon and are able to talk honestly; doesn’t know that laughing feels lighter, easier; doesn’t know that guilt isn’t weighing you down as heavy. So it feels a lot like treading water, and sometimes you’re able to float and sometimes you slip beneath the waves, struggle to breathe.

And it’s stupid, you think, that you can disappear too far into your mind to the place where everything feels bad. Where progress is meaningless. Where there’s still you and Yoongi and a crumbling marriage. Where the only words ringing in your ears aren’t I love you, but you are beautiful but you don't mean a thing to me. Just like last time. Regression.

There are only so many distractions. Work helps, because you can’t focus on how shitty you feel—how scared you are—when your boss is on your ass about deadlines. The antique store in town helps, too, though you must’ve worn a pattern into the floors by now, but you can’t help it. It’s nice to hear the stones crunching under the tires when you pull into the parking lot; nice to laugh at the giant Sasquatch outside and greet them like a friend; nostalgic to breathe in the scent of old stuff—belongings that were once well-loved, now free to be loved by someone else.

Grief doesn’t care that you’re sad and Yoongi has that spark in his eyes.

But Yoongi is smart. Wickedly perceptive. Knows there’s something bothering you long before you gather the courage to say it, because it feels wrong to dim that spark, take it away, so he lets you sit with it. Lets you take your time, and that endless patience just makes you feel worse. Makes you think, he deserves better. Makes you think, what’s the point of any of this. Makes you angry, because things aren’t fixed but they’re better, and why can’t everything hurt all at once instead of incrementally.

And, just like always, you can only tread water for so long, stave off the inevitable.

Because Yoongi’s giving you time but when you feel like this, everything reads like an attack. Feels like disregard and indifference. What you want is unfair, and you know it, because you want Yoongi to be able to reach into your mind and see everything that’s turned necrotic. You want him to know how to fix it without having to talk about it, because talking about it makes you feel guilty. How many times can you press your fingers into the same wound and be shocked when they come out bloody?

So it isn’t fair and it’s also hard. Words bite at the back of your teeth, because this is your husband—if you can’t talk to him, what are you even doing? Namjoon would laugh. The one that’s equal parts patient and exasperated, like he can’t believe someone like you exists even though he’s seen some shit. Worse shit than you and Yoongi have, that’s for sure, so it should be reassuring.

(Everything reads like an attack.)

“Hey,” Yoongi says, hip resting against the counter, towel thrown over his shoulder. (These things always happen in a kitchen.) “You okay?”

How doubly unfair is it that your first instinct is to lie? To say yeah, I’m fine—not to be deceptive, but because you’re sure with enough time you can make it true, foolishly certain you can either bury it or delude yourself. But Yoongi is looking at you like a caged animal; like he, too, is foolishly certain of foolish things. Yoongi is looking at you like he knows this is it. Like this is where you say I’m sorry, this just isn’t working, we were stupid to think it would even though we’re trying. Like this is where you take off your wedding band and place it calmly in his hand. No dramatics, just resignation.

So you don’t lie. You can’t. Instead, you say, “Yeah, I think… I think it’s just been a little hard lately.”

Yoongi tries to lie, too. Tries to hide how relieved his exhale is, but the smile peeks through, the flush on his cheeks. Can’t hide that he’s pleased because all those nightmares he’d conjured in his head aren’t coming true.

“I should’ve said something earlier,” you say, because it’s something that’s true, “I’m sorry. I just—I don’t want you to feel bad, you know? I don’t want to keep rehashing things.”

He closes the distance. Wraps you in his arms, all warmth. Presses a kiss to the top of your head. “It’s okay. I know it’s hard to talk about these things sometimes. I just wanted to make sure we’re okay.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Yoongi, I think we will be.”

(Something that’s true.)

it felt just like falling in love again. and it felt just like falling in love again.

On Friday, the two of you go to the bar for karaoke night.

As he’s buttoning his shirt, Yoongi says do you think they’ll have Epik High? and you can’t help the ugly laugh that tumbles out of you even though it’s not really funny. Because no, this two stoplight town won’t have Epik High, but it’s the kind of thing you laugh at when you’re feeling terribly fond, horribly endeared—it’s the kind of thing you laugh at when you’re riding the high of going through hell and making it to the other side.

It’s the kind of thing you laugh at instead of detailing every reason you’re in love with him.

So you do your hair and makeup nice. Barely make it out the door, because Yoongi stumbles into the bathroom to fix his hair and put on cologne and stops dead in his tracks when he sees you. Mutters a goddamn under his breath before he’s all over you. Kisses pressed to the nape of your neck, hips pressing you against the counter. The right side of painful.

You manage to pry him off of you long enough to shove him out the door, thighs just a little bruised, Yoongi’s lips a little too red. He’s still all over you at the bar. Still rests a possessive hand at the small of your back, still presses a kiss to your cheek every time he gets up to order another round of drinks, still whines and pretends to drag his feet when the house music plays and you pull him onto the dancefloor.

Someone sings “Fly Me to the Moon” by Frank Sinatra. It’s off-key and a little grating and Yoongi’s got wing sauce smeared on his cheek, but he still mouths the words to you. You are all I long for. All I worship and adore. You know you look lovestruck, and you think it’s a shame there’s barely anyone in this bar to witness it. What you and Yoongi have—it should be seen. It should be screamed from rooftops.

When the two of you go back to the bungalow, you split a bottle of red wine and sit on the living room floor. Yoongi has his guitar in his lap, barely able to play the chords properly, but he serenades you anyway. Does a better rendition of Fly Me to the Moon than the guy at the bar just because it’s his, and he’s singing it for you. He sweeps the blankets from the back of the couch onto the floor and fucks you slow. Holds your hand and kisses you until you’re breathless. (You already were.)

The rest of the weekend is spent similarly. Yoongi can’t keep his hands to himself, fucks you in nearly every room of Seokjin’s little house in Oakhurst, and presses praise into your skin like a brand. Sits on the living room floor again as you cook dinner, back ramrod straight against the couch; has a spliff stuck between his lips as he jots down words into a notebook. Looks up and over at you every now and then, cheeks reddening each time you catch him staring. You, too, refuse to smile until you’ve turned back around.

On Sunday night, Yoongi ducks out to go to the drug store and returns with an armful of bath bombs. Looks like he looted a bank, but he asks do you want to use the lavender one in that soft, shy voice, and you wouldn’t be able to say no to him even if you wanted to, so you don’t. You sink into the warm water, let the lilac swirl around you, make you soft, and you feel safe here with your back pressed to Yoongi’s chest. With his legs caging you in. With his words in your ear and his lips pressed to the top of your head, fingers dancing along your ribs, clearing the cobwebs from in between.

Monday comes before you’re ready. Insistent, inevitable—the sunlight streams in, wakes you slowly. Yoongi’s arm is thrown over your middle, both of you still lavender-soft, and he groans when you stir, buries his face in your neck. Everything is warm. A blissful little cocoon, made even more so when Yoongi pulls himself out of bed, makes a pot of coffee, returns with your mug steaming hot. He sets it on your nightstand, doesn’t want to risk burning you by handing it off, and tilts your chin up to press a quick kiss to your lips.

You’ve got a nine-thirty meeting, so you tangle your legs together and drink it as fast you can. Shameless, Yoongi watches as you undress—watches as the sun paints you in golden light, watches as you pull his t-shirt up and over your head, watches as your shoulder blades move beneath your skin. It’s the t-shirt that fucks him up the most, has him a little hard in his briefs. One of his tour shirts, the last one he’d gone on before the two of you got married. Says, a little awed, “I’d follow you anywhere,” and he doesn’t elaborate but somehow you know exactly what he means.

And he stays in the bedroom when you log on for your meeting. Listens to you talk to your team, your laugh soft and bright, and feels entirely dumbstruck. Feels overwhelmed, wonders how his body can possibly contain so much affection. Wonders, briefly, where it goes when everything hurts. If it’s just in a reserve, because Yoongi has loved you as long as he’s known you, and he’s not sure it’s ever felt like this; ever hit him this hard.

So, he locks himself in the second bedroom until the late afternoon. Pours over his notebooks, strums every chord he knows until he finds the right one. Jots down words he scribbles over and jots down more. Writes until the calluses on his fingers turn to blisters, writes until the words all blend together, until there’s something singular instead of tendrils. Yoongi writes until there’s something he can feel proud of; something that might feel a lot like redemption.

[interlude: monday morning]

(You listen to it far later. Back in your home that isn’t the apartment in Silver Lake but contains just as much love—perhaps more now than before you left; certainly more patience, more hope, more resilience. And as you take in Yoongi’s words, wrapped in their metaphors and their honesty, you cry again, but this time it’s quiet rather than heaving.

This time Yoongi is singing love, keep your arms around me.)

looking upwards, i strain my eyes and try / to tell the difference between shooting stars and satellites from the passenger seat as you are driving me home.

“Should we go home soon?”

It’s a Saturday morning, and you and Yoongi are on the porch. The air is crisp and cool, makes your coffee a tolerable temperature, and it’s early enough that the world is largely still asleep. There’s no polluted noise, just the rustling of the grass that’s now a little overgrown and the one neighbor from down the road who always wakes up early to run. He must hear your muted voices, because he waves as he passes by.

Home. Back to Los Angeles. Back to your two-storey home with the awful neighbor who doesn’t wake up early to run and never waves to you. Back to the chaos you know. Back to a home that hasn’t felt much like one lately, but one that can be repaired, just like everything else. A home that’s got enough love stored between its walls that you aren’t worried.

But it’s still daunting, somehow. Things feel solid here, like a houseplant sprouting new life—resilient, but a little fragile, too. So you’re scared to burst the bubble and doubly scared of what that hesitation means. “I don’t know,” you say. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know, either,” Yoongi answers. Takes another sip of his coffee, rocks a little in the chair. He’s got his knees pulled up to his chest. Looks impossibly small, especially in his oversized pajamas and the even larger hoodie he’d thrown over them. “It’s nice here.”

It is, in more ways than one. “Yeah, I’m gonna miss it.”

Yoongi hums. “Maybe I’ll just buy it from Seokjin.” Words muffled by the rim of his mug, like he’s trying to hide them from you.

Doesn’t work. Instead, you turn to him, eyebrow quirked. “Oh, really?”

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “Gotta do something with all this money, hm?” Then he sighs, picks at imaginary lint on his pants. “You like it here, though, right? Not saying I am, but—”

“Oh no,” you interject, voice at least fifty decibels higher. “I know you, Yoongi! You wouldn’t be asking me any of this unless you already had some half-baked plan in the works—”

“Yah! It’s at least seventy-five percent baked!”

You laugh, the sound the loudest thing for miles. “Yeah, okay. How much did you offer him for it? You spend all my money?”

“Your—that’s not funny.” He pouts. “I didn’t spend all of it.”

“Just seventy-five percent?”

“I’ll have you know I am a very successful musician. I could buy you ten of these cabins if I wanted to.”

You drop your mouth open in mock-affront. “And yet I have zero cabins, so what does that say about the state of your priorities?”

“Not this shit again—”

“I think it’s more of a bungalow, anyway.”

“Yeah, Seokjin said the same thing. Was really offended that I offered to buy his cabin.” A pause. A small lift at the corners of his mouth. “Still offered to sell it to me, though.”

You can’t help the smile that splits your face. “And I’m sure you said yes, of course.”

“I’ve grown very attached to those blueberry donuts.”

“Uh-huh.”

“...And it’s been good for us. We’re happy here. Happier.”

“Yeah, we are. You just needed some fresh air.”

Yoongi’s cheeks tinge pink. “Yah, knock it off! You’re making me sound like a tuberculosis patient. Like I just needed a trip to the seaside to heal.”

“I’m just stating facts, Yoongi. You’re a little studio hermit, barely witnessing the light of day. I bet you got one lungful of this mountain air and almost keeled over.”

“You’re a pain in my ass,” he accuses, “I’m revoking my offer.”

“That you extended with my money.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

—

Saying goodbye is hard.

As you load the last of your belongings into the car, it feels like you’re leaving behind a friend. You know you’ll be back (because Yoongi actually did offer to buy the cabin-bungalow and Seokjin seems keen, but whether that’s because he actually wants to offload it into the two of you or because he wants to salvage your marriage any way he can, you can’t be sure), but tears prick at the corners of your eyes anyway. Because you were desperate when you arrived, and now you aren’t. You were scared and lacking direction, and now you have another place to rest when you get tired.

Yoongi joins you at the car, his guitar bag slung over his shoulder. Just stares at the little blue bungalow with the pink door and doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Whatever he’s thinking, you know he’s saying it in his head in that fond tone of his. The one that’s bordering on thankful, and you are, too.

On the way home, Yoongi drives and treats you to (read: makes you suffer through) John Denver karaoke. Sings “Take Me Home, Country Roads” the way he used to sing girl group songs at the noraebang. Holds your hand the entire way, and the two of you stop at some hole in the wall for lunch, still a few hours from the city. He orders a beer—some disgusting IPA you know he only drinks to seem distinguished, even though this is the same guy you watched do keg stands in college for free Natty Light—to get out of driving the rest of the way and it’s your turn to call him a pain in the ass.

But he’s quiet in the passenger seat, and it’s not from the alcohol. He’s typing intermittently on his phone, pink tongue darting out from between his lips when he gets especially focused. “I think I got something,” he says eventually. “If I read it to you, will you tell me if it sounds alright?”

“I majored in economics,” you say, because you always do. It’s been your go-to since the first time he asked, all the way back in your junior year.

He laughs anyway. “Perfect, then you can tell me if this shit is gonna make me any money,” he answers with a wry smile, because he always does. “I’ve had this stuck in my head for days.”

You nod. You listen.

“And if you feel just like a tourist in the city you were born, then it’s time to go. And you find your destination with so many different places to call home.”

You wonder how Yoongi is always able to put to paper all the feelings you’ve got locked up tight. You wonder how Yoongi always makes Los Angeles seem less daunting.

there'd be no distance that could hold us back. so this is the new year.

It’s the thirtieth of December.

Your shithead, capitalist shill of a neighbor doesn’t wave when you and Yoongi pack up the car this time, either, just watches from his front porch. You can feel his brooding; worse ever since Yoongi had offhandedly mentioned buying a place up near Yosemite. Got a really good deal from a friend, he’d said, just when we need to get away, you know how it is, and that had your neighbor’s jaw clenching, nodding in faux politeness. Even illuminated by the golden ambiance of icicle lights, he still manages to look like a dickhead.

Good riddance.

“Ready?” Yoongi asks, catching the keys with one hand when you toss them to him.

You nod. Then you fold yourself into the passenger seat and reach for his hand.

—

Oakhurst is still small, but it’s made room for you, now.

There’s still only two traffic lights before you reach the road your cabin is on—a sharp right turn off the main highway, an acute angle, a steep decline. It doesn’t matter what time of year you make the trip, because the uneven, precipitous little road always makes your stomach drop, but it’s home now. Another physical one, because you and Yoongi have worked hard over the last year to make as many as possible.

(And, even still, the strongest home you’ve made is Us. What the two of you have is something still standing long after the storm. Something that has persevered and stood tall, even when the foundation was shaking. Even when you wanted to tear it down. Even when it seemed beyond repair.)

“Home sweet home,” Yoongi jokes as he kills the engine, and you laugh because his tone is flat and dry. Belies his excitement, his insistence on digging out an old box of Christmas lights from the attic and bringing it with you. That he has this whole plan to spend New Year’s Eve decorating, bringing life to this little blue bungalow with the pink door.

“It is pretty sweet,” you agree, and just like before, you neatly unpack your stuff and thread your clothes through velvet hangers and Yoongi abandons his suitcase in a corner of his studio.

—

There’s a woman on the television with rosy cheeks and a drink in hand. She isn’t trying to sell you anything.

She’s lovely and very drunk and even more beautiful when she laughs, teeth perfectly straight and blindingly white. She’s prattling off questions to some celebrity, rapid fire, and they’re trying their best to keep up but it’s hopeless. Eventually they, too, just smile into the camera.

Yoongi’s in the kitchen fixing drinks. Expensive champagne flutes filled with inexpensive champagne, a pair of raspberries tossed into each one as a garnish. Your husband doesn’t even like raspberries, but he’d wanted to feel fancy, so you don’t bother questioning it. You know what it means—wants a do-over of last year. Wants this year to be what the last should’ve been, because this year the two of you will be sitting on the same side of the couch, drinking cheap champagne from Vons out of expensive glassware.

A gift from Seokjin, because he’s a bastard. A housewarming gift for a house you’d bought from him.

There’s still an hour before the countdown. There’s still an empty pot on the stove that used to be full of tteokguk. It’s a different New Year, not Seollal, but Yoongi had wanted to make it anyway. Cracked a joke about not wanting to risk it, so he’s going to eat as much tteokguk as possible, that he might need the luck, you never know. I didn’t eat any last year and still bought a second house, he’d said. Imagine how powerful I’ll be if I eat ten bowls of this.

Your husband is always powerful, but you hadn’t pointed that out. Hadn’t pointed out that the only reason the two of you could afford a second house was because Seokjin gave you a steep pity discount, either. Sometimes it’s just nice to believe in luck, on top of all the other things you already have to believe in.

(Like each other.)

There’s still an hour, and Yoongi hands over a flute of champagne and sinks into the couch beside you. You forget about the woman on TV, but you don’t forget about—“You know, I distinctly remember you making me a promise before we came up here last year.”

Yoongi quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah? Did I make good on it?”

“For the most part,” you answer. “Like, eighty percent.”

Yoongi snorts. “Refresh my memory.”

You set your glass on the coffee table. Angle yourself so you can swing a thigh over Yoongi’s lap to straddle him, earning you another quirked eyebrow. “I distinctly remember you promising to fuck me in every room of this house.”

His own glass abandoned, Yoongi settles one hand on your hip, the other on your thigh. “Surely I already did,” he answers, words spoken into the crook of your neck, goosebumps rising along your skin. “No way I would’ve been able to keep my hands off you.”

Warm lips press against your neck. Kiss their way to your jawline to the corner of your mouth. “Do you remember me fucking you on this couch? On the floor? You remember how hard you came that time?”

Your hips start to grind, seeking friction. This time, the cool metal of Yoongi’s wedding band against your flushed skin doesn’t shock you. Just feels like another home. His hands slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt feel like home. His tongue licking into your mouth tastes like home. When he pulls away to say, “I know you remember the time in the kitchen, the way I fucked your mouth,” you lose all concept of home entirely.

Home is just Yoongi. Everything is Yoongi.

“I fucked you in that bed so many times. Against the bathroom sink. Always so good for me.” He’s thumbing over a nipple, embarrassingly hardened from the husk of his voice, the way his cock is filling out in his joggers. “Where’d we miss, baby?”

You swallow. Know it’s audible even over the sound of the television. People are cheering, but you aren’t turning around to look, because what could they possibly have to cheer for when they don’t have Yoongi? When Yoongi only looks at you like this—like he’s already a little crazed, a little fucked up?

“The st-studio,” you choke out. Dizzy, dizzy, dizzy. Not a drop of champagne made it past your lips and still the world spins.

You can feel Yoongi’s smirk against the column of your throat. Hate what it does to you, because Yoongi could talk you off a ledge when he’s like this. “Ah, you’re right.” Fingers trail along the hem of your pants, toying with you. “Is that what you want? You wanna ride me in my chair? You want it fucking dirty like that, my sweats barely pulled down, like you’re fucking desperate for it?”

You are, and you do.

So that’s how Yoongi fucks you. Gives you exactly what you want: sits in his oversized chair, pulls you into his lap. Sweats pushed down only as far as he needs to fish his cock out, slick it up, and then he’s pushing inside of you. Groans loud, tells you how tight you are, how wet and warm. And it’s stupid, because your husband is fucking your brains out, but there’s a little window in his studio, just above his desk.

Through it, you can see the Christmas lights the two of you spent the afternoon putting up.

You can hear Yoongi’s grumbling in your head, all his shouting when he thought he was going to fall off the ladder even though you were holding it steady. Cursed about not having enough zip ties. Cursed about one lightbulb being burnt out. Cursed when the extension cord wasn’t long enough. Only stopped cursing when you shut him up with a kiss.

You come hard. Yoongi makes good on his promise.

Another home.

—

(From the living room, the muted sounds of a countdown. Palpable excitement you’re finally able to feel, last year’s numbness long gone and replaced with endless warmth. Yoongi only leaves to grab a warm washcloth from the bathroom, and then he’s cleaning you up and pressing his lips back to your kiss-reddened mouth. There’s a supercut playing in your head, all the past celebrations. All the parties the two of you have gone to, the years spent alone but together. All the people you’ve kissed in front of. All the quiet, private ways Yoongi used to tell you he loved you. When was the last time? Just minutes ago. There’s seven seconds until the new year and Yoongi is right beside you.

Fireworks explode outside. You cry this year, too, but they’re happy tears. They’re tears that serve as proof you survived, that you went through hell and made it to the other side. Yoongi sheds a few of his own. Laughs, almost disbelieving, as he tells you he loves you. Smiles, certainly disbelieving, when you repeat it.

You’re going to miss this place when you leave, but there’s a ring on your finger and a man beside you that tells you home can be anywhere, be anything. Tells you that sometimes you’ll have to fight for it, but it’ll always be there so long as you choose to.)

if you've made it this far, i'd like to say thank you again for reading this. as i said, this fic is deeply personal to me, and i hope you find something relatable in it as well.

i know people don't always love to read the members in westernized settings, and i completely understand. i chose oakhurst/yosemite because it's where i went for my own honeymoon, and, well, personal.

He's not paying as much attention to you--not to sound needy or like a brat or like you require attention 24/7. It's just the principle of the matter. If you're dating someone, you should spend quality time with them, at least some. Not all your effort should be for your computer, which is where Taehyung has been camped out for practically three weeks.

It's a weird feeling, to be jealous of a keyboard.

In his defense, the newest MMORPG finally dropped and he's been waiting for this game for god knows how long since they pushed the release date twice. He wants to play with his online friends. Cool. Doesn't bother you one bit.

Until it does, because now he's disregarding you. When you're together (which has been like twice) his constant talk of the game annoys you to pieces and when you're apart he doesn't text you anymore because he's too busy playing.

You don't want to be that girlfriend but you're starting to feel a little...ignored.

Taehyung is extremely affectionate when his concentration isn't being sucked away by a screen. So, you've composed a way--a battle plan--to fix your baby bear's attention back on you. For at least a few minutes.

"I'll cover you, JK. Go go go!"

Taehyung's senses are all but oblivious to the world around him as he leans in closer to his monitor. His headphones block out all other sound and his focus is completely absorbed in the game in front of him. He doesn't notice when you walk in, Adidas shorts and a sweater crop top showing off your curves. You're freshly showered, shaved, and shiny, feeling ready for some seriously overdue affection. Now to just get your boyfriend to look at you.

"Ahem," you clear your throat, adjusting your posture to show off your legs and cute waistline. "Babe."

He doesn't hear you.

"Babe!" you try again, louder.

"What?" Tae answers, not a single glance in your direction.

"Look at me."

He doesn't move an inch.

You try again. "Hey, look at me."

"I'm in the middle of something. What?"

Time for a change of tactic.

Making your way around the back of his chair, you slowly thread your fingers through his hair and begin massaging his scalp. This always makes him swoon. He's told you on more than one occasion how much he loves it when you play with his dark curls.

"Not now, ___. You're making my headphones fall off," he says while pushing your hands away and readjusting his headset.

A pout forms on your lips, but it's not meant to be cute. You're being rejected by your boyfriend who would rather play some stupid online game than look at you. This calls for drastic measures.

Food. Specifically desert.

Thankfully you've got all the ingredients you need to make your boyfriend's favorite chocolate chip cookies. Homemade, with an extra splash of vanilla, just how he likes them. You pop them in the oven and set your timer, flour and dough littered across your face and apron to testify how much love you added to the recipe. The delicious smell of comfort and hope soon fills the whole apartment. Taehyung has never been able to reject your baking, in fact, these cookies play a very special role in the beginning of your relationship. If anything can get your boyfriend's attention, it's this.

While the goodies bake, you clean the kitchen and yourself and throw on one of Taehyung's big t-shirts.

Once the cookies are baked and cooled, you arrange them on a pretty plate (presentation is everything) and pour a tall glass of milk to go with them.

Here goes nothing.

"Babe," you sing, carefully approaching him with offerings in hand, "are you hungry? I baked cookies for you."

Taehyung glances at the plate but his eyes never move high enough to see your hopeful smile.

"Oh thanks, Babe," he says but his hands don't move from the keyboard.

You put the plate closer to him. "Eat one. They're your favorite."

"Yeah yeah, in a second."

Several seconds pass. Minutes. More minutes. You place the plate and glass to the side, snatching a cookie for yourself and shoving it into your mouth, chewing with a sulky pout.

After taking a moment to consider your next approach, you end up circling around his chair. Ducking beneath his elbow, you slink a leg across his thighs and crawl your way into his lap, wrapping both arms around his waist as you straddle him.

Taehyung allows this, but doesn't give it much thought. You hug him tightly and his chest vibrates with a low chuckle.

"What are you doing? Not you, JK. I'm talking to my girlfriend." He presses a button on his headset to mute himself before continuing. "Why are you hugging me like this?"

"I miss you."

"But I've been right here since last week."

"Exactly," you huff and snuggle against his ribs. "You haven't left this chair in days. We haven't spent time together in over two weeks."

"I know, baby. Look, we can definitely spend time together later. I'm just in the middle of a really important raid right now. My team needs me."

You nuzzle your way into the crook of his neck and settle yourself in. "How much longer?"

Your boyfriend smiles and tilts his chin so he can give your forehead a kiss. "Thirty minutes. I promise. Then I'm all yours."

"Fine," you agree with a sigh. "But I'm staying right here."

Taehyung has no qualms with that. He spreads his thighs so you can sit more comfortably and adjusts his shoulder so you can rest easily against him. His headphones are supposed to be sound canceling but you can hear the louder parts of the game from where you sit. Gunfire, explosions, his teammates cursing their avatar for not jumping out of the way when they should be cursing their own lack of hand-eye coordination.

Nevertheless, after a little while, the gentle flex of Taehyung's arms as he plays and the overpowering thump of his heart in his chest lulls you into a deep sleep.

Just as he promised, thirty minutes later Taehyung says his goodbyes and good lucks to his teammates and logs off the game. But when he looks at the cutie still straddling his lap, he realizes you've fallen unconscious.

Tae smiles to himself. Sometimes he forgets how lucky he is to have a girlfriend like you in his life. Everyone tells him you're way out of his league and he knows it's true. Considering how often he's presumably disappointed you, it's a miracle you haven't dumped his ass yet. But here you are. Snuggled in his lap, cheek puffy and warm against his collarbone, thighs straddling either side of him, gentle snores making his heart soar.

He spies the plate of cookies by his desk and frowns.

You're suddenly jerked awake by the feeling of your boyfriend's hands slipping underneath your thighs as he stands.

"What?"

"Shh, babygirl. It's just me." He carries you to his bed and gently lays you down, climbing in next to you and pulling you closer by the small of your back, allowing your legs to intertwine. "You can sleep longer next to me."

This offer makes you smile. Instinctively, you get as close to him as possible, the attention is appreciated no matter how little or how overdue. Just having him choose to sleep beside you instead of staying up all night in front of a desktop brings your heart so much happiness.

But now, you're frightened. Scared that if you fall asleep, when you wake up he'll be gone. His attention will have been stolen away again. This fear grows and grows so much, every time he adjusts or shuffles next to you, your hands grip onto his shirt and don't let go.

The hours pass. Darkness sets in. Your boyfriend tries to help cover you both but you won't allow him the freedom of movement required to reach the edge of the blanket. Your hug is too tight with your face completely buried in his chest like this.

"___?" he whispers, reaching to brush the hair from your cheek. "You don't have to hang on so tight, baby."

"Tae?"

"Yeah."

You sniffle, the sound alerting a deep worry inside Taehyung's gut. You're crying? Why are you crying? "When you were playing your game for so long, I felt kind of ignored."

"I didn't mean to ignore you," he says honestly.

"I know, but," you lift your face and even through the dark Taehyung can tell you've been holding this in for a while, "it still felt like you cared more about that game than you did me. That hurt a lot."

The fact that he was oblivious to this causes more embarrassment and shame than anything else. He's always prided himself on being a good person, being an attentive significant other. When he started dating you, that's all he wanted to be. Worth your effort. Somewhere down the line, he's utterly failed you in that way. And now that you're telling him how much you've been affected by his lack of awareness, he's got to make it right.

Gently cupping your face, he brings you closer once more and places his lips against your forehead. His thumb dries your tears and then he uses the edge of his shirt to wipe the small droplet of snot beneath your nose. You've never been the prettiest crier and Taehyung has taken the fact that you trust him enough to cry in the dark like this with him for granted.

"I could never care about some game more than I care about you, and I'm so sorry I made you feel that way. I never want to do anything to hurt you or mistreat you--" he scoots forward, leaning his forehead against yours and peering through the subtle dark into your watery eyes, "--you mean so much more to me than any of that stuff. I don't have to play anymore if you don't want me to."

"I don't mind if you play video games with your friends. I don't even care if you want to stay up late chatting online or beating the next level. Just, don't become unhealthy and don't forget about me for two weeks at a time, okay? Don't forget you've got other responsibilities and people who want your attention too." Your hands fidget with his t-shirt, rubbing it between your fingers shyly when you add, "Other people who get jealous way too easily."

It feels better, being held like this. And you don't necessarily need this kind of attention all the time. You're not a child. But sometimes it's nice to be the apple of someone's eye, specifically if that person is the apple of yours.

Taehyung softly smiles and nods, forcing your head to nod with his. "Okay, baby. I promise. How about tomorrow, I take you out. Maybe take the ferry, walk the beach, watch the sunset? Whatever you wanna do. And afterwards, I'll buy you any smoothie you want. Sound okay?"

"Could we make sandwiches together before hand and eat them too?" you suggest, picturing it in your mind with an ever growing smile, the image drying your tears at the prospect of having your boyfriend all to yourself.

"Of course," he says. "But I claim all the cookies you made for me."

"That's not fair!"

"That's not fair!"

You can't help the enormous grin on your lips.

"Don't copy me."

"Don't copy me."

"Stop," you insist, the command more of a giggle than anything.

Your boyfriend complies, his hand creeping across your waist, feeling the soft skin of your side beneath your his shirt. His fingertips are warm to the touch, sending anticipation up your spine. "Are you really tired?"

"I'm okay. Why?"

"I'd like to give you some special attention now, to show how much I really care."

"I'd like that very much."

And then something switches. Something in his gaze changes and you end up fucking in the kitchen whle dinner burns, his hand pressing down on your neck to hold you down as he thrusts into you. Think: dirty and domestic. And you better believe he’s into sensation play. 

YOONGI There’s a strange contradiction to this man. There’s a rush, an urgency to wanting him where you’ll let him have you wherever, whenever. But then once you begin, he takes his time. He’s there for a good time and a long time. Sometimes he lets his mouth run, spilling the dirtiest obscenities. And sometimes he’s quiet, fucking you in the bathroom at the party, hushing you when you whine, biting down on his lower lip. He prefers to fuck at home though, where he’s not rushed, but still will take you in a broom closet if he wants to. 

NAMJOON  Half of the game is the foreplay. Days of foreplay. He buys you a dress with your exact measurements, and surprises you by renting out the entire gallery at your favorite museum. He’ll talk sweetly in your ear, hands roving over your body, murmuring about the artist, the technique, the impact. You’re half-blind to it all, and he loves seeing you swoon for him. He loves what he can do to you. It’s a little bit of a game for him, seeing how far he can push you before you break with need. And then in the car ride home, he’ll roll up the partition and fuck you, telling you over and over again, you’re mine, you’re mine. 

HOSEOK  He surprises you when you learn about his jealous streak. He doesn’t like to let it show, but you know it’s there, swimming beneath the surface. And rather than asking him to push it down, you turn it into a game. The two of you are partners in crime, in business, in life, and one day when you’re out working together you meet his eye. Your hand falls on the arm of the photographer running the shoot for the day. You laugh a little too loud. Pay him too many compliments. This is exactly what you and Hoseok talked about, and you know his eyes are glued to you. It doesn’t take long for Hoseok to snap. Excuse me, Hoseok will say, butting in gracefully in the middle of the conversation, his hand tightening around yours. He leads you to his dressing room where he fucks you and makes you look in the mirror as he does. He wants you to see where your bodies meet, where your bodies are joined. When he kisses along your neck, he won’t leave a hickey, because he doesn’t have to. The whole world already knows that you’re his. He’s into showing off the most wild positions during sex, and would definitely fuck you on a balcony. 

JIMIN The man is obsessed with pleasure. His pleasure. Your pleasure. He wants to lay back and feel it all. He’s also determined to be the one who will make you feel better than anyone else in your whole life. He wants to talk about sex until it’s not talking anymore, he wants to be the perfect boyfriend. But there’s a dark side to him too. In his search for pleasure, he’ll run alongside his own and your own boundaries, teasing the line with a graceful toe. You never know what to expect from him, other than he’s aiming for multiple orgasms. He will probably tell you he loves you for the first time while fucking into you, even though he had the statement planned out for weeks with flowers and champagne. It’s an accident, but he doesn’t regret it, because you’re whining out his name soon after and saying it back. 

TAEHYUNG Brush your fingers through his hair. He loves when you take your time with him, when you lavish him in delicate attention, treating his body with the same love that you treat him with. He likes to tell you what to do, loves the creativity with which you play around his rules and expectations. Like that one time he directed you to undress, and you took ten minutes to do so. He’s delighted by your loopholes, he loves your brain, and even more than that, he loves pushing you over the brink as he fucks into you hard, and you pant out, I love you, I love you, I love you. 

JUNGKOOK Pain and release, in his mind, are inherently intertwined. He wants to push the boundaries of what you expect from him, going above and beyond in and out of the bedroom. He’s used to being the best, and it’s no different with you. “Accidentally fucking” is the norm with the two of you. Leaving parties early to fuck. Grinding against you in the club like he’s making love, the only thing in the way those pesky clothes. But he also likes to plan his accidents. Likes to play a part. Like that one time you started watching a movie and his cock “accidentally” slipped inside you. You had planned that, sure, but you hadn’t planned to come on his cock three times that night, as he grinned and pleaded, Come for me, just one more time, please.

©wwilloww Do not repost, translate, or use my stories without my permission.

THANK YOU FOR READING!

🔆 if you enjoyed this, please consider telling me what you think by leaving a comment, sending an ask, or reblogging! i love chatting with you all!

🔆 want to read more ?

As soon as the double gated doors to the entrance of the VIP section opened, everyone stilled in their places. A group of men stepped into the dimly lit area, in the middle of which stood the guest of the evening. Jeon Jungkook.

White shirt, starched to perfection, buttons gleaming. You wondered if they were made of silver, the reflection they created gleaming in your eyes. Aside from the silver chain dangling from his thick, corded neck and the buttons of his shirt, your eyes were caught on his exposed chest. Tan, smooth skin shone under the golden lights, three unopened buttons on his shirt exposing the muscled chest for the world to see. Money always looked sexy to you, tonight especially so.

Standing at the back, partially hidden area as you were, you stole a flute of champagne from one of the servers moving past you to serve to the guests.

Jimin had rushed towards the new owner of this club, bowing and ushering him inside. The professional smile upon his face never faltered, although you could notice the visible shake in his hand as he motioned the waiters to come forward.

The stoic man, not a single shred of acknowledgement upon his face raised his hand up without giving the waiter a glance and muttered what you presumed was an order for hard whiskey because that was what he was presented with.

As soon as the man had sat down on the black couch, the men around him relaxed, a few taking drinks of their own. Except the ones who still stood around him, rigid as if made of granite.

The girls on the poles began their show as the lights lowered further and music began playing.

Now was your time.

As you strutted to where the boss was sitting, silk robe fluttering around your thighs and hair bouncing as you swayed your hips from side to side, you knew what you wanted to do was dangerous.

But you knew men like him. They noticed daring.

And that watch on his thick wrist, adorning golden skin that was exposed due to the pushed back sleeves, looked way too good.

You knew every single man in the area was looking at you, salivating. You dwelled in it, bathed in their desire. It fuelled your confidence.

Except the man you wanted to notice you wouldn't look in your direction. Jungkook was talking to a man who stood at the end of the couch he was sitting on, a glass held in his large palm, the golden liquid shining under lighting of the same hue.

As you neared the back of his couch, the men standing around it glared at you, one of them getting in your way.

You smiled at him, putting a hand in the middle of his chest. The silver cross hanging from his neck made you want to snatch it but you curbed the urge. It was their group's symbol. You'd be shot on sight.

For a second, your heart thumped. What you touched felt too hard, too weirdly shaped to be a wallet or handkerchief.

It broke your composure for a moment, the realisation that these men were dangerous and the one you were aiming for was the most dangerous of all.

But it's better to be on the devil's side than on his way.

So you widened your smile, speaking through your glossy lips, "calm down, big boy. I'm just here to help your boss relax."

As your robe slipped down your shoulder, his stance loosened and you pushed him aside, throwing a smile over your bare shoulder before you lowered your head down to the ebony head sitting on the couch.

Spreading your palm upon his shoulder that felt tense, you began moving it downward towards his chest slowly. But before you could make much progess, your wrist got caught in a grip of iron. The hand clutched your wrist so tight, you felt your blood circulation get cut off.

"Whoa. If that's how you lik-"

The humor in your tone got cut off instantly as he pushed you to stand in front of him.

Despite the height difference caused by him sitting and you standing, in your heels no less, you felt like he was looking down upon you. A sneer upon his chiseled face and fire in his eyes burned you.

But you were a professional.

So pasting a sweet smile upon your face, you began whispering, sweet as sugar, "Let m-"

"Who gave you the permission to touch me, girl?" The sneer upon his face hardened.

Your subconscious giggled, 'You fucked up this time, YN.'

But you didn't wanna die, so you leant down, your cleavage on display, and splayed out your hand,

"I noticed your glass was emptying, sir. So I-"

Your words were cut off as the same hand that had imprisoned your wrist wrapped around your throat, squeezing at the sides. His eyes dug into yours before pushing you away from him.

You gained your balance before you landed upon your ass and lost your seductress front.

By that time, he had disappeared into the darkness of the girl's booths with one of the girls.

The astrology predictions was right when it said that your zodiac would face losses in business today.

Before you'd clocked out for the night, you went to Jimin's desk to collect your cheque. As you rounded the corner, you were met with the sight of Shanice standing in front of Jimin. She had her head down, staring at the ground as Jimin ranted.

"-really unprofessional. He was raising questions about the performance of my girls. You know I don't tolerate that Shanice. I've built this place from the ground up. What would we do if he de-"

"Hey I'm leaving." You stopped him in between.

He looked over from staring at Shanice in disappointment to looking in your direction, face red from shouting.

"Yeah, here." He went behind his desk to write the cheque after checking your appointments from his computer. As he was writing, Shanice took her leave, nodding an acknowledgement to you before leaving. You patted her back. Everyone had a bad day in this business every once in a while and you sympathized with her.

"Why were you pissed at her?" You asked Jimin, putting a cheque in your Louis Vitton vintage handbag.

"Jeon wasn't satisfied. Taunted me saying my girls aren't worth the hype."

Your eyes widened. Shanice had some of the highest paying clients so it couldn't be that she was bad.

"Maybe.....he's into men?" You questioned meekly.

Jimin gave you an exasperated look. It had been a long night for everybody.

The next week, exactly seven days later, Jungkook showed up again. When you'd heard the news, you rushed out, determined to get him to notice you this time.

Dressed in a babydoll gown, you sauntered over to him, deciding to play up the shy act this time since he hadn't seemed to like the bold face of you.

He looked angry tonight, fire brewing in his eyes.

As you walked in his direction, his eyes dragged over your figure. Before you could bat your eyelashes at him, he clutched the arms of the two girls nearest to him, dragging them away.

You pouted. Were you losing your charm?

Seeing Shanice walk out of her booth, you sidled up to her.

"Hey Shan. What'd you do with the Jeon's paycheck?" You asked, wanting to secretly figure out how much a night with the boss could pay.

"Haven't been able to touch it. Its been sitting in my drawer like a rock." She said, a conflicted look upon her face.

"Was he that bad? Too sma-" You began sniggering as she shushed you, glancing around you two frantically.

"Do you wanna die?" She whisper-yelled.

You pulled a sad face. "Damn, it was that bad, huh?"

She finally let out a laugh that sobered up as soon as the sound reached your ears.

The booth that Jungkook and the two girls had disappeared into emanated sounds of cries and loud, strung out moans.

"So....clearly it wasn't bad in that sense." You spoke.

"Well, the sex itself was great. Just the fact that he put a gun to my head as he began climaxing froze me up." She spoke, glancing towards the door.

You froze. Gun? Was he into necrophilia?

"Dying for the dick took a literal meaning." You whispered, eyes bulging out.

The two girls didn't have the same near death experience as Shanice but the boss clearly wasn't satisfied. Jimin shouted at the girls again, who seemed bewildered to say the least. According to them, he'd climaxed and they had too.

By the time Jeon arrived next week, you had connected the dots. And this time you had a plan. Gun or no gun, you wanted that cheque. The next day when one of the girls showed up with an emerald pendant she'd splurged the cheque upon, your insides were as green as the rock dangling from her pale neck.

Your amazon subscription was ending this week!

So when the man arrived next week, you were prepared. Smoky eyeshadow bringing out your eyes and clad in black lingerie, you looked every bit the seductress you wanted to look like.

Seeing him, however, brought a hesitation in your step. He looked angry.

raging, even.

You'd heard the news. The two gangs were fighting again. The area was becoming more dangerous to operate in and bloodshed was only on the rise.

Veins straining against the golden skin of his throat, jaw clenched shut and a storm brewing behind his eyes. The droplets of ruby red upon his white shirt didn't help either.

This time, however, he kept his eyes upon you until you reached his side.

You opened your mouth to speak but he beat you to the punch.

"Want it that bad, huh? Better make it worth my while, girl." He sneered, thin pink lips twisting as he clamped his hand around your wrist.

By the time, you reached the room and he peeled back the red curtain, you'd regained your bearings.

Showtime.

He walked inside the small room, awash with red light, his walk as tense as the rest of his body.

Spotting the red chaise lounge, he sprawled in top of the red velvet. Eyes burning a hole in your body, he beckoned you forward with a crooked finger, face giving no indication of anything he might be feeling.

You took your sweet time walking towards him, heels clicking against the floor.

You kneeled down in between his sprawled legs, running your hands up his muscled thighs. Reaching the zipper, you bent your head down, putting the metal between your teeth and pulling it down. The sharp intake of breath from above you made you want to look up, ruffle your hair and smirk at him.

And so you did.

His eyes narrowed at your audacity. Grabbing your wrist, he pressed your palm over his crotch. Just for a moment, his hips raised up into your palm, large eyes drooping as if they wanted to close.

But as soon as you felt that he had fallen under your spell, his eyes snapped open,

"I pay you to suck my cock. Not to fucking ogle at me."

With these venomous words, his hands made a makeshift ponytail by gathering your hair in his large fist. Raising at eyebrows at his words, while taking monster out of its boxers made cage, you wanted to mutter touché.

But his fist pressing down upon your head made you bow your head before you could speak and the mouth you'd opened to tease him was now filled with a cock that made you look back on your comments to Shanice.

Oh how wrong you'd been.

Trying to wrap your hand around the entire girth, you suckled on the tip, gradually taking more inches down your throat. As you suckled, you raised your eyes up. Knowing how wanton you looked. How alluring. Numerous men had told you so.

As soon as he saw your eyes trying to catch his gaze, he glared into your eyes. Immediately, you softened the look in your eyes, making yourself tear up as you choked. The eyeliner falling down your cheeks in streaks, you stared at him with tears swimming in your eyes.

Spittle left from the corners of your mouth, coating your neck and chin. As another line of water went past the rim of your eyes, your tongue began caressing his frenulum, hand working up and down his hard shaft.

As you felt the salty precum fill your mouth, you raised up his white shirt that covered his abdomen, caressing the abs before running your nails down his skin. As the ribbons of red broke out on the honey skin, his cock pulsed on your tongue and you were sure he was gonna erupt.

But with a curse, he jerked you off, breathing hard with his eyes closed.

You gave him a pouty smile as you stood up. Seeing his hands reaching towards the thin straps of your gown, you stepped back quickly, giggling.

"Patience is a virtue, sir." Although in his line of work, you wouldn't exactly expect him to have come across any virtues.

Looking straight into his eyes as they stuck onto you like a leech, you caressed the black straps. Hooking a finger underneath each, you pushed the gown off your shoulders, shimmying out of it till it fell on the floor.

Bare breasts, flushed with perspiration was exposed to his greedy eyes. The look that overcame his face was feral, almost scary. Teeth hooking onto his pink bottom lip, he let out a breath, nostrils flaring.

You turned around, the look was arousing you way too much when you had a show to put on.

Holding the sides of your underwear, you pushed it down your legs, bending the whole way down. You knew your mission was achieved when you heard a broken growl-like sound come out of his chest, goosepimples erupting across the flesh of your cheeks that were in his direct sight.

Taking your sweet time before turning around to face him, you smiled at him sweetly, ignoring his starved look.

"Do you regret making me wait so long, sir?"

The only answer you got was his clenched hands shooting out to clamp around your wrists and jerk you forwards.

You laughed, the teasing sounds echoing from the red velvet covered walls. Climbing up the chaise lounge, you placed your knees on either side of his spread thighs, your bare heat just a few inches from his shaft that lay, pulsing and red on his abdomen that had your nail marks.

His tattooed hands had clamped around your hips, digging his fingers deep enough to leave clear indents. He tried to push you down but you stopped him, placing hands on his broad shoulders. Jungkook looked up, a confused and impatient look marring his handsome face.

You cupped your hand under his chin, making sure he was looking into your eyes as you lowered down onto his cock. A breath whistled out of his open mouth, a moan leaving yours as your slick core sucked him in easily. Clamping around the hot rod, you moved slowly. Making sure his eyes were open and looking into yours, you kissed his lips. The curtain that had been hiding the soul behind his irises fell away. He stared into your orbs, unblinking as your tongue traced the seam of his mouth, ending at his lip ring to suckle at it gently, lapping at the piercing. His head bowed back, exposing the thick neck that you chose to run your tongue up against, collecting the sweat and kissing a mole that was on the side of his neck. Within a moment, his head snapped back up, palms clutching your waist and pushing you towards the surface of the chaise lounge. One knee on the surface and a strong leg on the floor, he hovered above you.

His half undressed state, pants around his thighs and unbuttoned shirt made your cunt quiver.

His face hardened. Putting a hand on your chest, in the middle of your breasts, he began thrusting. It was your time to be breathless. From leaving your slit so that only the thick tip was breaching it to going deep till not an inch was left, he did it again and again. His cock curved perfectly, hitting the spot inside you that made the toes of your raised legs curl in pleasure. His pace brutal, he slammed in you so that the sound of skin slapping against the skin was deafening.

His hand that was on your chest, moved up to wrap around your throat, pressing on the sides of your neck to cut of the supply of air to your brain.

You let out a long moan, pleading with your eyes and your words as a string of 'please, please more' left your drooling mouth.

As your eyes rolled back into your skull, the veins in his dick imprinting themselves on your walls made you a bumbling mess. His pace never slackened. Opening your eyes, the look on his face made you whine. Dark eyebrows slashed down, a look of concentration marred his features. The chain swinging from his neck as he fucked dangled in front of your eyes.

A small black cross. The cross that only the Jeon syndicate wore.

And the black signifying his status as the supreme leader of the group. The realisation that you were fucking the Jeon Jungkook almost made you climax.

The man that had terrorised this country since he was a teenager.

You were a sick fuck.

His hand that had been choking you cracked your jaw open, fingers sliding into your mouth as he slammed into you.

"Got a real mouth on you, huh? Can't find anything sassy to say now, YN?"

Hearing him say your name for the first time that you had never told him made you screech out your orgasm. Your chest rose up, tears leaking out of your eyes, breasts heaving as you sucked his fingers, laving wetly between the fingers.

By now, his irises had been overtaken by black. The black looked wild contrasted by the red light of the room, creating dark shadows on his sharp cheekbones.

Reaching up, you clutched at his hair, pulling at them as his pace quickened, close to his climax. His cock began pulsing as he breathed heavily, grunting. Suddenly, a gleam entered his eyes as his hand moved towards his pants and pulled out a shiny, metal object.

A gun.

Putting it in front of your face, he put the finger on the trigger.

As much as you had expected this, your insides clamped with fear. He groaned, your tight walls milking him.

Looking in his eyes, you moved your head forward towards the mouth of the gun.

His eyes widened, the nasty smirk that had been on his lips wiped out as you wrapped your mouth around the muzzle of the metal, sucking lightly.

Batting your eyes at him, you sucked at the end of the gun.

It was ripped out from your lips and a weight fell upon you as his chest met yours, his cock piercing your hole so roughly, the oversensitivity made you scream.

His pace stuttered as a mouth clamped around your neck, teeth digging into the skin.

You caress his ear, rubbing at the shell.

All was quiet for a long moment as you stared at the ceiling, making sense of the fact that you had survived Jungkook.

The weight that had just begun to feel comfortable was off you all of a sudden.

Seeing his back, muscles dancing under the skin as he buttoned up his shirt and pulled his pants up, you smiled. The paycheck was about to be good tonight, you could tell.

A flash of silver caught your eyes as his watch landed near your head, the silver glowing in the light.

"Saw you eyeing it the first time we met."

With these words, he was gone.

You smiled, you knew exactly the shop you could sell this chunk of metal at for an absurd amount of money.

Jungkook was back the very next day.

Seeing Jimin's mouth gape like that of a fish made you laugh.

The club had just opened, the crowd was yet to come in the floors below and so your VIP area was absolutely barren. In fact, you had just come in as well.

You were ecstatic. Last night's paycheck had been beyond your dreams. Another paycheck like this and you would be all set for your Paris trip the following month. You had planned to spend a week in Paris, a vacation you had talked to Jimin about.

Jungkook had walked in and demanded you, refusing any drinks offered to him. That night, sober and sharp, he was even more intense than the night before, making you climax a total of three times, even going down on you before he fucked you brutally. You were in heaven.

Money and orgasms. Your two favorite things in the world.

This repeated each night throughout the week. He would arrive at the earliest possible hour and occupy you till it was time to close the club down and Jimin was timidly knocking on the door. He wouldn't dare say anything, he valued his life too much for that (the intimidating guards standing outside the room didn't help) but he would knock once to signify that it was the early hours of dawn. Not that it was always heard, the lewd sounds emanating from the room drowning out the sound of a timid knock.

You began noticing changes in Jungkook's demeanor. Changes you didn't exactly like. His emotionless mask would only stay on until you reached the room, the mask slipping away to reveal a look of hunger and almost.... desperation that seemed to increase each day.

Not to mention, one night after he'd left, you found your panties missing. You were pissed.

They were so expensive!

When he came over on Tuesday, the end of the weekdays for you, Wednesday being a holiday, his energy seemed weird.

Instead of leaving after he was done as he always did, Jungkook lingered around.

You raised an eyebrow at him, wondering why he wouldn't leave.

Then he opened his mouth,

"I want you to come with me to a party tomorrow. I don't have anyone else to ask."

His stoic face betrayed nothing, except his orbs. Expectant and anxious, as if scared you would refuse.

And you would. It was an off day for you tomorrow!

"You don't have anyone else to ask, sir? Are you sure about that?" You smirked at him, without fear. In the past week, you'd realised he wouldn't punish you for running your mouth.

He sighed, tongue poking his cheek as he looked at the walls.

"Why can't you come?"

"Wednesday is my only off day."

He stared at you for a moment before opening the door.

You thought he'd walk out.

But he shut the door as he came back into the room.

A chequebook in hand, he sat down on the chair on the far end of the room.

You began laughing, unsure if he was doing what you thought he was doing.

But you were curious too. How much money would convince you to give up the only off day you had in the entire week?

Putting the cheque face down on the space next to your thighs, he exited the room, saying

"Be ready at 7."

Holding up the cheque, signed with your name on the recipients column, the space next to Amount Payable was empty.

A blank cheque.

You sighed. Turns out, your off day could be brought with money.

Sitting in the most expensive car you'd ever seen in your life, you felt as if you were bathing in luxury. Cream leather seats, woodsy scent wafting in the air-conditioned surroundings and the driver's section partitioned off with a black panel, you truly knew what it meant to travel in style.

Leaning back against the seats, you sighed and sipped from a flute of bubbe champagne that the chauffeur had handed to you as you stepped in to sit beside the man who had requested your presence for tonight.

Looking outside, you were basking in the lights that reflected off the blackened windows. This part of the city was always amazing to travel through. High-end brands, most talked about shopping complexes and the most expensive restaurants littered the streets.

From the corner of your eye, you spied a tattooed hand creeping towards yours. Whipping your head around to face him, you quipped,

"Do you wanna hold my hand, sir? Here you can." Slipping your hand into his, you pulled the enjoined palms to rest upon your thigh.

Unable to resist the opportunity to tease him, you spoke up

"Don't worry, I don't charge for that. Not yet anyway."

His orbs twinkled with amusement yet his lips did not turn up to smile.

Typical.

The car stopped under a two-storeyed building. The first floor being the ballroom, where you imagined you were heading to and upon the second floor- the most opulent restaurant in the town. A few of your friends had talked about - how it was almost impossible to get a reservation here. Anyone who was anyone wanted to post a picture dining at one of the tables, overlooking the river that flowed through its neighbourhood.

You wondered if you could sneak upstairs while Jungkook was busy at the party to click a picture at the doors of this place. your Instagram had been too barren lately.

Walking through the lobby of the building, you were reminded of who you were with. Everyone around you seemed to shrink away from the space that the man beside you walked through. As you looked around the marble and glass beauty, every other person in the place refused to meet your eyes.

You were whisked away to the elevator, two bodyguards stepping inside while four men stood watch throughout the lobby area.

As the lift descended the first floor, you grew confused. The hand that was still held in Jungkook's warm palm tugged you outside the lift to the short hallway. You looked at him confused.

The door to the restaurant was wide open, a short balding man standing at the gate. As the two of you neared, he bent at the waist, not moving back up before Jungkook let out a small hum.

"Sir, your table is r-"

"Lead the way." His deep voice commanded. You look at his face, but he refuses to look back at you, staring ahead as you move into the opulent place.

Freeing your hand from his clutch, you place it upon the bend at his elbow, tugging at it to make him look at you.

"Why are we here? Is this the party? Pretty lame. I mean, we're the first ones here." You spoke. You'd always believed in being fashionably late.

"The party's cancelled so I thought that we could come eat something." He spoke, stopping at the large, round table placed near the floor-to-ceiling glass window that overlooked the flowing river. Twinkling city lights and serene music playing softly in the background, you felt like the main character in a movie. But this wasn't Pretty Woman and you weren't Julia Roberts.

"We didn't have to come here. Its pre-" You began as Jungkook pushed in your chair with you on it before moving to sit down. He stopped however as you spoke the words.

"You don't like it?" He spoke slowly, gaze tracing your features as if to discern the truth.

You loved it honestly. You'd never been to any place that smelled more of money than the very air in this restaurant. But you knew how expensive some places could be and while you weren't opposed to splurging every once in a while, much less when it was coming from other's pocket, you felt as if you'd already taken a lot. You could be a bit money hungry but you weren't a bad person.

But with Jungkook's statement it felt like you'd be doing harm to every person in the vicinity. With his words, the old man's nervousness became much more noticeable. The head shining down upon his bald head reflected off the droplets of sweat that became pronounced as Jungkook stared at him sternly, as if this was his fault. Honestly, the poor man looked like he was going to cry.

"No! It's beautiful here, I love it." You intervened.

Jungkook finally sat down, unbottoning his suit jacket and sending the man away.

With no other company, you looked out the window as you felt the gaze of the man sitting across from you. It was unnerving. You were good in sexual situations, not ones that were filled with awkward silence.

Suddenly a thought came to your head and you fished out your phone, handing it to Jungkook.

He looked at you with a blank look on his face.

"Could you please click a picture of me? I've always wanted to come here."

Without hesitation, he began clicking away as you posed. Some smiling prettily and a few with goofy faces to send to your friends. The fact that the head of a crime syndicate was your photographer made you giggle. What an absurd turn of events.

"Do you like posting pictures?" He asked, eyes still stuck to the screen as he snapped away.

"I guess so. I like taking pictures whenever I go to some nice place or while I'm travelling. I'm hoping to take a lot of pictures when I travel next month." You babbled, sedated by the low conversation and soothing lights.

Before you could ask if you should call for the menu, multiple waiters with several platters appeared before your table. Without even breathing in your direction, they put the plates upon the table and left.

The fact that the table was already set and the menu pre-decided made you suspicious. Absence of any other diners apart from you didn't help either.

But that could wait.

You loved food. It was the one reason you loved having a full bank account. You could splurge on food anytime, without thinking twice. As you dug in, you lost yourself in the aroma and complexity of flavors.

By the time you stopped to take a break, half the dishes were cleared which was a testament to the fact that a large quantity of food had been put on the table.

But between the two of you, it seemed the table may be cleared sooner than you'd thought.

Jungkook ate with gusto. Honestly watching him eat whetted your appetite even more. He would stare at you for a while before you'd give him a questioning look and then he'd go back to eating again. This pattern repeated for a while until the man in front of you picked up a napkin and after dabbing at the corners of his mouth, began speaking in a cautious, practiced tone,

"Do you like your job?"

You looked at him with a bewildered expression on your face.

"I don't mind it." You spoke cautiously.

After staring at you for a moment, he spoke again

"Why?"

Your mouth popped open. Was he being serious? Was he looking down at your job? At least you weren't killing people and filling your banks with blood money, you sneered.

“Uh to pay rent? Buy groceries? Travel?” You spoke, tone patronizing as if explaining it to a young kid.

Probably sensing your tone and disengagement, he steered the conversation towards another topic.

“You like traveling? Is that why you're going to Paris?” He asked, twirling the whiskey that was in glass in his hand.

Watching the amber liquid swirl, you jolted out of your carbohydrate-induced bliss.

“How’d you know I’m going to Paris?”

Without a stutter, he replied, “You just told me.”

“No I didn't.” You didn't recall telling him that.

But the confidence in his tone and the unflinching way in which he returned your gaze made you question yourself. You could’ve mentioned it. You did mention vacation at the beginning of the evening, would it be too far-fetched to assume you’d mention the trip you were most looking forward to?

You looked up from the tablecloth you’d been digging holes into, trying to scour your memories. His voice broke you out of your reverie.

“I have a...proposition for you.”

“Hm?” Did he want you to suck his dick under the table? It would explain why he brought you here.

“Quit your job at the club. Come work for me.” His voice deepened, hand reaching across the table, trying to find your hand but you had already put it in your lap.

“You want me to be your exclusive whore?” You bit out.

He winced. His hand came to rub at his nape. He was such a dichotomy. You felt that if you were to call over the bald man from before, he would take a picture of this Jungkook just to be sure that it was what he was seeing through his eyes.

“It doesn't have to be like th-”

“No Jungkook. I don't wanna be bound to one man like that.” You interrupted him.

“Why? Is it about the money? You know I can give you all the money you want. You'd never want for anything. I'll even take you on vacations often. Wherever you want to go. We cou-” He spoke, breathing picking up.

“No. I can earn all the-” You tried to stop him.

But the sound of his hand slamming down upon the table so hard that all the plates trembled was enough to silence you.

His face was tense, breathing fast and hand clenched into a tight fist, he unbuttoned the topmost button on his shirt before speaking, looking much calmer and collected.

“It's for your own good, YN. The dispute between us and the other group is at its peak and you know that damned club’s caught in the middle of it. It's also no secret that I fuck you regularly. To them, there’s nothing quite as delicious as spoils of war.

If something happens, don't say I didn't warn you.”

With a long look into your eyes, his hand raised up to motion something. a waiter came over with a few desserts.

Sweet delicacies that tasted bitter with fear.

This was the third time it was happening.

Ever since your meeting with Jungkook, he’d decided that not letting you earn at all was your punishment. Otherwise, what other reason could he have to do this?

Ever since that night, he’d book your earliest slot in advance. However, he’d not show up until later that night to take you, effectively not letting you take on other customers by blocking the time. The club wasn't like a doctor’s office that if you missed your appointment, the doctor could move on to another patient. Nuh-uh, the girl would have to wait for that customer to show up while sitting idle the entire night.

Besides, this was the boss’ appointment you were talking about. Jimin would hang you from the ceiling if you dared defy his orders.

Sighing, you looked towards the bodyguards stationed outside your door, moving to ask them the same question you’d ask them every other night.

“Why hasn't sir arrived yet?”

And like every other night, you received the same answer,

“We do not know. He must be busy, miss Y/L/N should wait for him.”

To hell with waiting!

You stormed out, eyes searching for Jimin to complain to him about the unfairness of it all. This must a business loss for him too.

Spotting him near the bar, instructing one of the bartenders, you call out his name as you reach him.

“Jimin! Hey I need to ta-”

“YN, I was just going to look for you. Please be a dear and go into my office. There's a package for you.”

“Huh?”

“Just go.” He pushed you away, in the direction of the small cabin.

Opening the glass door, you saw a large, blue velvet covered box lying on one side of the mahogany table. You pick it up, seeing the paper pasted on the top signed as ‘Jungkook’ in a scratchy scrawl.

Opening it, you come face to face with a gorgeous necklace studded with diamonds the size of your smallest toe. Putting it on your neck, the diamonds drip onto your chest, making you feel all bubbly inside.

and when that night Jungkook shows up, you smack a kiss onto his lips as he asks,

“Like it?”

“Love it.”

Putting the hoop through your ear piercing, you picked up the new tube of lipstick, dabbing it onto your moist lips. Your makeup routine was done for the night. You smiled at your reflection.

A knock on the door of your booth persuaded you to walk away from the mirror and open the thin door.

Hana stood outside, a soft smile on her face. You'd always liked her. She was nice and minded her own business most of the time.

"Hey YN. You wanna grab a drink? Business is really slow tonight so Jimin said we could chill for a while." She spoke, glancing at the bodyguards standing at both sides of the door, staring stoically ahead.

"Sure, let's go." You could really do with a drink right now.

Walking to the bar area, you perched upon the stool and rested your elbows on the island.

As the Shawn placed a fruity looking drink in front of both of you, you shifted to face Hana. Seeing her look weirdly nervous, you nudged her.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

"Feels like I'm sitting with the Queen of England. All the girls are way too scared to approach you, you know?" She giggled anxiously.

You snorted, a bit of the drink trickling out of your nose.

"Would the Queen do this? But seriously, did I kill someone in my sleep?" You questioned.

She gave you an incredulous look.

"You're with the boss now. You could very well get someone killed."

You were stumped. What kind of rumours were going around this place?

"We? With Jungkook? No chance and you know that better than anyone else Hana. I don't like being attached to one man."

Hana tilted her head before shaking it and smiling.

"You might not like it but it seems like he's already pretty attached." She whispered, motioning towards the two burly guards who were now standing near one end of the island, watching you two.

"Well sometimes you know that guys can and do get attached but its fleeting. And those guys are there waiting for their boss to arrive and look out for him, not me."

You did feel that Jungkook was getting attached, more than he should be. But it didn't faze you. You'd experienced this a few times in this line of work and come to know that this attachment stays only till they find something real, substantive out there.

Hana looked at you for a long moment before sighing.

"Whatever you say."

From the corner of your eye, you saw the guards disappear, probably to take a bathroom break.

Throwing back the contents of the glass, the two of you began talking about your upcoming trip to Paris and the shops you were planning to visit before leaving.

Suddenly, the main door slammed open as your back straightened, a weird feeling overcoming you.

Dozens of men marched in. Men who were armed to the teeth. sniper guns and knives strapped to their bodies and scary expressions upon their scarred, leathery faces.

One of them put a gun to Jimin's head as you heard multiple cries echo throughout the room, scared by the same treatment.

You tried to curl in on yourself, tried to make yourself small and unnoticeable.

You turned your head discreetly, trying to locate the guards. Surely, they'd help you, right? They had to. They would at least protect you against their rivals.

But they were nowhere to be found.

A voice boomed across the area,

"where's Jeon's bitch?!" The yell came out of the mouth of the man who held Jimin at gunpoint. You could see him tremble, although he tried to maintain his composure for the sake of the girls who already looked scared to death. They knew what these people could do and oftentimes, it was a fate worse than death.

When no one replied, the crowd grew angrier. A few nocked their victims by the butt end of their guns and cries echoed off the walls.

Your head was spinning. Jungkook's words reverbated in your mind. This was about to become your doomsday.

Hana's fingers that had been holding onto your arm, dug into your skin. Her face was flushed, eyes wide with fear.

"I'll ask again. Where is she?!" You knew it was only a matter of time before someone caved.

And so they did.

One of the newer bartenders, a newcomer into the city pointed a shaky finger at you.

Nasty grins that were thrown your way made you want to puke. Your heart thundered inside your chest, stories of their leader's sadism making your head light.

As a group of men began progressing towards you, you decided to try the only option left.

You tore through the corridor, running towards the men's washrooms. the bodyguards must be there. Or you were screwed.

The sound of multiple pairs of heavy, angry steps behind you made you accelerate. Your hyperventilating breaths made it hard to hear but a few of their nauseating threats made your stomach churn violently.

Seeing the door in sight, you began screaming for help, crying and yelling for them to come out. Bursting through the door, you immediately turned to lock it behind you but your inebriated state of mind spent a second too long.

You slipped upon the floor, the smell of urine and smoke filling your nostrils. Your vision was crowded by the horde of men pushing through the door, circling around you.

Your vision went hazy with tears. It felt like your heart would burst out of your chest as one of them took out a knife, walking towards you.

He crouched down, the armed hand reaching towards you oh so slowly.

You closed your eyes in resignation, a bone-deep exhaustion overcoming your senses.

Something went splat against the side of your face. Reaching a hand up to your cheek, you opened your eyes to look at your palm and screamed. Blood.

But not your own.

And then the screams began.

Sounds of guns firing and men hitting the floor. Finding an opportunity where you weren't noticed, you slipped behind one of the stalls, locking it and putting your feet up so they couldn't be seen through the gap at the bottom and for ten minutes you sat that way.

With your hands clapped over your ears to tune out the guns, screams and violence and your bottom lip caught between your teeth to silence the sobs that threatened to break out.

And suddenly, it was silent.

The sounds of shoes standing outside your door made you hyperventilate.

As the lock began to jiggle, you sobbed,

"Pl-please!"

You never thought you'd be happier to hear his voice than now

"Its me YN."

Throwing open the door, you fell into his arms, chest hurting due to the strength of your sobs.

The two of you fell on the floor, with you in his strong, capable arms, piss staining both your knees.

"Please don't let them take me." You cried, clutching at his collar in a tight grip.

"Never. They would never hurt you again." He spoke, his tone reassuring.

With fingers running through your hair, he picked you up, walking out.

He kept whispering in your ear about how no one would ever hurt you again, how he could always keep you safe and protected in his house, his domain, how you should just listen to him.

Hugging his shoulders, you sobbed.

And before the door of the washroom closed, the vision of it was seared into your brain.

Bodies lying in pools of blood, jaws shot off, brains splattered across the tiles. Still, lifeless bodies.

He grabs two mugs from the hanging cupboard and places them onto the table, taking a seat in front of you. "Coffee?" He asks, grabbing two pods of coffee from the drawer.

You nod at him, pursing your lips together. "Yes please," You reply, giving him a thankful smile.

Jungkook nods back and pops the coffee pod into the machine, waiting for the liquid to finish pouring out before he replaces the mug with a new one.

As he prepares the coffee, you slide a plate of croissant and butter onto his plate, saving the other plate for you. "Here, eomoni had these delivered yesterday."

He fondly chuckles at the mention of his mother, gratefully accepting the plate. "Thanks," He mumbles, sliding a mug of coffee towards you.

Shortly after your rather sudden wedding, you and Jungkook had fallen into some form of a routine in the mornings upon moving in together. In a way, it was one of the only times when you two would be in the same place alone, giving you both the perfect opportunity to genuinely get to know one another without any sort of pressure from others.

It was a start, definitely, as it helped you both get a grasp of the other's personality. From only knowing Jungkook previously as the rather intimidating man, you now slowly found yourself growing fond of the man you called your husband.

"So," You start, settling down on the seat across from him. "Busy day today?"

Jungkook nods and gulps down his coffee, "Yeah, there's a base in Daegu we've been trying to take over." He explains, "We're planning on finalizing the entire plan today."

You take a bite of your bread, nodding to show you were listening. "Ah, I think I heard about that from appa." You reply, hinting towards a conversation you had with your dad a couple of days ago.

"Hm, that would make sense." He replies with a chuckle, "Your dad was one of the people who proposed it after all."

You smile at this, shaking your head at him upon thinking of your dad. As you take a sip of your coffee, Jungkook glances towards you, tilting his head curiously.

"How about you? Anything exciting today?"

He was likely referring to the small art museum you owned, the place being used commonly as a venue for rather exclusive events in Seoul. You both had gone there a select number of times, having even met there for the first time when Bangtan held an auction at the location.

You look towards him and chuckle, shaking your head. "Not really, just more emails about some possible future projects." You respond, "I guess it's still better than guns and knives, though." You add, crinkling your nose.

Jungkook lets out a soft laugh and nods again, eating the last of his croissant. "Well, speaking of guns and knives," He says, "I think I should get going. They’re running the final plan by us in an hour."

You nod, waiting for him to stand up as you finish your coffee. "I'll see you later though, right?" He asks, pushing his chair back into the table as he grabs his phone. "We have that dinner at Pierre Gagnaire à Séoul."

"Of course," You reply, giving him a small smile. "Just text me what time you'll finish at work."

Jungkook smiles back and nods, putting his wallet in his pocket. "Well, I'm off. Thanks for breakfast, (Y/N)." He says, waving at you.

You wave back at him, watching as he leaves the kitchen before you glance back down towards the used porcelain plates on the table. You slowly begin collecting them, stacking up the used coffee mugs on top of the plates.

As you bring them towards the sink, you suddenly hear rushed footsteps by the doorway, immediately causing you to glance towards the source. Upon looking, your surprised expression quickly melts into a relieved one once you realize it was just Ms. Jung, one of the oldest helpers that rotated around the various Bangtan households.

"Oh, Mrs. Jeon, please do not worry yourself with that." She quickly says, walking towards you. "I can finish up here. You should go upstairs and get started on work."

You shake your head at this, smiling at her assuringly. "Nonsense, Ms. Jung. It's not that much to clean up anyways." You reply, "Besides, you should have your breakfast first."

She smiles at this, reaching forward to help you move the rest of the dishes to the sink. "Aigoo, don't bother yourself with that—I've already eaten." She says with a chuckle, "Now, why don't you go and start on your work? You wouldn't want to be late for your dinner with Mr. Jeon later, right?"

You sigh in defeat, shaking your head once again. "You're impossible to argue with, Ms. Jung." You say with a laugh, smiling when she joins you in laughter.

As you dry your hands with a nearby towel, you suddenly see your phone buzzing on the table, causing you to walk towards it. When you see the contact name, your eyebrows immediately furrow in confusion, hanging the towel back on its rack before you grab onto the phone.

"I'll just take this outside." You tell Ms. Jung, giving her a wave. "Thank you so much for doing this."

She simply chuckles and waves back, putting on the dishwashing gloves. "No need to thank me, Mrs. Jeon. It is my job after all."

You walk out of the kitchen and into the hallway, swiftly unlocking your phone to find Seokjin's contact. Once you do, you tap onto it, waiting for the screen to show his name before you bring the phone to your ear.

"Hey," He answers after a few rings, seemingly in a good mood. "How's my dongsaeng doing?"

You smile in amusement at his question, leaning against the wall beside you. You've known Seokjin far longer than any other member in Bangtan, this being due to the closeness of both your fathers.

"I'm good, oppa." You reply, glancing downwards to your feet. "How about you?"

Seokjin hums from the other line, "I'm alright too, just the usual work stuff." He says, "Anyways, did you see my text?"

You furrow your eyebrows, briefly moving your phone away from your ear to check your notifications. Once the screen lights up, you quickly see a link sent from his phone.

"Oh, I just saw it now." You reply, bringing the phone back to your ear. "It's a link?"

"Yeah," He affirms, "There's a new Japanese restaurant that opened up across the street from us. I saw it and remembered how you were raving about sushi the other night."

You let out a soft laugh at this, "Aw, you remembered that?"

Seokjin snickers in response, "How could I not?" He says, "I might've been a bit drunk but my memory never fails me."

You playfully roll your eyes at his arrogance, a chuckle leaving your lips. "Well, moving on," You reply, "Why'd you send me the link to their website?"

"I was wondering if you'd maybe want to have lunch with me today." He says, "We haven't had a meal together—as in just the two of us—in a pretty long time."

You hum at this, realizing he was right. "That is true." You respond, "So you want me to drive over there?"

"Yeah, I was thinking you could send me your orders and we could eat it in my office. I hear the tables tend to get full pretty easily."

Upon hearing his plan, you suddenly feel a little more hesitant. "I don't know, oppa. Wouldn't it be better to just eat at the restaurant instead? I spoke to Jungkook this morning and you guys seem to have some pretty important things happening today."

"It'll be fine, (Y/N)-ah." Seokjin replies, "The meeting will happen in the east wing and all our offices are located in the west wing. As long as you stay in my office, I don't think you'll be interrupting anything."

"Besides," He adds, "You're a direct member of Bangtan now. You're more than welcome to come to headquarters anytime."

You ponder over it for a few more moments in your head, biting your lip. "Hm," You mumble, toying with the hem of your shirt. "Fine, I guess I can trust you." You reply, glancing back up to the wall in front of you.

"Great, then!" Seokjin exclaims, "Do you think you can get here by around 12?"

"Yeah, sure." You respond, looking down at your watch.

As you begin walking to your room, you hear someone opening the door from the other line, causing Seokjin to clear his throat. "Alright, I have to go but I'll see you in a bit?"

"See you, oppa." You say with a small smile.

Jungkook drives into the basement of headquarters, parking his black Mercedes AMG GT 63 S in the reserved parking space by the elevator. He swiftly leaves the car as soon as he turns his engine off, placing his car keys and his gun in his pocket before he unlocks his phone.

“Hello?” Jimin says, picking up the phone.

“Hey hyung, I just got here. Are they ready with the plan?” Jungkook asks, walking up to the elevator.

Jimin audibly shifts from the other line, “Yeah, I spoke to Yeonjun just now and they have everything finalized. Mr. (L/N) gave them the go-signal”

“Okay,” Jungkook replies, walking into the elevator. “I’ll see you in a bit, hyung.”

He presses the button to the 15th floor and waits for the doors to close before he looks down at his phone. His eyes quickly travel to a sudden notification, tapping it before it redirects him to his messages application.

Pierre Gagnaire à Séoul: Good afternoon, Mr. Jeon. The VIP room has been reserved for you and your wife later at 6PM, as requested. If you would like me to make any changes to the reservation, please do not hesitate to send me a message.

He licks his lips as he reads the message, nodding affirmatively at the details. Just on time, the elevator doors in front of him open and he walks out, directly walking towards the conference room. Once he’s in the hall, he curtly nods to the guard standing by the door, muttering a soft thanks when the guard opens the door for him.

“Guk, you’re here.” Namjoon says, motioning for him to come to the head of the room.

Jungkook walks towards the leader as the rest of the men politely bow to the Bangtan member, raising his eyebrows at him. “Am I late?” He asks, the leader shaking his head.

“Just on time. We’re just waiting for Taehyung to arrive.” Namjoon replies, Jungkook nodding understandingly before he walks to Jimin at the back of the room.

He stands next to the older member who greets him with a pat on the shoulder before he once again unlocks his phone. He opens your last conversation together and types out a text, reading it in his head a few times before he finally presses send.

jungkook: hey, i just got a text from pierre gagnaire and they confirmed our reservation’s at 6. is that okay with you?

After a few moments, his phone vibrates, making him look at the notification almost immediately.

(y/n): hey, jungkook! yes, that time is alright with me. i mean, you’re picking me up anyways so i don’t think you should be asking me about the time haha. but either way, 6 should be just fine :)

He reads through your message, a small smile forming on his face as he unlocks his phone to reply.

jungkook: great, i’ll see you later then. don’t forget to dress formally :)

As he types out a reply, he doesn’t notice Jimin watching with a slightly amused expression, only realizing it when the older member suddenly elbows him. He immediately looks up towards him, a confused expression on his face as he looks at his hyung questionably.

“Is something wrong?” Jungkook asks, hand still holding onto his phone.

Jimin simply snickers and shakes his head, “I just wanted to know who you were texting.” He teases, “I can’t remember the last time I saw you smiling like that while using your phone.”

Upon hearing this, Jungkook straightens up, clearing his throat before looking towards his phone to send the message. “It’s no one.” He says, locking his phone and putting it in his pocket.

The older member opens his mouth to say another teasing remark, but he’s cut short when Namjoon suddenly claps his hands, signifying that the meeting was about to start.

“Thank you for the lunch, oppa. It was really good.” You say, beaming at Seokjin as he leads you out of his office.

He smiles and pats your head, “No problem, (Y/N)-ie.” He replies, handing you your bag.

You accept it gratefully and hang the bag onto your shoulder, placing your phone inside your pocket. As you do so, Seokjin stares at you with raised eyebrows, making you look at him confusedly.

“Did I forget anything?” You ask with a chuckle, making him shake his head.

He looks at his watch before glancing back towards you, “Don’t you want to go and visit Guk?” He suggests, “The meeting is probably over by now.”

“I don’t know, oppa.” You say, “He seemed pretty serious earlier when he talked about how busy he’d be today.”

He huffs in response, shaking his head. “You two are married for Christ’s sake. How are you supposed to get to know each other if you’re too shy to even go and visit him?” He says, giving you a nudge on the shoulder.

You smile at him sheepishly, causing him to playfully roll his eyes at you before he gently pushes you towards the hallway. “Alright, alright.” He says, “Just get home safe, yeah?”

As he pushes you away, you let out a laugh and walk back to give him a hug, grinning when you hear him grumble. “Thanks for inviting me.” You say before pulling away, “I’m off!”

You wave at him as you walk away, chuckling when he waves back at you. As you make a turn in the hallway, you flinch upon bumping into a person. You instinctively glance towards them, eyebrows raising in surprise when the man quickly avoids eye contact.

“Sorry,” He mutters before walking away, leaving you to watch as he swiftly walks away.

Despite the rather quick encounter you had with him, you couldn’t help but have noticed the man’s long hair and how it was styled into a bun, the hairstyle reminding you of a guard that used to accompany your family in your childhood home. But you simply shrug it off when he walks down the hallway, moving on in your own way as well.

Meanwhile, Jungkook was well finished with the meeting, tiredly walking into his office to get some rest. He sighs in relief as he takes a seat in his chair, eyes fluttering shut when he leans against the backrest. “Thank god it’s over.” He mutters, swirling his chair from side to side.

As he keeps his eyes closed, he suddenly hears distant quick footsteps, causing his eyebrows to furrow while he slowly opens his eyes. He looks towards the door, hand slowly grabbing the gun on the table.

Slowly and steadily, the footsteps get louder, Jungkook slowly standing up from his chair while aiming the gun towards the door. Then, he suddenly hears a loud gunshot outside, making his eyes narrow as he keeps his them focused.

Then, the door suddenly slams open, revealing a distressed Yeonjun who had a gun in his hand.

Upon seeing him, Jungkook puts down his gun, looking at the younger man expectantly. “What’s going on?” He asks, grabbing his phone from the table.

Yeonjun swallows, putting his gun in his back pocket. “We’re being attacked.”

Jungkook runs into Namjoon’s office, huffing as he swiftly shuts the door behind him. “Hyung; what’s going on?” He asks, stress evident in his voice.

But no one hears him, he realizes, when he sees how stressed everyone already was. Namjoon, Hoseok, and Jimin were all busy monitoring the screens on the leader’s table while Taehyung and Yoongi were both actively talking on the phone with some men in other locations of the building.

Seokjin though, the maknae noticed, seemed to be trying to reach someone, confusing Jungkook slightly.

“Hobi, have them put the building on lockdown. No one is leaving the damn building until we find out who’s behind this.” Namjoon instructs, looking at the CCTV footage on the screen. “Guk, do you think you can point out some people here?”

Jungkook snaps out of his gaze, nodding to the leader as he walks to the screen. “Yeah,” He says, scanning the people in the frame. “I uh, I recognize everyone there except for the one with the long hair.”

As Namjoon starts instructing some people through the intercoms, Jungkook scans through the other monitors on the table, poking his tongue against his cheek as he sees gunfight after gunfight. Then, when his gaze lands on a specific portion of the screen, his eyes suddenly widen.

“Wait, is that (Y/N)?” He asks, suddenly sounding much more uptight.

Namjoon looks at the screen in surprise upon hearing the maknae’s remark, opening his mouth to reply when Seokjin beats him to it. “She’s still here?” He asks in worry, rushing to the monitor to look. “God—I had a bad feeling when she wasn’t picking up her phone.”

Jungkook glances towards the older member in disbelief. “You brought (Y/N) here? Knowing the delicate situation Bangtan is in right now?” He loudly exclaims, pausing as he lets out a scoff. “Hyung—don’t you remember how we promised Mr. (L/N) we would never put his daughter in danger? What wrre you thinking?”

Seokjin’s eyes narrow at Jungkook’s accusations, quick to defend himself. “Well, excuse me for just wanting her to get out of that goddamn house once in awhile!” He exclaims loudly, jabbing a finger against the younger member’s chest.

“Forget the promise you made to her dad—what happened to the promise you made to me about being a good husband to her, huh? I understand this wasn’t exactly something you chose but, you don’t even try to bring her out to dinner, nor do you make an effort to invite her to our gatherings.” Seokjin responds, eyes narrowing.

“For all I know, you might even be seeing other people behind her back. So don’t you dare get mad at me for simply trying to give the girl a little more of the happiness she deserves.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenches at Seokjin’s remark and he instinctively grabs onto his hyung’s shirt, hands shaking from anger. “You don’t get to assume shit about us.” He responds, not afraid to tower over Seokjin despite being younger.

Before he could continue, Yoongi quickly separates the two members, “Okay, that’s enough!” He shouts, pushing them apart. “You’re both here using all your energy to argue when we all know damn well it won’t get us anywhere. So instead of just wasting it all away, let’s just get to (Y/N) before this turns into any more of a mess, alright?” He says, eyes burning into the two members.

Jungkook simply glares at the two older members before grabbing a gun from the table and walking to the door. “Yah! Where do you think you’re going?” Namjoon asks, eyebrows furrowed.

The maknae simply slams the door open and rushes out, his intentions clear.

The leader sighs and puts his face in his hands before looking back towards the remaining members. “Yoongi-hyung, Jimin-ah, I think you two should follow Jungkook to make sure he doesn't do anything reckless.” He instructs, “The rest of us will go to the east wing. It’s about time we end this mess.”

“What do you mean the place is on lockdown?” You ask with a frown, crossing your arms in frustration.

The guard looks at you apologetically, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, miss. I’m following direct orders from my boss. There seems to be a problem in the east wing so they’re not letting anyone out.”

You sigh at this, thinking about all the work waiting at home. “But I’m not involved. Please, sir, are you sure you really can’t let me out?” You plead in desperation,

But he simply shakes his head, making you huff in defeat. You ruffle your hair in frustration and unlock your phone, silently debating whether or not to bother one of the members. As your finger hovers over Jungkook’s contact to give him a call, you suddenly get distracted.

“(Y/N)?” A familiar voice suddenly asks, causing you to glance back up.

You sigh in relief when you see Yugyeom, one of Jungkook’s close friends. You two have only met a handful of times, but it was nice to finally see a familiar face.

“Yugyeom, thank god.” You reply, walking towards him. “I’ve been trying to leave the building but the guard keeps saying we’re on lockdown?”

Yugyeom sighs in distress, turning towards the guard. “Yah, you’ve been speaking to Jeon Jungkook’s wife this whole time and you didn’t even think to update us on the intercom? Namjoon-hyung has been sending out multiple messages telling us to look for her.” He scolds in frustration.

The guard’s eyes widen as he looks at you, immediately looking downwards in shame. “I’m so sorry, sir. I had no idea she was Mrs. Jeon.” He says, making Yugyeom click his tongue in frustration.

“Well, it doesn’t matter now.” He says, “Just keep guard. The intruders have begun to shoot from outside as well.”

He looks towards you, nodding towards a hallway. “Come on, I have to lead you somewhere safe.”

He leads you through a series of halls, constantly checking to make sure no one was hiding behind any doors. “Hello? This is Kim from the J-division. I have (Y/N) with me. We’re in Hall 4.” He says through his intercom, looking behind him to make sure you were following.

You walk behind nervously, unable to fully grasp the situation. “There are intruders?” You ask him softly when he turns his intercom off, the surprise and fear clear in your voice.

But as Yugyeom opens his mouth to respond, a reply is suddenly heard on his device. “Gyeom, this is Jungkook. Get (Y/N) to the 6th. I’ll meet you there.”

You slightly flinch at the sudden voice, Jungkook’s serious tone making you even more tense. Yugyem notices this as he glances towards you, eyes softening as he gives you a reassuring smile.

“A few people just managed to breach the area.” He says, “Don’t worry though, they’re all in the east wing so as long as the guards don’t let them through, you shouldn’t need to be scared of anyone getting here.” He explains, leading you through a hidden door.

You nod and walk past the door, watching as Yugyeom closes it behind you. “Are the others okay?”

“The seven of them are okay, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He says with a chuckle. “Guk should be on his way to meet us right now.”

He opens another door for you, causing you to smile at him gratefully before walking through it. “Thank you, Yugyeom.” You mumble, “I’m just a tad bit scared, I guess.”

“No problem, (Y/N).” He says, looking towards the hallway.

Suddenly, as you both continue brisk walking through the halls, Yugyeom hears ruffling through the speaker. He furrowed his eyebrows and pauses, turning on his mic. “Hello?” He asks, silently asking you to stand behind him.

“This is Park, I need some backup in the infirmary. Stat.”

You frown at this, looking at Yugyeom. “Was that Jinyoung-ssi?” You ask, knowing how close the two of them are.

Yugyeom bites his lip nervously, clearly reluctant to reply. “Yeah, uh—the infirmary is a few halls down.” He replies, “It means the intruders must have entered the west wing.”

Your eyes widen upon hearing his remark, hands stiffening. “Can someone copy? I can hear gunshots down the hall.” Jinyoung says through the speaker, causing both you and Yugyeom to swallow nervously.

“Y-You should go help him.” You tell Yugyeom, patting his arm. “He needs it.”

He shakes his head, looking towards you. “I’ll bring you down the hall to Guk first. I can’t risk anything.”

You sigh, looking at him exasperatedly. “If someone gets hurt because of me, I won’t be able to live with it.” You say, “I’ll be fine, Yugyeom-ah.”

He pursed his lips for a moment before sighing as well, ruffling the back of his hair. “Hello? This is Kim. Hyung, I’m on the way to the infirmary.” He replies, looking at you. “Just walk down that hall and enter through the door on the right. Guk should be there.”

You nod, giving Yugyeom the smallest of smiles. “Be careful.” You say, making him let out a breathy chuckle as he nods back.

“You too.”

The two of you walk your separate ways, leaving you to walk the rest of the way alone. Your hands begin to shake unconsciously, glancing around you to make sure no one is following you.

Finally, you make it to the door Yugyeom was talking about, holding in a breath as you slowly open the door. You reluctantly peek your head through, heart stopping when you see that no one is inside the room.

Looking behind you one last time, you walk inside the room, closing the door behind you. Instinctively, you begin looking around the room, careful to make sure you weren’t making any noise.

As you look to the right, you suddenly walk into a hard chest, causing you to flinch back immediately and hide your face behind your arms.

“(Y/N), it’s me.” A gentle voice says, “It’s Jungkook.”

You look up slowly, letting out a shaky sigh as you find yourself relaxing. Before you know it, you wrap your arms around him, burying your face in his chest in silence.

Jungkook’s resolve softens as he hugs you back, a hand reaching behind to pat your lower back. “You’re okay now.” He whispers, “I got you.”

You glance towards him, looking upwards slightly. “Sorry, I just—I got a little frightened.” You mumble, heart still beating erratically.

He nods understandingly, hand moving up to caress your shoulder. “It’s fine, I was honestly a bit scared too.” He confesses with a sigh, “When I found out you were in the building I just—” He says, his voice trailing off as he shakes his head.

You purse your lips at this, looking at him apologetically.

“Guk, did you find her?” Someone suddenly asks through the intercom, making Jungkook sigh as he pulls away from you slightly.

“Yeah, I got her. We’re on our way back now.” He replies, glancing towards you as he offers you his hand. “Do you think you’re ready to leave the room?”

You nod nervously, hand reaching up to grasp his. He gives you a small smile of assurance before looking back ahead, gently opening the door with his other hand. “Just stay behind me and follow my lead.” He whispers, grip tightening around your hand.

The two of you begin walking outside, occasionally looking from side-to-side for any possible surprises. Jungkook keeps his hand wrapped around yours as you both walk, eyes sharp.

Suddenly, you two hear a series of footsteps from afar, causing you two to pause. Jungkook glances towards you, raising his index finger to his lips before looking back towards the front. His hand moves towards his pocket, reaching for his gun.

Then, in the blink of an eye, a bullet suddenly flies across the hall.

Jungkook quickly drags you to the ground, hiding you behind him as he begins shooting bullets towards the man hiding behind the wall. “Stay behind me.” He instructs, grabbing a nearby chair in the hallway. “Shit—” He mutters, placing it in front of him.

You grasp onto Jungkook’s shirt and hide behind him, shutting your eyes closed as you cringe at the loud sounds. But as you continue hiding, you suddenly hear something fall behind you. You glance behind you, eyebrows furrowing as you try to find the source of the sound.

Just on time, Jungkook finally shoots the man in front of you two, letting out a sigh. “Geez,” He mutters, standing up to grab the man’s gun.

You stay standing behind the chair, still distracted as you scan your surroundings. “(Y/N)? You alright?” Jungkook asks, making you snap out of your gaze as he offers his hand to you.

“Oh, yeah.” You reply, holding onto his hand before standing up. “Sorry, I got a little distracted.” You add, watching as he smiles and shakes his head.

But even as he helps you up, you can’t shake off the uneasy feeling inside you, something which causes you to look behind you one last time. This time though, you notice that the position of a small table in the hallway had moved slightly, making your eyes narrow.

“(Y/N)?” You hear Jungkook ask, his voice a bit distant in your head as you focus on the sight in front of you.

You stare at the table closely, eyes widening when you make eye contact with a man hiding behind the table. The same long-haired man you saw in the hallway earlier.

In a split-second, you see him bring out his gun, causing you to look towards Jungkook quickly. “Jungkook, watch out—” You reply, grasping both his hands to move him away when you two hear a loud bang.

He quickly grasps the situation and pulls you towards him, scanning for any wounds. “Fuck, (Y/N) are you okay?” He immediately asks, trying to look around to see where the bullet landed.

You suddenly feel a sharp pain behind you when he asks, causing your legs to instinctively weaken. “I,” You mumble, wincing as the pain continues to increase.

“Shit, shit.” Jungkook mutters, “Did it hit you? Where does it hurt?”

You shut your eyes close and lean against him, letting out a breathy sigh. “B-Behind,” You mumble, causing Jungkook to look at your back.

His eyes widen at the blood seeping out of your shirt from behind, quickly taking off his jacket to use it to apply pressure. “That motherfucker,” He mutters as he ties the jacket around your waist, jaw clenching when he sees that the person who shot you is long gone.

“Just stay with me, okay?” Jungkook says, seating you onto the floor as he leans your body towards him. “We’re going to get you some help.”

He immediately turns on the intercom, making sure the mic was on. “Jinyoung-hyung, is the infirmary clear?” He asks, silently hoping he’d receive a reply.

“Yeah, me and Yugyeom fought everyone off. It’s empty right now.” Jinyoung responds after a few seconds, Jungkook letting out a sigh in relief.

His eyes land on you, widening when he sees you begin to lose consciousness. “No, no, no,” He mumbles, bringing your eyes up to meet him. “Hey, you have to stay with me, okay? You can’t close your eyes.”

You hum in response, trying your best to keep them open as you continue enduring the pain. “Jungk..” You mumble, “It hurts,”

His heart drops at your expression, quickly sitting up to carry you in his arms. “Fuck, I’m sorry, (Y/N). I’m so sorry.” He says, cringing at the sight of you in pain.

He switches the intercom on swiftly before responding, “Hyung, we’re on our way there. i need you to prep some supplies, (Y/N) got shot.” He says, not waiting for a response before he immediately lifts you up.

“Okay, just hold on a bit longer, alright?” He says to you, running through the corridors. “Stay awake for me.”

You wince at the pain, leaning your head against his chest. “I can’t,” You whisper, “It hurts.”

Jungkook panics and rushes through the halls as quickly as he can, glancing down towards you. “No, you need to promise me you’ll keep your eyes open. Please, (Y/N).” He pleads, “I can’t lose you. Especially not like this.”

Your eyes flutter shut but you try your best to keep them open, letting out shallow breaths. “I’m trying but,” You reply, letting out a soft whimper from the pain.

“I know you are,” He replies, sighing in relief when he finally sees the door to the infirmary. “Okay, we’re almost here. Just hold on a little bit more, (Y/N).”

You hum in response, but your eyes slowly flutter shut as blackness finally takes over your vision completely.

“Guk, she’s waking up.”

You slowly blink as you open your eyes, wincing slightly at the light above you. Once your vision becomes a bit more adjusted to the brightness of your surroundings, you gradually look around and realize that you’re in an unfamiliar room.

You also begin to regain feeling in your limbs, gradually realizing that your hand seemed to be holding something. As your eyes traveled downwards, you noticed a hand on yours, making you blink for a few moments before your gaze traveled upwards.

Upon looking up, you’re met with a worried Jungkook, his head hovering over yours as he waits for you to fully wake up. “Thank god,” He mumbles, letting out a sigh. “Are you feeling okay?”

You use your other hand to rub your eyes, a small breath leaving your lips. “I feel alright.” You mumble, looking back at him. ““Where am I?” You ask softly with a hoarse voice.

He lets out a sigh and lets go of your hand to grab a cup of water from the bedside table. “You’re in my room. I had them move you here from the infirmary because I thought you’d be safer.” He replies softly, “Jinyoung-hyung’s here too, he just stepped out for a bit to grab some medicine.”

You hum and reach for the water, using your other hand to push yourself up. But all of a sudden, a sharp pain hits your back. The feeling has you falling back into bed almost immediately, a small whimper leaving your lips.

“Don’t get up yet, your wound hasn’t fully healed.” Jungkook says with slightly worried eyes, grabbing a straw from the cupboard. “Here, sip from this.” He says, tilting the straw towards your lips.

You gratefully bite the straw and begin sipping the water, finishing the cup’s contents within seconds. He chuckles softly at this, bringing the straw out of your mouth before using his finger to wipe a stray drop of water away from your lips.

The contact makes you blush slightly, using your hands to cover your face. “Thank you.” You simply say, rubbing your eyes before bringing your hands away.

Jungkook sighs, his face suddenly much more solemn as he keeps his eyes on you. “I think I should be thanking you.” He says, suddenly unable to speak. “(Y/N), you took a bullet for me. You protected me when I was the one who always said I’d do so for you.”

You purse your lips at this, deciding not to speak because you feel as though he isn’t done talking.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been as worried as I was when I saw you get shot. I mean, it’s one thing for me to be scared about you being at headquarters during the attack but for you to get hurt too? Because of me? God, I was losing my mind.” He says, letting out a chuckle in disbelief.

“And when you lost consciousness right before we got to the infirmary, god, I couldn’t feel anything—it was like I was just frozen all of a sudden.” He says, letting out a sigh. “The whole thing just made me realize that I owe you so much. Not only for how you saved my life, but also for how good you’ve been to me even when I don’t always end up doing the same.”

You frown at this, placing your hand on top of his. “Hey, don’t say that.” You mumble, “Jungkook, you’ve been nothing but a great husband—and I wouldn’t have wanted to have gotten married to anyone else.”

“I’m always going to be thankful to have met you and if given another opportunity, I would have still made that same decision again and again.” You say, the sincerity of your words being clear through your expression.

Jungkook simply sighs at this, looking at you guiltily. “I guess I just feel bad that I wasn’t able to protect you.” He says with a small frown, hand interlocking with yours. “I’m never letting anything like this happen to you ever again, I swear on if.”

You smile and shake your head, trying your best to reassure him by saying any other comforting words that come to mind. As you do, you carefully watch his expression, making sure to push away any hint of guilt present on his face.

Then, as your eyes travel towards the clock, you suddenly let out a soft gasp, recalling something. “Oh,” You mumble, looking towards him.

He raises his eyebrows at you, tilting his head to the side. “Do you need anything?” He asks, about to let go of your hand to go get whatever it was you needed.

But you simply frown, looking at the date on the clock a second time. “We missed our dinner reservation.” You say in a disappointed tone, a pout unconsciously forming on your face.

Jungkook looks at you for a few moments in amusement before chuckling and shaking his head. “(Y/N),” He says with a breathy laugh, “You’re adorable.” He mumbles, a small smile on his face. “I decided to postpone it to next week, or at least until you’re feeling much better.”

You sigh at this, looking downwards. “I really wanted to go though.” You mumble softly, making him find you even more adorable.

He chuckles and shakes his head, cooing at the small pout on your face. “We’ll go soon, okay? That I can promise.” He says, a smile on his face as he continues gazing at you.

And it was a promise he made sure to keep—weeks later when he knew it was safer for you to go outside again.

Deep inside, he knew that simply treating you to dinner would never be enough to repay you for what you did for him but, he honestly just wanted to see you be happy again—especially after everything that happened.