Jasz.

Jimin catches the strap of the satchel on the bag hook on the underside of the bartop before looking up to roll his eyes at his longtime partner of several years.

“Yeah…yeah…yeah, I know. The parent-teacher conferences ran longer than expected. I left as soon as I could.” Jimin says apologetically.

Yoongi sips at the remainder of the amber liquid in his tumbler before casually motioning the bartender over to them. 

“Another scotch, please, and a glass of Pinot for my partner,” Yoongi requests to the approaching bartender, his voice a low gravel that contrasts with the gentle waves of black hair that fall to his shoulders. He catches Jimin’s eye again, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips as he takes in Jimin’s apologetic grimace. 

Yoongi checks the gold Rolex on his wrist, then props his chin on the heel of that same hand, crossing his legs. “An hour over?” he pushes. His outfit—a soft yellow cardigan over a white button-down with sleeves rolled up to reveal pale forearms, paired with perfectly worn light-wash jeans—made him look more prepared to settle in with a book than to be perched on a Chester barstool in the town's newest wine bar.

Jimin braces his hands on Yoongi’s thigh to lean in and press a firm, lingering kiss to his partner’s cupid’s bow. After a second, he settles back into his seat, nodding a thanks to the bartender as she sets down their drinks.

“I’ll only apologize once, Gi. The Choi’s were relentless about their twins' curriculum and grades. God forbid either of them dip below their perfect 4.0 and risk not getting into the most elite colleges. I am sorry for making you wait.”

Yoongi scoffs, air dragging across the back of his throat. “Ah, well, I guess dealing with the Choi’s is your punishment enough. Also, the scotch here is actually pretty good. I already enjoyed a glass and watched the crowd come and go.”

Jimin sips from the wine glass, humming as the flavor bouquets across his tongue. “And this is my reward.” He sips again. “This and some quality time with my love…maybe more.”

Yoongi hums around his own sip, his nimble fingers lacing with Jimin’s. He gazes adoringly at his better half. Even after a long day spent educating the next generation, Jimin looks as captivating as ever. His soft, cream-colored, knit turtleneck drapes him warmly, tucking into dark forest-green, high-waisted, wide-legged trousers. A delicate gold chain catches the light at his neck every time he shifts on the stool next to Yoongi. His light-brown hair is styled loosely, the strands swept casually to the side, framing a face that still holds the softness of youth despite the weariness of his workday, his eyes full of clear affection for Yoongi.

Yoongi squeezes Jimin’s hand, his thumb stroking the knuckles. “Well, since you are finally here… I think I found someone.”

Jimin’s eyebrows raise in pleased surprise. His eyes, already sparkling with contentment, become even brighter. “Oh? Tell me everything.”

Yoongi turns slightly on his stool, motioning vaguely toward the far corner of the bar where a small, semi-secluded lounge area is situated. “See that guy? The one in the oversized black hoodie, talking to the one in the distressed denim jacket?”

Jimin follows Yoongi’s gaze, his focus instantly narrowing on the pair. The man in the hoodie—who must be the focus of Yoongi’s interest—is young, with fluffy dark hair that curls slightly around a sharp, handsome face. He’s leaning back against the plush velvet sofa, one long leg stretched out, looking utterly relaxed. He’s animatedly talking, his hands occasionally gesturing in a fluid,  expressive way.

“The one with the big, doe eyes and the tattoos peeking out from under the hoodie sleeves and the lip rings?” Jimin asks, a low, appreciative hum escaping him.

“That’s the one,” Yoongi confirms, a quiet satisfaction in his voice. “He came in about forty minutes ago, right as the bar was really starting to fill up. He had this lost, slightly overwhelmed look, like he didn’t quite know where to sit. I was about to motion him over, but then his friend—the one in the jacket—came over and swept him away to that corner.”

Jimin watches the man, a thoughtful expression replacing this earlier surprise. He’s certainly striking; there’s a captivating softness mixed with an underlying edge of cool in his appearance. 

“He’s beautiful, Gi. Really beautiful. Do you know his name?”

“Jungkook,” Yoongi says, dropping his voice conspiratorially. “I overheard his friend call him that when they were ordering. He’s been laughing a lot. A really open, genuine laugh. And his friend keeps touching his arm, or leaning in close to hear him over the music.”

Jimin’s smile softens around the edges, his focus still on Jungkook. “A good sign. Open, expressive people usually translate well to… well, everything.” He takes another sip of wine, his gaze lingering. “Did you get any vibes off him? Anything that suggests he’s even looking?”

Yoongi shakes his head slowly, a faint trace of wistfulness in his eyes. “He hasn’t looked over here once. He’s completely absorbed in his conversation with his friend. But there’s this energy about him, this quiet magnetism. He just looks…complete. And I want to complete him even more.”

Jimin reaches out to cup Yoongi’s cheek, his expression warm and encouraging. “So, what’s the plan, smarty-pants? We can’t just stare at him all night.”

Yoongi’s familiar smirk returns, sharper now. “We get closer. I’m thinking we move to that little standing table near their section. It’s far enough not to be creepy, but close enough for an accidental glance or two. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll accidentally drop my very expensive pen right in his path.”

Jimin laughs, a light, musical sound. “You are a menace, Min Yoongi. A charming, beautiful menace. Lead the way.”

After getting their drinks refreshed, Yoongi guides Jimin through the press of people mixing and mingling for after-work drinks and commandeers the high-top table identified earlier.

Jimin settles in close to Yoongi. He briefly nuzzles in close, arm around the older man’s waist, face burying in the curve of his neck. Jimin inhales deeply, eyes falling shut as the scent of Yoongi’s cologne—sandalwood, lavender, citrus—washes over him.

A few moments pass like that, them in their own little bubble. Yoongi is more than used to Jimin’s need for closeness and just lets him. His fingers carding through the younger’s hair, basking in the burn of scotch down his throat as he takes another sip.

With one last squeeze to Yoongi’s waist and a kiss to his neck, Jimin straightens up. His eyes immediately track back to the corner lounge. Jungkook is still laughing, head tilted back slightly, revealing the smooth expanse of his throat. His friend, the one in distressed denim, says something that makes Jungkook cover his mouth with a hand, giggling behind his fingers.

“Okay, so what’s the deal with the friend?” Jimin murmurs, leaning in so his breath tickles Yoongi’s ear. “Is he a potential obstacle?”

Yoongi follows Jimin’s gaze. “He’s attentive, I’ll give him that. Always a hand on Jungkook’s arm or shoulder. Leaning in. He’s dressed well, too. That denim jacket is probably vintage.”

Jimin tilts his head, watching on as Yoongi continues. “He has a bright, open energy. Very friendly. Could be an older brother or a very close friend.”

"A very close, touchy friend," Jimin counters, but there’s no malice in his voice, only observation. "He’s got a great smile, too. Sunshine-y."

They watch the pair for another minute. The friend leans in, speaking in a low voice. Jungkook nods, then glances briefly, fleetingly, toward the bar. It’s the first time he’s looked away from his companion, and his eyes pass right over Yoongi and Jimin.

Yoongi catches the moment, a subtle tightening in his chest. "Now’s the time," he whispers. He reaches into the pocket of his cardigan, pulling out a sleek, expensive-looking fountain pen—a Montblanc, a gift from Jimin on their fifth anniversary.

"Ready for the performance?" Jimin whispers back, a grin playing on his lips.

Yoongi grins in return. With a calculated movement, he pretends to fumble, letting the pen slip from his grasp. It clatters softly against the polished wood floor, rolling directly toward the corner lounge area, stopping just short of Jungkook’s outstretched foot.

Jungkook stops mid-sentence, his brow furrowing as he looks down at the metallic object. The friend follows his gaze, then looks up to see Yoongi already moving toward them with a suitably apologetic expression.

"Oh, excuse me," Yoongi says, his voice pitched to be heard but not overly loud. He approaches the edge of their secluded section. "My apologies, that was clumsy of me."

Jungkook’s eyes widen slightly—those big, doe eyes Jimin had noted. He bends to pick up the pen, his fingers brushing the cool metal before he holds it out to Yoongi. "Here you go."

"Thank you," Yoongi says, taking the pen and letting his fingers linger for a mere second against Jungkook’s. He meets Jungkook’s gaze, letting a soft, genuine smile touch his lips. "It’s one of my favorites."

"It looks expensive," the friend comments brightly, offering a friendly smile of his own.

"It was," Yoongi confirms, tucking it away. He pauses, maintaining eye contact with Jungkook, who seems a little shy now, his cheeks faintly colored. " My name is Yoongi, by the way."

Jungkook manages a small, shy smile. "I’m Jungkook."

"And I’m Hoseok," the friend chimes in, nodding toward Jimin, who has now gracefully sauntered up to join Yoongi.

"Jimin," Jimin supplies smoothly, flashing a dazzling smile that he knows works wonders. He doesn’t waste time on the friend; his full attention falls on Jungkook. “Nice sweatshirt.”

Jungkook looks down at his oversized black hoodie, pulling at the edge of the fabric, a surprised little laugh escaping him. "Oh, thank you. This is… well, this is just my favorite hoodie."

"Well, still it’s nice and suits you," Yoongi adds, his voice warm and admiring. "Are you enjoying the evening?"

Jungkook’s eyes dart between Yoongi and Jimin, a curious light beginning to spark in them. He seems slightly overwhelmed by the sudden, intense attention, but not entirely unwilling. 

"Yeah, it’s nice. Hoseok and I just finished a project and decided we needed a celebratory drink–”

“Oh! What are you celebrating?” Jimin interrupts, a little too eagerly.

“Um, just a major project at work.” Jungkook tongues at the double hoops in his lip. “We work at a game design studio.”

“Games? Like board games?” Jimin presses, inviting himself to join the duo on their cushioned seats. Jimin perches on the plush velvet cushion, appropriately situating himself next to Jungkook.

Jungkook lets a light laugh escape as he shakes his head. “No, I don’t even think people play those anymore. We design video games.”

Jimin gasps and playfully shoves at Jungkook’s shoulder. “Hey! We play board games still. Isn’t that right, Gi?”

Yoongi settles onto the arm of the sofa, one leg braced on the ground as he slides his free hand around Jimin’s shoulder. “Jimin’s right. We have a cabinet full of board games.”

Jungkook’s hand catches Jimin’s before he can shove at him again. Their hands remain linked for several moments before Jungkook releases the smaller hand. “I stand corrected. At least two people still play board games.”

That sends Hoseok giggling, hands clapping as he rocks side to side. 

Yoongi tsks. “You keep making fun of us, and you might not get an invitation to join one of our infamous game nights.” Yoongi maintains steady eye contact with Jungkook as he raises his crystal tumbler to his lips.

Jungkook is the first to look away, cheeks flushing a pretty pink. He shifts in his seat and picks up his own cocktail glass.

Jimin claps his hand against his thigh. "Well, a successful project deserves a proper celebration," Jimin says. "Maybe we could buy you two a round?"

"That’s very generous!"  Hoseok exclaims. “And if I didn’t have to be somewhere, I would totally accept.”

Jimin starts to pout and looks at Jungkook. “Do you have to go too?”

Jungkook picks up his phone to check the time. Before responding to Jimin, he quickly responds to a text notification. “No, I can stay and have another one. But honestly, you really don’t have to.”

Yoongi smiles down at Jungkook. “We know we don’t have to. We want to.”

Hoseok says goodbye to the couple and directs Jungkook to text him later, then disappears into the crowd.

“What are you drinking, Jungkook? I’ll go get another round from the bar.” Yoongi asks.

“Japanese whiskey highball, please.”

“Coming right up,” Yoongi says, dropping a light kiss to Jimin’s hair before heading back through the throng of people toward the bar.

Jimin turns his full attention to Jungkook, resting his elbow on the back of the velvet couch. “So, a game designer. That’s fascinating. What kind of games do you work on?”

Jungkook relaxes slightly. “Mainly RPGs. We just finished a massive open-world fantasy game—that’s what we were celebrating.”

“Oh, a fantasy game! That sounds fascinating. Swords, magic, dragons?” Jimin’s eyes sparkle with genuine interest.

“All of the above, and a very complex morality system,” Jungkook confirms, a proud smile gracing his lips. “We spent three years on it. I’m an environmental artist, so I spent most of my time designing landscapes, cities, and the look and feel of the world.”

“That sounds incredible,” Jimin says softly, leaning a little closer. He can already picture it—the vibrant world designed by this beautiful, talented man. “You must be really proud.”

“I am,” Jungkook admits, a touch of shyness returning. He catches Jimin’s eye and holds it for a second longer this time. “It’s a lot of work, but seeing people enjoy something you poured your soul into… there’s nothing like it.”

Jimin nods in understanding. “I get that. I’m a high school literature teacher. Seeing a student finally understand a difficult concept, or light up when they connect with a classic—it’s  the best feeling.”

“Literature,” Jungkook repeats, tilting his head. “Do you teach Shakespeare?”

“Oh, you know it,” Jimin laughs. “I make them act out the good parts. The drama of Romeo and Juliet is always a crowd-pleaser.”

Yoongi returns then, setting the highball glass on the coaster near Jungkook and handing Jimin a fresh glass of wine. He slides onto the cushion next to Jimin, his arm naturally falling around Jimin’s shoulder again.

“Alright, this new game,” Yoongi says, sipping his scotch. “Is there a demo online?”

Jungkook shakes his head. “Not yet, but the full game launches next month. I’ll make sure you two get a copy.”

“A personal copy? Now that’s a real treat,” Jimin purrs, his hand finding Yoongi’s knee and giving it a light squeeze.

The three of them settle into an easy conversation, mostly driven by Yoongi and Jimin’s gentle prodding. Jungkook is shy but open, his genuine warmth coming through. They talk about everything from their favorite travel destinations—Jungkook loves the mountains, Yoongi and Jimin prefer coastal cities—to their favorite musicians.

They learn that Jungkook is twenty-six, lives in a cozy apartment not far from the bar, and has a passion for photography when he’s not designing digital worlds. He has a slight obsession with documentaries about deep-sea creatures and prefers the company of close friends over big parties.

After nearly an hour, a comfortable silence falls between them. The noise of the bar seems to fade slightly as they simply look at each other, the interest in their gazes no longer needing to be masked by conversation.

Yoongi clears his throat gently, looking at his Rolex. “Wow, it’s gotten late. You probably need to get home…”

Jimin’s eyes plead with Jungkook. “Unless… you don’t have to rush off? We were just talking about dessert. There’s an amazing gelato place around the corner.”

Jungkook’s eyes dart between the two of them—Yoongi, calm and steady with a question in his eyes, and Jimin’s, hopeful and dazzling. The air shifts, suddenly thick with possibilities.

Jungkook smiles slowly, a wide, breathtaking, bunny-like smile. “I’d love to—”

“—wait for you?”

The deep, rich timber of a voice cuts through the air before Jungkook can finish his sentence, startling the trio. A large, warm hand lands gently on Jungkook’s shoulder, the weight of it familiar and possessive in a way that makes Yoongi’s eyes narrow instinctively.

Jungkook twists in his seat, his face lighting up with a brilliance that rivals the excitement he showed for his video game design. 

“Joonie! You made it!” Jungkook exclaims, reaching up to cover the hand on his shoulder with his own tattooed one. 

A tall man steps around the side of the velvet sofa, looking apologetic but unmistakably fond. He’s wearing a long tan coat that screams understated elegance, with glasses perched on the bridge of his nose that give him a scholarly air—not unlike the vibe Jimin tries to cultivate in his classroom.

“I’m sorry, bun,” the newcomer says, leaning down to press a firm, lingering kiss to the top of Jungkook’s fluffy dark hair. “The meeting ran late,  and traffic was a nightmare. I texted, but I see you were… occupied.”

The man straightens up, his gaze shifting to Yoongi and Jimin. His expression is polite, but there’s a sharp intelligence in his eyes that suggests he misses very little.

“Hi,” the man offers a dimpled smile that is charming but clearly stakes a claim. “I’m Namjoon. Jungkook’s boyfriend.”

The word hangs in the air between them. Boyfriend.

Jimin’s mouth snaps shut, the dazzling smile he had been aiming at Jungkook faltering for a fraction of a second. Beside him, Yoongi stiffens imperceptibly, his fingers freezing around the rim of his tumbler. 

The realization hits them both at once: Jungkook wasn’t just a cute, single game designer looking for company. He is very much taken.

“Oh,” Jimin manages to squeak out, his voice an octave higher than usual. He quickly clears his throat, recovering his composure with practiced grace. “It’s… lovely to meet you, Namjoon. I’m Jimin, and this is my partner, Yoongi.”

“We were just keeping Jungkook company until you arrived,” Yoongi adds smoothly, though he sets his drink down with a finality that signals retreat.  He stands, buttoning his yellow cardigan as if shielding himself from the awkwardness of the situation.

Jungkook looks between his boyfriend and the couple, seemingly oblivious to the sudden shift in tension. “They were so nice, Joon! Yoongi hyung dropped his pen, and we started talking about RPGs and literature. They even offered to take us for gelato.”

Namjoon’s eyebrows raise slightly. His gaze doesn’t immediately go to Jungkook, though. Instead, it flickers to Yoongi—lingering on the expensive Montblanc pen now tucked in the cardigan pocket—and then slides over Jimin’s form-fitting turtleneck.

“Gelato,” Namjoon repeats, the corner of his mouth ticking up.

“Right. Of course, you two probably have plans,”  Jimin says quickly, picking up Yoongi’s leather satchel and handing it to him. “We didn’t realize he was waiting for someone. We certainly didn’t mean to… overstep.”

Yoongi offers a tight, polite smile, the “menace” in him completely subdued by the reality of the situation. “Indeed. You have a lovely… partner, Namjoon. Have a good night. Jungkook, good luck with the game launch.”

Yoongi places a hand on the small of Jimin’s back, guiding him to turn away.

“Wait.”

The word is spoken softly, but with enough command that Yoongi halts mid-step.

Namjoon is smiling now—not the polite, guarding smile from a moment ago, but something wider, deeper, and infinitely more interested. He adjusts his glasses, his eyes gleaming with that sharp intelligence.

“We did have plans,” Namjoon says, his hand sliding down to rest possessively but comfortably on Jungkook’s hip. “But Jungkook has a terrible sweet tooth, and I’m afraid I have a weakness  for interesting company.”

He looks directly at Jimin, then Yoongi, his expression shifting from protective boyfriend to intrigued hunter.

“We haven’t had gelato in ages,” Namjoon continues, his voice dropping a register. “And since you’ve already charmed my boyfriend, it seems only fair you give me a chance to catch up. Unless the  offer is off now that I’m here?”

The silence that follows is brief but heavy, filled with the sudden, frantic recalibration of Jimin and Yoongi’s expectations. Yoongi and Jimin exchange a glance—a lightning-fast conversation between partners that conveys “Did he just…?” followed by “I think he just did.”

Yoongi recovers first, though the grip he has on Jimin’s waist tightens reflexively. He turns back to Namjoon, studying the taller man with a renewed interest.

“The offer is decidedly not off the table,” Yoongi replies, his voice steadying into a smooth, low drawl. “Though we might need to upgrade the venue if we’re hosting a party of four.”

“Gelato is perfect,” Jungkook beams, practically vibrating with excitement as he leans into Namjoon’s side. “There’s a place two blocks down that does a black sesame flavor I’ve been dying to try. Can we go, Joonie? Please?”

Namjoon chuckles, the sound deep and rumbling, and presses a kiss to Jungkook’s temple. “Lead the way, bun.”

As they exit the dim, ambient warmth of the wine bar and step out into the crisp evening air, the dynamic shifts. Instead of two separate couples walking in parallel, the lines blur. Jungkook immediately falls into step beside Jimin, chattering animatedly about the game engine specs he hadn’t had a chance to finish explaining earlier.

This leaves Namjoon and Yoongi bringing up the rear.

Yoongi sticks his hands in his cardigan pockets, glancing sideways at the man beside him. Namjoon is imposing, certainly—tall, broad-shouldered, and exuding a calm confidence—but there’s a playfulness in the way he watches Jungkook ahead of them.

“So,” Namjoon starts, his tone conversational but his eyes fixed on Jungkook. “Literature and RPGs. That’s a versatile skillset to bring to a bar pickup.”

Yoongi snorts, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. He appreciates the directness. “We find it filters out the boring ones. Jungkook mentioned he designs worlds, and it kind of went from there.”

“And?” Namjoon asks, tilting his head. “Did he pass the inspection?”

Yoongi stops walking for a brief second, forcing Namjoon to pause with him. He looks at the younger man ahead, who is currently laughing at something Jimin said, his nose scrunching up in delight.

“With flying colors,” Yoongi admits honestly. “He’s… remarkable. Which is why we were ready to walk away. We respect boundaries, Namjoon. We didn’t know he belonged to someone.”

Namjoon hums, stepping closer. He towers slightly over Yoongi, but he dips his head so their eyes are level. The streetlamp above catches the glint in his glasses.

“He belongs to me,” Namjoon agrees, his voice possessing a weight that sends a shiver down Yoongi’s spine. “But he also has a lot of love to give. And I’ve never been the type to hoard a good thing,  especially when he seems so taken with the two of you.”

He nods toward the pair ahead. Jimin has linked his arm through Jungkook’s, and they are already halfway down the block.

“Besides,” Namjoon adds, a dimple popping out as he offers Yoongi a conspiratorial grin. “I noticed the way your partner looked at me when I walked in. I figure if Jungkook gets the pretty one, I should at least get to know the dangerous one.”

Yoongi blinks, caught off guard for the second time tonight. A slow, cat-like smirk spreads across his face.

“Careful, Namjoon-ssi,” Yoongi purrs, gesturing for them to continue walking. “You might bite off more than you can chew.”

“I have a big appetite,” Namjoon counters smoothly, falling back into step beside him.

By the time they reach the gelato shop, the air is electric. They crowd into a booth designed for four, knees bumping under the table. Jungkook sits next to Jimin, their shoulders pressed together as they debate the merits of fruit sorbet versus creamy chocolate, while Namjoon sits opposite, next to Yoongi, his gaze heavy and calculating in the best way possible.

As Jungkook hands Jimin a plastic spoon to try his black sesame, Namjoon leans on the table, resting his chin in his hand.

“So,” Namjoon begins, addressing both Jimin and Yoongi now. “Tell us. What exactly were you two planning to do with my boyfriend once you got him full of sugar?”

Jimin freezes with the spoon in his mouth. Yoongi just takes a slow lick of his coffee gelato, holding Namjoon’s gaze.

“We were going to ask him what he wants,” Yoongi answers.

Namjoon smiles, and it looks like a predator realizing he’s found his prey. “Good answer. Because we have a few ideas of our own.”

Jimin swallows the mouthful of black sesame a little too quickly, the cold sliding down his throat in a rush that matches the heat flooding his cheeks. He looks from Namjoon to Yoongi, his eyes wide.

“Ideas?” Jimin echoes, his voice dropping to a hush as if he’s conspiring in a crime. “That sounds… ominous and promising.”

“Joonie always has the best ideas,” Jungkook pipes up, oblivious to the heavy tension or perhaps reveling in it. He reaches over with his spoon, stealing a generous scoop of Jimin’s pear-riesling sorbet.  “Mmm. This is refreshing.”

Jimin watches him, amused despite his nerves, while Yoongi leans back against the booth’s vinyl seat, settling in comfortably beside Namjoon. Since he can’t reach his partner across the table, Yoongi simply taps his spoon against the rim of his coffee gelato, his dark eyes shifting from the exchange of sweets between Jimin and Jungkook to the man sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Namjoonn takes a calm, measured bite of his dark chocolate, looking entirely too pleased with the seating arrangement.

“I’m assuming these ideas involve more than just dessert recommendations, Namjoon-ssi,” Yoongi says, his voice low and steady.

“Please, drop the honorifics,” Namjoon replies, taking off his glasses to wipe a smudge with the hem of his coat. Without the lenses, his gaze is even more piercing. He slides them back on and folds his hands on the table. “And you’re right. Jungkook and I have been talking for a while about… expanding our circle. We aren’t necessarily looking for a third. We were looking for equals.”

He glances meaningfully at the way Jungkook is currently leaning into Jimin’s space to steal another bite of sorbet. 

“Kookie has a lot of energy,” Namjoon continues, his voice lowering so only their side of the booth can hear. “He needs attention, affection, and stimulation that one person can’t always provide 24/7. And I…” he pauses, his eyes locking with Yoongi’s. “I enjoy watching him thrive. But I also enjoy complexity. A dynamic with just one other person can be unbalanced. But two established units coming together? That’s stable. That’s interesting.”

Yoongi’s lips curve into a smirk. “Structure. Balance. You approach romance like an architect.”

“And you approach it like a poker game,” Namjoon counters, a playful glint in his eye as he nods toward Yoongi’s guarded posture. “Holding your cards close until you know the stakes.”

“The stakes seem to be rising,” Yoongi murmurs. He kicks Jimin gently under the table to get his attention. “Jimin-ah.”

Jimin looks up from his cup, a drop of melted sorbet glistening on his lip. “Yes, Gi?”

“Namjoon is proposing a merger,” Yoongi says dryly.

Jimin blinks, then looks at Namjoon, finally catching up to the conversation the “adults” were having. A slow, dazzling smile spreads across his face.

“A merger,” Jimin tests the word. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the sticky table. “Does that mean I get to find out what’s under that very responsible coat?”

Namjoon chokes on a laugh, surprised by the sudden boldness. Beside Jimin, Jungkook cheers, nearly knocking over his cup. 

“Yes! See, Joon? I told you he was fun,” Jungkook says, bouncing in his seat. He turns to Yoongi, his expression turning earnest. “We really like you guys. I know we just met, but… the vibe is right. Isn’t it?”

Yoongi looks at the three of them: Jimin, glowing with interest next to the eager Jungkook, and Namjoon, the steady anchor beside him.

“The vibe,” Yoongi concedes, taking another bite of his gelato, “is immaculate.”

The walk to the apartment is short, filled with the kind of charged silence that speaks of anticipation rather than awkwardness. When Namjoon unlocks the heavy oak door of a brownstone walk-up and pushes it open, the space inside is exactly what Yoongi expected: a perfect synthesis of its inhabitants. 

One wall is lined floor-to-ceiling with books—everything from philosophy to art history—while the opposite side boasts a sleek, massive entertainment center cluttered with various consoles. The furniture is mid-century modern, expensive, but covered in soft throw blankets that scream ‘nesting’.

“Shoes off, please,” Jungkook chirps, kicking off his combat boots and sliding into a pair of bunny-shaped slippers. He gestures to a basket of guest slippers. “Grab a pair. The floor is heated.”

“Heated floors,” Jimin coos, toeing off his loafers and stepping onto the warm wood. “Yoongi hyung, we need heated floors.”

“We live in a third-floor walk-up, Min,” Yoongi reminds him dryly, though he dutifully accepts the slippers Jungkook offers. He shrugs off his cardigan, revealing the white button-up underneath, the material sheer enough to hint at what lies beneath, and catches Namjoon watching the movement with appreciation.

“Drinks?” Namjoon offers, moving toward a bar cart that looks like it belongs in a speakeasy. “I have Japanese whiskey that I think fits your profile, Yoongi. And maybe a peach liqueur for Jimin?”

“You clocked us fast,” Jimin grins, wandering over to inspect a stack of art books on the coffee table.

“I’m observant,” Namjoon murmurs, pouring the amber liquid over a large ice sphere. He hands the glass to Yoongi, their fingers brushing—a spark of static and intent jumping between them. 

Meanwhile, Jungkook has already flopped onto the plush rug in front of the TV, patting the space beside him. “Jimin-ssi! Come on. I promised to destroy Yoongi, but I need a warm-up round. You versus me. Mario Kart.”

Jimin laughs, abandoning the books to join Jungkook on the floor. “You’re on, Kookie. But I warn you, I play dirty.”

“I’m counting on it,” Jungkook shoots back with a wink that makes Jimin flush. 

Yoongi takes a sip of whiskey—it’s excellent, smooth and smoky—and leans his hip against the back of the sofa, looking down at the two younger men bickering over character selection. Namjoon comes to stand beside him, resting his hand on the sofa back and leaning into it, mirroring Yoongi’s stance.

“They get along well,” Namjoon notes quietly, watching as Jungkook giggles at Jimin’s aggressive driving style on the screen.

“Jimin adapts quickly,” Yoongi agrees, swirling his glass. “He likes bright, energetic things. Jungkook shines like a supernova.”

“He does,” Namjoon agrees warmly. He turns his head, his gaze dropping to Yoongi’s lips, then back up to his eyes. “And you? What do you like, Yoongi?”

Yoongi holds the gaze, the air between them thickening. He takes a slow step closer, invading Namjoon’s personal space with a confidence that defies their height difference.

“I like control,” Yoongi admits, his voice a low rumble. “I like intelligence. And I like watching my partner fall apart for someone who deserves him.”

Namjoon’s pupils blow wide. He sets his glass down on the side table with a decisive clink, abandoning the pretense of casual hosting. 

“Is that so?” Namjoon murmurs. He reaches out, his large hand cupping Yoongi’s jaw, thumb tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone. “Well, I think we can arrange that.”

On the screen, a colorful explosion signals the end of the race.

“I won!” Jungkook cheers, throwing his arms up. 

“Only because you threw a blue shell at the last second!!” Jimin protests, laughing as he shoves Jungkook’s shoulder. 

“A win is a win!” Jungkook beams, turning to look back at the sofa—only to freeze.

Namjoon is leaning over Yoongi, their faces inches apart, the tension between them palpable enough to cut with a knife. Yoongi’s hand is fisted in the lapel of Namjoon’s coat, pulling him down. 

Jungkook’s breath hitches. “Hyung?”

Namjoon breaks eye contact with Yoongi just long enough to look down at his boyfriend. The hunger in his expression is raw and open. 

“Game over?” Namjoon asks, his voice rough.

Jungkook swallows hard, his eyes darting between the two men standing and Jimin, who has gone very still on the floor beside him, watching with wide, dark eyes. 

“Yeah,” Jungkook breathes, scrambling up to his knees. “Yeah. Game over.”

Jimin scrambles up, too, abandoning the controller. He walks over to Yoongi, but instead of hiding behind him, he steps right into the space between Yoongi and Namjoon. He looks up at Namjoon, then tilts his head back to look at Yoongi.

“I think,” Jimin whispers, his hand sliding up Namjoon’s chest to rest over his heart, “we’re ready for the merger now.”

Namjoon smiles—a wolfish, satisfied thing. He captures Jimin’s hand, kisses the knuckles, and then pulls both Jimin and Yoongi toward the hallway leading to the bedroom. 

“Good,” Namjoon growls. “Because I’m done talking.”

The transition from the heated wood floors of the hallway into the cooler air of the primary bedroom is palpable. The bedroom is as meticulously curated as the living room, dominated by a low-profile king-sized bed dressed in smooth, dark charcoal linens. The vast space feels almost cavernous, illuminated only by the city's glow filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, which casts long, cinematic shadows that stretch across the floorboards. 

Jungkook doesn’t hesitate. The moment Jimin clears the door, Jungkook hooks an arm around his waist and tugs him hard across the expanse of the room toward the bed. They tumble onto the edge in a tangle of long limbs and breathless laughter, the sudden chill of the cool charcoal sheets a stark contrast to the heat radiating between their bodies. 

The laughter is a bright, fizzy thing that quickly morphs into something softer, wetter, and infinitely more urgent—the breathless slide of lips pressing together. Jimin’s hands find their way to Jungkook’s broad shoulders, his fingers sinking into the heavy, rough cotton of his oversized black hoodie as the kiss deepens. He uses the thick fabric to anchor himself as he drags Jungkook closer. Jimin’s focus narrows to the sweet taste of Jungkook’s mouth and the soft, insistent pressure of his body against his own. 

Across the room, Namjoon remains by the heavy oak door, the definitive click of the latch sealing them inside. Bridging the physical distance from the shut door to the tangled pair on the bed, Yoongi stands in the center of the room. The ambient city light cuts across his shoulders, illuminating the crisp lines of his white Oxford shirt. He watches Jimin for a moment—watching the way his partner melts under Jungkook’s eager hands—before turning his gaze to Namjoon. 

“You have a nice view,” Yoongi comments, his voice rougher than usual.

“I do now,” Namjoon replies. He walks over to Yoongi, his movements unhurried, predatory in their grace.  He stops just shy of touching him, letting the heat radiating off his body do the talking. 

“You said you like watching your partner fall apart,” Namjoon murmurs, reaching out to hook a finger in the collar of Yoongi’s Oxford shirt. “Is that what you want right now? To watch?”

Yoongi’s eyes flicker to the bed. Jimin has been pushed back against the pillows, his head thrown back, exposing the long, elegant line of his throat as Jungkook kisses his jawline. Jimin’s eyes are fluttering shut, a soft, keen escaping his lips. He looks beautiful. He looks entirely taken care of.

“He’s in good hands,” Yoongi says quietly. “Jungkook is… enthusiastic.”

“He is,” Namjoon agrees, stepping closer until his chest brushes Yoongi’s. “Which leaves you and me with a little free time.”

Namjoon steps closer, closing the final inch until the heavy wool suit jacket brushes against Yoongi’s chest. His hand slides from the cotton collar to tangle in the dark hair at the nape of Yoongi’s neck, grounding him.

“I want to see the dangerous one unravel,” Namjoon whispers, his breath ghosting over Yoongi’s ear. “I want to see if the man who holds all the cards knows how to fold.”

Yoongi shivers, a full-body reaction that he doesn’t bother to hide. He reaches up, his hands finding purchase on Namjoon’s waist, gripping the fabric of his shirt beneath the wool jacket.

“You talk a big game, Architect,” Yoongi challenges, though his voice is breathless. “Show me your blueprints.”

Namjoon chuckles darkly against his skin. “First step: demolition.”

He captures Yoongi’s lips in a kiss that is demanding, searing, and authoritative, tasting sharply of the Japanese whiskey they shared earlier. Yoongi groans low in his throat, his mouth opening readily, his earlier composure fracturing under the sheer weight of Namjoon’s dominance—the first structural wall coming down.

On the bed, the sound of their kiss seems to spur the others on.

“Hyung,” Jungkook whines, pulling back from where he’s been nuzzling Jimin’s neck to look at the older pair with blown pupils. “You guys take forever! Get over here!”

Namjoon breaks the kiss but doesn’t pull away from Yoongi. He looks over his shoulder at his boyfriend, his lips swollen and shiny. 

“We’re just establishing the ground rules, bun,” Namjooon deflects, his voice dropping an octave. He turns back to Yoongi, running a thumb over Yoongi’s bottom lip. “Yoongi-ah, why don’t you go show Jungkook how the seniors play?”

Yoongi blinks, dazed, before the command registers. A slow smirk returns to his face. He steps back from Namjoon, unbuttons his shirt, strips it off in one fluid motion, letting the white cotton pool on the dark floor. “Gladly,” Yoongi purrs.

He walks toward the bed, where Jungkook watches him with awe, and Jimin watches him with pure, unadulterated love. 

“Make room,” Yoongi commands softly.

He crawls onto the mattress, his movements deliberate and prowling. Jungkook, currently lying flat on his back, eagerly spreads his legs to accommodate him. Yoongi settles his weight between Jungkook’s thighs, effectively pinning the younger man, but turns his attention to Jimin, who is curled up at Jungkook’s side, watching with wide eyes.

Yoongi reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair from Jimin’s forehead. “I believe I promised to show you a good time, didn’t I, Minnie?”

Jimin nods frantically, leaning into the touch, his hand resting on Jungkook’s chest. “Yes, hyung…”

“And you,” Yoongi says, shifting his gaze down to Jungkook beneath him. The younger man is practically vibrating with anticipation, his hands gripping the dark sheets with white-knuckles. Yoongi smirks, leaning down until their noses brush.

“You have so much energy,” Yoongi murmurs, his voice dropping to a low,  rough timbre. “Always rushing to the finish line.”

Yoongi lowers his hips, grinding down slow and heavy, drawing a broken gasp from Jungkook.

“But tonight,” Yoongi whispers against his lips, “you don’t move until I tell you to. Just breathe and feel. Understood?”

“Understood,” Jungkook manages to choke out, his hands unclamping from the sheets to rest tentatively on Yoongi’s waist. He stares up at the older man like he’s seeing a deity, his chest heaving with the effort to obey the command to just breathe. 

Namjoon doesn’t just watch anymore. He sheds his coat and unbuttons his cuffs with calculated efficiency before climbing onto the opposite side of the bed, moving toward Jimin. Jimin gasps as Namjoon’s large, warm arm wraps around his waist from behind, pulling his cream knit turtleneck flush against Namjoon’s broad chest.

“You have a front-row seat,” Namjoon murmurs into the shell of Jimin’s ear, his voice a deep rumble that vibrates through Jimin’s spine. He runs his large hands down the sides of Jimin’s waist, slipping beneath the hem of the thick knit to map the hot skin underneath. Jimin shudders as Namjoon peels the soft turtleneck up and over his head, discarding it to join the growing pile of shed layers on the floor. 

“Beautiful,” Namjoon praises, mapping out his new foundation.

Jimin shivers, the cool ambient air of the cavernous bedroom brushing against his newly bared skin before he leans back instinctively into the encompassing, heavy warmth of Namjoon’s solid frame. He feels small in the best way possible—sandwiched between the raw, electric energy of Jungkook and  Yoongi in front of him, and Namjoon behind him.

“I… I’ve never seen him like this with anyone else,” Jimin confesses breathlessly, his eyes still glued to the way Yoongi is tracing the line of Jungkook’s collarbone with renewed focus. “Usually, I’m the one he’s handling.”

“He’s good at it,” Namjoon notes, pressing a kiss to the slope of Jimin’s shoulder. “He knows exactly how much to give and how much to hold back. Jungkook needs that. He needs an anchor.”

Namjoon’s large hand slides up Jimin’s stomach, resting flat over his heart, which is beating a mile a minute. 

“And you, Jimin-ah?” Namjoon asks, turning Jimin’s face gently with his other hand so he can look him in the eye. “Do you need an anchor? Or do you need something else?”

Jimin looks at Namjoon—really looks at him. He sees the sharp intelligence and the patience, but also that same wolfish hunger Namjoon had shown in the living room.

“I don’t know,” Jimin whispers, honestly. “I think I just need… more.”

Namjoon smiles, and it’s dazzling. “More is my specialty.”

He leans in, capturing Jimin’s lips in a slow, luxurious kiss that contrasts perfectly with the sharp, heavy tension radiating from the other pair just inches away. It’s deep and exploring, tasting faintly of the dark chocolate Namjoon had earlier laced with hints of the spice of Japanese whiskey.

Across the few inches of space separating them, Yoongi glances up from where he’s teasing Jungkook’s earlobe with the tip of his tongue. He meets Namjoon’s eyes over Jimin’s shoulder. 

A silent communication passes between them—approval, acknowledgment, and a mutual agreement that this, right here, is exactly where they are supposed to be.

Yoongi leans down, whispering against Jungkook’s neck, “Look at them, Kook-ah. Look at your boyfriend taking care of mine.”

Jungkook turns his head, eyes hazy, to see Namjoon holding Jimin, kissing him with a tenderness that makes Jungkook’s chest ache in a good way. A whimper of pure want escapes him. Even overstimulated, the environmental designer in him marvels at the composition. He spent years meticulously crafting the look and feel of complex digital worlds, but watching Namjoon build this exact moment—the four of them fitting together flawlessly in this moment—feels like existing inside a masterpiece.

“It’s… it’s good,” Jungkook slurs, his hand tightening on Yoongi’s hip. “Everyone fits.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi agrees, finally closing the distance to press a kiss to Jungkook’s lips, sealing the deal. 

The kiss is deep and languid, tasting of whiskey and coffee. It’s claiming, thorough, and possessive, and Jungkook melts under it completely, his hands sliding up to tangle desperately in Yoongi’s dark hair. The scent of Yoongi’s cologne—sandalwood, lavender, and citrus—fills his senses, grounding him in the chaotic heat of the moment.

Yoongi breaks the kiss only to drag his lips down the column of Jungkook’s throat, finding the sensitive pulse point that flutters wildly against his mouth.

“You’re so responsive,” Yoongi murmurs against the skin, smiling when Jungkook’s hips buck instinctively upward, seeking friction. Yoongi presses him back down, controlling the rhythm, keeping it slow and agonizing. “I can feel everything you’re thinking, Jungkook-ah. You’re loud even when you’re quiet.”

“Hyung, please,” Jungkook gasps, his head tossing back into the pillows. He looks over at Namjoon, eyes glassy and pleading. “Joonie…”

“Yoongi knows what he’s doing, baby,” Namjoon answers, his voice rough with restraint. “Let him work.”

Namjoon shifts his attention back to the man in his arms. “You’re even prettier when you’re undone, Jimin-ah.”

Jimin, usually so composed, so aware of his angles and his charm, feels completely unmoored. Being held like this—wrapped in Namjoon’s size, with Yoongi dominating the space just inches away—is sensory overload.

“I don’t… I don’t know where to look,” Jimin whispers, his voice trembling. “It’s too much.” 

“Look at them,” Namjoon commands gently, guiding Jimin’s gaze back to the other side of the bed. “And then feel me.”

Namjoon leans forward, pressing his chest against Jimin’s back, eliminating any space between them. He kisses the sensitive spot just behind Jimin’s ear, while one hand slides down to undo the button of Jimin’s trousers. 

At the same time, Yoongi sits up, straddling Jungkook’s hips fully. He strips off his own jeans, kicking them away with an impatient flick of his ankle. Skin meets skin, hot and electrifying. Yoongi leans forward, bracing his hands on the pillow on either side of Jungkook’s head.

“Jungkook,” Yoongi says, his voice commanding focus.

Jungkook snaps his eyes to Yoongi’s.

“Tell me you want this,” Yoogi demands softly. “Tell me you want us here.”

“I do,” Jungkook cries out, the sound wrecked and honest. “I want you. I want—I want everyone. Please, Yoongi-ssi… Hyung… don’t stop.”

Yoongi’s expression softens, just a fraction—a reward for the obedience. “Good boy.”

He leans down, abandoning the slow pace for something harder, grinding down with a friction that drags a loud, sharp moan from Jungkook’s throat.

The sound acts like a catalyst. Behind Jimin, Namjoon groans, his restraint snapping. His hands grow more urgent as he explores Jimin with a hunger that matches the frantic energy on the bed. 

“You hear that?” Namjoon growls against Jimin’s neck. “That’s the sound of everything falling into place.”

Jimin closes his eyes, letting his head fall back onto Namjoon’s shoulder, surrendering to the sensation of Namjoon’s hands on him and the sound of his partner unraveling for another man. It is chaotic, it is intense, and for the first time in a long time, it feels perfectly complete.

Namjoon turns Jimin in his arms, capturing his mouth in a kiss that is startlingly possessive. It’s different from Yoongi’s calculated, searching intensity; Namjoon kisses with a sweeping, encompassing warmth that demands total surrender. 

Jimin makes a small, desperate sound against Namjoon’s lips, his hands clutching at Namjoon’s broad shoulder to keep himself upright. He feels engulfed, surrounded by the scent of expensive cologne and arousal, and it’s heady. 

“Come here,” Namjoon murmurs, breaking the kiss to nip at Jimin’s lower lip. “We’re too far away.”

He doesn’t have to guide Jimin far; he just shifts their weight, pulling Jimin down until they slide closer to the center of the bed.

Yoongi pauses his rhythm, sitting up, straddling Jungkook’s hips. His chest is heaving, a sheen of sweat already making his pale skin glow in the dim city light, contrasting with the flush rising on Jungkook’s chest. He looks up as Namjoon shifts Jimin closer, his dark eyes tracking the way Namjoon’s large hand spans the entire width of Jimin’s waist.

“Room for two more?” Namjoon asks, his voice dropping to an even lower pitch. He presses Jimin down into the pillows beside Jungkook, the cool, crisp texture of the charcoal linens a stark contrast to the heat of the bodies pressing together. Namjoon arranges Jimin with a calculated precision, handling him like a precious thing he intends to thoroughly unravel.

“Always,” Yoongi answers, his voice gravelly. He shifts, sliding off Jungkook’s lap. He taps Jungkook’s thigh. “But first, we have too many layers.”

Jungkook, hazy but eager, nods. He kicks off his pants as Yoongi helps shimmy them down his legs, leaving him in just his boxer briefs. Yoongi makes quick work of his own boxers,  tossing them aside to join his pile of clothes.

On the other side, Namjoon is efficient. He unbuckles his belt and sheds his trousers and boxers in one fluid motion before turning his attention to Jimin. With gentle, large hands, he helps Jimin peel off his unbuttoned trousers, leaving him bare.

“Better,” Namjoon murmurs, eyeing the expanse of skin now available to him.

He pulls the naked Jimin back against his chest, spooning him perfectly. Yoongi mirrors the position behind Jungkook.

“This,” Namjoon says, his voice vibrating against Jimin’s spine as he runs a hand down Jimin’s ass and leg, his fingers splaying over Jungkook’s hip to effectively connect the entire chain. “This is the balance I was talking about.”

Yoongi leans over Jungkook’s shoulder, his eyes meeting Namjoon’s across the tangled pile of their partners. He reaches out, his hand clasping Namjoon’s forearm where it rests over Jungkook’s head.

“It’s solid,” Yoongi agrees. He leans in, biting lightly at the sensitive cord of Jungkook’s neck while his thumb strokes the inside of Namjoon’s wrist. “Structural integrity is holding,” calling back to their earlier architecture joke.

Namjooon chuckles, the sound dark and low. “Then I suppose we can proceed with the stress test.”

He shifts his hips forward, pressing the hard ridge of his arousal firmly against Jimin’s ass, the hardened length slotting perfectly between his firm globes. At the same time, he uses his free hand to hook under Jimin’s top knee, lifting it slightly to press their bodies even closer together,  eliminating any remaining space.

Jimin gasps, the friction sudden and electric against his skin. His head falls back against Namjoon’s shoulder.

“Oh god,” Jimin chokes out, his fingers digging into Jungkook’s bicep tight enough to bruise. “Namjoon-ah… you’re so…”

“Big?” Yoongi supplies helpfully from the other side, smirking against Jungkook’s shoulder. “I noticed.”

“Focus, Min Yoongi,” Namjoon warns, though he’s smiling against the sweat on Jimin’s neck. “Or I’ll have to remind you who’s supervising this project.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Yoongi challenges. But he turns his attention back to the man in his arms, sliding his hand down to cup Jungkook’s hardening length through the cotton of his briefs—the only remaining piece of clothing amongst the four of them.

“Just focus,” Namjoon warns, though he’s smiling. He reaches out with his free hand, blindly opening the drawer of the nightstand to retrieve a bottle of lube. “We don’t rush the foundation.”

Jungkook whimpers as Yoongi squeezes him, but Yoongi pauses, looking over his shoulder to watch Namjoon.

Namjoon coats his fingers, warming the viscous liquid first. He presses his chest flush against Jimin’s back, whispering into his ear, “Relax for me, Jimin-ah. Let me make space for myself.”

Jimin shudders, nodding frantically against the pillow. He unclenches his muscles, trusting Namjoon implicitly as Namjoon’s hand slips between his thighs. Namjoon is thorough and patient, his fingers working the lube in, stretching Jimin slowly until the smaller man is pliable and gasping soft, wet sounds of approval.

“Good,” Namjoon praises, feeling Jimin open up for him. “Perfect fit.”

Only then does Namjoon shift his hips. He guides himself in slowly, inch by inch, filling Jimin completely. Jimin cries out—a sharp, high sound that is immediately swallowed by the crisp linen of the pillow—before melting back against Namjoon’s chest, overwhelmed by the feeling of being completely full.

“Okay?” Namjoon murmurs, kissing the sweat on Jimin’s temple.

“Yeah,” Jimin breathes, his voice wrecked. “Yeah, move. Please, Joon-ah, move.”

Namjoon obliges, beginning a slow, deep rhythm that rocks the entire bed.

Yoongi, having watched the entire process with dark, dilated pupils, turns back to Jungkook with renewed intensity.

“See?” Yoongi murmurs, stripping Jungkook’s briefs off in one swift motion to leave him bare. “That’s how you take care of something precious.”

Jungkook arches his back with a sharp, broken cry as Yoongi’s hand wraps around his bare cock, slick with pre-cum. “Too much—hyung, it’s too much——!”

“Take it,” Yoongi orders, his voice brooking no argument. He begins to move his hand in rhythmic, unforgiving strokes, matching the slow, deep thrusts Namjoon has established inside Jimin, slotting his own cock between Jungkook’s cheeks. “You wanted everyone, didn’t you? You have to handle us.”

Jimin, overwhelmed by the sensation of Namjoon deep inside him and Jungkook clinging to him from the front, turns his head, seeking Namjoon blindly. Namjoon meets him halfway, capturing his lips in a deep, devouring kiss.

“Good,” Namjoon praises into the kiss, feeling Jimin tremble around him. “That’s it. Fall for me.”

The room dissolves into a haze of rhythmic motion and heavy, damp heat.

Namjoon sets a pace that is punishingly slow. He doesn’t snap his hips or rush; he grinds forward with the inexorable force of a tide, burying himself to the hilt with every thrust and then withdrawing just as agonizingly slowly. It leaves Jimin completely wrecked, his head thrashing against the pillow, his mouth open in a silent keen.

“Stay with me,” Namjoon murmurs against the shell of Jimin’s ear, his voice rough with effort. He runs his hand down Jimin’s sweaty, toned abdomen, his palm pressing flat over Jimin’s navel to hold him in place against the onslaught. “Don’t drift away yet.”

Jimin sobs, a wet, broken sound. He buries his face in the pillow, but his hands seek purchase, clutching blindly at the person in front of him. He finds Jungkook’s shoulders, his nails digging into the muscle.

Jungkook is struggling to survive his own torment. Trapped between Jimin’s seeking hands and Yoongi’s relentless grip, he is overstimulated to the point of delirium. Yoongi isn’t just stroking him; he’s edging him, his hand moving tight, slick twists over the sensitive head of Jungkook’s cock, bringing him to the precipice and then stopping abruptly, only to start again a second later.

“Hyung,” Jungkook whines, his hips bucking back against Yoongi’s groin, seeking friction, seeking release. “Let me—please, I need—”

“Not yet,” Yoongi breathes, nipping sharply at the sensitive skin of Jungkook’s nape. He tightens his grip, turning his wrist to drag his thumb over the slit, wringing a strangled cry from the younger man. “We wait for them.”

Yoongi looks up, his dark eyes locking with Namjoon’s over the tangle of their partners. Namjoon’s face is tight with pleasure, sweat dripping from his temple, but he nods—a microscopic dip of his chin.

“Tell him,” Namjoon grunts, thrusting deep and hitting that sweet spot inside Jimin that makes the smaller man’s toes curl.

“You hear that?” Yoongi whispers to Jungkook, sliding his free arm under Jungkook’s waist to pull him flush against his own chest. “Namjoon-ssi says we wait. So be a good boy and hold it.”

Jungkook shudders, tears of frustration and pleasure pricking his eyes. He presses his forehead against Jimin’s, seeking comfort in their shared helplessness.

“Jimin-ssi,” Jungkook gasps, their noses brushing. “Help.”

Jimin forces his eyes open, his vision swimming. He sees Jungkook’s flushed face, the raw need in his expression. It mirrors his own.

“It’s okay,” Jimin pants, shifting his legs to tangle them with Jungkook’s, creating more friction in the center of the bed. He reaches up, cupping Jungkook’s cheek with a trembling hand. “Just…focus on me. Look at me.”

Namjoon groans at the shift in Jimin’s body, his muscles clamping down around him tight and hot. He abandons his slow pace, his control slipping.  He drives into Jimin harder, faster, the slap of skin against skin becoming the loudest sound in the room. 

“Fuck,” Namjoon hisses. He grabs Jimin’s hip, bruisingly tight, anchoring him as the intensity increases. “You feel so good. So tight.”

The change in tempo sends a shockwave through the group. Yoongi feels the shift and matches it instantly. He stops teasing and starts pumping his hand in earnest, a fast, slick rhythm that matches the snap of Namjoon’s hips. 

“Now,” Yoongi growls into Jungkook’s ear. “Now you move.”

Jungkook cries out, his head thrown back against Yoongi’s shoulder, his hips snapping forward into the touch. The pleasure is blinding, white-hot, and terrifying. He clings to Jimin, his nails scraping down Jimin’s sides.

“Together,” Namjoon commands, his voice straining. He leans forward, biting down on Jimin’s trapezius muscle, claiming him. “Everyone together.”

Jimin is weeping now, soft, happy sounds of pure overwhelm. He feels Namjoon expanding inside him, feels Jungkook vibrating against him, feels the heavy, solid weight of Yoongi shielding them all.

“I can’t—I can’t hold it!” Jungkook screams, his body bowing like a drawn bowstring.

“Don’t hold it,” Yoongi orders, stroking faster, faster. “Let go, Kook-ah. Give it to us.”

Across the bed, Namjoon finally finds his release. He groans, a deep, animalistic sound, and buries his face in Jimin’s neck, thrusting one final, ruinous time and holding himself there, pouring himself into Jimin. 

The sight of Namjoon unraveling is the last straw for the others.

Jungkook shatters. He comes with a loud, sobbing cry, his release spurting hot over his own stomach and staining the sheets between them. Yoongi rides the aftershocks, pressing a kiss to the back of Jungkook’s head as he finds his own release, grinding his hips against Jungkook’s ass with a harsh exhale.

Jimin, squeezed between the sudden stillness of Namjoon and the trembling aftershocks of Jungkook, feels his own climax hit him like a rogue wave. He clenches around Namjoon, crying out as the pleasure rolls through him to join the mess Jungkook already created between them, leaving him boneless and gasping for air.

Silence falls over the room, heavy and sweet.

For a long time, the only sound is the ragged breathing of the four men trying to remember how to exist as separate entities.

Eventually, Namjoon stirs. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the sweat-dampened hair at Jimin’s name, then lifts his head to look across the pile.

Yoongi is resting his chin on Jungkook’s shoulder, his eyes half-lidded but focused on Namjoon.

“Structural integrity?” Namjoon asks, his voice wrecked and raspy.

Yoongi’s lips quirk into a tired, satisfied smirk. He tightens his arm around Jungkook, who is currently drifting in a blissed-out haze. 

Something improbable. Twenty yards past the warning tape, amidst a tangle of dead brambles and dirty snow, something is blooming. It is a camellia, shocking and violent red, surviving in a landscape that wants it dead.

Taehyung doesn’t think. He doesn’t check for unstable ground. He simply ducks under the yellow barrier tape.

The snow is deeper here, swallowing his ankles, soaking his socks instantly. He moves with the singular tunnel vision of an addict. He needs to capture the composition being gifted to him by nature itself: the red flower, the white snow, the deep, black shadows of the pines.

He raises the camera, framing the shot. He adjusts the focus, blurring the background to make the red petals pop, creating a perfect isolated world in the viewfinder.

Click.

The mechanical click of the shutter breaks the forest's silence like a thick slab of ice cracking on a frozen lake.

Taehyung lowers the camera to check the display, satisfied with the capture. Then he looks up, his eyes naturally drifting back to the background he just blurred out.

Fifty yards away, the shadows are moving. 

Two men stand by a black SUV that has been driven off-road, wheels caked in mud. Instead of hiking through the serene winter landscape, they are engaged in a grim task, their shovels biting into the chilled earth. The soil they turn over is fresh and dark against the snow. And on the ground beside them, wrapped in a blue tarp, is a shape that is unmistakably, horrifyingly human.

One of the men stops digging. He turns his head, looking straight at the splash of color in the brambles–straight at Taehyung, his eyes locking in on his dark, red hair sticking out from underneath his hat.

Taehyung freezes. The man reaches into his jacket.

The chase isn’t cinematic. It is clumsy and terrified. Taehyung scrambles back, his boots finding no purchase on the slick, frozen mud. He hears a shout behind him–guttural and angry–followed by the heavy slam of a car door.

He runs blindly, deeper into the trees, away from the road. Branches whip his face, stinging like lashes, catching on his trench coat, ripping his hat from his head. The camera, swinging wildly around his neck, is a pendulum of dead weight. He slips on a patch of ice, going down hard on his shoulder, the camera slamming hard into the frozen ground, and causing the strap to snap free.

The camera skitters away, sliding down a steep embankment and disappearing into a drift of snow.

Taehyung reaches for it–his eye, his memory, his proof–but the sound of crashing footsteps behind him forces him up. He leaves it. He runs until his lungs burn like he’s swallowed glass, until the expensive material of his shirt is plastered to his back with sweat.

He doesn’t know how long he runs, but the light begins to fail, turning the words into a monochromatic maze. Just as his legs are about to give out, he breaks through a line of trees and stops dead.

It sits in the throat of the valley like a secret.

The house doesn’t look built; it looks grown, straight from the forest. It is a jagged knot of dark timber and grey stone, blending perfectly with the towering pines. To anyone else, the column of white smoke rising from the chimney would be a beacon of warmth. To anyone else, the wall of split logs stacked on the porch would look like winter fuel.

But Taehyung stops, his chest heaving. He sees the way the windows are narrow slits. And the door is made of a thick, heavy wood rather than the standard front door of a cabin in the woods. It looks like a fortress disguised as a shack.

It is terrifying. It is the most beautiful thing he has seen all day. 

He scrambles down the slope toward the creek that separates him from the door. The water is black and fast. He wades through, gasping as the icy water floods his ruined boots, biting into his skin like teeth. He stumbles up the bank, shivering violently.

He doesn’t knock. He can’t risk the noise. He tries the handle–locked, obviously–but the wood around the window frame is old. With a desperate shove, the latch gives way with a splintering crack.

Taehyung tumbles inside, collapsing onto the floorboards. 

It is quiet inside. Not the silence of an empty house, but the heavy, waiting silence of a held breath.

Taehyung lies on the floor for a moment, waiting for his heart to stop hammering against his ribs. The heat hits him first–a dry, intense wave radiating from a massive iron stove in the center of the room. It smells of pine resin, gun oil, and cold iron.

He pulls himself up. The room is stark. No rugs, no pictures. Just walls of dark timber and shelves organized with terrifying precision. Canned goods, tools, boxes of ammunition.

Taehyung moves deeper into the room. He should be looking for a weapon or a phone. Instead, he finds himself drawn to a workbench along the far wall.

It is covered in tools, but they aren’t scattered. They are aligned perfectly by size. A heavy, rusted saw blade lies in the center, half-cleaned, smelling of solvent.

Taehyung reaches out. He traces the jagged teeth of the saw, fascinated by the contrast of the bright, sharpened steel against the dull orange rust. It is lethal and neglected, all at once. 

The click of a hammer cocking back is the only warning he gets.

“Do you want to die?”

The voice is low and raspy, coming from the shadows near the door.

Taehyung freezes, his finger still resting on the saw blade. He turns slowly and comes to face a stranger, presumably the cabin’s owner. 

He is pale, dressed in dark, utilitarian clothes that seem to swallow the light. He holds the shotgun with an ease that suggests it is an extension of his arm. But it is his face that holds Taehyung’s attention. There is a scar cutting vertically through his eyebrow, and his expression is a mask of exhausted, dangerous irritation.

He looks like the woods outside–cold, unyielding, and alive. 

The man takes a step forward. The gun doesn’t waver. “I asked you a question. You break into my house, you track mud on my floor…do you have a death wish, or are you just stupid?”

Taehyung blinks. The adrenaline is fading, replaced by that strange, floaty detachment that always comes when he finds a perfect subject. He knows he should be begging for his life. He knows he should be terrified.

But the light from the stove is hitting the man’s face, illuminating the sharp angle of his jaw and the dark, abyssal depth of his eyes. 

Taehyung tilts his head, water dripping from his red hair onto the oiled concrete floor. 

“You have interesting eyes,” Taehyung whispers, his voice hoarse. “They look like the creek outside.”

The man falters. The gun barrel dips, just an inch, as confusion cracks his stoic mask. He looks at the intruder–shivering, soaking wet, bleeding from a scratch on his cheek–and realizes with sinking dread that the boy isn’t looking at the gun. He is looking at him, and he isn’t afraid. 

He is captivated.

Yoongi doesn’t lower the gun. Not yet.

He stares at the boy–at the water pooling around his ruined boots, at the violent, unnatural shade of his wet hair, and finally at his eyes. There is no pupil dilation. No deceptive tell. The boy isn’t lying to buy time. He genuinely thinks Yoongi’s eyes are interesting.

“You’re in shock,” the man decides, his voice flat. “Or you’re high.”

“I’m cold,” Taehyung whispers. His teeth finally start to chatter, the adrenaline crash hitting him all at once. The tremor starts in his hands and rolls through his body until he is vibrating with it.

He curses under his breath–a sharp, ugly sound. He shifts his grip on the shotgun, flicking the safety back on with a metallic click, but he doesn’t put it away. He walks past Taehyung, roughly bumping his shoulder, and checks the window.

Outside, the wind is picking up, thrashing the pines. The snow is falling harder, erasing the footprints Taehyung made on the porch. That’s good. But the smoke…realization dawned.

“The chimney,” the man mutters. He turns back to Taehyung. “Strip.”

Taehyung blinks, sluggish. “What?”

“Your clothes. They’re wet. You’re dripping on my floor, and if you freeze to death in my living room, that’s a body I have to move.” Yoongi gestures vaguely to a narrow door on the other side of the stove. “Bathroom is through there. There’s a towel. Don’t touch anything else.”

Taehyung doesn’t argue. He moves like a sleepwalker, shivering so hard his movements are jerky. He fumbles with the buttons of his trench coat, his frozen fingers useless against the stiff, sodden wool.

Yoongi watches him struggle for exactly three seconds before his patience snaps. He leans the shotgun against the workbench and strides closer.

He slaps Taehyung’s hands away and undoes the buttons himself. “Stop. You’re making it worse.”

 He is efficient, clinical. He strips the heavy coat off Taehyung’s shoulders and tosses it onto a clear section of the workbench. Underneath, the boy is wearing a silk shirt that is clinging to his skin like wet tissue paper.

His jaw tightens. Silk. In a blizzard. This boy really is from a different planet.

“Go,” he orders, pointing to the bathroom. “Hot water. Five minutes. If you take longer, I turn the boiler off.”

The bathroom is like the rest of the house: cold, slate-tiled, and smelling of bleach.

Taehyung turns the tap. The pipes groan, then shudder, spitting out water that is scalding hot. He hisses as it hits his frozen hands, but he doesn’t pull away. He peels off the wet silk, the ruined trousers. He steps under the spray.

It hurts. The heat feels like knives against his skin, waking up nerves that had gone numb miles ago. He leans his forehead against the tile of the shower wall and breathes in the steam.

He watches the water swirl around his feet. It isn’t clear.

Rivers of dark, cherry-red water run down his chest, over the tiles, and into the drain. It looks like he is bleeding out. Cheap dye. He had it done yesterday in the city, a whim because he was bored with the grey winter. Now, the hot water is leeching the color out of him. 

He watches the “blood” swirl away, mesmerizing and rhythmic. He forgets to count the minutes. 

The door bangs open.

Taehyung jumps, slipping on the wet tile. The man stands in the doorway, holding a bundle of grey fabric. He looks at the steam-filled room, then at the floor of the shower.

His eyes widen. For a split second, he is terrified. He sees the red water and thinks he missed a gunshot wound.

“You’re bleeding,” he says, dropping the bundle. He steps into the steaming shower, fully clothed, grabbing Taehyung’s arm and spinning him around to find the exit wound.

“I’m not–” Taehyung gasps, startled by the rough grip. “Hey! I’m not hurt.”

The man’s hand comes away from Taehyung’s wet shoulder. He looks at his own palm. It’s stained pink.

He looks up at Taehyung’s hair, which is plastered to his skull in dark, dripping strands.

“It’s hair dye,” Taehyung explains, pushing a wet lock out of his eyes.

The man stares at his own hand, then at the pink grout on his pristine slate floor. The relief in his chest is instantly replaced by a wave of irritation so intense it nearly chokes him.

“Red,” he says, incredulous. “You’re trespassing in a restricted zone in the middle of winter, and you dyed your hair red?”

“It looked nice,” Taehyung says defensively, shivering as the draft from the door hits him. “Before the hat came off.”

The man closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath through his nose, exhaling slowly. He looks like he is praying for patience, or perhaps counting the reasons why he shouldn’t drag this intruder back out to the creek.

“Get out,” he says, his voice dangerously quiet. “Dry off. Wrap your head in the towel before you stain anything else.”

He kicks the pile of clothes on the floor toward Taehyung.

“Put these on. And if I see one drop of pink water on my couch, I’m locking you in the cellar.” He stalks out, his wet clothes clinging to his wiry frame.

Taehyung emerges ten minutes later.

He is drowning in the stranger’s clothes. The grey sweatpants are rolled up at the ankles, but they still drag on the floor. The black thermal shirt is tight on his shoulders but hangs loose around his waist. He has wrapped the towel around his head like a turban, catching the red drips.

He looks ridiculous. He looks soft.

The man is sitting at the heavy wooden table, cleaning his shotgun. He has laid out a cloth, a bottle of oil, and a small brush. The smell of solvent is sharp in the warm air.

He doesn’t look up when Taehyung enters. “Sit. Don’t wander.”

Taehyung sits opposite him. He pulls his knees up to his chest, tucking his cold feet into the fabric of the sweatpants. He watches the man’s hands.

They are steady hands. He disassembles the weapon with a rhythm that speaks of muscle memory. Click, slide, snap. He dips the brush in oil and runs it along the barrel.

“You didn’t knock,” the man says, not breaking his routine.

Taehyung rests his chin on his knees. “I…I couldn’t.”

“The latch on the window,” the man continues, scrubbing a spot of carbon. “You forced it. And you came through the creek. Nobody crosses that water unless they have to.”

He stops scrubbing. He looks up, his gaze sharp and calculating. He is putting the pieces together now–the ruined expensive shoes, the lack of a car, the sheer panic in the boy’s eyes when he first walked in. 

“You aren’t a hiker,” the man states. “Hikers have gear. You have fashionable boots and a silk shirt.” He sets the brush down. “Who is chasing you?”

Taehyung stiffens. The warmth of the room suddenly feels very far away. “I don’t know who they are.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.” Taehyung swallows hard. “I took a photo. Of a flower. They were in the background.”

The man’s eyes narrow. “In the background, doing what?”

“Digging.”

The silence in the cabin stretches, heavy and suffocating. The wood stove ticks as the metal expands. The man looks at the towel wrapped around Taehyung’s head, then at the darkened window behind him.

“Digging a hole,” the man repeated, more to himself than to Taehyung. “In the Black Forest.” He closes his eyes for a second, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “And they saw you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you keep the camera?”

“I dropped it.”

The man sighs–a heavy, exhausted sound. “So you have no evidence. No leverage. And they saw your face.” He opens his eyes, looking pointedly at the red stain seeping into the white towel. “And your hair.”

“Yes.”

The man picks up a rag and starts wiping down the firing pin. He scrubs hard, his knuckles turning white.

“You’re a liability,” he says, stating it like a fact about the weather. “You have no survival instinct. You treat a crime scene like an art gallery. And now you’re sitting in my house, leaking hair dye, waiting for them to track you here.”

Taehyung watches the movement of the rag. “Why did you let me stay?”

The man stops. He looks at the closed door, heavily bolted. He looks at the snow piling up against the window, sealing them in. 

“Because,” the man says, his voice gravelly. “If I let you out there, you wouldn’t have lasted an hour. And I hate wasted things.”

He reassembles the gun with a loud, final clack. He sets it on the table, the barrel pointing away from Taehyung.

“I’m Min Yoongi,” he says, finally offering a name like a weapon he is reluctant to hand over. “You sleep in the loft. I take the couch. If you hear a car engine, you don’t ask questions. You get in the cellar. Understood?” 

Taehyung nods. He reaches up, touching the damp towel around his head.

“Taehyung,” he returns. “Kim Taehyung.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer. He just pours a measure of oil onto the rag and starts scrubbing a spot on the table that isn’t really there.

The storm doesn’t break. It settles in.

By nightfall, the cabin is no longer just a shelter; it is a capsule buried in white. The wind has stopped howling and started screaming, a high, thin sound that vibrates through the heavy timbers of the walls. Snow is drifting high against the porch, sealing the bottom half of the windows in a wall of ice.

They are trapped. 

Yoongi moves through the cabin with the restless energy of a caged animal. He checks the deadbolt. He checks the temperature of the stove. He checks the window shutters. Then he does it all again.

Taehyung sits at the table, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket Yoongi pulled from a chest. He hasn’t moved for an hour. He is simply watching.

He watches Yoongi open a can of stew with a knife, his movements precise and lethal. He watches Yoongi dump it into a cast-iron pot on the stove. He watches the firelight catch the scar on Yoongi’s eyebrow, turning the ridge of damaged skin into a white line against the flush of heat on his face.

“Stop it,” Yoongi blurts, without turning around. He is stirring the stew, the metal spoon scraping loudly against the iron.

“Stop what?”

“Staring. You’re burning a hole in my back.”

“There is nothing else to look at,” Taehyung says, his voice muffled by the blanket. “The windows are covered.”

Yoongi turns, leaning his hip against the stove. He crosses his arms, the ladle dripping thick brown gravy back into the pot. “You could look at the floor. You could sleep. You could worry about the men who want to kill you.”

“I am worried,” Taehyung says. But he doesn’t look it. He looks soft, drowned in the grey fabric, his cherry-red hair drying in wild, frizzy waves that halo his head in the firelight. He looks like a prince who has been turned into a pauper and finds the novelty fascinating.

“You’re not worried enough,” Yoongi counters. He grabs two tin bowls from a shelf and ladles the stew out. He slides one across the table to Taehyung. It slops over the rim, hot and messy. “Eat. It’s not restaurant food, but it’s calories.”

Taehyung pulls a hand out of his blanket cocoon. His fingers are long, elegant, and entirely unsuited for the dented tin spoon. He blows on the steam and takes a bite.

“It’s good,” he murmurs.

Yoongi snorts, sitting opposite him. “It’s sodium and preservatives. Don’t romanticize it.”

They eat in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the wind and the click of spoons. Yoongi eats quickly and efficiently, as if he expects the meal to be interrupted. Taehyung eats slowly, savoring the heat.

“Why do you live here?” Taehyung asks, breaking the silence. “You aren’t a ranger. You aren’t a hunter.”

Yoongi pauses, a piece of potato halfway to his mouth. He looks at the dark timber walls, the barricaded door. “I like the quiet.”

“That’s a lie,” Taehyung challenges. He points the spoon at the wall of tools–the wrenches, the saws, the pristine organization. “You like control. You live here because out here, nothing happens unless you make it happen. No surprises.

Yoongi sets his spoon down slowly. He looks at Taehyung with a renewed wariness. The boy might be flighty, but he isn’t stupid. He notices things.

“And you?” Yoongi deflects, his voice low. “You walked past a warning tape because you saw a flower. You like chaos.”

“I like beauty,” Taehyung corrects. “Sometimes they are the same thing.”

“Beauty gets you killed,” Yoongi says harshly. “Beauty is the distraction that lets the predator get close. If you had been looking at the treeline instead of that damn camellia, you would have seen the SUV before they started digging.”

Taehyung considers this. He licks a drop of gravy from his lip, a flash of pink tongue against honeyed skin. Yoongi’s eyes track the movement before he can stop himself.

“If I had been looking at the treeline,” Taehyung says softly, “I never would have found this house. I would have stayed on the path.” He looks up, locking eyes with Yoongi. “I think the trade was worth it.”

Yoongi stares at him. The air in the cabin suddenly feels very thin, very hot. He stands up abruptly, the legs of his chair scraping against the floor.

“You’re done,” Yoongi says, grabbing Taehyung’s half-empty bowl. “Go to the loft. I’m killing the lights.”

The loft is warmer than the ground floor. Heat rises, pooling in the apex of the roof, trapping the smell of cedar and dry heat. 

Taehyung lies on the narrow mattress, staring up at the heavy rafters. Yoongi gave him a sleeping bag, a heavy military-grade thing that smells like the rest of the house–clean, cold, and masculine.

He can’t sleep.

Through the gaps in the floorboards, he can see the main room below. The electric lights are off, killed to save the generator fuel. The only light comes from the glass door of the wood stove.

It casts a flickering, orange flow over the room, breathing in and out like a lung. 

Taehyung rolls onto his stomach, pressing his face near the gap in the wood. He watches.

Yoongi isn’t sleeping. He is sitting on the leather couch, facing the door. The shotgun is across his lap. He is perfectly still, his head tipped back against the cushions, eyes open, watching the shadows dance on the ceiling.

He looks lonely. Not the romantic kind of lonely that Taehyung likes to photograph–the solitary figure on a cliff. This is a painful, grinding loneliness. It is the loneliness of a machine that has been left running in an empty room.

Taehyung watches him for a long time. He traces the line of Yoongi’s throat, the tense set of his shoulder. He wonders what it would feel like to touch that scar on his eyebrow. Would the skin be rough? Smooth?

Below, Yoongi shifts. He turns his head, looking up at the ceiling, straight at the gap where Taehyung is watching.

Taehyung pulls back, his heart hammering. He holds his breath.

“I can feel you watching me,” Yoongi's voice drifts up from the dark. It isn’t angry. It’s just tired. “Go to sleep, Taehyung.”

“I can’t,” Taehyung whispers back, his voice floating down from the loft. “The wind is too loud.”

A pause. The fire pops in the stove.

“Focus on the stove,” Yoongi directs. “Listen to the tick of the metal. Count the cooling cycles. It drowns out the wind.”

Taehyung rolls onto his back. He listens. Tick. Tick. Tick.

It is a mechanical, steady rhythm. The sound of Yoongi’s world.

“Yoongi?” 

“What.”

“Are you going to sleep?”

“No.” 

“Why?”

“Because one of us has to be the wolf,” Yoongi says, the words barely audible over the wind. “So you can play Red Riding Hood and sleep.”

Taehyung closes his eyes. He pulls the sleeping bag up to his chin, burying his nose in the scent of cedar and gun oil. He listens to the stove. He listens to the silence of the man guarding the door.

For the first time all day, he feels safe.

Morning doesn’t bring light. It brings more grey, diffuse gloom that barely penetrates the snow-blocked windows.

The storm has passed, leaving behind a silence so absolute it hurts the ears. 

Yoongi is already awake–or he never slept–when Taehyung climbs down the ladder. The stove has been stoked; the coffee pot is percolating on top of the iron plate. The smell is rich and bitter.

“Drink,” Yoongi says, shoving a mug into Taehyung’s hand before his feet even hit the floor. “Then we figure out how to get you out of here.”

Taehyung takes the mug, wrapping his hands around the ceramic warmth. He is wearing the same borrowed clothes, his red hair a chaotic, frizzy mess. “The road will be blocked.”

“I have a truck. It has chains.” Yoongi moves to the window, peering through a crack in the shutters. “If we leave now, we can make the highway by noon. I'll drop you off at the police station two towns over. You tell them everything.”

“I don’t have proof,” Taehyung reminds him.

“You have your memory. You can ID the faces.” Yoongi turns, his expression hard. “And it gets you out of my house.”

Taehyung looks down into his black coffee. The rejection stings, sharp and sudden. He opens his mouth to argue, to say I don’t want to go, but the sound cuts him off.

Crunch.

It is distant, muffled by the snow, but to Yoongi’s ears, it is a thunderclap.

The sound of tires crushing fresh powder.

Yoongi freezes. He goes completely still, his head cocked to the side. “Quiet.”

Taehyung opens his mouth. Yoongi is across the room in a blur. He grabs Taehyung’s arms, his grip bruising, and hauls him away from the ladder, away from the light.

“They’re here,” Yoongi hisses, the whisper terrifyingly loud in the silence.

“How?” Taehyung gasps, stumbling as Yoongi drags him toward the kitchen area. “The storm–”

“Shit,” Yoongi spits. “The snow stopped an hour ago. They must have found something.”

He drops to his knees in the corner of the room, jamming his fingers into a gap between the wide floorboards. He heaves. A section of the floor groans and lifts, revealing a dark, square hole. The smell of damp earth and rotting potatoes wafts up.

The root cellar.

“Get in,” Yoongi orders.

Taehyung looks into the hole. It is pitch black. “Yoongi–”

“Now!” Yoongi shoves him. “Go all the way to the back. Behind the crates. Do not make a sound. Do not breathe too loudly. If they find you, they will kill you. If they find me hiding you, they kill us both.”

The engine noise is louder now. Close. Right on the other side of the creek.

Taehyung scrambles into the hole. The cold earth swallows him. He looks up, panic seizing his throat, catching one last glimpse of Yoongi’s pale, grim face.

“Trust me,” Yoongi whispers.

Then he drops the floorboards back into place.

Darkness slams down on Taehyung. He is utterly alone.

Above him, he hears the heavy, muffled thud of a car door closing. Then footsteps. Heavy boots on the porch stairs. 

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The sound vibrates through the floor, shaking dust onto Taehyung’s face. He claps a hand over his mouth, curls into a ball behind a stack of crates, and squeezes his eyes shut.

Taehyung holds his breath until his lungs burn, urging him to take a much-needed breath of air. 

The darkness of the root cellar is absolute. It smells of wet soil and old burlap, a thick, cloying scent that chokes him. But the terror isn’t the smell; it’s the sound.

Every footstep above him sounds like a thunderclap.

The floorboards are thick, but they are old. He can hear the heavy, wet crunch of boots entering the main room. One set. Then two.

“You’re a hard man to find, Min.”

The voice is unfamiliar–smooth, corporate, and completely out of place in a wilderness cabin.

“I wasn’t hiding,” Yoongi’s voice replies. It is terrifyingly calm. It lacks the rough edge he uses with Taehyung. His voice is flat and cold. “And you’re trespassing. State your business and get out.”

“We’re looking for a boy,” the stranger says. “About this tall. Red hair. Wearing a coat that costs more than this house.”

Taehyung squeezes his eyes shut, burying his face in his hands. A tear leaks out, hot and fast, tracking through the dust on his cheek.

“Haven’t seen him,” Yoongi says.

“Really? Because we found a camera by the road. And this is the only cabin for ten miles.”

The camera. Taehyung’s stomach drops. He forgot about the camera. 

“Lots of hikers lose gear,” Yoongi says, unimpressed. “Doesn’t mean they will come here.”

“Maybe,” the stranger says. “But I see fresh tracks on your porch, Min. Someone’s been walking in and out this morning.”

“I live here,” Yoongi counters, smooth as oil. “I went out for wood an hour ago. Unless it’s a crime to walk on my own porch, you have no cause to be here.”

There is silence. A heavy, shifting silence. The stranger knows Yoongi is technically right–the tracks belong to Yoongi–but he is testing the boundaries, seeing if Yoongi will give something away.

Then, a creak.

Someone is walking. The footsteps move away from the door. They are slow, deliberate. Thud. Thud. Thud.

They stop directly above Taehyung’s head. 

Dust sifts down through the cracks in the planks, landing on Taehyung’s eyelashes. He doesn’t blink. He is paralyzed.

“Nice place,” the stranger says. “Cozy. A bit damp, though.”

The man shifts his weight. The boards groans.

“I didn’t invite you in for a tour,” Yoongi snaps. The sound of a shotgun racking–clack, clack–cuts through the room. “The snow covered everything last night. If the boy is out there, he’s buried under three feet of powder.”

A pause. The tension in the air above is heavy enough to crush the house. 

“If you see him,” the stranger says, his voice dropping an octave, “you call us. He stole something very dangerous. He’s a threat to…public safety.”

“If I see a trespasser,” Yoongi says, “I’ll handle it.”

“I bet you will.”

The weight lifts. The footsteps retreat. The door opens, letting in a gust of wind that whistles through the floorboards, chilling Taehyung’s sweat-drenched skin.

“Drive safe,” Yoongi says. 

The door slams shut. The lock slides home.

Taehyung stays curled in a ball. He doesn’t move when the engine starts. He doesn’t move when the sound of the tires fades into the distance. He is frozen, his body locked in a rigor of panic.

Suddenly, light explodes into the cellar.

The floorboards are ripped back. Yoongi stands silhouetted against the grey light of the windows, his chest heaving. He looks wild–wide eyes, hair messy, the shotgun discarded on the table behind him. 

“Taehyung.”

It isn’t a question. Yoongi reaches down, grabs Taehyung by the back of the thermal shirt, and hauls him up.

Taehyung scrambles out, his legs giving way the moment his feet hit the solid floor. He collapses, gasping for air, clutching at Yoongi’s arms to stay upright. He is shaking so hard his teeth rattle.

“They were right there,” Taehyung chokes out, his voice a broken sob. “They were right there.”

“They’re gone,” Yoongi says. He is gripping Taehyung’s shoulders, his fingers digging into the muscle. “Breathe. You're safe.”

“I’m not,” Taehyung gasps. The adrenaline isn’t fading; it’s mutating. It’s turning into something hot and frantic. He feels like he’s going to vomit or scream. “I thought you were going to give me up. I thought–”

“I didn’t,” Yoongi growls. He gives Taehyung a rough shake. “Look at me. I didn’t.”

Taehyung looks up. Yoongi’s face is inches from his. The scar on his brow is stark white against his flushed skin. His eyes are dark and wide with the same adrenaline that is coursing through Taehyung.

The distance between them snaps.

It isn’t a romantic decision. It is a biological imperative. They have just survived uncertain danger.

Taehyung surges forward, burying his hands in Yoongi’s shirt, and smashes their mouths together.

It is clumsy. It is violent. It tastes like fear and dust. Yoongi stiffens for a fraction of a second, shocked by the impact, and then he folds.

He makes a low, desperate noise in his throat and grabs Taehyung’s face, kissing him back with a hunger that borders on anger. He pushes Taehyung backward until his hips hit the heavy wooden table, pinning him there.

“You idiot,” Yoongi murmurs against his mouth, biting at Taehyung’s lower lip. “You reckless, stupid…”

“Shut up,” Taehyung pants, dragging Yoongi closer, tangling his fingers in Yoongi’s hair. “Don’t talk.”

He doesn’t want words. Words are for lying. He wants this–the clash, the heat, the grounding weight of Yoongi’s body pressing the panic out of him. He needs to feel something other than the cold earth of that root cellar.

Yoongi lifts him, rough hands gripping Taehyung’s thighs, hoisting him onto the edge of the table. He steps between Taehyung's legs, pressing flush against him. The contact is electric. The contrast they established–the soft, shivering boy and the hard, unyielding wolf–collides.

Yoongi’s hands are everywhere–under the loose thermal shirt, touching the cold skin of Taehyung’s waist, mapping his ribs. His palms are rough, calloused from the workshop, and the scratch of them makes Taehyung arch his back, a gasp tearing out of his throat.

Taehyung is ice cold. The damp chill of the root cellar has seeped into his marrow, making his skin feel like marble. Yoongi, burning with the chemical heat of adrenaline and the stifling warmth of the cabin, hisses at the temperature difference.

“You’re freezing,” Yoongi mutters against his skin, burying his face in the crook of Taehyung’s neck. He shifts his grip, sliding his hands further around to span Taehyung’s lower back, pressing him relentlessly closer. He is trying to bleed his own heat into the boy, to force the cold out through sheer friction. “Let me warm you up.”

“Yoongi,” Taehyung whines, the sound wrecked and needy. He tilts his head back, exposing his throat. “Please.”

He doesn’t know what he is begging for–safety, oblivion, or just more friction–but Yoongi understands.

Yoongi pulls back, his eyes dark and seeking. He looks at Taehyung–at the flushed cheeks, the swollen lips, the cherry-red hair messy and bright against the grey timber of the cabin. He looks at the beautiful, dangerous thing he has trapped in his house.

“Okay,” Yoongi whispers, his voice dropping into a register that makes Taehyung shiver. “Okay.”

He kisses the pulse jumping frantically in Taehyung’s throat, his lips pressing hard against the thin, pale skin. He can feel the blood hammering there, an erratic, terrified rhythm that matches the shaking of Taehyung’s hands. It tastes like salt and dust.

Yoongi’s hands move to the waistband of the borrowed sweatpants. His fingers hook into the elastic, but he doesn’t push them down. Not yet. Instead, he slides his palms underneath the fabric, skimming over the sharp jut of Taehyung’s hipbones.

The contact is a shock to the system.

Taehyung gasps, a broken, wet sound. He arches his back, seeking the heat of Yoongi’s palms. The sensation of Yoongi’s calloused fingertips–rough from handling the steel and solvent in his workshop– scraping against his sensitive skin is overwhelming. It anchors him. It drags him out of the dark, suffocating memory of the cellar and pins him to the bright, sharp reality of the kitchen.

“Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop,” Taehyung whines, his head falling back, exposing the long, elegant line of his throat. 

Yoongi doesn’t. He pushes the loose thermal shirt up, bunching the fabric under Taehyung’s arms. He needs to see him.

The pale light from the window washes over Taehyung’s chest. He looks wrecked and beautiful. His skin is flushed pink in patches from where Yoongi’s roughened hands handled him, and his cherry-red hair is a messy halo, damp strands sticking to his forehead. He looks like something that has been broken open.

Yoongi drags his mouth up from Taehyung’s throat to his jaw, his teeth grazing the skin, threatening but controlled. He captures Taehyung’s lips again. It is sloppy and deep and starving. Yoongi tastes the copper tang of blood where Taehyung bit down on his own lip too hard in the cellar.

Taehyung’s legs wrap instinctively around Yoongi’s waist, pulling him harder into the cradle of his thighs. The movement knocks a tin cup off the table. It hits the floor with a loud clang, but neither of them flinches. The world has narrowed down to this: the hard surface of the wooden table beneath him, and the heavy, solid weight of the world pressing him down. 

Yoongi pulls back just an inch, his breathing ragged. He looks at Taehyung with a terrifying intensity–possessive, angry, and desperate.

“You’re here,” Yoongi growls, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin of Taehyung’s hips, leaving marks that will bruise later. “You aren’t in the ground. You’re here with me.”

Taehyung reaches up, his trembling fingers tracing the scar on Yoongi’s brow, then tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. He pulls Yoongi back down.

“Make me feel it,” Taehyung whispers against Yoongi’s lips, his eyes fluttering shut as he surrenders to the heat. “Make me sure.”

Yoongi’s hands are impatient, shoving the grey sweatpants down over Taehyung’s hips. The cold air of the cabin bites at Taehyung’s exposed skin, a sharp, stinging contrast to the fever-heat of Yoongi’s body pressing between his knees.

Taehyung shudders, his breath hitching in his chest. He feels exposed—not just physically, but elementally. He is stripped bare in a room built for survival, open to the wolf who owns it.

“Look at me,” Yoongi demands, his voice a low rasp, roughly grating against Taehyung’s ear. He doesn’t wait for compliance; he grabs Taehyung’s chin, forcing his head up. “I need you to see this.”

Taehyung’s eyes flutter open, hazy and dark. He looks at Yoongi—at the sweat beading on his temple, the raw tension in his jaw, his dilated pupils. It isn’t a look of tenderness. 

Yoongi traces the rough tips of his fingers across Taehyung’s pelvis to dip between them, searching until long, skilled fingers wrap around Taehyung’s rigid length. He tries to fight it, but he can't. Taehyung’s eyes slip closed at the same time a moan slips through his swollen lips. He snaps them open again at the stinging reprimand Yoongi leaves with his free hand on his hip. 

“Ow,” Taehyung pouts, hips jerking forward in Yoongi’s grips.

“I said eyes open.” Yoongi smirks. His eyes bore into Taehyung’s, the intensity nearly eclipsing the pleasure his hand was wringing from Taehyung’s throbbing cock. He draws the hand that was wrapped around him between their faces, and arches his scarred brow.

It takes a minute. Taehyung’s eyes take a moment to blink fully back into focus before tilting his head down and spitting in Yoongi’s broad palm.

“Good boy.” Yoongi slips his hand back in between them to grip Taehyung’s aching cock. His grip on Taehyung is firm, but the glide is smoother now as he draws the most delectable sounds from the younger man’s throat. 

It isn’t slow. There isn’t time for that. The threat of the Huntsmen still hangs in the dust motes dancing in the light, and their bodies move with the frantic energy of stolen time. Yoongi’s hand moves with punishing rhythm–a hard, steady cadence that drives Taehyung closer with each upward flick of his wrist.

Taehyung arches back, the hard wood of the table digging into the back of his thighs, bruising him. He clings to Yoongi’s shoulders, his nails digging into the heavy canvas of the jacket Yoongi hadn’t even bothered to take off. The rough fabric scrapes his palms, another texture in the overwhelming sensory storm.

“Yoongi,” Taehyung gasps, the word fracturing on a sob. “Yoongi, I’m—”

“I’ve got you,” Yoongi growls, ducking his head to bite the sensitive cord of muscle where Taehyung’s neck meets his shoulder. “You’re not going anywhere.”

On the next upward snap of his wrist, Yoongi thumbs at the sensitive slit of Taehyung’s cock, sending blinding, white-hot pleasure through Taehyung that makes his toes curl. The detachment that usually protects Taehyung—the camera lens he puts between himself and the world—shatters completely. He can’t observe this. He can only drown it.

He is crying, he realizes. Not from sadness, but from the sheer, overwhelming relief of being touched, of being held, of being alive.

Yoongi feels the wetness on Taehyung’s cheek. He kisses the tears away, tasting the salt, his movements becoming jagged and desperate. Yoongi grits his teeth, his own cock a burgeoning ache in his pants. He is unraveling, his control snapping under the weight of Taehyung’s need and his own terrifying desire.

“Taehyung,” Yoongi chokes out, his voice wrecked.

The end comes like the storm from the night before—violent and total. Taehyung arches away from the table, a ragged cry from his throat, his body seizing in Yoongi’s arms. He grips Yoongi blindly, his nails biting into rough fabric as he releases all the pent-up fear in a torrent over Yoongi’s fist. Encased in his own haze of pleasure, he hears Yoongi’s harsh groan and feels his body shudder as he follows him over the edge.

For a long moment, the only sound in the cabin is their harsh, synchronized breathing and the ticking of the wood-burning stove.

Yoongi collapses forward, resting his forehead on Taehyung’s shoulder. His weight is heavy, crushing, and perfect. Taehyung wraps his arms around Yoongi's back, burying his face in the rough collar of the jacket. He smells the gun oil, the pine resin, and the sweat.

The cooler air of the cabin begins to creep back in, swirling around their damp skin, but Taehyung doesn’t shiver. He feels the heat radiating from Yoongi’s chest, a furnace that burns just for him.

Yoongi lifts his head slowly. He looks at Taehyung–at the swollen lips, the tear tracks cutting through the dust on his cheeks, the wild red hair.

Yoongi reaches out, his hand shaking slightly, and brushes a strand of hair away from Taehyung’s eyes. The gesture is shockingly gentle, at odds with the roughness of the last few minutes.

“You okay?” Yoongi whispers, his voice rasping.

Taehyung blinks, his eyes struggling to focus. He feels exhausted, hollowed out, and wonderfully, undeniably real.

“Yeah,” Taehyung breathes, a small, tired smile touching his lips. “I’m okay.”

The separation is reluctant, but necessary.

Yoongi pulls away first, his movements stiff as he feels the mess he made in his own pants. As he steps back and helps Taehyung straighten up before picking up the discarded sweatpants from the floor. He shakes off the dust before handing them back. 

He doesn’t look at Taehyung before disappearing into the bathroom to clean himself up. 

The lock clicks. It is a small sound, but in the sudden silence of the cabin, it sounds like a gunshot.

Taehyung is left standing in the middle of the room, clutching the waistband of the borrowed sweatpants. The heat Yoongi left on his skin begins to evaporate, replaced by the biting chill of the drafty room. He pulls the pants up with trembling fingers, feeling suddenly, violently exposed,

He listens to the pipes groan, followed by the hiss of the shower.

The sound is isolating. It reminds him that ten minutes ago, they were strangers on opposite sides of a gun. Now, they are…what? Survivors? Lovers? Or just two terrified people who needed to feel something other than fear?

Taehyung wraps his arms around himself, sinking onto the edge of the couch and sitting as close to the warm stove as he can to capture some warmth. He feels raw—tenderized by the encounter and vibrating with a strange, buzzing energy that has nowhere to go. He stares at the bathroom door. He wonders if Yoongi is washing Taehyung off. 

He waits. The minutes stretch out, heavy and suffocating.

When the water finally stops, the silence that follows is worse.

The door opens. Yoongi steps out.

The transformation is absolute. The man who had unraveled in Taehyung’s arms—desperate, vocal, and needy—is gone. In his place stands the wolf.

Yoongi is fully dressed. He has changed into fresh tactical pants and a heavy black flannel buttoned all the way to his throat. His hair is wet, combed back severely from his forehead. He looks armored. He looks impenetrable.

He moves past Taehyung without making eye contact, his boots heavy on the floorboards, heading straight for the kitchen. He looks like nothing happened.

Taehyung feels a sting behind his eyes—sharp and sudden. It feels like rejection. It feels like the safety he thought he found was just a hallucination brought on by the cold. 

“Yoongi?” Taehyung whispers, the name feeling fragile in the cold air.

Yoongi doesn’t turn around. He grabs a duffel bag and starts stripping the shelves of canned goods, his movements jerky and aggressive.

“We have to move,” Yoongi says, his voice rough. He clears his throat, “They’ll be back. Not the ones who knocked, but a clean-up crew. Once they verify I’m not on the payroll anymore, they won’t knock next time.”

“Yoongi,” Taehyung says again. The name feels heavy in his mouth now.

Yoongi pauses, a can of mandarin oranges in his hand. He doesn’t turn around.

“He knew your name,” Taehyung presses, stepping closer. The heat between them is still there, a tangible thing, but the fear is creeping back in. “He called you ‘Min.’ You didn’t sound surprised. You sounded…resigned.”

Yoongi sets the can down. He leans his hands on the counter, his head hanging low.

I wasn’t always a mechanic,” Yoongi says to the sink. “I used to be the guy they called when they needed a problem to stop breathing. That’s why they knocked. Professional courtesy.”

Taehyung stares at Yoongi’s back. He looks at the broad shoulders that had just pinned him to a table, the hands that were shockingly gentle, brushing hair from his eyes. He should be horrified. He should be backing away toward the door.

“You were one of them,” Taehyung realizes, his voice barely a whisper.

Yoongi turns slowly. The harsh light from the window catches the scar on his brow, making it look deeper, more jagged. He looks exhausted.

“I was worse than them,” Yoongi corrects. “Because I was better at it.” He picks up the duffel bag, his eyes dark and guarded. “And now I’m the only thing standing between you and a shallow grave.

He walks past Taehyung, heading for the door. “Get your things. We’re leaving.”

Taehyung moves like a ghost through the cabin. He picks up his ruined trench coat from the workbench. It is dry now, but stiff and stained with mud. He puts it on. It feels like armor.

He looks around the room one last time, checking for anything left behind. His eyes land on the table where they had just been and had eaten the night before.

There is a piece of paper there, folded and shoved under the fruit bowl.

It’s the back of a target sheet—thick, heavy paper Yoongi uses for shooting practice. On the blank side, sketched in pencil, is a drawing.

Taehyung had drawn it the previous evening, during the long, heavy silences. While Yoongi was focused on the oil and metal of his gun-cleaning ritual and later on fixing them a utilitarian dinner, Taehyung had been working too.

It isn’t a drawing of the cabin. It is a drawing of the scene from the woods.

Yoongi comes back inside, stomping snow off his boots. “Truck’s ready. Let’s—”

He stops. He sees Taehyung holding the paper.

Yoongi walks over and snatches the drawing from Taehyung’s hand. He looks at it, his eyes narrowing.

“You drew this?

“I needed to do something with my hands,” Taehyung says quietly. “And I couldn’t get the image out of my head. The contrast…the way the light hit the shovel.”

Yoongi stares at the sketch. The graphite lines are smudged but precise. He traces a thumb over the face of the digging man. It isn’t a generic face. Taehyung, with his obsessive eye for detail, captured the specific slope of the nose, the receding hairline, and a distinct, heavy ring on the left hand.

“This is him,” Yoongi says. It isn’t a question.

“Yes. That’s the man who saw me.”

Yoongi looks up at Taehyung, a strange mix of disbelief and respect on his face. “You dropped the camera, but you kept the image.”

He folds the paper carefully, sliding it into his inside jacket pocket.

“We have a face,” Yoongi says. “We can ID him. If we know who he is, we know who sent him. That’s leverage.” He looks at Taehyung, really looks at him, seeing past the ruined clothes and the red hair. “Your obsession might have just saved our lives.”

Yoongi grabs his keys. “Let’s go. Before they realize I didn’t actually go out for wood.”

The drive is a blur of white and grey.

Yoongi drives the way he handles a gun–controlled, precise, and dangerous. The truck skids over the icy track, the tires fighting for purchase on the unplowed road, but Yoongi corrects the slide without flinching. His hands are loose on the wheel, reacting to the terrain before the truck even shudders.

Taehyung sits in the passenger seat. He watches the trees whip by. He watches the cabin disappear in the side mirror, swallowed by the pines and heavy drifts of snow.

They hit the main road. The plow hasn’t come through yet, leaving a chaotic landscape of ruts and ice.

“Where are we going?” Taehyung asks, his voice barely audible over the roar of the engine.

“Safe house,” Yoongi replies, eyes scanning the horizon. “I have a contact in the city. A journalist. She owes me a favor. We give her the sketch, we give her the location of the body. She makes it loud. Once it’s in the news, they can’t kill you quietly.”

“And you?” Taehyung asks. “What happens to you?”

Yoongi tightens his grip on the steering wheel. The knuckles of his right hand are white, the skin around his nails stained with grease.

“I disappear again,” Yoongi says. “Somewhere else. Somewhere warmer, maybe. They know my face now. They know I’m active.”

Taehyung looks at Yoongi’s profile–the sharp jaw, the scar cutting through his brow, the stoic set of his mouth. He thinks about the heat of the cabin. He thinks about how Yoongi anchored him to the table when the world was spinning.

“Don’t,” Taehyung says.

Yoongi glances at him, a flicker of surprise in his dark eyes. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t disappear.”

Taehyung reaches out. He places his hand on Yoongi’s arm, right over the heavy canvas of his jacket. It is a bold move—a claim.

“I need a driver,” Taehyung says, echoing the thought he had when he first saw Yoongi’s hands on the wheel. “And you need someone to remind you that the world isn’t just targets and threats.”

Yoongi looks back at the road. The silence stretches between them, filled only by the roar of the heater and hiss of tires on snow.

For a long time, Yoongi doesn’t answer. He just drives, putting miles between them and the Huntsmen.

Then, slowly, Yoongi’s hand shifts on the gear stick. He turns his palm up, brushing his rough fingers against Taehyung’s knuckles. It is a slight touch—a promise.

“We’ll see,” Yoongi says, his voice rough. “Let’s survive the day first.”

Taehyung smiles. He leans back in the seat, watching the white world blur into a streak of light. He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear.

Across the pit, Jin lifted his drink and tilted it in your direction like a silent toast. No smile. No irony. Just the motion, clean and unreadable. Then he turned, murmuring something to Isla, who touched his arm in that calculated way she did when she knew someone was watching.

From the perimeter, camera lenses turned silently, catching details no one spoke aloud: Hoseok’s hand resting high on your thigh. Jin not reacting. The way Maya glanced toward Namjoon’s mouth when he drank. The way Taehyung didn’t glance at Bianca at all, but she leaned closer anyway.

The tension wasn’t gone. It had simply put on nicer clothes.

“I need air,” Yuri announced, standing and stretching. “That was too much tension for such close quarters.”

That broke the spell. Couples stood and drifted off in ones and twos. You and Hoseok hung back for a moment. 

“You alright?” he asked sincerely.

“Yeah. You?”

He smiled. “I got what I wanted.” His fingers laced through yours again. “Let’s see how long I can keep it.”

You followed him away from the firepit, feeling the weight of Jin’s gaze graze your back, so faint it could’ve been imagined. But you knew it wasn’t. You felt the way you feel a thunderstorm in your bones.

Hoseok’s thumb pressed into the curve between your knuckles as you walked away. Behind you, laughter spiked–Lana shrieking at something Leo said–then blurred into softer sounds as the distance grew between you and the other couples. 

The pool waited at the bottom of the steps, its black glass illuminated by the villa lights. Hoseok didn’t stop until he reached the wide daybed. He dropped down first, shoulders loose, and patted the cushion beside him. When you settled in, he tugged you close without hesitation, his hand sliding up to rest across the bare line of your thigh.

Your lips still tingled from the way he’d kissed you in front of everyone, heat rushing back just remembering it. You shook your head, a half-smile tugging at your lips. “You don’t even flinch, do you? Kissing me like that out there. Touching me like this now.”

Hoseok’s grin curved slowly, dangerously, but enticingly. “Why would I hesitate? I wanted you. So I took you.”

He leaned back, relaxed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other keeping you anchored against him. For a beat, the world shrank to just the low rumble of his laugh when you nudged him with your knee. 

Hoseok’s arm tightened slightly, drawing you closer until your thigh pressed fully against his. His skin was warm through the thin linen of his shirt, the scent of him–cologne fading into clean sweat and saltwater–pulling you closer still. 

“You’re really not fazed by all of it, are you?” you asked, keeping your voice low. 

He angled his head, lips almost brushing your hairline. “All of what?”

“The cameras. The firepit. Everyone staring when you kissed me.” You gestured vaguely in front of you. 

He chuckled, chest shaking against your shoulder. “Why should I care who’s staring? I wasn’t kissing them.” His thumb slid higher, catching on the hem of your dress before drifting back down. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t pushing–just letting you feel how easily he could. 

Heat coiled in your stomach. You shifted, half-turning toward him. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It is simple,” Hoseok said, finally looking straight at you. His eyes caught the pool light, dark and bright all at once. “I wanted to kiss you, so I kissed you. I want to touch you, so I’m touching you.” his grin tilted, lazy but wicked. “Want me to stop?”

Your answer came faster than your breath. “No.”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “Good.”

His hand squeezed, just once, at the top of your thigh before sliding around your waist and pulling you across him. The daybed dipped under the shift of your weight until you were half in his lap, knee braced between yours. His fingers trailed along your hip, grounding you there, keeping you balanced against him. 

Your pulse jumped hard enough that you knew he felt it. Hoseok dipped his head, his lips brushing your temple, the shell of your ear, down to the line of your jaw. Hoseok’s thumb pressed a little firmer against the outside of your thigh, the circle he was drawing slowing to a tease. “You taste better when people are watching,” he murmured, grinning against your skin.

You turned your head, startled into a laugh. “You’re impossible.”

“Or irresistible,” he shot back, “Pick one.”

You pushed lightly at his chest, but he caught your wrist before it landed, holding it there against him. His heartbeat was steady beneath your palm, steady in a way that made your own falter. He didn’t let go right away, only softened his grip enough that you could decide whether to pull back or stay.

You stayed. 

His smile shifted, less show now, more heat. He leaned in until his nose brushed your cheek. The stubble along his jaw grazed your skin when he spoke. “Kiss me again.”

You didn’t answer. You just tilted toward him, lips parting in the space between you. Hoseok didn’t rush–he let the pause stretch until you exhaled against his mouth, until it felt like you’d have to ask him to stop teasing. Then he kissed you, slow and deliberate, the kind of kiss that left no room for cameras or firelight or anyone else at all.

His hand slid from your thigh to your hip, fingers curving around to anchor you against him. The shift drew you fully into his lap, your knees bracketing him. He caught your lower lip between his teeth before sucking it softly into his mouth, and your breath stuttered out against him.

The kiss was slow but built into something more intense when you pushed for more. The kiss deepened, turned messy in the best way–your hand sliding up to fist lightly in his hair, his tongue sliding past yours in a rhythm that had nothing to do with patience. 

He shifted beneath you, guiding you higher into his lap, until your knees were planted on either side of him. The daybed groaned sloftly under the weight of you both. His hand cupped the back of your neck, the other gripping your waist like he’d claim every inch if you let him. 

You gasped into his mouth when your hips pressed down. The heat between you caught sharp, undeniable. Hoseok’s breath faltered, a low sound leaving him that was half a growl, half a laugh. He didn’t move to hide what you felt under you, firm and growing harder with each roll of your hips. 

“That’s it,” he murmured, his mouth grazing yours, the words rough. “You like what you feel?”

Your answer was a shiver that gave you away. You pressed closer, chasing more of it, your lips breaking against his as his grip on your waist tightened. For a moment, the world was only the heat building between you and the pulse thundering through your bodies. 

Hoseok pulled back, chest heaving, his forehead falling lightly to yours. He was smiling, but his jaw was tight, his eyes dark.

“We should cool it,” he said, voice raw, “Or I won’t be able to stop.”

You nodded, though your pulse kept racing. He kissed you once more, quick and lingering all at once, before leaning back against the cushions. Reluctantly, you shifted back, sliding off his lap but staying pressed against his side. His hand lingered at your waist until you settled beside him, then slipped down to rest warm and steady on your thigh, as he adjusted himself with his other hand, feeling the uncomfortable tightness in his pants.

You tipped your head back, forcing in a breath. “That was reckless.”

Hoseok chuckled low. “Then you’re trouble, because I like reckless.”

You turned your face toward him, trying to smother a smile. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously hot,” he offered, deadpan.

You snorted, shoving lightly at his chest. Hoseok caught your wrist before it landed, brought it to his mouth, and kissed the inside with infuriating ease.

“Don’t push me away,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin. “You don’t want that.”

Your breath caught, betraying you. “Cocky.”

“Correct,” he said, releasing you only to slide his arm around your waist again, pulling you snug against his side.

You let your head rest against his shoulder, his warmth settling around you. The pool lapped quietly nearby. The villa had mostly gone silent. For the first time since the fire pit, the air around you felt calm.

The girls’ dressing room was already alive by the time you walked in–heels clattering against tile, perfume clouding the air, and laughter bouncing off the mirrors. Bianca had collapsed into a chair, peeling her lashes off like she was clocking out from work. Lana perched cross-legged on the counter, drink in hand, smirk sharp as ever. Yuri, Isla, and Maya were halfway through wiping off lipstick, both of them watching the door like they’d been waiting. 

“There she is,” Lana sang out. “The star of tonight’s firepit feature.”

Your cheeks warmed immediately. “Can you not–”

“Oh, now,” Yuri cut you off, wagging her makeup wipe at you. “That wasn’t a normal kiss. That was a statement.”

Bianca groaned theatrically. “Seriously. Do you know how hard it was to go after that? I was serving juice box while you two were serving champagne.”

The room cracked into laughter. Even Maya smiled, though she tilted her head, watching you a little too closely.

“So,” she said, voice quieter, but not soft. “Hoseok. You two looked like you were getting hot and heavy on that daybed.”

The laughter faltered, interest sharpening. Yuri leaned forward. “Wait, what? When?”

“After the fire pit,” Maya said, eyes still on you. “Even from the terrace, it was obvious what was happening.”

Heat crawled up your neck. “We…were just talking.”

“Mmhmm,” Lana hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Talking with your tongues, maybe.”

Bianca giggled, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, the cameras probably loved it.”

You busied yourself with unclipping your earrings, ignoring the smirks around you. Maya finally looked away, brushing mascara from under her eye. “Just…be careful,” she warned. “It’s early days.”

The noise picked back up, chatter scattering into hairbrushes and skincare routines, but your pulse was still loud in your ears. 

The boys’ dressing room was louder, shirts half-off and cologne tinging the air. Leo leaned back against the lockers, grinning like he'd just won something himself. 

“Mate, you stole the show,” he said, clapping Hoseok’s back. “That kiss? Pure cinema.”

Jungkook dropped onto the bench, shaking his head with a laugh. “Unfair advantage. Nobody else can compete with that.”

Namjoon adjusted the strap of his watch, smirking. “Bold moves always play well in here.”

Hoseok rolled his shoulders, loose and easy. “Wasn’t a move. I wanted her. So I kissed her.”

That earned a chorus of “ooohs” and a whistle from Leo. Even Taehyung cracked a smile, shaking his head. 

From the far side of the room, Jin set his glass down with a soft clink. “He’s right,” he said smoothly. “It didn’t look like a move.”

The room went quieter than it should have.

Hoseok’s eyes slid over, casual on the surface, sharper underneath. “Glad you noticed.”

Jin looked up then, expression unreadable. “Hard not to.”

For a moment, the noise thinned, something taut humming between them. Then Jungkook cracked a joke about Hoseok needing a PG-13 rating, Leo barked a laugh, and the chatter rushed back in. Hoseok leaned back, smiling like nothing had happened, though his gaze lingered a fraction longer on Jin.

By the time everyone filtered into the shared bedroom, the night had softened into the hum of exhaustion and leftover adrenaline. Sheets rustled, voices carried across the rows of beds, the energy still restless. 

You slipped beneath your covers, already aware of Hoseok moving toward you. He didn’t even bother to ask–he just slid in beside you like it was obviously his place, his arm draping over your waist as if it always belonged there.

“Cozy,” Leo teased from across the room.

Hoseok chuckled low, tugging the blanket higher over you both. “Comfort’s important,” he said, tone light.

Hoseok adjusted on the mattress, turning just enough so he could tuck you closer into the curve of his body. His hand slipped beneath the blanket, fingertips finding your hip and tracing idle shapes there, feather-light.

“You comfortable?” he whispered, voice pitched low enough that it was for you alone.

You nodded against his chest. “More than comfortable.”

His thumb brushed slow circles, his breath warm at your hairline. “You nearly killed me out there,” he murmured, amusement laced through the words.

“You started it,” you whispered back, a smile tugging despite yourself.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest into your cheek. His palm spread wider, sliding up to rest just under your ribs. “Yeah,” he said softly, “and I’m not sorry.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. His hand kept moving in slow, lazy caresses. The room hummed with the faint sounds of others settling: a cough, the rustle of sheets, whispered giggles from across the way. But here, inside the cocoon of your bed, it felt like another world.

You tilted your face up toward him. In the dim light, his eyes found yours, soft now, stripped of the grin he wore for others. He leaned down, brushed his lips over your forehead, then lingered there as if anchoring you both in the quiet.

“Sleep,” he whispered. His arm tightened around you, steady and warm. You let your eyes close, body sinking into his. The last thing you felt before drifting off to sleep was his thumb stroking slow, endless circles against your skin.

The days blurred the way only villa days could–bright and loud, stretched out in endless heat. 

Mornings began with the splash of someone diving into the pool, or Jungkook raiding the fridge for leftover fruit before anyone else could get to it. Afternoons belonged to the loungers: half the islanders stretched out with sunglasses and water bottles, the other half perched on the edge of the pool, legs dipping into the water.

You and Hoseok carved out of your corner of it–sun-warmed limbs tangled on a daybed, his hand always finding your thigh, your hip, the back of your neck. He was bold with it, never hiding, the kind of affection that was easy to lean into because it came without hesitation.

“Stop hogging the shade,” he teased one afternoon, shifting so your head fit against his chest more comfortably.

“You’re the one blocking the breeze,” you shot back, though you didn’t move away.

Across the pool, Jin sat with Isla, sunglasses hiding his eyes as he tapped idly at his water bottle. He laughed at something she said, polite and smooth, but every so often, you felt the weight of his attention flicker across the deck–sharp but gone in an instant.

You’re shaken awake from your light doze by Maya, who is standing over you with a conspiratorial grin. She tugs you away from your cozy cuddle with Hoseok and over to the cabana by the garden.

“Okay, spill. You and Hoseok have been glued together for days now.”

You smile and shrug. “He’s easy to be around.”

“Easy?” Her brow lifted. “That’s not the word I’d use for the way he looks at you.”

Heat prickled under your collarbone. “He’s confident. That’s all.”

“Confident, sure,” Maya said, sipping at her water. “But you know confidence can tip into cocky fast. Just be sure you’re steering, not him.” 

From across the path, Yuri’s voice rang out, “Don’t forget to ask her about Jin!”

Maya smirked over her glass. “Oh, believe me, I was getting there.”

You groaned, dropping your face into your hands. “Unbelievable.”

Maya leaned in, eyes narrowing just slightly. “So you’re telling me I’ve imagined the way he watches you?”

The next day, during a languid afternoon. Lana gets a text.

Hopping up, “I GOT A TEXT!” Waiting until she has everyone’s attention, she read out, “Islanders, it’s time to find out what the public really thinks. #TruthHurts #GameOn”

Groans, cheers, and nervous laughter.

The producers set up cards by the pool, each with a “public perception” quote that the Islanders had to match to the couple or islander.

“The couple most likely to have already christened the daybeds,” Leo read out.

“Easy,” Yuri said instantly, pointing at you and Hoseok. “Don’t even pretend.”

The card flipped, showing your name and Hoseok’s.

The group whooped. Hoseok grinned, leaned over, and kissed you quickly and loudly. “They know us,” he said, winking.

Taehyung read the next card, “The Islander most likely to stir the pot when things get comfortable.” Taehyung smirked, “I mean…Leo.”

“Oy!” Leo barked, laughing. “That’s just slander. 

The card flipped: Jin.

A chorus of ‘oooohs’ rolled through the group. Isla arched her brow, but it was Jin who let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Guess I’ve been too quiet. They’re making up stories for me.”

Lana muttered, “Or maybe they’ve seen you brooding from the balcony.

The laugh that followed was a little too sharp.

Leo read the next card, “The Islander most likely to make someone’s head turn.” Leo scoffed, “Me, of course.”

He flipped the card, Leo sighed, and looked over at you. “Of course, they would choose you.”

For a moment, silence–then whistles, cheers, Bianca’s voice going, “Ohhh, spicy.”

Hoseok’s grin stayed on, but his arm tightened a fraction where it rested behind you. Jin didn’t say a word, but his sunglasses hid nothing when his jaw worked once, tight.

Yuri stepped up to read the next one. “The couple most likely to win.” She pivoted to look at Maya. “Namjoon and Maya.”

The card flipped: Namjoon and Maya.

Maya’s smile softened as she glanced at Namjoon, who flushed pink but tried to play it cool. 

With that, the game wrapped up with teasing laughter as the group dispersed.

By the third day, the heat pressed down like a weight. Islanders were scattered around the villa – Leo napping under a hat, Yuri and Lana floating in the pool on loungers, Namjoon tinkering with a deck of cards. 

You slipped inside, chasing shade and something cold. The kitchen was still, the hum of the fridge the loudest sound. You head straight for it and tug it open, reaching for a bottle of water. 

“Thirsty?”

You turned. Jin stood by the counter, a knife in hand, cutting slow, precise slices from a chilled mango. His sunglasses were gone, his eyes sharp and penetrating.

The door of the fridge clicked shut, the bottle sweating in your hand. You nod as you lift the bottle. “Heat’ll do that.”

He nodded, slid the slice of mango into his mouth, and chewed slowly. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “I didn’t think Hoseok is the type to let you get dehydrated.”

The words caught you off guard. You tried for light. “You keeping tabs?”

His smile flickered. “Everyone keeps tabs in here. That’s the game.”

You twisted the cap off the bottle, taking a long swallow. The water was cool, but the heat crawling up your neck wasn’t from the sun. 

“You don’t usually talk this much,” you said, setting the bottle down. 

“I don’t usually have a reason to.” His knife clicked against the cutting board as he set it down. Then he stepped closer. Not rushing, not crowding–just enough that the hum of the fridge seemed louder. 

“Jin–”

“Don’t worry,” he said softly, eyes flicking to your mouth. “I’m not going to make a scene. Not like him.”

A breathless laugh, nerves buzzing. “So what are you doing?”

His hand came up, brushing the side of your jaw, thumb grazing your cheekbone. “What I shouldn’t.”

This kiss was nothing like Hoseok’s fire pit claim. No performance, no noise. Just pressure, slow and deliberate, his mouth shaping yours until you parted for him. His tongue brushed against yours, tasing faintly of mango, and your knees wobbled enough that his other hand slid to your hip, steadying you.

The counter pressed cold against your back as he guided you there, lips never breaking from yours. His fingers slid under the hem of your dress, finding the bare skin of your thigh. The touch was patient, devastatingly so, his thumb stroking lazily until you shifted against him, chasing more. His hand climbed higher as he maneuvered you into a corner that was a blind spot for the ever-watching cameras.

You gasped into his mouth when he pressed closer, the hard line of him unmistakable against your hip. His breath caught, but he didn’t push–not yet. Instead, his hand skimmed higher, teasing the edge of your panties before sliding beneath.

Your head tipped back against the cupboard with a thud, a soft sound escaping you when his fingers found you already wet.

“Fuck,” he muttered against your throat, voice tight for the first time. 

He stroked you slowly, deliberately, his mouth trailing hot kisses along your collarbone. You gripped his shoulders, nails digging through cotton, breath breaking as he explored you, circling your clit with ruthless precision.

“Jin–,” you gasped, hips jerking against his hand. 

“Shh,” he murmured, kissing you hard again, swallowing every sound. “Let go.”

The orgasm hits sharply, rolling through you in waves that make your legs buckle. He held you up through it, hand unrelenting, mouth claiming every broken noise until you sagged against him, shaking.

For a moment, the only sound was your harsh breathing and the hum of the fridge. Then his hand slipped free, slow, his thumb brushing your hip before he stepped back.

His chest rose and fell, jaw tight, eyes darker than you’d ever seen. His arousal was obvious, straining against his shorts, but he didn’t move to take more.

“You should go,” he said finally, voice raw.

You blinked, still breathless. “What?”

“If I don’t stop now,” his gaze burned into yours, “I won’t stop at all.”

The silence stretched, charged and dangerous. Then he turned, picked up the knife again, and resumed slicing the mango as if nothing had happened. 

Your legs still trembling, you grabbed the water bottle and fled before anyone else could walk in.

The kitchen door swung shut behind you, but the hum of the fridge still seemed lodged in your ears. Your legs felt unsteady, every step buzzing, the cold water bottle sweating against your palm.

Sunlight beat down on the deck, the air thick with the scent of chlorine and coconut sunscreen. Laughter carried from the pool–Yuri daring Lana to try a handstand, Jungkook splashing in retaliation when she toppled sideways.

Hoseok was stretched out on the daybed, one arm hooked behind his head, sunglasses tilted low. When he spotted you in the doorway, his mouth curved instantly. 

“There you are,” he called, voice warm, unbothered. He patted the cushion beside him. “Thought you’d disappeared.”

You held up the bottle, managing a weak smile. “Just needed some water.”

“Bring me some next time,” he teased, reaching for you the second you sat down. His arm slid around your shoulders, pulling you against him. The smell of sun-warmed skin and pool water clung to him, familiar and grounding.

You sipped quickly, hoping the cool liquid disguised the heat still crawling across your skin.

From across the deck, Jin came outside and moved over to where Isla was sitting in the shade. He leaned forward, slow and precise, offering her a slice of the mango he had been cutting up earlier. His expression was unreadable, but you felt the weight of him anyway–like a mark you couldn’t scrub off, no matter how steady you tried to breathe. 

“Look at them,” Yuri singsonged from the pool, pointing at you and Hoseok as she floated on her back. “Couple goals.”

Hoseok laughed, squeezing your shoulder. “Damn right.”

Maya’s gaze flicked over from her perch by the pool steps. Her smile was small, unreadable, but her eyes lingered a moment too long before she turned away, sliding her braid over one shoulder. 

“Cute,” Lana added, smirking as she adjusted her sunglasses. “Almost like nobody else exists when you’re together.”

Your pulse thudded at the phrasing. Hoseok only grinned, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your temple. 

Across the way, you can feel the weighted stare of Jin as he slowly ate a slice of his mango.

The afternoon heat had pressed everyone flat; Islanders sprawled across loungers and daybeds like they’d melted into them. Leo had his hat pulled low, Jungkook balanced a water bottle on his stomach, and Lana fanned herself with a magazine. 

The ping jolted the villa awake. 

“TEXT!” Yuri crowed, grabbing her phone. She cleared her throat in mock-gravitas before reading aloud:

“Islanders, it’s time for a challenge. Get ready to play Kiss, Marry, Pie! #StickySituations #NoHiding.”

Groans, whoops, laughter in equal measure. Lo sprang up like he’d been waiting all day. “Finally, something fun!”

Lana grinned wickedly. “Oh, this is going to ruin lives.”

Hoseok leaned over, brushing his thumb against your leg. “Don’t worry,” he murmured low enough for only you to hear. “Whatever happens, I’m the one who gets to keep kissing you after this game is done.”

They gathered in the challenge area — a splash of bright props against the sun, cream pies lined up on a table, and goofy cardboard cutouts of wedding rings and hearts. A colorful board read: Kiss, Marry, Pie.

The host’s voice boomed from hidden speakers, “Islanders, it’s time to make your choices. Who will you kiss, who will you marry, and who gets pied?

Bianca went first. She smirked, hands on her hips. “Alright. Kiss… Taehyung.”

Taehyung met her halfway, giving her a neat little kiss that made Bianca laugh and cover her face like she was shy.

“Marry? Jungkook.” She plopped the cardboard ring onto his finger. Jungkook preened, flexing his hand like it was a real platinum diamond ring.

“And pie…Leo.” She shoved the cream straight into his face, and taking extra care to get it in his hair.

The group howled as Leo staggered back dramatically. “That’s criminal behavior! A face like this deserves better treatment.”

Leo went next after wiping excess cream from his face. “Kiss Lana.” He dipped her like a soap opera star, kissing her so exaggeratedly she nearly fell.

“Marry Yuri, because she cooks better than the rest of you combined.” He slid the ring onto Yuri’s finger; she rolled her eyes but smiled.

“And pie…” He locked eyes with Taehyung. He approached the other man, and smooshed the pie all over Taehyung’s face, smearing it around and making a total mess. Laughing, Taehyung swiped some of the cream that had dropped onto his chest and flicked it at Leo.

On Maya’s turn, she chose to kiss Namjoon, leaning in quickly, neat, no hesitation. His ears turned red instantly. 

“Marry Namjoon too,” she added, sliding the ring onto his finger. “Because he listens.”

That earned a chorus of “awws.”

“And pie…Leo. For reasons obvious to everyone.”

Leo groaned as another pie his his face. “I’m being targeted.”

Namjoon stepped forward next. “Kiss Maya,” he said quickly, planting one on her cheek that made her beam. “Also, marry her. No brainer.”

“And I’ll pie…” he glanced around, then smirked at Jungkook. “Because he stole my shirt yesterday.”

The cream splatted across Jungkook’s face, making him yelp.

Yuri popped up. “Kiss Jungkook, because he makes me laugh.” Jungkook leaned in with a grin and gave her a quick but warm kiss. 

“Marry… Taehyung. Because he’s cooler than he pretends.” Taehyung gave her a little bow as she slid the ring on.

“And pie… Lana. Because she’d do it to me first.”

Lana squealed, dodging too late. Cream streaked her bikini top as she shrieked and laughed.

Taehyung’s turn. “I’ll kiss Bianca,” he said simply, kissing her soft enough to make her grin.

“Marry Yuri.” Putting the ring on her finger with a dramatic flair.

“And pie… Leo. No explanation.”

Leo groaned as yet another pie smacked him in the face.” Why me every time?” Which sent everyone into peals of laughter.

On Lana’s turn, she chose to kiss Leo. “Kiss Leo, because he commits to the bit.” She gave him a showy kiss that left cream on her nose.

“Marry Yuri, because she’s hot and will keep me in line.”

“And pie… Taehyung. Because he didn’t marry Bianca.” She shoved it straight into his face.

Jungkook’s turn came. “Kiss Yuri.” He pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. 

“I’ll marry Lana,” he winked obnoxiously as he slid the cardboard ring on her finger.

“And I am pieing Namjoon for calling me out on stealing his shirt.” Namjoon took the cream stoically, wiping it from his jaw with exaggerated dignity.

During Isla’s turn, she chooses to kiss Jin, pressing a brief, light kiss to his mouth.

Picking up the prop ring, she turned back to Jin. “I’ll marry him, too.” She slid the ring onto his fingers with a little flourish.

“And I’ll pie Hoseok just to keep things interesting.” The pie landed square to the face. Hoseok only grinned, wiping it off and licking his fingers unphased. “Sweet.”

Hoseok stands up, “Well, it’s my turn.” Without hesitation, he approached you and said, “Kiss.” Cupping your jaw and kissing you deep, and long enough for the Islanders to whoop and cheer, long enough that your knees shook.

“Marry.” He slipped the cardboard ring onto your finger with an exaggerated flourish. “Obviously.”

“And pie, Leo.” He turned, smirking. “Because it’s tradition now.”

He held his arms out like a martyr as the pie landed with surprising accuracy. “I don’t deserve this.”

Finally, it’s Jin’s turn. He picked up a pie first. His eyes flicked once toward you, then slid smoothly to Hoseok. He walked over and shoved the cream pie in Hoseok’s face.

The villa exploded–shrieks, gasps, whistles. Hoseok only grinned, wiping cream out of his eyes. “Guess I’m popular.”

“Marry Isla,” Jin said calmly, sliding the ring onto her finger with a smile. She laughed, playing along.

“And kiss…” His gaze landed on you. He crossed the space slowly, but with purpose, and when his mouth found yours, it wasn’t loud or showy. It was tender and intimate–a kiss that made the villa go momentarily silent. 

When he pulled back, the noise came rushing back in, too loud, too artificial. Your chest heaved as you sucked in air, feeling caught between Hoseok’s tense smile and Jin’s unreadable eyes.

By the time the game ended, everyone was sticky with cream and sun, laughter rolling over the villa like waves. Lana was still wiping pie out of her hair, muttering that Yuri owed her a new bikini. Leo strutted down the deck like a prizefighter, chest puffed out, declaring, “I am the most pied man in history, and I take that crown with honor!”

“You take that crown because no one else wanted it,” Yuri shot back, flicking a spoonful of cream at him. He ducked, laughing, and she grinned, sprawling back on her lounger with the ease of someone who knew she’d landed her joke.

Jungkook was still buzzing, retelling his pie revenge on Namjoon with wild hand gestures. Namjoon rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at his mouth. Maya sat close beside him, legs folded neatly, sipping her drink, amused by everyone else’s chaos.

Hoseok dropped onto a lounger and tugged you down onto his lap before you could even think about sitting elsewhere. His arm draped easily around your waist, holding you snugly against him. He was grinning, casual as ever, but the weight of his hand was heavier than usual, fingers pressing into your ribs with an evident claim.

“Fun game,” he murmured, low against your ear, voice laced with the subtlest hint of reproach. “Especially that kiss you got from someone who wasn’t me.”’

Your pulse jumped. “It was just part of the challenge.”

“Mm.” His thumb stroked slowly along your shoulder, playful on the surface, possessive underneath. “Good thing I went first then.”

The villa quieted as night settled. Islanders drifted toward the firepit with drinks, laughter softening into smaller conversations. The hum of cicadas carried from the garden, broken by the occasional squeal as Jungkook chased one of the girls around the deck.

Hoseok caught your hand as you passed, tugging you toward teh narrow walkway by the hedge, “Come with me.”

The alcove he led you to was half-hidden, just big enough for a bench tucked beneath cascading vines.  It wasn’t completely private–nothing here really was–but it was shadowed and out of direct view of the other Islanders.

The kiss was hot, urgent, none of the showmanship of earlier. His hand slid into your  hair, the other grippiing your thigh, dragging you closer until you were straddling him. You gasped when his teeth grazed your lip, and he swallowed the sound.

“You know what you do to me?” he questioned voice gravelly, breath hot.

Your breath caught in your throat, “Enlighten me.

His hand slipped under your dress, palm warm and sure against your skin. “Thought I made it pretty obvious.”

You felt him, hard against your hip, and heat pulsed low in your belly. His fingers traced higher, brushing over your panties before sliding beneath, an echo of what another man did earlier.

“Fuck,” he hissed softly, pressing his forehead to yours as he finds you wet and willing. “Knew it.”

His fingers worked you with a pace that was fast, relentless, his mouth crashing back onto yours to swallow every gasp and moan. You clutched at his shoulders, nails digging through linen, as his thumb circled your clit with a practiced precision.

“Say my name,” he urged, low and rough.

“Hoseok–” the syllables broke apart as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and piercing, your body trembling against his. He held you firm, fingers coaxing you through every wave until you sagged against him, breathless. 

When he finally eased back, his grin was wide and cocky, but his eyes were darker than the smile let on. His thumb stroked your hip lazily as the villa’s laughter floated from the firepit, distant, unaware.

Hoseok leaned in again, lips grazing your ear as he whispered sweet nothings, your body completely lax in his arms.

The breakfast bar was crowded, the counter a mess of half-eaten toast, mugs, and juice cartons sweating in the heat. Jungkook was halfway through scrambling more eggs than any of them needed, Leo was telling some story about his “tragic” childhood with only one pool at his house, and Lana leaned back on her stool, eyes cutting slyly.

“So,” Lana drawled, drawing everyone’s attention from Leo’s sob story. She twirled her spoon in her yogurt and gestured toward you and Hoseok, “You two vanished after the game yesterday.”

Every eye seemed to fall on you and Hoseok.

“Just went to get some air,” you said quickly, reaching for your mug.

“Air,” Yuri echoed, smirking. “That’s one word for it.”

Hoseok only grinned, unbothered, leaning back with one arm slung across the back of your chair. “What can I say? We take our breathing very seriously.”

The table whooped, laughter spilling loudly.

You rolled your eyes, trying to mask the heat creeping up your neck.

Then Maya,  calm as ever, spoke without looking up from buttering her toast. “Air, huh? That’s a long walk for just breathing.”

Hoseok smirks and casually continues to brush light circles on your bare shoulder where his arm is curled around you.

Across from them, Jin stirred his coffee silently, his eyes fixed on the swirl of liquid in his mug.

By midday, the sun sat high and merciless, pressing the villa into a lazy sprawl. Yuri and Lana floated on inflatables, shrieking every time Leo cannonballed close enough to splash them. Jungkook perched at the edge of the pool, slapping the water at Taehyung, who retaliated by dragging him straight in.

Hoseok was in the thick of it, laughing loudly, his shoulders gleaming wet as he wrestled Namjoon under the surface until both came up choking on water and hurling playful jabs.

You watched from the shade of a lounger, sunglasses perched on your nose, water bottle balanced against your chest.

“Not joining in?” Maya asked, sliding onto the lounger beside yours. She moved with her usual ease, settling back with her legs stretched out, gaze fixed on the chaos at the pool. 

“No. I am enjoying being lazy in the shade,” you said, adjusting your sunglasses.

“Well,” Maya murmured. “Hoseok looks like he’s thriving on the attention.”

You shifted, caught off guard. “That’s just him.”

“Mm.” She didn’t look at you, eyes still following the splashing at the pool. “Still, You’re quiet, he’s loud. Makes people notice the contrast.”

Before you could answer, Hoseok’s shout carried across the deck, “Babe! Get in here!” punctuated by a splash as he dunked Namjoon again.

Maya finally turned, slipping her sunglasses down her nose to glance at you. “Better hurry,” she said lightly. “Wouldn’t want him to think your heads wandering.”

Then she leaned back again, stretching, as though she hadn’t just called you out.

You lifted your sunglasses with one finger, giving him a half-smile. “You’ve got enough opponents already.”

“Don’t need opponents,” he shot back, grining wide, water dripping down his chest. “Just need you.”

The Islanders whooped, Lana wolf-whistling, Jungkook yelling something drowned out by another splash. Hoseok’s grin only widened, waiting.

You shook your head, laughing under your breath, then tipped your sunglasses back down. “I’ll keep watch from here.”

The group groaned in mock disappointment, Hoseok clutching his chest like you’d wounded him. “Cold!” he shouted, but his eyes lingered on you with that familiar heat even from across the distance.

The sun pressed heavier as the splashing and shouts carried on well into the afternoon. Hoseok remained in the center of it, arms looping around Jungkook’s waist to drag him under as the others laughed. 

Your water bottle was already empty, condensation leaving a damp ring on the table. You stood, pushing your sunglasses up the bridge of your nose. “Back in a minute,” you told Maya.

The villa kitchen was cool compared to the deck, shadow cutting across the tiles. You had just pulled the fridge open when you heard it–the scrape of a chair, the soft click of footsteps. 

“Not joining the fun?”

You turned. Jin leaned against the counter, glass in hand, the line of his shoulders relaxed but his eyes anything but.

“Too hot,”’ you said again, grabbing a fresh bottle from the fridge shelf. 

“Too hot,” he echoed, tone even. He tipped the glass in his hand, watching the ice shift. “Yet you manage with Hoseok.”

Your jaw tightened. “You’ve been watching me agan.”

His mouth curved in a sardonic smirk. “Everyone’s watching. He makes sure of it.”

You snapped the fridge shut, stepping past him. “What do you want, Jin?”

For a moment, silence. Then his hand caught the edge of the counter, cutting off your path without touching you. He leaned in just enough that the smooth notes of his cologne hit the air between you.

“I want to know,” he said softly, “if you felt it.”

Your pulse jumped. “Felt what?”

“That kiss,” he murmured. His eyes held yours, steady, unlinching. “Don’t lie.”

Your throat went dry, You opened your mouth, but nothing came. The silence stretched until Jin stepped closer, his voice low enough you could feel it in your chest. 

“You can let hiim claim you out there all you want,” he said. “But in here…”

His mouth brushed yours before you could move away–not hard, not showy, but slow anad deliberate, the same way he’d kissed you during the game. The kind of kiss that burned even when it broke. 

He pulled back first, his expression unreadable. “In here, it’s different.”

Then he moved past you, glass gripped in his hand, as if the conversation–the kiss– had never happened. 

You stood there, still clutching the cold bottle, your skin burning hotter than the sun outside. 

The sun dropped low, pulling the Islanders toward the firepit after they had all changed into cocktail attire. Lanterns flickered on, music thrummed faintly from the villa speakers, and the air cooled just enough to draw everyone close. 

You settled onto a cushion, a glass of something sweet in your hand. Before you could even find a comfortable spot, Hoseok tugged you into his lap, his grin wide, his arm solid around your waist. 

“Best seat in the house,” he said, nuzzling against your temple before kissing you full on the mouth,

The kiss was unmissable–open, eager, long enough for Yuri to wolf-whistle and Lana to clap like she’d just seen a show.

“Alright, alright,” Leo groaned, mock-covering his eyes. “Family-friendly vibes only, please.”

Hoseok only deepened the kiss before pulling back, licking his lower lip with a smirk. “Jealous?”

“Repulsed,” Leo shot back, which only made the group laugh louder.

The noise carried, the teasing ricocheted, but Hoseok didn’t seem to hear any of it. His hand stayed heavy on your thigh, fingers stroking possessively as though you weren’t surrounded by the rest of the Islanders. 

Across the firepit, Jin sat with Isla at his side, his glass tumbler propped on his knee. He didn’t react, didn’t move. He just took a lengthy sip of his drink, his gaze weighing heavily on you.

Then Maya’s voice cut through the laughter, calm and unhurried. “Guess subtlety’s dead in this villa.”

The group burst out laughing again, Yuri snorting into her drink, Jungkook pretending to clutch at his heart. 

Hoseok only smirked, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “Subtlety’s boring.”

Bianca cackled at that, the noise rolling on, but the heat in your chest didn’t fade. Not from the kiss. Not from Jin’s silence across the flames. Not from Maya’s words which stuck like burrs under your skin.

The night progressed on from there, the Islanders trading quippy jabs and heartwarming stories of their lives before the villa. Naturally, the energy of the group settled into a comfortable silence as a cool evening breeze brushed through the group drawing goosebumps across your skin. Hoseok noticed your slight shiver. He pulled you closer and rubbed hs hand up and down your arm. 

“Bed?” he asked.

You smiled softly at the unspoken understanding. “Bed.” You slipped off of his lap, and stood up. Hoseok followed your lead, scooping up the sandals that you had slipped off earlier in the night. 

Linking your hands, he guided you up the villa stairs and inside to get ready for bed. The rest of the group followed behind the two of you like you both were the pied piper. 

You slid in beside Hoseok, the sheets cool against you skin. He hooked an arm around your waist instantly, pulling you in tight, his nose brushing your shoulder as he pressed a quick kiss there.

“Night, baby,” he whispered, already half-asleep, his breath warm against your neck.

Around the room, th noise dulled–Jungkook muttering something that made Yuri gigle, Taehyung and Bianca whispering in their corner, Lana humming a few lazy bars of a song before rolling over and cuddling up to Leo.

You stared at the ceiling, the sound of your pulse loud in your ears.

Across the room, Jin shifted in his bed with Isla who is already curled asleep next to him. When your gaze slid over in that direction, his was already on you, piercing in the dim lighting of the room. He didn’t move or speak–just held your eyes across the silence, something taut and unspoken stretching even tighter between you.

From the next bed, Maya exhaled sharply and rolled over, the rustle of sheets loud in the hushed quiet. 

The noise was small, ordinary, but it snapped the thread between you and Jin.

Hoseok murmured something against your shoulder, pulling you closer. 

But Jin’s eyes didn’t leave yours, not until you shut them.

The villa had an undercurrent of restlessness throughout the day, its tranquil exterior contrasting with the tension that seemed to swirl beneath the surface. As dusk settled in and the first lanterns flickered to life, casting a warm, inviting glow, the atmosphere shifted dramatically. Drinks sparkled enticingly in Islanders' hands, the reflections of light dancing like tiny stars. 

Islanders began to gather around the firepit, their laughter and chatter rising into the cool evening air. The heat radiating from the flames mingled with the sweet, heady scents of floral perfumes and sharp aftershaves, creating a sensory tapestry that enveloped everyone. The fading sun, its golden rays softening into hues of pink and orange, added a magical touch to the scene, transforming the restless day into a vibrant night filled with camaraderie and shared stories.

“Alright,” Leo announced, sprawling across his cushion like a king. “Hypothetically–if the hideaway opened tonight, who deserves it most?”

“Not you,” Yuri fired back instantly, making the others laugh.

“Me and Taehyung,” Bianca said, deadpan enough to draw groans. “We’d finally get a nap.”

Lana smirked over her glass. “Her and Hoseok,” she gestured to the two of them,”No contest. We all saw what happened on the terrace.”

You nearly choked. “We just–”

Ping.

The group froze, then Yuri scrambled for her phone, eyes already wide. “Islanders,” she read voice climbing with each word. “Tonight the Hideaway is open. But this time…the public has voted to send three Islanders. Hoseok, Jin…” Yuri’s mouth fell open, her eyes widening before lifting to look at you, “And you. #BreakingAllTheRules #OneNightOnly.”

The group erupted.

Jungkook fanned himself like he’d staged it. “Threesome unlocked. The producers have lost their minds.”

Yuri squealed, clapping her hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, this is–this is history.”

Lana leaned forward, grin sharp. “Spill. Right now. Who’s doing what?”

Heat flushed over your face, neck, and chest. Hoseok only laughed, tugging you into a quick kiss on the cheek, grin wide enough for the cameras, but voice biting enough to belie his irritation. “Guess it will be an interesting night, babe.”

Across the pit, Jin tipped his glass back, swallowing down its contents. The quiet around him was louder than any cheer.

Maya only arched a brow at you. “Better get ready. Got to look your best since you will be the center of attention.”

The girls’ dressing room buzzed like a hive. Lipsticks rolled, dresses hung half-zipped; hairspray mixed with the cloying scent of perfume tinged the air.

Yuri flopped onto one of the open chairs, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “Okay. Spill. Are you freaking out?”

“She’s freaking out,” Lana declared before you could answer. “Look at her face. That’s a freak-out face.”

“I’m not–” you started, but your voice betrayed you by coming out shakily.

Bianca leaned in, braid sliding forward over her shoulder. “It’s one thing sneaking around a villa. The Hideaway? With the two of them?”

The comment had hit a little too close to home, causing your cheeks to flush pink. You forced a smile, smoothing your hands over your hips, feeling the silky material of the robe you slipped on over the lingerie the producers shoved at you. 

“It’s not what you think.”’

“Oh, honey,” Lana purred, “it’s exactly  what we think.”

Maya, quiet until now, set down her hairbrush and met your eyes in the mirror. “Doesn’t matter what we think,” she said, “Only matters you’re ready for.”

The chatter swelled again, but her words dug under your ribs.

You turned toward the mirror, hands trembling slightly as you spread a thin layer of lip gloss on. 

You could laugh with the girls, let them pry, but inside, your stomach curled tight. This wasn’t a date. This wasn’t a choice. It was stepping into a locked room with both of them, and the cameras would be waiting when you came out.

The garden lights lined the path like a runway. Islanders crowded around the three of you, whooping, whistling, calling encouragements.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” Leo hollered, which earned him a slap on the arm from Yuri.

Hoseok grinned like a man already holding the prize, fingers laced through yours as he led the way. “Big night,” he whispered, his thumb stroking your hand, his energy palpable.

Behind you, Jin’s footsteps followed. You didn’t turn to look at him, but you felt them there like a silent sentinel. 

The Hideaway door loomed, painted a sot red, script curling in neon white above it. Hoseok paused with his hand on the handle before turning to you and Jin. “Ready?”

You looked between the two of them and took a deep breath. “Open it.”

The door shut behind the three of you with a soft and final click.

Inside, the Hideaway glowed. Candles flickered against velvet drapes, the oversized bed a stage dressed in white sheets and scattered red petals. A silver bucket held a sweating champagne bottle, condensation slipping in rivulets down the metal. 

For a moment, none of you moved.

Hoseook broke the silence first. “They really rolled out the red carpet.” His hand rested low at your back, thumb stroking circles that made your skin hum. “Feels like we should put on a show.” 

You swallowed, throat tight. The girls’ voices from the dressing room still buzzed in your ears: Lana’s teasing, Yuri’s squeals, and Maya’s calm warning.

You steadying yourself. “I’m not a prize. I’m not a rope in some tug-of-war.” Your eyes flicked between them. “I’m here because I want both of you. Tonight, that has to work for both of you.”

For a beat, the words trembled in the air.

Then Hoseok’s laugh broke, low, and delighted. “More than okay.” His mouth crashed against yours, hot and claiming, his hands already tugging at the ties of your robe.

And then another touch. Fingers brushing your arm, gently, carefully. Jin.

You gasped. He was right there, so close, but not pushing. His voice was a whisper, “Tell us if you want us to stop.”

You said nothing. You leaned into him, and his mouth met yours–nothing like Hoseok’s kiss. Slow and devastating.

“Bed,” you managed, dizzy from both of them at once.

They moved like a tide and an undertow. Hoseok stripped your robe off quickly, laughing when it tangled, and tossed it aside. Jin unclasped your bra with a precision that made you shiver. Both hands found your body at once: Hoseok greedy, Jin reverent, their touches overlapping until you couldn’t tell who was where. 

You were on your back, Hoseok between your knees, his grin wicked as he slid down, kissing lower and lower. Jin knelt at your side, thumb stroking your temple as he kissed you slowly, grounding you while Hoseok’s tongue coaxed your body into an inferno.

“Look at me,” Jin murmured, and when your eyes met his, Hoseok’s mouth sealed over your clit. The orgasm hit like lightning, sharp and uncontrollable, your back bowing off the bed as Hoseok held you down, relentless, laughing into your skin.

You gasped Jin’s name without meaning to. Hoseok chuckled smugly against you.

He kissed his way up your body, pausing to tug at his shirt before wiggling out of his pants and underwear. Climbing back over you, he pushed into you in one smooth, claiming thrust. Your gasp broke into a moan, Hoseok’s pace fast, merciless–just like him. He bent to nip at your jaw, his groans rough against your ear. “Fuck you feel so good. It’s even better that you’re all mine.”

But Jin didn’t step back. Reminding you of his presence, his hand caught yours, guiding it to him. He was already hard, thick in your grip, his breath stuttering when you stroked him. Hoseok kissed you again, harder this time, all control cracked as he fucked you deeper, rougher, each thrust making you moan into Jin’s mouth.

Your body was stretched between them, every nerve on fire. Hoseok slammed harder, racing toward his own cliff’s edge, his groan low and guttural when he spilled into you, his hips stuttering as he collapsed against your shoulder.

You barely had time to catch your breath before Jin was replacing Hoseok over you. Hoseok rolled aside, grinning, wrecked and satisfied. “Now show her what you’ve been holding back.”

Jin’s thrust was different–slow at first, devastating in its push. He held your face in both hands, elbows braced next to your shoulders, his gaze locked on yours as he sank in deeper, until you thought you’d break. “Mine too,” he said softly, and the claim in his voice unraveled you.

His rhythm built until your legs shook, his hand slipping between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with perfect pressure. The orgasm tore through you, dragging a ragged cry from your throat, your nails raking down his back as he groaned, hard and broken, spilling into you with a sharp curse.

When he finally stilled, the room was filled with heaving breaths–ragged, uneven, overlapping. Pressing a kiss to your lips, one filled with many words left unsaid, and slipped out of you and curled around you.

You lay between them, wrecked and trembling, their hands soothing you even as they brushed over each other. Hoseok kissed your shoulder as Jin pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Now what?” you utter into the afterglow. 

Hoseok answered first, smile soft at the edges. “Now we stop pretending.”

Jin’s voice followed, calm and confident. “And we stop making you choose.”

Something unknotted in your chest. You laced your fingers through Hoseok’s and brushed your ankle along Jin’s calf. The three of you fit, messy and perfect, tangled under the sheets. 

From behind the production curtain, one of the staff snorted. Jin ignored it with the grace of a man used to causing involuntary laughter. 

“I’ve seen these shows,” he went on, now gesturing vaguely like he was outlining a conspiracy. “Two people lock eyes. Someone says, ‘I’ve never felt this way before’ after three cocktails. Suddenly, they’re crying in a hot tub. No, thank you.”

He turned slightly in the chair to show off his profile. “I’m here to look good, steal the best bed, and maybe–maybe–kiss someone if they say something funny enough to deserve it.”

A pause. A twitch of the mouth. He almost smiled for real.

“But hey,” he said, voice quieter now. “If someone actually makes me laugh?” His brows lifted. “That’s a problem. For me. For them. For everyone.” He made an exploding gesture with both hands. “Disaster. Ratings gold. You’re welcome.”

~Cut.~

Kim Seokjin pushed the door open with one pristine white sneaker, letting it swing wide like a stage curtain. He stepped inside with practiced ease–luggage in one hand, sunglasses still on, and the air of a man who’d already decided the show was lucky to have him.

His first impression of the place?

Tacky. And aggressively emanating a confused mashup of coastal rustic and “influencer Airbnb.” Too much rattan. Not enough taste. “Oh no,” he muttered, eyes scanning the rattan furniture, the faux coastal accents, the excessive throw pillows chosen by a producer who thought boho meant expensive, and overly curated plants. “It’s worse than I imagined.”

The cameras were already tracking him–tiny red lights blinking from the corners of the ceiling. He didn’t look at them. He didn’t have to.

He dropped his bag by the entryway and took a slow lap, hands in pockets, like he was considering buying the place out of pity. The scent of ocean breeze drifted in through the open windows, tangled with sunscreen and desperation.

The villa was utterly quiet. No voices yet. No movement. He was the first one in.

“Good,” he said to himself. “I hate sharing a spotlight.”

In the kitchen, he opened a cabinet. The shelves were bulging with the most current, trendy foods and beverages. With a flick of his wrist, he closed the white door before making his way to the bedroom.

The door creaked open. The beds were perfectly made, and the walls were decorated in gag-inducing cliché quotes about living life and finding love. 

There was no luggage in sight, no marks of human presence.

First pick.

He smiled. 

A slow, smug smile.

He chose the bed with the best window light and the most strategic angle to the mirror, then flung his white, hard-shell suitcase onto the bed, which had his name scribbled along one side in hot-pink script.

There. Claimed.

He didn’t sit. Not yet. Instead, he stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, surveying the room like a prince inspecting his summer palace. 

“I give it three days before someone cries in here,” he mutters to himself, “Hopefully not on my pillow.”

From somewhere outside, faint laughter echoed. A door slammed. Footsteps crunched across the gravel.

More arrivals.

Jin tilted his head slightly, gaze fixed on the hallway–but didn’t move. Let them come to him.

He was ready.

👙

The gravel crunched under your sandals in a way that was not flattering. 

You paused at the entrance, one hand gripping the handle of your suitcase, the other shielding your eyes from the sun. Somewhere behind you, a production assistant shouted something cheerful and vaguely threatening like ‘just be yourself!’ before disappearing back down the path.

You were going to be sick.

The villa looked like an Instagram filter had thrown up on a Pinterest board. Palm trees, wicker everything, soft linens in shades of sandstorm beige™. It smelled like a coconut and capitalism.

You took a deep breath.

You weren’t here for love. You weren’t here for drama. You were here because your roommate dared you to apply, and because you were bored enough to say yes when the producers called.

That was it.

You could do this. Just don’t get attached to anyone. Don’t trust anyone. Don’t–

Reaching the bedroom, the door creaked as you pushed it open. 

And there he was.

Standing by one of the beds like he owned it, arms crossed, hair too perfect, face unfairly symmetrical. He didn’t turn toward you right away. He was still staring at the mirror in front of him, like he was contemplating the meaning of life.

Then he turned and looked at you and smiled.

It wasn’t a big smile. Just the kind that lifted one corner of his mouth like he knew something you didn’t. The kind that said ‘yes, I’m pretty, and yes, I know you noticed.’

Which–okay. Maybe you did for like half a second.

You stood frozen in the doorway, caught between wanting to introduce yourself and wanting to turn around and pretend you were lost and accidentally wandered into the wrong room.

“Hi,” he said, casually, breaking the looming silence.

You blinked. “Is this the part where we pretend this isn’t awkward?”

His smile widened. “Oh, good. You’re funny.”

You hated how fast your stomach flipped at that compliment.

“I was hoping to get here first,” you said, dragging your suitcase into the room, one that is identical to his but with your name calligraphied down the side. “Pick a bed. Establish dominance. That sort of thing.”

He nodded, the corner of his lips twitching upward. “That would’ve been smart. Unfortunately, I’m smarter.”

You stared at him.

He didn’t blink.

Neither did you.

“...Right,” you said finally, picking the bed farthest from him. It had slightly worse lighting and no window breeze. But this way, there is less risk of spontaneously combusting.

“Just so you know,” he added, sitting on the edge of his bed now, “people usually fall in love with me around the third day of knowing me. Try to pace yourself.”

You exhaled a slow, cursed laugh. “I’ll try to survive the first forty-eight, then.”

He grinned.

You hated how much you liked it.

🗣️

The chair was too deep. Or maybe you were just sitting weirdly.

You shifted again, trying to look natural while also calculating what “natural” looked like on camera. Someone had definitely mentioned posture during orientation. Or maybe it was something about fidgeting? Hairstyle? Eyebrows? You couldn’t remember. Your ears were buzzing.

“So…” a producer said from behind the production light. “First impressions?”

You stared at the camera. Then let out a breath that was somehow a sigh, a laugh, and a quiet internal scream.

“I mean–yeah. Sure. First impressions.” You stall as you gather your scattered thoughts. 

Another beat passed as you fiddled with the hem of your shorts. 

“He’s…” you stopped. Your lips pursed. “Okay, objectively? He’s very symmetrical.”

Another pause. Somewhere in the dark, a producer laughed.

“He’s also full of himself. Like, very. Like if confidence were an Olympic sport, he would be doping. And coaching the team. And posing for the medals.”

You shrugged, already a little too warm under the lights. “But he’s funny, which is unfair. I was fully prepared to hate him on sight, and then he said something sarcastic and I laughed, and now I’m mad at myself.”

Your fingers tapped lightly against your leg.

“He’s obviously playing a game. Which–I respect. Kind of. I mean, I don’t trust it, but I respect it.”

You leaned back, finally settling into the chair like the war was over. “I’m not here for love. I’m here to not look stupid on national television.”

Silence.

“Which is already going great, clearly.”

~Cut.~

The heat was already clinging to your skin when the producers ushered you outside with the other female contestants.

The five of you–lined up like products in a weirdly flirty showroom–stood facing the villa’s grand entrance while the production team fussed with cameras and mics. Sand crunched beneath your sandals, fake grass stretched behind you, and somewhere in the distance, a speaker was blasting synthy instrumental music that sounded like it desperately wanted to be sexy. 

You took in the other girls standing next to you, and your eyes landed on the girl on the far right. Lana, all curves and confidence, was reapplying her lip gloss as if it were armor. Yuri stood beside her, glowing with soft beach-girl energy and smiling like this was the most romantic thing that had ever happened to her. Maya gave you a glance and an eyeroll–mutual silent agreement: this is insane, right? Bianca was already waving at the cameras.

You folded your arms across your chest as a voice crackled from behind a camera, “Ladies, you know the rules. One by one, the boys will enter. Step forward if you’re interested.”

Lana whispered, “Showtime.”

Cue the first guy stepping out.

Jungkook.

He jogged down the villa steps like a golden retriever who’d just been told he was a very good boy. Tank top, tattoos down both arms, earrings lining the curves of his ears, and the world’s softest brown eyes.

“Oh no,” Maya whispered. “He’s gonna make me believe in astrology.”

Jungkook grinned like he’d just won something. “Hi,” he said with a tiny bow. “My name is Jungkook.”

You didn’t step forward. Neither did Maya.

Yuri and Bianca both did. Lana hesitated, then stayed put–probably saving her energy for someone taller.

Jungkook picked Yuri after a moment of adorable panic. She looked delighted. Cute. Easy. Safe.

You bit your lip.

Namjoon.

Then came the next guy, button-up fluttering in the breeze, dimples set to “murderous,” sunglasses hooked on one finger like he’d already analyzed the entire competition and filed a strategic report.

He walked like he didn’t know how hot he was. 

Bianca stepped forward before he even introduced himself. Lana followed. You blinked, surprised to see Maya step forward too. She shrugged at you, as if to say, ‘He seems emotionally literate, sue me.’

Namjoon smiled warmly. “I’m Namjoon.”

He chose Lana–probably because she looked like she’d eat the others for brunch if he didn’t.

Dante.

This guy wore a smirk that screamed trust fund problems and had the kind of tattoo sleeve that had no business looking that good on a man who definitely lied on his taxes.

Bianca stepped forward again. No hesitation. Maya didn’t.

You glanced at Dante. He caught your eye.

You blinked. He winked. 

“Nope,” you muttered to yourself.

Dante picked Bianca, obviously. She winked back.

Leo.

Next was the stereotypical quiet, brooding, built like a lifeguard type who wrote poetry about the moon.

He introduced himself in one-word answers and ran a hand through his dark hair like it owed him money. 

Maya stepped forward again.

You thought about it.

You didn’t.

Leo picked Maya. She gave you a look as she walked off that said, I still don’t believe in love, just giving him a shot.

Now there were four guys standing with their new partners.

And just you, standing alone under a sky so bright it felt personal.

Seokjin.

Then he walked out.

White linen shirt, buttons undone to just the right degree. Hair styled like the wind loved him personally. He walked out as if he’d already owned this villa and everyone in it.

And then, without even introducing himself, he made eye contact with you.

Direct. Unflinching.

He didn’t even look at the others.

The others were already standing in neat pairs, hands clasped, grins fixed for the cameras, which left you. And him.

You didn’t step forward. Not because you weren’t curious. But because it felt like exactly the kind of game he wanted you to play.

So you stayed where you were, arms crossed, your heart doing something extremely rude.

Technically, it wasn’t a choice. But he made it sound like one. Jin arched a brow.

Then, loudly enough for the cameras: “I choose the one pretending not to look at me.”

Your stomach dropped.

You walked over to stand next to him, a slow and smug look on his face that said you were already his.

“Hi,” he said with a grin, tilting his head. “You’re welcome.”

You stared at him.

Then gave a single, short nod. “Bold choice.”

“It always is.”

The camera zoomed in on the two of you.

🗣️

Your fingers fiddle with the mic hanging around your neck.

“So…” the producer prompts. “Seokjin picked you.”

You huff out a laugh that’s more disbelief than amusement. “Yeah. As observed by you and everyone else.”

You lift your hands in mock surrender. “It’s not like I had options. We were the last two standing. He could be a serial killer, and I’d still be here.”

A beat. 

“...But he’s not. He’s worse. He’s charming.”

You lean back, lips pressing into something that isn’t quite a smile. “He’s confident. Like, capital C confident. The kind of guy who walks into a room and assumes the lighting is for him.”

You glance toward the side, like maybe he’s just off camera. “The worst part? It worked.”

~Cut.~

🥽

Jin wasn’t surprised you hadn’t stepped forward.

Some people, less intelligent ones, would’ve taken that as rejection. He took it as an invitation. After all, anyone who could resist him in the opening act clearly had a higher tolerance for charm than the average human. Which only meant one thing.

You were going to be fun.

Now, twenty minutes after the coupling ceremony, they were all scattered across the pool deck. Jungkook was doing push-ups for no apparent reason. Namjoon was deep in conversation with Lana about how the moon affected tides. Dante and Bianca were already draped across a lounge chair, as if they were filming an ad for bad decisions. 

And you–his newly assigned partner–was over by the bar, leaning casually against the counter while talking to Leo.

Jin sipped his drink, watching from his perch on the edge of the pool. It wasn’t jealousy. Obviously not. He didn’t like the way Leo was looking at you like you were his next snack.

You laughed at something Leo said. The sound carried, light and easy, over the low hum of conversation ebbing and flowing around him.

Jin tilted his head. 

He’d made his choice earlier for the cameras, sure–but now? Now it felt less like a choice and more like a claim he actually wanted to defend. 

He stood, setting his drink down with precision, and crossed the deck.

“Leo,” he said smoothly when he reached the pair, as if greeting an old friend. Then, to you: “Already making me work for it? Talking to the competition on day one?”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, lips twitching. “Didn’t realize this was a possession arrangement.”

“It’s not,” he said, leaning an elbow on the counter beside you. “It’s a winning arrangement. And I like to win.”

Leo gave a low chuckle, clearly entertained, and excused himself with a shrug.

Jin watched him go, then turned his full attention back to you. “So. What were you laughing at?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you said sarcastically.

“I would,” he replied without missing a beat, his smile slow and sure. “And I will.”

You didn’t bother responding, not about the joke, not about why you were smiling at Leo. Instead, you reached for the glass on the counter and took a long sip, eyes fixed on the pool like he wasn’t still standing there.

Most men might have taken the hint. Seokjin wasn’t most men.

Adjusting his approach, Seokjin asks, “You always this mysterious, or is this just for me?”

Side-eyeing him over the rim of your drink.”Mysterious? No. Selective? Yes.”

“That’s dangerous,” he said. “I like it.”

He noticed the way you were leaning–just slightly back, chin lifted, like you’re measuring the distance between the two of you. He stepped into it. Not much. Just enough for you to notice.

The sun caught on the mirrored lenses of your sunglasses, throwing his own face back at him. He smiled at the reflection. Then, without warning, he reached up, hooked a finger on the frame, and slid them right off your face.

“Hey–”

“Mm,” he hummed, putting them on in one smooth motion. “These look better on me.”

You blinked at him, momentarily caught between irritation and laughter. “You can’t just–”

“I can,” he interrupted, tapping the side of the glasses. “And I just did.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“That’s why people believe me,” he said, lips quirking.

You snatched them back before he could react, the edge of your fingers gently brushing his cheek in the process. The contact was brief, but it landed. He caught the shift in your expression–the slightest flicker of something unguarded–before you slid the glasses back on. 

“You’ll have to try harder,” you scoffed.

Oh, he thought. He would.

--

It started innocently enough. It always did.

Sitting in a loose circle on the fake grass by the firepit with the other nine contestants, drinks sweating in everyone’s hands, the air just cool enough to make you forget about the cameras–until Lana kicked things off by pointing at Jungkook.

“Truth or dare?”

He picked truth. 

“Okay…what’s your biggest fear?”

“Microwaves,” Jungkook answered with no hesitation.

The circle paused for half a second before dissolving into laughter.

“Microwaves?” Yuri repeated, eyebrows climbing.

“As in kitchen microwaves?” Maya asked.

“Do they attack you where you’re from?” Dante jabbed.

“They’re unpredictable, Jungkook said seriously, like this was common knowledge. “You put something in it, and it comes out hotter than the sun in some spots, still frozen in others…plus they hum.”

Across the circle, Jin lifted his drink and said, “Tragic. Truly the silent killer of our time.”

That set the group off again, Jungkook trying and failing to keep a straight face.

From there, it stayed harmless–Maya dared Bianca to drink champagne straight from the bottle, Namjoon admitted his most embarrassing celebrity crush (apparently, an anime character), and Yuri sang a bad karaoke song from memory.

Then Dante decided to escalate things.

He dared Bianca to kiss Namjoon. She did, lingering for just long enough to set off a wave of hollers and “oooohs.” Namjoon laughed it off, but Jin clocked the shift. The game had just crossed the line from fun to interesting.

When his turn came, he didn’t hesitate. He looked straight at you.

“Truth or dare?”

You tilted her head, eyes glinting. “Truth.”

“Coward,” he said smoothly, then: “If you had to share a bed with someone here other than your partner, who would it be?”

Your lips curved, the smallest, most infuriating smirk. “Leo.”

Of course.

He smiled like it didn’t matter. Like he wasn’t already planning the next time he got Leo alone. 

Your turn came around fast.

Leaning back on one hand, looking directly at Jin. “Truth or dare?” you asked him.

“Dare,” he said without hesitation.

You thought for a moment, then cocked your head with mock innocence. “I dare you to take a shot off of someone’s body.”

The circle erupted into cheers and whistles.

Jin’s eyes stayed on yours. “Whose body?”

You took a sip of your drink. “Dealer’s choice.”

He didn’t look at anyone else.

The group’s noise dimmed to background static as he leaned toward you. “Don’t move.”

He turned and pulled the tray of supplies that one of the producers had quickly snuck in off-camera. He tipped a pinch of salt into the curve of your collarbone, just enough for you to feel the brush of his fingertips, then poured tequila into the shot glass held in his other hand. Picking up the lime wedge, he held it to your mouth, cocking one brow as a challenge.

Tonguing the inside of your cheek, you silently stared him down before slowly dropping open your jaw. He smirked and pressed the wedge of citrus between your teeth. 

He bent, his breath warm and damp against you. He hovered, letting his breath tickle your skin before curling his tongue along your collarbone. He barely pulls back to take the shot, only to surge forward and clench the lime between his own teeth, intentionally brushing his lips against yours.

He straightened, letting the group's reaction crash over them like a wave.

The dares kept coming, each bolder than the last. Dante doing a lap around the pool in a speedo; Lana giving Jungkook a lap dance that left him red to his ears; Yuri feeding Maya strawberries one at a time with her mouth.

Then Maya’s turn came. She scanned the circle like a cat picking her prey. 

“Jin,” she said finally. “Truth or dare?”

He smirked. “Dare, of course.”

“I dare you…” Maya’s smile sharpened.”...to make out with Bianca.”

The group whooped loudly. Bianca’s brows shot up in delighted surprise. She leaned forward, ready.

Jin’s eyes flicked once–just once–to you beside him.

Then he smiled, slow and wicked, and turned to Bianca.

The kiss started smooth, easy, no hesitation in sight. He reached up and cupped the side of Bianca’s jaw, long fingers nearly reaching her nape. He adjusted the angle with the hold on her, the change just what was needed to deepen the kiss.  

The kiss lasted several stretched-out moments before the hollers of the group broke them apart.

When he pulled back, Bianca was grinning. He was grinning. But out of the corner of his eye, he was watching you.

Your expression didn’t give him much, but your hand clenched a little tighter around your glass than before.

And that, he thought, was very interesting.

👙🗣️

“You hated that game,” the producer said. 

You let out a short laugh. “Yeah. I also kind of… didn’t.”

They didn’t respond, which was their way of saying, 'Go on.'

“It stopped being an innocent camp game about halfway through. It became a game of chess. Everyone was sizing each other up, pushing buttons, seeing who would crack first.”

“Who cracked first?”

“Not Jin,” you said petulantly, rolling your eyes. “Not that he’d ever admit to cracking even if he was on fire.”

You shifted in the chair. “When I said Leo’s name, he didn’t even move, but his eyes changed, just for a second. Then it was gone. And I noticed.”

The producer hummed. “And the dare?”

Your mouth tugged into a reluctant smirk. “That was deliberate. He could have picked anyone, but no, straight to me. Sure, it was just a dare, but–” you gestured vaguely toward your collarbone. “It didn’t feel like ‘just a dare.’”

The crew waited.

“And then he kissed Bianca. Like it was nothing. And fine–maybe it was. Maybe it was all just a game.” Your fingers drummed against your knee. “But it didn’t feel the same when he was looking at me. Which is stupid.”

“Why, stupid?”

You let out a slow breath, “Because whatever game he’s playing, I don’t want to be the one who loses it.”

~Cut.~

The smell of toast and frying eggs dragged you out to the villa’s open-air kitchen.

Jungkook was at the stove, his hair pulled into a messy top-knot. Namjoon was attempting to make pancakes while Lana hovered behind him like a food critic. Dante was slicing fruit shirtless, for reasons that were almost certainly unnecessary. 

And Jin–your partner of approximately fourteen hours–was leaning against the counter like the morning had been handcrafted for him.

“Hungry?” he asked, holding a plate like a bribe.

“I was just coming to see what the damage was,”  you said, eyeing the kitchen. “Turns out it’s minimal.”

“Minimal?” He glanced down at the neatly plated scrambled eggs, toast, and fruit. “Tis is artistry.”

“It’s breakfast,” you corrected, though the smell was making your stomach growl.

Jin stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough that the others’ chatter became background noise. “Come eat with me.”

It wasn’t really a question.

He led you away from the noise, out onto the shaded patio near the pool. Two chairs, a small table, the sound of water lapping quietly against the tiles. 

“Secluded much?” you asked, sitting down.

“Better view,” he said, sliding your plate toward you. Then, after a beat, “And fewer witnesses if you decide to like me.”

You shook your head, but a reluctant smile tugged at your lips as you picked up your fork. “You really never turn it off, do you?”

“Not when it works.”

By the time the plates were empty, the sound of voices calling from the lawn carried in through the open patio doors.

After breakfast, the producers called everyone to the lawn. A folding table waited there, covered in slips of paper and props: blindfolds, a jumble of small weights, beanbags, and a few coils of rope. 

Beyond the table, the rest of the course stretched across the grass–a line of orange cones to weave through, a rope ladder laid flat for a quick footwork section, and at the far end, a shallow wading pool already filled with water and a few floating rubber rings. 

“Couples Challenge!” Bianca announced in her best game-show voice. “Obstacle course, timed, two people per team.”

The rules were simple: one partner was blindfolded, while the other gave directions. The blindfolded one had to collect five items scattered along the course–some on the ground, some in the pool–and bring them back to the table. 

“Who’s blindfolded?” Jin asked you.

“You,” you said without hesitation.

“Brave choice,” he said, smirking.

It wasn’t brave so much as strategic — you wanted to see how well he listened.

The whistle blew, and he took off at your first shouted instruction, surprisingly obedient for someone who talked so much. You told him when to duck, when to reach, and when to turn left, and he hit every marker with precision–except for the part where he nearly tripped into Dante during the cone section. 

“That was sabotage,” Jin complained, handing you the last item after splashing through the pool of water. 

“Sure it was,” you snarked, laughing as you sprinted for the finish together.

You didn’t win, Jungkook and Yuri took that, but you were still a little breathless, both from running and from how quickly you’d fallen into sync.

Ripping off the blindfold, Jin caught your eye. “Told you I’m good at winning,” he quipped.

You smirked. “Shame you didn’t this time.”

He leaned in just enough for you to hear him over the noise. “There’s more than one way to win.”

Later in the evening, the villa had finally gone still. 

Dinner was over, music had faded, and most of the others had either gone up to the bedroom or were sprawled out in the lounge, half-asleep in front of the TV. You were in the kitchen rinsing a glass when you heard him behind you.

“Busy?”

You didn’t bother to turn around. “Wild night,” you said, setting the glass upside down to dry on the dish rack.

Footsteps padded closer, then he was leaning against the counter beside you, so close his shoulder nearly brushed yours. 

“You were good today,” he said.

“At the challenge?”

“At everything.” He let the words sit for a beat, then added, “You make a good partner.”

You glanced at him. “Even when I make you run through a wading pool blindfolded?”

“Especially then,” he said, lips curling.

You turned back to the sink, pretending to fuss with the tap. “Guess I should thank you for breakfast, too.”

“You could,” he said. “Or…” He leaned a little closer, voice dropping. “You could tell me what you were actually thinking during the game last night.”

You stilled. “What makes you think I was thinking anything?”

“Because I was watching you,” he said, quiet enough that the words slid under your skin. “And I’m good at winning, remember?”

You met his eyes. There was a flicker there–not smug, not teasing, something else. You almost asked him what game he thought he was winning, but his gaze held yours too steadily, and you looked away first.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said.

“And you’re avoiding the question,” he countered.

The sound of laughter from the lounge broke the moment. He stepped back just enough to let you breathe again. 

“Tomorrow’s a new day,” he said lightly. “Maybe I’ll get my answer then.”

And then he was gone, leaving you staring at the empty doorway, wondering why your heart was doing that uneven thing again.

The villa bedroom was dim except for the soft yellow glow spilling from the bathroom. Voices from the lounge drifted in through the open door–laughter, the muted clink of glasses–but in here it felt slower, quieter.

Jin was already at the sink. Brushing his teeth with unhurried precision. You slipped in beside him, reaching for your own toothbrush. The counter was narrow enough that your elbows almost touched.

He caught your eye in the mirror, toothpaste foam at the corner of his mouth. “This is romantic,” he deadpanned.

You snorted, spitting into the sink. “Try not to ruin it.”

When you both finished, you reached for the pump of foaming cleanser that the producers had lined up with everyone else’s personal toiletries. Jin stepped back just far enough to give you room, leaning against the doorframe to watch you lather your face.

“You take skincare seriously,” he said.

“You don’t?” you asked, rinsing off the suds.

“Of course I do.” He moved in again, bending over the sink to splash water on his face before patting it dry with the hand towel. “This–” he pointed between the two of you”–is a joint effort.”

You reached for your moisturizer, smoothing it into your skin. Beside you, he did the same, though he was clearly using more than necessary just to make you laugh. 

When you were done, you tied your hair into a loose knot at the crown of your head and stepped out into the bedroom in a fresh pair of pajamas, soft baby blue shorts paired with a matching cropped tank top. 

You sigh as you approach your new bed assignment, post-coupling. If asked, though, you would never admit to feeling antsy about having to sleep next to Jin. The sheets were cool against your legs when you sat on the edge of the bed as you waited for Jin to emerge. 

Jin came out a moment later, his powder pink pajama pants hanging low on his hips, topped with a vast expanse of bare, golden skin. “You take the blankets,” he threw out. “I run hot.”

The dip in the mattress as he sat down on his side of the bed snapped you out of your stupor. Tearing your eyes away from his toned bare chest, you shifted back against the pillows, “I wasn’t worried about you freezing to death.”

He scoffed before slipping fully onto the bed next to you, resting back against his own set of pillows. “How do you feel after today?”

“It was a long day.”

“Mm. You’re thinking too hard.”

You turned your head toward him. “And you’re not?”

His mouth twitched. “I’m always thinking. I just don’t let people see it.”

The fan clicked softly in the silence that followed. His gaze held yours, unblinking, and for a second, it felt like he was about to say something else. Then his eyes looked to the ceiling.

“Tomorrow’ll be different,” he murmured.

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

You didn’t push. The space between you and him stayed the same, but you could feel the heat permeating from his body without touching. It made your skin hum, your breath shallow.

Eventually, he reached over and turned off the lamp.

“Goodnight,” he said into the dark.

You lay there with your eyes open, listening to the even rhythm of his breathing, and wondered if you’d still be able to sleep if he moved any closer.

🥽

Jin decided mornings in the villa weren’t so bad. 

The sun was warm, the coffee was strong, and everyone was too sleepy to be competitive or flirty yet. He’d already been in the pool once, mostly to mess Jungkook’s perfectly set hair, and now he was leaning against the rail, sunglasses low, watching the place wake up fully. 

When you stepped out from the hallway in a loose white cover-up layered over a black bikini, he spotted you instantly. The group chatter faded a little. You looked around like you were still half in a dream, and then your eyes found him. 

“You’re late,” he called.

“It’s nine a.m.,” you tossed back, brow lifting.

“Exactly,” he replied, tossing you the sunscreen that was resting on the towel next to him. You caught it without looking away from him. Good reflexes.

The morning had that lazy, stretched-out quality of a vacation you didn’t have to pay for. A little sun, a little floating in the pool, the light flirting, the occasional burst of laughter when Dante failed to push Jungkook into the deep end. Jin stayed close enough to talk to you without making it obvious, letting the easy atmosphere work in his favor.

For a while, it almost felt like no one was playing the game. 

By midday, the villa had shifted into that easy, slow rotation–people peeling away from the pool to pair off for chats, drifting back again when the conversation dried up.

Jin was leaning at the bar, sipping a glass of iced water, when Yuri passed by in a lemon-yellow bikini, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. 

“Walk with me?” she asked, tilting her head toward the deck.

He smirked. “That sounded dangerously close to a line.”

“Only if you want it to be.” She glanced over her shoulder, waiting for him to follow.

He did, falling into step beside her as they wandered toward the far edge of the deck. The boards underfoot were warm from the sun; the salt tang from the ocean hung in the air. 

“So,” she began, “ what’s your type on paper?”

“You first,” he said.

“I asked you.”

“Which is why I’m smart enough not to answer yet,” he replied, smiling when she laughed.

“Alright… tall, funny, nice eyes.” She paused. “And maybe a little cocky.”

“Cocky’s subjective,” he said, leaning on the railing so the wind caught his hair. 

They traded easy lines like that until they looped back toward the main villa, where Dante was leaning against the wall waiting.

“Mind if I steal him?” Dante asked Yuri.

She grinned, wiggling her brows. “Be my guest.”

Jin let Dante lead him to the side steps, where the noise of the pool faded.

“So, you and your partner… are you solid?” Dante asked, resting his elbows on the railing.

Jin’s smile was slight but sly. “Define solid.”

“Solid like… not looking elsewhere.”

Jin took a slow drink. “Better question–is anyone here not looking elsewhere?”

Dante chuckled, but Jin’s attention was already sliding past him, scanning the sunlit yard until he found you. Sitting under the shade, legs curled under you, laughing at something Jungkook had just said. Jin caught himself lingering on the sound a little longer than he intended.

👙

The heat was reaching a point where the pool felt less like fun and more like a survival challenge. Maya plopped down beside you on the daybed, fanning herself.

“Come with me,” she said, tugging at your arm.

“Why?”

“Girl talk. Before the boys ruin my good mood.”

You let her pull you through the villa garden, the two of you stepping around potted palms until you found a bench tucked into the far corner where the cameras had to crane to catch you.

“Okay,” she said, tucking one leg under herself. “Namjoon. What’s the verdict?”

You raised an eyebrow. “The verdict on what?”

“Whether you think he’s into me, or just good at making eye contact.”

You smiled. “Both are possible.” 

She groaned. “You’re no help.”

“Fine. I think he’s interested,” you said. “He watches you when he thinks no one notices. You’re not imagining the interest.”

That earned you a slow grin. “Alright. I’ll take it.”

By the time you made it back to the pool area, Leo was leaning against a pergola post, arms folded.

“Got a minute?”

You hesitated, then followed him toward a patch of shade by the fence.

“So how are things with your partner?” he asked, glancing toward where Jin was talking with Dante,

“Fine,” you said. 

“Fine like… fine, or fine like you’re hoping for an upgrade?”

You laughed. “Wow. Straight to it.”

“I don’t do small talk,” he said.

You tilted your head. “And you think I’d tell you if I was looking for an upgrade?”

He smiled faintly. “Sometimes it’s not about what you say.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable exactly–but it wasn't neutral either. The pause that followed stretched just long enough for you to notice movement across the deck–Jin, sunglasses in place, looking right at you.

🥽

The morning had been moving slowly, and the heat made every movement feel like an effort. Someone was making iced coffee in the kitchen, Jungkook was starfished on a lounger, and Jin was halfway to claiming a hammock when the villa speakers crackled to life.

“Islanders, gather on the front lawn immediately.”

There was the usual groaning, but feet started shuffling across the deck toward the grass. Under the palms, a neat arc of little bistro tables waited, each with two chairs and a sand timer in the middle. Drinks sat ready, condensation sliding down the sides. 

“This,” Namjoon muttered beside him,” is a trap.”

“Or fun,” Jin countered, grinning.

The villa voice explained the rules–a few minutes per partner, rotate at the bell, see who can “adapt” the quickest. Jin decided he’d adapt just fine.

He ended up across from Yuri first. She leaned in, chin propped on her hand. “Okay, rapid-fire,” she said. “Who’s the loudest snorer here?”

“Jungkook,” he answered instantly.

She laughed. “That was too fast. You’ve thought about this.”

“I’m living in the same space. I am just good at noticing things.”

They spiraled into a debate about shared chores until the sand ran out, her laugh still carrying as they swapped seats.

Lana was next, and she had a way of looking at people like she was already inside their heads.

“Are you here to win,” she asked, stirring her drink lazily, “or to fall in love?”

Jin tilted his head. “Why not both?”

Her mouth curled. “Dangerous answer.”

He smiled, letting the silence sit just long enough to make her shift in her seat before he changed the subject, asking about the strangest date she’d ever been on. She was mid-story about a man who tried to sell her life insurance when the time ran out.

Before the next rotation began, the villa voice boomed: “Islanders, your next conversation might be with someone new.”

The side gate swung open.

The newcomer walked in like he owned the sunlight, wearing a sleeveless shirt and golden skin, and a smile so wide it felt like it was the sun itself. The cheers that went up were instant.

“Hoseok,” the voice said, “take the empty seat across from the islander who caught your eye first.”

The scan was quick. Twice around the group, and then his gaze landed exactly where Jin knew it would.

You.

He crossed the grass without hurry, rested a hand on the back of the chair opposite you, and sat. You smiled–a little unsure, but bright–and leaned in as the timer flipped.

Jin’s partner for the round, Maya, was already smirking at him as he sat down.

“Do you want me to start talking,” she asked, “or just let you keep staring over there?”

“Please, talk,” Jin encouraged, dragging his eyes back, “Make it sound like you’re telling me something scandalous so it looks good for TV.”

Maya rolled with it, inventing a dramatic fake confession about stealing from a hotel minibar. She kept it going until they were both laughing, but still–every time the breeze shifted, Jin caught the sound of your laugh with Hoseok, and his attention was pulled like a magnet.

Rotate.

The scrape of chairs was interrupted by the gate opening again.

A new bombshell entered, a woman this time. Her orange bikini was a perfect complement to her mocha complexion. 

“Isla,” the voice prompted, “Take a seat with the Islander you most want to get to know.”

Her eyes landed on Jin without hesitation. “You,” she said, sliding into the chair opposite.

“So you’re the funny one,” she said, tilting her head.

“Among other things,” he replied smoothly.

“Prove it.”

He launched into an exaggerated story about being defeated by an arcade claw machine, acting out the moment it stole his prize. You laughed loud enough to draw glances, but his gaze still drifted past her — to where you were now sitting with Jungkook, their shoulders tipped toward each other, easy smiles trading back and forth.

Rotate.

And once again, the producers held up the next round. The gate creaked open. 

“Taehyung, join the circle.”

Jin looked up immediately. There he was–loose linen shirt half-buttoned, hair falling into his eyes, moving with that slow confidence Jin knew too well.

‘Hyung,” Taehyung greeted as he passed.

“Didn’t know you were coming,” Jin replied.

“Hmm. I know what you are doing. Interesting strategy you’re playing,” Taehyung shot back, already scanning the tables.

The voice directed him to choose his seat. His gaze drifted and stopped on you.

He crossed the grass, pulled out the chair opposite you, and sat. 

Jin leaned back in his chair, a smile affixed to his face. Adaptability, huh? He had it. But this was about to become a different kind of competition entirely.

👙

The villa lawn looked like something out of a catalogue-small white tables in a neat half-circle under the palms, little sand timers in the center of each, iced drinks sweating down the glass. Everyone was still adjusting their sunglasses when the villa voice finished explaining: two minutes with each partner, bell rings, rotate.

Namjoon took the first seat across from you, his long legs stretching out casually under the table. 

“So,” he said, resting an elbow on the arm of his chair, “biggest red flag in a partner?”

You laughed. “I feel like I should say something deep and meaningful, but… bad texters. It’s unforgivable.” 

That earned a grin. “So if I waited three hours to reply–”

“You’d be dead to me,” you said, pointing your straw at him for emphasis.

He chuckled, leaning in like he wanted to keep the rhythm going. “Alright, what if I sent a meme instead of words? Does that buy me time?”

“If it’s a good one,” you allowed.

“‘Good’ is subjective,” he countered. “Do you want clever, or do you want absurd?”

“Clever,” you decided.

“Dangerous choice,” he said. “Absurd memes are the backbone of any strong relationship.”

The laugh that escaped you felt unforced, and for a moment, you forgot a dozen conversations were happening around you. Over his shoulder, though, you caught a brief flash of Jin’s sunglasses as he settled at his own table, head tipping slightly like he might be looking your way. You blinked, looked back at Namjoon, and found him watching you with an amused tilt of his head. 

“Did I lose you already?” he teased. 

“Not at all,” you said, smiling.

“Good,” he replied, tapping the edge of your glass slightly with his fingertip. “Means I’ve got at least another minute to impress you.”

You traded little stories–his worst communication fail was accidentally sending his location to the wrong group chat; yours was forgetting to reply for an entire week. He laughed so hard at that he nearly knocked over his drink just as the last grains of sand fell through. 

Dante slid into the chair next, leaning forward on his forearms, grin sharp enough to feel like a challenge. 

“Alright,” he said, “are you happy in your couple, or are you open to changes?”

You arched an eyebrow. “Bold for two minutes.”

“Two minutes is all I’ve got,” he shot back, unblinking.

You smirked. “I’m happy enough.”

“‘Enough,’ huh?” his eyes glinted. “That’s an interesting choice of words.”

You took a slow sip of your drink, “Or maybe it’s a safe one.”

“Safe’s overrated,” he said easily. 

There was a beat of silence before you flipped the question back on him. “What about you? Happy in your couple?”

“Content,” he said, then smirked. “But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t curious about a few other people.”

The implication lingered just long enough to be noticed. Somewhere across the lawn, Jin laughed at something his partner said–the sound sharp enough that your eyes flicked toward it before you caught yourself. Dante’s grin told you he hadn’t missed it.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he said with exaggerated innocence. “Just making mental notes.”

Before the next partner could sit, the villa voice cut in: “Islanders, your following conversation might be with someone new.”

The side gate swung open.

Hoseok stepped through like he’d been born to make an entrance–sleeveless shirt, golden skin, that wide, bright smile that felt like the sun shining on you. A ripple of cheers and whistles went up.

“Hoseok,” the voice said, “take the empty seat across from the Islander who caught your eye first.”

You didn’t breathe for the moment it took him to look around. Twice his gaze swept the circle, and then it locked on you.

When he reached your table, he rested one hand lightly on the back of your chair before sitting, his eyes still locked on yours. “Hi,” he said, his voice low and warm, “thought I’d start strong.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself. “Confident.”

“I’m told it works for me.” he leaned in slightly, elbows on the table. “And it seems like it might be working right now.”

You tilted your head, pretending to weigh it up. “Jury’s still out.”

He grinned, teeth catching the sunlight. “That’s fine. Give me two whole minutes to change their minds.”

He asked what your first impression of the villa was, and you told him the truth–that it was surreal to be living in a postcard.

“Good answer,” he said. “Mine’s that everyone here is better looking than the people I was warned about.”

“That’s a very safe thing to say on day one,” you teased. 

He shrugged, “I’ll get bolder.”

“You sure about that?”

His smile widened. “Absolutely. For example, I already know you’re the  most interesting person here.”

You gave a short laugh, shaking your head. “You don’t even know me.”

“I’ll fix that.” His eyes were steady, deliberate. “What’s one thing I should know about you?”

You thought for a second. “I’m terrible at lying.”

His grin tilted. “That’s useful.”

“How?”

“Means I’ll always know where I stand with you. Which is rare here.”

Somewhere in your peripheral vision, your attention is pulled again to Jin at another table, ignoring his partner to stare at you talking with Hoseok. You flicked your gaze back to Hoseok, who had noticed the split second of distraction.

“I didn’t lose you already, did I?” he asked lightly.

You shook your head quickly. “Still here.”

“Good,” he said, leaning in just a touch closer, voice dropping. “I’d hate to waste my opening round.”

Time ran out, pulling you back a fraction before you could respond.

Jungkook dropped into the chair across from you with a wide, open grin, hair a little mussed from the breeze.

“Alright,” he said, barely letting you settle before launching in, “most embarrassing habit?”

You grinned. “Sometimes I eat cereal for dinner.”

“That’s not embarrassing,” he protested. “That’s genius. I’ve had ramen for breakfast.”

You laughed. “So we’re both innovators.”

“Exactly,” he said, pointing between the two of you like it was official.

“So tell me more about this fear of microwaves. I still don’t get it.”

“Yup.” He nodded solemnly. “They hum weird. And the light inside–it’s like the food’s being interrogated.”

You snorted so hard you almost choked on your drink. “That’s the most specific fear I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s valid!” he insisted, though his mouth twitched like he knew how ridiculous it sounded. “I just don’t trust them. I’ll use a stove. Or cold food. But those things? No.”

“That explains a lot about villa life,” you teased. “Have you been avoiding the kitchen at night?”

“Maybe,” he said with mock shifty eyes, “Or maybe I’m just hoping someone else will warm up my leftovers for me.” 

“Are you making fun of me for it?”

“I absolutely am,” you confirmed.

“Good,” he said with a wink. “Better than pity.”

Before you could volley back, the time ran out.

Just as you began to shift toward your next partner, the producers paused the rotation.

The gate creaked open. 

“Taehyung, join the circle.”

You looked over.

He stepped through in a loose linen shirt, half-buttoned and hanging just enough to catch the breeze, hair falling into his eyes. The smile he wore wasn’t big–just a slight curve that made it hard to look away. His gaze moved across the tables, unhurried, until it found you.

“Guess I’ll start here,” he said, pulling out the chair opposite you.

The moment he sat, it felt different–slower, heavier in the air. He didn’t rush with questions. He simply looked at you, like he was reading the lines of your face before deciding where to begin. 

“What would you change about this place?” he asked finally, voice low.

You tilted your head, thinking. “More shade,” you said. “Less feeling like I’m baking under a spotlight.”

“Mm.” he glanced upward at the palm fronds overhead. “I could sit in the sun all day.”

“Then you’d have the villa to yourself,” you teased lightly.

He smiled at that–small, but real. “Might be worth it.”

He asked about your ideal day off, and you described something simple. Coffee, music, no schedule. He nodded like he was filing it away. Then, “Who do you trust most here?”

You hesitated, fingers brushing the condensation on your glass. “Too early to say.”

“Fair,” he said. “But you seem like you’ll know when you know.”

Somewhere over his shoulder, you caught Jin’s voice–a laugh you recognized instantly, easy and warm. The sound tugged at you for a second before Taehyung’s eyes brought you back.

He leaned in slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “Do you always look away when you’re thinking?”

Your lips parted in surprise. “Was I?”

“Yes,” he said, and for a moment it felt like he’d noticed more about you in thirty seconds than some people had all week. 

The seconds slipped by faster than you wanted. His knee brushed yours under the table–not hard enough to be an accident, not soft enough to be ignored. The low hum of voices around you blurred, and the space between you felt smaller than it was.

The time ran out, but his eyes stayed on yours for one more beat before he finally leaned away.

🥽

The tables were already being dragged back toward the villa wall by a couple of crew members when Jin stood, stretching lazily. Conversations around him had splintered into smaller groups. The new arrivals moved through them like they’d been here all week.

Isla got to him first.

“Funny guy,” she greeted, eyes bright. “Mind if I steal you for a second?”

Jin flashed a grin. “You can try.”

She laughed, leading him to the low wall by the pool. She leaned back against the stone, arms folded loosely, as though she’d already claimed the better position.

“So,” Isla started, “do you always make people laugh that easily, or was that just for me?”

“I’m adaptable,” he said smoothly, folding his arms. “Some people need charm. Some people need jokes.”

“And me?”

He gave a slow smile. “Still deciding if you’re worth using both on.”

She let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Dangerous talk this early.”

“You started it,” he countered, a playful edge in his voice.

They traded lines like cards, testing each other’s timing. She was quick, faster than most, but every so often, over her shoulder, Jin caught sight of you. Hoseok was leaning on the daybed, his arm draped casually behind you. You were smiling, the kind of smile that had weight behind it.

Isla’s voice cut back in. “What’s your worst habit in relationships?”

He tore his gaze away from you. “Getting bored easily,” he answered, watching her reaction.

Her brows lifted, amused rather than offended. “Guess I’ll have to keep you entertained.”

A few minutes later, Jin found Lana perched on the pool’s edge, ankles submerged, idly kicking at the water.

“You didn’t get to finish your terrible date story from earlier,” he said, nodding toward the empty space beside her. “Thought I’d give you the floor.”

She grinned and shifted, making room. “You’re going to love this one. He took me to a restaurant where he clearly knew the waitress, like, really knew her. And not in the ‘old friend’ way.”

Jin leaned back on his hands. “Please tell me you made it awkward.”

“Oh, I did,” she said proudly as she angled her body toward him further. “Ordered dessert for the three of us and asked for extra spoons, and then invited her to join us.”

He barked a laugh, picturing it in his mind. “That’s brutal. I like it.”

They swapped a few more stories, each one more ridiculous than the last, but Jin wasn’t fully anchored in the conversation. Across the pool, you were with Namjoon now, sitting in the shade, your knees pulled up as you laughed at something he’d just said.

Lana’s voice broke through his thoughts. “You’re distracted.”

“Am I?” he asked lightly, though he didn’t deny it.

Her smirk suggested she knew more than she was letting on. “Better hope whoever’s stealing your attention isn’t as interesting as me.”

Jin gave her an easy grin, but his eyes drifted again, just for a heartbeat.

👙

Hoseok caught you before you’d even pushed your chair back in toward the table. 

“Walk with me?” he asked, already angling toward the daybeds without waiting for your answer. 

It wasn’t really a walk–his pace unhurried, like there was nowhere else to be. You ended up on a wide daybed, cushions soft under your legs. He sat close enough that his knee brushed yours when he turned toward you, one arm slung along the back of the cushions, casual but clearly making a statement, his fingers a hairsbreadth from touching you. 

“Be honest,” he said, leaning closer. “Was I your favorite round?”

You smirked. There is just something about him that makes you want to smile. “Cocky, much?”

“I prefer to call it confident.” He leaned a bit closer, head tilted toward you. “And I usually have good instincts about these things.”

“I’m not ranking anyone,” you replied, sipping your drink.

“That’s fine,” he replied, his grin sharpening. “Means I still get to prove it.”

You huffed a soft laugh. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

“Why would I?” he challenged, the answer smooth and sure. “I know what I want.”

There was no hesitation in the way he said it.

He asked about your first impressions of the villa, and you teased him about showing up late.

“You looked calm,” you observed. “Like you’d already scoped the place out.”

“I had,” he admitted without a beat of shame. “Standing outside for a few minutes, watching the game. Figuring out who I’d want to talk to.”

You tilted your head. “And you decided on me?”

The slightest pause–deliberate–before his smile widened. “I decided I’d regret it if I didn’t.”

The villa felt strangely quiet in that moment, even with laughter and splashing somewhere nearby. You were aware of the faint scent of his cologne, the heat of his knee against yours, the way his gaze didn’t drift for even a second. Somewhere in your peripheral vision, Jin was leaning against the pool wall with Isla, but when you looked back at Hoseok, his smile deepened like he knew where he wanted your attention to be.

Later, you were the one doing the pulling.

Namjoon was standing near the kitchen island, idly mixing berries into a bowl of yogurt. You touched his arm lightly. “Come outside with me for a second?”

He followed you to the shaded end of the deck, sitting underneath a neon sign that said ‘Soul Ties.’

“I realized I didn’t ask you anything in our round,” you said. “So, tell me something unexpected about you.”

He thought for a moment, then grinned. “I can juggle.”

“Really?” you asked, skeptical but smiling.

“Badly. But I can.” He mimed tossing something in the air, making you laugh.

“You’re going to have to prove that eventually.”

“Deal,” he said easily. “But only if you promise not to laugh too hard when I drop everything.”

There was an easy, unforced flow to the conversation; things were light and filled with teasing jabs. He told you about his habit of accidentally collecting books faster than he could read them; you confessed you once tried to grow herbs in your kitchen and killed them all within a week.

“I respect the effort,” he said with mock seriousness. “But maybe stick to eating herbs instead of growing them.”

“Noted.”

It was comfortable and warm; the kind of chat that didn’t make your pulse spike but left you smiling. At one point, though, you glanced toward the far side of the pool and spotted Jin sitting at the edge with Lana, his grin tilted in that lazy way that was hard to read. Namjoon followed your gaze, but didn’t comment. Instead, he asked, “So, what’s the one thing you do want to grow here?”

You met his eyes, the question lingering between you. “We’ll see.”

🥽

The sky was dripping in sunset, all bruised purples and tangerine streaks, the kind of backdrop producers loved. Re-emerging from inside the villa, dressed in cocktail attire, the group of people gravitated toward the large lounge area, drinks in hand. Soft lighting illuminated the deck, and the music being piped in through the hidden speakers had been shifted to an easy, lazy beat. 

Jin claimed a corner seat early, sprawling with practiced ease, one ankle balanced on his knee. Tonight, he’d swapped his earlier shirt for a loose cream linen button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the top two buttons undone like he wasn’t even trying. He knew the look worked, and the camera guy hovering near the deck agreed.

From here, he had a clear view of the whole group without appearing to be trying.

Taehyung had everyone’s attention, describing, with far too much hand choreography, the “once in a lifetime” meal he had in Paris. People were laughing, leaning in.

Jin’s gaze skimmed past them, casual… until it landed on you.

You were curled in the corner of the couch opposite, bare legs tucked under you, the soft drape of a light blue slip dress catching the gold of the fairy lights every time you shifted. Hoseok had settled down beside you, wearing a black short-sleeve button-up shirt patterned with small white flowers, open enough to show a hint of his tan skin.

He passed you his drink without hesitation, and you accepted without a second thought.

Jin’s jaw tensed once before he masked it with a sip of his own. Not jealous. Just aware. 

“Favorite thing about the villa so far?” Isla’s voice pulled him back. She’d perched on the arm of the chair, a red dress falling over crossed legs, the fabric brushing his sleeve.

“That it’s big enough to escape bad small talk,” he replied smoothly, a slight sting laced through.

She laughed, nudging his shoulder. “And yet you’re still here.”

“Maybe I’m making an exception.” His tone was even, but his eyes betrayed him for a fraction of a second, sliding past Isla to where Hoseok leaned in close, whispering something that made you laugh into his glass. 

When Isla followed his gaze, her smile shifted. “Ah,” she said lightly, “so that’s where your attention is.”

Jin only smiled. “Observation skills like that could get you far here.”

👙

The cushions dipped as Hoseok slid beside you, the faint rustle of his shirt brushing against your bare arm. He was all easy charm in a black short-sleeve button-up patterned with tiny white flowers, top buttons undone just enough to hint at the warm skin and sharp collarbones beneath.

“You looked like you needed this,” he said, handing you a cold glass.

You wrapped your fingers around it, condensation damp against your palm. “Observant.”

“Always.” His arm stretched along the back of the couch behind you, casual but close enough that the heat of him ghosted against your bare shoulders when you leaned back.

You smoothed the hem of your light, blue slip dress over your thighs, the fabric catching the glow of the fairy lights above. Taehyung’s voice carried across the lounge. His Paris story was absurd enough to make you cover your mouth mid-laugh.

“Good laugh,” Hoseok complimented, eyes lingering on your mouth.

“Neither’s the view,” you replied, lips curving as his smile deepened.

Hoseok didn’t look away, and the weight of his gaze settled low in your stomach. “You know that’s the kind of line that makes me think you’ve already picked a favorite.”

“Maybe I have,” you said with a smirk, “or maybe I just like keeping people guessing.”

He chuckled, low and warm. “Guessing can be trouble. Gives people room to imagine.”

You were about to reply when movement across the deck caught your attention. Jin was still in his corner seat, his cream linen shirt glowing under the lights, as Isla leaned in to say something in his ear. He was smiling–polite, practiced–but his eyes, when they lifted, locked with yours across the noise and chatter. It was only a second, but it was steady, unbroken.

Hoseok noticed the pause. “So,” he said, angling slightly closer, “who’s winning in that head of yours right now?”

Your smirk deepened. “Now, why would I tell you and ruin the suspense?”

“Fiine,” he said, leaning back marginally, but sliding his hand to cup your bare shoulder. “I’ll just work harder.”

You hid your grin behind your sip, feeling the faint hum of adrenaline in your chest. Across the way, Jin’s gaze still hadn’t shifted away.

The conversation around the fire pit drifted from travel stories into the kind of questions that only surface when everyone’s settled in, feeling a buzz, and with nowhere to be.

Taehyung leaned forward, grinning like he’d just thought of something brilliant. “Alright, everyone, name the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever packed for a trip.”

Lana groaned. “Oh no, this is going to expose people.”

Dante went first. “A juicer. Like, a full-on countertop juicer. Used it twice before airport security wanted to fight me.”

Isla shook her head, laughing. “That’s a lot of dedication to pulp.”

Namjoon lifted a hand sheepishly. “A giant coffee table book about endangered birds. It weighs more than my entire wardrobe.”

You blinked. “For…reading?”

“For appreciating the photography,”  he said thoughtfully. “And maybe a little for company.”

Jungkook jumped in before anyone could tease him further. “A portable karaoke mic. Wireless. Echo setting and everything.”

“Please tell me you used it,” Maya said.

“Every single night,” he replied proudly. “And one morning.”

Hoseok grinned.. “Mine’s a little worse. A full suite of matching pajamas for every night of a trip. Like, button-up silk sets. Three colors.”

You laughed. “Do you plan to wear them here?”

“Not yet,” he said, eyes glinting. “ But maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll get to see them. And if you’re nice, I’ll even let you feel them.”

All eyes turned toward you. You smoothed your dress over your hip, feeling the heat of the attention. “A glittery water bottle shaped like a pineapple. It leaks. I still love it.”

“That’s commitment,” Jin inserted, leaning forward slightly.

“Alright, Mr. Perfect,” Taehyung said. “Your turn.”

Jin didn’t blink. “A framed photo of myself.”

Yuri stared. “That has to be a joke.”

“No,” he said, grinning. “In case anyone forgets who the best-looking person in the villa is.”

The group broke into groans and laughter. You shook your head, and over your glass, you caught his gaze. He winked.

Once everyone answered, Taehyung sat back, clearly pleased with the chaos he’d created. “Yup. I’m going to start making this a daily thing.”

With that declaration, folks splinter off and head to different parts of the outdoor area. Lana and Dante drifted toward the balcony, Taehyung hooked Isla into helping him hunt for snacks in the kitchen, and Namjoon ended up with Jungkook by the pool, debating whether the inflatable swan counted as furniture.

You stayed on the couch, idly running your finger along the condensation on your glass. Hoseok shifted, moving a little closer as he turned toward you, his knee now resting solidly against your thigh.

“So,” he said, voice low enough that it felt separate from the ambient noise around you. “Do you always steal the spotlight like that?”

You gave him a look. “Pretty sure you and your silk pajama confession got just as much attention.”

He smiled slowly. “Maybe. But I noticed more people were watching you than laughing at my joke.”

It was smooth, and you felt the warmth creep onto your cheeks before you could stop it.

Before you could reply, movement caught your attention. Jin had skirted around the fire pit and slipped into the empty spot next to you. He leaned back, close enough that you caught the faint scent of his cologne.

“Am I interrupting?” Jin asked, his tone playful and teasing, which could be interpreted as either polite or pointed.

Hoseok’s smile didn’t falter. “Not at all. We were just about to swap more travel stories.”

Jin’s gaze flicked between you and Hoseok, lingering half a second too long on the way Hoseok’s arm was curled around you. “Sounds…cozy.”

“It’s called conversation,” Hoseok said, still smiling, but his tone had a playful bite.

You raised a brow. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of travel stories now.”

“Jealous?” Jin let out a soft laugh, shifting slightly closer and resting his hand on your thigh right above your knee. “No. Just making sure you’re getting the full villa experience.”

Hoseok glanced up at him, his smirk tightening at the edges. “She’s in good hands.”

“Are you?” Jin asked you, and this time the question was pointed enough to shift the vibe in the air.

You felt your own smile tug wider despite yourself. “I think I can decide that for myself, thanks.”

“That’s fair,” Jin said, eyes still resting on you. “But if you ever want the upgraded experience…”

Hoseok’s hand tightened ever so slightly where it cupped your shoulder. “You’d have to convince her it’s worth the switch.”

Jin’s lips curved, not backing down. “Oh, I plan to.

Neither of them broke eye contact, the moment stretching until you awkwardly laughed, the abrupt sound just enough to break the tension without dissolving it entirely. But you could feel the gauntlet that had been thrown down.

Before either of them could push further, Maya’s voice rang out from near the bar. “Hey! You guys need to see this. Dante found something!”

You turned to spot Dante holding a bright orange envelope, as if it were radioactive. Jungkook was beside him, already trying to pry it open, grinning like a kid about to break the rules. 

“It was under one of the beanbags,” Dante said, looking half-amused, half-suspicious. “And it says Villa Secrets in big letters.”

“That’s either amazing or terrifying,” Maya said, tucking her hair behind her ear, “and either way, we’re opening it.”

Around you, everyone began to gather in lazy groups around the white bar. Hoseok stood first, extending a hand to you without hesitation.

You took it, feeling the easy strength of his grip as he pulled you up. Jin fell into step on your other side, his arm brushing yours in a casual, but not accidental, way.

Neither man spoke, but their awareness of each other was sharp enough to feel like static in the air.

By the time you reached everyone else, Jungkook had already ripped open the envelope and unfolded the card inside. His grin turned wicked. “Oh yeah,” he said, glancing around the circle forming, “this is gonna stir things up.”

Jungkook held the card up as if it were a sacred text. “Alright. Villa Secrets is simple. The producers have sent us anonymous confessions about the people in this villa. We read one out loud, then the group has to guess who it’s about.”

“Sounds like trouble,” Maya said, grinning.

“The best kind,” Yuri countered, settling onto a barstool.

Jungkook’s phone chimes. Flipping it open, he read, “This person once pretended to be fluent in Italian for an entire date.”

Dante immediately pointed at Maya. “That’s you.”

Maya laughed. “No, but I’m impressed. Who was it?”

“Guilty,” Yuri admitted, hand raised. “I knew how to say help, thank you, and pizza. That was it.”

The group laughed. Someone else’s phone chimed. Taehyung straightened up, pulling his phone out. “This person once took over 200 selcas before picking one to post.”

The group groaned and laughed before anyone guessed.

“That’s Jin,” Maya said, shaking her head.

Jin shrugged. “Two hundred and six, actually. You can’t rush art.”

“This person got banned from a hotel for trying to adopt the lobby’s parrot.” Dante read out from his phone.

“Leo,” several people said at once. 

Leo grinned sheepishly. “It liked me first. I was just returning the energy.”

The following few confessions drew a mix of groans and laughter. Dante once accidentally mooned a crowd while cliff diving, Maya had broken her wrist during a drunken conga line, and Jungkook had been caught crying over a cartoon finale. 

Hoseok’s phone chimed next. “This person once got caught sneaking into a wedding for the free cake.”

“Lana,” you offered.

Lana sighed dramatically. “The cake was average. The champagne, however…” She trailed off with a mischievous smile.

It’s your turn next. “This person travels with their miniature disco ball.”

“Taehyung.” Jin inserted without hesitation.

Taehyung grinned. “Never know when a dance floor might break out.”

Then Isla read one that shifted the air. “This person once kissed someone less than an hour after meeting them, and it happened on this very island.”

The group erupted instantly. 

“No way!” Maya gasped.

“That’s fast work,” Dante said, laughing.

“Too fast,” Yuri chimed in, “unless it was a dare.”

“Or unless it was them,” Leo said, his eyes darting between you and Hoseok.

That earned a fresh round of goading. Maya leaned forward. “Wait. You two have been looking awfully chummy…”

Hoseok didn’t break his smile. “I’m flattered, but I’m not saying a word.”

“That’s suspicious,” Jungkook said, pointing at him.

“Suspicious would be denying it too fast,” Hoseok replied easily, his gaze sliding to you for a heartbeat before he looked away.

You raised your hands in mock innocence. “Don’t look at me. I’ve barely had time to unpack.”

“Sure,” Maya drawled, but she was grinning.

Across the circle, Jin leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Feels like someone’s dodging the question,” he said lightly, though his eyes didn’t leave Hoseok.

“That’s the game,” Hoseok said, his tone smooth.

Jungkook tapped his fingers against the bar. “The producers say we’re not allowed to reveal the answer. Guess we’ll have to keep an eye on you two.”

Yuri sat forward, looking at her phone. “This person says they’ve already got their eye on someone in the villa, but they haven’t made a move yet.”

The circle immediately lit up with guesses. “It’s Jin,” someone called out. “Definitely Jin.”

“Or Hoseok,” Maya countered.

“Or her,” Yuri challenged, gesturing in your direction with a sly grin, making everyone laugh.

You held your hands up. “Why am I suddenly a suspect?”

Jin’s smile was slow. “Why aren’t you denying it?”

The group oohed. Hoseok chuckled low. “Guess we’ll have to wait and see.”

Jungkook played a small drumbeat against the bartop. “Game over, people... Go cause trouble somewhere else.”

🥽

The game broke apart in a swirl of laughter and teasing. People scattered: Lana dragged Yuri toward the kitchen, Leo headed for the pool with Dante, and Jungkook raided the fridge with Isla.

Hoseok lingered close to you, and Jin could see the intent in his body language that I’m about to pull you for a chat move. He’d done it enough times himself to recognize it a mile away. 

Not tonight.

He stepped in before Hoseok could get a word out, sliding into your space with a grin like this was the most natural thing in the world. “Walk with me?”

Your brows lifted, but the corner of your mouth tugged upward. “Where to?”

“Somewhere more private,” he said, and when you laughed, he counted that as his first win. He caught the flash of Hoseok’s expression out of the corner of his eye as you nodded and fell into step beside him.

They crossed the deck, the low hum of conversation fading behind them, until they reached the far end of the villa–a quiet nook with a view of the ocean, lit only by the glow from the pool and the moon overhead. 

“Better,” Jin said, leaning one shoulder against the railing. “No one here to throw accusations about who kissed who.”

You smiled faintly, arms folding. “You’re still thinking about that round?”

“Thinking?” His gaze dropped, then came back up to meet yours. “No. Just making sure no one else gets to write our version of the story.”

Your laugh was softer this time, but it lingered. “And what version is that?”

He tilted his head. “The one where we actually get to talk without ten people shouting guesses in the background.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the faint rush of the tide below and the occasional burst of laughter from the firepit. Your eyes held his just long enough for him to feel the pull in his chest. 

He stepped closer, not enough to crowd, but enough that the space between you suddenly felt smaller. “You have this look,” he said quietly, “like you’re already deciding whether I’m worth the trouble.”

“Am I wrong to?” you asked, voice low.

He smiled slowly. “That depends. Do you like trouble?”

Your breath caught, just barely, and he noticed—the kind of detail he never missed. 

For a beat, the air between you was thick with something unspoken. He could have leaned in right then, closed the gap. But instead, he let the moment hang, just long enough to make it clear that if anything happened, it wouldn’t be by accident.

“Careful,” you murmured, though your tone wasn’t warning so much as daring.

“Not really my style,” he murmured.

Your lips curved into a small, knowing smile, and that was all the invitation he needed.

He closed the last few inches, the faintest brush of his mouth against yours at first, testing, giving you room to pull back if you wanted to. You didn’t. Instead, angled toward him, your breath warm against his cheek before your lips met fully. 

The kiss was unhurried but sure, his hand lifting to rest at the side over your neck, thumb brushing along your jaw as if he wanted to memorize the shape of it. The distant noise of the villa faded entirely, just the quiet rhythm of the tide somewhere below. His fingers flexed along your neck as you leaned in, angling your head further, inviting him to deepen the kiss. 

An invitation he readily accepted, a hand curved around your hip and pulled you closer. Your torsos aligned from shoulders to hips as he teased his tongue along the seam of your lips, smirking when he felt your breath catch in your throat.

With one last nip to your lip, he drew back, but didn’t move far.  He rested his forehead against yours. “See?” he said softly. “Much better without an audience.”

Your laugh was breathless, the air buffeting his cheeks, your hands running lightly up and down his arms.

Before anything more could be said, a burst of noise from over by the firepit broke the pocket of quiet you’d carved out. Jin stepped back slowly, reluctantly, his hands sliding away.

“Guess we should get back before they send a search party,” he quipped, though the grin tugging at his mouth told you he had no regrets about being found like this.

👙

The sound of the firepit chatter was still distant when you started walking back with Jin, but the kiss was closer–right there, in the lingering warmth along your lips, in the faint tingle at your jaw where his thumb had been.

He walked beside you like nothing was out of the ordinary, one hand in his pocket, the other brushing against yours just enough to remind you it was there. It wasn’t accidental. Jin didn’t do accidental.

“Back in one piece,” he said lightly, as though you’d just returned from a supply run instead of slipping off to make out under the moon. 

You huffed a laugh, but your mind was still replaying the slow lean-in, the way he’d said ‘Much better without an audience.’ That line was going to live in your head rent-free whether you like it or not.

The glow from the firepit grew stronger, voices sharpening into distinct conversations. You spotted Hoseok almost immediately, leaning back on the daybed, laughing at something Maya had said. Before you could look away, his eyes cut toward you the second you stepped into the light.

They lingered there.

Your pulse jumped. You weren’t sure if it was guilt, satisfaction, or something in between, but you didn’t look away until Jin’s voice pulled your attention back.

“Want a drink?” he asked, already steering you toward the bar.

It wasn’t lost on you that this meant walking past Hoseok. Not a coincidence. Not with Jin.

🗣️

“I wasn’t expecting that tonight. At all.”

You pause, pressing your lips together for a second, like you can still feel his there. “It’s not like I didn’t see it coming. Jin’s been circling all day, but there’s a difference between teasing someone and actually doing something about it.”

You glance off camera, like you’re checking if the producers are going to push you for details. “And okay, yeah, I kissed him back. I wanted to. He’s confident. In a way that’s annoying and unfairly attractive at the same time.”

A small laugh slips out before you shake your head. “But it’s been, what? A few days? Less? And now Hoseok’s here, and he’s…” You trail off, leaning back in the chair. “He’s different. In contrast, Jin is cocky and self-assured. Hoseok… I don’t know… is bold.” You shake your head. “I don’t have the word, but there is just this magnetism about him, and I want to explore that too. And I know Jin has noticed.”

You tap your fingers lightly against the armrest, thinking. “So now I’m wondering if Jin is just trying to win? Or was that kiss something more than strategy? Because if it was a strategy…”

You smile faintly, almost to yourself. “He’s playing a risky game.”

~Cut.~

The sun was already streaming across the villa deck by the time you padded into the kitchen, still damp from the shower. Your skin glowed from the body moisturizer that was laced with the fairest hint of gold rubbed into your skin—a shine that complemented your dark green monokini you had donned. The smell of coffee hung in the air, and the sizzle of something frying came from the stove. 

Jin was at the stove, flipping an omelet in the skillet with one hand–such a show-off–while sipping from a mug filled with steaming coffee. Of course, he looked like a cooking show host–even in loose grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt, hair a little mussed.

“Morning,” he said as he spotted you stepping into the open-air kitchen. He didn’t disguise the obvious once-over he gave you, and you couldn’t deny the warmth that made your skin tighten just a little. “I didn’t want to wake you when I got up, but didn’t think you’d sleep this late.”

“Threat or promise?” you asked, heading toward the fridge.

“Promise,” he said without missing a beat, and the corner of his mouth curved like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Before you could fire back, Hosek’s voice came from the entryway. “Thought I’d missed breakfast duty.” He stepped in barefoot, hair swept casually back, wearing another loose linen shirt half-buttoned and shorts.

Jin didn’t turn, but you caught the tightening in his shoulders. “There’s still plenty to do,” Jin said, a little too cheerily.

Hoseok smiled, and before passing you, he curled his arm around you and pulled you in for a hug. The hug felt like a warm blanket and, for some reason, seemed just right. He started to pull back, but before stepping away, he pressed his lips to your cheek, leaving a soft kiss. 

“I’ll handle the coffee. You look like you need the good stuff.” Hoseok teased. 

You opened your mouth to answer, but your brain had stuttered to a stop, fixating on the lingering feel of his lips against your cheek. He was already at the coffee maker before your brain kicked back into action. Your cheeks were warm with heat as Jin cracked an eggshell a little too hard. 

The three of you moved around each other in the kitchen, the conversation artificially light, but the awareness thick enough that you didn’t miss how both of them kept angling toward you–one with his quick wit and sideways glances, the other with quiet attentiveness. 

By the time everyone else trickled in, you were already wondering how much was about you, and how much was about them trying not to blink first.

The kitchen had been a slow dance around mugs and plates; Jin slid an omelet in front of you, Hoseok set coffee by your hand, both of them making a point of being in your space without colliding. 

You’d kept your head down, smiling where it seemed safe to smile, but there was no missing the way Jin’s tone had shifted when Hoseok joined you, or the way Hoseok’s laugh kept landing a little too close to your ear.

When the others drifted in, the moment finally broke. You stood, carrying your mug toward the daybeds to escape the bustle, but Hoseok was already leaning against the doorway, waiting.

“Come with me for a minute,” he said quietly. Hoseok seemed to be making a habit of not asking, but rather telling you what you were going to do.

You hesitated just long enough to catch Jin glancing over from the stove. He didn’t call after you, but the flicker in his expression said he’d noticed. 

Hoseok led you past the pool, with a hand on your lower back, down the side path to the corner of the garden where the cameras still reached, but the others’ chatters didn’t. The bench was warm in the morning sun, and he waited for you to sit before taking the spot beside you.

He stretched one arm along the backrest, turning enough that his knee rested on your thigh. “You and Jin seem… comfortable.”

You cocked your head. “You sound jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” he said. And it was true in the way he said–calm, confident. “I just don’t like wasting time.”

You blinked. “Time doing what?”

His lips curved slowly. “This.”

Before you could respond, his hand slid from the backrest to the side of your neck, fingers curling just enough to hold you without pressure. He didn’t lean in all at once, just enough so you could feel the edge of his breath against your cheek, so you knew exactly what was about to happen.

Your pulse spiked. You should’ve leaned away, but you don’t.

He closed the gap, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that was nothing like Jin’s. No slow build, no testing the waters–just a smooth, sure claim, his other hand bracing against the bench beside your thigh.

The world shrank to the heat of his mouth and the faint scrape of stubble along your skin. When he pulled back, it was by inches, his thumb brushing once along your jaw before he let go entirely.

“See?” he said, his voice low, almost conversational. “Not jealous. Just making sure I’m not standing still while someone else moves ahead.”

Your breath was still uneven, and you hated that he could probably tell. “That’s one way to put it.”

He leaned back, the faintest glint of amusement in his eyes. “It’s the only way I know how to move.”

🥽

He hadn’t been looking for her.

Not really.

That was what he told himself as he drifted out of the kitchen, mug in hand, pretending he was stretching his legs. The others were inside. Bianca was trying to convince Jungkook to eat something green, and Yuri was perched on the counter—easy noise to walk away from.

The garden path was quiet, just the sound of the pool filter humming. Then he turned the corner and saw them.

You were sitting back on the bench. Hoseok leaned in, one hand at her neck, the other braced against the seat like he owned the whole damn thing. The kiss wasn’t extended, but it was long enough. Enough to make Jin stop mid-step.

For a half-second, his brain took a snapshot: the angle of Hoseok’s head, the way her fingers curled faintly against the bench. Then the heat hit–a low, quick burn in his gut–and he made himself move before they noticed him standing there.

He cleared his throat loudly enough. “Morning cardio?”

They broke apart, and he caught the faint flush along her cheek. Hoseok didn’t move far, just sat back with that easy smile that made Jin’s hand itch.

“Something like that,” Hoseok said.

Jin smiled. “Should’ve said. I’d have brought a stopwatch.”

He kept walking before either of them could answer, but he knew the cameras had caught it; the smile, the line, the way he gripped his mug just a little too tightly.

🗣️

“So…” He leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms loosely. “I took a walk in the garden this morning, thinking maybe I’ll check the weather, maybe I’ll find a nice quiet spot for me to finish my coffee.”

He grinned, all teeth. “Turned out the weather’s fine. Sunny. Warm. Bit of a breeze. And apparently, very romantic, because guess who I found making use of the scenery?”

He held up a finger, pointing at himself. “Not me.”

The grin stayed, but his tone shifted just a hair. “Look, it’s the villa. People are going to talk, they’re going to… mingle.” His hands made a vague gesture. “But there’s mingling, and then there’s… whatever that was. And if someone’s trying to run up the scoreboard after only a few days, well–”

He tipped his head, that slow, knowing smile curled back into place. “Game on.”

~Cut.~

👙🗣️

“I don’t really know what to do right now.”

You let out a breath that turned into a laugh, but it’s short and uneven. “Because yesterday–literally yesterday–Jin kissed me. And that was… good. Like, scarily good. He’s funny, he’s confident, he’s been making it very clear that he’s interested.”

You shifted in the chair, tucking your hair behind your ear. “And then this morning, Hoseok pulls me–right after breakfast, like he didn’t waste a second– and he kissed me. Completely different. No slow lead-up, no teasing. He just went for it. And I kissed him back.”

Your gaze dropped for a moment, and you smiled faintly to yourself. “I don’t think I’m the type to play both sides, but it’s hard to ignore that I’m attracted to both of them for completely different reasons.”

You glanced back toward the camera. “The problem is, they both know it now. And if they’re as competitive as I think they are…” You shook your head, lips pressing together. “This is going to get messy.”

~Cut.~

By late morning, most of the villa had gathered around the pool. Sun loungers were scattered with towels, music drifted from the speakers by the bar, and someone had dumped a tray of fruit and pastries on a nearby table.

You claimed a spot on one of the loungers, sunglasses sliding into place as you stretched out. Hoseok was already there, leaning against the backrest next to you, legs stretched long. He’d changed into a white tank and swim shorts, and the sun caught on the gold chain around his neck.

It was an easy conversation, light and teasing, until Jin strolled over.

He carried a glass of something iced, condensation running down the side, and dropped onto the empty lounger on your other side. He didn’t say anything at first, just tipped his sunglasses down enough to glance at you before pushing them back into place.

“Comfortable?” he asked, tone smooth and even, but there was a weight under it that made your skin warm.

“Very,” you said, trying not to shift under the attention coming from both directions. 

Maya wandered past with Yuri in tow, slowing just enough to clock the seating arrangement. “Ooh,” she said, drawing out the syllable. “Cozy corner over here.”

Yuri smirked. “Triangle corner, more like.”

“Funny,” Jin said, not looking away from you.

Hoseok’s smile didn’t flicker. “Depends who’s laughing.”

It was subtle, the way the air shifted; the kind of change you felt more than saw. Even Bianca, draped over the daybed across the pool, glanced up from her phone.

You reached for your drink, primarily for something to do, and tried to steer the conversation in a less obvious direction. “So what’s the plan for the day?”

“Whatever you want,” Jin said.

“Same,” Hoseok added, his knee brushing yours. 

You were starting to think Maya’s and Yuri's “triangle corner” comment might end up being the understatement of the summer. 

The villa chatter bubbled around you. Jungkook argued with Leo about whether the pool was cold, and  Yuri was trying to teach Maya a clumsy bit of choreography by the kitchen. And you were in your corner with two very competitive men.

The tension was palpable, like an impending storm on the verge of breaking.

Namjoon wandered over from the bar, drink in hand, sunglasses perched on top of his head. He stopped just short of your loungers, taking in the sight of you wedged between Jin and Hoseok.

“Alright,” he said slowly in that way people do when they’re about to stir the pot on purpose, “So which  one of you is actually winning here?”

The words landed like a bomb. Conversations nearby dipped, and a couple of heads turned.

“Winning what?” you asked, feigning cluelessness.

Namjoon smirked. “Please, I’ve been here long enough to see the–” he gestured vaguely between the three of you”--vibe.”

Jin's mouth curved, but his sunglasses hid his eyes. “Pretty sure the only competition is who makes the better omelet.

“Or coffee,” Hoseok added smoothly.

“Or who gets pulled first,” Namjoon countered, clearly enjoying himself.

You could feel the subtle shift of Jin’s arm on his lounger–not touching you, but closer than it had been a moment ago. Hoseok, meanwhile, didn’t move, just let his knee stay pressed lightly against yours like he was making a point.

Maya’s voice floated over from her spot near the pool. “If this is the triangle corner, I want front-row seats when it turns into a soap opera.”

“Wouldn’t that be giving the people exactly what they want?” Jin asked, his voice calm, almost bored.

Hoseok’s smile ticked upward. “Depends on who the people are rooting for.”

You took a long sip from your drink, hoping the sunglasses hid the fact that your pulse was doing double-time. This wasn’t subtle anymore, and judging by the looks being exchanged across the pool, the whole villa knew.

🥽

The first ping came from somewhere near the firepit. A beat later, Yuri’s voice rang out: 

“I GOT A TEXT!”

The villa stilled. Even Jungkook resurfaced from the water where he was swimming in the deep end. 

Yuri cleared her throat, reading in a mock-serious tone: “Islanders, tonight there will be a recoupling. The girls will choose which boy they want to be paired with. The boy who is left single will be dumped from the villa. #GirlsChoice #PackYourBags.”

Laughter, nervous whoops, a few strategic disappearances for “quick chats.” Jin didn’t move. His gaze had already found you across the deck–head tipped toward Maya, smile in place, shoulders set a little tighter than usual. Hoseok was nearby, relaxed as a picture, watching without appearing to be watching.

The afternoon blurred into the soft click of plans setting. When the sun slid low, the villa transformed into two worlds: the girls’ dressing room, bright with mirrors and perfume, and the boys’ room, a cooler hum of cologne and quiet adjustments. Jin stood at the mirror, fastening cuff buttons on a dark shirt, the linen lying clean across his broad shoulders. In the reflection, Jungkook is smoothing his hair for the third time, Namjoon fixing a watch he didn’t need, Leo spritzing cologne and walking through it like mist. Taehyung rolled his sleeves with a casual precision; Dante practiced a grin that didn’t quite land. Hoseok leaned against the wall, loose and unreadable.

A glimpse through the open door caught Jin off guard–Isla gliding past in a slip of champagne silk; Bianca’s braid falling over one shoulder; and then your earrings catching the light, dress skimming the line of her thigh. He looked away before he had to admit he’d been staring.

They filed to the fire pit as the sky turned violet. Flames licked the air; cameras watched like silent observers. The host stood in the glow, smile even.

“Girls, tonight it’s your choice,” she started. “One by one, you’ll step forward, tell us why, and make your decision. Bianca, you’re up first.”

Bianca’s chin lifted as she stood. “I’d like to couple with someone who surprised me today,” she said, voice steady. “He’s calmer than I expected, but there’s a spark under it.” Her eyes cut to the boys. “Taehyung.”

Taehyung’s mouth crooked, and he walked over to her in a few long strides. Polite applause. A seat taken.

“Lana.”

Lana smiled and stood, a little wicked. “I want the boy who makes everything feel like a caper,” she said. “Leo.”

Leo whooped, because of course, and jogged over. Applause again.

“Yuri.”

Yuri tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “The one who made me laugh until I snorted and then didn’t make it weird.” A breath. “Jungkook.”

Jungkook tried not to grin too big and failed.

“Maya.”

Maya exhaled, then squared her shoulders.”I want to couple up with this boy as he is thoughtful, and he always listens.” Her gaze landed where Jin expected. “Namjoon.”

Namjoon’s relief looked like a smile he tried to hide but couldn’t.

The host turns and gestures to you, signaling that it was her turn.

Jin’s spine straightened before he could stop it.

She stood up, firelight threading gold through her hair. “From the moment he walked in, he was confident without being pushy,” she said, calm but not casual. “He makes me laugh, and I want to see what happens if we give this a real chance.” Her eyes moved past Jin and stayed there. “Hoseok.” 

Hoseok’s grin was wide and bright. He moved toward her in long, eager strides. Without a hint of hesitation, he gathered her in his arms and swept her into a fierce kiss that left them both breathless. Parting, their fingers laced together, and they took their seats. The flame’s reflection ran along the curve of her cheek. Jin let his jaw loosen and kept his face easy. Beneath it, heat pooled low and mean.

“Isla.”

Isla stood up last, silk skimming her knee as she moved. She didn’t rush. “I’d like to couple with someone who makes me laugh and who, if I’m honest, I’d like to peel back a few layers.” Her mouth tilted. “Jin.”

A ripple of noise. He rose, met her halfway, pressed a palm lightly to her back as they turned. He felt Hoseok’s gaze brush him from across the firepit, and he did not look back.

The host waited for the sound to settle. “That leaves one boy single tonight.” She turned. “Dante, you were not chosen. I’m sorry, but your time in the villa has come to an end. You have thirty minutes to say your goodbyes, pack your belongings, and leave.”

For a moment, only the fire spoke. Then cloth rustled as everyone stood. Hugs happened in little bursts–quick and sincere. Dante clapped Jin’s shoulder, made a joke that didn’t land, squeezed Jungkook like a kid brother, and told Yuri to win the whole show for him. And then he was gone down the path, the villa swallowing the sound of his footsteps.

The remaining couples resettled. Bianca leaned in to say something that made Taehyung’s eyes crease. Isla’s perfume lifted when she shifted beside Jin; he kept his posture open, his smile easy.

Across the flames, Hoseok tipped his head toward you to murmur something Jin couldn’t hear.

She gave him a small private smile.

Hoseok looked up and met Jin’s eyes across the fire. He didn’t smirk. He didn’t need to.

“About time, Jin-ssi,” a teasing voice calls as he steps out of his office, pulling the door closed behind him. He glances over his shoulder to see his coworker, Sooyoung, smirking at him. “Finally decided to let yourself take a break?”

“Something like that,” Jin replies, palming his keys. “If anyone asks–”

“I'll tell them you’re unavailable. Completely unreachable.” Sooyoung interrupts, her tone fond but firm. “Please, just forget work exists for a few days.”

“I’ll do my best,” Jin promises, offering a tired but grateful smile. He shoulders his bag and steps past her, heading to the elevator.

“Don’t get eaten by a bear!” Sooyoung calls after him, her laughter following Jin into the elevator.

He quickly crosses the vacant lobby of the tall high-rise that houses dozens of various business offices. He can feel his shoulders visibly relax as he steps out onto the sidewalk and takes a deep breath of fresh air. He tosses his keys into the air, catches them, and heads to his sleek, white CUV in the nearby parking garage. He pulls out of the concrete structure, leaving the few cars behind without a second glance.

The drive to Jimin and Jungkook’s house is short, but traffic makes it feel much longer. It’s late, but this city never sleeps. Jin taps his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel, already feeling the tension ease from his shoulders as the weekend ahead beckons–quiet nights, a crackling campfire, and nothing but the peaceful rhythm of nature.

He pulls into the driveway alongside Jungkook’s pick-up truck, triggering the sensor that turns the porch light on. He slips out of his car just as Jimin steps onto the porch, the light from inside haloing around him. He can’t help his smile as his friend eagerly waves at him. 

Jungkook exits the house, his truck’s keys dangling from his fingers, “Hey, hyung.” 

“Thanks for letting me borrow it. You don’t even know how much I need this.” Jin tosses his keys to Jungkook as Jungkook tosses his at the same time. “Promise I won’t get it too muddy.”

“Make it as muddy as you want. It will give it some personality.” Jimin coyly glances over at Jungkook. “And in the end, I’ll get some eye candy as he washes it clean.”

Jungkook returns Jimin’s look, sidling closer to wrap an arm around the smaller man’s waist. “Then, please, do your worst, hyung,” Jungkook directs to Jin.

With a roll of his eyes and a quip of the tongue, Jin backs toward the dark gray truck. “Happy to be of service.”

Hopping in, he pulls out of the driveway, leaving the other two behind with a wave.

Morning comes with a chirp of birds and rays of sun crossing the expanse of his bedroom. Jin lingers in the shower, taking his time moving through his morning routine before slipping into a pair of black joggers and an oversized white tee.  He shuffles into the kitchen as he straps his watch on, not even needing to really think about the process as he brews a cup of coffee. He stands there for a few moments enjoying the aroma before heading over to where he had already pre-packed everything he needed for his trip. 

He quickly double-checks that he has everything before he steps back over to the full cup of coffee. Leaning back against the counter, he slips his phone into his hand and reviews his list one more time. Feeling fully reassured, he flips over to Instagram, scrolling a bit to catch up on what his social network is up to. 

Tilting his head back, he drains the last dregs of his mug before rinsing it out and setting it on the drainer. He starts hauling camping gear out to the truck parked in front of his townhouse. Humming as he works, he carefully arranges the items to fit them as best as possible. He’s just strapping the tent into place when a long, familiar voice startles him. 

“You always made that look harder than it actually is.”

Jin freezes at the sound of the unseen voice–low, familiar, and painfully unexpected. He tightens the strap one more time before pivoting slowly. His breath hitches as he takes in Yoongi standing a few feet away, hands shoved deep into his pockets. 

“Yoongi?” Jin’s voice wavers before he steadies it, his eyes narrowing slightly in guarded confusion. “What are you doing here?”

Yoongi shifts uncomfortably, eyes fixed intensely on Jin’s. “Honestly, I don’t even know how I got here. I just… I couldn’t stop thinking that something was missing in my life.”

“And you thought you’d find it here, of all places?” Jin asks, voice tinged with disbelief.

Yoongi’s gaze softens slightly, sincere and vulnerable. “No, I thought I might find it with you.”

Jin’s jaw tightens as a complex wave of emotions surges within him. “I’m leaving now, Yoongi. I don’t have time to sit here and figure out whatever the hell it is you’re here for.”

“Please,” Yoongi’s voice drops, quiet and determined. “We need to talk, hyung.”

“Well, then you’ll have to wait, as you can see I’m busy.” Jin snaps, surprising even himself. He starts to turn his back toward his ex-boyfriend, but hesitates, facing him again. “If you’re really determined to talk to me, you can come along. But either way, I’m leaving now.”

Yoongi hesitates briefly, conflict flickering across his face before resolve takes over. With a simple nod, he steps forward and climbs into the passenger side with nothing but the clothes on his back. Jin clenches his jaw, his hand gripping the door handle tightly as he yanks it open. 

He really didn’t think Yoongi would accept the challenge. If he knew anything about his ex-boyfriend, he would have been sure that Yoongi would back down at the thought of spending any lengthy amount of time in the great outdoors. 

Regret pushes back at the peace that he was previously feeling, and he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to get it back as he settles next to the diminutive man already settled in the cab of the truck.

The first thirty minutes pass in silence, heavy and awkward. Jin keeps his eyes trained steadily on the road ahead, gripping the steering wheel tighter than necessary, knuckles whitening with tension. Yoongi, for his part, stares out the window, tracing patterns absently against the passenger-side glass, the sun shifting higher in the sky, warming the cab around them.

“Did you eat breakfast already?” Yoongi’s voice finally breaks through the silence, low and hesitant.

Jin exhales sharply, caught off guard. He spares a glance at Yoongi before turning back to the road. “I’ll eat when we get there.”

Yoongi’s sigh is quiet but noticeable. “Still skipping meals, I see.”

Jin bristles at the observation, fingers drumming restlessly. “Don’t start.”

“Sorry,” Yoongi mumbles after another pause, shifting uncomfortably. “I’m just…trying, Jin.”

The sincerity in his voice softens Jin’s irritation only slightly, leaving space for a grudging, terse response. “Yeah, I know.”

They lapse back into silence, the rhythmic hum of the truck’s engine filling the awkward void between them. The city gradually recedes, giving way to winding mountain roads and dense forest. The tension clings stubbornly between them, an invisible yet palpable barrier. 

After nearly an hour, Jin clears his throat, desperate for anything to fill the uneasy silence. “How long have you been back in town?”

Yoongi shifts again, clearly grateful for any hint of conversation. “About two days. Mostly staying at a hotel, figuring out if I even had the courage to see you.”

Jin’s grip loosens slightly, curiosity slowly beginning to override his lingering resentment, “You could’ve just called.”

Yoongi huffs a small laugh, bitter and self-deprecating. “And said what exactly? ‘Hey, Jin, remember when I left? Turns out that was a mistake. Can we talk?’ Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.”

Jin’s mouth twitches slightly, despite himself. “You never were good at talking, to be fair.”

“Still not,” Yoongi admits quietly.  “But I’m trying now. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Jin doesn’t answer immediately, gaze fixed intently on the road, rays of light slicing across the road between the towering trees. Finally, quietly, he responds, “We’ll see.”

Yoongi’s breath catches slightly, but he nods and sinks deeper into the seat, seemingly accepting Jin’s ambiguous answers for now. The stifling quiet returns, but less suffocating and more contemplative this time. Jin finds himself subtly easing his grip even further on the wheel as the familiar mountain roads lead them deeper into the forest, bringing them closer to confronting whatever truth awaits them at the end of this journey.

Jin finally backs into his pre-assigned campsite after hours of stilted conversation and headache-inducing silence. He quickly clambers out of the truck, sucking in a lungful of crisp moutain air. Not looking back, he shuts the door, maybe a little more forcefully than intended, and rounds the truck bed to start hauling things out.

On the other side, Yoongi exits more slowly, quietly shutting the passenger door. Jin feels Yoongi’s eyes on him, an unreadable weight against his back, but he doesn’t turn around. Instead, he grabs the tent bag, unhooking the strap roughly, frustration still simmering beneath his skin.

“Need help?” Yoongi’s voice drifts hesitantly from a few feet away, cautious and uncertain.

Jin glances up, half-surprised that Yoongi is even offering. He shrugs, trying to appear indifferent. “Sure. You can grab the smaller bags and set them by the fire pit.”

Yoongi nods, approaching the truck bed and peering at the jumble of camping equipment. After a beat, he lifts a piece of equipment, his brows drawn as he turns it over, confused. 

“That’s a camp stove and definitely not one of the small bags I asked you to grab.”

Yoongi scoffs, glaring pointedly at him. “Not all of us grew up doing this. You know that.”

Jin huffs a quiet laugh, the familiarity of their teasing suddenly making his chest ache with memories. He quickly sobers, shaking himself mentally. “Fine, just…hold the stove. That shouldn’t be too hard.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes, holding it with exaggerated care. “Better?”

“Much,” Jin replies dryly and begins transferring the gear out of his truck and setting things in the general area he wants them to end up. Yoongi worries at his lip, watching for a couple of minutes before finally setting the stove down on the wooden picnic table in the center. Quietly, he starts following behind Jin, carting the items he's sure won’t have the perfectionist mad at him.

The silence shifts to Yoongi awkwardly standing there watching Jin unfold the tent poles with practiced efficiency. He moves automatically, slipping the pieces together as muscle memory takes over; the rhythmic clicks serve as a soothing balm against his frayed nerves.

After a long pause, Yoongi speaks quietly, voice barely audible over the nighttime whispers of the surrounding forest. “I missed watching you do things like this.”

Jin’s hands falter, heart stuttering sharply. He swallows thickly, refusing to look up. “Yoongi–”

“I’m not trying to start anything right now,” Yoongi interrupts quickly, voice gentler now. “Just… it feels good. Familiar.”

Jin’s shoulders sag slightly as he secures the tent frame. His voice is quiet but firm. “Familiar doesn’t always mean good, Yoongi. Sometimes it just means comfortable.” 

Yoongi nods slowly, “Maybe. But maybe it also means there’s something worth fighting for.”

The quiet sincerity in Yoongi’s voice sends a tremor through Jin’s chest. He straightens abruptly, avoiding Yoongi’s searching gaze as he grabs the tent canvas. “We should get this set up. It’s getting late, and I don’t want to do it in the dark.”

Yoongi hesitates a moment before silently stepping forward, holding the canvas as Jin instructs him, their fingers brushing awkwardly at times. Jin pretends not to notice the small shivers each accidental touch sends racing up his spine, focusing instead on the task at hand–ignoring the subtle warmth that blossoms in his chest as they quietly set up camp underneath the setting sun.

Once the tent is secured, Jin steps back to inspect their work, nodding in quiet approval. The silence between them has settled into something softer now, less raw but still charged with uncertainty. Yoongi shifts awkwardly next to him, glancing around the campsite.

“Is there something else I can do?” Yoongi asks, voice still hesitant but determined. “Preferably something that doesn’t involve holding a camp stove?”

Jin lets out a small chuckle despite himself, running a hand through his hair. “Can you manage gathering some firewood without hurting yourself?”

Yoongi scoffs lightly, though amusement flickers in his eyes. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good,” Jin murmurs, motioning vaguely toward the tree line. “Find smaller branches, nothing too damp. Stay close enough so you don’t get lost.”

“I’m not a child, Jin-hyung,” Yoongi mutters, though the faint curve of his lips softens the scolding as he moves toward the edge of the clearing.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Jin shoots back dryly, turning away quickly with a faint smile. He busies himself organizing their supplies, unrolling sleeping bags, and preparing the fire pit, welcoming the distraction of simple tasks. 

By the time Yoongi returns with an armful of slightly damp but usable firewood, Jin has arranged their cooking gear, coolers, groceries, camp chairs, and lanterns, making the campsite now cozy in its simplicity. Jin wordlessly accepts the wood from Yoongi, arranging it neatly in the fire pit and quickly lighting a blaze. Flames flicker to life, casting dancing shadows over their tense, tired faces. 

They eat a simple dinner of premade gimbap. Conversation comes sparingly, with careful questions met by guarded responses, each of them cautious not to delve too deeply, too quickly. Eventually, silence takes over again, filled only by the crackling fire and distant rustling of wildlife in the underbrush.

Night falls completely, leaving only the dying flames to cast shadows over the space. Jin shifts in his camp chair and stretches, his bones aching from exhaustion and the emotional weight of the day. “We should get some rest,” he mutters quietly, eyeing the tent hesitantly. 

Yoongi nods, glancing at the small tent, clearly uncertain. “Right.”

The tight space inside the tent feels impossibly small as they settle, each pointedly avoiding the other’s eyes, their bodies stiff with tension. Jin turns away, pulling the sleeping bag over himself, back towards Yoongi, where he lies next to the taller man on a thick pad of folded blankets with the rest piled on top of him. He tries ignoring how Yoongi’s quiet breathing fills the small space, achingly familiar.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours, Jin’s mind refusing to quiet, swirling with unanswered questions and complicated emotions. 

Finally, Yoongi’s voice drifts softly from the darkness behind him, hesitant but weighted with meaning. “Thanks, Jin. For not turning me away.”

Jin swallows hard, heart thudding in the small space between them. “Don’t read too much into it.”

“I’m trying not to.”

Silence stretches. Jin pulls the sleeping bag tighter.

“Goodnight, Yoongi.”

“Night, hyung.”

The simple exchange settles around them, bridging the emotional distance just enough to ease the tension slightly. Eventually, Jin succumbs to sleep, one that’s restless with unending tossing and turning, all because every fiber of his being is aware of Yoongi’s presence mere inches away–his presence painfully familiar.

Jin wakes to muted sunlight filtering through the tent fabric, creating a gentle glow around him. The air is cool, fresh, tinged with the earthy scent of pine and morning dew. He blinks slowly, consciousness coming in waves until the sound of Yongi shifting softly beside him jolts him fully awake. Jin lies still, staring at the tent ceiling, painfully aware of Yoongi’s quiet breathing, too close and yet entirely unreachable. 

“Morning,” Yoongi says, voice low, roughened by sleep.

Jin swallows, throat dry. “Morning.”

Neither moves at first, suspended in the tense, awkward silence of their shared space. Finally, Jin exhales sharply and sits up, rubbing his eyes. “I’ll start breakfast,” he mutters, crawling quickly from the tent, leaving Yoongi behind.

Outside, the brisk mountain air helps clear his head. Jin stretches his stiff muscles, rummaging through his bags to find fresh clothes — a soft thermal shirt, a pair of worn jeans, and a flannel to complete the outfit. He pulls his shirt over his head, the cool breeze sending shivers down his spine. He hears the tent rustle behind him, but doesn’t turn around. 

“I…didn’t exactly think this through,” Yoongi admits quietly, stepping into the open, arms crossed protectively over his chest as he eyes Jin’s neatly organized belongings. “Guess I’ll make do.”

Jin hesitates, then reaches into his bag, pulling out a spare long-sleeved shirt and offering it silently. Yoongi takes it with a murmured thanks, turning away briefly as he swaps shirts, movements cautious and reserved. Jin tries to ignore the fleeting glance at Yoongi’s pale skin and the warmth creeping unbidden onto his cheeks. 

Pushing the unwanted thoughts aside, Jin busies himself preparing breakfast. Soon, the campsite is filled with the inviting aroma of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon. Yoongi sits quietly at the picnic table, hands wrapped around a warm mug, eyes distant. 

It isn’t long before Jin sets aluminum plates onto the wooden surface, laden with an egg and veggie scramble, accompanied by perfectly fried bacon.

They eat slowly, any conversation stilted and sparse, punctuated by awkward silences and cautious glances. 

“So,” Jin finally breaks one of those silences, pushing eggs aimlessly around his plate, “How’s work?”

Yoongi shrugs, gaze fixed on his mug. “Good. Busy, I guess. I produce mostly now, less performing, more background stuff.”

“Sounds like what you always wanted,” Jin replies neutrally, though his chest tightens at the reminder. 

Yoongi meets his eyes briefly before looking away again. 

“What really brought you back, Yoongi?”

Yoongi shifts uneasily, taking a long sip of coffee before answering. When he speaks, his voice is quiet but clear, heavy with vulnerability. “For years, I thought I was doing exactly what I’d always dreamed of. And I was, but every achievement felt emptier than the last. I kept pushing harder, hoping the next project, the next song, would fill whatever void I had. But it never did.” He pauses, eyes now firmly fixed on Jin’s face, unguarded and pleading. “And every time, I found myself thinking about you. About us. I thought maybe I just missed home, missed the familiarity. But it was more than that. I missed feeling whole, feeling understood. And the only time I’ve ever felt like that was with you.”

Jin’s throat tightens painfully, his chest aching from Yoongi’s words. He opens his mouth, then closes it, unsure how to respond. After a long pause, he sighs, running a hand over his face. “You could’ve said something sooner.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me,” Yoongi whispers, eyes dropping to his coffee mug again. “Not after the way things ended.”

Jin studies him silently, caught between resentment and empathy, memories tangling tightly in his chest. Finally, he sets his fork down sharply, the metallic clang echoing loudly through the quiet campsite. He looks across the table, locking eyes with Yoongi–anger, curiosity, and unresolved pain mingling within him.

“You know,” Jin says, voice deceptively calm, “it’s pretty bold of you to just show up here after all this time and say these things, like I’m supposed just to accept them.”

Yoongi bristles at Jin’s tone, lifting his chin stubbornly. “I’m not expecting you to just accept anything. I’m just telling you the truth.”

“Your truth,” Jin corrects sharply, eyes flashing. “A truth you conveniently discovered after leaving me behind.”

Yoongi clenches his jaw, looking away as his fingers tighten around his mug. “I never claimed to have handled things perfectly, Jin-hyung. But we both made choices. I left, but you didn’t exactly fight to keep me.”

“Why would I have?” Jin retorts sharply, bitterness creeping into his voice despite his attempt to hide it. “You were the one chasing something bigger, something better. How was I supposed to compete with that?”

Yoongi exhales harshly, frustration sparking visibly behind his dark eyes. “It wasn’t about bigger or better. It was about doing something that mattered to me. You could’ve come along. We could’ve found a way–”

Jin laughs, the sound harsh and grating, shaking his head in disbelief. “And abandoned my life, my career, just like that? It's not even like you asked, Yoongi. You just assumed I wouldn’t.”

“Because you never gave me any reason to think otherwise,” Yoongi counters heatedly, leaning forward, expression raw. “You always acted like everything you needed was right here. Why would I assume you’d suddenly drop everything for me?”

“Maybe because I loved you,” Jin snaps, voice loud enough to startle birds from nearby branches. He freezes, cheeks heating immediately at the sudden admission, but his gaze remains fixed defiantly on Yoongi.

Yoongi’s eyes widen briefly before he recovers, voice dropping to a strained whisper. “Loved. Past tense?”

“What did you expect?” Jin replies quietly, voice brittle now. “You walked away, Yoongi. You left me here, and now suddenly you’re back, expecting what exactly? That everything would just pick up right where we left off?”

“No, of course not,” Yoongi mutters defensively, gaze dropping away briefly. “But I hoped–maybe–I thought you might still feel something, too.”

Jin swallows painfully, the vulnerable honesty in Yoongi’s voice pulling at him in ways he isn’t ready for. He sighs deeply, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “Do you know how hard it was after you left? It wasn’t just loneliness. It was losing every future we’d imagined together. Every single one.”

“I felt that too,” Yoongi admits softly, hesitantly meeting Jin’s gaze again. “You think I wasn’t miserable? Every success felt meaningless because you weren’t there. I thought achieving my dreams meant something, but it never did–not fully. Not without you.”

Jin shifts uncomfortably, heart pounding as he searches Yoongi’s expression for any sign of dishonesty. Finding none, he sighs, tone turning softer but still wary. “You’ve always been good with words when you need to be, Yoongi.”

Yoongi smiles weakly, voice tinged with a gentle teasing that feels achingly familiar. “And you’ve always been good at pretending you aren’t affected by them.”

Jin scoffs lightly, rolling his eyes, but the corners of his mouth tug upward despite his resistance. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Too late for that,” Yoongi murmurs, leaning back slightly, the tension in his posture softening fractionally. “You’re already smiling.”, 

Jin scowls, though it lacks true irritation, eyes flickering downward briefly before returning stubbornly to Yoongi’s face. “It’s just…it’s complicated, Yoongi. This isn’t something we can fix in one weekend.”

“I’m not asking you to fix anything overnight,” Yoongi replies earnestly. “But I do think it’s worth trying, Jin, at least trying to figure out if this–if us–is still something we both want.”

Jin exhales, hesitating. Vulnerability flickers through his expression, brief and telling. “And if we do try, what happens when things get hard again? Are you just going to run off like before?”

Yoongi flinches slightly, but holds Jin’s gaze steadily. “I wouldn’t make that mistake again. Trust me, nothing out there was worth losing you.”

Jin’s throat tightens painfully, but he doesn’t immediately respond. The silence settles around them again, heavy and charged, broken only by the distant rustling of leaves in the breeze. Finally, Jin speaks softly, voice roughened by emotion. 

“We have this weekend. No promises beyond that.”

Yoongi nods slowly, accepting the fragile boundary Jin has set. “I can work with that.”

They share another quiet look, uncertainty and hope mingling openly between them for the first time since their reunion. Jin returns to his coffee, the warmth steadying his trembling hands as he silently acknowledges that shift that has begun–a careful, tentative step toward something that might be healing, or heartbreak, or perhaps both.

The remainder of the day passes in fragments–small moments that pile atop each other, slowly breaking down the barriers Jin and Yoongi had carefully built over time. 

They hike along a winding trail, Jin leading confidently while Yoongi follows, quietly cursing under his breath each time a low-hanging branch catches him unaware. Jin tries — and fails — not to laugh, the sound soft and bright, echoing through the quiet forest. Yoongi’s feigned annoyance only lasts until Jin reaches back, instinctively offering his hand over a particularly rocky incline. The warmth of Yoongi’s palm against his sends sparks racing up Jin’s spine, lingering even after Yoongi has safely climbed up beside him.

As they rest beside a creek, Yoongi sits with his back against a sturdy tree trunk, silently watching Jin skip stones across the water. The light catches Jin’s hair, and Yoongi’s gaze softens visibly, unguarded affection coloring his expression. Jin turns abruptly, catching him staring. Instead of looking away, Yoongi holds Jin’s gaze steadily, eyes smoldering with quiet intensity, and he feels heat rising to his cheeks. 

Later, once back at camp, they cook dinner side by side over a low-burning fire, their movements slowly syncing into a familiar rhythm. Yoongi tries seasoning the soondubu jjigae, earning a gentle teasing from Jin about his overuse of garlic. Yoongi retorts with a playful jab at Jin’s questionable obsession with overly spicy kimchi. Their laughter intertwines easily, warmth seeping deeper into each exchange, brightening their shared space beneath the stars.

Yet, not everything is smooth. An argument flares unexpectedly, harsh heated words breaking the evening’s calm as Yoongi stubbornly insists he doesn’t need Jin’s help with the firewood. Jin, equally stubborn, reminds him sharply of his lack of experience. 

 “Maybe I just wanted to prove I can be useful.”

Jin’s mouth snaps shut at the quiet admission that Yoongi throws out, frustration evident in his voice. Jin’s irritation fades instantly, replaced by shame, as he quietly acknowledges, “You never needed to prove that to me.”

By the following morning, the careful walls between them have become dangerously thin, each glance lingering a little longer, each accidental brush of fingers igniting deeper longing. Yoongi’s reserved smiles begin to reach his eyes more often, making Jin’s heart ache with recognition of how desperately he’s missed seeing them.

As the sun sets, Jin watches Yoongi from across the campfire, the golden glow casting warm highlights on Yoongi’s features. Yoongi feels the weight of Jin’s gaze and meets it directly, challenge and invitation clear in his dark eyes. The quiet tension between them thickens until it’s almost tangible, crackling around the fire. 

That night, as they crawl into the tent, Jin’s heart pounds loudly, each beat reverberating in his ears. Their bodies settle inches apart, warmth radiating through the layers of polyester and fleece. Jin lies rigidly, hyper-aware, just like the previous night, of Yoongi’s closeness. A new layer of tension coalesced in the air, making his breathing uneven, every nerve on edge.

The silence stretches unbearably long, filled only with the sound of their breathing, rapid and shallow. When Yoongi finally shifts, rolling to face Jin in the dim lighting from the lantern placed in the corner, Jin holds his breath, frozen in anticipation. 

“Jin,” Yoongi whispers, voice hoarse, barely audible.

“Yeah?” Jin answers, equally quiet, pulse racing. 

Yoongi’s fingers brush lightly against Jin’s wrist, hesitant, testing the boundary. “Can I…?”

Jin exhales shakily, feeling every ounce of his resolve crumble beneath Yoongi’s touch. He turns his hand over slowly, letting Yoongi’s fingers thread gently through his own. “Yes.”

That single whispered word breaks the last thread of resistance between them, and suddenly Yoongi shifts closer, their breaths mingling in the scant inches that separate them.

Jin’s heart pounds as he feels Yoongi’s warmth pressing close, realizing just how long he’s wanted this–needed this. The longing, stretched thin by years apart and days of cautious rebuilding, snaps taut between them. 

“Yoongi,” Jin breathes, voice strained with emotion, “please.”

And with that single plea, Yoongi closes the distance completely, pressing their lips together in a kiss filled with desperation, relief, and deep, undeniable need. 

Yoongi kisses him like he’s afraid Jin might disappear again–slow at first, searching, their lips brushing once, twice, before deepening with a kind of quiet desperation that only distance and time create. Jin responds in kind, his fingers tightening around Yoongi’s as he rolls toward him fully, closing the last of the space between them.

Their bodies align naturally, like they’ve never forgotten the way they used to fit. Jin shudders as Yoongi’s hand slides up his arm, over his shoulder, and into his hair, tugging gently as he angles his head to kiss him deeper. Jin parts his lips with a soft sigh, letting Yoongi in, tasting a flood of memories on his tongue.

It’s careful at first, reverent–like they’re relearning each other inch by inch. Jin’s hand finds Yoongi’s waist under his shirt, fingertips grazing skin that is still familiar, warm and firm beneath his touch. Yoongi groans softly into Jin’s mouth at the contact, his hips pressing forward instinctively.

The friction sparks something electric between them, and suddenly, careful turns hungry. Jin slides his thigh between Yoongi’s, pulling him closer, drawing another low, aching sound from deep in Yoongi’s throat. They kiss until it’s not enough–until hands start tugging at clothes in the cramped space of the tent, laughter and breathless curses slipping between them when elbows knock against nylon and zippers snag.

Jin pulls Yoongi’s shirt over his head, dropping it somewhere behind them before pressing his mouth to Yoongi’s throat, teeth grazing a spot just below his ear. “Still run hot,” he murmurs against the skin, tongue flicking out, smiling when Yoongi gasps.

“You talk too much,” Yoongi breathes, fingers fisting in Jin’s shirt before yanking it off with impatient hands.

“Make me stop then,” Jin challenges, eyes dark and playful, and Yoongi surges to meet him–mouth on Jin’s collarbone, then chest, kissing and biting his way down with a focus that leaves Jin dizzy.

Hands roam freely now, rediscovering familiar curves and dips. Jin’s head tilts back as Yoongi mouths at his nipple, teasing until Jin’s hips lift of their own accord. When Yoongi’s hand slips into his waistband, Jin gasps, one hand shooting out to grip the younger man’s lower arm.

“Wait,” Jin pants. Yoongi pulls back immediately, eyes wide, concern flaring. 

“Too fast?” he asks, voice tight, almost afraid.

Jin shakes his head, eyes soft, even as his chest heaves. “No. I just want to see you. All of you.”

Yoongi’s breath catches, but he nods and lets Jin undress him slowly–each movement deliberate, reverent, like unwrapping something fragile. When they’re both bare in the low lantern light, casting shadows around the intimate space, they simply look at each other for a moment, letting the intimacy settle like a weighted blanket over them.

Then Jin reaches for him, guiding Yoongi onto his back before straddling his hips. He leans down, kissing him slowly and deeply, grinding down, teasing them both. Twin shivers work down their spines as insistent pressure keeps their hips pressed together.

Cutting through the moans spilling from Yoongi’s lips, Jin’s wet lips drag across the heated skin of Yoongi’s cheek to tongue at the sensitive skin of Yoongi’s lobe. “Are you ready for more?” he whispers.

Yoongi nods aggressively, “Yes.”

Jin catches the other man’s lobe between his teeth, pulling roughly. “And what do you need to do to get more?” 

Yoongi arches up beneath him, fingers gripping the lithe waist of the man hovering over him. A whine escapes his clamped lips as he tries to pull Jin down on top of him, wanting to feel every inch of his skin pressed against the other’s.

Jin tenses, resisting the pull. “Uh-uh. Good boys know what they need to say to get what they want.”

The skin between his brows pinches together as he scowls, wanting to resist. It’s a test of wills as they stare at each other. Yoongi’s jaw flexes as Jin’s lips curl into a smirk, knowing that the younger man will capitulate.

Like it is being pulled from the depths of his chest, Yoongi utters those magic words. “Please, Sir. I need you. Please use me, sir.” Giving in to the same familiar bedroom dynamic that has always driven them wild.

Jin’s swollen lips spread into a cocky grin. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Yoongi’s cheeks flush pink with heat. “No, Sir. It wasn’t”

Jin leans down, rubbing his nose along Yoongi’s, peppers him with kisses, then seals their lips together. Diving straight in as his hand palms Yoongi’s cock, stroking him slowly, teasingly. Drawing whimpers from the smaller man as he slips his hand up and down with a twist at the end. Time seems to draw out as Jin brings Yoongi to the edge, leaving him panting for more.

Jin shifts away, coming back with a small bottle of lube that he found stowed away in the side pocket of one of his packs. Returning to Yoongi, Jin settles between his spread legs. Slicking up three fingers on his right hand, he slides his other hand along the milky expanse of his…he doesn’t know what to call him, but that doesn’t stop him from gripping the man’s thigh and pressing it back towards his chest.

He teases a digit against Yoongi’s puckered hole, pulling his lip between his teeth as it flutters at the teasing touch. From beneath shuttered lashes, Jin watches Yoongi as he gently, but firmly, presses inside through the tight ring of muscle persisting until his knuckles press to the flesh of Yoongi’s ass. 

Yoongi’s breath shudders out of him, wiggling his hips subtly as he adjusts to the stretch. With a barely heard whimper, Yoongi pleads for more. “Sir, please.”

“I’ll take good care of you, baby.” Jin strokes the length of Yoongi’s thigh and starts prepping him with practiced care. His lengthy fingers, gentle but firm, watching Yoongi’s face twist with pleasure as he stretches around him, breath hitching with every push and curl against his walls. 

Yoongi’s hips twitch as he feels warm breath caress between his legs. Not having any time to brace before the warm cavern of Jin’s mouth engulfs him. A loud moan is wrenched from him as Jin slides down his length in one go.

Each curl of Jin’s fingers accompanied by the sharp suction of his mouth has Yoongi singing a symphony, such a beautiful melody. Jin grips Yoongi’s firmly, fingers bruisingly tight, to keep him where the older man wants him. Despite the rough grip, Yoongi can't stop writhing as he's driven absolutely insane at the pleasure being wrung from him. 

Right as Yoongi is sure that he is going to come down Jin’s throat, Jin withdraws his fingers, and pulls away from his cock with one last lingering suck of his lips. Jin looks down at Yoongi, satisfied with the tears he can see pooling in the corners of Yoongi’s eyes. 

Sitting back on his haunches, he slicks his cock up, adding a hefty amount of lube to himself as he prepares to replace his fingers with something larger. 

“You were such a good boy. I think you deserve a reward, don’t you?” Jin’s heated gaze rakes over the man spread before him. Yoongi looks utterly debauched: face and chest flushed, cock dripping steadily onto the smooth skin of his belly, and his stretched hole fluttering and begging to be filled. He smirks and chuckles low in his throat, as Yoongi hurriedly bobs his head in agreement.

Jin pulls his hips back, the pressure moving away from where Yoongi is desperately needing him. “Uh-huh, what have I always said?" 

Yoongi looks needily up at him, “Good boys use their words." 

“So…?" He trails off.

“Yes, I deserve a reward. I've been such a good boy for Sir." 

Jin smirks. " You're completely right. You have been so good for me.”

When he’s finally sinking into Yoongi, it’s slow, torturous, Yoongi’s name a broken sigh on his lips. They still for a moment, foreheads pressed together, bodies trembling with the weight of being back here, together, like this.

Jin rolls his hips first, testing the waters and encouraged on by Yoongi’s breathy moan. Soon enough, he is setting a rhythm that’s deep and unhurried. Each thrust feeling like a promise, each slide of their lips against each other a confession remaining unspoken. Yoongi’s hands roam over Jin’s back, nails dragging down lightly, breath stuttering with every precise thrust that hits just right. His own body retaliates with a pulsating squeeze of its own, pulling a strangled moan from deep within Jin. 

They move together in sync, gasps and moans filling the small tent, hips slapping softly in the rising heat. 

“You’re doing so well for me,” the hushed words brush against the moist skin of his lips as Jin leans down, catching Yoongi’s lips again, swallowing the whimpers as his pace quickens. 

Every praise Jin worships him with has Yoongi thrashing beneath him, his dark black curls haloing around his head. Unable to hold back any longer,  Yoongi snakes his hand between them, stroking himself in time with Jin’s thrusts, and it doesn’t take long before they are both unraveling–Yoongi falling first, coming with a hoarse cry as his body arches off the ground, clenching tightly around Jin.

Jin is pulled right over the cliff with Yoongi scant moments after, burying his face in Yoongi’s shoulder with a strained moan as pleasure crashes over him in waves. Like his strings have been cut, Jin collapses on top of Yoongi, their heaving chests sticking together adhered together with the sweat and cum spread across their skin. 

They remain like that, for countless minutes, panting and clinging to each other, sticky and sated.

When Jin finally pulls back, he looks down at Yoongi–hair messy, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bruised–and feels something crack open in his chest.

“Still talk too much,” Yoongi mumbles, voice thick with exhaustion and tenderness. 

Jin laughs softly, pressing a kiss to the corner of Yoongi’s mouth. “And you still like it.”

They clean up in silence, exchanging soft touches and half-smiles, neither ready to say what they’re both thinking. They curl into each other, their bodies pressed close together, with the sleeping bag spread fully open beneath them and blankets piled on top of them.

Sleep washes over them, and the sweet words whispered into the dark taper off into quiet, only disturbed by the rustling of leaves and the scurrying of nocturnal animals.

Jin wakes to warmth.

The sun filters through the mesh window of the tent in soft gold ribbons, illuminating the few specks of dust in the air and casting lazy shadows across the fabric walls. But it’s the warmth of Yoongi beside him–skin to skin, leg thrown haphazardly over his thigh, breath puffing softly against his neck–that anchors him.

Jin blinks slowly, not quite ready to move. Not prepared to let go of the weightless feeling that had taken root sometime after they fell asleep.

“I know you’re awake,” Yoongi mumbles sleepily, voice rough and low against his skin.

Jin huffs a quiet laugh. “You always did know.”

Yoongi stirs, but doesn’t pull away. Instead, he props himself up slightly to look at Jin, his eyes soft and searching. “Morning.”

“Morning.” Jin hesitates, unsure of what to say next, of how to name the thing they did last night, what it means now, in the brightness of day. But Yoongi, as always, fills the silence first. 

“Do you regret it?”

Jin exhales slowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling of the tent. “No. I don’t.”

Yoongi nods, but doesn’t smile. “But you’re not sure what it means.”

“That obvious?”

Yoongi shrugs, letting his head fall gently back onto Jin’s shoulder. “We’ve always been terrible at timing.”

Jin hums quietly, fingers brushing against the curve of Yoongi’s back. “Timing isn’t the only thing that matters, though. We hurt each other, Yoongi. That doesn’t just go away because the sex was good.”

“It was excellent,” Yoongi offers with a grin he tries–and fails–to suppress. 

Jin gives him a look but can’t hold back the small laugh that slips out. “Asshole.”

“Still your asshole, if you want,” Yoongi says, smile fading slightly as he adds, “I meant it last night, Jin. Everything I said.”

Jin sits up slowly, drawing his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. “And I’m not saying I didn’t feel something. I did. I do. But it’s been years, Yoongi. We don’t even know who we are to each other anymore.”

Yoongi shifts upright, pulling a hoodie that was discarded in the corner over his head. He grabs for his pants, shimmying into them, fastening them under the oversized hoodie that belongs to Jin.

“So…what do you want?”

“I want to stop pretending like you showing up didn’t shake me,” Jin admits, voice quiet but steady. “But I also want to be sure that whatever this is-whatever we’re doing–it’s not just nostalgia or loneliness. I need it to be real.”

Yoongi nods slowly, then reaches for Jin’s hand, threading their fingers together. “Then let’s find out. Start over, if we have to. Just don’t shut me out.”

Jin watches their hands, thumb grazing across Yoongi’s knuckles. “You really think we can just pick things up again?”

“No,” Yoongi says honestly. “But I think we can begin something new. And maybe this time, we won’t let it fall apart.”

The city feels louder than Jin remembered. 

Or maybe it’s just the contrast; days of wind in the trees and crackling fires replaced by the bustling sounds of a fairly crowded city, the smell of exhaust in the air, the sounds of horns honking, and the buzz of crowds of people going about their lives. 

And yet, his home feels too quiet. Too still.

Until Yoongi clears his throat from the doorway of his bedroom.

Jin turns from the kitchen, blinking in surprise. “You’re still here.”

Yoongi shrugs, awkward in the way only he can be when he’s unsure of his welcome. “You said I could shower.”

“That was an hour ago. I had assumed you left; snuck out without saying anything.”

Yoongi shakes his head. “I got distracted by your bookshelf,” Yoongi says, padding barefoot across the floor, hair still damp. “And…by the idea of being here.”

Jin watches him, arms crossed loosely over his chest, “Here, as in my home?”

Yoongi meets his eyes, serious now. “Here, as in...back in your life. Even if it’s only on the edges at first.”

Jin swallows thickly. The weekend had felt like a bubble – intimate and safe, sheltered from the complications that trailed after it. This…this is real life. And it feels harder to navigate.

“I don’t know what this is yet,” Jin says honestly. “I still have questions. Doubts.”

“I know,” Yoongi replies quietly. “I do too.”

They stand in that uncertainty for a long beat. 

Then Yoongi adds, voice steady, “But I meant it, Jin-hyung. I didn’t come back for a weekend fling or to relive old memories. I came back because I couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever I built without you…it wasn’t home.”

Jin’s chest aches with that familiar pull. He crosses the room slowly, stopping just short of Yoongi. 

“I’m not ready to fall back into old patterns,” Jin states bluntly. “But I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to see what new ones we could make.”

Yoongi nods once, a hesitant smile teasing his lips. “Okay.”

Later, they sit together on the couch, their legs barely brushing, the glow of the TV casting a vivid ambiance across the warm, no longer strained atmosphere surrounding them. Not looking away from the moving picture in front of him, Jin silently turns his hand over until his palm is facing up on the cushion between them. 

Sensing the movement, Yoongi looks down. His breath catching slightly in the back of his throat, his eyes flick to Jin’s, but the older man isn’t even looking at him.

Silently, Yoongi slips his fingers into the empty spaces, inviting him to settle.