Batshit crazy

A dancer can smile through a bad landing, cheat half an inch out of a turn, hold an extension three seconds past the point where the muscle starts begging for mercy. It does not matter. The body keeps records. Give it eight counts and it will tell on you.

People do the same thing. Dancers just use better lighting.

The wings smell like rosin and hot gel and the particular dust that only exists in theaters built before anyone thought to ask what stage floors should be made of.

Sweat, cold cream, the metallic tang of the fly system somewhere above your head.

You come down off the stage still half-inside the performance, the house lights bleeding gold through the gap in the legs behind you, applause collapsing into the low roar of an audience getting up out of their seats, coats, bags, someone's perfume already overpowering the greenroom air before you've even reached it.

Your body is still counting.

It always is, for a while after. Eight counts, eight counts, eight counts, the tempo living somewhere under your sternum long after the orchestra's gone quiet.

You saw it happen from the wings, twenty minutes ago, mid-number — Marisol's landing off the pirouette sequence, the fraction of a second where her weight found the floor wrong. Nobody else would have caught it. The audience didn't. Even half the company didn't, because it was small, and she recovered fast, and recovery is the entire job. But you catch things like that the way other people catch a wrong note in a song they've heard a thousand times. You don't decide to notice. You just do. It's the same instinct that's kept you employed since you were four years old, and the same one that makes you insufferable at dinner parties, according to your mother.

So you don't head for your own dressing room first. You go straight for hers, weaving backstage through the tangle of moving set pieces and stagehands calling clear behind you, letting the muscle memory of this specific building — which door sticks, which hallway is narrower than it looks — carry you there faster than thinking would.

The dressing room is thick with hairspray, sweat, cold cream, and the particular overheated air of an old Broadway theater in December. Around you, the company is dismantling the evening version of themselves. Wigs come off. Makeup disappears beneath cleansing balm. Someone has connected a phone to the speakers and turned the music up loud enough to compete with three separate conversations about where everyone is going after the show.

Marisol is halfway through removing her eyelashes when you find her, one still attached, the other pinched between two fingers, leaving her face in a state of interrupted symmetry. She doesn't look up. She knows exactly why you're standing in her doorway, and she is, visibly, hoping you'll let it go anyway.

You don't.

"Your ankle."

Marisol stops halfway through removing her eyelashes. One is still attached, the other pinched between two fingers, leaving her face in a state of interrupted symmetry.

"What about my ankle?"

"It's swelling."

"It is not."

You look at her. Just look, the flat, unhurried kind of look that has ended more arguments in this dressing room than actual words ever could.

She looks down. Her left ankle has already started pushing against the satin ribbon of her shoe.

"Okay," she says. "It is doing something."

"It's swelling."

"You make everything sound so judgmental."

"Your ligaments don't care about my tone."

You crouch in front of Marisol before she can object, press two fingers carefully along the outside of her ankle, and watch her face.

She flinches. The wince is small and involuntary, gone almost as fast as it arrives, but you clocked it before she could smooth it over.

"You're icing it."

"I'm going dancing." Marisol says it lightly, like the matter's already settled, already reaching for her other eyelash as if the conversation is over.

"You have just spent two and a half hours dancing."

"That was employment. This is different." She says it with her particular cheer, because she knows she's losing and has decided charm is her best remaining strategy.

"You're icing it."

Marisol studies you for a moment, head tilted, weighing the likelihood that she can win this conversation. She has known you for seven weeks. She knows better. Something in her shoulders drops half an inch — the tell-tale give of someone conceding before they've said so out loud.

"You're very controlling for someone who claims not to care about people." It comes out fond despite itself, an accusation with no real heat behind it.

"I have never claimed that." Flat. Immovable. You don't even look up from where you're already reaching for the ice pack.

"You imply it with your face."

"That sounds like a personal interpretation." One eyebrow lifts, just slightly. The closest thing you offer to amusement when you're busy winning an argument.

You rise and take an instant ice pack from the emergency drawer beneath the makeup counter. You crack it against your palm and hand it to her. She accepts it with a sigh dramatic enough for the mezzanine, head tipping back against the mirror like she's been asked to give up a limb rather than twenty minutes of her evening.

"Twenty minutes," you say. "Then compression. If it hurts tomorrow, you tell stage management before warm-up."

"Yes, Mom."

"Your mother would let you go dancing?"

"My mother likes me."

You turn away before she catches the smile pulling at the corner of your mouth. You are not in the business of confirming that you have a sense of humor. It ruins the effect.

Behind you, someone calls your name.

A girl is hovering near the dressing-room door with a program held against her chest like a shield. She cannot be older than sixteen, although the severe bun and the posture say she has been attending ballet classes long enough to have been told that standing normally is a moral failure.

"Sorry," she says immediately. "I know you're probably busy."

You are. You are also still wearing half your stage makeup and one false eyelash. There is a bruise forming beneath your right knee, your toes are numb, and you have approximately eleven minutes before the stage door becomes crowded enough to make leaving unpleasant.

You put the ice pack more firmly against Marisol's ankle anyway.

"What's your name?"

The girl blinks, startled that you asked. "Sophie."

"Hi, Sophie."

She exhales like you have granted her something enormous.

"We studied A Study in Blue at my summer program," she says. "The Vienna recording. I've watched your solo. I don't know, probably fifty times."

"It was better by closing night."

Her face falls, just slightly, the specific crumple of someone who came here hoping for a moment and is worried she's already ruined it.

You soften the statement before she can mistake accuracy for rejection.

"The company filmed the second week. We were still finding it." You gesture toward the program, your tone gentler now than it was with Marisol, something in Sophie's careful posture makes you want to be careful back. "Do you dance?"

"Ballet. Mostly." She says it almost apologetically, like she's bracing for the answer to matter more than it should. "But I want to do contemporary."

"Then do contemporary." You say it simply while you sign her program, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, because to you it is.

"My teacher says I should wait until my classical technique is stronger." Her eyes drop to the program now in her hands when she says it, the specific shame of a kid repeating a rule she doesn't actually believe in.

"Your teacher is afraid you'll enjoy yourself."

Marisol snorts behind you, ice pack still pressed to her ankle, entirely too delighted by the way you just detonated a stranger's ballet teacher in four words.

Sophie's mouth twitches, caught somewhere between a laugh and asking permission for one, her eyes flicking to you like she's checking whether it's safe to find you funny.

"Keep the ballet," you tell her. "It gives you somewhere solid to push from. But don't wait for someone else to decide you're ready to move differently."

You hand it back. Sophie thanks you three times before disappearing into the corridor, clutching the program the way people clutch things they intend to keep for a very long time.

Marisol watches you over the top of the ice pack.

"What?"

"Nothing." Marisol's mouth is doing something it clearly doesn't want to do, pressed flat to keep from spreading into a full grin, and failing.

"You're looking at me." You say it without turning fully around, aware of her eyes on you anyway. You always are.

"I'm looking at the cold, terrifying woman who just changed a teenager's life while wearing one eyelash." The grin wins. It spreads slow and unguarded, the kind she'd deny giving you if you called her on it, one hand still pressed to the ice pack like she's forgotten it's there.

"Her life will survive the interaction." You keep your face carefully unmoved, but there's something at the corner of your mouth that gives you away completely — the two of you speaking a whole conversation neither of you is willing to say out loud.

"Come out with us."

"No." No hesitation. No glance up.

"You didn't even pretend to consider it."

"I considered it yesterday when you asked." Dry, already reaching for your bag.

"That was for yesterday."

"The answer has maintained structural integrity."

Marisol drops her head back against the mirror, a hand over her heart like you've wounded her, though the grin underneath says otherwise — the picture of someone who's accepted defeat but wants credit for the effort. "You are twenty-nine years old."

"I'm aware."

"You're finishing a perfect show eight times a week, men are frightened of you, women want to be you, and you go home every night before midnight."

"Some of us enjoy sleep."

"Some of us are wasting excellent cheekbones." She says it to the ceiling now, mournful, like she's mourning the cheekbones personally.

You start peeling tape from around your toes, not looking up. "I use them at work."

"That sentence is why you're going to die alone." But she's laughing when she says it, already halfway to letting you win.

Your phone vibrates inside your bag. You ignore it.

Marisol's eyes flick toward the sound, sharp with sudden interest, ice pack forgotten. "Secret lover?"

"No."

"You answered quickly."

"Because the answer was easy."

The phone buzzes again. Marisol points at your bag with the ice pack, delighted with herself, eyebrows halfway up her hairline. "That is how every story about a secret lover begins."

"It's probably Lulu."

"Your Manager calls when she wants to destroy your peace. She doesn't email." A beat, considering. "Suspicious."

The phone goes still.

You finish removing the tape, inspect the reddened skin beneath it, and begin packing your things. By the time you've changed into wool trousers and a black sweater, Marisol has negotiated herself into one drink, ankle propped on a second chair, looking entirely too pleased with the compromise.

You make her promise to send a picture of the swelling before bed.

She calls you emotionally repressed, cheerfully, like it's a compliment.

You tell her to use compression.

At the stage door, Sophie is still standing with her mother beneath the yellow spill of the theater lights, staring at the signature on her program like it might fade if she looks away too long.

You pretend not to see. You are good at that when necessary.

December in New York insists on being cold, in the specific, theatrical way certain people insist on being difficult. The walk home starts to feel less like six blocks and more like an episode of survivor. A wind that finds the gap at your collar no matter how you angle yourself against it, breath fogging under streetlights strung with wreaths the size of tires. But you still insist on walking. Storefronts glow gold and red down the avenue. Somewhere behind a lit window, a family is doing the things families apparently do this time of year — a tree half-trimmed, someone's kid pressed to the glass, the noise of people who like each other enough to be loud about it. You walk past three different apartments with their curtains open just enough to see it happening.

Your own family's version of a holiday gathering tends to involve a conference room, a shared calendar, and at least one attorney present to make sure nobody's version of "jolly" contradicts anyone's trust agreement.

Your mother is in Gstaad. Your father is wherever your father currently is. You stopped expecting a tree by the time you were nine and stopped minding somewhere shortly after that, or told yourself you had, which by now amounts to roughly the same thing.

The apartment is on the eleventh floor of a prewar building on the Upper East Side that your grandmother has owned outright since before your mother was born — high ceilings, crown molding nobody makes anymore, a view of a sliver of the park if you stand at exactly the right angle in the kitchen.

You have never had to think about rent in your life and you don't pretend otherwise; it would be its own kind of performance, and you don't do those. It's simply a fact of the architecture of your life, the way perfect pitch is a fact for some people. You didn't earn it. You also didn't apologize for it. Both things are just true.

Lulu is sitting at the kitchen island when you get home, surrounded by open folders, colored tabs, and the remains of what appears to have been a violent encounter with a container of pad thai.

She does not look up when you enter.

"You're late." Lulu doesn't look up, but her voice does the thing it always does when she's already three moves ahead of you, half-distracted, half a challenge.

"It's twelve fourteen."

"You usually reject human connection faster." A small, satisfied smile, still aimed at her folders.

"Marisol's ankle was swollen."

"Of course it was." Lulu says it the way you'd acknowledge weather — inevitable, mildly interesting, not worth further comment.

You hang your coat and glance at the folders spread across the island like evidence at a crime scene, organized with a precision that only Lulu is capable of imposing on chaos. Three are familiar. One is new.

"No."

Lulu finally looks up, chopsticks paused mid-air, eyebrows lifting with delight because you know she's been waiting all night for exactly this opening. "You don't even know which one I was going to show you."

"The red tab is the film."

"It's Toronto." She says it like the city alone should settle the argument, like you're supposed to be dazzled into agreement.

"No."

"The director won an award." A little more insistent now, leaning forward on her elbows.

"For directing. Not choreography."

"They're offering executive credit."

"They want my name on promotional material while someone else tells actors to move vaguely in rhythm."

Lulu closes the folder without protest, entirely unbothered, already three steps ahead in her own head — she never fights for a pitch longer than it takes to gauge whether it's dead. "The green one?"

"Two years."

"In Europe." Said hopefully, like geography might tip the scales.

"Still two years."

"The revival?" Her voice softens slightly here, testing, because she already half-knows the answer to this one too.

"I danced that role when I was twenty-three."

"You would be choreographing it." A small, careful point. She's not conceding yet.

"I would be rearranging furniture in a house I already know."

Something in Lulu's face shifts at that — not defeat exactly, more like she's just caught something she wasn't fishing for. She doesn't push. She just watches you for a second too long, the way she does when she's decided something is worth being gentle about instead of winning.

She watches you put your bag on the counter, something assessing in her expression now, the look of a woman doing math she isn't ready to say out loud yet.

"You're bored."

"I'm tired."

"You're bored and tired. They're different diseases."

"I'm not bored."

"You corrected the spacing in the finale last Thursday."

"The spacing was wrong."

"You were performing in it."

"I had time."

"That," Lulu says, pointing a chopstick at you like a gavel, "is not the defense you think it is."

You open the refrigerator. She has stocked it, because she knows the contents of your refrigerator are reduced to sparkling water, mustard, and half a lemon by the end of every performance week.

There is a labeled container on the top shelf.

EAT THIS BEFORE YOU DECIDE COFFEE IS DINNER.

You take it out without commenting.

Lulu smiles down at the folders, pleased with herself in the specific way she gets pleased when she's already won something and is simply waiting for you to notice.

"You're welcome."

"I didn't say anything."

"You took the container. We've been friends eight years. That was practically a sonnet."

You place it in the microwave.

Luisa Reyes has managed your career for four years and your life for considerably longer, although she disputes this description whenever contracts are due and embraces it whenever you are making a bad decision. She danced until her right knee made the choice for her, rebuilt herself with a speed that frightened everyone who loved her, and now runs your calendar with the efficiency of an air-traffic controller operating under active threat.

She is also the only person alive permitted to call you an idiot more than once in the same conversation.

Your phone vibrates again.

Lulu's attention moves to it, quick and unmistakable, like a bird catching motion in its periphery.

You watch your own phone buzz on the counter and know, with the specific certainty of someone who has spent seven years refusing to forget a name, exactly whose it is.

You do not want Lulu anywhere near this information. Not because it's a thing. It is, categorically, not a thing. It's an email, unread by choice, from a man you last spoke to seven years ago, and the fact that you could still describe the exact weight of his voice if someone asked is simply a detail of memory, not evidence of anything. But Lulu has a talent for taking a non-thing and turning it, through sheer force of interest, into an event with its own timeline. You have seen her do it to smaller material than this.

So you turn the phone face-down, too fast, and know immediately it was the wrong move.

"What?"

"Nothing." You say it too quickly for it to land as nothing.

"You have been home forty seconds and have already hidden your phone." Lulu's eyes track the motion like she's clocking evidence, chopsticks abandoned entirely now.

"I turned it over."

"Like a woman with nothing to hide." One eyebrow climbs, slow and merciless.

"I have nothing to hide."

"Wonderful." She holds out her hand, palm up, utterly serene, she knows she's already won and is simply enjoying the formality of asking. "Give it to me."

"No."

"Then we have identified a hidden thing." She says it gently, almost kindly, which is somehow worse than if she'd gloated.

The microwave beeps. You use it as cover — turning away, retrieving the container, buying yourself four seconds you don't actually need.

Lulu keeps her hand extended anyway, patient, entirely willing to wait you out. She has waited you out before, over bigger things than this. She will, apparently, wait you out over this too, and you already know — with the same certainty you know a turn is late before the dancer's even landed it — that you are not going to win this one.

"You have contracts to review," you say.

"I reviewed them. You rejected them through color-coded osmosis." Lulu says this with the weary patience of a woman explaining gravity to someone who keeps falling up.

"I'm eating."

"You are stalling." She points her chopsticks at you like an accusation.

"I am chewing."

"You haven't taken a bite."

You look down at the fork in your hand, hovering exactly where it's been for the last thirty seconds. She's right, which is somehow more irritating than if she'd simply been wrong. You stab a piece of chicken with more force than the chicken has earned.

Lulu leans back in her chair, arms crossed, the particular satisfaction of someone who has just watched her opponent walk directly into the trap she set. "You're unbearable."

"I'm excellent. This is why you pay me."

"My family office pays you." You say family office the way other people say the government — with a small eye roll built in.

"Right. Thank your grandfather for me."

"He's dead."

"And yet, still contributing." You keep your face perfectly straight when she says it, which is what finally breaks her — a startled laugh she tries and fails to swallow, hand flying up to cover her mouth like she can stuff it back in.

You take a bite so you do not laugh either. It doesn't entirely work.

Your phone buzzes again against the stone countertop, loud in the small silence left behind by her laugh.

Lulu's eyes cut toward it immediately, sharp and delighted, then back at you, then back at the phone — the exact rhythm of someone watching a rehearsal room where she can already tell something's about to go wrong before anyone else has clocked it, and is thoroughly enjoying the anticipation.

"Is someone dying?"

"No."

"Are they threatening litigation?"

"No."

"Did you accidentally join a cult?" She asks this one completely seriously, like it's a real and recurring risk in your life.

"Not recently."

"Then who has sent you" — she leans across the island, craning for the screen, entirely without shame about it — "seven emails?"

You pick up the phone, fast.

Too late. She's already seen enough.

Her eyes narrow, the gleeful kind of narrow, a bloodhound catching a scent. "HYBE? As in the K-pop company, HYBE?"

"It's work."

"HYBE does not usually email you seven times in 40 minutes unless you've kidnapped an entire boyband." She says it like a woman citing case law.

"It's not HYBE."

The answer comes out before you can stop it — too fast, too specific, and you watch the exact moment it lands, Lulu's whole face going still and delighted at once, like a cat that has just heard a can opener from two rooms away.

That is the problem with spending eight years beside someone who used to make her living reading bodies for a stage. Lulu does not need a confession. She just needs one badly chosen verb, and you have just handed her one, gift-wrapped, with a bow.

"Who is it?"

"No one."

"A specific no one or a general no one?" She's grinning now, fully, chin propped on her hand, in absolutely no hurry to let this go.

You unlock the phone because refusing to look at it has become more conspicuous than looking.

Seven messages sit beneath the same thread.

The first arrived eleven days ago from an official HYBE address. Formal subject line. Formal introduction. Formal description of a privately funded dance center and resident company in Seoul. They wanted someone to help develop the artistic program, build the choreography department, train the inaugural ensemble, and consult on portions of an upcoming tour.

You had read it twice. Then archived it.

The second arrived today.

This time, the signature at the bottom was personal.

Park Jimin. Of BTS

As if there were another one.

As if your body hadn't already recognized the name a full second before your brain caught up and supplied the rest of it — the group, the stage, the quality of a man who has spent a decade being watched by more people than most countries have citizens, standing in a rehearsal room in Paris seven years ago telling you your turn was late when it was not late, it was simply not the turn he would have done.

You had archived that one too.

This did not stop him.

"What kind of work?" Lulu asks.

You open the first message and slide the phone across the island.

She reads quickly, eyes flicking down the screen with the speed of someone who's skimmed a thousand contracts and knows exactly where the important numbers live. Her eyes pause at the salary.

Actually pause — stop scrolling, go back up, read it again like she thinks she misplaced a decimal.

"That is offensive."

"Yes."

"I mean offensively high." She sets the phone down flat on the counter, very carefully, like it might be worth something and she doesn't want to be the one who drops it.

"I know."

"He is offering you more money than God." She says it with real reverence, the tone usually reserved for describing someone's engagement ring.

"God has never had to negotiate with HYBE's legal team."

"No," Lulu agrees, delighted, "God's never had to do a lot of things. Must be nice." She sets the phone down flat on the counter, still shaking her head at the number.

"That continues to be irrelevant." You say it flatly, but Lulu's already laughing under her breath, shaking her head at you, the specific laugh she saves for the very small percentage of your sentences that are, technically, indefensible.

Lulu scrolls to the bottom. Then back up. Then down again, mouth pressing into a shape that means she is doing arithmetic she isn't ready to announce.

"Park Jimin."

You concentrate on the food.

"Personally led by Park Jimin," she reads aloud. "Park Jimin will oversee the creative direction. Park Jimin has personally requested—"

"I can read."

"Apparently you can also ignore one of the most famous men on earth with an efficiency I find deeply inspiring."

"He's not asking as one of the most famous men on earth."

Lulu's thumb stops over the screen.

There it is again. The badly chosen verb.

Her eyes lift very slowly, sharp now, delighted in the specific way she gets delighted right before she ruins your evening.

"How is he asking?"

You take the phone back.

The second email is shorter than the first.

I wanted to contact you myself. This is not an endorsement arrangement, and I am not looking for someone who will lend their name to the center and leave. I want someone who can help me build it properly.

The third includes a link to an interview you gave six months ago about choreographer ownership and dancer longevity.

You remember the interview. The publication had a small circulation outside the dance world. Your mother had not read it.

Jimin had.

I agree with what you said about companies treating dancers as temporary equipment. I don't want to build another place that does that.

You had stared at that line longer than the others. You are not going to tell Lulu that. You are barely willing to tell yourself that.

The fourth email arrived after you opened the third and failed to respond.

I know you saw the first three.

Lulu reads it over your shoulder, eyebrows arching.

"Oh, I like him."

"You don't know him."

"No, but I support his commitment to the bit."

"He is not funny."

"That sounded personal."

"It was factual."

The fifth email is the longest. You have read it four times.

I have met with other choreographers. They are talented. They also agree with everything I say before I finish saying it. I cannot build this with someone who agrees with me because of my name. I need someone who will tell me when an idea is bad, even if I've already spent money on it. Especially then. You are the only person I know who would enjoy doing that.

You reach for the phone before Lulu gets to the next line.

She catches your wrist, quick, delighted, entirely without mercy.

"Absolutely not."

"Lulu."

She reads aloud.

I also think you are the only person who can help me make this what it should be.

Something small and traitorous shifts beneath your ribs.

It did the first time too. In a rehearsal room in Paris, seven years ago, when he looked at you like you were the only correction in the room worth listening to and then spent three weeks pretending he hadn't meant it that way.

Not because he called you talented. People have been calling you talented since you were too young to understand that talent is usually the least interesting thing about an artist.

Because he said only.

Because Park Jimin, who once spent three weeks contradicting every correction you gave him on principle, has spent seven years becoming one of the most exacting performers in the world and has still decided there is something he cannot do without you.

Lulu looks at your face, reading it the way she reads everything — instantly, without asking permission.

You remove your wrist from her hand.

"It's manipulative."

"It's effective."

"That doesn't make it less manipulative."

"It usually does in marketing."

"It's not marketing."

Lulu's smile arrives slowly, the particular smile that means she has just decided something about your evening that you have not yet agreed to.

"No," she says. "I don't think it is."

You open the sixth email.

It arrived 20 minutes ago.

For the avoidance of doubt, Paris does not need to be discussed. It has nothing to do with the offer.

Lulu stops breathing.

You lock the phone.

She blinks at you, delighted, predatory, already halfway out of her chair.

"No."

"Luisa."

"I am going to ignore you just called me my full government name. Unlock it."

"I'm going to bed."

"Unlock the phone."

"You have the important information."

"I have the word Paris and your face doing something I have not seen since—"

"You haven't seen my face do anything."

"Your face has filed for political asylum."

You stand, carrying the container toward the sink.

Lulu follows you around the island, quick on her feet even in socks, the particular energy of a woman who smells a story and has never once in her life let one go unfinished.

"Is he Paris?"

"That is not a complete question."

"Is Park Jimin the man from Paris?"

"There was no man from Paris."

"You went to a private dance retreat in France seven years ago, came home furious, refused to discuss one particular dancer, and watched every performance he posted for the next six months."

You turn.

"I did not."

"You used my laptop."

"Once."

"You were still logged into your account."

"That proves nothing."

"It proved his name, but I was respecting your privacy." She says this with the particular gravity of a woman who has clearly been sitting on it for years. "I thought maybe you were becoming an ARMY. I thought, okay, she likes their music, that's normal, half the world likes the music. And then I did the math — the dates, the way you got quiet for a week after you came back from France, the fact that you never once mentioned his name out loud but somehow knew his tour schedule — and I decided some things are not my business until you make them my business."

"There is no math."

"There is extensive math. I minored in it."

"You minored in dance."

"I contain multitudes."

You turn back to the sink so she cannot watch your face do whatever it is currently doing.

He wasn't — you correct yourself, silently, because there is no version of this you are willing to say aloud, even to Lulu, even at midnight, even after eight years of her knowing you better than most people who share your blood.

He is Park Jimin.

Was, seven years ago, a twenty-three-year-old with something to prove and a body that argued with every correction you gave him on principle, in a rehearsal room in Paris that smelled like rosin and cold spray, where you disliked him within eleven minutes of meeting him and disliked him more with every week that followed, right up until the week you stopped disliking him in any way that was useful to either of you.

You have never discussed what happened after that. Not with him — you have not spoken one real word to him in seven years, not once, not at an awards show you both happened to attend, not through any mutual acquaintance foolish enough to try to bridge the gap. And not really with Lulu either, though she has clearly built her own theory of the case out of six months of suspicious internet activity and a laptop you forgot to log out of.

You have watched his career since. Out of spite. That is the version you have always told yourself, and you intend to keep telling yourself that version for as long as it remains structurally sound, which — you are aware — has been considerably longer than spite usually lasts.

The uncomfortable truth, the one you are not saying out loud in your own kitchen at midnight, is that a man does not send seven emails to someone he successfully forgot. And you have a reasonably confident suspicion, based on nothing you could defend in a court of law, that he has been keeping an equally detailed, equally denied account of you for exactly as long.

The email chain currently sitting on your phone is not really a job offer.

It's a confirmation.

The phone vibrates in your hand.

Both of you look down.

The last email has arrived.

There is no formal subject line this time. No company language. No careful explanation of the center, the company, the contract, or the reason he has decided to break seven years of mutually enforced silence.

Just one word.

Please.

Lulu reads it beside you.

For once, she does not immediately say anything.

The apartment hums around the silence — the refrigerator motor, the pipes knocking somewhere inside the old walls, a taxi leaning on its horn eleven floors below. Your food is getting cold in the sink. Your body still carries the show in small places: adhesive at the base of your neck, rosin between your toes, the ache beneath your right knee.

You look at the word again.

Jimin does not ask twice.

At least, the version of him you knew did not. The twenty-three-year-old who would repeat the same turn until his feet bled but would rather lose a limb than admit he needed help. The man who could charm an entire room and still bristle whenever you looked at him for half a second too long, as though you had found a door he did not remember leaving open.

Seven years, and apparently he has learned how to ask.

Or he has become desperate enough to try.

Lulu nudges your shoulder, gentler now, some of the delight softening into something more serious.

"He said please."

"I can read."

"In writing."

"Yes."

"Save that for the divorce attorney."

You turn your head.

"As If."

"You know what I mean."

Unfortunately, you do.

You should archive it.

The job would mean moving to Seoul with almost no preparation. It would mean leaving Broadway before you have properly decided what comes next. It would mean placing yourself in a studio with a man you have spent seven years insisting, mostly to yourself, that you no longer think about.

It would also mean building something from the floor up. A real company. A real program. The kind of work none of the folders on the island had managed to offer.

Something difficult enough that you might fail at it.

Something he believes only you can do.

Lulu watches you open the reply window, arms crossed, and for once says nothing — just watches, the way she watches you before a show, when there's nothing left to fix and the only thing left to do is see what you do with it.

"I am not accepting," you say.

"Of course not."

"I'm requesting the full proposal."

"Naturally."

"This is a professional decision."

"Everything about your face agrees."

You begin typing.

Send me the complete artistic plan, operating structure, rehearsal schedule, and the actual authority attached to the role. Not the version written by your legal team.

You pause.

Then add:

And if you mention Paris again, the answer is no.

Lulu reads over your shoulder.

"You know that mentioning Paris in the sentence forbidding him from mentioning Paris still counts as mentioning Paris."

You press send.

"Go home, Lulu."

"I live here when your life gets interesting."

"It isn't interesting."

Your phone registers the email as delivered.

Three dots appear almost immediately beneath it.

Lulu sees them.

You see them.

Neither of you comments.

You have always known when someone is performing.

The problem with Park Jimin has never been that you cannot tell.

The problem is that he has always known when you are too.

It is considerably harder to pretend you are indifferent to a man when his face is forty feet tall.

You discover this before you have technically entered Seoul.

The airport has been warning you for several hundred meters. Seven faces rotate across illuminated screens above baggage claim, disappear behind advertisements for cosmetics and credit cards, then return in coordinated black tailoring beneath the announcement of BTS’s first full-group comeback in four years. Their music follows you through customs at a volume low enough to qualify as ambiance and high enough to make escape impossible. By the time you step outside, Park Jimin has attempted to sell you a phone, a duty-free fragrance, and something involving a bank account you are not eligible to open.

You lower your sunglasses despite the fact that it is February and the sky has the exhausted grey of a city that has not seen direct sunlight in days.

Beside you, Lulu wheels two suitcases through the automatic doors and stops.

“Oh,” she says.

You keep walking.

“Y/N—”

“Don’t.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You inhaled with intent.”

“I just think you should prepare yourself.”

“For what?”

Lulu points.

A bus moves through the airport traffic lane, wrapped from end to end in a comeback advertisement. Jungkook occupies the back third. Taehyung and Jin are somewhere in the middle. Jimin’s face covers the section directly beside you, enlarged to the point that one eye is nearly the size of your head.

He is looking over his shoulder at the camera with his mouth parted and his hair falling across his forehead in a way that probably required twelve people and a wind machine to appear accidental.

The bus pauses at the light.

His enormous face pauses with it.

Lulu looks from the bus to you.

You look straight ahead.

"Oh, this is going to be so much worse than I thought." Lulu says it slowly, drawing it out, watching your face like she's reading a scoreboard.

"I don't know what you mean." You keep your eyes fixed pointedly on the crosswalk light, which has not changed, and will apparently take its time about it.

"Your face."

"My face is fine." It is not fine. You are aware it is not fine. This does not help.

"Your face just saw a ghost with excellent bone structure and beautiful lips." She's grinning now, delighted, tilting her head to get a better angle on whatever your expression is currently doing.

"He looks ridiculous." You say it too fast, too flat, the specific overcorrection defending a position you know is already lost.

"He looks expensive." Lulu tips her chin toward the bus, entirely unbothered, like she's appraising a painting rather than a forty-foot photograph of a man you have spent seven years insisting you don't think about.

"He is advertising public transportation."

"He is advertising an album. The public transportation is carrying his face." She says this with the patient authority of someone explaining a very simple concept to a child.

The light changes. The bus pulls away, taking Jimin's left eye with it, and you feel your shoulders drop half an inch you didn't know you were holding.

You release the handle of your suitcase only long enough to adjust the cuff of your coat — a small, precise motion, entirely unnecessary, the kind of thing your hands do when they need something to be busy with.

Lulu watches this. Watches all of it, actually, waiting for exactly this reaction since the plane landed.

"You're nervous."

"I have been on a plane for fourteen hours." You say it like it settles the matter.

"You flew first class." She raises an eyebrow, entirely unconvinced.

"Time still passed."

"You slept for nine of those hours." A small, satisfied smile now, building toward something.

"I rested my eyes."

"You drooled on a pillow that probably cost more than my first car." She's fully grinning now, arms crossed, clearly enjoying herself far too much.

"I did not drool."

"I took a picture." She says it with the calm confidence of someone holding evidence and in absolutely no rush to produce it.

You turn to her.

She smiles brightly and begins walking toward the line of waiting cars.

The cold reaches through your coat as soon as you step beyond the shelter of the terminal. Seoul smells like jet fuel, winter air, and coffee from the kiosk near the taxi stand. Drivers hold signs in gloved hands. People move around you with luggage and phones and the contained urgency of arrivals. You have been here before for work, but never for long enough to learn the city beyond studios, hotels, and the interiors of company vans.

Never when Park Jimin was waiting somewhere inside it.

Not waiting for you personally, you remind yourself.

He has a project. You have a contract. The fact that he sent seven emails to secure that contract does not change its professional nature.

The driver waiting beneath your name bows and reaches for your luggage. Lulu hands hers over before you can stop her, then climbs into the back of the black van and slides across the seat.

You settle beside her.

The car has barely left the airport when she begins counting.

“One.”

You look out the window.

A BTS advertisement covers the side of a building near the expressway.

“Two.”

A digital billboard changes from a skincare campaign to all seven members walking toward the camera.

“Don’t.”

“I’m collecting data.”

“You’re being annoying.”

“These are not mutually exclusive activities.”

The city gathers around the windows as the van carries you farther from the airport. Bridges, apartment towers, traffic pressed into narrow lanes. Comeback posters appear at bus stops and convenience stores. Their faces cover the glass outside a department store. A coffee shop has placed cardboard cutouts near the entrance. Someone has decorated a street-facing window with purple lights and seven names spelled in silver lettering.

“This is objectively insane,” Lulu says.

“They are famous.”

“I understood that concept academically.”

“You manage performers.”

“I manage dancers. Nobody has ever wrapped your face around a city bus.”

“I would sue.”

“You would approve the final image and then sue.”

You pretend not to hear her.

Another bus passes in the opposite direction. This one carries the full group, although Jimin is closest to the window again, smiling as though he knows you are trapped in traffic beside his face.

You hate the photograph.

You have seen it before.

It appeared online three weeks ago. You had been awake after a show, stretching your hip on the living-room floor, when the first promotional images were released. You had looked at the group photographs because the costume construction was interesting. Then at the individual photographs because understanding the visual direction required context.

Then at Jimin’s photograph three times because the lighting was strange.

You had not saved it.

You had, apparently, committed it to memory.

Lulu turns in her seat.

“How much did you actually know?”

“About what?”

She gestures at the city outside. “This.”

“I know who BTS are.”

“That was not the question.”

“They’re one of the largest music acts in the world.”

“Still not the question.”

You look at her.

Lulu folds her hands in her lap. “When you met him, was he already this?”

Your attention returns to the window.

The honest answer is yes.

The more honest answer is that you had refused to care.

Paris had been too hot that summer.

Not pleasantly warm — hot enough that the old studio windows stayed open all day and accomplished nothing beyond letting traffic noise interfere with the music. Twenty-four dancers, twelve companies, six weeks of contemporary training that cost enough to require justification.

Park Jimin arrived forty minutes late on the second morning, baseball cap on, two apologetic staff members trailing behind, the attention of the entire room following him without being asked to.

You knew the type. Trained young, praised often, accustomed to rooms rearranging themselves around him. You did not expect to like him. You were, initially, entirely correct.

"You don't like me," he said, day nine, standing beside you at the barre like the observation cost him nothing.

"I don't know you."

"Is that different?"

It should have stayed that simple. It did not.

He stayed after rehearsal every night, taping his own ankle, repeating combinations until his shirt darkened, working like being second-best in any room was a private emergency. You started answering his questions. He started listening to your corrections instead of just charming his way past them. Weeks in, you caught yourself doing the thing you'd promised yourself you wouldn't — thinking of him not as an idol who danced, but as a dancer who happened to be famous.

That distinction turned out to be the whole problem.

There was a duet neither of you could finish. A studio at eleven at night, everyone else gone, rain against the high windows. There was a moment neither of you anticipated the other, for once, instead of fighting for the lead.

You are not thinking about what happened after that. You have not thought about it for seven years.

What you will allow yourself to remember is the morning after — a rehearsal, an audience of twenty-two dancers who did not need to hear what they heard, and a sentence Jimin said that turned something private into entertainment for an entire company. You said something back. Something aimed precisely enough to land exactly where you wanted it to.

Neither of you apologized. The truce was gone before lunch.

He went back to Seoul. You went back to New York. You told yourself you hated him. It was simpler than admitting how much you'd respected him before he ruined it — and infinitely simpler than admitting that hatred, it turned out, was not incompatible with knowing exactly how someone took their coffee, or how they liked to be touched.

"Your eye is twitching."

You blink and find Lulu watching you from the other side of the van, chin propped on her fist, studying your face with the unhurried focus of someone who has already decided this is going to be the highlight of her week.

"It is not."

"It absolutely is." She says it with real satisfaction, like a doctor confirming a diagnosis she's been hoping for.

The city moves beyond her shoulder. Another billboard. Another comeback announcement. All seven members in profile this time, Jimin standing near the center, jaw doing something unreasonable in fifty-foot lighting.

Lulu follows your gaze before you can redirect it. Her whole face changes — eyebrows up, mouth already curving into the specific shape it takes right before she says something you'll regret her saying out loud.

"Did you sleep with him?"

You turn so fast the seatbelt catches against your coat, half-choking you on your own scarf.

The driver's eyes remain professionally, diplomatically fixed on the road, a man who has clearly transported worse conversations than this one and intends to survive this one the same way.

"Could you lower your voice?"

"He doesn't speak English."

"You don't know that."

Lulu leans toward the front seat, entirely undeterred, already treating this like due diligence. "Sir, do you speak English?"

The driver meets her eyes in the rearview mirror, utterly unbothered.

"A little."

"Wonderful," you say, dragging a hand down your face. "Excellent work, everyone."

Lulu smiles at him, apologetic and completely insincere, and settles back into her seat like she's just gathered useful intel. "So?"

"This is not a conversation for the car."

"That is a yes." She says it triumphantly, pointing at you like she's just solved a case.

"It is not anything."

"You have spent seven years referring to Paris like it was a natural disaster." She ticks it off on her fingers, delighted with her own memory. "Hurricane. Earthquake. 'The incident.' I have heard you call it the incident, Y/N."

"It was an intensive."

"Did the intensive have abs?"

You look out the window again, jaw tight, refusing to dignify that with anything.

Lulu presses both hands over her mouth, eyes going wide over the top of them, the exact expression of someone watching a plot twist unfold in real time. "Oh my God."

"Please stop."

"You slept with Park Jimin." Muffled, through her fingers, entirely too gleeful for someone supposedly scandalized.

"Lower your voice."

"You slept with the man on the bus."

"You have officially gone insane."

"That does not make the information less significant." She drops her hands, fully invested now, twisted sideways in her seat to face you properly.

"It happened once."

"Once?" Her eyebrows climb higher, delighted by the specificity, like you've handed her a gift she wasn't expecting to unwrap this early in the ride.

You say nothing. You look, very deliberately, at absolutely nothing out the window.

Lulu's hands slowly lower, and something in her expression shifts — the teasing easing back just slightly, replaced by the sharper, more attentive look she gets when she's actually paying attention instead of performing outrage for sport.

"Y/N."

"It was seven years ago."

"That was not the question."

"It was a long night."

Her eyes close briefly, like she's receiving spiritual guidance from somewhere above the van's ceiling. When she opens them again, something has clicked into place.

"And then he hurt your feelings."

"He did not hurt my feelings."

"You refused to hear his name for almost a decade." She's counting on her fingers again, methodical now, building a case.

"I have heard his name."

"You changed the radio station in a dentist's office."

"I didn't like the song."

"You don't speak Korean."

"I can still dislike production choices." You say it with total conviction, chin lifted, daring her to argue.

Lulu studies you for several seconds, and for once, doesn't. She just watches — really watches, the amusement settling into something quieter — and then she reaches across the seat and squeezes your knee.

The gesture is so unexpectedly gentle that you stop mid-breath, halfway through preparing your next defense, and just let her hold on for a second.

"I'm going to destroy him," she says. Calm. Certain. Like she's confirming dinner reservations.

You stare at her.

"With professionalism," she adds, entirely serious, releasing your knee to sit back with her arms crossed. "I represent you now. I have standards."

"You are not destroying my employer."

"He's not your employer. Technically the company is."

"The center is privately funded by him."

"Then I will destroy him while respecting the corporate structure." She says it like this is obviously the reasonable compromise, nodding once like the matter's settled.

You pull your sunglasses down over your eyes, done negotiating.

Lulu pats your knee once more, entirely too pleased with herself.

"Don't worry. I'll be subtle."

"That is the least reassuring sentence you've ever said."

The suite has two bedrooms, a living room larger than your first New York apartment, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river, the city smeared gold and glass below. It is, in the specific way of hotel rooms designed for people who never see the bill, entirely too much.

There are flowers on the dining table.

White lilies.

Not orchids. Not roses. Not the safe, anonymous arrangement any competent assistant would order for a business trip. White lilies, exactly the way you've ordered them for yourself since you were nineteen years old and finally had your own apartment to fill with them, a fact you cannot remember ever telling him, a fact you're fairly certain you never told him, which means he noticed. Once. Seven years ago. And filed it away.

There's a card tucked between the stems.

You tell yourself you're not going to read it. You read it.

I remembered. I hope that's still true.

Something in your chest does something you don't have a polite word for. You stand very still with the card between two fingers, willing it to mean nothing, willing yourself to believe it's coincidence — a devastating coincidence, the worst kind, the kind that requires him to have thought about you specifically enough to remember a detail you'd have sworn you never gave him.

Lulu watches you read it twice. She doesn't say anything, which is somehow worse than if she had.

You shower. Wash fourteen hours of airplane air off your skin, stand under water hot enough to loosen the knot between your shoulders, and by the time you're back in the bedroom in a robe, Lulu has opened three suitcases and laid your clothes across the bed like she's staging a trial.

"Our car's at seven-thirty," you say. "This is a contract meeting."

"Mhm." Lulu isn't listening. She's holding up the black dress — the one with almost no back — against her own body, studying it in the mirror with the focus of a general reviewing artillery.

"Absolutely not."

"It says you take contracts very seriously."

"It says I have no internal organs."

"It says your organs are private." She drops it onto the bed, already victorious.

You reach for the navy suit folded beside it. She slaps your hand away without even looking.

"He spent seven years knowing he hurt you and still put his face on public transportation."

"I don't think the bus placement has anything to do with me."

"Don't defend him." She holds the dress out, arms extended, patient as a woman with all the time in the world and none of your objections. "You flew across the planet after he begged you in writing seven times. He thinks he won."

"It's a job."

"He thinks he won."

You look at the dress. Black silk, clean lines, a back that exists mostly as a technicality. You know, with the flat certainty of someone who has worn it before, exactly what it does to a room.

You take it anyway.

Lulu's smile turns unbearable. "This doesn't mean anything," you tell her.

"Of course not."

Twenty minutes later you step out of the bathroom. The dress fits the way it always has — maybe better, your body having spent seven years quietly getting even more furious on your behalf. Lulu turns from the mirror, lipstick still raised halfway to her mouth, and just — stops.

"Oh," she says. "He's going to hate you."

"That's the goal."

"Mhm."

You catch your own reflection over her shoulder and don't entirely recognize the effect — hair pinned back, bare shoulders, the kind of breathtaking that isn't trying to be anything, which is exactly what makes it work. Nothing about it says seven years. Everything about it says you should have thought about this before you sent the seventh email.

Lulu grabs her coat, tosses yours at you, and heads for the door with the specific energy of a woman preparing for battle she has no personal stake in and every intention of enjoying.

"Alright, that is a revenge dress." she announces, one hand on the doorframe, chin lifted like she's about to lead a cavalry charge. "Let's go, Lady Diana. Let's go slay some dragons."

You stare at her.

"That sentence means nothing. Lady Diana didn't slay dragons. Lady Diana was a princess."

"She had presence, Y/N. Work with me."

You're still laughing — helpless, undignified, entirely unplanned — when the elevator doors open downstairs.

This is a professional dinner.

The dress is a coincidence.

You are, demonstrably, lying to yourself about at least one of those things.

And Park Jimin, somewhere across Seoul, is about to learn that seven years have done absolutely nothing to improve your patience.

The restaurant occupies the top floor of a building in Cheongdam, behind an entrance discreet enough to suggest that anyone who needs directions cannot afford to eat there.

The car deposits you beneath a black awning at exactly seven twenty-eight. Lulu steps out first, surveys the entrance, then turns back toward you with the solemn expression of someone preparing to send a close friend into active combat.

“Last chance to fake food poisoning.”

She reaches for your coat before the driver can and holds it while you step onto the pavement. Cold air moves beneath the hem of your dress, sharp against your bare legs. Through the restaurant windows, Seoul glitters in fragments—headlights, glass towers, the reflected glow of advertisements that have followed you across the city all afternoon.

At least none of them are visible from here.

“You look terrifying,” Lulu says, settling the coat over your shoulders.

“Thank you.”

“I meant it lovingly.”

“You usually do.”

“And your ass looks divine.”

“Please develop another interest before we go inside.”

“No.”

The host recognizes your reservation immediately and leads you through a corridor lined with dark wood and low lighting. The restaurant smells faintly of charcoal, citrus, and something expensive being reduced in a copper pan. Private dining rooms sit behind sliding doors, each one far enough apart to keep conversations from travelling.

You almost appreciate the discretion until the host stops outside the last door.

Lulu leans closer.

“Do you need a safe word?”

“For dinner?”

“For him.”

You look at her.

She smiles. “Just checking.”

The private room sits behind a door that slides rather than swings, opening onto floor-to-ceiling windows that hold the whole glittering sprawl of Seoul at night — the kind of view that costs more than most people's rent, offered here like it's incidental.

Park Jimin is standing in front of the table.

One hand is in his pocket. The other checks his watch, an absent, restless motion, like a man who has been ready for twenty minutes and has run out of ways to occupy himself.

He is still blond.

A shade lighter now, pushed back off his forehead instead of falling loose the way it did in Paris, and you find yourself absurdly, uselessly thrown by the difference anyway — the particular golden edge of it catching the window light, softer than you remember, like even his hair has learned some kind of restraint in seven years.

His hair looks like it simply grew this way, like the color was doing him a favor the whole time and nobody told you. It suits him in a way that feels almost unfair. Almost natural. You hate that you notice the difference in under three seconds.

The suit is black, tailored close enough to make the fitting itself sound like a small act of violence — no tie, shirt open at the throat, the kind of quiet, expensive restraint that doesn't announce itself and doesn't need to.

For several seconds, the room becomes inconveniently quiet.

His eyes find you first — not the dress, not the room, you — and something moves across his face before he has time to arrange it into anything more polished. His jaw shifts, almost imperceptibly, the smallest fracture in composure. His lips part around whatever he was about to say to his manager and the words simply don't arrive.

Then his eyes move.

Not far. Not obviously. Far enough that you clock it — the exact half-second his attention drops to the neckline of the dress, follows the line of black silk down, and catches somewhere it has no professional business catching before returning, with visible effort, to your face.

Personal victory arrives warm and immediate beneath your ribs.

You keep your expression perfectly neutral. You have had considerably more practice at that than he apparently has.

Beside him, someone clears their throat — a manager, hovering a respectful two feet back — and Jimin blinks like he's been startled out of somewhere private.

Then he smiles.

There it is. The exact smile that once convinced twenty-two dancers in Paris that language was optional, that a man could get away with anything as long as he delivered it with enough sincerity behind the eyes. Older now. More controlled. Sharpened by seven years of knowing precisely what it does to a room, and precisely when to spend it.

"I'm so glad you're here, Y/N."

Your name doesn't just leave his mouth. It rolls off his tongue slow and deliberate, landing somewhere between a secret and a confession, like he's been waiting seven years for a reason to say it out loud again and has decided, apparently, to make the most of it.

Shameless. Utterly unrepentant.

Seven years, and he has not changed even slightly.

His English is almost fluent.

You resent this immediately.

"Jimin."

His gaze drops again, shameless now that he knows you noticed the first time — no attempt to disguise it, no flicker of embarrassment, just an open, unhurried look that lands somewhere south of your collarbone and stays there a beat too long.

"You look—"

"Employed?"

Lulu makes a strangled sound beside you, quickly disguised as a cough.

Jimin's smile widens, slow and unbothered, like your interruption is exactly the response he was hoping to provoke. "I was going to say beautiful."

"That would have been inappropriate for a contract meeting."

"Then I'm glad you interrupted me."

"You usually are."

His manager steps forward before either of you can improve upon the situation, the practiced motion of a man who has clearly done this exact maneuver before — inserting himself at the precise moment a room threatens to combust. He introduces himself in English, polite and careful, bows, welcomes you to Seoul, asks about the flight, says they appreciate you accepting the project on such short notice.

Lulu shakes his hand, entirely pleasant, entirely unarmed-looking, which is how you know she's about to cause a problem.

"We haven't accepted the full project yet."

The manager's smile holds, though something behind his eyes recalibrates. "The contract was signed."

"The preliminary contract was signed."

"It includes the full term."

"Subject to final approval of the artistic structure."

Jimin looks between them, one eyebrow lifting with open interest, like he's watching a match he has no stake in and every intention of enjoying. You look between them too, arms folding loosely, letting Lulu do exactly what you brought her here to do.

His manager turns slightly toward Jimin, positioning himself with such subtle protectiveness that another person might miss it. Lulu moves half a step closer to you with considerably less subtlety, chin lifting, shoulders squaring like she's decided this is a formation now.

Jimin notices. Of course he does. His gaze settles on Lulu, curious, assessing, faintly delighted. "You must be Lulu."

She tilts her head, not blinking. "You must be Paris."

His manager closes his eyes. Only for a moment, recalculating his entire evening.

Jimin looks at you.

You study the arrangement of glassware on the table with great interest.

"Interesting," he says.

"Is it?" Lulu asks, all innocence.

"You've told her about me."

"She has told me almost nothing about you. I formed my opinion from the silence."

"Lulu."

"What? I'm being charming."

"You're threatening the employer."

"I haven't threatened anyone."

Jimin slides one hand into his trouser pocket, mouth curving further, entirely too entertained for a man supposedly under attack. "I feel a little threatened."

"You should."

His manager says something quietly in Korean, low and urgent. Jimin answers without taking his eyes off Lulu, easy and unbothered, and whatever he says makes his manager's mouth tighten as though suppressing either a sigh or a deeply inappropriate laugh.

"What did you say?" Lulu asks.

"That I like you."

"No, you don't."

"I could."

"You hurt my client and best friend's feelings."

The room changes.

Not dramatically. No one stops breathing. No glass breaks. But Jimin's smile loses a fraction of its ease, something flickering behind his eyes that wasn't there a second ago — surprise, maybe, or the beginning of it.

His manager looks at you, quick and searching. Lulu looks at Jimin, entirely unrepentant. You consider, briefly and seriously, walking directly back to New York and changing your emergency contact information.

"I did not say that," you tell her.

"You did not need to."

Jimin's eyes return to yours. The humor is still there, but something else has moved beneath it — something more careful, more exposed than he probably intended to let show in front of three witnesses and a maître d'.

"I didn't know she was hurt."

"You didn't ask," Lulu says.

His manager steps in fast, smooth, practiced. "I think perhaps there has been a misunderstanding about the purpose of tonight."

"Yes," Lulu says. "You think this is dinner. I think this is discovery."

"Lulu."

She raises both hands, the picture of surrender, entirely unconvincing.

Jimin laughs.

It is quiet, unguarded, and far too familiar, a sound that arrives before he seems to have decided to let it, head tipping back slightly, the performance dropping away for one unscripted second.

You look at him.

He is already looking at you, laughter still settling in the corners of his mouth.

"Still bringing someone else to fight for you?" he asks.

Lulu turns toward you slowly, delighted, silent, waiting.

His manager's expression becomes alert, watching you the way you'd watch a match about to be lit.

You fold your arms beneath your coat. "Still confusing basic loyalty with weakness?"

"No." Jimin's gaze flicks toward Lulu, considering, almost fond. "I think she could kill me."

"She has considered it," you say.

"I have a list," Lulu confirms, entirely serious.

His manager straightens, visibly alarmed. "A list?"

"For legal reasons, it is figurative."

Lulu smiles at him, sweet and unbothered.

You are not entirely certain it is figurative.

Jimin steps closer. Not enough to be improper. Enough that the faint scent of his cologne reaches you — something warm beneath the clean edge of citrus, familiar only in the dangerous way certain memories live inside the body before the mind gives them permission. Your pulse does something inconvenient. You do not let it show.

His attention travels over your face, slow, deliberate, cataloguing.

"You cut your hair."

Your hair is longer than it was in Paris. You don't correct him. You let him be wrong, mostly to watch what he does with it.

"You got better at English."

"I practiced."

"Clearly."

"I had motivation."

"Threatening foreign choreographers?"

"Understanding when they insult me."

"You managed without vocabulary."

His mouth curves, something warmer sliding into it. "You noticed."

"I notice distractions."

"And yet. You came."

"You sent seven emails."

"You answered the last one."

"You begged in the last one."

His manager looks at him, alarmed anew. Lulu lights up like she's just been handed the winning lottery numbers, leaning forward with both elbows on the table.

Jimin's expression does not change, carefully composed, chin level — but the tips of his ears begin turning pink beneath his blond hair, a small, involuntary betrayal that no amount of composure can override.

You feel a satisfaction so pure it should probably embarrass you.

It does not.

"In writing," you add.

His manager says his name in Korean with the weary tone of a man discovering new information about his employer in front of hostile witnesses, rubbing at his temple like this evening has aged him considerably.

Jimin finally looks away from you, jaw tightening slightly. "The first six emails were professional."

"The sixth mentioned Paris."

"The sixth clarified that Paris would not be mentioned."

"By mentioning it."

"I was establishing a boundary."

"You don't establish my boundaries."

"I was respecting one."

"You created it."

"You were already going to create it."

"Then you should have waited."

"For what? Email eight?"

Lulu covers her mouth with both hands, shoulders shaking. His manager stares fixedly at the table, a man who has fully checked out and is simply waiting for the meal to end.

You take one step toward Jimin.

He does not move back. If anything, something in his stance settles, like he's been waiting for you to close that particular distance all night.

"You said you would stop after the third."

"You ignored it."

"That was an answer."

"No, that was avoidance."

"You're an expert now?"

"I had seven years to study."

The words leave him easily. Too easily — no performance behind them, none of the practiced ease from thirty seconds ago. For the first time since the door opened, neither of you has a response ready.

Jimin's gaze stays on yours, steady, unguarded in a way that catches you off balance. The room around him softens at the edges — the table, the city lights beyond the windows, your respective guardians standing nearby and silently reconsidering every decision that led to this evening.

Seven years to study.

The line should sound like another joke. It does not, and you both seem to notice it at the same time, a small, mutual falter neither of you acknowledges out loud.

Then his eyes lower to your dress again, and the softness disappears beneath something openly, unapologetically appreciative.

"You wore black."

You glance down as though the color has surprised you. "A remarkable observation. Your English really has improved."

"I remember you wearing black."

"I own several colors."

"Not when you want to win."

Lulu turns away, shoulders shaking harder now, no longer bothering to disguise it as anything else.

You narrow your eyes. "Win what?"

Jimin steps aside, gesturing toward the dining table, unbothered, entirely too pleased with himself.

"You tell me."

The gesture opens his jacket slightly. The shirt beneath it fits close enough that you can see the movement of his breathing. His hair falls across one eye, and he pushes it back with a ringed hand without breaking eye contact, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world to be looked at.

He is flirting with you.

Not the careless, generous flirtation he once distributed across studios and hotel bars, spread thin enough for anyone to catch a piece of it. This is deliberate. Focused. Aimed at you specifically, and far more shameless than it was in Paris because he now possesses both the language and the confidence to make certain you understand every part of it.

You should find it irritating.

You do.

You also become acutely conscious that the back of your dress is almost entirely open.

Jimin's gaze passes over your shoulder, locating the missing fabric. His eyebrows lift, just barely, just enough. The reaction lasts less than a second.

It is enough.

Lulu catches your eye. Her expression says everything.

Divine.

You refuse to give her the satisfaction of agreeing out loud.

His manager moves toward the table and pulls out one of the chairs, apparently deciding the evening has a better chance of surviving if everyone is seated and provided with food.

"We have prepared an agenda," he says.

"Excellent," Lulu answers, already reaching into her bag. "We have revisions."

"Of course you do," Jimin says, resigned and amused in equal measure.

She smiles at him. "You're learning."

He looks at you again, something quieter settling behind his eyes.

"Yes," he says. "But I already knew."

There is something unbearable about the certainty in his voice. As if seven years have not changed anything essential. As if he still knows how you enter a room, how you choose a dress when you intend to make a point, how silence is not the same thing as surrender.

As if you have not spent those same seven years learning him from photographs, performances, interviews, and every piece of work you watched while telling yourself professional curiosity was a sufficient explanation.

His manager gestures toward the table. Lulu does not move. Neither do you.

Jimin glances between the three of you, then exhales through a smile, hands spread slightly, the picture of a man conceding a point he never actually planned to fight.

"Should we take our seats?"

"You first," you say.

"Still don't trust me behind you?"

"I don't trust you anywhere."

"That wasn't true in— before."

His manager makes a small choking sound. Lulu's head snaps toward you, eyebrows somewhere near her hairline.

Jimin's face becomes luminous with satisfaction, the specific look of a man who has just been handed exactly the reaction he wanted.

You smile.

It is not a kind smile.

"This dinner hasn't started," you tell him, "and you're already violating one of my conditions."

"You haven't given me the conditions yet."

"You knew I would have them."

"I wanted you to have them."

You should leave.

Jimin's eyes drop to the open back of the dress. This time, he does not bother pretending otherwise — his gaze lingers, open and unhurried, something unguarded crossing his face before he can smooth it back into something more careful.

The expression on his face is worth the flight.

Worth the billboards.

Almost worth the bus.

You hand the coat to the host and walk past him toward the table, spine straight, chin level, refusing to give him the courtesy of watching you do it.

Behind you, Lulu whispers, "Personal victory," with enough pride to suggest she selected the dress for precisely this outcome.

You take the chair opposite Jimin. He sits across from you, his manager on one side and Lulu on the other, dividing the table into two protective camps that have already declared war without bothering to establish terms.

Jimin reaches for the water, unhurried, watching you over the rim of the glass. "So," he says. "How badly are you planning to make me suffer?"

You unfold your napkin over your lap, not looking up.

"I have three conditions."

His smile returns, slow, delighted, entirely too confident for a man about to hear them.

"Only three?"

"For now."

He leans back in his chair, blond hair brushing the collar of his suit, and looks at you the way nobody else in the room would dare to — not the careful, filtered attention people give a stranger, and not the reverent, distant kind people give a stage. Direct. Unhidden. The look of someone who has decided, somewhere in the last ten minutes, that pretending not to look is no longer worth the effort.

It is going to be a very long night.

You have always known when someone is performing. The body tells the truth eventually — a missed count, a held breath, a pair of dark eyes lingering half a second longer than they should.

Across the table, Park Jimin smiles as though he has nothing to hide.

You know better.

The problem is that, judging by the way he is looking at you, so does he.

And somewhere underneath the conditions you're about to lay out, underneath the seven years and the seven emails and the dress you'll never admit you wore for him, is the quiet, inconvenient fact that you have not finished deciding which one of you is actually winning tonight.

You place your water glass down.

“For the first month, you personally attend every rehearsal connected to the resident company’s inaugural program.”

Jimin’s smile remains.

Author's Note

OMG OMG OMG!! here we have it friends 🖤 the first part of DLAMLT — Jimin's story, in this wonderfully chaotic universe of The B-Side Series. if you're new here, hi!! hello!! come sit, grab a cookie from the back, let me tell you a story

so this is part of a whole collection i'm writing for all seven members, and this is the FOURTH one to be published. we've got What Happens When You Fall, which is Namjoon's (slow burn, medical setting, will absolutely ruin you in the best way), and The Real Thing, which is Yoongi's (a fake dating premise that stopped being fake approximately five minutes in) — both of those are complete!! and i'm currently posting The Space Between Us, which is Jin's (marriage, distance, learning how to come back to someone — that one's going to take its time and it's going to be worth it)

and now: Jimin's

yes, you can absolutely read each story as a total standalone. but they are all interconnected, bc i am apparently a madwoman standing in front of a corkboard with red string connecting seven different men's love lives into one universe and i regret nothing

WITH THAT BEING SAID — if you're not new here, come here, let me kiss your forehead, thank you thank you thank you for following me down every single one of my unhinged rabbit holes. i mean it

confession time: i have discovered that i enjoy writing jimin an EMBARRASSING amount. i am already bias wrecked. send help. actually don't send it, i am having way too much fun over here and i refuse to be saved

also i need to formally go on record that writing dance scenes might be the single hardest thing i have ever done as a writer. and i say this as someone who wrote an entire fic with real orthopedic surgical accuracy in it. bones? fine. tibias? no problem. but describing MOVEMENT, making choreography feel alive on a page instead of just "and then she did a spin" — dear god. have mercy on me. it's humbling in a way very few things are humbling

this was supposed to be a small teaser and i ended up writing the entire first chapter instead, so. that happened. the next part is coming soon, but there's a full schedule you can check HERE for what's dropping when

and if you want to be added to my permanent taglist — you are so welcome here, just send me a DM or drop a comment and i'll add you 🖤

Lately, your social media algorithm had been absolutely unbearable. Whether it was because you spent too much time lingering on BTS videos or because the internet simply enjoyed messing with people, your FYP had been flooded with clips from the Busan concerts over the past two days since this morning. One video ended, another appeared. One fancam finished, and there was an even more dangerous close-up waiting. And the person who showed up the most was someone who had been your boyfriend for almost a year now.

Min Yoongi.

Busan has been pretty hot lately. From all the videos going around, the stage lights, the summer heat, and the thousands of people cheering had the members sweating even at the beginning of the concert. But it seemed like the internet had all reached the same conclusion.

Yoongi in a white T-shirt was simply unbeatable.

You stared at your phone screen while lying on the couch in your apartment, your legs stretched out with a thin blanket covering part of your body. For almost fifteen minutes, you had done nothing but scroll and secretly tap the like button every now and then.

"I get why ARMY is losing their minds," you mumbled to yourself.

Over the past few months, Yoongi had changed again. After spending a long time looking a little softer, enjoying good food and a more regular routine, he had started working out consistently again. His body had gradually gotten leaner, his jawline had become more defined, and somehow he had grown more confident about wearing plain white T-shirts without a jacket or any extra layers.

Though in your opinion, whether he was chubby or like this now, he was still the same Yoongi.

It's just...

That white T-shirt was a little too much.

You stopped at one video showing Yoongi walking along the extended stage. His black hair was slightly damp with sweat, his white T-shirt simple, his hand waving at the crowd as he smiled softly. Not the big smile he put on for cameras, but the small smile you had always known.

The comment section was just as chaotic.

"Yoongi looks so happy in Busan."

"I think his wife or girlfriend is watching."

"He's glowing. Someone definitely got him smiling."

"He's extra energetic this weekend."

You let out a quiet laugh.

"People are so weird," you whispered, shaking your head.

But the more you read, the funnier it becomes. Some people had written long theories about his expressions. Others had counted how many times he smiled during the concert. Some insisted that people in love simply had a different aura.

You let out a long sigh as you opened your chat app.

You: I just read people's comments.

A moment later, his status changed to online.

Yoongi: Which ones?

You smiled to yourself.

You: They're saying Yoongi's wife or girlfriend must be watching in Busan, that's why he's so energetic during the concert.

A few seconds passed before his reply came.

Yoongi: And?

You: I think they're wrong.

Yoongi: Why?

You: Because I'm literally in my apartment.

You held back a laugh after sending that message. Honestly, you were just teasing him. After almost a year together, one of your favorite little hobbies had become messing with each other whenever your schedules allowed.

You waited for a reply.

Typing.

Gone.

Typing again.

Then a message appeared.

Yoongi: Don't you suspect something else?

You: Like what?

Yoongi: You know... something else?

You: Like you actually have another girlfriend in Busan?

Yoongi: 🙄

You: ...

Yoongi: Just kidding, just kidding... You're at your apartment?

You blinked.

You: Yeah?

Yoongi: You sure?

Your eyebrows slowly furrowed.

You: Yeah, I'm literally lying on my couch.

This time, his reply came much faster.

Yoongi: Positive?

You laughed.

You: What's with you?

A few seconds later, your phone rang.

A video call.

You answered it with a smile still on your face. Yoongi's face immediately filled the screen. His hair was slightly messy, he was wearing the simple black T-shirt he usually wore off-camera, and he looked incredibly pleased to see you.

"You're on the couch?"

"Yeah."

"Gray blanket?"

"Yeah."

"Beige pillow on your right?"

You slowly turned your head. There was a beige pillow on your right. Then you froze.

"...How do you know that?"

Yoongi bit his lip, trying not to smile.

"Look toward the window."

You turned your head.

The curtains in your apartment weren't completely closed. Through them, you could see the small balcony overlooking the street. And at the far end of the balcony… Someone was standing there, waving at you.

You shot up from the couch.

"MIN YOONGI!"

Yoongi's laughter echoed through your phone's speaker before the call disconnected.

You practically ran to the front door. 5 minutes later, when you opened it, Yoongi was already standing there, wearing a black cap with his mask pulled down to his chin. In one hand, he held a small paper bag, and on his face was a smile he was clearly struggling to hide.

"You lied."

"So did you."

"You said you were still in Busan."

"This morning."

You could only stare at him in disbelief.

"So..."

"So I came home."

"And you did all that just to confuse me?"

"Yep."

"You're annoying."

"Yep."

"You didn't feel bad about making me panic?"

"Nope."

You let out a long sigh before laughing to yourself. It all felt completely ridiculous. Two minutes ago, you had been lying on the couch watching fancams of his concert, and now the very same person was standing right outside your apartment door.

Yoongi held up the little paper bag.

"I brought bubble tea."

"You're bribing me."

"Yep."

"You think I'll forgive you?"

"Yep."

You tried to keep a serious expression for a few seconds but failed completely when Yoongi laughed along with you.

"Can I come in?"

"You came all the way here."

"That's not an answer."

You stepped aside to let him in.

"Come in."

Yoongi walked through the door, and then, as always, one of his little habits surfaced naturally. He took off his cap, set the paper bag on the table, and without saying much, walked over to you.

"Were you serious about reading those comments?"

"Yeah."

"The ones saying his girlfriend was watching?"

"Yeah."

"And you got jealous?"

"No."

Yoongi raised an eyebrow.

"A little."

"I knew it."

"But it was kind of funny."

He smiled softly.

"They weren't completely wrong."

You looked at him.

"What?"

"They said there was someone making me excited."

You shrugged.

"Maybe because of the Busan concert."

"No."

"Maybe because the weather was nice."

"No."

"Maybe because of the white T-shirt."

"Why are you so focused on the white T-shirt?"

"Because my FYP is nothing but videos of you in that white T-shirt."

Yoongi let out a quiet laugh. The kind that wasn't loud, but enough to make his eyes disappear a little.

"And?"

"And then I read the comments."

"And?"

"And then I teased you."

"And then I answered seriously."

You nodded.

"Yeah, and that's what confused me."

Yoongi stepped a little closer. Only a few steps separated the two of you now.

"They got one thing wrong."

"What?"

"They thought you had to be in Busan."

You stayed quiet.

"I knew you were right here in this apartment."

"Yoongi..."

"During the concert, I knew that once everything was over, I'd come home and see you."

His voice was casual, almost as if he were talking about the weather. Somehow, that only made your cheeks grow warmer.

"I'm not excited because you're in the stadium."

"Then why?"

"Because you're here."

You looked at him for a few seconds before letting out a small laugh.

"That's cheesy."

"It's the truth."

"Still cheesy."

Yoongi lifted his hand and gently brushed a few strands of hair away from your face.

"You know what?"

"What?"

"When I read your text earlier, I thought you were adorable."

"Why?"

"You said, 'I'm in my apartment.'"

"Yeah."

"Like I couldn't just come see you."

You couldn't stop yourself from smiling.

"So your text earlier..."

"Only meant one thing."

"What?"

Yoongi let out a small sigh, as though the answer should have been obvious.

"If you can't come to the concert, then I'll come to you."

And suddenly, every video on your FYP, every comment people had made, and every theory about why Min Yoongi looked so happy in Busan seemed a little funny.

Because maybe they were right.

They just didn't know that after the stage lights went out and thousands of fans went home, the source of that happiness would be sitting on the couch in her apartment, sharing dinner with him while quietly complaining about one thing she still couldn't accept.

"You seriously wore that white T-shirt again on day two?"

Yoongi looked at you innocently.

"Yeah."

"You know the internet went crazy because of it?"

"Yeah."

"You did it on purpose?"

He smiled that small, unmistakable Min Yoongi smile that always made you lose.

"...Maybe."

And all you could do was shake your head and laugh, because after almost a year together, the one thing that had never changed about your boyfriend was his uncanny ability to send the entire internet into a frenzy, then come home and act as though he hadn't done a single thing.

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After the little surprise at your apartment door and a conversation that somehow always ended with Yoongi making you flustered, the two of you finally realized one very important thing.

There was no food.

You stood in front of the fridge for a few moments, opening it and then closing it again with an expression that immediately made Yoongi laugh from the couch.

"What's wrong?"

"My fridge is empty."

"Good."

"How is that good?"

"It means we don't have to think."

You turned to him with your arms crossed.

"You just got back from a concert and the only thing on your mind is food?"

Yoongi nodded without a hint of guilt.

"I'm hungry."

"I haven't cooked."

"I know."

"You're not disappointed?"

"Why would I be?"

You looked at him in confusion.

"I came to see you, not to eat your cooking."

He said it so casually that you almost didn't realize your cheeks were warming up again.

Eventually, the two of you decided to order delivery. Nothing fancy. Just a few of your favorite dishes that you almost always ordered whenever you were both too lazy to cook, along with cold drinks since the weather had been pretty hot that day. Once the order was placed, you headed back to the living room.

Yoongi had already claimed the most comfortable spot on the couch. And as usual… He had taken over half of it.

"Move over."

"No."

"That's my spot."

"I'm tired."

"You could sit like a normal person."

"I don't want to."

You could only sigh before finally sitting down beside him. A few seconds later, without being asked, Yoongi shifted slightly until your shoulders were touching.

"There."

"What?"

"Perfect."

You let out a small laugh.

Sometimes it still felt strange.

The same person who had been filling your FYP over the past few days with his cool aura, sharp gaze, and effortless stride across the stage was now busy picking something to watch on TV while grumbling because the remote was hard to use.

"Why isn't this working?"

"It's upside down."

"Oh."

"You just pressed the Netflix button."

"Oh."

"You got it wrong again."

"Oh."

You covered your face with both hands.

"Min Yoongi."

"What?"

"You seem old."

"I'm not young."

"That's such a dad joke."

"That's a fact."

The two of you ended up laughing together.

The show you picked wasn't anything important either. Just something light that neither of you was really paying attention to. Sometimes you'd watch the screen, sometimes you'd talk, and sometimes you'd simply sit in silence, enjoying the moment.

You stole a glance at Yoongi.

He looked relaxed. No makeup. No stage lights. No thousands of cameras. Just Yoongi in a simple black T-shirt, his hair slightly messy from the trip. It reminded you of something.

"You..."

"Hm?"

"Aren't you tired?"

Yoongi looked over.

"From Busan."

"Hm."

"Shouldn't you be resting at home?"

He didn't answer right away. His eyes returned to the television for a few seconds before he finally smiled softly.

"I am."

"See?"

"But not that tired."

"You're lying."

"Yeah."

You let out a small laugh.

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

"You just met tens of thousands of people."

"Yeah."

"Rehearsals."

"Yeah."

"Two concert days."

"Yeah."

"Traveling again."

"Yeah."

"And then you came here."

"Yeah."

"Don't you want to just lie down at home?"

Yoongi looked at you for a few moments. "No."

"Why?"

He lifted one shoulder.

"I wanted to come here more."

His answer was simple. Too simple.

You tried to look back at the television. "Why?"

Because you'd known him long enough to know one thing. Whenever Yoongi stayed quiet for a few seconds before answering, it usually meant he was choosing his words carefully. And the words he chose were often dangerous for your heart.

"I just met tens of thousands of people."

"Yeah."

"So many."

"Yeah."

"I saw a lot of faces."

You nodded softly.

"But while I was there..."

He paused for a moment.

"...there was only one person I really wanted to see."

You looked at him. Yoongi looked back at you.

"You."

The room suddenly felt quieter. The television was still on. The hum of the air conditioner was still there. But somehow, everything else felt far away.

All you could do was blink.

"That's..."

"Hm?"

"That's cheesy."

"No."

"That's cheesy."

"It's a report."

You laughed at his strange answer.

"Seriously."

"I am serious."

"You really know how to make my heart race."

Yoongi smiled softly.

"That's a bonus."

You shook your head.

"People who only know you through the media would never believe this."

"Believe what?"

"That you're like this."

"Like what?"

"Funny."

"I'm not funny."

"You are."

"No."

"You make dad jokes."

"That's quality humor."

"That's uncle humor."

Yoongi pretended to let out a long sigh.

"You don't understand art."

You laughed again. And while you were still laughing, Yoongi suddenly reached out his hand.

"Come here."

"What?"

"Come here."

You moved a little closer.

With a very gentle movement, he tucked a few strands of hair that had fallen across your face behind your ear. His fingertips brushed against your temple for a moment before smoothing your hair back into place.

It was such a simple gesture. So ordinary.

But somehow, it made your heart start beating faster.

"What's wrong?"

"What?"

"You're quiet."

"So are you."

"I'm looking."

"Looking at what?"

Yoongi smiled softly. "You."

Your cheeks instantly grew warm.

"You know what?"

"What?"

"Sometimes I wonder."

"Wonder what?"

"How I can perform in front of tens of thousands of people without getting nervous."

You smiled. "Because you're a professional."

"Maybe."

"And?"

"But talking to you like this..."

He laughed softly and shook his head. "...I still think before I speak."

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"You just said the only person you wanted to see was me."

"That's true."

"You said you'd rather come here than rest."

"That's true too."

"You don't think before you talk."

"I do."

"When?"

"On the plane."

You couldn't hold back your laughter anymore.

"There."

"What?"

"I like seeing you laugh."

"Min Yoongi."

"Hm?"

"Do you realize how sweet you are?"

He genuinely seemed to think about it. "...No."

"Do you realize people on the internet are scared of you?"

"I know."

"They say you're cold."

"Hm."

"They say you're intimidating."

"Hm."

"They have no idea you're like this at home."

"Like what?"

"You fight over the remote."

"That's important."

"You make dad jokes."

"That's cultural heritage."

"You love teasing me."

"That's a hobby."

"You love making my heart race."

"That..."

He pretended to think for quite a while.

"...might actually be on purpose."

You immediately stared at him in disbelief.

"So you know?"

"I know."

"Why?"

For the first time that night, Yoongi laughed out loud.

"So that after all the concerts are over, after everyone goes home, and after all the stage lights go out..."

He looked at you with a soft smile, one that had always been much warmer than anything a camera could ever capture.

"...there'll still be one person whose cheeks turn red because of me."

The doorbell rang right after that. Your dinner has arrived.

You stood up a little too quickly, trying to hide a face that was definitely turning red, while behind you, Yoongi simply laughed quietly. And once again, you found yourself thinking the same thing you'd thought countless times over the past year.

Maybe the whole world knew Min Yoongi as the calm, cold, and charismatic man on stage. But your favorite version of him would always be this one. The one who came home from Busan, chose to come to your apartment instead of resting at his own place, made terrible dad jokes, fought over the TV remote, and casually tucked your hair behind your ear while telling you that after meeting tens of thousands of people, the one person he had really wanted to see was you.

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Your food arrived just as the atmosphere was starting to make your heart work a little too hard. Thankfully, the arrival of a big bag filled with Yoongi's favorite fried chicken managed to distract both of you. You didn't even bother moving everything to the dining table. The boxes of food quickly took over the small table in front of the living room couch, complete with fries, cold drinks, and an amount of sauce that, according to Yoongi, "had to be a lot or it wouldn't taste good."

"Do you want a plate?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"It's better this way."

"You really are..."

"I know. Practical."

You could only chuckle as you opened the food containers. It was kind of funny. Just a few hours ago, this person had been standing on a stage in Busan with thousands of people screaming his name. Now he was sitting in your apartment's living room, seriously deciding which piece of fried chicken was the biggest.

The television had been on the whole time. Somehow, the two of you ended up watching a crime series that had been getting a lot of attention over the past few weeks. The story was pretty intense, full of mysteries and plot twists that demanded the audience's full attention.

And apparently… Min Yoongi was the type of person who genuinely investigated the case while watching a crime series.

"That's not the culprit."

"How do you know?"

"Look at his shoes."

You looked at the screen.

"I don't see anything."

"That's the clue."

"They're just black shoes."

"They're different."

"Are you serious?"

"I am."

You laughed softly as you picked up a piece of chicken.

Yoongi had already forgotten that the two of you were eating. His eyes were fixed on the television, one hand holding fried chicken while the other grabbed fries without even looking. Every now and then, he'd frown whenever he spotted something suspicious.

"Are you watching or investigating?"

"Both."

"Can you relax?"

"No. That guy is lying."

You shook your head, laughing.

And because he was so focused on being a detective, Yoongi didn't realize his eating was starting to get messy.

His favorite fried chicken came with plenty of sauce. On top of that, he was eating it with his hands. As a result, both of his hands were covered in sauce, and there was even a little bit smeared at the corner of his lips.

You watched him for a few seconds. He still didn't notice.

"Yoongi."

"Hm?"

"That's not the culprit."

"See? I told you—"

"No."

"Then?"

"That."

"What?"

You pointed at his face. He looked confused.

"You've got sauce."

"Oh."

But instead of wiping it off, Yoongi simply turned back to the television.

"Later."

"It'll dry."

"Later."

You let out a quiet sigh.

Seriously.

You grabbed a tissue from the table and leaned a little closer.

"Stay still."

"Hm?"

"Don't move."

For the first time, Yoongi actually turned to look at you.

You gently wiped away the little bit of sauce at the corner of his lips. It was such a simple gesture, lasting only a few seconds. But somehow, the moment you did, Yoongi suddenly froze.

Completely frozen.

You finished and smiled softly. "There."

No answer.

You blinked.

"Yoongi?"

He was still looking at you.

"...What?"

"What's wrong?"

"Hm?"

"Why are you so quiet?"

"I'm not quiet."

"You are."

"No."

"You even forgot to watch the show."

Only then did Yoongi glance back at the television. The scene had already changed quite a bit.

"Oh."

You started getting suspicious.

"Yoongi..."

"Hm?"

"...are you embarrassed?"

"What?"

"Are you embarrassed?"

"No."

"You are."

"No."

You couldn't stop yourself from laughing.

"Huh? Min Yoongi is embarrassed?"

"I'm not embarrassed."

"Usually you're the one making me flustered."

"I'm perfectly normal."

"You sure?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he kept looking at you. You tilted your head in confusion.

"What?"

"Wait."

"What?"

"Was your hair like that earlier?"

You instinctively touched your head.

Your hair had been tied into a messy bun since the afternoon. A few strands had escaped and fallen around your face after spending so long lounging on the couch. You weren't wearing much makeup either. Just a little bit that had already faded after a full day.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"If it's nothing, why are you staring at me?"

Yoongi shook his head.

"You're just cute."

"Me?"

"Yeah."

You raised an eyebrow.

"How am I cute?"

"Well..."

He paused.

"...cute."

"That's not an explanation."

"I don't know how to explain it."

A smile slowly spread across your face.

"Oh..."

"What?"

"You're embarrassed, aren't you?"

"I'm not embarrassed."

"You're flustered."

"No."

"You're never like this."

Yoongi let out a small sigh and laughed to himself.

"You know what?"

"What?"

"Sometimes I think."

"Think about what?"

"It's weird."

"What's weird?"

He looked down at his hands, which still had a little sauce on them.

"We've been together for almost a year."

"Yeah."

"We've spent a lot of time together."

"Yeah."

"We've watched movies."

"Yeah."

"We've gone out."

"Yeah."

"We've..."

He paused for a second with a small smile.

"...well, we've done a lot."

You laughed.

"Yeah."

"But sometimes..."

He looked back at you.

"...I still get nervous."

You genuinely hadn't expected that answer.

"You?"

"Yeah."

"Min Yoongi?"

"Yeah."

"The guy who performs in front of tens of thousands of people?"

"Yeah."

"The guy who pretends he's not scared of anything?"

"I never said that."

You couldn't stop smiling.

"When?"

"Hm?"

"When do you get nervous?"

Yoongi thought for quite a while. "Like earlier."

"When?"

"When you wiped the sauce off."

You burst out laughing.

"Huh?"

"I'm serious."

"It was just a tissue."

"I know."

"It was just sauce."

"I know."

"So?"

Yoongi shrugged. "I don't know."

"You're weird."

"I think so too."

The two of you laughed together.

The television was still playing in front of you. Whoever the murderer was, you'd both completely lost track of the story several minutes ago.

"You know what's even weirder?"

"What?"

"I've held your hand before."

"Yeah."

"I've hugged you."

"Yeah."

"I've kissed you."

You nodded softly.

"But when you wiped the sauce off my lips..."

He laughed quietly and shook his head. "...I suddenly didn't know where to look."

You stared at him for a few seconds before your mischievous smile returned. "Oh?"

"What?"

"Min Yoongi is embarrassed."

"I'm not embarrassed."

"You're in love, aren't you?"

Yoongi stayed quiet.

"Yoongi?"

"Hm?"

"You're in love, aren't you?"

He smiled softly. It was a smile you were slowly learning by heart, the one that always appeared whenever he was trying to hide something.

"...I think so."

"What do you mean, you think so?"

"Because I've never been like this before."

"You make that hard to believe."

"I can hardly believe it myself."

"What?"

"I can perform concerts and rap in front of a packed stadium."

"Yeah."

"But you sitting here on the couch with your messy bun, your makeup almost gone, holding a tissue..."

He laughed softly before continuing.

"...somehow makes me nervous."

You looked at him for a long moment before laughing along.

"We've been together for almost a year."

"Yeah."

"We've seen each other so many times."

"Yeah."

"How is that still possible?"

Yoongi grabbed another tissue to clean his hands. After that, he leaned back against the couch and looked at you.

"Maybe that's a good thing."

"Why?"

"If I still get nervous every time I see you..."

He smiled softly before picking up another piece of chicken, as though he'd just remembered he hadn't finished dinner.

"...then it means I'll never get tired of you."

You failed to hide your smile. Then, a few seconds later, you noticed something strange.

"Yoongi."

"Hm?"

"You got embarrassed because I wiped the sauce off earlier."

"Yeah."

"But now..."

"What?"

"...you've got sauce on your face again."

Yoongi instantly froze.

You laughed so hard you could barely speak, while Yoongi simply covered his face with one hand and let out a defeated sigh.

"I'm not watching the crime series anymore."

"Why?"

"I have to stay on guard around you."

And for the rest of the night, the murderer on television might have successfully escaped the detective's pursuit, because Min Yoongi, who usually looked like the calmest person in the world, was far too busy getting flustered every time you picked up a tissue and smiled at him.

Part 2 →

✨EARLY ACCESS✨ | Read the next part before everyone else on my Ko-fi ☕️

Author Notes: This was actually supposed to be a oneshot, but Tumblr wouldn't let me post it all in one part, so I had to split it into two. I'll be posting Part 2 in the next few days. Hmm... do you think I've been posting too much? 🥹 I'm starting to worry that you guys might get tired of seeing my stories. I have quite a lot of drafts waiting to be posted, and I feel like if I leave them sitting for too long, they won't feel as relevant anymore.

You stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at your reflection for the thousandth time. Your lips felt completely dry, a telltale sign of the nerves kicking in. The black two-piece bikini you were wearing left very little to the imagination, putting your skin and curves completely on display.

You hadn't actually planned on buying something this revealing, but your sister had practically forced you into it. Something about seducing your husband.

Seducing Jimin? The same man you had only met four months ago when your parents set you up on that first awkward date? The two of you had been married for just two weeks now, and here you were on your honeymoon.

The plan was supposed to be simple. You meant to grab the pouch with the modest one-piece from your suitcase, but in your rush, you grabbed the wrong one. Now, you were far too shy to walk back out there exposed just to look for a change of clothes.

Looking down, you flushed. Your chest was practically spilling out, and the bottoms left your backside entirely on display. Squeezing your eyes shut in a wave of nervousness, you finally called out through the closed door.

"Jimin?"

"Yes?" he answered almost instantly. "Are you coming out yet?" His voice was gentle, standard for him.

Jimin was a total gentleman. He was soft-spoken, yet he had a way of flirting that could make your toes curl. You both were still firmly in the friendship phase, taking slow, careful steps to get closer to each other.

"Yes. It's just... um, can you maybe wait outside on the balcony for a bit? I'll be out soon," you said, your voice hesitating over the words.

"Why?" he asked, a hint of confusion in his tone.

"I'm just feeling a little..."

"Sick?" His voice shifted, laced with sudden concern, and you could hear the rustle of sheets as he stood up from the bed.

"No, no! I'm just... shy," you murmured, your voice growing timid and small. You nervously fiddled with the door handle, your heart racing.

"Shy...?" he repeated after a brief pause. You could almost hear the soft smile in his voice. "It's just me. Are you shy because you're wearing a... bikini?"

You leaned your forehead against the cool wood of the door, nodding anxiously even though you knew he couldn't see you.

"Hey, it's just me, okay? You know I won't touch you if you're not ready," his voice softened, drifting through the wood of the door.

"It's not about that..." you whispered, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"Please... I want to see you," he pleaded softly.

Your eyes widened at the vulnerability in his request. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you slowly turned the lock and clicked the door open. Jimin was standing right in front of you. As the door swung wide, his eyes went wide, taking in the view as he realized exactly what you were wearing.

"Fuck," he breathed out, the word slipping past his lips in a low, involuntary whisper.

Any trace of his usual restraint vanished as he shamelessly checked you out. His gaze dropped, completely fixed on the soft swell of your chest spilling over the top of the black fabric, slowly tracing the sharp curve of your waist and hips.

Realizing he was staring, he quickly snapped his eyes back up to yours, though his expression remained dark and intense.

"Sorry... you look beautiful," he murmured, his voice rougher than usual.

You could feel your face burning, a deep flush spreading down to your neck. Nodding timidly, you managed to squeak out, "Thank you. Let's go?"

He nodded, stepping back slightly to gesture for you to walk first. Your knees felt completely weak, nearly giving out beneath you as you stepped past him. Every nerve in your body was on fire; even without looking back, you could feel the absolute heat of his intense stare burning into your back, tracing the line of your waist and the exposed curve of your hips with every step you took.

The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the sand, but all you could feel was the intense heat of Jimin’s gaze still tracking your every move. You walked side by side along the shoreline, the cool ocean water occasionally lapping at your ankles, providing a much-needed distraction from the thick tension between you.

For a few minutes, you tried to focus on the scenery, making quiet, shy small talk. But every step you took felt hyper-coordinated. With the minimal support of the bikini, your boobs shifted and bounced subtly with every movement, a fact you were acutely aware of and one Jimin definitely hadn't missed. His eyes kept darting downward, his throat bobbing every time he swallowed.

"We should probably put on some more sunscreen," you murmured, stopping near a quieter stretch of the sand.

"Yeah. Good idea," Jimin replied, his voice a little strained. He reached into the beach bag, but before he could offer to help, you took the bottle from his hand.

Setting the bottle down, you took a step forward and bent over to rub the cream onto your feet and calves. The motion was completely innocent on your part, but the effect was immediate.

As you leaned forward, the skimpy black bikini bottoms stretched tight, completely exposing the smooth, rounded curve of your ass.

A sharp, audible gasp left Jimin’s throat.

Startled by the sound, you quickly glanced back over your shoulder. Jimin was standing entirely frozen, his eyes wide and completely locked onto you. The polite, gentle husband from an hour ago was nowhere to be seen; his gaze was dark, heavy, and undisguisedly fixated on the view you were inadvertently giving him.

"Jimin?" you squeaked, your cheeks instantly burning hot as you realized exactly what he was looking at.

He didn't answer right away. He just stared, his chest rising and falling heavily as he tried and failed to regain his usual control.

Jimin blinked, forcing his eyes up to meet yours as he swallowed hard, desperately trying to pull his composure back together. He cleared his throat, a faint, rare blush creeping onto his own neck.

"Sorry," he muttered, giving a small, breathy laugh at his own lack of control. He reached down, gently taking the sunscreen bottle from your hand. "Come on, let's head over there. It’s less crowded there."

He pointed toward a secluded cove further down the shore, where the large rock formations blocked the view from the main resort area.

As you walked beside him, the initial paralyzing shyness began to melt into a softer, nervous excitement. The warmth of the sun and the steady rhythm of the waves helped ease the tension, even if you were still acutely aware of how close his shoulder was to yours.

When you finally waded into the turquoise water, the cool splash was a welcome relief. Jimin dived in first, his dark hair slicked back as he surfaced with a bright, breathtaking smile that instantly made your heart skip.

"The water is perfect," he called out, holding his hands out toward you. "Come on."

You stepped deeper until the small waves lapped at your waist. A sudden, larger wave rolled in, catching you off guard, and you gasped, instinctively reaching out.

Jimin’s hands caught your waist instantly, anchoring you against him. The sensation of his bare skin against yours sent a jolt straight to your chest. For a second, you both froze, completely breathless, staring at each other. Your chest was pressed lightly against his torso, and the sheer closeness made your lips go dry all over again.

Seeing your wide eyes, Jimin gave a soft, reassuring chuckle to break the spell. He playfully splashed a handful of water at your shoulder. "Gotcha."

"Hey!" you laughed, your timidness fading as you splashed him right back.

Within minutes, the lingering awkwardness dissolved into pure, bubbly fun. You ended up playing like kids, splashing and dodging each other, the beach echoing with your shared laughter.

Yet, the underlying awareness never truly left. Every time Jimin caught you to keep you from falling, or every time your legs brushed together under the water, a quiet thrill ran through you.

Eventually, you both settled down, floating lazily near each other where the water met your shoulders.

"You know," Jimin said softly, his eyes fixed on you as he kicked his legs gently to stay afloat, "on our first date, I was actually so nervous I almost spilled my coffee right on my lap."

You let out a genuine laugh, leaning back into the water. "Really? You looked so calm and collected. I was the one sweating through my dress."

"No way," he smiled, moving just a fraction closer so your shoulders touched. "I was terrified. You were so quiet, I thought you hated me."

"I was just intimidated by how handsome you were," you confessed, the admission slipping out before you could stop it.

Jimin’s smile softened into something incredibly warm and tender. He reached out under the water, his fingers gently brushing against your hand before firmly intertwining his fingers with yours.

"Well," he murmured, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before locking back onto your eyes, "I'm really glad we're here now.”

Catching the sudden shift in his gaze, your breath hitched. Jimin was no longer looking at the ocean or listening to the gentle crash of the waves; his eyes were completely anchored to your lips. A fierce, involuntary blush burned across your cheeks, making you look down into the water to hide your face.

Before you could pull back, Jimin took a slow step closer. Under the cover of the turquoise water, his large hand slid smoothly around your waist, his fingers pressing into your bare skin. The sudden, warm contact sent a shiver straight up your spine.

"Y/n..." he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he began to lean in.

But before his lips could reach yours, a rogue, cresting wave surged up from behind you. It caught you both completely off guard, knocking you off balance. With a shared gasp, you both tumbled backward into the rolling swell.

The water swallowed you for a split second before you both broke the surface, coughing and instantly bursting into breathless, pure laughter.

The romantic tension shattered into something utterly delightful and chaotic. Because of the force of the wave, you had landed directly on top of him, your legs tangled with his beneath the surface and your front pressed flat against his chest.

As you both scrambled to find your footing on the shifting sand, Jimin's hands instinctively reached up to steady you. In the blurry, wet scramble, his palm accidentally grazed right across the sensitive, exposed curve of your chest.

The touch was brief, but electric.

Your laughter cut off into a soft gasp, and your face turned an even deeper shade of crimson.

Looking down, you caught the exact moment Jimin realized where his hand had landed. His eyes widened, a sudden rush of heat overtaking his features as he quickly shifted his grip to your hips to anchor you.

Seeking any kind of stability, your hands flew up, your fingers tightly gripping his slick, muscular shoulders for support. The water swirled around your waists, holding you close as you hovered directly over him, both of you completely breathless, blushing, and entirely aware of the racing hearts beating against each other.

Jimin’s grip on your hips tightened just a fraction, his thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles against your bare skin. He didn't move immediately. Instead, he held your gaze, his dark eyes searching yours, silently asking for the permission you both knew he wouldn't take without a sign.

You let out a soft, shaky breath, your fingers tightening slightly on his wet shoulders as you leaned down just a hair closer. It was all the answer he needed.

Jimin tilted his head, closing the remaining distance between you. When his lips finally met yours, the contact was incredibly soft, a gentle, lingering caress that made your eyelids flutter shut. The kiss tasted of the ocean, cool, crisp, and distinctly salty but the heat radiating between you completely canceled out the chill of the water.

Slowly, the gentleness shifted into something deeper. Jimin’s breath hitched against your mouth as he parted his lips, his tongue sliding forward to meet yours in a slow, rhythmic mold.

A quiet whine escaped the back of your throat, completely swallowed by the depth of the kiss.

His hands moved languidly up from your hips, his palms warming your skin as he pulled you even tighter against his chest, anchoring your bodies together beneath the rolling waves.

Every stroke of his lips was deliberate, sweet yet laced with a fierce, underlying hunger that left you completely breathless, utterly lost in the taste of him.

He reached up, his fingers tangling into the wet strands at the back of your head. He tilted his head slightly, gaining deeper access to your mouth, and a quiet moan slipped from your lips.

His palm held your nape securely, his thumb massaging the sensitive skin of your neck while the soothing, cold ocean water lapped against your heated skin.

"Jimin..." you gasped out against his lips, a sudden wave of self-consciousness hitting you.

Your eyes flew open, darting around the open expanse of the beach. Breaking the kiss with a soft sigh, Jimin followed your gaze and looked around.

A few resort guests were scattered further down the shore, some playing in the distant surf, others lounging on the sand. Even though they weren't paying attention to the secluded cove, the reality of being out in the open made your heart race for a completely different reason.

You took a tentative step back, the cool air hitting your wet skin. Your face was a deep, crimson red, and you could still vividly feel the phantom touch of his lips on yours, a dizzying contrast of warm and cold, tasting like sweet cherries and sea salt.

Seeing your flustered reaction, Jimin’s intense expression completely melted away. He broke into his signature, heart-melting smile, the one where his eyes crinkled completely shut into tiny crescents and his cheeks puffed up, round and soft. The dangerous, breathtaking man from a moment ago vanished, leaving behind the sweet, gentle husband who adored making you blush.

"I wanna sit," you murmured, pointing toward the dry sand.

Jimin nodded, his expression softening. "Go on. I'll take a few laps and then come join you."

He took your hand, his grip warm and steady as he helped you navigate the shifting, wavy water back to the shore. You made your way over to the lounge chairs, settling down under the shade of the umbrella and spreading a plush towel over your lap.

As you got settled, Jimin’s eyes darted slowly around your drenched body, taking you in one last time before heading back out.

The cold ocean water had left you looking incredibly alluring. The thin bikini top did little to hide how the chill had affected your skin, making your nipples prominent against the dark fabric, and clear water droplets rolled slowly down your inner thighs.

Jimin gave a curt nod, clearing his throat as he turned around to head back into the surf to burn off some of his lingering energy.

Your eyes stayed glued to your husband as he waded deeper into the ocean. There was no denying he had an incredible body. From your vantage point, you had a clear view of the elegant moon tattoos trailing down his spine, a detail you absolutely loved.

As he dived under and resurfaced, he pushed his drenched, wavy hair back, completely revealing his forehead. The water droplets glistened against his highly defined abs as he cut through the waves. Your lips parted slightly as you watched him swim; you couldn't even attempt to lie to yourself, your husband was breathtakingly hot.

Jimin was fully aware of your eyes tracking his every move. Internally, a smug smirk played on his lips as he cut through the water, though he was doing everything in his power to keep his composure intact.

The sheer, tight cling of his drenched swim shorts made his lack of control completely obvious to anyone looking, but he played it off seamlessly, deliberately running a hand through his wet hair to push it back and show off his forehead just for your benefit.

When he finally finished his laps, he waded out of the surf. He caught the exact moment your eyes widened and you scrambled to pick up a nearby magazine, burying your face in the pages to pretend you hadn't just been ogling him. A knowing smirk spread across his face.

He walked over to your lounge chair, the water dripping off his chest as he hovered over you with a low chuckle. Reaching down, he gently took the magazine from your hands and flipped it right side up.

"You were reading it upside down, princess," he murmured, his voice low and breathy.

Your eyes went completely wide. The sheer embarrassment of the silly mistake, combined with the sudden, effortless way he dropped that nickname in such a sultry tone, made your toes curl inside the sand.

Desperate to hide your burning red cheeks, you cleared your throat and quickly stood up, your eyes wandering anywhere but at his bare chest.

"Want me to dry your hair?" Jimin asked softly. He reached down and took the towel from your lap, his cold, wet fingers intentionally brushing against the warm skin of your inner thighs in the process, sending a fresh jolt of electricity straight through you.

You nodded slowly, unable to find your voice as he stepped closer.

Jimin stood right behind you, his tall frame blocking out the warmth of the sun and casting a shadow over your skin. He gently draped the plush towel over your wet hair, using both hands to rub the fabric in slow, soothing circles.

The rhythmic movement should have been relaxing, but the proximity only sent your pulse into overdrive. Every time he shifted his weight, you could feel the heat radiating from his bare chest against your shoulder blades.

As he worked the towel down the length of your hair, his hands naturally moved lower. His knuckles deliberately brushed against the sensitive skin of your neck, his cold fingers sending goosebumps rippling across your arms. You let out a soft, shaky breath, your hands catching the edge of the lounge chair for support.

"Am I hurting you?" he whispered, his breath warm against the shell of your ear.

"No," you squeaked out, your voice barely audible over the sound of the crashing waves. "It... it feels good."

Jimin let out a low, satisfied hum that vibrated straight through your chest. The gentle rubbing transitioned into something much more deliberate. He gathered your damp hair to one side, completely exposing the bare skin of your shoulder and back.

With painstaking slowness, his hands traced the towel down your spine, the softness of your skin contrasted by the smooth, firm pressure of his palms.

With every pass, his thumbs would deliberately slide just an inch too far, grazing the outer curve of your waist and the exposed skin just above the string of your bikini top. You shivered, your stomach fluttering as you instinctively leaned back, just a fraction, into his touch.

Jimin noticed. He stopped moving the towel, leaving his large, warm hands resting firmly on your hips. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the crook of your neck as he inhaled deeply, completely intoxicated by the scent of salt and your skin.

"You're driving me crazy, Y/n," he growled softly against your skin, his hands gripping your hips tighter, pulling your backside flush against the hard planes of his stomach.

The sun was slowly setting, casting a deep, golden glow across the secluded cove. Your eyes closed involuntarily, a soft sigh escaping your lips at the soothing, agonizingly slow touch of his fingers against your spine. As his hand traveled higher, his fingertips brushed against the knot of your bikini top. Your breath completely stuttered when he twisted the string slightly, teasing the edge of the tie without opening it yet.

Jimin glanced over your shoulder, checking the surroundings one last time. A few people were still visible on the far side of the shore, but your spot was mostly hidden from view, tucked safely behind the towering rock formations.

"Y/n..." he murmured against your skin.

Instead of standing behind you, he shifted, sitting down on the edge of the chair right behind you. His lips immediately crashed against your jaw, planting a trail of warm, demanding kisses that made your head tilt back. Unable to resist the pull, you shifted, turning your body around to face him completely on the wide lounge chair.

You let him kiss your jaw, your hands flying up to grip his broad, damp shoulders for support. The sheer proximity made your body heat up all over again, a wave of intense shyness mixing with the electric current running through your veins as you pressed closer into his chest.

You tilted your head back, offering him full, unhindered access to your neck. Jimin didn't hesitate, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin of your throat, sending a fierce tingle straight down your spine.

Driven by pure instinct, you pressed your body even closer to his. As you shifted, his dark eyes darted down to your chest, where the golden glow of the setting sun caught the soft, exposed curve of your boobs.

"Can I touch?" he whispered, his voice rough and laced with desire against your jaw.

You gave a slow, hesitant nod, your throat too tight with nerves to actually voice the words.

"Words, princess," he murmured, his teeth catching your bottom lip in a gentle, demanding tug that made your breath hitch.

"Yes," you whispered, the word finally slipping out.

He let out a low, satisfied hum against your skin. "Beautiful."

His lips reluctantly left yours as he shifted back just an inch, creating space so he could look at you. His gaze slowly traced the exposed curves of your chest, following the path of the water droplets dripping lazily down your cleavage.

Your nipples ache to be held, hardening prominently under his intense scrutiny.

"Jimin..." You let out a soft, breathless moan, suddenly feeling so incredibly exposed under his eyes.

He wasn't even touching you yet, but the sheer hunger in his stare was so intoxicatingly hot it made your entire body melt.

He hooked his hands securely under your knees and lifted you into his arms, making you let out a soft gasp at the sudden shift in gravity. Your arms immediately wrapped around his neck, holding on tight for support as he adjusted his grip.

Kneeling down with you still cradled against his chest, he gently lowered you onto the rough, dry sand. Your body jerked slightly at the sudden, grainy texture against your bare skin. The sand instantly stuck to the dampness of your back, the contrast of the warm ground and the cool ocean water creating a rush of sensation.

Before you could fully process it, he gently turned you over onto your stomach, his movements deliberate. Reaching for the tie of your bikini top, his fingers pulled the strings, loosening the knot just enough to give him full access. His breath hitched as he saw the golden sand dusting the curve of your back.

With his index finger, he began to slowly draw lazy, winding patterns across your skin, tracing a path down your spine. The tickling, electric sensation from his finger sent a shiver straight through you, making your hips instinctively lift off the sand, silently craving more of his touch.

"J-Jimin..." You squirmed beneath his gaze, the friction of the sand and the heat of his body driving you crazy. He was far too good at teasing you, and the anticipation was becoming unbearable.

"Hmm?" he murmured, a low, rumbling sound in his chest.

"Please."

"Please what, princess?" he asked, a soft, wicked edge to his voice as he intentionally prolonged the moment.

Before you could answer, he gently turned you over onto your back, his hands moving to the loosened strings of your bikini top and sliding the fabric away completely. The cool ocean air hit your bare skin, and your breath completely left you as his eyes shamelessly locked onto your chest.

"Jimin," you whispered shyly, your hands instinctively reaching out to hold onto his broad biceps for anchor.

"You are so beautiful," he breathed, his voice thick with genuine awe.

Feeling incredibly exposed under the fading golden light, your hands began to crawl up to cover yourself, but he gently caught your wrists, pinning them softly to the sand beside your head. "Don't," he murmured, his gaze heavy and dark. "I want to see you. All of you."

"What if someone comes..." Your voice was small, a quiet blend of overwhelming shyness and mounting need.

"No one is here. Look, the rocks completely cover us," he assured you, tilting his head slightly to indicate the massive boulders framing your private alcove.

The beach around you was entirely empty now, silent save for the rhythmic, heavy crash of the waves against the shore.

Reassuring you with a soft, warm smile, he released one of your wrists. His large hand moved slowly, deliberately, until his palm wrapped completely around your left boob. You gulped, your heart hammering against your ribs as you felt just how perfectly his hand fit around you.

"J-Jimin..."

"They are so... soft. So perfect," he muttered, his voice dropping to a rough whisper that made your legs tremble in the sand. Hearing him speak so openly and uninhibitedly sent a whole new rush of heat through your veins.

He rolled the soft weight in his hand, slowly squeezing and massaging the sensitive skin. Your free hand flew up to grip his shoulder tightly as his grip tightened, the sudden, intense pressure sending a wave of sharp pleasure straight to your core. Your head fell back into the sand, your eyes rolling shut as the sheer sensation took over.

"It... it feels so good..." you managed to gasp out, the words broken.

Spurred on by your reaction, Jimin shifted his attention to your right boob, his hand cupping and massaging the heavy boobs. His eyes never once left your face. He watched the exact moment your mouth parted, catching every breathy gasp and the way your brow furrowed when the sensation became too intense.

Knowing the friction of his damp palm might be pushing you just past the edge of comfort, he adjusted instantly. The moment he saw the slight tension in your face, he slowed his movements down, shifting from the deep massage to slow, heavy, rhythmically torturous squeezes that left you utterly helpless beneath him.

You whined in response, secretly loving how he was taking control, playing with you as if you belonged completely to him. Your eyes closed tightly as you embraced the sheer warmth and weight of his touch. Beneath the sand, you pressed your thighs tightly together, acutely aware of how the fabric of your bikini bottoms was already growing slick and damp with your arousal.

"Hmm?" He stared down at your squirming body, his smile turning soft yet incredibly wicked. "Loving it? They’ve been teasing me since this morning, princess. Just dying for my attention. It’s about time I give it to them, right?"

You could only whine back in response, unable to form actual words.

"Whining like a kid," he teased, clicking his tongue softly. But the playful tone vanished instantly when his long fingers suddenly flicked right over your perky, sensitive nipple.

A sharp gasp escaped your mouth, your hips instinctively lifting off the sand in a desperate arch.

"So responsive," he murmured, his voice dropping into a dark, satisfied register.

Before you could catch your breath, he flicked your nipple again, a little harder this time. Your eyes flew wide open as a sharp, electric jolt shot straight through your upper body, but the faint sting was immediately swallowed by an intense, rolling wave of pleasure. He repeated the motion a few more times, deliberately building the agonizing rhythm until your chest was flushed pink.

"Jimin!" you gasped out, your fingers digging frantically into his shoulders as he suddenly gathered both your boobs back together, using his thumbs to firmly pinch your tight nipples. The incredible rush of sensation shot like lightning straight down to your core, making you ache between your thighs.

He smirked, watching the exact moment the pleasure wrecked you, his own eyes twinkling with an undeniable, heavy need. "So fucking responsive, baby. I love it."

"Jimin... please..." you whined, practically begging now. You wanted the heat of his mouth, wanting him to flick his tongue over your aching nipples or just cover your skin in kisses—anything to break the torturous anticipation. You just needed more.

He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes landing on the small bowl of fresh plums you had brought out earlier to snack on. Reaching over, he picked up one of the dark, ripe fruits, making your brows furrow in pure confusion.

"Jimin?" you murmured softly.

His eyes remained intensely fixed on yours as he brought the plum to his mouth and took a slow, deliberate bite. Your lips parted, your mouth going completely dry as the rich, glossy juice of the fruit burst forth, coating his lips.

Drawn in by the sight, you slowly sat up, leaning closer until you could taste the sweetness directly from his mouth. You lapped eagerly over his full bottom lip, your core dripping with heat as the sweet flavor flooded your senses.

Jimin let out a low, pleased smile. He took another bite of the plum and simply waited. Like a needy puppy, you leaned right back in, lapping over his bottom lip again, tasting the faint, sharp sourness of the fruit skin right off his lips.

Suddenly, he brought the half-eaten fruit lower, positioning it right above your chest. With a slow press of his fingers, he squeezed the plum directly over your cleavage. His eyes grew incredibly dark, entirely consumed by desire as he watched the dark, glossy juices trickle slowly down the center of your chest.

You froze in absolute anticipation, your breath catching in your throat as you waited to see what his next move would be.

He shamelessly watched the path of the sticky droplets as they rolled down the warm skin of your boobs. Slowly leaning his heavy frame down, he darted his warm, rough tongue over your cleavage, catching the juice before it could run any further.

You let out a small, trembling gasp as the sheer hotness of his body pressed entirely against you, his wet tongue licking firmly down your cleavage line. Driven by the intense sensation, your hands flew up to the back of his neck, your fingers slowly massaging the heated skin to pull him even closer against you.

He hummed in pleasure as the perfect balance of the sour and sweet fruit hit his tongue. Breaking the contact for a brief second, he smiled sheepishly and reached back into the bowl for another ripe plum, gently pressing it against your lips to make you take a bite.

Before you could even finish tasting the burst of juice, he leaned down to trap your lips once more, eagerly sucking the sweetness from your tongue. Your mouth parted wide under his command as he shoved his tongue deep into your mouth, tasting you with a fierce hunger, as if you were a rare, sweet fruit he had never encountered before.

Slowly, his kisses turned heavier. He dragged his wet tongue down from your lips, tracing your sharp jawline before licking a path down the heated skin of your neck, biting the sensitive skin gently. His lips trailed back down to your cleavage, leaving a path of firm, wet strokes punctuated by sharp, teasing bites here and there. The combination of the cool ocean breeze and the searing heat of his mouth made you shiver, your voice cracking as you moaned his name like a fever.

He hummed against your skin in complete satisfaction. Looking up, his dark eyes locked straight onto yours as he darted his tongue out, pressing it right against your aching, tight nipple. Your eyes immediately rolled back into your head, your hips buckling upward off the sand in a desperate arch.

He twirled his tongue directly over the peak, slowly circling the perimeter with his wetness before flicking it over and over in a relentless, agonizing rhythm. You could feel your stomach fluttering wildly, a deep, heavy throb settling right into your clit.

With agonizing slowness, he shifted his attention, giving the exact same kittenish, torturous licks to your other nipple.

Your eyes flew shut as the sharp, sudden sting of his teeth sunk firmly into the peak. "Ahh! Jimin!" you cried out, instinctively burying your burning face into the crook of his broad shoulder to muffle the shameless noises escaping you.

He didn't stop, nibbling at the tight bud with his teeth before slowly sucking it back into his mouth to soothe the sharp ache. "J-Jimin... mhmm—"

A loud, breathless gasp broke past your lips as he suddenly used his fingers to flick and pinch your free nipple while his mouth remained entirely wrapped around the other, sucking and kissing it fiercely. Giving both of your boobs the exact same maddening attention, he licked and sucked, pinched and flicked, leaving you utterly helpless.

He squeezed the soft flesh together to feel the plush weight, letting them bounce beneath his hands before continuing his relentless assault. Down below, you were literally dripping. The fabric of your bikini bottoms was completely soaked through with your arousal, leaking heavily from the intense breast play alone.

"Mhmm..." Every desperate noise you made caused your cheeks to flare with a deeper, crimson redness. Jimin was unapologetically harsh against your nipples now, driving you closer and closer to the edge.

Finally, he pulled his mouth back, pressing the soft mounds together to admire his handiwork. Your cleavage line glistened beautifully under the final rays of the sun, covered in his saliva and light bite marks. Smirking in absolute satisfaction, he rolled the soft weight in his palms a few more times, watching your eyes close tightly in a silent plea for more as sinful, broken sounds escaped your parted lips.

"My... ah-ahhh, j-jimin!" You were incredibly red, your skin burning with a fierce blush. You could feel the wetness leaking straight out of you like a dam breaking.

He leaned back down close to your chest, pressing his warm, open mouth against your skin to lick over the marks again and again. He paused, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered, "I can smell your arousal, baby."

You let out a broken moan at his words, completely undone by how easily he read your body. He knew exactly what he was doing—he knew the intense stimulation had just made you cum right there on the sand, leaving your entire body trembling with a desperate, mounting need for more.

Letting out a hum of utter pleasure, he finally slowed his pace, pressing the side of his face flat against your chest and closing his eyes.

Jimin shifted to lay directly next to you on the sand, his face still pressed securely against the side of your boob while his lips softly sucked around your nipple like a contented, possessive boy. Your eyes closed in pure, exhausted pleasure, your fingers lazily tangling into his wet, dark hair while your thighs remained tightly pressed together, rubbing against each other to chase the lingering, pulsing waves of your release.

The two of you lay tangled in each other's arms on the quiet shore with soft gasps escaping your mouth whenever he sucked way too hard or bit. It felt good and surreal.

[ Main Masterlist ]

A/n : I am supposed to be writing 'Bad reputation' series rn but here I am writing oneshots ^^

I have few more steamy one shots planned! Should I make a list out of it? Or post randomly like this? YOU GUYS BETTER BE READY FOR ALL THE ONESHOTS!!

Also, should I make a permanent taglist?

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: I don’t think anything is going to happen, but I am sending security.

Victoria: What?

Max: To you.

Victoria: Max.

Victoria: What the fuck is going on?

Max: Nothing probably.

Victoria: You cannot say “nothing probably” after “I am sending security.”

Max: I can.

Victoria: No, you absolutely cannot.

Victoria: Max Emilian.

Max:Do not do that.

Victoria:I will do worse if you do not explain in the next ten seconds!

Max:There was a thing.

Victoria:A THING?

Max:Yes.

Victoria:Is Ana okay?

Max:Physically yes.

Victoria:Max.

Victoria:What happened?!

Max:She got threatening messages.

Victoria:From who?

Max:Probably George.

Victoria:Russell?

Max:Yes.

Victoria:George Russell is sending Ana threats?

Max:Yes.

Victoria:Isn’t he under house arrest?

Max:Apparently not under house arrest enough.

Victoria:Jesus Christ.

Victoria:What kind of threats?

Max:Bad ones.

Victoria:Max.

Max:Death threats. Baku. Other things.

Victoria:Other things?

Max:I am not typing it.

Victoria:Okay.

Victoria:Okay, fine.

Victoria:Is she safe?

Max:Yes. Nikolai is here. Toto and Susie are here. 

Victoria:You are the worst communicator in the world.

Max:I am communicating now.

Victoria:You opened with “I don’t think anything is going to happen but I am sending security to you.”

Max:Yes.

Victoria:That is how people in thrillers get told to leave the country!

Max:You do not need to leave the country.

Victoria:Thank you, how reassuring.

Max:But there will be someone near the house tonight.

Victoria:Near my house?

Max:Yes.

Victoria:Max.

Max:And probably the school route tomorrow.

Victoria:THE SCHOOL ROUTE?

Max:Just to check.

Victoria:For my children?

Max:Yes.

Victoria:Max, you need to explain like I am a normal person and not GP receiving half a strategy message at 300 kilometres per hour.

Max:Ana thinks George could use family as pressure points.

Victoria:Ana thinks that?

Max:Yes.

Victoria:Then why did you start with “I don’t think anything is going to happen”?

Max:Because I don’t.

Victoria:But Ana does?

Max:She thinks risk should be assessed.

Victoria:That means Ana is worried.

Max:Yes.

Victoria:Max.

Max:What?

Victoria:How bad is she?

Max:She is calm.

Victoria:Max.

Max:Too calm.

Victoria:Okay.

Victoria:I’m sorry.

Max:She nearly had a panic attack.

Victoria:Oh, Max.

Max:She is better now.

Victoria:That does not mean okay.

Max:I know.

Victoria:How are you?

Max:Fine.

Victoria:Try again.

Max:I want to kill him.

Victoria:I know.

Max:Nikolai said no.

Victoria:Nikolai is correct.

Victoria:So security is for me because George might escalate?

Max:Yes.

Victoria:Does he know about me?

Max:Probably.

Victoria:That is not reassuring.

Max:He knows I have family.

Victoria:Everyone knows you have family, Max.

Max:Yes.

Victoria:What about Mum?

Max:Also security.

Victoria:Pa?

Max:Yes.

Victoria:You are sending security to all of us?

Max:Yes.

Victoria:And you opened with “nothing probably.”

Max:I did not want you to panic.

Victoria:How did you think that would work?

Max:Badly.

Victoria:At least you are self-aware.

Max:I am trying.

Victoria:I know.

Max:The security people will be discreet.

Victoria:Are they already coming?

Max:Yes.

Victoria:Of course they are.

Max:You should not argue with them.

Victoria:I am not the one who argues with security.

Max:You are a Verstappen.

Victoria:You are the Verstappen who argues with security.

Max:Do not let the kids be scared.

Victoria:I won’t.

Max:Just say it is because people are being annoying.

Victoria:Max.

Max:What?

Victoria:My children know what security is.

Max:Toto wanted Ana not to go to COTA.

Victoria:Reasonable.

Max:She said no.

Victoria:Also reasonable.

Max:That is what I said.

Victoria:You sided against Toto?

Max:No.

Victoria:Max.

Max:Yes.

Victoria:Did he look like he wanted to murder you?

Max:Ana says she is not letting George stop her from doing her job.

Victoria:Good for her.

Max:I think so.

Victoria:You sound worried.

Max:I am worried.

Victoria:Because of COTA?

Max:Because she is scared and still going.

Victoria:Those can both be true.

Max:I know.

Victoria:You hate that.

Max:Yes.

Victoria:You cannot lock her in the house.

Max:I know.

Victoria:Or buy the whole paddock.

Max:I could.

Victoria:Max.

Max:I know.

Victoria:Do not buy the whole paddock.

Max:It is probably not for sale.

Victoria:That was not the point.

Max:Fine.

Victoria:Is she there with you now?

Max:Yes.

Victoria:Can I text her?

Max:Maybe later.

Victoria:Okay.

Max:Not because she doesn’t want you.

Victoria:I know.

Max:She is just… full.

Victoria:I know, Max.

Max:I can tell her you love her.

Victoria:Please do.

Max:She knows.

Victoria:Tell her anyway.

Max:Okay.

Victoria:And tell her she is not being paranoid.

Max:Everyone has said that.

Victoria:Say it again.

Max:Okay.

Victoria:And tell her I will not argue about security.

Max:That is good.

Victoria:And tell her if anyone tries to hurt her, I will become very unpleasant.

Max:I believe it.

Victoria:Good.

Max:Are you okay?

Victoria:No.

Victoria:But I will be.

Max:I am sorry.

Victoria:This is not your fault.

Max:It feels like it is.

Victoria:Of course it does. Because you love her and because Baku happened to you.

Max:He is a threat to you because of me.

Victoria:No. He threatened Ana because he is dangerous. Ana would say that, wouldn’t she?

Max:She did.

Victoria:Then listen to the woman you are marrying.

Victoria:I love you.

Max:Love you too.

Victoria:And Max?

Max:Yes?

Victoria:Do not open conversations with “I don’t think anything is going to happen but I am sending security” ever again.

Max:What should I say?

Victoria:“Something happened. You are safe. I am sending security as a precaution. I will explain.”

Max:That is long.

Victoria:It is also not psychotic.

***

Group Chat:    “TEAM 33”

(Members:  Max Verstappen, Jos Verstappen, Raymond Vermeulen)

Max:George sent messages.

Jos:What?

Max:Pa, you are getting security.

Jos:What the hell does that mean?

Raymond:Max.

Max:What?

Raymond:Context.

Max:I gave context.

Raymond:You gave two fragments and a panic attack.

Jos:What messages?

Max:Threats.

Jos:Threats to who?

Max:Ana.

Jos:George Russell sent threats to Ana?

Max:Yes.

Jos:From house arrest?

Max:Apparently.

Jos:What kind of threats?

Max:Death threats. References to Baku. Some related to his prior behaviour toward Ana. Police and lawyers are involved. 

Jos:Prior behaviour?

Max:George had a thing about Ana. You know he kissed her against her will earlier this year. He thought if he was with Toto’s daughter, he could keep his seat.

Jos:With her?

Max:Yes.

Jos:But she was with you.

Max:George did not know that.

Raymond:Can we return to the security issue?

Jos: I do not need security.

Max:You are getting it.

Jos:I said I do not need security.

Max:I do not care. You are getting it. 

Jos:Max.

Jos:You think George Russell is coming for me?

Max:I don’t know.

Jos:Then why send security?

Max:Because Ana thinks he could use family as pressure points.

Jos:Ana thinks that?

Max:Yes.

Jos:Then why are we arguing?If Ana says security, send security.

Raymond:That is the first sensible thing you said in this chat.

Jos:How is she?

Max:Not okay.

Jos:And you?

Max:Same as before.

Jos:That is not an answer.

Max:I have the broken leg still. I am angry, limited in movement, and being prevented from committing crimes.

Jos:By who?

Max:Everyone. Mostly Nikolai.

Jos:Good.

Max:Not good.

Raymond:Very good.

Jos:Listen to Nikolai.

Raymond:Does this change things for Wednesday?

Jos:What is Wednesday? I thought the meeting about the GT3 cars was tomorrow. 

Max:It is tomorrow. I am meeting Gerhard Berger on Wednesday.

Jos:Gerhard wants to meet you? You agreed?!

Max:Yes.

Jos:No.

Max:I did not ask.

Jos:No.

Max:Again, did not ask.

Jos:You are not meeting him.

Max:I said I would hear him out.

Jos:You said that before George started threatening Ana. Cancel.

Max:No.

Jos:Are you insane?

Max:Maybe.

Raymond:Let’s avoid diagnosing each other in writing.

Jos:Stay out of it.

Jos:Max, listen to me. You do not sit in a room with Red Bull leadership the day after your fiancée gets death threats about Baku.

Max:Pa. This has nothing to do with George Russell. Neutral ground. Wednesday morning. No surprises. Nikolai knows. Toto knows. Ana will probably come.

Jos:You should not meet him at all.

Max:I want to know what he says.

Jos:Why?

Max:Because I do.

Jos:Red Bull nearly got you killed. They put out that line about driver error. They let people say you made a mistake.

Jos:And now George is sending threats to Ana because in his crazy head this all started with her, and you want to give Gerhard Berger a polite little meeting?

Max:It will not be polite.

Jos:Good. Then I’ll come.

Max:No.

Jos:Yes.

Max:Absolutely not.

Jos:You need someone there who is not trying to be diplomatic.

Raymond:That is precisely why you will not be there.

Jos:Raymond.

Raymond:No.

Max:I am not accepting an apology unless I want to, and listening does not create an obligation.

Jos:Fine.

Jos:But I still think it is stupid.

Jos:Do not let Berger talk you into forgiving Red Bull.

Max:I won’t.

Jos:Do not let him make this sound like business.

Max:I won’t.

Jos:Do not let him make you feel bad for leaving.

Max:I won’t.

Jos:Good.

Jos:And Max?

Max:Yes?

Jos:You protect Ana. But let people protect you too.

Jos:Tell Ana I am sorry this happened.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Sophie Kumpen

Sophie:Max.

Max:Yes?

Sophie:Victoria just texted me.Do you want to explain why your sister has informed me that I am “getting security” tonight?

Max:Because you are getting security tonight.

Sophie:Max.

Max:What?

Sophie:I am going to need you to try again.

Max:Something happened. You are safe. I am sending security as a precaution. I will explain.

Sophie:Did Victoria make you rehearse that?

Max:Yes.

Sophie:What happened?

Max:George sent threatening messages to Ana.

Sophie:George Russell?

Max:Yes.

Sophie:Jesus Christ.

Sophie:Is she okay?

Max:Physically yes.

Sophie:I hate that qualifier.

Max:Me too.

Sophie:How bad?

Max:Bad.

Sophie:Max.

Max:Death threats. Baku. Other things I am not typing.

Sophie:Okay.

Sophie:Okay, I understand.

Sophie:Is she safe?

Max:Yes. Security is here. Toto and Susie are here. Police and lawyers are involved.

Sophie:Good.

Sophie:And you?

Max:I am here.

Sophie:That is not an answer.

Max:It is the answer I have.

Sophie:Why am I getting security?

Max:Ana thinks George could use family as pressure points.

Sophie:Ana thinks that?

Max:Yes.

Sophie:Then I’m not arguing.

Max:That is what Pa said.

Sophie:Jos agreed to security?

Max:Because Ana said it.

Sophie:Of course.

Max:Everyone listens to Ana when she is worried.

Sophie:Because Ana being worried means the rest of us should have been worried twenty minutes ago.

Sophie:Does he know about Ana and you?

Max:No.

Sophie:Are you sure?

Max:The messages suggest he does not.

Sophie:That somehow makes this worse. This is not about jealousy. It is about entitlement.

Max:Yes.

Sophie:I’m so sorry.

Max:It is not your fault.

Sophie:I know. I’m still sorry.

Sophie:What do you need me to do?

Max:Answer the security call.

Sophie:Obviously.

Max:Do not argue.

Sophie:Unlike you, I understand instructions.

Max:They will be discreet.

Sophie:Okay.

Max:Maybe exterior tonight and route assessment tomorrow.

Sophie:Okay.

Max:Pa also agreed. He wanted to come to the Gerhard meeting.

Sophie:The what meeting?

Max:Nothing.

Sophie:Max Emilian Verstappen.

Max:Don’t.

Sophie:What Gerhard meeting?

Max:Small meeting.

Sophie:With Gerhard Berger?

Max:Yes.

Sophie:About Baku?

Max:Probably.

Sophie:Tomorrow?

Max:Wednesday.

Sophie:Max.

Max:It is controlled.

Sophie:That is not an answer.

Max:I am not meeting him alone.

Sophie:Good.

Max:I am only listening.

Sophie:Listening does not mean forgiving.

Max:That is what Toto said.

Sophie:Toto and I agree.

Sophie:You sound tired.

Max:I am fine.

Sophie:Try again.

Max:I am tired.

Sophie:And angry.

Max:Yes.

Sophie:And scared.

Max:Yes.

Sophie:Okay.

Max:I hate it.

Sophie:I know.

Max:I hate that he can reach her.

Sophie:I know.

Max:I hate that he did this because she said no.

Sophie:Max.

Max:Yes?

Sophie:Let the police and lawyers handle George.

Max:I know.

Sophie:Let Ana decide what she needs from you.

Max:I am trying.

Sophie:Good.

Sophie:Security can call me anytime. I will answer.

Max:Thank you.

Sophie:Do not thank me for accepting protection because someone threatened your fiancée.

Max:Still. Thank you.

***

Text Messages: Toto Wolff & Freya Wolff

Toto:Where are you?

Freya:That is a rude way to begin a conversation.

Toto:Freya.

Freya:Currently?

Toto:Yes.

Freya:Sri Lanka.

Toto:Why are you in Sri Lanka?

Freya:Sapphires.

Toto:Of course.

Freya:You say that like sapphires source themselves.

Toto:I need to send security to you.

Freya:No.

Toto:That was not a question.

Freya:It was also not a reasonable sentence.

Toto:You are getting security.

Freya:No, I am not.

Toto:Freya.

Freya:Torger.

Toto:This is serious.

Freya:It usually is when you forget manners.

Toto:George Russell sent threats to Anastasia.

Freya:What kind of threats?

Toto:Death threats. Threats involving Baku. Other threats.

Freya:Other threats.

Toto:Yes.

Freya:Do I want to know?

Toto:No.

Freya:Is she hurt?

Toto:Physically, no.

Freya:Where is she?

Toto:With Max. I am here. Susie is here. 

Freya:Good.

Toto:She asked for security for the rest of the family.

Freya:Of course she did.

Toto:You say that like you agree.

Freya:I agree with Ana’s threat assessment. I do not agree with being followed around by a man in bad shoes while I am looking at gemstones.

Toto:The shoes are not the issue.

Freya:They will become the issue if I have to look at them for twelve hours.

Toto:Freya.

Freya:Toto.

Toto:You are in Sri Lanka sourcing sapphires after a man under house arrest managed to send threats to my daughter.

Freya:Your daughter is significantly more likely to murder a man with a spreadsheet than I am to be kidnapped over sapphires.

Toto:This is not funny.

Freya:I know.

Freya:I am making it funny because otherwise I will think too much about Ana reading those messages.

Freya:Is your super scary bodyguard with her?

Toto:Yes.

Freya:Then she is safer than almost anyone else on the planet.

Toto:That does not mean enough.

Freya:No. It does not.

Toto:You see why I am sending security.

Freya:I see why you are trying.

Toto:Freya.

Freya:I am not having a bodyguard in gem markets.

Toto:Yes, you are.

Freya:No, I am not.

Toto:Do you understand what “credible threat” means?

Freya:Do you understand what “I have been doing this job for twenty years” means?

Toto:This is not about your job.

Freya:Everything is about my job when I am standing in the middle of it.

Toto:Where exactly are you?

Freya:Not telling you if you are going to air-drop a security team onto my head.

Toto:I already know enough to find you.

Freya:That is threatening.

Toto:Good.

Freya:You are becoming very paternal.

Toto:I am your older brother.

Toto:Security does not need to interfere with your sourcing. One person. Discreet. Local. Good shoes if that matters so much.

Freya:It does.

Freya:No hovering.

Toto:Fine.

Freya:No speaking unless spoken to.

Toto:That is not how security works.

Freya:It is how my security will work.

Toto:Freya.

Freya:I am negotiating.

Toto:You are being difficult.

Freya:Family trait.

Toto:Anastasia is worried about you.

Freya:That was manipulative.

Toto:Yes.

Freya:You used the child.

Toto:She is twenty-seven.

Freya:She is still the child when you are being emotionally criminal.

Toto:Will you accept security?

Freya:I dislike you.

Toto:Will you accept security?

Freya:One person.

Toto:Thank you.

Freya:Local.

Toto:Yes.

Freya:Discreet.

Toto:Yes.

Freya:If he wears ugly shoes, I send him back.

Toto:Fine.

Freya:And you tell Anastasia I am perfectly safe and extremely annoyed.

Toto:I will tell her.

Freya:No, tell her exactly that. Perfectly safe. Extremely annoyed. It will reassure her.

Toto:I will.

Freya:How is Max?

Toto:Furious.

Freya:Obviously.

Toto:Injured.

Freya:Still?

Toto:Broken legs do not resolve over a weekend.

Freya:I know that. I meant emotionally.

Toto:Also furious.

Freya:Useful?

Toto:Trying to be.

Freya:Good boy.

Toto:Do not say that to him.

Freya:I absolutely will.

Toto:He has enough problems.

Freya:Max Verstappen can survive being called a good boy by his future aunt.

Toto:Speaking of that.

Freya:Oh?

Toto:The wedding date is set.

Freya:You are telling me this now?

Toto:It has been a complicated day.

Freya:You told me about death threats, security, George Russell, Baku, and ugly-shoe bodyguards before telling me my niece has a wedding date?

Toto:Yes.

Freya:When?

Toto:20 December.

Freya:This year?

Toto:Yes.

Freya:Of course this year. Why give anyone time to breathe?

Toto:It suits them.

Freya:That means it suits Ana, or Max bought an island and declared it suitable?

Toto:Both.

Freya:Ah.

Toto:Isle of Eriska. Scotland.

Freya:Private island?

Toto:Yes.

Freya:He must be unbearable.

Toto:He is very focused on access control.

Freya:Romance, Verstappen style.

Toto:Ana likes the island.

Freya:Then it is perfect.

Toto:Can you come?

Freya:I’ll do my best to be there.

Toto:She would like you there.

Freya:Do not do that twice in one conversation.

Toto:It is true.

Freya:I know it is true. That is why it is manipulative.

Toto:Will you come?

Freya:I said I’ll do my best.

Freya:And if I come, I am bringing something.

Toto:Freya.

Freya:Do not start.

Toto:No enormous gemstones.

Freya:You are boring.

Wolff Residence, Monaco - 13 October 2025

Toto Wolff was in the middle of reading an email when Nikolai Maroz called.

That was the first warning.

Nikolai did not call unless the matter required immediacy. He texted when something required record. He briefed when something required strategy. He appeared silently when something required prevention.

A call meant an event was already in motion.

Toto looked at the name on the screen, and the part of him that had survived decades of Formula One, corporate warfare, and fatherhood went very still.

He answered before the second ring. “Yes.”

Nikolai did not waste time. “Where are you?”

Toto was already standing. “Home. Monaco.”

“Are you alone?”

The air changed.

Toto’s hand tightened around the phone. “Yes.”

“Dr. Wolff received multiple threatening messages from an unknown number approximately ten minutes ago.”

For one second, Toto heard nothing.

Not silence.

Nothing.

Then the world came back with too much detail.

The soft hum of the air-conditioning. The weight of the phone in his hand. The desk under his knuckles. The unread email open on his laptop. The Monaco light outside the window, sharp and indifferent.

“What kind of threats?” he asked.

His voice did not sound like his.

It sounded like something that had been placed under glass.

Nikolai paused.

Not because he was hesitant.

Because he was deciding how much of the horror to compress into one sentence.

“Death threats. Threats referencing Baku. Sexual threats. Language indicates George Russell.”

Toto’s vision narrowed.

George Russell.

For a moment, he saw the boy he had hired.

No.

Not boy.

Man.

A man he had once trusted with machinery, contracts, access, rooms, staff, reputation. A man who had sat in meetings with Anastasia. A man who had watched her work. A man who had put his hands on his daughter once already and called it whatever entitled men called violence when they wanted to survive the consequences.

A man who was supposed to be contained.

Toto’s voice dropped. “Is Anastasia safe?”

“Physically, yes. She is with Verstappen. I am with them.”

“Is Max safe?”

“Yes. Angry. Limited mobility. Contained.”

Under other circumstances, Toto might have laughed at that description.

He did not.

“How is Anastasia?”

There was a fraction of silence.

That fraction told Toto more than he wanted to know.

“She nearly had a panic attack,” Nikolai said. “She is coming down. She is responsive. She has not replied to the messages. Screenshots taken. I have the device secure.”

Toto closed his eyes.

His daughter, in her house, with her phone in her hand and George Russell reaching through the screen to put his voice back inside her life.

His daughter, who had only just sat with him under Scottish stars and said, You stayed.

His daughter, who had gone to Paris that morning for a wedding dress.

A wedding dress.

Toto opened his eyes.

“When?” he asked.

“The most recent message came three minutes ago.”

“Is the number active?”

“Yes.”

“Do not block.”

“I know.”

“Do not delete.”

“I know.”

“Preserve everything.”

“I have.”

“Does she know it is George?”

“She believes it is. So do I.”

“What did he say about Baku?”

Another pause.

Toto’s hand closed around the edge of the desk hard enough that pain flashed across his palm.

“Nikolai.”

“He implied he would not have needed Baku if she had let him ‘fix’ her. He frames the loss of his seat as her fault. He does not appear to know about her relationship with Verstappen.”

Toto stopped breathing.

Then, quietly, “Repeat that.”

“No.”

Toto went very still.

Nikolai’s voice was calm. “You heard me. You do not need it repeated while you are alone and about to get into a car.”

There were very few people in the world who could speak to Toto Wolff like that and survive it.

Nikolai Maroz was one of them.

Not because Toto lacked authority over him. Technically, he employed him.

Because years ago, Toto had handed Nikolai the task of protecting Ana at Cambridge and Nikolai had performed it without drama, without ego, without making her feel hunted by the protection itself. 

Ana trusted him. Not easily, not completely, because Ana trusted almost no one easily or completely. But she trusted him enough that when her life narrowed, his voice could still reach her.

That mattered more than hierarchy.

Toto forced air into his lungs.

“I am coming.”

“I know.”

“Does she know you called me?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She objected initially. Verstappen corrected her.”

Despite everything, a violent little flicker of gratitude moved through Toto’s chest.

Max.

Broken leg, explosive temper, catastrophic impatience, and somehow still the person who could look at Ana while the world burned and say the thing she needed to hear.

Good.

“Mr. Wolff.”

Toto paused at the door of his office.

“What?”

“Breathe before you come in.”

For one second, the fury in Toto rose so sharply it almost became speech.

Then he thought of Anastasia.

Not okay. But here.

He inhaled.

“I will try,” he said.

Nikolai made a sound that suggested the bar was on the floor and Toto was still not guaranteed to clear it.

“Do that.”

The call ended.

Toto stood in his office for one second.

Two.

Then he picked up his keys.

He was halfway to the lift when his phone rang again.

Susie.

For a moment, he stared at her name.

She had picked Jack up from school. She would be on the way back to the apartment or possibly already downstairs with Jack..

He answered.

“Toto?”

Her voice was warm with movement, distracted in the way it became when Jack was near her.

He could hear traffic behind her. Jack talking in the background about something involving a beetle. The normal world. Their son’s small, bright, ordinary day pressing against the impossible thing Toto had to say.

“Toto?” Susie repeated, sharper now.

He stopped walking. “There has been a security incident.”

The background noise seemed to drop away.

Susie’s voice changed immediately. “Ana?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“George sent messages.”

A pause.

Not confusion.

Containment.

Susie had always been faster than most people gave her credit for. Her mind moved cleanly under pressure. It was one of the reasons Toto had fallen in love with her and one of the reasons, at times, she terrified him.

“What kind of messages?” she asked.

Toto closed his eyes.

Beside Susie, Jack’s voice said, muffled but clear, “Mama, is it about Ana?”

Toto’s chest tightened.

Susie must have moved the phone slightly away from her mouth because her voice softened. “One second, darling.”

Then she came back. “Toto. What kind of messages?”

“Threats.”

“What kind?”

He did not want to say it.

Not to Susie.

Not with Jack close enough to hear tone if not words.

But Susie would not accept anything less than truth. Not here. Not for Ana.

“Death threats,” he said. “Sexual threats. Baku. Nikolai believes it is George. Ana does too.”

The silence on the line was absolute.

Then Susie said, very quietly, “Where is she?”

“The house. Nikolai is with her. Max is with her.”

“How is she?”

“She nearly had a panic attack.”

Susie exhaled once.

It was not a sob. It was worse. Controlled fury entering the body and finding nowhere civilized to go.

“Where are you?”

“Leaving home.”

“We are going over now.”

Toto’s eyes opened. “Susie—”

“No.”

The word was flat.

Final.

“Susie, Jack is with you.”

“I know Jack is with me. I picked him up from school. He is my son. He is also Ana’s brother. We are going over.”

“He does not need to hear—”

“He will not hear the details,” Susie cut in. “But he already knows we sometimes have security for reasons. He knows Ana and Max have extra people around right now because of Baku. He knows enough to understand when adults lie to him, and I am not doing that.”

Toto pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead.

She was right. Of course she was right.

That did not make it any easier.

“Put me on speaker, please,” Toto said.

A rustle.

Then Susie’s voice, clearer and slightly distant. “You’re on speaker. Jack is here.”

Jack’s voice came quickly. “Papa?”

Toto shut his eyes again. Kept his voice steady. “Yes, kleiner Mann.”

“Is Ana hurt?”

There it was.

The only question that mattered to a child.

“No,” Toto said immediately. “Ana is not physically hurt.”

Jack was quiet for a second.

Too smart. Too used to adults choosing words carefully.

“Physically means her body,” Jack said.

“Yes.”

“So something else happened.”

Toto opened his eyes. In the reflection of the lift doors, his own face looked like a stranger’s. “Yes,” he said. “Someone sent her very frightening messages.”

Jack was silent.

Then: “A bad person?”

Toto’s hand curled at his side.

“Yes.”

Susie’s voice was soft. “A person who is not behaving safely.”

Jack absorbed this with the terrible seriousness of a child who had grown up around adults who sometimes used words like security protocol over breakfast because Formula One life was strange.

“Is Nikolai there?” Jack asked.

Toto’s throat tightened. “Yes.”

“Then she has security.”

“Yes,” Toto said. “Nikolai is handling security.”

Jack was quiet again.

Then, very carefully, “Are we allowed to go to her?”

Toto looked at the closed lift doors.

He thought of Ana at Cambridge, younger and sharper and pretending she did not care that he had hired Nikolai. He thought of Jack at three, pressing a handmade birthday card into Ana’s hands, and Ana going upstairs to throw up because love had arrived too suddenly for her body to tolerate. He thought of how fiercely Jack loved her, in the open, with no embarrassment at all.

“Yes,” Toto said. “We are going.”

“Do I have to be quiet?”

Susie answered before Toto could. “You have to be gentle, darling. Quiet if Ana needs quiet. Normal if Ana needs normal.”

“Which one will she need?”

Toto’s chest ached.

“I don’t know,” Susie said. “So we will ask.”

Jack seemed to consider that.

“Can I bring Coco?”

Toto looked up at the ceiling.

There were moments in parenting when the heart did not break so much as become too large for the body trying to hold it.

Susie’s voice trembled only slightly when she said, “Yes. Bring Coco.”

“She is in my school bag.”

“Good.”

Toto heard car door sounds.

Susie said, “We are getting in the car now.”

“I will meet you there.”

“No,” Susie said. “You will not meet us there. You will drive safely and arrive after us if necessary.”

“I am closer.”

“Toto.”

He stopped.

“Do not make me worry about you crashing the car while I am trying to worry about Ana,” she said.

There was fury under it.

Fear too.

Love, unfortunately, for him.

“I will drive safely,” he said.

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

“Do not arrive like a thunderstorm.”

“That may not be possible.”

“Try.”

He thought of Nikolai’s instruction.

Breathe before you come in.

Everyone kept giving him the same order.

This was irritating. Probably useful.

“I will try,” he said.

Susie was quiet for half a second.

Then, softer, “We are going to her.”

“Yes.”

“And when we get there,” Susie said, voice sharpening again, “you are not going to make this about your guilt. You are not going to make her reassure you. You are not going to walk in there looking like you might kill someone unless Nikolai physically restrains you.”

Toto hesitated.

“Toto.”

“I will try.”

“That is not good enough.”

He breathed in.

Out.

“She needs me calm,” he said.

“Yes.”

“She needs us calm. She needs to know he cannot reach her. She needs to know this is not her fault.”

Susie’s voice softened.

“Yes.”

Toto opened his eyes.

“Then I will be calm.”

“You can be furious later.”

“I will be furious later too.”

“I know.”

Toto did not answer.

Susie said, “He touched her once and I already wanted to tear the world apart. If he has sent her threats about that, if he has put that back in her head because he is angry he lost the seat he thought he could get by using her—”

She stopped.

Not because she was finished.

Because Jack was there.

Toto heard her breathe.

Then she said, controlled again, “We are going over now. I’ll see you there.”

“Yes.”

The call ended.

The ride down took too long.

Everything took too long.

In the car, he did what he had promised.

Mostly.

He drove fast, but not recklessly. He stopped at lights when stopping was required. He did not call Nikolai again because Nikolai would call him if something changed, and because calling repeatedly would create noise in a room that needed less of it.

His phone stayed in the holder.

His hands stayed on the wheel.

His mind did not stay anywhere useful.

It went to George.

George in Mercedes kit.

George smiling politely in meetings.

George standing too close to Ana in a corridor while Toto had been busy with some other fire, some other contract, some other championship, some other crisis that had felt urgent enough to take his eyes off the oldest danger in the room: a mediocre man with entitlement and access.

Toto had missed Stephanie until after harm had already occurred. 

He had missed George too.

Not entirely. Not forever. But long enough.

Long enough for Ana to be cornered.

Long enough for a forced kiss.

Long enough for George to build a story in his head where Ana’s refusal was the first domino in a chain that ended with sabotage at Baku.

Toto’s jaw clenched so hard pain shot toward his ear.

He breathed.

Because Nikolai had told him to.

Because Susie had told him to.

Because Ana needed him not to arrive as another emergency.

By the time he reached the house, Susie was already there.

Of course she was.

Her car had pulled in moments before his. The door opened, and Jack climbed out wearing his school uniform, backpack too large on his shoulders, one hand gripping Coco the stuffed capybara by one leg.

Susie stepped out behind him.

Her face was pale.

Her eyes were furious.

Toto knew that expression.

He had seen it in boardrooms, in paddocks, nights earlier when she had looked at him and said, You never asked her.

This was different.

This was maternal rage stripped clean of everything else.

She looked at him once. He crossed the small space between them.

For a second, neither spoke.

Then Jack moved first.

He walked up to Toto and pressed himself against his side.

Toto’s arm came down around him automatically.

“Papa,” Jack said into his shirt, “are you calm?”

Toto closed his eyes.

Susie’s face changed. Just for a second. Then she looked away.

“I am trying,” Toto said.

Jack considered that.

“Okay.”

It was trust. Toto did not deserve all the trust his children gave him. He held Jack for one second longer, then let go.

Susie stepped closer.

Her voice was low enough that Jack could not hear. “If I see him again,” she said, “I will forget every media training session I have ever done.”

Toto looked at her. “If I see him again,” he replied, “there may not be enough left for anything at all.”

Susie’s mouth tightened.

Not quite approval. Not disapproval either.

Then Jack looked between them. “Are we talking about the bad person?”

Susie turned immediately.

“Yes,” she said. “But not details.”

Jack nodded, serious. “Because details can make brains make pictures.”

Toto’s throat tightened.

Susie crouched in front of him.

“Yes, darling. Exactly.”

Jack held up the capybara. “Coco does not make pictures.”

“No,” Susie said, and her voice nearly broke. “Coco is very sensible.”

“Nikolai will know what to do.”

“Yes.”

“And Ana might not want hugs.”

“That’s right.”

“But she can have Coco.”

“If she wants.”

Jack nodded again, as if the matter had become a protocol he could manage.

Good.

Susie stood.

Toto looked toward the building entrance.

Nikolai was waiting.

Of course he was.

He opened it before they knocked.

His gaze took them in.

Toto. Susie. Jack.

The capybara.

For half a second, something almost human softened around Nikolai’s eyes.

Then it was gone.

“How is she?” Susie asked.

“Shaken. Breathing. With Verstappen.”

Susie inhaled.

“Good.”

Susie’s hand found his wrist.

Brief. Hard. A warning and an anchor.

Not here. Not now. Ana first.

They entered the house.

It was too quiet.

The house was rarely loud, exactly, but it had a particular atmosphere when Max was in it. Movement, irritation, the distant threat of a sim race, cats occasionally insulted by doors. Now the quiet had been organized. Contained. Every sound seemed to know better than to travel too far.

Nikolai led them to the living room.

Toto saw Max first.

On the sofa, broken leg extended, face pale with rage, one hand wrapped around Ana’s.

Then Ana.

She sat beside him, too straight, too still, her face composed in a way that made Toto want to destroy something.

Her eyes lifted.

Found him.

Then Susie. Then Jack.

Something changed in her expression when she saw her brother. “Jack,” she said.

Her voice sounded thin.

Jack walked into the room carefully.

Not rushing.

Good boy, Toto thought helplessly. Good, good boy.

“I brought Coco,” Jack said.

Ana looked at the capybara.

For one second, Toto thought she might break.

Then she held out her free hand.

Jack placed Coco in it with the solemnity of a ceremonial exchange.

“She is good for bad days,” Jack said.

Ana looked down at the capybara.

Then at Jack.

“She is,” Ana said.

Jack nodded.

Then, after a pause, “Are you hurt?”

Ana’s mouth trembled.

Only once.

“No.”

“Okay.”

He looked at Max. “Are you hurt?”

Max blinked.

Then looked down at his cast.

“Already was.”

Jack frowned. “That counts.”

Max’s mouth twitched.

“Okay. Then yes.”

Jack nodded again, apparently updating the situation.

Then he looked at Nikolai. “Is the bad person far away?”

“Yes,” Nikolai said.

“Are you making sure?”

“Yes.”

Jack looked back at Ana. “Nikolai is making sure.”

Ana closed her eyes briefly.

When she opened them, they were wet.

“Yes,” she said. “He is.”

Susie moved then.

Slowly. Not rushing.

She crossed the room and knelt in front of Ana.

For a second, mother and daughter looked at each other.

No words. No demand.

Then Susie said, “Darling girl.”

Ana’s face cracked. “I’m sorry,” Ana said.

Susie’s expression changed so quickly it was almost frightening. “No.”

Ana swallowed. “I—”

“No,” Susie said again, firmer now. “No. You do not apologize to me because a violent, entitled man decided consequences were your fault.”

Ana’s eyes went wide. Max’s hand tightened around hers.

Toto stayed in the doorway. If he moved too quickly, he would become the wrong thing. He knew that.

Breathe before you come in.

So he breathed.

Susie took Ana’s free hand, careful of Coco.

“You did nothing wrong,” Susie said. “Not then. Not now. ”

Ana’s throat moved. “I know.”

“Do you?”

Ana looked away.

Susie’s face softened.

“Okay,” she said. “Then we will know it for you until the rest catches up.”

Max looked down.

His jaw was clenched. Toto could see the effort it cost him not to speak over that.

Susie kissed Ana’s cheek.

Then stood.

Only then did Toto move.

One step. Two.

He stopped in front of Ana, not too close, because she was already surrounded and the room was already full.

“Anastasia,” he said.

Her eyes lifted to his.

He had driven here with a thousand things burning in his throat.

I am sorry.

I failed you.

I should have seen.

I should have kept him away.

I will end him.

None of them were the first thing she needed.

So he said the truest thing he could trust himself with. “You are safe here.”

Ana stared at him.

Then her eyes moved to Nikolai.

To Susie.

To Max.

To Jack.

To the capybara in her lap.

Back to Toto.

“I know,” she said.

The words were small.

But not empty.

Toto nodded once.

“Good.”

His hands wanted to reach for her.

He did not.

After a moment, Ana lifted her free hand.

Not far.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

Toto took it.

Carefully.

Her fingers were cold.

He held them as if something in him might shatter if he held too tightly.

“Papa,” she said.

That was all.

It was enough to nearly bring him to his knees.

***

Maison Étoiles, Monaco - 13 October 2025

The next steps were, unfortunately, very boring.

Ana had expected that.

She had said as much to Max earlier, and Max had looked at her like she had said something clinically insane, because Max believed death threats and police involvement should qualify as many things, but boring was apparently not one of them.

He was wrong.

The immediate terror was sharp.

The aftermath was simply paperwork.

Screenshots. Timestamps. Device preservation. Call logs. Number traces. Statements. Legal classifications. Jurisdictional questions. House arrest conditions. Police liaison. Private security escalation. Digital forensics. Official Mercedes records from George’s prior conduct. HR documentation. Access logs. Event calendars. Travel manifests. Baku evidence chains. Every fact extracted, duplicated, labelled, backed up, and placed into a structure..

Ana liked structures. Usually. Tonight, she hated this one.

She sat in their living room with a blanket over her legs that Susie had put there and Ana had not removed, and watched a very serious lawyer from Monaco speak to a very serious lawyer in London through Toto’s phone on speaker.

Police had already been contacted.

Not debated. Not postponed. Not softened into we should see if this escalates. Nikolai had made that decision before Toto had arrived, and Toto had endorsed it with the expression of a man who would have preferred to solve the matter by physically putting George Russell through a wall but understood that courts sadly required less satisfying behaviour.

Ana had given the statement.

Or the first statement.

There would be more.

That was the thing about statements. They reproduced.

The Monaco officer had been calm. Professional. Careful with his questions after the lawyer had said, in French first and then in English for everyone’s benefit, that Ana would answer once and clearly, and he would stop the interview if she was made to repeat sexual-threat content unnecessarily.

Ana had appreciated that.

She had hated that she needed it.

Max sat beside her on the sofa, broken leg elevated on a cushion, jaw clenched so tightly Ana worried briefly about dental damage. He had been told three separate times that he could not participate in active evidence handling while medicated, furious, and visibly inclined toward murder.

He had responded badly.

Then Susie had said, “Max, darling, sit down before you make Ana start managing you,” and he had sat down so quickly Ana had almost smiled.

Almost.

Jack was on the floor near the windows with the cats and headphones on.

That had been an unexpected stabilizing variable.

Ana had not wanted Jack in the room for the legal discussions. Nobody had. Not even Jack, once he had understood that the adult voices were going to be boring and sharp and full of words he was not meant to collect.

So Susie had created a boundary.

Jack could stay in the house. Jack could be near Ana. Jack could wear headphones and listen to his favourite tv series. Jack could not listen to the details of the messages. Jack could not see the phone. Jack could not interrupt when police were speaking unless it was urgent.

Jack had accepted this after negotiating one amendment: he was allowed to play with Sassy and Jimmy.

Max had said, “If they agree.”

Jack had gone very serious and said, “Cats have consent too.”

That had been the first time Ana had nearly cried.

Now Jack lay on his stomach on the rug, still in his school trousers and socks, Coco tucked under one arm, dragging a feather toy in small cautious circles while Jimmy stalked it with the exaggerated intensity of an apex predator who was shaped like a spoiled domestic cat.

Sassy watched from a chair with open disdain.

“She is supervising,” Jack whispered to Jimmy.

Jimmy pounced on the feather and missed by a humiliating margin. Jack did not laugh. He said, very kindly, “Good try.”

Ana looked away.

Her eyes burned again. This was becoming inconvenient.

Toto sat opposite her, one ankle crossed over the other, outwardly controlled in a way that made the air around him feel pressurized. His sleeves were rolled up. His watch had been placed on the table beside him, which meant he had already entered the phase of crisis management where objects became obstacles.

Susie stood behind Ana’s end of the sofa, one hand resting lightly on the back cushion. Not touching Ana, but there. Close enough that Ana could lean back by two centimetres and find her.

Nikolai stood near the hallway.

He had not sat once.

That was unnecessary. It was also deeply reassuring.

The London lawyer said, “Given the content referencing Baku, we will need to coordinate with the relevant authorities already involved in the investigation.”

Toto’s face did not move.

“Yes.”

“And the house arrest conditions—”

“Will be revisited,” Toto said.

It was not a question.

The lawyer paused.

“Yes. We can apply pressure there.”

“Not pressure,” Toto said. “Evidence.”

Ana looked at him.

That was exactly the correction she would have made. Under better circumstances, that would have pleased her.

Tonight, it simply made her chest hurt.

The Monaco officer asked Ana whether the unknown number had attempted to call.

“No,” Ana said.

Her voice sounded normal.

Too normal.

She knew because Susie’s hand flexed against the sofa behind her.

“Only text messages?” the officer asked.

“Yes.”

“And you did not respond?”

“No.”

“Did the sender identify himself?”

“No.”

“But you believe it is George Russell?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Ana looked at her laptop screen.

The cursor blinked in the open document where she had already begun constructing a timeline because waiting passively for other people to organize facts was intolerable.

“Language patterns,” she said. “Prior conduct. Specific references to phrases he previously used. Motive. The mention of Baku. His belief that his seat loss was caused by me. His prior fixation on the idea that I required correction.”

The room went very still around the word correction.

Max’s hand moved toward hers.

Stopped. Waited.

Ana looked down at it.

Then placed her hand in his.

His fingers closed gently.

The officer’s voice softened, which Ana disliked.

“Can you expand on that prior fixation?”

Toto’s head turned sharply.

Nikolai spoke before Toto could.

“That has been documented in the initial incident report from Mercedes,” he said. “Additional detail can be provided in a supplemental written statement after she has rested.”

The officer accepted that.

Ana made a note to thank Nikolai later.

Probably by sending him an updated access schedule.

(He would understand.)

The call continued.

Legal action. Emergency protective orders. Coordination with UK police. A formal report in Monaco. Preservation letters. Notification of whatever authority supervised George’s house arrest. Review of whether the threats constituted breach of conditions. Review of whether his access to communication devices had been properly restricted. Review of whether anyone around him had facilitated contact.

That last part made Ana’s skin prickle.

Facilitated.

Someone could have given him a phone.

Someone could have looked away.

Someone could have decided George was harmless if contained behind the right walls.

Ana looked toward Jack on the floor.

Jimmy had now climbed halfway onto Jack’s back, apparently deciding the human child made an acceptable platform. Jack was whispering to him.

Her chest tightened again.

Not as sharply as before.

Worse, in some ways.

Broader.

Because fear, once it finished aiming at the first target, began looking for others.

George had reached her.

From house arrest.

While under restrictions that were supposed to matter.

He had not known about Max and Ana. He had not known he was texting Max Verstappen’s fiancée in their shared house.

He had still reached her.

If he could reach her, he could reach—

“Papa,” Ana said.

Toto stopped mid-sentence.

Everyone looked at her.

She hated that.

But the thought was already moving. Once a thought began moving with this much momentum, stopping it required more energy than redirecting it into words.

“Maybe security for the rest of the family would not be a horrible idea.”

The words landed heavily.

Susie’s hand went still behind her.

Toto’s face changed. “The rest of the family,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

Max turned his head toward her.

Ana kept her gaze on Toto because if she looked at Max, she might see too much fear reflected back and lose the thread.

“I know it sounds paranoid,” she said.

“It does not,” Nikolai said.

Immediately. Flatly.

Ana looked at him. Nikolai looked back.

“It does not sound paranoid,” he repeated.

Something in her loosened by one degree.

Toto’s expression had hardened, but not at her.

Never at her.

“Who?” he asked.

Ana swallowed.

“Susie. Jack. Benedict and Rosa. Stephanie, although I do not know whether George would consider her connected to me. Your mother. Maybe Max’s family too.”

Susie inhaled softly. Ana did not look at her.

“I am not saying George can reach them,” Ana continued quickly. “I am saying his logic is not rational, and if he believes I caused a chain of events, he may decide other people are pressure points as well.”

Toto leaned forward. “Anastasia.”

“I know this is probably excessive.”

“It is not.”

She stopped.

Toto’s voice was very quiet. “It is not excessive.”

Ana blinked. “Papa—”

“No.” He shook his head once. “You are not being paranoid. You are assessing risk after a credible threat. That is what you should do.”

Her throat tightened.

She hated how much she needed him to say that.

She hated that some part of her had expected, even now, to be told she was overreacting. Too much. Too sensitive. Making patterns where none existed.

Stephanie’s voice, old and sharp, from the ugly carpet years.

George’s voice, smoother, newer. Most people don’t have patience for this.

Toto’s voice cut through both.

“You are assessing risk,” he said again. “And you are right.”

Ana looked down.

Max’s thumb moved once across her knuckles.

Toto turned to Nikolai. “Can we expand coverage tonight?”

“Yes.”

“How quickly?”

“Some immediately. More within the hour. Full coverage by morning.”

“Do it.”

Nikolai nodded.

Susie stepped around the sofa and sat on Ana’s other side.

Ana stiffened reflexively.

Susie noticed and did not touch her.

She simply sat close enough to become part of the perimeter.

The lawyer on speaker cleared his throat delicately.

Toto returned his attention to the phone call, but something in the room had shifted.

Not better.

Better was not available.

Contained, perhaps.

No.

Ana disliked that word now.

Held. Maybe.

The calls took another forty minutes.

Ana answered questions until Nikolai said, “No more,” and this time even Toto did not argue.

The police confirmed next steps. The lawyers confirmed paperwork. Nikolai confirmed additional guards moving into place around the immediate family. Toto confirmed nothing with his face, but Ana could see him already building the list in his head.

Benedict. Rosa. His mother. Susie’s parents, perhaps. Sally and John were not direct targets, but they had just hosted them in Scotland and Fiona knew the wedding venue and—

Ana’s breath caught.

Venue. Wedding. Private island. Bridge. Guest list. Children in the bridal party.

Her mind moved too fast.

Alana and Keira. Lio and Luka and Hailey. Jack. Families. Names. Arrivals. Flights. Staff. Access.

Max’s hand tightened. “Nastya.”

Ana blinked.

She had gone somewhere.

She knew because everyone was looking at her again.

“I need the wedding guest list locked down,” she said.

Susie’s face changed. “Not now.”

“Yes, now.”

“Ana.”

“If George somehow learns—”

“He does not know about the wedding,” Susie said.

“He did not know about Max and me either, and he still reached my phone.”

The words came out sharper than intended.

Susie stopped.

Max’s jaw flexed.

Toto stood.

Not abruptly.

Carefully.

Then crossed to crouch in front of her.

Ana disliked when tall people crouched. It made conversations feel medical.

This did not.

Maybe because Toto did not touch her.

Maybe because his face was not pitying.

Maybe because his anger was there, but not aimed at her.

“Anastasia,” he said. “Listen to me.”

“I am listening.”

“No, you are planning.”

That was deeply unfair.

“I can do both.”

“Yes,” Toto said. “I know. But listen anyway.”

Ana closed her mouth.

Toto’s eyes held hers.

“We will secure the family. We will secure the wedding. We will secure travel, communications, venue access, guest movement, staff, suppliers, routes, and every other variable you can name. Nikolai will make lists. I will make calls. Max will attempt to interfere and be told to sit down. Susie will keep us from turning the wedding into a military operation.”

“I make no promises,” Susie said.

Toto did not look away from Ana.

“You do not need to solve all of it tonight,” he said.

Ana’s mouth tightened.

“If I don’t write it down, I will lose track.”

“No,” Max said quietly. “You won’t.”

She looked at him.

He was leaning toward her as much as the cast allowed.

“You will remember,” he said. “You remember everything when you are scared. That is the problem.”

Ana’s throat closed.

Toto’s face softened with pain.

Max continued, low and steady. “So we write down enough that your brain stops trying to hold all of it alone. Not everything. Enough.”

Ana looked at the laptop.

The open document.

The blinking cursor.

Enough.

It was a difficult category.

Less precise than complete.

More livable.

Nikolai stepped forward and placed a piece of paper on the table.

Ana stared at it.

It was already labelled:

IMMEDIATE SECURITY QUESTIONS — NOT FULL PLAN

She looked up at him.

Nikolai’s face was unreadable.

“Ten items,” he said. “Maximum.”

Ana stared.

“Only immediate,” he added.

She took the pen.

The first item was: Family coverage tonight.

The second: Jack school route.

The third: Susie public schedule.

The fourth: House access.

The fifth: COTA travel.

Toto saw that one immediately.

His eyes sharpened. “We need to discuss COTA.”

Ana did not look up. “No.”

“You are not going to COTA.”

She looked up then.

The room went still.

Max’s hand tightened around hers again, but he did not speak.

“I am going to COTA,” Ana said.

Toto’s expression did not change, which meant he was about to become extremely difficult.

“Anastasia.”

“No.”

“You received death threats less than two hours ago.”

“Yes.”

“And sexual threats.”

“Yes.”

“And threats referencing Baku.”

“Yes.”

“You nearly had a panic attack.”

“Yes.”

Her voice stayed level.

Barely.

Toto leaned forward. “Then you understand why I am suggesting that you do not fly to Texas this week.”

“I understand why you are suggesting it.”

“But?”

“But I am still going.”

Susie shifted beside her. “Ana—”

Ana turned to her. “No.”

Susie closed her mouth.

Not because she agreed.

Because she had heard something in Ana’s voice.

Good.

Ana needed someone to hear it.

“I am shaken,” Ana said.

The words cost more than she expected.

She forced herself to keep going.

“I am scared. I am angry. I do not like that he reached me. I do not like that my body reacted. I do not like that I am thinking about Jack’s school route and Susie’s book tour and whether George has access to other people I love. I do not like any of it.”

Max’s face twisted.

Toto looked like he had been struck.

Ana kept her hands still.

“But I am not letting him stop me from doing my job.”

The sentence settled in the room.

Hard.

Clean.

“He has already built an entire internal mythology where my refusal caused his career to collapse,” she continued. “If I disappear from COTA because he sent messages, that will become part of the same mythology. He will not know why. He will not see nuance. He will only know that he reached me and I changed my behavior.”

Nikolai’s gaze sharpened.

Toto said, “Your safety is more important than his interpretation.”

“Yes.”

“Then—”

“But my life is also important,” Ana said.

Toto stopped.

Ana’s heart was beating too fast again.

She ignored it.

Mostly.

“My job is part of my life. Mercedes is part of my life. Max’s transition is part of my life. COTA is work I was already scheduled to do. I will not let George Russell decide that I have to become smaller because he is dangerous.”

Toto looked at her for a long moment.

Then, quietly, “I am not asking you to become smaller.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Ana hesitated.

Toto saw it.

Of course he did.

He looked pained.

Max spoke then. “I think she should go.”

Everyone turned toward him.

Toto’s eyes narrowed. “You think she should go?!”

Max kept his gaze on Toto. “If she stays home because of him, she will hate it,” he said. “She will be safer maybe, but not better.”

“Safer matters,” Toto said.

“Yes,” Max said. “So make it safe.”

Toto’s jaw tightened.

Max did not back down. “She is not saying no security. She is saying no hiding.”

Ana’s eyes burned again.

This was getting ridiculous.

Nikolai said, “COTA can be secured.”

Toto turned to him.

“How?”

“Travel adjusted. No commercial exposure. Known movements minimized. Additional close protection. Digital restrictions. Local liaison. No solo transfers. Paddock movements controlled. Mercedes staff briefed on need-to-know basis. I will go to COTA with her. We will need additional coverage for Mr. Verstappen here in Monaco.” 

Max frowned. “For me?”

“You are a target too,” Nikolai said.

“I know.”

“You behave as if you do not.”

Max opened his mouth.

Ana said, “He is correct.”

Max closed his mouth.

Toto looked between them.

Then at Susie.

Susie was watching Ana, not the men.

Her eyes were sad and proud and furious all at once.

“I don’t like it,” Susie said.

Ana nodded. “I know.”

“I want to wrap you in blankets and lock every door.”

“That is not efficient.”

“It would make me feel better.”

“I know.”

Susie’s mouth trembled slightly. “But you are right,” she said.

Toto looked at her sharply.

Susie did not look away from Ana.

“You are right,” she repeated. “Not because safety does not matter. It does. But because you get to keep your life.”

Ana’s breath shook.

Just once.

Susie reached out slowly.

Ana let her hand settle over hers.

Toto stood, turned away for one second, then turned back.

He looked like he wanted to argue. He looked like he wanted to forbid it.

He looked, for one painful moment, like the father who had missed too much and wanted to repair the past by controlling the future.

Then he inhaled. 

He chose differently. “Fine,” he said.

Ana blinked.

Toto pointed at her, and there he was again, half father, half team principal, entirely impossible. “Not fine. Conditional fine.”

Max muttered, “Here we go.”

Toto ignored him.

“You go to COTA only with a security sign-off. Nikolai approves the plan. Travel is adjusted. Your schedule is reviewed. No unnecessary appearances. No solo movement. If Nikolai says leave, you leave. If there is another credible escalation, we revisit.”

Ana considered this.

It was not unreasonable. Annoying. But not unreasonable.

“Define unnecessary appearances,” she said.

Toto almost smiled.

Almost.

“We will define it together.”

“That means you will attempt to remove everything.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“That is why we define it together.”

Ana looked at Nikolai.

He nodded once.

“Acceptable,” he said.

Ana sighed. “Fine.”

Max leaned back slightly, as if someone had removed one of several knives from the room.

Toto looked at him. “And you.”

Max’s face closed. “What?”

“You are injured. You are also not moving without security.” Toto continued, “You will follow the same plan.”

Max looked rebellious.

Ana turned her head. “Max.”

He looked at her.

She did not have to say more.

That was satisfying.

He sighed. “Fine.”

Jack, who had apparently decided the adult crisis had become safe enough to re-enter, looked up from the rug.

“Are we all going to Texas?”

“No,” Susie said immediately.

Jack looked disappointed. “Why?”

“Because you have school.”

“School is less secure than Texas.”

Every adult in the room went still.

Jack looked around. “What?”

Ana closed her eyes briefly.

Toto said, “We are also discussing your school route.”

Jack nodded. “Good. Nikolai should check the side gate. It sticks.”

Nikolai looked at him.

“The side gate sticks,” Jack repeated helpfully. “At pickup. Not drop-off.”

Nikolai took out his phone and made a note.

Jack looked pleased.

Ana stared at her brother.

“Useful,” she said.

Jack beamed. “I can do security.”

“You can do school,” Susie said.

“And security observations.”

“And security observations,” Susie conceded.

Sassy chose that moment to leap onto the sofa beside Ana, step directly across the paperwork, and sit on the list of immediate security questions.

Max sighed. “Sassy.”

Sassy looked at him with contempt.

Jack whispered, “She is protecting the documents.”

Ana looked at the cat.

Sassy blinked slowly.

Ana placed her hand lightly on the cat’s back.

The purr started immediately.

Low.

Smug.

Alive.

For the first time in almost two hours, Ana’s nervous system found a sound that was not a phone vibrating, not George’s words, not lawyers, not police, not the echo of her own breath failing.

Just a cat purring under her palm while her little brother explained gate mechanics to a bodyguard and her fiancé argued silently with her father about who had the more unreasonable protective instincts.

She was still shaken.

That did not vanish because people loved her.

Her hands still trembled if she stopped paying attention. Her chest still felt bruised from the panic. Her phone still looked like a threat on the table. Somewhere in her mind, George’s messages kept trying to replay themselves in the dark.

But the room was louder now.

Not in volume.

In presence.

Toto making calls. Susie sitting close. Nikolai writing down Jack’s side-gate observation. Max’s thumb against her hand. Jack’s socked feet on the rug. Jimmy attacking the feather toy. Sassy purring with the entitled force of a small engine.

George had reached her.

He had frightened her.

He had not stopped her.

Ana looked at the fifth item on the list.

COTA travel.

Then she wrote beneath it:

Proceed with modifications.

Toto saw it.

His mouth tightened.

But he did not tell her to cross it out.

Good.

Progress.

Ana placed the pen down and rested her hand on Sassy’s back again.

The cat purred louder.

Jack looked up. “Ana?”

“Yes?”

“Coco can go to Texas if you need her.”

Ana’s throat tightened so fast it hurt.

Max looked away.

Susie pressed her fingers to her mouth.

Toto’s face broke for half a second before he controlled it.

Ana looked at her brother and the capybara tucked under his arm.

“I might,” she said carefully, “need a photograph of Coco for the travel file.”

Jack nodded, deeply serious. “I can send one.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

It was absurd.

It was perfect.

It was, Ana thought, perhaps the only reason she did not fall apart completely.

Because there were police and lawyers and death threats and security protocols.

And there was also Jack, offering her a stuffed Capybara as part of an international travel risk mitigation plan.

Ana breathed in.

It shook. But it entered.

Then she looked at Toto.

“Family coverage first,” she said.

Toto nodded.

“Already happening.”

“And COTA.”

“Modified,” he said.

“Not cancelled.”

His eyes held hers.

The fight was not gone.

The fear was not gone.

But he nodded again.

“Not cancelled.”

Ana looked down at the list.

Her hand still shook when she picked up the pen.

She wrote anyway.

Maison Étoiles, Monaco - 13 October 2025

Ana checked her phone because she was waiting for an email.

That was all.

It was not meant to become anything.

There were, in Ana’s experience, several categories of messages one might receive after spending a morning in Paris with Lewis and Susie, during which Dior had somehow become involved in her wedding dress and Jonathan Anderson had developed opinions about an embroidered veil.

Category one: Susie sending a picture of a fabric sample with too many heart emojis.

Category two: Lewis sending another pinterest moodboard about tiara hairstyles, captioned only, I am still thinking.

Category three: Max sending messaged from the living room of their own house because he was bored, injured, and had decided that being a room away from her qualified as a long-distance relationship.

Category four: wedding logistics.

Ana had expected one of those.

She had not expected an unknown number.

At first, she did not open it.

Unknown numbers were usually a waste of time. 

Delivery issues. People who had acquired her number through professional leakage and wanted access to Toto. Junior engineers too nervous to use official channels. Occasionally journalists with much more audacity than judgment.

Ana ignored most of them.

Then the phone vibrated again.

And again.

And again.

Ana stood in the kitchen, and watched nine messages arrive in rapid succession.

Unknown Number.

No contact photograph.

No name.

No metadata visible without opening the thread.

Her first thought was not fear.

It was irritation.

Then she opened the messages.

The irritation disappeared.

For several seconds, Ana did not move.

The kitchen was quiet around her. Late-afternoon Monaco light fell pale and expensive across the island, across the stack of wedding venue notes Max had printed because apparently digital documents were not enough when one was planning bridge security. 

Somewhere in the living room, Max was on the sofa with his broken leg elevated, arguing with Nikolai about whether “resting” could include reviewing onboard footage.

Ana could hear his voice.

Low. Annoyed. Alive.

Her thumb hovered over the screen.

The messages were not long at first.

That made them worse.

Long messages provided data. Structure. Emotional leakage. Spelling patterns. Repetition. A chance to classify.

These were short.

Ugly.

Direct.

You ruined everything.

You think your father can protect you forever?

You should have kept your mouth shut.

You think being Toto Wolff’s broken little project makes you untouchable?

Ana read that one twice.

Not because she needed to.

Because her brain, unhelpfully, tried to verify that the words said what they said.

Then another message arrived.

He should have died in Baku and so should you.

Her hand went cold.

Not metaphorically.

Physically.

The phone became hard and slick in her fingers.

Another message.

It was supposed to be me.

Ana stopped breathing.

For one second, the room changed shape.

The window too bright. The sound of Max’s voice from down the corridor too far away and too close at once.

It was supposed to be me.

A sentence like a hand at the back of her neck.

Then another.

It all started with you.

Ana stared.

The next message came before she could process that.

If you had done what you were supposed to do, none of this would have happened.

If you had let me fix you, Verstappen would never have gotten my seat.

Ana’s vision narrowed.

Not dramatically. Not like films made panic look. There was no sudden collapse, no scream, no obvious break.

The room simply began to lose edges.

Sink. Oven. Window. Phone.

All of it became too sharp and too distant at once.

It was mine.