ꕤ juli ꕤ

Namjoon is an old friend from college—the kind who pops in and out of your life like seasons, but always feels like home when he’s around. He’s in town for a few days, texts you last-minute with, “come out tonight, I’ve got people you should meet.”

You almost say no. It’s been a long week, and you’re not in the mood for new faces. But it’s Namjoon, and you’ve missed him, so you drag yourself out anyway.

The little get-together isn’t what you expect. Not a packed bar, not a fancy dinner. Just a corner booth in a half-empty lounge, dim lighting and a low playlist in the background. Namjoon waves you over, grinning, introducing you one by one to the friends crammed into the booth with him.

And then there’s Yoongi.

He doesn’t smile when your eyes meet. He barely looks up from his glass. But when Namjoon says your name, Yoongi repeats it under his breath like he’s testing it out, then gives you the faintest nod.

You slide into the booth across from him. Conversation flows easily with the others—Jimin’s brightness, Taehyung’s chaos, Jin’s effortless banter—but every so often, you catch Yoongi’s eyes on you. Not in a way that feels rude. More like he’s quietly assessing you, deciding if you’re worth the effort.

It isn’t until someone makes a dumb joke—something dark and a little twisted—that you instinctively add a one-liner of your own. The table goes silent for half a beat, surprised. And then Yoongi huffs out a laugh. A real one, quick and sharp, before he shakes his head and mutters, “finally, someone with decent humor.”

That’s it. The thread is tied.

For the rest of the night, you find yourself leaning into his side comments, his dry observations. He doesn’t say much, but when he does, it lands—and you volley it right back. The others notice, of course. Namjoon gives you a knowing look, like he planned this all along.

And by the end of the night, you and Yoongi are sharing a basket of fries across the table, comfortable in a silence that doesn’t feel awkward at all. When you leave, he doesn’t ask for your number. He just says, “you’ll be around again, right?” And somehow, you know you will.

After that first night, you figure it’s a one-off. You’ll catch Namjoon next time he’s in town, and Yoongi will stay in your memory as the guy with the sharp laugh and sharper humor.

Except—two days later, your phone buzzes.

A new group chat.

Namjoon: Squad expansion pack unlocked. Everybody say hi to [Y/N].

Taehyung: ooooh new friend

Jin: more people to roast me, great

Yoongi: …

Yoongi: who let her in here

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, smirking. You type back:

the bouncer at the booth last night liked me more than you, sorry.

And just like that, it’s on.

From then on, Yoongi isn’t just Namjoon’s friend—you start seeing him at every casual hang. Movie nights, random bar meet-ups, late-night drives when Taehyung insists everyone needs ice cream at 1 a.m. Somewhere in the shuffle, Yoongi stops feeling like “Namjoon’s brooding friend” and starts feeling like your favorite person to stand next to at parties.

You don’t notice it right away, but the others definitely do. The way you two end up sharing snacks. The way Yoongi actually texts back in the group chat if it’s you he’s answering. The way his humor sharpens whenever you’re around, like he’s performing for an audience of one.

It takes weeks before you realize: you’ve been texting Yoongi directly. No big moment, no “can I get your number”—just the natural bleed from group chat to late-night one-on-ones. Memes, song recs, dumb observations. A thread that winds tighter without either of you naming it.

And somehow, without noticing, Yoongi becomes the person you look for first when you walk into a room.

It doesn’t take long before you and Yoongi develop your own rhythm.

At first, it’s little things—dry commentary during group hangs, a quiet laugh shared while everyone else is too loud to notice. But soon, it becomes a whole thing. Inside jokes stitched together from throwaway comments, looks you can read without words.

Once, at a party, someone suggests a cheesy icebreaker game. You and Yoongi exchange a glance, already mocking it in your heads.

He leans closer, murmurs just for you:

“if I have to list two truths and a lie, I’m going with ‘I buried a body once’ as a truth.”

You snort into your drink, choking on laughter. When you wheeze out your own response—“make sure you don’t pick the basement, that one’s already mine”—Yoongi nearly spits out his beer.

Everyone else at the table just stares. Jungkook looks genuinely concerned. Jin mutters something about “what the hell is wrong with you two,” while Hoseok squints like he’s not sure if you’re kidding. You and Yoongi, meanwhile, are doubled over in the corner, entirely unbothered.

It becomes a pattern:

You’re the only one who laughs when Yoongi mutters his driest, darkest lines.

He’s the only one who notices when you deadpan something outrageous under your breath.

The others stop asking, eventually, because it’s your brand of humor—private, sharp-edged, and weirdly intimate.

In between the jokes, though, it’s softer things that stitch you together.

Falling asleep on his couch after a late-night hang, and waking to a blanket tossed over you.

Him sending you half-finished demos at 3 a.m., knowing you won’t judge.

You picking up takeout when you know he hasn’t eaten all day.

You become constants in each other’s lives—reliable without ever saying you would be. And maybe that’s why no one teases you about it; because for all the dark humor and the sharp laughs, everyone can see the gentleness underneath.

Of course, you don’t call it that. Neither of you do. It’s just friendship. Comfortable. Easy. Unshakable.

At least, until it isn’t.

It happens on a Saturday night, the kind of night that’s quietly become yours.

Most weekends end this way—takeout boxes on Yoongi’s coffee table, a movie playing half-forgotten in the background, you two tucked into opposite ends of the couch. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don’t. It doesn’t matter; the routine is what matters.

So when you casually say, “I can’t do next weekend—I think I’ve been asked on a date,” you don’t even look up from your carton of noodles. It’s offhand, thoughtless, like mentioning the weather.

But Yoongi hears it like a record scratch.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just sets down his chopsticks, leans back, stares at the TV like it suddenly got interesting. His pulse thuds in his ears, steady and unwelcome.

A date.

“Cool,” he says finally, voice low, flat enough you almost don’t notice it’s sharper than usual.

You glance at him, puzzled. “What?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Have fun.”

You wait for him to make a joke, to say something snarky about your type or the guy probably being boring. That’s how it usually goes—you throw the ball, he bats it back. But this time, Yoongi doesn’t even lift his eyes from the screen.

The silence feels heavier than it should.

You don’t press, because Yoongi gets like this sometimes—quiet moods, long stretches of silence. You’ve never pushed too hard when he walls himself off.

But for Yoongi, it’s different. He’s sitting there, forcing himself to keep his expression neutral, to not let his hand tighten around the beer bottle in his lap. He knows it’s stupid. You’re not his. You’ve never been his. He has no claim to feel anything at all.

And yet, the thought of you smiling across a table at someone else makes his chest tighten in a way he absolutely does not want to look into right now.

When you finally lean back and sigh, half-smiling at him like nothing’s changed, Yoongi manages to nod, force out a faint smirk.

But later, when you leave, his apartment feels too quiet. And Yoongi realizes—for the first time—that the idea of losing your Saturdays hurts a lot more than he’s ready to admit.

You swipe a layer of mascara onto your lashes, blink at your reflection, and try not to think about how strange Yoongi has been all week.

Normally, Saturdays are yours. Movie nights, half-eaten takeout cartons, his sarcastic commentary muffled against the couch cushions. But tonight you’re in front of your mirror, curling iron still hot, lip gloss still tacky, because you told him you had a date.

The word had landed heavy between you, like a rock in a still pond. Yoongi hadn’t teased you, hadn’t grumbled about your taste, hadn’t even made a joke at your expense. Just that flat cool and nothing else. And that—not the date, not the guy—has been tugging at your thoughts ever since.

You smooth the hem of your dress and pause, because another memory presses forward, uninvited.

It’s from months ago. A night you weren’t even supposed to stay late, but the group hang bled into Yoongi’s apartment, and then bled into just the two of you, cross-legged on his floor with a half-empty bottle between you.

Yoongi doesn’t drink often—not enough to get loose, anyway. But that night, he let himself unravel just a little. Enough that the words spilled out softer, slower, like he’d been holding them back too long.

“You know…” He’d swirled the last inch of whiskey in his glass, eyes half-lidded, mouth quirking like he wasn’t sure if he should keep going. “…you’re… fuck. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met.”

You laughed then, awkward, ready to brush it off. But Yoongi hadn’t let you.

“No, seriously. You don’t get it.” His gaze had been steady, almost too much to bear. “You bring… light. To people. To me. Like—you’re funny as hell, yeah, but it’s more than that. You make shit feel… less heavy. You make people feel lucky just by being around. Anyone would be blessed to have you in their life. And if they don’t see that? They’re idiots.”

The words had settled in your chest, glowing, impossible to forget. But you couldn’t answer. You just sat there, staring, memorizing the way his voice dipped low on lucky.

He smiled after, small and crooked, and took another sip like he hadn’t just turned your whole world upside down.

The next morning, when you teased him about it—“you get weirdly poetic when you’re drunk, Min Yoongi.” He’d blinked at you, blank-faced, and muttered, “don’t remember a thing.”

You’d laughed it off then. But now, pulling on your jacket and glancing at your phone, you wonder if maybe that’s why his silence stings so much.

Because even if he doesn’t remember saying it, you do.

And some stupid part of you wishes he meant it.

You find yourself at the restaurant. And you don’t even really want to be here.

His name is Daniel. Works in accounting two floors down from your office. Nice enough—clean shoes, polite smile, remembered to hold the door when you walked in. You only said yes to this date because he asked twice and because somewhere in the back of your head was Yoongi’s voice from months ago, telling you to put yourself out there. To let people see how “light” you are.

You thought Yoongi would be proud.

But twenty minutes into the date, you already know how this ends. Daniel talks about office politics like it’s a full-contact sport, and when he laughs at his own joke, it’s just… loud. Not sharp, not dry, not shared with a sly glance across a crowded room.

Not Yoongi.

You poke at your pasta, nodding at the right times while he continues talking, but your mind betrays you. Imagining what Yoongi would say about the way Daniel uses the word “synergy” three times in one awful story. How he’d smirk across the table, mutter something dark under his breath just for you, and you’d choke trying not to laugh too loud.

With Yoongi, there’d be inside jokes and banter, even in silence. With Daniel, it’s small talk and forced smiles. And you’re not really hitting it off.

By the time dessert comes, you’re already exhausted. You tell yourself, at least you tried. At least you showed up.

When you get home, you peel your makeup off in the bathroom, watching mascara smudge into raccoon eyes. Relief sinks into your bones when you pull on your favorite hoodie and curl up in bed.

The date wasn’t a disaster. But it wasn’t him.

Your phone buzzes. One name.

yoon: How was the date?

You stare at the screen. Wonder where he is right now. On his couch, knees tucked up, TV on low? Or stretched out in bed, thumb hovering over the keyboard the same way yours is?

You type:

you: it wasn’t… horrible.

Your thumb hesitates, then moves again. The truth itches under your skin until it spills out in the way only Yoongi will get:

you: next time I’ll just ask my Uber driver to drag me behind his car through traffic—probably less painful than sitting through another date like that.

There’s a pause. Then:

yoon: lmao

yoon: finally, some honesty

And just like that, the tightness in your chest eases. Because no matter how awful the night was, at least you get to end it with him.

Jin’s apartment is loud, the kind of loud that comes from seven different conversations stacked on top of each other. The coffee table is a graveyard of takeout boxes, Taehyung is half-off the armchair like he doesn’t understand gravity, and Jungkook is shoveling fried rice into his mouth like it’s a competition no one else signed up for.

You’re curled into one corner of the couch, drink in hand, Yoongi beside you with his usual air of disinterest. It’s comfortable, the background noise, until Jimin suddenly cuts through it.

“Hey—your birthday’s coming up, isn’t it?”

You blink, startled. “…How do you even know that?”

Taehyung chimes in, “Because I make it my business to know everyone’s birthdays.” He sits up, grinning. “And we’re throwing you a party.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it. “What? No. You’re not.”

Jin yells from the kitchen doorway, without missing a beat, “Yes, we are! I’ll bake the cake!”

Hoseok, from an armchair, “I’ll handle the playlist.”

Jungkook with his mouth full, “I’ll bring snacks.”

You hold up both hands, shaking your head. “Guys, seriously—don’t. I don’t want a party. It’s not a big deal.”

Taehyung gasps. “Not a big deal? It’s your birthday! That’s literally the definition of a big deal.”

The room hums with agreement. You try to smile, but your chest tightens. The idea of being the center of attention makes your skin prickle. “I’m fine with just… hanging out. Like we always do.”

Beside you, Yoongi doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes on you. The way he sees past the casual shrug, the way his gaze sharpens at the way your fingers worry the rim of your glass. He knows you’re tense—of course he does. He always does.

Jimin continues, “Nope, too late. We’re making this happen. We’ll invite everyone. Work friends, too.”

Your stomach drops. “That’s—no, you don’t have to—”

“What about that guy… Daniel, was it? Im sure he’d come.”

The name hangs heavy. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Yoongi’s shoulders go rigid, his thumb pausing against the armrest.

You force a laugh. “He’s… really not party material.”

Ever the ‘party-material-maker’, Taehyung reassures you: “Then we’ll vet him. If he’s boring, he’s out.”

Yoongi finally says something, voice low, snarky enough to offend. “Then half the people you invite won’t make the cut.”

The group bursts into laughter, but you hear the edge under his tone. You glance sideways—his expression is neutral, almost bored, but the tension in his jaw is undeniable.

You take a sip of your drink, trying to hide the heat rising in your chest. You told yourself you didn’t want a party. But now, with Yoongi sitting so close you can feel the shift in his mood, you can’t help wondering if what you really don’t want is him seeing you with anyone else there.

The laughter from Yoongi’s jab is still bouncing around the room when the bathroom door creaks open. Namjoon steps out, fanning the air behind him like he’s trying to chase away a demon.

“Do not,” he says, voice solemn, “go in there.”

A collective groan rolls through the room.

Jin throws his head back. “Again?”

Jungkook groans through a mouthful of rice. “Hyung, get your life together.”

Hoseok presses a hand to his chest, already laughing. “I told you not to eat the extra kimchi.”

Namjoon just lifts his hands in surrender. “I’m sparing you, trust me.”

The chaos bubbles up, Jimin clutching his stomach, Taehyung dramatically collapsing onto the armchair like he’s fainting from the stench. You laugh, shaking your head, but the sound catches in your throat when you feel the shift beside you.

Yoongi stretches an arm lazily across the back of the couch. Casual. Effortless. Like he’s done it a hundred times before. Except he hasn’t—not once in the year you’ve known him.

Your heart kicks against your ribs. The distance between his hand and your shoulder is nothing, barely inches, and suddenly you’re hyperaware of the space you’re taking up.

He leans just slightly toward you, voice pitched low enough to skim under the noise. “You really don’t want a party?”

You glance at him, caught off guard. “Not really.”

His eyes flick to your face, steady, unreadable. “Even with people who actually matter?”

The question knots in your chest. You swallow. “It’s not about that. I just… don’t like being the center of attention.”

Yoongi hums, quiet. “Fair. But it wouldn’t be the worst thing, you know. Letting people celebrate you.”

The words are gentle. Too gentle. For a second, it feels like the whole room fades—Taehyung whining dramatically about Febreze, Jin telling Namjoon he’s banned from kimchi forever—and all you can hear is Yoongi, sitting close enough that his warmth skims along your arm.

You manage a small smile. “You sound like drunk-you again. Semi-inspirational.”

That earns you the barest twitch of his lips. “Maybe sober-me means it too.”

The air shifts, heavier than it should be, and your breath catches before the moment’s swept away because Hoseok suddenly narrows his eyes at you and Yoongi.

“Look at these two,” he says, gesturing with his chopsticks. “Whole room of people and they’re having their own private conversation again.”

Taehyung perks up immediately. “It’s every hangout. Soulmates, clearly.”

Namjoon sighs and mutters under his breath, clearly feeling sorry for the teasing about to take place. “Here we go, again.”

Jin smirks from the kitchen doorway. “They’re so locked in, I’m surprised they even hear us.”

You roll your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. “We do not—”

“Yes, you do,” Jungkook cuts in, grinning around his drink. “Half the time you’re whispering and laughing and the rest of us are just sitting here like chopped liver.”

Yoongi doesn’t look at them. Doesn’t move his arm from the back of the couch, either. He just takes a slow sip from his glass, face unreadable.

But then Jimin, always the instigator, leans forward with a wicked smile. “You’re sitting close enough to kiss right now.”

Oh, he knows what he just did.

The room erupts with laughter, wolf-whistles and fake gagging sounds.

Your entire body ignites. Heat flares across your cheeks, your ears, all the way down your neck. You choke on your drink and duck your head, suddenly incapable of looking anywhere near Yoongi.

And still, Yoongi doesn’t move. Doesn’t laugh, doesn’t shrug them off, doesn’t roll his eyes the way he usually does.

But you feel it—a shift. A subtle double take, the weight of his gaze flicking toward you and then lingering, like he’s just realized something that doesn’t quite add up.

You don’t have to look to know he’s studying you, puzzled, maybe even a little thrown. Because you turned red. You.

And if you’re blushing like that… what does it mean?

The laughter from Jimin’s jab keeps bouncing around the room, Taehyung dramatically fanning himself like he just witnessed something scandalous.

“Save it for after the cake,” Jin calls from the kitchen, smirking as he disappears back to check the oven.

“Cake?” you echo, desperate for any subject change. “There’s no cake.”

“There will be,” Jin sing-songs.

Hoseok leans forward, grinning. “Bet Yoongi already has flavors picked out for you.”

That earns another round of oohs and whistles, the group loving the way your face heats even more.

“I do not,” Yoongi mutters, voice flat as stone. But his arm stays stretched casually along the back of the couch, and you swear you can feel the weight of his gaze still lingering on you even as the conversation shifts.

Jungkook slaps his thigh, cackling. “This is my favorite game. Tease them until one of them breaks.”

“I’ll give it a month before they admit it,” Jimin adds, wiggling his eyebrows. “Soulmates can only play dumb for so long.”

“Stop calling us that,” you groan, pressing your palms to your cheeks.

Taehyung gasps theatrically. “Oh my god, she didn’t deny it this time!”

The room explodes again, everyone talking at once—bets being made, exaggerated wedding toasts being shouted, Jungkook offering to DJ your “first dance.”

You bury your face in your drink, wishing the floor would open up and swallow—just you—whole. But out of the corner of your eye, you catch it: Yoongi’s lips twitch. Not a laugh, not really—but something close.

And though he doesn’t say a word, you can feel the undercurrent humming between you, sharper than it’s ever been.

But the chaos doesn’t really settle until Jin emerges from the kitchen with a dish towel over his shoulder and announces, “Alright, everybody out. I’ve got to work in the morning and you’re all too loud.”

Groans and protests ripple through the room, but one by one the boys start gathering their things. Hoseok is still humming an obnoxious melody about soulmates, Namjoon rubbing his temples as he walks to the door, Taehyung swears he’s bringing balloons to your “surprise-not-surprise” party, and Jimin smirks like he’s got ammo for the next week.

You stand, smoothing your shirt, trying to will the redness from your cheeks. Yoongi rises beside you, stretching lazily like none of this touched him at all.

But inside?

Inside, he knows the truth.

He’ll never admit it—not to them, not to you—but he doesn’t actually hate it when the group teases you both. He pretends to roll his eyes, pretends he’s annoyed, but secretly… secretly he loves it. Loves the way they say “soulmates” like it’s obvious, loves the way you fluster and stumble through denials.

Because maybe that’s what it would be like if you were his.

If he didn’t keep everything locked behind his ribs. If he could reach out and claim what he wants without losing the comfort of what you already are. The way the others laugh and tease—it’s the closest glimpse he’ll ever get at what life might look like if he was allowed to have you.

And so he lets them tease. Because dreaming is safer than losing you.

On the way out, your shoulders brush in the narrow doorway. Your sleeve skims his arm, and the static crackles all the way down to his fingertips. You look up, meeting his eyes for half a second before glancing away, flustered again.

Yoongi swallows hard, shoving his hands into his pockets. For a moment he doesn’t trust himself to speak, doesn’t trust the way the words might come out.

But when you turn to him at the door, pulling your jacket tighter around you, you give him that small smile—the one that always cuts through him—and say softly, “Goodnight, Yoongi.”

His throat works, tight, but he manages a low reply. “Night. Get home safe.”

You nod, slip out into the breezeway of Jin’s complex, and the sound of the door clicking shut behind you feels louder than it should.

Yoongi lingers there for a beat longer, staring at the space you just occupied. He needs to breathe for a second. He inhales deep, then exhales slow and quiet, and heads out into the night with one thought looping through his head.

If blushing means you like me… then maybe I’m already too far gone.

It’s Wednesday night when your phone buzzes. You’re curled up on your bed, laptop open but untouched, scrolling mindlessly until the notification flashes.

yoon: You figured out what you’re wearing yet?

You blink, reread it twice. Yoongi doesn’t usually care about that kind of thing.

you: For what?

yoon: …your birthday. The one Tae’s been yelling about all week.

you: Oh. That.

you: I’m not picking out anything special.

yoon: Why not.

you: Because it’s not that serious.

There’s a pause. You can almost see him on the other side of the screen, thumb hovering, brow furrowed like he’s trying to phrase something without giving too much away.

yoon: You should. Pick something that makes you feel good.

you: You sound like Hobi.

yoon: Hobi would tell you to wear sequins or some shit. I’m saying just… don’t downplay it.

Your chest tightens. He always sees it, the way you try to shrink yourself.

you: Are you seriously texting me about clothes right now?

yoon: Somebody has to. Don’t want you showing up in your office hoodie.

You bite back a smile, fingers tapping before you can stop yourself.

you: That hoodie is a classic.

yoon: It’s fucking tragic.

You laugh, low in your throat, and set the phone down for a second to breathe. It’s not much, just a string of texts about nothing. But the warmth in your chest lingers long after the screen goes dark.

The Birthday Party

Namjoon pulls up to the curb like your chauffeur, killing the engine and getting out to walk around and open the passenger door for you. He looks half amused, half resigned as you climb out, tugging at the hem of your dress.

“Just so you know,” he says, offering his arm with mock formality, “I briefed you in the car, but… I’m apologizing again in advance. Jimin and Tae went feral with this party.”

You laugh, slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow. “How bad can it be?”

The answer greets you the second your heels hit the red carpeted stairs.

It looks like New Year’s Eve collided with a music video shoot. Glittering lights spill down from the awning, a velvet rope corrals guests into the entrance, and inside the glass doors you can already see the crowd—everyone dressed to kill, champagne glasses flashing under the chandeliers.

Your jaw slackens. “This is… a birthday party?”

“Your birthday party,” Namjoon corrects, grimacing. “Tae literally said, ‘If she doesn’t walk in and feel like the hottest girl in Seoul, then what’s even the point.’”

You bite back a nervous laugh, tugging your dress down again. The dress you picked is short, tight, the kind of outfit your parents would faint over. But you’d looked in the mirror earlier and thought of Yoongi’s words—pick something that makes you feel good—and this was it. Bold, a little reckless, enough skin showing to make you feel powerful.

As you walk up the stairs, gripping Namjoon’s arm for balance, he leans down with a smirk.

“You know he’s gonna freak, right?”

Your stomach flips. You don’t even have to ask who. But you do anyway. “What?”

Namjoon chuckles, low. “I mean… he won’t show it. Not on his face. But internally? Yoongi’s gonna be strangling himself when he sees you in that dress, Y/N.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you turn your face toward the glittering doors before he can notice. You tell yourself he’s exaggerating, teasing like always. But the flutter in your chest won’t stop.

Because part of you wonders—maybe hopes—he’s right.

The second the doors open, sound swallows you whole. Music pumps from hidden speakers, bass rattling in your chest, laughter and voices layered so thick it’s dizzying. Chandeliers glitter overhead, catching on sequins and champagne glasses, and everywhere you look there are people—people you don’t know, people dressed like they’re waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square, people who definitely don’t belong at a party for you.

It’s too much. Too big. Exactly what Taehyung and Jimin would think is perfect.

You paste on a smile as Namjoon steers you through the crowd, murmuring greetings to familiar faces. But your eyes keep wandering, scanning, searching every corner. You don’t even realize how obvious it is—the way you’re subconsciously hunting for him. For Yoongi.

Your Yoongi.

Instead, you’re intercepted first by Hoseok, who comes practically skipping across the room, sequined jacket catching the light with every step. “Birthday girl!” He pulls you into a hug that smells like cologne and champagne, then holds you at arm’s length. His grin widens. “Damn, you look good.”

“Too good,” another voice chimes in, and Jungkook slides up with a glass in each hand. He passes one to Hoseok before adjusting the lapels of his sharp black suit like he knows he looks incredible. “Happy birthday, Y/N.”

You laugh, heat blooming in your cheeks as Jungkook tips his glass toward your dress in approval. “Wow. You two actually clean up nice.”

Hoseok gasps in mock offense, pressing a hand to his chest. “Excuse you—I always look good.”

Jungkook just smirks, boyish and smug. “But admit it. We’re killing it tonight.”

Hoseok grins, “Yeah, Y/N! You’re killin’ it, girl!”

You shake your head, laughing again, but your gaze is already drifting over their shoulders, past the glitter and noise, through the sea of strangers.

Still no sign of him. What the fuck.

And that unsettles you more than you want to admit.

Namjoon still hasn’t let go of your arm, playing the role of dutiful escort as he weaves you through the crowd of bodies toward a literal tower of champagne flutes stacked high like something out of a luxury gala.

How hard did Jimin and Tae go for this party?

You let out a breathless laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Not my idea,” Namjoon mutters, steering you into the line. “I told you—I’m just here as damage control.”

He plucks two glasses from the table and hands you one. The bubbles tickle your nose as you take a careful sip, the taste sharp and sweet on your tongue.

And then—

“Birthday girl!”

The greeting comes in stereo, Jimin’s high-pitched cheer layered with Taehyung’s deep drawl. They appear together like they rehearsed it, grins wide and eyes bright.

Jimin immediately pulls you into a hug, nearly sloshing champagne down both of your outfits. “Happy birthday, gorgeous!”

You hug him back, “Thank you, guys.”

“Look at you,” Taehyung adds, spinning you lightly by the wrist so he can take in your whole outfit. “Short, shiny, and scandalous. And honestly? Exactly what I envisioned.”

You laugh, cheeks heating, trying to tuck yourself back under Namjoon’s arm like a fucking shield. “This is… insane. All of this.”

“Insane in a good way,” Jimin insists, bouncing on his toes. “Tell me you love it!”

You look around—at the chandeliers, the glittering crowd, the champagne tower sparkling in the light—and your chest squeezes. It’s too much. But they did it for you. Because they care.

“I do,” you admit, soft and honest. “I love it. Thank you.”

Jimin beams. Taehyung wiggles his eyebrows. And for a moment, the noise of the party fades under the weight of how lucky you are to have them.

Still, as you take another sip of champagne, your eyes wander past their shoulders, scanning the crowd again. Looking for the one person who hasn’t shown up yet.

Where could he be? Is he even here? Why isn’t he with the guys?

You’re half-caught in your head and Taehyung’s theatrics when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“There’s my birthday girl.”

Jin appears with a glass in hand, tailored blazer sharp enough to make him look like he owns the place. He leans down to press a quick kiss to the top of your head, then straightens and claps Namjoon on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Joon. Thanks for keeping her in one piece.”

Namjoon huffs a laugh. “Doing my best.”

Jin’s eyes drop to your dress, and he sighs the way only Jin can—long-suffering, dramatic, equal parts fond and exasperated. “This is what you wore?”

You flush, tugging at the hem. “Don’t start. It’s fine.”

“It’s your birthday, so I’ll allow it,” he says, lips twitching. “But if your parents ever see photos… I don’t know you.”

You laugh, shaking your head, but then the words tumble out before you can stop them. “Hey, have you seen Yoongi?”

Beside you, Namjoon tenses—so subtle anyone else would miss it, but you don’t. You feel it in the shift of his arm under your hand. Like he wasn’t expecting the question.

Jin’s smile falters just slightly. His eyes flick to Namjoon, then back to you, a worried crease forming between his brows. “Not yet,” he says after a beat. “But… don’t worry about him. Just keep enjoying your party, okay?”

Your stomach twists. The easy warmth of the moment curdles, a faint unease threading through it.

That was fucking weird.

The night spins forward in a blur.

You let Jimin and Taehyung drag you to the dance floor, Hoseok already in the center hyping the crowd like it’s a concert. Namjoon groans but still sways dutifully beside you, Jin waves a champagne flute overhead like he’s at a wedding, and Jungkook spins you until you nearly trip over your own heels.

It’s ridiculous. Chaotic. Too much. And yet, with your friends circling you in glitter and laughter, you feel lighter than you expected.

Then—a shiver down your spine. The sense of eyes on you.

You glance up, scanning past the lights, past the crowd. And then you see him.

Yoongi.

He’s on the second-floor balcony, leaning casually on the rail, a champagne flute hanging from one hand. His long dark hair curls around his face, catching in the glow of the chandelier, and his gaze is locked—glued—to you.

Your chest stutters. It feels like time itself stutters. The music, the noise, the laughter—it all dims under the weight of his stare.

And you smile. The biggest smile you’ve smiled all night, wide and uncontainable. Like gravity pulling you in one direction only.

Your smile is already lifting when something inside it snags.

Because you see him—and then you see her.

She’s half-turned toward him, shoulder angled into his space like she belongs there, a thin gold chain glinting at her throat. Close. Comfortable-close. The kind of close that says this isn’t the first minute they’ve been standing like that.

Yoongi is looking at you.

But he’s talking to her.

His mouth moves—something low, something easy—and she watches him like she’s used to the gravity he creates, like it doesn’t pull her apart the way it threatens to pull you apart right now. When she laughs, it’s a soft curve of sound you can’t hear over the bass, and his lips answer with the ghost of a smile.

He doesn’t look like he doesn’t want to be there.

Your stomach goes cold, then hot, then cold again.

Taehyung spins you by the wrist, oblivious. “Birthday girl! Stop zoning out, you’re killing my groove.”

You snap your gaze away from the balcony so fast your neck twinges. “I’m not zoning out.”

“Liar,” Jimin sings, popping up at your other side and fitting his palms to your shoulders from behind, swaying you on beat. “This is your party. Eyes on us, miss ma’am.”

“Yeah,” you say, too bright, too quick. “Eyes on you.”

You force your body to move. To laugh at something Jungkook says. To let Hoseok spin you out into a loop you nearly botch because your heels are not designed for this much enthusiasm. You let Jimin tilt your chin and quip about how you’re “glowing” and “devastating” and “a menace,” and you pretend the whole time that the top of your skull isn’t buzzing with the exact shape of the woman’s hand where it rests on the balcony rail, three inches from Yoongi’s wrist.

Ignore him. Ignore that.

The music surges, a chorus that rattles the floor, and you pour your attention into the only thing you can control: the way your head tips back when you laugh, the way your hips find the bass line, the way your dress catches the light like it’s armor.

Namjoon leans in at your ear, voice pitched under the noise. “You okay?”

You don’t hesitate. “Of course.” Your smile stretches just a little too tight. “It’s great.”

He studies you for a beat—he always has been annoyingly perceptive—but then he nods like he’s not going to pry here, not now. “If you need air, tug my sleeve.”

“I won’t,” you say, and you mean it like a challenge to yourself.

You don’t look back up at the balcony. You do not.

Except your body betrays you in small ways: the way your pulse stutters when the chandelier light shifts; the way your head tilts a fraction, as if lining up your peripheral vision with the stretch of the upper rail. You keep your focus fixed on Hoseok’s ridiculous body roll and Taehyung’s scandalized gasp at Jungkook’s footwork, and still you feel it—a prickling heat along your cheek like a spotlight.

He’s still looking.

You won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Shots,” Jimin declares, because he’s a menace and because the universe has a sense of humor. “It’s illegal not to do birthday shots.”

Before you can protest, a tray materializes—Hoseok works miracles—and you let them press a glass into your hand. Clear. Mean. The kind of burn that will either cauterize the jealousy or make it liquefy and pour out your eyes.

“To the hottest girl in Seoul,” Taehyung intones, scandalously sincere.

“To surviving Jimin’s planning,” Namjoon adds dryly.

“To sequins,” Hoseok declares, glittering under the lights.

“To,” Jungkook smirks, “telling anyone who flirts with you that they’re not on the guest list.”

“Please stop,” you groan, but your grin slips in anyway, helpless.

You fling your gaze straight at the bottom of the shot glass and tip it back. The burn is instant, bright, a clean white-out that blurs the edges of your thoughts. When it hits your stomach, the heat spreads. It helps.

“Again,” Jimin threatens.

“No,” Namjoon says, parental. “Later.”

“Traitor,” Jimin pouts, already winking at the bartender for later.

You move. Harder now. It’s easier to outrun a feeling than to look it in the face. You dance like you owe your body something, like you can sweat this out, like the bass can be a wall.

Someone bumps your shoulder in the crowd and murmurs an apology; someone else asks if you want a drink; a stranger in a too-tight shirt tries to sidle in closer until Jungkook simply appears, big-brothering him with a smile that’s all teeth. Your friends orbit you, constellation-steady, but even with all that, there’s a slice of cold aware in your ribs—because you can feel him, the way you can feel a storm before it breaks.

You do not look.

You laugh at something Jin says when he finally decides to return to the dance floor, his hand slicing through the air as he reenacts Namjoon banning kimchi, and you let that laughter sit bright on your mouth, weaponized. You’re fine. You’re glittering. You’re busy.

“Back in two,” you shout to nobody in particular, tapping your chest and miming a sip. You need water. The good kind—flat, unassuming. Something to anchor your mouth around that isn’t his name.

At the edge of the floor, the air thins a little. The bar is a line of elbows and straws and clinking glass, but the bartender spots your wave and slides you a highball of blessedly clear water like you’re a favorite regular. You take two grateful pulls and press the cold glass to the underside of your jaw.

“Happy birthday,” someone says at your left.

You turn your head. It’s the woman from the balcony.

Up close, she’s even more composed. Winged liner like a threat, lipstick that doesn’t dare smudge, a dress that looks like it was sewn on. She’s taller than you by a breath in her heels, and her perfume is a soft, expensive thing that settles around you like a verdict.

You find your manners where you dropped them. “Thank you.”

“Taehyung outdid himself,” she says, amused. Her gaze flicks over your shoulder, toward the floor, past it. Not calculating—cataloguing. “You look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” you answer, neutral, careful. “Enjoying the party?”

Her mouth tilts. “I am now.”

You take another drink of water to cover the sound your throat makes.

“I’m Sori,” she adds, offering her name like a business card.

You give her yours, because what else are you going to do? Pretend names don’t exist?

She nods, as if checking a box in her head. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Your heartbeat trips over itself. “From…?”

“From everyone,” she says lightly. “Small universe.”

You let out a sound that is not a laugh but would like to be when it grows up. “Yeah.”

Silence stitches between you, quick and neat. She doesn’t fill it. She just lets it sit there, poised, like she knows exactly how long to wait before it starts to itch.

“Yoongi mentioned the humor,” she says finally, as if she’s commenting on the weather. “He was right.”

The glass sweats against your palm. “He talks a lot for someone so quiet.”

“That’s the trick.” She lifts her own drink—champagne, of course—and tips it toward you, gaze steady. “Happy birthday.”

You clink without looking away. “Thanks.”

She leaves you there—mercifully—with her perfume and the ghost of her smile, threading back toward the stairs with an unhurried confidence that makes you want to kick something. She doesn’t have to look over her shoulder to know if he’s still where she left him. People like that never do.

You exhale hard, set the water down, and march yourself back into the heat of the dance floor like it’s a battlefield. Namjoon clocks your expression in a second and lifts a brow. You shake your head, a tiny, surgical movement. Later.

Jimin latches onto your hand and spins you again, yelling something about “chorus!” and “arms!” over the music, and you let him, because this is what you can control: the angle of your wrist, the slice of your smile, the decision to keep your eyes anywhere but up.

You feel Yoongi like static earlier; now it’s a low-voltage hum under your skin. You don’t have to see him to know he’s moved. You don’t have to look to know he’s closer.

You won’t look.

“Yo,” Jungkook shouts in your ear, breathless, grinning. “You’re on fire. Whoever breaks your heart is gonna die.”

“Bold of you to assume it’s breakable,” you throw back, dry, and Jungkook howls like you just body-slammed a line of defense.

Hoseok plants a feather-light kiss to your temple when he passes behind you. Jin shouts, “Shots later, water now,” like a dad. Taehyung declares that he’s stealing you for a “birthday twirl,” and you let him tug you three steps left, pivot, laugh, pivot again—

—and then you stop.

Because you know the shape of that stillness. It has a weight all its own.

You can feel him at the edge of your orbit before he says your name.

“Hey.”

It lands low, built for just you, a thread through the noise. You don’t turn for a full heartbeat. You finish the step you’re in, hand still in Taehyung’s, then you let go and face him because pretending to be oblivious in a three-foot radius is a different kind of embarrassing.

Yoongi stands there in a black suit that fits like a decision, hair ink-dark and loose around his face, the chandelier picking out lines of silver at his wrist and throat. The room could vanish and it would still feel too bright.

His eyes are on your mouth, then your dress, then your eyes, and he does not disguise the part where he has to swallow. The sound is swallowed by the bass, but you see it in the cut of his throat.

“Happy birthday,” he says.

Your smile is neat. Unbothered. “Thanks.”

A beat. You don’t ask why he’s late. You don’t ask who she is. You don’t ask anything. You’re not giving him that.

He studies your face like he’s trying to solve a song he’s heard a thousand times and can’t quite play.

“You look…” He searches for a word and discards five. “…good.”

“Yeah?” you say, and let your mouth tilt. “Must be the lighting.”

It lands and he almost smiles—almost—but something shadows his eyes when he realizes you’re not stepping into the usual rhythm, not handing him the joke and the soft landing. He shifts, just enough that your shoulders almost brush.

“You met Sori,” he says finally. Not a question.

You look over his shoulder at nothing at all. “She met me.”

“She’s—” He stops, tiny, and you watch him pick between truths. “—Jin’s friend.”

“Everyone’s friend tonight,” you say lightly. “You’re popular.”

His jaw flexes like he wants to bite the word in half before it gets to you. “It’s not like that.”

You lift your brows. “I didn’t say it was.”

Another beat. The bass thumps. Taehyung spins by with a finger-gun and zero chill. Jin is arguing with the bartender about cake plates. Jimin is mouthing, Tell him he’s hot, at you across three bodies because he wants to die.

Yoongi tilts his head, searching your face. “You’re mad.”

You laugh, genuine and bright and a little sharp. “It’s my birthday, Yoongi. I don’t have time to be mad.”

“Jealous, then,” he says quietly.

Your smile doesn’t change. “Of who?”

He flinches at that—not visibly, not for anyone else, but you feel it like a ripple under your feet. For a heartbeat his mouth opens like he’s going to say something he can’t unsay. Then he closes it, looks down, looks back.

“Dance with me,” he says.

You let the smallest silence bloom. You weigh everything inside it—his eyes, the ghost of the balcony, the woman’s perfume, your own stupid heart, the fact that all of your friends are absolutely watching this from the corners of their eyes and pretending they’re not.

You tip your chin toward the crowd, neutral as gravity. “I’m busy.”

It’s soft. It’s nothing. It hits him like a door.

He nods, once. Slow. Like he deserves it. Maybe he thinks he does.

“Okay,” he says, and steps back.

You turn away before your mouth can do something reckless. You catch Namjoon’s gaze over Hoseok’s shoulder, and he only inclines his head—once, commander-calm, we’ll talk later written in the lines of his mouth.

Jungkook reappears like a wall, grinning, hands up. “C’mon, birthday menace. Show me that murder footwork.”

You do. You move. You laugh too loud at something that isn’t funny and throw your arms up when the chorus hits and let Taehyung spin you until you’re dizzy. You let Jimin scream-sing into your ear and Hoseok beam like a lighthouse and Jin scold you for forgetting hydration. You pretend the entire time that you cannot feel the heat of a gaze trailing the edge of your orbit like a planet that refuses to admit it’s caught.

You don’t look back up at the balcony.

You don’t look when he disappears into the crowd.

You don’t look when, two songs later, the lights dim for cake and everyone howls your name and Jin marches forward with a confection so extra it probably has a birth certificate.

You breathe in. You breathe out. You lean into the noise and the sugar and the sparkler-bright chorus of voices.

You make a wish you refuse to name. And you keep your eyes closed a second longer than you need to, because for one more second, you don’t have to see who’s standing where when you open them.

The garden hits like a slap—cold air and the smell of damp earth, hedges trimmed within an inch of their lives, fairy lights strung in polite arcs that make everything look softer than it feels. The bass from inside is a heartbeat through the walls. Your own heartbeat is doing its own fucked-up drum solo.

Bench. Cold. Good. You drop onto it like you’ve been thrown, palms on either side of your thighs, eyes squinting up at a sky that refuses to stand still.

“Motherfucker,” you mutter to no one in particular, lips tingling where that stranger’s mouth was a minute ago. Did you say yes? You said “mmm.” That’s not yes. That’s… not words. Your stomach flips. You swallow it down with the aftertaste of liquor and sugar and something bitter you refuse to name.

Gravel crunches. Footsteps. Then:

“Y/N.”

Namjoon’s voice folds around your name like a blanket you didn’t ask for but kind of needed anyway. He steps into the spill of fairy lights, tie loosened, blazer open, worry etched neat between his brows.

“You shouldn’t be out here by yourself,” he says, already shrugging out of his jacket.

You try for breezy and land somewhere near winded. “I’m communing with nature.”

He drapes the jacket over your shoulders before you can protest. It’s warm from his body; you burrow without meaning to. “Why didn’t you come find me?”

You roll your head toward him, slow with the spin of the stars. “I didn’t want to cockblock your… whatever that was with the bartender about poetry.”

He huffs, half a laugh, mostly exhale. Then he crouches in front of you so you don’t have to chase his face with your eyes. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” you lie, perfectly, beautifully.

“Try again.”

“Some dude asked if he could kiss me,” you say, airy, like it was weather. “And I said ‘mmm.’ And then he kissed me.”

Namjoon’s jaw does a thing. “Where is he.”

“Relax, Kim Heights. He’s probably back in there telling his friends he blessed the birthday girl.” Your laugh scrapes your throat. “I’m fine.”

“Are you.”

“Yep.” You pop the p. “Just needed air. And fewer mouths.”

His eyes search your face—smudged lipstick, glitter on your cheekbone, the stubborn set of your mouth. “Do you want me to get him thrown out?”

You shake your head. Regret that decision immediately because the sky cartwheels. You catch the bench with both hands, breathe through it. “No bouncers. No scene. Please.”

He nods once, shifts, then reaches into his pocket and produces a small plastic bottle like he’s a magician. “Water.”

“Have you been hoarding hydration?”

“Jimin will over-serve you just to prove he can. I plan ahead.” He twists the cap and hands it to you. “Sip.”

You do. It’s blessedly cold, the kind of clean that slices through fog. You let it sit on your tongue before you swallow, like you can wash the taste of someone else’s decision out of your mouth.

Namjoon watches you drink, then tilts his head. “Jimin told you.”

“About?” You keep your eyes on the hedge line like it’s very interesting.

“Balcony? Sori?”

You shrug, small under his jacket. “He tells me lots of things.”

“Does it bother you?” he asks, gentle, like someone picking up a glass shard with two fingers.

You snort. “No. Why would it. It’s his life.”

“Right.”

You scrape your heel against the gravel, little crescent moons appearing where your shoe skids. “She has very sharp eyeliner,” you add, as if that’s neutral. “Could cut a man.”

Namjoon’s mouth twitches. “You’re allowed to be pissed.”

“I am allowed to be unbothered,” you counter, too fast. You tip the bottle back again. “Look at me. Unbothered.”

He lets the lie sit down beside you without challenging it. That’s the thing about Namjoon—he knows when to hold a mirror and when to cover it. He shifts from a crouch to sitting at your side, angled so you don’t have to move.

“You want to go home?” he asks after a beat. “I’ll get the car.”

Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with glitter or alcohol. “It’s my party.”

“And we can leave it,” he says, steady. “You don’t owe the room your body.”

You stare at the fairy lights until they double, then settle. “Maybe… in a minute.”

He nods, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, the picture of patience. The bass inside thrums through the soil; a night breeze lifts the hair at your temple, cools the heat at your throat.

Gravel again. Another set of footsteps. You don’t have to see him to know; your bones clock him like weather changing.

Yoongi stops at the mouth of the garden path, darkness and chandelier glow cutting him into edges. Black suit. Hands in his pockets like he doesn’t trust them. His eyes find you first, then flick to Namjoon’s jacket on your shoulders, then drop quick to your mouth. Something tightens, minute, in his face.

“Joon,” he says, a greeting that’s also a question.

“Hey,” Namjoon answers, just as neutral. Then he stands, a wall that’s also a door. “She needed air.”

Yoongi nods. His gaze tracks back to you, lingering like he’s bracing for impact. “You okay?”

You take your time answering. Lift the water bottle. Tip it like a toast. “Peachy.”

He absorbs the dryness without flinching. “You disappeared.”

“People do that when they’re magicians,” you say. “Or when they’re bored. Or when a stranger confuses a non-vowel sound for consent.”

Silence slices clean. Namjoon’s head whips toward you. Yoongi goes very, very still.

“Who,” Yoongi says. Not loud. Stripped.

“I handled it,” you reply, eyes on the hedge. “With my legs. I walked away. See? Fully functional.”

Yoongi’s jaw moves like he’s grinding a thought down to powder. “What did he look like.”

“Like a man I won’t think about again,” you say, flat. “Drop it.”

Namjoon lifts a hand, a quiet stall. “We’ll deal with it if you want us to.”

“I don’t,” you snap, and regret the snap, and let the sigh chase it out. “I don’t want this to be a thing. I want to sit on this cold bench and not be a headline at my own party.”

The men exchange a look. A whole conversation passes between them in the tightness around their mouths.

Namjoon inhales, decides something. “I’m getting the car,” he says, and when you open your mouth, he adds, “You can decide in sixty seconds if you’re getting in it. If you want to go back in, I’ll walk you. If you want to leave, I’ll drive. Either way, I’m retrieving it because the valet system here is a hellscape.”

You huff a laugh despite yourself. “Coward’s way of giving me an out.”

“Guilty.” He squeezes your shoulder over his jacket, a pressure that says I’ve got you either way. Then he steps past Yoongi, pauses just long enough to stare him down with brotherly menace, and disappears up the path.

The garden hums. Distant laughter. A bottle clinks somewhere inside. A moth flutters idiotically at a light.

Yoongi doesn’t sit. He steps closer, then stops like the air itself is a boundary he’s not sure he can cross. “You shouldn’t have to deal with that,” he says, low, like it’s a fact and not a feeling.

“Welcome to women,” you reply, dry. “We get party favors.”

His mouth twitches like he wants to be sick. “I’m—” He cuts off, jaw working. “I should’ve—”

“Been glued to my side all night?” You tilt your head, smile like a blade. “You seemed busy.”

He takes that hit, doesn’t try to dodge. “I was an idiot.”

“Cool,” you say, light. “Add it to the list.”

He finally moves, sits on the far end of the bench like he’s respecting a no-man’s-land only you can cross. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The fairy lights buzz faintly, a sound you’ve never noticed until now.

“I saw you on the balcony,” you say after a beat, because alcohol makes a coward brave and a brave person reckless. “Jimin says you went up there the second you got here.”

He exhales through his nose. “I did.” A beat. “I saw you first.”

You bark out a laugh. “Romantic. You saw me, then went the other way.”

“I panicked,” he says, honest in a way that makes your blood run hot and cold. “You looked—” He stops. Shakes his head. “I didn’t trust myself not to say something I can’t take back. Sori said hi on my way to the stairs. That’s all.”

You force yourself to ignore the way your heart flutters hearing the confession he quickly buried.

You stare at the gravel. A moth finally gives up on the light and flutters to the hedge. “She met me, too.”

His head snaps, eyes sharp. “What did she say.”

“That you talk about me,” you say, careful. You roll the cap of the water bottle between your fingers. “That I’m funny.”

He looks at the ground, then at you, like the angle might change the truth. “I do talk about you.”

Your laugh is softer this time, and it hates you for it. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what.”

“Don’t say shit like that when I’m drunk,” you murmur, tipping your head back against the bench slat. The stars blur into smeared city glow. “I’ll think it means something tomorrow.”

He goes quiet. Not empty—full. Brimming with all the words he keeps barricaded behind his teeth. When he speaks, it’s careful, like stepping across thin ice. “It means something tonight.”

Your throat works. You swallow, water useless against that kind of heat. “You’re late.”

“I know.”

“And you’re stupid.”

“I know.”

“And I’m not a back-up plan.”

His voice doesn’t waver. “You never were.”

You look at him then. Really look. The shadowed cut of his jaw. The suit that fits like he put it on to keep himself together. The way his hands are fisted in his pockets because if they weren’t, he’d be reaching.

“Namjoon’s gonna be back in, like, thirty seconds,” you say, because time is a thing you can hold when everything else slips. “He’s going to ask me if I want to leave.”

Yoongi nods once. “Do you?”

You let the question sit in the cold, let it fog, let it clear. You think of Sori’s perfume. Of a stranger’s mouth. Of the bench and the fairy lights and the way your name sounded when he said Hey in a room that was screaming.

“I want to not be in there,” you admit. “I don’t know what I want beyond that.”

“Okay,” he says, immediate, no argument threaded anywhere in it.

You look back at the path, the slice of light where the building breathes out party heat. “If I go,” you add, voice low, “I’m not doing it so you can play knight. I’m doing it because I don’t want to be watched while I figure out whether I’m allowed to be mad at you.”

His mouth tips, bruised at the edges. “You’re allowed.”

“Cool,” you say, eyes stinging with something you refuse to call anything. “I’m mad.”

Gravel again. Namjoon appears, keys raised like a flag. “Valet miracle,” he announces softly, taking in the scene with a general’s calm. “Car’s out front.”

He looks at you. Not at Yoongi. You.

“What’s the move, birthday girl?”

You breathe in. You breathe out. The bench is cold. The stars are still spinning, but slower now.

“I’m going home,” you say. “With Joon.”

A flicker crosses Yoongi’s face—pain, quickly leashed. He nods like it’s the only correct answer. “Text me when you’re safe.”

You slide Namjoon’s jacket tighter around you and stand. Your knees wobble; Namjoon is there without making a fuss of it. You take two steps, then pause, turn, and find Yoongi’s eyes in the half-light.

“Tomorrow,” you say, the word heavy as a promise you haven’t decided if you’ll keep. “Don’t be late.”

His exhale is almost a laugh, almost a prayer. “Okay.”

You turn and let Namjoon guide you up the path. Behind you, Yoongi sits very still on a bench that remembers your weight, fists his hands tighter in his pockets, and stares at the fairy lights until they buzz like a confession.

The night air is cool against your flushed skin, the thud of bass from the party muffled now, like it’s trapped inside a different universe. Namjoon keeps pace with you, his strides long and steady, his voice filling the quiet.

“…like, honestly, who needs three champagne towers? It’s not a wedding. And don’t get me started on the playlist—Taehyung thinks he’s a DJ but he only knows five songs. Five. Songs.” He huffs out a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “The bartender was cute, though. Kept quoting poetry at me when he poured—can you believe that? Like, Rilke over rum. Wild.”

You let him talk, words washing over you, but your mind isn’t with him.

It’s back in the garden.

On the bench.

On Yoongi.

You tell yourself you’re not mad—what right do you even have? He doesn’t owe you anything. He came, he mingled, he spent time with people. He was allowed to smile at someone else. Allowed to stand too close to someone else.

But it was your night. Your birthday.

And he wasn’t really with you.

He wasn’t at your side for the cake. He wasn’t laughing in the circle of friends when Jimin made you blush. He wasn’t with you when Jungkook spun you so hard you nearly fell. All the little pieces that were supposed to add up to tonight—the you-and-him pieces—he wasn’t in them.

And maybe that’s what hurts.

Because it feels like the night was supposed to be about you. But you’re walking away feeling like it wasn’t.

You blink, and suddenly the silver gleam of Namjoon’s car door is right in front of you. Three steps away. Namjoon is still talking, now about stanza breaks and the bartender’s dimples, and you realize you’ve barely heard a word.

“I need to go back.”

Namjoon stops dead, mid-sentence, brow furrowed. “What?”

“I need to go back.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “But you said you wanted to leave. You just said goodbye to everyone.”

Your stomach drops. You did? When? The thought slips through the fog of champagne and vodka like a knife—you don’t remember saying goodbye to your friends. You were too busy in your own head, running laps around the hollow ache in your chest.

“I need to tell him, Joon.”

Your voice cracks on the words, thin and begging.

Namjoon doesn’t ask who. Doesn’t need to. He’s known. He’s known since you bought Yoongi that guitar, since you remembered a birthday you never should’ve remembered, since you started saving your best one-liners for him and him alone.

But he shakes his head, steady, gentle. “Not tonight, Y/N. You need to go home and get in bed.”

The devastation crushes you in a sigh. Your throat burns. Your eyes prickle. “Namjoon—” your voice breaks again, and then the tears come hot, unbidden, “Please, I—”

“I know.” He cuts you off, but his tone is soft, like he’s carrying the weight for you. His eyes glint in the dim parking lot light. “You don’t have to tell me. I know.”

The words make your chest splinter. You want to say it anyway. Want to shout it out loud just to hear what it feels like leaving your mouth. But the look on Namjoon’s face tells you everything: save it. Save it for Yoongi.

You swallow hard, wipe at your cheeks with the back of your hand. “Maybe I can text him then?”

Namjoon exhales, long, patient. “If you do, you’ll regret it in the morning.”

“But—”

“No buts. Not like this. Not drunk, not half crying in a parking lot. You’ll hate yourself if those words land the wrong way.”

You sag against the car door, shoulders trembling under his jacket, phone heavy in your hand like it’s burning a hole straight through your palm.

And still, the ache won’t let go. Because the truth is there, heavy and undeniable:

You don’t want to go home.

You want to go back.

Back to the garden.

Back to him.

You wake up and your head is pounding, pounding, pounding—

Fuck, what time is it?

You glance at the alarm clock on your nightstand. 11:52 a.m.

You groan, ready to roll back into the abyss, when the pounding comes again. Not from your skull this time—from somewhere out in the living room.

Dragging yourself upright is an Olympic event. You crawl to the door, use the handle to haul yourself up, and silently thank the blackout curtains for saving you from spontaneous combustion. The apartment is dark, mercifully quiet—until you unlock the front door and crack it open.

Blinding light sears your eyes. You hiss, slapping a hand up to shield your face. “AGH—fuck.”

Blink, blink, blink. And then—

Yoongi.

He’s standing there, hair swept back casually, black hoodie, dark navy jeans, and somehow he looks so fucking hot your hungover brain considers dragging him inside and—wait. Why is he here?

“Can I help you?” Your words come out sharper than intended.

“Uh. I got your text. Thought you might need some water and stuff from the store.”

You blink again, this time at the plastic bags in his hands. Two of them, filled to the brim. Groceries. Supplies. Nourishment.

Text?

“I… texted you?” You step aside to let him in, then speed-walk back to your room, heart pounding harder than your head.

Your phone is right where you left it. You snatch it up and scroll.

You [9:48am]: might be dying. send me nourishment.

yoon [9:49am]: be there soon.

Your stomach sinks. Because you remember saying it out loud this morning. Into the void. To Siri. “Hey Siri, text Joon.” Not Yoon.

The universe, apparently, had other plans.

You shuffle back, sheepish, clutching your phone like it’s the smoking gun. “Ahh. My phone texted you on accident. Siri was supposed to text Joon. Not Yoon.”

He stares at you. Unreadable.

“Sorry, Yoongi.”

But he just shrugs, unbothered. “All good. I’m here now.”

And that’s the end of it, at least for him.

The grocery bags rustle as he sets them down on your counter like he’s done this a hundred times before. Bottled water, Gatorade, bananas, a loaf of bread, instant ramen, some kind of canned soup. Practical. Quietly thoughtful. So Yoongi it hurts.

You hover near the hallway like a feral animal half-ready to retreat. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know.” He doesn’t look up, just lines the bottles on your counter. “But you asked.”

Your throat tightens, because technically? No, you didn’t. Not him, anyway. But the evidence is glowing on your phone, timestamped, undeniable.

“Thanks,” you murmur, rubbing your temples.

He glances at you then—sharp, assessing—and points at your couch. “Sit.”

It’s not a suggestion.

You shuffle over, flopping onto the cushions with a groan. The pounding in your head has synchronized with your heartbeat, steady and merciless. Yoongi appears a moment later with a cold water bottle and two painkillers, pressing them into your hands without ceremony.

“Drink.”

You obey, swallowing around the lump in your throat, wincing when the pills scrape down. The water’s blissfully cold, shocking you back into your body.

Yoongi sits on the other end of the couch, angled toward you, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. Casual, except not at all—because his eyes never leave your face.

You shift under the weight of it. “You really didn’t have to come.”

His mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. “Guess I wanted to.”

The room is too quiet after that. Only the hum of your fridge, the faint city noise leaking through your blackout curtains. You fiddle with the bottle cap, unscrewing and rescrewing it, until the words tumble out before you can stop them:

“Sorry about last night.”

Yoongi’s brows twitch, but he doesn’t move. “What are you sorry for?”

You bite your lip, eyes darting away. “I don’t know. Being weird. Disappearing. Getting too drunk. Take your pick.”

He leans forward, forearms on his knees, finally breaking his stillness. His voice is low, deliberate. “You don’t have to apologize for any of that.”

You risk a glance, and it’s almost worse—the softness in his gaze, the way he looks at you like you’re something fragile he doesn’t know how to hold.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Because you don’t want to be fragile. You don’t want him to carry you like glass. You want to be wanted.

Your pulse hammers. You clear your throat. “Still… thanks. For showing up.”

“All good,” he says again, simple, final.

But he doesn’t leave. Doesn’t move. He just stays there, steady as ever, like he has all the time in the world to sit on your couch and wait for you to stop spinning.

You tip the water bottle back again, the plastic crackling against your palm. “The room’s not moving anymore,” you say, voice rough, “just… swaying.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “Means your stomach hates you a little less.”

He’s still angled toward you, one knee on the cushion, hoodie soft where his forearm brushes the back of the couch. From here he smells like detergent and whatever clean thing lives in the dark fabric of his clothes—cool, familiar, a scent your body recognizes faster than your head does.

“You brought a whole survival kit,” you add, nodding at the lined-up bottles and the bananas he peeled and then un-peeled because you said the stringy bits were “criminal.”

“You texted,” he answers like it’s math.

“I texted Joon,” you correct, then wince. “Apparently.”

“Lucky for you Siri can’t spell.”

“You’re annoying.”

His mouth twitches; he lets it die. “You okay?”

“Define okay.”

He watches you. Not the hungover kind of watch—no pity, no soft head tilt. He tracks your eyes, your mouth, the way your fingers worry the ridges of the bottle cap like you’re trying to sand yourself smooth.

“I should’ve been with you,” he says.

The sentence lands heavy and simple, no preamble, like he ripped a stitch so it wouldn’t fester.

You blink. “At the party.”

“Yeah.”

“You were there,” you say, because that’s the safe version.

“Not with you.”

It scrapes something raw. You chase it with water; it doesn’t help. “Why weren’t you?”

He drags a hand over his jaw, eyes dropping to the coffee table like he can line his thoughts up next to the Gatorades. “I walked in, saw you on the floor, and—” He exhales a quiet, stuttering laugh with no humor in it. “—my brain just… shorted. You looked—” His gaze flicks back to you, sticks for a second on your mouth. “—and I got stupid. I went upstairs to get it together and then people kept talking and—”

“And Sori said hi,” you say, neutral as a knife laid flat.

His throat works. “She said hi.”

Silence folds in around you. The clock on your microwave stutters out a soft electronic tick every minute; the apartment’s old pipes clink somewhere in the wall like they’re chewing on ice.

He leans in, forearms on his thighs now, voice low enough you feel it in your ribs. “I’m sorry I wasn’t where I should’ve been. I’m sorry you blew out candles without me next to you. I’m sorry you went outside alone. I should’ve been with you.”

You want to deflect—aim a joke at his chest and watch it bounce—but the way he says it pins you to the cushion. “Why say it now?”

“Because you asked me last night not to be late,” he answers, eyes steady. “And I don’t want to be late for this.”

“For what?” Your mouth is dry again. But you don’t reach for the water.

“For the part where I stop pretending this doesn’t matter,” he says, and the words are so bare you almost flinch. “You’re—” He swallows. “You’re my best friend.”

Your laugh comes out thin and mean to hide the way your pulse kicks. “Congratulations, you and Namjoon can share custody.”

He almost smiles. But he doesn’t. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “I hurt you yesterday.”

You look at the floor, the gray weave of the rug you bought on sale because the reviews said it hid red wine. “I hate that you can tell.”

“I hate that I gave you a reason.”

Something loosens in your chest and tightens at the same time. “Then don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.”

“You say that like you can control the future. Like it’s easy.”

“It’s not.”

You sit with that and so does he. The fridge hums in the kitchen, a car door thunks somewhere on the street. You can feel the apology vibrating in him, the unsaid parts pressing hard against the back of his teeth.

Your phone, abandoned face-down on the coffee table, gives a useless little buzz of an insignificant notification. His, tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie, is quiet.

“You know,” you say, softer now, “I didn’t even want a party.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But the one thing I did want was…” You stop yourself, throat hot, eyes stinging. Feeling a little ridiculous right now.

“Me there,” he finishes, no triumph in it, only truth.

You meet his eyes and hate that they’re careful. “Yeah. That’s what I was looking forward to. And where were you?”

He shakes his head, slow. “Not there.”

“Then say it again. Properly this time,” you push, because you want to hear him choose it twice. “What you’re sorry for.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t with you,” he says, steady. “I’m sorry I let the party swallow me when I should’ve found you. I’m sorry that I made you wonder if you mattered more than the people I was with.”

Your living room holds the words like they might break if it breathes too hard.

You drag a fingertip along the sweating ridge of your water bottle. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“It’s a start.”

His shoulders drop a fraction, tension leaking out like air from a pinhole. “I’ll take a start.”

“Hey! Don’t get cocky.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

You’re about to say something reckless and small and yours—something about how you would have let him hold the sparkler while you made your wish—when a low vibration murmurs against denim.

He glances down. The sound is so quiet it could be the building creaking, but you feel the shift in his focus like a draft under a door. He fishes his phone out, checks the screen with that same careful face he wears when he listens to a half-finished demo.

He hits decline.

The buzz dies.

You watch his thumb hover a second too long over the glass, as if his finger can erase a name. He tucks the phone back into his pocket, looks up at you, opens his mouth—

The phone vibrates again. Louder now, insistent, trapped in fabric. He doesn’t move at first, like not acknowledging it might starve it of oxygen. It keeps ringing, patient and relentless.

“Do you need to get that?” you ask, voice very calm, like you’re asking if he needs a coaster.

“No,” he says, just as calm.

The ring keeps threading between you.

“Who is it?” You tip your head, trying for breezy, landing on brittle.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Humor me.”

He shakes his head, jaw tight. The buzz goes on, familiar rhythm looping, and something inside you decides it’s done being polite. You reach forward, fingers wrapping around his wrist where the cuff of his hoodie meets warm skin.

“Let me see.”

He stills. Not resisting—shocked still. The privacy reflex hits late; you’ve already slid your hand down, already dipped your fingers into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie like you own the right, already brushed knuckles to glass.

The screen flares up against your palm.

It’s only four letters. White text, black background, neat little vibration under your hand like the phone itself is smug about it.

Sori.

You don’t even really know her. Didn’t know she existed until last night. Don’t know if she’s an old friend, a new one, or just a passing shadow to Yoongi. You don’t know if she’s someone who laughs at his sarcasm the way you do, if she knows the way his voice drops when he’s serious, if she’s ever had him smile at her the way he smiles at you like you’re his.

But you know this: the second you see her name, your stomach twists sharp and painfully mean.

It’s nausea, hot and cold at once, like you’ve swallowed something that doesn’t belong in your body. It coils low, climbs high, catches at the back of your throat. Your pulse stutters, and suddenly the whole room feels too small, too loud—even though it’s just you, him, the hum of the fridge.

Why should it matter? He can have friends. He can have whoever-the-hell Sori is. You’re not his girlfriend. You’re not his anything. You don’t get to have a say.

And still—you hate it. Hate the way her name looks lit up in his pocket. Hate the way it rang twice, like she knew he’d ignore her once and was ready for round two. Hate the way your hand trembled when you pulled it out, like you were already bracing for the blow.

It’s pathetic, you think. It’s not even her. It’s the not-knowing.

Where she came from. Why she knows him. How close they are. If she knew him before you did.

That last thought lands like a sucker punch. You swallow hard against the bile.

You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t—

“Y/N.”

His voice cuts through your thoughts. Low and so careful.

You look up, and he’s already watching you. Watching the exact way your jaw tightens, the exact way your fingers still press against his wrist like you forgot to let go.

He sees it all.

And the worst part? You see him see it. The flicker of realization in his eyes, quick and sharp, like a spark hitting kindling. He knows.

He knows you’re jealous.

Yoongi tilts his head, still caught under your fingers where they’ve wrapped around his wrist. His mouth curves, faint, the kind of smirk that says he’s decided not to let the silence swallow you whole.

“So,” he says, slow, amused, “we’re just grabbing people’s phones now? That a new birthday tradition or…?”

You blink, throat tight. “I wasn’t grabbing, I was—” You stop. Heat crawls up your neck. “—I don’t know what I was.”

“Investigating?” His smirk deepens, but his voice softens with it. “That’s bold. Didn’t peg you for the jealous type.”

The word hits too close. Your stomach flips. “I’m not jealous.”

“Mm.” He leans back, wrist still loose in your hold, like he’s giving you the chance to let go and not making a big deal out of the fact that you don’t. “Sure. Totally. That’s why you look like you’re about to fight Siri for connecting Sori’s call.”

Her name on his lips does something ugly to your insides and you suddenly feel like throwing up again. 

You groan and drop his wrist like it burns all the sudden. “Shut up.”

He chuckles, low and warm, no sting in it. “I mean, you didn’t even ask who she was before you went full detective. Kind of flattering, actually.”

Your chest squeezes. “It’s not—” You rub your temples, voice wobbling at the edges. “I just… I don’t even know who she is, Yoongi. I don’t know how you know her, or if you knew her before, or if she’s—” You bite the words off, sharp. “It doesn’t matter.”

His smirk eases, eyes steady on yours now. “You really want to know?”

You freeze. The question hangs there, heavy, tempting, terrifying.

“…No,” you say finally, lying through your teeth. “I don’t care.”

Yoongi hums, like he hears the truth tucked under the denial. Not pressing, not pushing—just sitting with it. Then he leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, voice dipping quiet.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, simple, sincere, “you’re the one I’d have rather been with last night. Not her. You.”

Your throat works, traitorous. You want to laugh it off, toss the line back, make it light. But the words sit heavy, glowing, and you can’t quite find the air to move them.

So instead, you look down at your lap, tugging at a loose thread on your blanket, and mutter the safest thing you can manage.

“You’re annoying.”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling now. “But I’m your annoying.”

You half-smile, acknowledging his words that make your heart flutter more than they should.

He looks down at his lap before finding your eyes again. “And you have nothing to worry about.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “What does that even mean.”

“It means,” he says, confident and steady, “I could never replace you. If that’s why you’re… jealous.”

Your chest goes tight. “I’m not worried about being replaced,” you shoot back, too fast. “I’m worried about—”

You hear yourself hit the edge and slam on the brakes. No. Not like this. Not with last night still in your throat, not with someone else’s name still buzzing in his pocket.

“Worried about?” he asks, softer now. Patient, like he’s learned your tells and is offering you a way down.

You take a breath that doesn’t go anywhere. Then the words arrive all at once, tripping over each other like they’ve been queued for hours.

“Look. I don’t care if you’re having fun and going on dates or fucking around and just looking for casual sex.” Your voice is too bright, too sharp. “But last night I was super fucking annoyed that all your attention was on someone I don’t even know and never even heard of, when I wanted to be having the time of my life with you. You. My hot best friend. The one person I could joke with about that horribly fantastic party. But you weren’t there. And I know you said sorry, and I guess I forgive you, but I’ll be hurt for a little bit, but my point is… I wore that dress for—”

BZZ-ZZZZ.

You flinch like the sound touched your skin. His phone rattles in his hoodie pocket again, insistently, as if the universe just cannot help itself.

You’re halfway to smacking it out of him when you see his face.

He’s looking at you like you just said something holy by accident. Like you hung the moon and he’s been figuring out how to thank you ever since. Warm, startled, wrecked all at once. It’s not a look you’ve ever seen him aim at anyone else.

BZZ. BZZ.

He doesn’t even glance down this time. He reaches into his pocket without breaking eye contact, pulls the phone out, hits decline, and sets it face-down on your coffee table like he’s putting a lid on a pot before it boils over.

Silence spreads, thin and shimmering.

“You wore the dress for who,” he says, voice low, as if he’s afraid of scaring the truth back into its hole.

“For—” The word tangles. You swallow, hate the quake in your throat. “For feeling good,” you say, cowardly. Then quieter: “For… me.”

His mouth twitches—there and gone. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and searches your face like it’s the only sheet of music he knows how to read.

“I didn’t give Sori my attention,” he says, measured. “I stood upstairs because I panicked. She said hi because Jin dragged her over. I nodded through a conversation I didn’t hear because every time you laughed, it was like the floor moved. Nothing happened. I left the balcony because I couldn’t stay one more second where I couldn’t touch you.”

Your pulse stumbles, catches, sprints. “You didn’t touch me downstairs either.”

“I tried,” he says, winces at himself, corrects quietly, “I asked. You said you were busy. You were right to say it.”

“I was mad,” you admit. It feels like handing him your throat. “I wanted you next to me and you weren’t. Then there was this… person. This name. And I—” Your voice roughens. “I hated not knowing if you were choosing her over me.”

His eyes soften like that’s the one hit that lands. “I wasn’t choosing anyone over you.” He taps a knuckle against the table, once, a valve for something hotter. “Sori is… Jin’s friend. She works A&R. Last night she wanted to talk about a feature for an artist. I told her no. Twice.”

“But she’s calling,” you say, because the facts are stacked on the table blinking up at you in bold font.

He drags a hand over his jaw. “She’s calling because I texted her at 2 a.m. to give her my number because Jin told me to.” A brief, humorless laugh. “She told me I was insane for texting her so late. Then she said happy birthday to you. Then she left her coat upstairs and thinks I can magic it out of the very locked building.”

“Oh.” The word is light; the drop in your stomach is not. “That’s… anticlimactic.”

“I’m sorry it isn’t salacious enough for your spiral,” he murmurs. “Want me to pretend I eloped?”

“Don’t tempt me. I’ll plan the reception out of spite.”

He smiles properly this time. Small. Real. Then it fades, not because it’s gone but because he’s turning the volume down to say the rest.

“You said you don’t care if I’m dating,” he says. “I’m not.”

“That’s a convenient coincidence.”

“It’s an inconvenient truth,” he replies, and if he were anyone else he’d be grinning at his own line. He isn’t. He’s looking at you like the next choice will rearrange the room.

Your heartbeat is a clumsy thing in your chest. “So what am I worried about, Yoongi?”

He tips his head, patient. “You tell me.”

You stare at him. At the hoodie you’ve seen a hundred times, the one you’ve stolen twice. At the hands he keeps hiding from the space between you like they might give him away. At the mouth that has laughed with you, cut with you, said things drunk that sober-you memorized and buried.

“I was worried,” you say, each word picked out like it’s lying under glass, “that I was the only one who felt… how I feel. And if I say it out loud, and I am the only one, I won’t get to have the part I already have.”

He inhales, slow, the kind of breath you take before you step onto thin ice. “The part where we’re… us.”

“Yeah.”

“And if you weren’t the only one?” he asks, so gentle you want to shake him.

“Then I’m still mad about last night,” you say, because your brain is a wild animal that insists on bargaining even with the door cracked open. “But maybe not… terrified.”

His gaze flicks, quick, to your mouth and back. “You wore the dress for me.”

It isn’t a question this time. It’s a mercy.

You let your eyes drop to your hands, the faint half-moons your nails pressed in your palm. “I wore it hoping you’d look at me and—” You bite down on the rest. Enough honesty for one breath.

“I looked,” he says. “I haven’t stopped.”

BZZ-ZZZZ.

The phone on the table makes a valiant attempt at resurrecting itself, skittering once against the wood. You glance at it, then back at him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink.

“Let it ring,” he says softly. “Please.”

You do. For once you let something that isn’t him wait.

He shifts closer, not enough to crowd, enough that his knee brushes the cushion seam next to your thigh. The hoodie smells like detergent and something that’s just him; your stupid body registers all of it like facts it’s been starving for.

“Say the rest,” he asks. “The part after ‘I wore that dress for—’”

You breathe out a laugh that’s almost a sob. “God, you’re greedy.”

“I learned from the best.”

You look at him, and it’s like the party, the garden, the bench, the whole world has been a long hallway pointing here.

“For you,” you say. Quiet. True. “I wore it for you.”

His eyes close for a second like the sentence hits bone.

When he opens them, there’s nothing careful left.

“Come here,” he says.

You move first—not because he told you to, but because the space between you has been lying this whole time. You shift across the cushion, knees knocking, and his hand comes up like gravity to your jaw, thumb gentle at the corner of your mouth where last night smudged something you didn’t want.

He pauses, searches your face for a no you aren’t giving.

“Yoongi,” you warn, a wry smile trying to save you both and failing. “If you ask me if this is okay I might combust.”

He huffs a laugh that’s more breath than sound. “Then save us both.”

You do.

And when your lips touch, it’s not fireworks. It’s not a car crash. It’s the simple, devastating relief of something finding its right place. He kisses you like he’s been waiting at a red light for a year and it finally turned green—he’s careful, then not, then careful again because he knows the shape of your edges. Your hand fists in the front of his hoodie. His fingers slide into your hair like they were always meant to be there.

The room doesn’t sway anymore. It stills.

When you pull back, barely, it’s only to breathe his name against his mouth and see the way it lands. He’s smiling, small and rueful and respectful in a way that makes your ribs ache.

“I’m still mad,” you whisper, because some small, stubborn part of you needs to plant a flag.

“I’ll earn my way out,” he murmurs. “Stay mad. Stay.”

“I planned to.” Your forehead tips to his. “For a long time, actually.”

BZZ. BZZ. BZZ. BZZ.

You both glance at the table like you’re looking at a mosquito that thought it was a hawk. Yoongi reaches out without looking, flips the phone over with two fingers, and finally silences it.

“I’ll block her later,” he says, almost amused. “Tell her Jin has her coat but she has the wrong number.”

“Please do not drag the coat into your lies.”

“It’s not a lie.” He kisses you once, quick and devastating. “I’ll change my number.”

You snort, breathless, and he grins against your mouth like he just solved something complicated. The headache behind your eyes is a faint pressure now, not a drum. Your stomach is quiet. The buzzing is gone.

“Yoongi,” you say, and he hums, thumb tracing the hinge of your jaw like he’s afraid you might vanish if he stops touching you. “I want to be stupid with you for a while.”

“Good,” he says, like he’s been waiting for someone to hand him permission to breathe. “I’m great at stupid.”

“Prove it.”

He leans back just enough to look at you, really look, and the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes go soft. “I’ll start by making you soup and holding your hair if you throw up.”

“Hot.”

“And then I’ll spend the rest of the day telling you every version of ‘nothing happened’ until even your jealousy gets bored and falls asleep.”

“Ambitious.”

He kisses your temple. “And after you nap, I’m going to apologize again for last night. Better. With sentences that aren’t trash. Then I’m going to ask you if I can take you on a date that doesn’t end with you wanting to fight Siri in the street.”

You blink. That word sits different now. Not heavy. Possible.

“And if I say yes?”

He smiles, quiet, certain. “Then I’ll try not to be late.”

You search his face for a loophole you can hide in. You don’t find one. “Okay,” you say. “Okay.”

He exhales like a man who’s been underwater and finally broke the surface.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, and you do, tucking yourself into the corner of the couch with him like it’s been waiting for this exact geometry. His hoodie is soft under your cheek. His heartbeat is stupid and steady against your ear. The city hums. Somewhere in your kitchen, a Gatorade bottle sweats itself into a little ring on the counter.

When your phone buzzes on the table, it’s a text from Namjoon.

Joon: alive?

You smile into cotton and type with one hand.

you: yeah

you: soup incoming

you: don’t worry about the coat

Three dots. Then:

Joon: …what coat

You huff a laugh you didn’t know you had left. Yoongi doesn’t ask what’s funny. He already knows. He just kisses the top of your head like he intends to make a habit of it.

“Tomorrow,” you murmur, eyes already slipping shut despite yourself, “don’t be late.”

“I won’t,” he says, and the way he says it makes your body believe him before your brain does.

The phone on the table stays quiet. The soup pot waits. The dress is hanging somewhere in the dark of your closet like a witness.

You think about the way he looked at you before he kissed you, like the moon finally turned around and noticed who’d been holding it up.

And you reckon no one has ever looked at you that way before.

The soup tasted better than it should’ve.

Maybe it was because you were hungover and half-dead, maybe it was because Yoongi had leaned against your counter in that hoodie, scowling at the recipe on his phone like broth was a personal enemy, maybe it was because he kept sliding glances at you like he couldn’t believe you were really there.

Whatever the reason, you ate it. Slowly, gratefully. He made you drink water in between bites, muttered something about “keeping electrolytes up” like he wasn’t the one who showed up with a bag of bananas and Gatorade in the first place.

You laughed at him. He kissed you quiet.

Later, you curled up on the couch with a blanket big enough for two, his arm slung heavy and sure around you. Movies played half-forgotten in the background, your head on his chest, his thumb tracing idle circles against your arm. The kisses came soft and unhurried, the kind you could fall asleep in.

At some point, you must’ve.

Because when you open your eyes again, it’s morning.

Your room is flooded with pale light that slips past the blackout curtains, painting everything in soft gray. Your head doesn’t hurt anymore; your body feels loose, weightless. For half a second you let yourself drift, float in the warmth cocooned around you—until you realize that warmth isn’t the blanket.

It’s him.

Yoongi is behind you, his chest pressed firm against your back, his breath slow at your nape. His arm is heavy over your waist, tucked under your shirt just enough to graze bare skin. And when you shift, careful, testing—

Oh.

Your ass fits right up against his front.

Every nerve ending in your body lights up like fireworks.

You freeze. Absolutely still. Wide awake now in a way that feels criminal. Your brain, traitorous, starts cataloguing everything at once: the heat of him pressed along your spine, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the solid weight against your hip that tells you exactly how real this is.

Shit.

Slowly—so slowly—you breathe in. Out. You try to convince yourself you can relax, that it doesn’t mean anything, that this is just what happens when two people fall asleep in the same bed. Gravity. Logistics. Biology.

But then his fingers twitch at your waist. Just the barest curl, like even in sleep his body knows it wants you closer.

And you realize: you’re not going back to sleep. Not like this.

Your heart is in your throat, your pulse hammering loud enough you’re afraid it’ll wake him. You tell yourself not to move. You tell yourself you can stay perfectly still until he wakes up first. You tell yourself—

Then his breath shifts, deeper, warmer, nosing the back of your neck.

Oh, fuck.

“Yoongi…” you whisper, so quiet you’re not even sure you meant for him to hear it.

He stirs, the smallest sound in his throat, voice thick with sleep. “Mm. Still dreaming.”

Your chest tightens. “Of what?”

He shifts, breath warm against your neck, words barely brushing your skin. “You. Always you.”

The confession hits you harder than his body pressed against yours. Your pulse spikes, your body aching with the knowledge of how close he is—how hard he is—and how much you want him.

You twist carefully in his hold until you’re facing him, and he looks wrecked in the soft light—hair a mess, lashes heavy, lips parted. Beautiful. Real. Yours.

Your hand finds the fabric of his hoodie, clinging. “We should…” you murmur, breathless, “brush our teeth first.”

That earns the faintest crook of his mouth, still half-asleep. “Practical.”

You slip out of bed on wobbly legs, padding toward the bathroom. He follows a moment later, dragging a hand through his hair, hoodie slouched off one shoulder cause he couldn’t be bothered to fix it.

The two of you stand at the sink, shoulders brushing, toothbrushes moving in quiet sync. He’s always had an extra toothbrush at your place. It should feel ordinary, domestic. Instead, the air between you hums, electric, sharp with what you’re not saying.

When you spit and rinse, lifting your gaze to the mirror, you catch him watching you—awake now, eyes dark and unflinching.

You set your toothbrush down, breath caught. “Yoongi—”

But he closes the space before you can finish, hand cradling your jaw as his mouth finds yours, cool mint still fresh on his tongue, and suddenly you’re gone—burning, melting, needing him like air.

It’s not the soft, careful kiss from last night—it’s greedy, impatient, like he’s been holding his breath for years and finally decided to inhale.

You gasp, hands fisting in his hoodie, and he uses that tiny opening to lick into you, tongue sliding against yours until you’re dizzy. The counter digs into the backs of your thighs before you even register he’s moved you, his hands braced firm at your hips, lifting, setting you down on the cold marble like it’s nothing.

The world tilts, and then it doesn’t matter—because Yoongi is standing between your knees, kissing you like the end of everything. Hard. Hot. Like if he stops, the whole world will collapse.

Your fingers claw into his hair, tugging, desperate. He groans into your mouth, the sound low and wrecked, vibrating straight through you.

You break for air only long enough to see him—lips red, pupils blown, hoodie collar bunched in your fists. His forehead tips against yours, breaths ragged. “Fuck, Y/N,” he mutters, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper, hungrier, like he’ll never get enough.

His hands roam—up your sides, over your waist, sliding beneath your shirt to find bare skin, warm palms branding every inch they touch. You arch into him, legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer until you feel the solid, unmistakable press of him right where you need it.

The sound you make is shameless. His answering groan is worse.

“Been dreaming about this,” he rasps against your mouth. “About you. For so long.”

You kiss him harder, swallowing the confession whole, because if you don’t, you’ll beg. And you’re already half a second from begging anyway.

The kiss doesn’t slow. It only deepens—messier, hungrier, your lips swollen, teeth clashing as his tongue tangles with yours. His hands grip your thighs like he’s terrified you’ll slip off the counter, thumbs pressing into the soft skin there as if reminding himself of the fact that this is real.

“Fuck,” Yoongi groans into your mouth, breaking away just long enough to drag his lips across your jaw, down your throat. “You taste… fuck, you taste better than I dreamed.”

Your head falls back against the mirror with a soft thud, a whimper spilling out before you can swallow it. “Yoongi—”

“Say it again,” he murmurs against your skin, lips hot at the hollow of your throat. “Say my name like that.”

“Yoongi.” It’s desperate this time, broken open.

He bites down gently, sucking a mark into your skin that will brand you tomorrow, and the sound you make has his breath hitching. His hands slide higher, skimming beneath your shirt until his thumbs are brushing the underside of your breasts, not quite touching, just teasing, making your body arch toward him instinctively.

Your fingers dig into his hair, tugging him back up so you can crash your mouth against his again. He takes it, gives it back tenfold, kissing you like he’ll starve without it.

“I wanted this,” you pant against his lips. “Last night. The night before, at the party.” You dive in for more kisses. “All night. You—”

“Me too,” he cuts in, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to yours. “Wanted you so bad I couldn’t breathe. Thought I was gonna lose it if I touched you.”

You whimper, and his grip on your thighs tightens. He kisses you once more, then pulls back just enough to look at you. Really look. His eyes are dark, blown wide, but there’s something steady under it, something careful.

“Let me,” he murmurs, voice rough but low and respectful. His thumb strokes against your skin, grounding. “Let me go down on you.”

The question hangs in the air, heavy, sparking against every nerve in your body.

Your breath stutters. Heat pools low in your stomach, your legs already parting without thought, like your body made the decision before your mouth could.

You nod frantically, hips jerking forward, the word tumbling out of you on a broken pant. “Please.”

Something in his face twists—like he’s both wrecked and relieved at once. He kisses you again, hard and quick, stealing your breath before dropping to his knees on the cold tile.

The sight alone nearly undoes you. Yoongi, kneeling between your thighs, hoodie hanging loose around his frame, dark hair falling into his eyes as he pulls off your sleeping shorts and presses your knees wider. Like you’re something to be opened. Something to be savored. But he leaves your lacy panties on.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and gravely, hands sliding up the insides of your thighs. His thumbs trace soft circles there, teasing closer, closer, until you’re arching toward him without shame.

He glances up once, eyes locking with yours, dark and steady. “I need to taste you.”

You moan just at the sound of it, head tipping back against the mirror, and then he leans in—pressing one hot, open-mouthed kiss over the thin fabric of your panties. The wet heat of his tongue seeps through, and you jolt, a whimper breaking free.

“Yoongi—”

He groans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. “So sweet already.” His fingers hook under the edge of your underwear, tugging them down your thighs with agonizing slowness, eyes never leaving yours.

When the fabric hits the floor, he nudges your knees apart wider, settling in like he belongs there, and lowers his mouth to you.

The first stroke of his tongue has your whole body jerking off the counter. He grips your thighs firmly, holding you open as he licks into you again, slow and deliberate, like he’s learning you by taste.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groans against your cunt, tongue circling your clit before flattening to lap at you with long, unhurried strokes. “How do you taste so fucking good?”

Your hands slam against the counter edge, searching for stability. You’re panting, gasping, every nerve ending set on fire as he works you open with his mouth. His tongue teases, licks, sucks, alternating pressure until your thighs tremble around his head.

“Please,” you whimper again, tugging his hair without realizing it, and he moans into you like he likes the desperation, like he needs it. The sound shoots straight through you, white-hot.

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, mouth wet, lips red, eyes molten. “Yeah? You want more?”

You nod frantically, words spilling out ragged. “Don’t stop—please, Yoongi, don’t stop.”

His smirk is faint, wicked. “Wasn’t planning to.”

And then he dives back in, tongue relentless, sucking your clit into his mouth and flicking until your vision blurs out.

You choke on a moan, your whole body arching, thighs trembling around his head, and Yoongi just holds you steady, eating you like he could live here forever. Like he’s been starving for this exact moment, for you.

You’re so fucking close.

And Yoongi doesn’t let up. His tongue works you with steady, devastating precision—long, slow licks that drag all the way through your folds, sharp flicks against your clit, then sucking it into his mouth until you’re keening, your hips jerking helplessly against his hold.

“Yoongi—fuck—” you gasp, fingers tangled in his hair, pulling without thought.

He groans like your desperation is feeding him, his mouth sealing over you tighter, tongue pressing into you with purpose. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your cunt, voice wrecked but steady. “Give it to me. I’ve got you.”

Your thighs tremble around his head, every nerve firing, heat winding tight in your belly. He feels it—of course he does—because his grip on your thighs tightens, pinning you open as his pace grows just a fraction more deliberate.

He draws lazy circles over your clit with his tongue, building, building, relentless in the way only he could be. You’re panting, breaking apart, teetering on the edge—

“Yoongi, I—I’m—”

“Yeah,” he rasps, pulling you impossibly closer to his mouth. “Come for me.”

And right before you do, he slides his middle finger inside you and curls it perfectly.

You gasp, “Fuck—YOON—“

It rips through you sudden and hard and sharp, your whole body arching off the counter as pleasure detonates in waves. Your cry echoes against the bathroom tiles, thighs clamping around his head while he groans into you, pumping and curling his finger just right inside you. His mouth still on your clit, licking you through it, slow and unhurried, savoring every twitch and pulse.

Your grip in his hair turns shaky, your body slumping back against the mirror as aftershocks roll through you. You’re wrecked, panting, dazed—and Yoongi finally pulls back, lips wet, chin slick, eyes dark and glowing all at once.

“Fuck,” he breathes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re gorgeous like this.”

You barely manage a whimper before his arms are sliding under you, lifting you off the counter like you weigh nothing. You bury your face against his shoulder, still trembling, as he carries you out of the bathroom.

Each step toward your bed feels surreal, dizzying. The sheets are cool against your back when he lowers you down, settling between your knees, his hands braced on either side of you like he’s caging you in.

He leans down, kissing you deep—mint, salt, and you—and you can taste yourself on his tongue. He doesn’t let you look away, doesn’t give you space to doubt.

“Round one,” he murmurs against your lips, voice low and hot on your skin. “Now let me ruin you properly.”

His mouth trails down your throat, across your collarbone, slow and chaste even as his hands are shaking with urgency. He kisses you as if he wants to memorize every inch of your skin before he dares take more.

Then he leans back, tugging his hoodie over his head. It falls to the floor in a heap, followed by his t-shirt, leaving him bare chested above you—lean muscle, pale skin, the rise and fall of his chest unsteady as he stares down at you.

“Your turn,” he murmurs, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt. He pauses, searching your face. “Can I?”

You nod, frantic. “Please.”

The shirt comes off, your bra following, and for a long moment he just… stares. His mouth parts, his chest heaves, and he shakes his head like he can’t believe this is real.

“Beautiful doesn’t even come close,” he says, voice raw, almost angry at the limitation of language. “Fuck. I wish I had a better word, but you—” He swallows hard. “You make me stupid.”

Heat floods your face, your chest, all the way down to your core. You reach for him, dragging his mouth back to yours, kissing him messy, urgent, because if he keeps looking at you like that, you’ll combust.

His sweats are loose at his hips, and your hand slips down, tugging at the waistband until you find him. Hard, hot, heavy in your palm. You wrap your fingers around him, pumping slow at first, and the moan he lets out into your mouth nearly undoes you.

God, he’s thick. Not the longest, but girthy, solid, filling your hand so completely you know the stretch is going to wreck you in the best way. You stroke him again, thumb swiping over the damp slit, and his hips jerk helplessly against your hand.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he groans, kissing you harder, tongue pushing deep like he can’t control himself. His whole body shudders above you as you pump him, and it makes your stomach twist with heat knowing you’re unraveling him this fast.

But then he breaks the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. “Stop—”

You freeze, eyes wide. “Did I—?”

“No,” he blurts, voice wrecked, hands gripping your hips like he’s holding on for dear life. “It’s not that. It’s—” He exhales shakily, eyes squeezed shut for a moment before he looks at you again, raw and unguarded. “This is too much. You’re too much. I’ve wanted this for so fucking long, and now it’s actually happening, and if you keep doing that—I’m not gonna last. Not the way I need to. Not the way you deserve.”

Your heart thuds, your chest tight. He’s not joking. He’s deadly serious, like the gravity of this moment is messing with his entire body.

Yoongi kisses you again, slower this time but with more passion. “Let me take it slow first. Let me make it last.”

For a moment, time itself slows down.

You’ve imagined this—fantasized about it in quiet, shameful corners of your mind—but nothing could have prepared you for the reality of Yoongi above you, stripped down and wrecked, telling you he’s waited for this as long as you have. It feels unreal. Like the universe pressed pause just so you could see him clearly: your best friend, the man who knows your darkest jokes and your softest silences, looking at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. You’re so in love with him it feels like your body can’t contain it. Every heartbeat is a reminder: you’ve waited for this. You’ve lived for this. And now it’s happening, right here, in his hands.

Yoongi’s mouth returns to yours, slow and languid, even as his hands tug at the last barrier between you. He peels his sweats and underwear down, dragging them over his hips without disconnecting the kiss. When he’s completely bare, he pulls back just enough to look at you beneath him—really look—and the sound he makes is guttural, torn straight from his chest.

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes dark, hungry, but shining with something more. “You’re… god, I don’t even have the words. You’re everything.”

Heat floods through you, your thighs pressing together instinctively. But he’s already there, easing them apart with gentle hands, sliding down the bed until he’s between them again. He kisses along your inner thigh, slow, worshiping your skin, then presses one finger inside you, careful but firm.

You gasp, back arching. He groans at the sound, eyes locked on your face as he works you open, sliding deep, curling just right until your hips jerk. “So tight,” he mutters, kissing your knee. “Need to get you ready for me.”

Another finger joins, stretching you more, and the pressure builds deliciously. You clutch at the sheets, moaning helplessly as he pumps them steady, scissoring you open while his thumb circles your clit. He watches you unravel, his lips parted, his breathing rough. “That’s it,” he whispers. “Open up for me. Let me feel you.”

When your thighs start trembling again, he pulls back, dragging his fingers out slowly, leaving you empty and whimpering. He’s already reaching into the pocket of his sweats, pulling a condom out and tearing it open with his teeth.

Your eyes widen. “You—?”

“Always prepared,” he rasps, rolling it down his cock with practiced hands. He catches your expression and gives a small, crooked smirk. “What? You think I didn’t come over here prepared after seeing you in that dress?”

And then he’s there—thick and hot and heavy in his fist, lining himself up against your entrance. He pauses, hovering over you, one hand cupping your jaw, his forehead pressing to yours. His voice is low, almost shaking. “This is it. Are you okay?”

Your body is already begging, already slick and open for him. You nod frantically. “Yes. Please, Yoongi. I need you.”

He exhales sharply, hips rolling forward, and you feel it—his cock pushing into you, slow, careful, stretching you inch by inch. Your jaw falls open, a broken cry spilling out as the stretch burns in the best possible way. He’s thick, filling you so completely you can barely breathe.

“Fuck,” he groans, head dropping against your shoulder, his voice raw. “You feel—shit—you feel so good.”

The stretch has your body clenching tight around him, every nerve alight. He’s the biggest you’ve ever had, not in length but in sheer girth, the kind of fullness that makes you dizzy, makes your thighs shake. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, your nails digging in as he bottoms out, burying himself fully inside you.

“Yoongi—oh my god—”

He holds still, chest heaving, giving you time to adjust. His lips find your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, peppering kisses like he can’t stop himself. “Tell me when,” he pants. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You shift, rolling your hips experimentally, and the shock of pleasure rips a moan out of you. “Now,” you whisper, desperate. “Move, please.”

He pulls back, slow, then thrusts in again, and the world tilts. The drag of his cock against your walls is overwhelming, toeing the line between pain and ecstasy, and you cling to him, panting his name.

“Fuck—” he grits out, thrusting again, harder this time, the rhythm building as he loses his control. “So tight, so perfect—been dreaming about this for so long. About you.”

Your heart lurches, tears stinging your eyes at the rawness in his voice. You kiss him hard, swallowing his moans, your body clenching around him with every deep, deliberate thrust.

He fucks you slow but rough, every push in like a confession, every pull out dragging another plea from your lips. His grip on your hips is bruising, his mouth a litany against your skin: beautiful, mine, always wanted you, fuck, I love the way you feel.

The world shrinks down to this—the stretch, the heat, the sound of his moans in your ear, the way he’s finally, finally inside you.

Yoongi thrusts into you again, slow and deep, and then suddenly pulls out, chest heaving. Before you can protest, his hands are on your hips, flipping you gently onto your stomach.

“Want to see you like this,” he mutters, voice rough, guiding you onto your hands and knees.

And then he’s pushing back inside, thick cock sliding into you from behind, and the angle makes you cry out, the stretch sharper, deeper. You drop your head forward, moaning his name as you rock your hips back into him.

“Yoongi—fuck, yes—”

His grip tightens, and he drives into you harder, each thrust making the headboard slam against the wall. The sound is obscene, wet and desperate, the slap of skin against skin echoing in your ears.

“Holy fuck,” he groans, and then he stops—just stops moving. His hands hold your hips while you keep grinding back on him, fucking yourself on his cock like you’ll die if you stop. The stretch is brutal, dizzying, but you don’t care—you need it, you need him.

And then his hand reaches around to find your clit. His middle finger makes contact with your bundle of nerves, drawing tight circles on you, and your whole body jolts back, forcing his cock even deeper as you cry out.

“Ahh! Yoongi—mmm—”

He watches you, totally entranced by your sounds alone. Then he rocks his hips—just a little—and he has you aching for more.

You whine, voice wrecked. “Want to ride you.”

He groans, ragged, and pulls out just long enough to shift. “Come on, then.”

He falls back against your headboard, sweat-damp hair clinging to his temples, cock hard and gleaming. You climb onto his lap, straddling him, and take him in hand, guiding him back to your entrance.

The second you sink down, both of you moan in unison—loud, broken, unrestrained. The angle is deeper like this, his cock spearing you open until you feel him in your gut.

“Oh my god,” you pant, nails digging into his shoulders. “So—so deep—”

He fists your hips, holding you steady, but it’s your body doing the work, bouncing on him, taking him in over and over as your tits sway with every movement. He leans forward, mouth hot and desperate against your chest, sucking a nipple into his mouth, tongue circling, teeth grazing.

You cry out, arching into it, and he switches to your other breast, leaving marks on your skin, kissing and sucking like he wants to brand you. Because he does.

Your body is on fire, every nerve ending alive. The words almost spill out—I love you, I love you, I love you—but you choke them down, terrified it’s too soon, terrified it will shatter this moment.

But the way he looks up at you as you ride him—eyes wide, blown, gazing at you like you’re his epiphany—almost gives him away. Like he’s holding back the same words. Like he’s already yours. And you both know it.

“Yoongi,” you gasp, hips bouncing faster, harder, chasing the edge.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he growls, head falling back against the wall, jaw clenched as he watches you take him. “You’re perfect—you’re fucking perfect—”

The coil in your belly snaps, and your orgasm crashes through you, violent and consuming. You scream his name, clenching tight around his cock, body shaking as you ride it out.

“Shit—” he groans, hips thrusting up into you desperately, chasing his own release. “Can’t—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You grip his hair, pulling his face against your chest as he unravels beneath you, spilling hot inside the condom with a guttural moan of your name. His whole body shudders, his cock pulsing inside you as he rides it out, holding you down on him like he can’t stand the thought of letting you go.

You collapse against him, both of you panting, trembling, sweat-slicked. His arms wrap around you, tight, like he’s gluing you to him.

And in the quiet that follows, the only sound your ragged breaths, you realize the truth you almost said out loud: you love him.

And maybe, just maybe, the way his lips press against your temple, lingering, passionate, means he feels the same.

But then—his hands shift. One trails down your spine, settling at your ass, squeezing lightly as if testing the weight of you. He groans low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your collarbone.

“Still so fucking tight,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Even after that.”

You jolt, still full of him, your body clenching reflexively around his cock where he’s still buried inside you. He hisses through his teeth, his grip on your hip tightening.

“Yoongi—” you gasp, shivering.

“Yeah,” he grits, forehead pressing to yours, breath hot on your lips. “You feel that? Can’t even move without—fuck.”

And just like that, the aftercare melts right back into heat.

You shift in his lap, rocking your hips the slightest bit, and his eyes roll back, a groan tearing out of him. “You’re insane,” he mutters, kissing you hard, teeth clashing, desperation bleeding into every stroke of his tongue.

“Can’t stop,” you pant against his mouth. “Don’t want to.”

He grabs your ass with both hands, grinding you down against him, his cock twitching inside you as if his body agrees. “Good,” he growls. “’Cause I’m not letting you off me yet.”

You moan into the kiss, your thighs trembling as you start moving again—slow, steady rolls of your hips that have him swearing, begging under his breath. His lips find your neck, sucking fresh marks into your skin, as if he needs to leave proof that this really happened, that you’re his now.

Every touch, every kiss feels like aftercare and hunger at once—his hands soothing over your back while his cock drags deep inside you, his mouth worshipping your skin while his teeth nip and claim. It’s overwhelming, addictive.

And as you ride him again, slower this time but no less intense, you realize you could live in this loop forever—heat and tenderness, hunger and care, his arms around you and his body inside you, the two of you unable to stop because stopping would mean admitting this isn’t a dream.

You keep moving until your thighs ache, until your chest is heaving and his hands are clutching you like he’ll die if you stop. He kisses you through it, messy and hot, every groan spilling into your mouth until finally your body gives up and collapses against his chest.

Yoongi doesn’t let you go. He rolls with you, easing both of you down until you’re sprawled across the sheets in a tangle of limbs, still connected, still pulsing with aftershocks. His hand drags lazy circles along your spine, his breath ragged against your temple.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters, voice rough with awe.

You laugh weakly into his chest, too exhausted to form words, your smile pressed against his damp skin. He tightens his arms around you in answer, burying his nose in your hair.

The room is quiet but charged, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, your bodies still humming. Every shift of your hips makes him groan, and every groan makes your pulse kick up again.

“You’re insatiable,” you murmur, teasing, though your voice is thin and shaky.

“Pot,” he mutters, squeezing your ass lightly, “meet kettle.”

You laugh again, softer this time, and let yourself melt into him. His hand drifts down to your hip, his thumb stroking absent patterns into your skin like he’s playing the piano.

It should feel like the aftercare part—gentle, winding down. But it doesn’t. Not really. Because beneath the laziness, beneath the sweat cooling on your skin, there’s still that ache, that pull. The knowledge that if either of you moved just right, it would start again.

You tilt your head, brushing your lips over his collarbone, and his body jerks, breath catching like the touch alone could get him hard.

Yeah. Insatiable doesn’t even begin to cover it.

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✨jjungkookii’s masterlist✨

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Namjoon is an old friend from college—the kind who pops in and out of your life like seasons, but always feels like home when he’s around. He’s in town for a few days, texts you last-minute with, “come out tonight, I’ve got people you should meet.”

You almost say no. It’s been a long week, and you’re not in the mood for new faces. But it’s Namjoon, and you’ve missed him, so you drag yourself out anyway.

The little get-together isn’t what you expect. Not a packed bar, not a fancy dinner. Just a corner booth in a half-empty lounge, dim lighting and a low playlist in the background. Namjoon waves you over, grinning, introducing you one by one to the friends crammed into the booth with him.

And then there’s Yoongi.

He doesn’t smile when your eyes meet. He barely looks up from his glass. But when Namjoon says your name, Yoongi repeats it under his breath like he’s testing it out, then gives you the faintest nod.

You slide into the booth across from him. Conversation flows easily with the others—Jimin’s brightness, Taehyung’s chaos, Jin’s effortless banter—but every so often, you catch Yoongi’s eyes on you. Not in a way that feels rude. More like he’s quietly assessing you, deciding if you’re worth the effort.

It isn’t until someone makes a dumb joke—something dark and a little twisted—that you instinctively add a one-liner of your own. The table goes silent for half a beat, surprised. And then Yoongi huffs out a laugh. A real one, quick and sharp, before he shakes his head and mutters, “finally, someone with decent humor.”

That’s it. The thread is tied.

For the rest of the night, you find yourself leaning into his side comments, his dry observations. He doesn’t say much, but when he does, it lands—and you volley it right back. The others notice, of course. Namjoon gives you a knowing look, like he planned this all along.

And by the end of the night, you and Yoongi are sharing a basket of fries across the table, comfortable in a silence that doesn’t feel awkward at all. When you leave, he doesn’t ask for your number. He just says, “you’ll be around again, right?” And somehow, you know you will.

After that first night, you figure it’s a one-off. You’ll catch Namjoon next time he’s in town, and Yoongi will stay in your memory as the guy with the sharp laugh and sharper humor.

Except—two days later, your phone buzzes.

A new group chat.

Namjoon: Squad expansion pack unlocked. Everybody say hi to [Y/N].

Taehyung: ooooh new friend

Jin: more people to roast me, great

Yoongi: …

Yoongi: who let her in here

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, smirking. You type back:

the bouncer at the booth last night liked me more than you, sorry.

And just like that, it’s on.

From then on, Yoongi isn’t just Namjoon’s friend—you start seeing him at every casual hang. Movie nights, random bar meet-ups, late-night drives when Taehyung insists everyone needs ice cream at 1 a.m. Somewhere in the shuffle, Yoongi stops feeling like “Namjoon’s brooding friend” and starts feeling like your favorite person to stand next to at parties.

You don’t notice it right away, but the others definitely do. The way you two end up sharing snacks. The way Yoongi actually texts back in the group chat if it’s you he’s answering. The way his humor sharpens whenever you’re around, like he’s performing for an audience of one.

It takes weeks before you realize: you’ve been texting Yoongi directly. No big moment, no “can I get your number”—just the natural bleed from group chat to late-night one-on-ones. Memes, song recs, dumb observations. A thread that winds tighter without either of you naming it.

And somehow, without noticing, Yoongi becomes the person you look for first when you walk into a room.

It doesn’t take long before you and Yoongi develop your own rhythm.

At first, it’s little things—dry commentary during group hangs, a quiet laugh shared while everyone else is too loud to notice. But soon, it becomes a whole thing. Inside jokes stitched together from throwaway comments, looks you can read without words.

Once, at a party, someone suggests a cheesy icebreaker game. You and Yoongi exchange a glance, already mocking it in your heads.

He leans closer, murmurs just for you:

“if I have to list two truths and a lie, I’m going with ‘I buried a body once’ as a truth.”

You snort into your drink, choking on laughter. When you wheeze out your own response—“make sure you don’t pick the basement, that one’s already mine”—Yoongi nearly spits out his beer.

Everyone else at the table just stares. Jungkook looks genuinely concerned. Jin mutters something about “what the hell is wrong with you two,” while Hoseok squints like he’s not sure if you’re kidding. You and Yoongi, meanwhile, are doubled over in the corner, entirely unbothered.

It becomes a pattern:

You’re the only one who laughs when Yoongi mutters his driest, darkest lines.

He’s the only one who notices when you deadpan something outrageous under your breath.

The others stop asking, eventually, because it’s your brand of humor—private, sharp-edged, and weirdly intimate.

In between the jokes, though, it’s softer things that stitch you together.

Falling asleep on his couch after a late-night hang, and waking to a blanket tossed over you.

Him sending you half-finished demos at 3 a.m., knowing you won’t judge.

You picking up takeout when you know he hasn’t eaten all day.

You become constants in each other’s lives—reliable without ever saying you would be. And maybe that’s why no one teases you about it; because for all the dark humor and the sharp laughs, everyone can see the gentleness underneath.

Of course, you don’t call it that. Neither of you do. It’s just friendship. Comfortable. Easy. Unshakable.

At least, until it isn’t.

It happens on a Saturday night, the kind of night that’s quietly become yours.

Most weekends end this way—takeout boxes on Yoongi’s coffee table, a movie playing half-forgotten in the background, you two tucked into opposite ends of the couch. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don’t. It doesn’t matter; the routine is what matters.

So when you casually say, “I can’t do next weekend—I think I’ve been asked on a date,” you don’t even look up from your carton of noodles. It’s offhand, thoughtless, like mentioning the weather.

But Yoongi hears it like a record scratch.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just sets down his chopsticks, leans back, stares at the TV like it suddenly got interesting. His pulse thuds in his ears, steady and unwelcome.

A date.

“Cool,” he says finally, voice low, flat enough you almost don’t notice it’s sharper than usual.

You glance at him, puzzled. “What?”

“Nothing,” he shrugs. “Have fun.”

You wait for him to make a joke, to say something snarky about your type or the guy probably being boring. That’s how it usually goes—you throw the ball, he bats it back. But this time, Yoongi doesn’t even lift his eyes from the screen.

The silence feels heavier than it should.

You don’t press, because Yoongi gets like this sometimes—quiet moods, long stretches of silence. You’ve never pushed too hard when he walls himself off.

But for Yoongi, it’s different. He’s sitting there, forcing himself to keep his expression neutral, to not let his hand tighten around the beer bottle in his lap. He knows it’s stupid. You’re not his. You’ve never been his. He has no claim to feel anything at all.

And yet, the thought of you smiling across a table at someone else makes his chest tighten in a way he absolutely does not want to look into right now.

When you finally lean back and sigh, half-smiling at him like nothing’s changed, Yoongi manages to nod, force out a faint smirk.

But later, when you leave, his apartment feels too quiet. And Yoongi realizes—for the first time—that the idea of losing your Saturdays hurts a lot more than he’s ready to admit.

You swipe a layer of mascara onto your lashes, blink at your reflection, and try not to think about how strange Yoongi has been all week.

Normally, Saturdays are yours. Movie nights, half-eaten takeout cartons, his sarcastic commentary muffled against the couch cushions. But tonight you’re in front of your mirror, curling iron still hot, lip gloss still tacky, because you told him you had a date.

The word had landed heavy between you, like a rock in a still pond. Yoongi hadn’t teased you, hadn’t grumbled about your taste, hadn’t even made a joke at your expense. Just that flat cool and nothing else. And that—not the date, not the guy—has been tugging at your thoughts ever since.

You smooth the hem of your dress and pause, because another memory presses forward, uninvited.

It’s from months ago. A night you weren’t even supposed to stay late, but the group hang bled into Yoongi’s apartment, and then bled into just the two of you, cross-legged on his floor with a half-empty bottle between you.

Yoongi doesn’t drink often—not enough to get loose, anyway. But that night, he let himself unravel just a little. Enough that the words spilled out softer, slower, like he’d been holding them back too long.

“You know…” He’d swirled the last inch of whiskey in his glass, eyes half-lidded, mouth quirking like he wasn’t sure if he should keep going. “…you’re… fuck. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever met.”

You laughed then, awkward, ready to brush it off. But Yoongi hadn’t let you.

“No, seriously. You don’t get it.” His gaze had been steady, almost too much to bear. “You bring… light. To people. To me. Like—you’re funny as hell, yeah, but it’s more than that. You make shit feel… less heavy. You make people feel lucky just by being around. Anyone would be blessed to have you in their life. And if they don’t see that? They’re idiots.”

The words had settled in your chest, glowing, impossible to forget. But you couldn’t answer. You just sat there, staring, memorizing the way his voice dipped low on lucky.

He smiled after, small and crooked, and took another sip like he hadn’t just turned your whole world upside down.

The next morning, when you teased him about it—“you get weirdly poetic when you’re drunk, Min Yoongi.” He’d blinked at you, blank-faced, and muttered, “don’t remember a thing.”

You’d laughed it off then. But now, pulling on your jacket and glancing at your phone, you wonder if maybe that’s why his silence stings so much.

Because even if he doesn’t remember saying it, you do.

And some stupid part of you wishes he meant it.

You find yourself at the restaurant. And you don’t even really want to be here.

His name is Daniel. Works in accounting two floors down from your office. Nice enough—clean shoes, polite smile, remembered to hold the door when you walked in. You only said yes to this date because he asked twice and because somewhere in the back of your head was Yoongi’s voice from months ago, telling you to put yourself out there. To let people see how “light” you are.

You thought Yoongi would be proud.

But twenty minutes into the date, you already know how this ends. Daniel talks about office politics like it’s a full-contact sport, and when he laughs at his own joke, it’s just… loud. Not sharp, not dry, not shared with a sly glance across a crowded room.

Not Yoongi.

You poke at your pasta, nodding at the right times while he continues talking, but your mind betrays you. Imagining what Yoongi would say about the way Daniel uses the word “synergy” three times in one awful story. How he’d smirk across the table, mutter something dark under his breath just for you, and you’d choke trying not to laugh too loud.

With Yoongi, there’d be inside jokes and banter, even in silence. With Daniel, it’s small talk and forced smiles. And you’re not really hitting it off.

By the time dessert comes, you’re already exhausted. You tell yourself, at least you tried. At least you showed up.

When you get home, you peel your makeup off in the bathroom, watching mascara smudge into raccoon eyes. Relief sinks into your bones when you pull on your favorite hoodie and curl up in bed.

The date wasn’t a disaster. But it wasn’t him.

Your phone buzzes. One name.

yoon: How was the date?

You stare at the screen. Wonder where he is right now. On his couch, knees tucked up, TV on low? Or stretched out in bed, thumb hovering over the keyboard the same way yours is?

You type:

you: it wasn’t… horrible.

Your thumb hesitates, then moves again. The truth itches under your skin until it spills out in the way only Yoongi will get:

you: next time I’ll just ask my Uber driver to drag me behind his car through traffic—probably less painful than sitting through another date like that.

There’s a pause. Then:

yoon: lmao

yoon: finally, some honesty

And just like that, the tightness in your chest eases. Because no matter how awful the night was, at least you get to end it with him.

Jin’s apartment is loud, the kind of loud that comes from seven different conversations stacked on top of each other. The coffee table is a graveyard of takeout boxes, Taehyung is half-off the armchair like he doesn’t understand gravity, and Jungkook is shoveling fried rice into his mouth like it’s a competition no one else signed up for.

You’re curled into one corner of the couch, drink in hand, Yoongi beside you with his usual air of disinterest. It’s comfortable, the background noise, until Jimin suddenly cuts through it.

“Hey—your birthday’s coming up, isn’t it?”

You blink, startled. “…How do you even know that?”

Taehyung chimes in, “Because I make it my business to know everyone’s birthdays.” He sits up, grinning. “And we’re throwing you a party.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it. “What? No. You’re not.”

Jin yells from the kitchen doorway, without missing a beat, “Yes, we are! I’ll bake the cake!”

Hoseok, from an armchair, “I’ll handle the playlist.”

Jungkook with his mouth full, “I’ll bring snacks.”

You hold up both hands, shaking your head. “Guys, seriously—don’t. I don’t want a party. It’s not a big deal.”

Taehyung gasps. “Not a big deal? It’s your birthday! That’s literally the definition of a big deal.”

The room hums with agreement. You try to smile, but your chest tightens. The idea of being the center of attention makes your skin prickle. “I’m fine with just… hanging out. Like we always do.”

Beside you, Yoongi doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes on you. The way he sees past the casual shrug, the way his gaze sharpens at the way your fingers worry the rim of your glass. He knows you’re tense—of course he does. He always does.

Jimin continues, “Nope, too late. We’re making this happen. We’ll invite everyone. Work friends, too.”

Your stomach drops. “That’s—no, you don’t have to—”

“What about that guy… Daniel, was it? Im sure he’d come.”

The name hangs heavy. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Yoongi’s shoulders go rigid, his thumb pausing against the armrest.

You force a laugh. “He’s… really not party material.”

Ever the ‘party-material-maker’, Taehyung reassures you: “Then we’ll vet him. If he’s boring, he’s out.”

Yoongi finally says something, voice low, snarky enough to offend. “Then half the people you invite won’t make the cut.”

The group bursts into laughter, but you hear the edge under his tone. You glance sideways—his expression is neutral, almost bored, but the tension in his jaw is undeniable.

You take a sip of your drink, trying to hide the heat rising in your chest. You told yourself you didn’t want a party. But now, with Yoongi sitting so close you can feel the shift in his mood, you can’t help wondering if what you really don’t want is him seeing you with anyone else there.

The laughter from Yoongi’s jab is still bouncing around the room when the bathroom door creaks open. Namjoon steps out, fanning the air behind him like he’s trying to chase away a demon.

“Do not,” he says, voice solemn, “go in there.”

A collective groan rolls through the room.

Jin throws his head back. “Again?”

Jungkook groans through a mouthful of rice. “Hyung, get your life together.”

Hoseok presses a hand to his chest, already laughing. “I told you not to eat the extra kimchi.”

Namjoon just lifts his hands in surrender. “I’m sparing you, trust me.”

The chaos bubbles up, Jimin clutching his stomach, Taehyung dramatically collapsing onto the armchair like he’s fainting from the stench. You laugh, shaking your head, but the sound catches in your throat when you feel the shift beside you.

Yoongi stretches an arm lazily across the back of the couch. Casual. Effortless. Like he’s done it a hundred times before. Except he hasn’t—not once in the year you’ve known him.

Your heart kicks against your ribs. The distance between his hand and your shoulder is nothing, barely inches, and suddenly you’re hyperaware of the space you’re taking up.

He leans just slightly toward you, voice pitched low enough to skim under the noise. “You really don’t want a party?”

You glance at him, caught off guard. “Not really.”

His eyes flick to your face, steady, unreadable. “Even with people who actually matter?”

The question knots in your chest. You swallow. “It’s not about that. I just… don’t like being the center of attention.”

Yoongi hums, quiet. “Fair. But it wouldn’t be the worst thing, you know. Letting people celebrate you.”

The words are gentle. Too gentle. For a second, it feels like the whole room fades—Taehyung whining dramatically about Febreze, Jin telling Namjoon he’s banned from kimchi forever—and all you can hear is Yoongi, sitting close enough that his warmth skims along your arm.

You manage a small smile. “You sound like drunk-you again. Semi-inspirational.”

That earns you the barest twitch of his lips. “Maybe sober-me means it too.”

The air shifts, heavier than it should be, and your breath catches before the moment’s swept away because Hoseok suddenly narrows his eyes at you and Yoongi.

“Look at these two,” he says, gesturing with his chopsticks. “Whole room of people and they’re having their own private conversation again.”

Taehyung perks up immediately. “It’s every hangout. Soulmates, clearly.”

Namjoon sighs and mutters under his breath, clearly feeling sorry for the teasing about to take place. “Here we go, again.”

Jin smirks from the kitchen doorway. “They’re so locked in, I’m surprised they even hear us.”

You roll your eyes, heat creeping up your neck. “We do not—”

“Yes, you do,” Jungkook cuts in, grinning around his drink. “Half the time you’re whispering and laughing and the rest of us are just sitting here like chopped liver.”

Yoongi doesn’t look at them. Doesn’t move his arm from the back of the couch, either. He just takes a slow sip from his glass, face unreadable.

But then Jimin, always the instigator, leans forward with a wicked smile. “You’re sitting close enough to kiss right now.”

Oh, he knows what he just did.

The room erupts with laughter, wolf-whistles and fake gagging sounds.

Your entire body ignites. Heat flares across your cheeks, your ears, all the way down your neck. You choke on your drink and duck your head, suddenly incapable of looking anywhere near Yoongi.

And still, Yoongi doesn’t move. Doesn’t laugh, doesn’t shrug them off, doesn’t roll his eyes the way he usually does.

But you feel it—a shift. A subtle double take, the weight of his gaze flicking toward you and then lingering, like he’s just realized something that doesn’t quite add up.

You don’t have to look to know he’s studying you, puzzled, maybe even a little thrown. Because you turned red. You.

And if you’re blushing like that… what does it mean?

The laughter from Jimin’s jab keeps bouncing around the room, Taehyung dramatically fanning himself like he just witnessed something scandalous.

“Save it for after the cake,” Jin calls from the kitchen, smirking as he disappears back to check the oven.

“Cake?” you echo, desperate for any subject change. “There’s no cake.”

“There will be,” Jin sing-songs.

Hoseok leans forward, grinning. “Bet Yoongi already has flavors picked out for you.”

That earns another round of oohs and whistles, the group loving the way your face heats even more.

“I do not,” Yoongi mutters, voice flat as stone. But his arm stays stretched casually along the back of the couch, and you swear you can feel the weight of his gaze still lingering on you even as the conversation shifts.

Jungkook slaps his thigh, cackling. “This is my favorite game. Tease them until one of them breaks.”

“I’ll give it a month before they admit it,” Jimin adds, wiggling his eyebrows. “Soulmates can only play dumb for so long.”

“Stop calling us that,” you groan, pressing your palms to your cheeks.

Taehyung gasps theatrically. “Oh my god, she didn’t deny it this time!”

The room explodes again, everyone talking at once—bets being made, exaggerated wedding toasts being shouted, Jungkook offering to DJ your “first dance.”

You bury your face in your drink, wishing the floor would open up and swallow—just you—whole. But out of the corner of your eye, you catch it: Yoongi’s lips twitch. Not a laugh, not really—but something close.

And though he doesn’t say a word, you can feel the undercurrent humming between you, sharper than it’s ever been.

But the chaos doesn’t really settle until Jin emerges from the kitchen with a dish towel over his shoulder and announces, “Alright, everybody out. I’ve got to work in the morning and you’re all too loud.”

Groans and protests ripple through the room, but one by one the boys start gathering their things. Hoseok is still humming an obnoxious melody about soulmates, Namjoon rubbing his temples as he walks to the door, Taehyung swears he’s bringing balloons to your “surprise-not-surprise” party, and Jimin smirks like he’s got ammo for the next week.

You stand, smoothing your shirt, trying to will the redness from your cheeks. Yoongi rises beside you, stretching lazily like none of this touched him at all.

But inside?

Inside, he knows the truth.

He’ll never admit it—not to them, not to you—but he doesn’t actually hate it when the group teases you both. He pretends to roll his eyes, pretends he’s annoyed, but secretly… secretly he loves it. Loves the way they say “soulmates” like it’s obvious, loves the way you fluster and stumble through denials.

Because maybe that’s what it would be like if you were his.

If he didn’t keep everything locked behind his ribs. If he could reach out and claim what he wants without losing the comfort of what you already are. The way the others laugh and tease—it’s the closest glimpse he’ll ever get at what life might look like if he was allowed to have you.

And so he lets them tease. Because dreaming is safer than losing you.

On the way out, your shoulders brush in the narrow doorway. Your sleeve skims his arm, and the static crackles all the way down to his fingertips. You look up, meeting his eyes for half a second before glancing away, flustered again.

Yoongi swallows hard, shoving his hands into his pockets. For a moment he doesn’t trust himself to speak, doesn’t trust the way the words might come out.

But when you turn to him at the door, pulling your jacket tighter around you, you give him that small smile—the one that always cuts through him—and say softly, “Goodnight, Yoongi.”

His throat works, tight, but he manages a low reply. “Night. Get home safe.”

You nod, slip out into the breezeway of Jin’s complex, and the sound of the door clicking shut behind you feels louder than it should.

Yoongi lingers there for a beat longer, staring at the space you just occupied. He needs to breathe for a second. He inhales deep, then exhales slow and quiet, and heads out into the night with one thought looping through his head.

If blushing means you like me… then maybe I’m already too far gone.

It’s Wednesday night when your phone buzzes. You’re curled up on your bed, laptop open but untouched, scrolling mindlessly until the notification flashes.

yoon: You figured out what you’re wearing yet?

You blink, reread it twice. Yoongi doesn’t usually care about that kind of thing.

you: For what?

yoon: …your birthday. The one Tae’s been yelling about all week.

you: Oh. That.

you: I’m not picking out anything special.

yoon: Why not.

you: Because it’s not that serious.

There’s a pause. You can almost see him on the other side of the screen, thumb hovering, brow furrowed like he’s trying to phrase something without giving too much away.

yoon: You should. Pick something that makes you feel good.

you: You sound like Hobi.

yoon: Hobi would tell you to wear sequins or some shit. I’m saying just… don’t downplay it.

Your chest tightens. He always sees it, the way you try to shrink yourself.

you: Are you seriously texting me about clothes right now?

yoon: Somebody has to. Don’t want you showing up in your office hoodie.

You bite back a smile, fingers tapping before you can stop yourself.

you: That hoodie is a classic.

yoon: It’s fucking tragic.

You laugh, low in your throat, and set the phone down for a second to breathe. It’s not much, just a string of texts about nothing. But the warmth in your chest lingers long after the screen goes dark.

The Birthday Party

Namjoon pulls up to the curb like your chauffeur, killing the engine and getting out to walk around and open the passenger door for you. He looks half amused, half resigned as you climb out, tugging at the hem of your dress.

“Just so you know,” he says, offering his arm with mock formality, “I briefed you in the car, but… I’m apologizing again in advance. Jimin and Tae went feral with this party.”

You laugh, slipping your hand into the crook of his elbow. “How bad can it be?”

The answer greets you the second your heels hit the red carpeted stairs.

It looks like New Year’s Eve collided with a music video shoot. Glittering lights spill down from the awning, a velvet rope corrals guests into the entrance, and inside the glass doors you can already see the crowd—everyone dressed to kill, champagne glasses flashing under the chandeliers.

Your jaw slackens. “This is… a birthday party?”

“Your birthday party,” Namjoon corrects, grimacing. “Tae literally said, ‘If she doesn’t walk in and feel like the hottest girl in Seoul, then what’s even the point.’”

You bite back a nervous laugh, tugging your dress down again. The dress you picked is short, tight, the kind of outfit your parents would faint over. But you’d looked in the mirror earlier and thought of Yoongi’s words—pick something that makes you feel good—and this was it. Bold, a little reckless, enough skin showing to make you feel powerful.

As you walk up the stairs, gripping Namjoon’s arm for balance, he leans down with a smirk.

“You know he’s gonna freak, right?”

Your stomach flips. You don’t even have to ask who. But you do anyway. “What?”

Namjoon chuckles, low. “I mean… he won’t show it. Not on his face. But internally? Yoongi’s gonna be strangling himself when he sees you in that dress, Y/N.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you turn your face toward the glittering doors before he can notice. You tell yourself he’s exaggerating, teasing like always. But the flutter in your chest won’t stop.

Because part of you wonders—maybe hopes—he’s right.

The second the doors open, sound swallows you whole. Music pumps from hidden speakers, bass rattling in your chest, laughter and voices layered so thick it’s dizzying. Chandeliers glitter overhead, catching on sequins and champagne glasses, and everywhere you look there are people—people you don’t know, people dressed like they’re waiting for the ball to drop in Times Square, people who definitely don’t belong at a party for you.

It’s too much. Too big. Exactly what Taehyung and Jimin would think is perfect.

You paste on a smile as Namjoon steers you through the crowd, murmuring greetings to familiar faces. But your eyes keep wandering, scanning, searching every corner. You don’t even realize how obvious it is—the way you’re subconsciously hunting for him. For Yoongi.

Your Yoongi.

Instead, you’re intercepted first by Hoseok, who comes practically skipping across the room, sequined jacket catching the light with every step. “Birthday girl!” He pulls you into a hug that smells like cologne and champagne, then holds you at arm’s length. His grin widens. “Damn, you look good.”

“Too good,” another voice chimes in, and Jungkook slides up with a glass in each hand. He passes one to Hoseok before adjusting the lapels of his sharp black suit like he knows he looks incredible. “Happy birthday, Y/N.”

You laugh, heat blooming in your cheeks as Jungkook tips his glass toward your dress in approval. “Wow. You two actually clean up nice.”

Hoseok gasps in mock offense, pressing a hand to his chest. “Excuse you—I always look good.”

Jungkook just smirks, boyish and smug. “But admit it. We’re killing it tonight.”

Hoseok grins, “Yeah, Y/N! You’re killin’ it, girl!”

You shake your head, laughing again, but your gaze is already drifting over their shoulders, past the glitter and noise, through the sea of strangers.

Still no sign of him. What the fuck.

And that unsettles you more than you want to admit.

Namjoon still hasn’t let go of your arm, playing the role of dutiful escort as he weaves you through the crowd of bodies toward a literal tower of champagne flutes stacked high like something out of a luxury gala.

How hard did Jimin and Tae go for this party?

You let out a breathless laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Not my idea,” Namjoon mutters, steering you into the line. “I told you—I’m just here as damage control.”

He plucks two glasses from the table and hands you one. The bubbles tickle your nose as you take a careful sip, the taste sharp and sweet on your tongue.

And then—

“Birthday girl!”

The greeting comes in stereo, Jimin’s high-pitched cheer layered with Taehyung’s deep drawl. They appear together like they rehearsed it, grins wide and eyes bright.

Jimin immediately pulls you into a hug, nearly sloshing champagne down both of your outfits. “Happy birthday, gorgeous!”

You hug him back, “Thank you, guys.”

“Look at you,” Taehyung adds, spinning you lightly by the wrist so he can take in your whole outfit. “Short, shiny, and scandalous. And honestly? Exactly what I envisioned.”

You laugh, cheeks heating, trying to tuck yourself back under Namjoon’s arm like a fucking shield. “This is… insane. All of this.”

“Insane in a good way,” Jimin insists, bouncing on his toes. “Tell me you love it!”

You look around—at the chandeliers, the glittering crowd, the champagne tower sparkling in the light—and your chest squeezes. It’s too much. But they did it for you. Because they care.

“I do,” you admit, soft and honest. “I love it. Thank you.”

Jimin beams. Taehyung wiggles his eyebrows. And for a moment, the noise of the party fades under the weight of how lucky you are to have them.

Still, as you take another sip of champagne, your eyes wander past their shoulders, scanning the crowd again. Looking for the one person who hasn’t shown up yet.

Where could he be? Is he even here? Why isn’t he with the guys?

You’re half-caught in your head and Taehyung’s theatrics when a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“There’s my birthday girl.”

Jin appears with a glass in hand, tailored blazer sharp enough to make him look like he owns the place. He leans down to press a quick kiss to the top of your head, then straightens and claps Namjoon on the shoulder. “Good to see you, Joon. Thanks for keeping her in one piece.”

Namjoon huffs a laugh. “Doing my best.”

Jin’s eyes drop to your dress, and he sighs the way only Jin can—long-suffering, dramatic, equal parts fond and exasperated. “This is what you wore?”

You flush, tugging at the hem. “Don’t start. It’s fine.”

“It’s your birthday, so I’ll allow it,” he says, lips twitching. “But if your parents ever see photos… I don’t know you.”

You laugh, shaking your head, but then the words tumble out before you can stop them. “Hey, have you seen Yoongi?”

Beside you, Namjoon tenses—so subtle anyone else would miss it, but you don’t. You feel it in the shift of his arm under your hand. Like he wasn’t expecting the question.

Jin’s smile falters just slightly. His eyes flick to Namjoon, then back to you, a worried crease forming between his brows. “Not yet,” he says after a beat. “But… don’t worry about him. Just keep enjoying your party, okay?”

Your stomach twists. The easy warmth of the moment curdles, a faint unease threading through it.

That was fucking weird.

The night spins forward in a blur.

You let Jimin and Taehyung drag you to the dance floor, Hoseok already in the center hyping the crowd like it’s a concert. Namjoon groans but still sways dutifully beside you, Jin waves a champagne flute overhead like he’s at a wedding, and Jungkook spins you until you nearly trip over your own heels.

It’s ridiculous. Chaotic. Too much. And yet, with your friends circling you in glitter and laughter, you feel lighter than you expected.

Then—a shiver down your spine. The sense of eyes on you.

You glance up, scanning past the lights, past the crowd. And then you see him.

Yoongi.

He’s on the second-floor balcony, leaning casually on the rail, a champagne flute hanging from one hand. His long dark hair curls around his face, catching in the glow of the chandelier, and his gaze is locked—glued—to you.

Your chest stutters. It feels like time itself stutters. The music, the noise, the laughter—it all dims under the weight of his stare.

And you smile. The biggest smile you’ve smiled all night, wide and uncontainable. Like gravity pulling you in one direction only.

Your smile is already lifting when something inside it snags.

Because you see him—and then you see her.

She’s half-turned toward him, shoulder angled into his space like she belongs there, a thin gold chain glinting at her throat. Close. Comfortable-close. The kind of close that says this isn’t the first minute they’ve been standing like that.

Yoongi is looking at you.

But he’s talking to her.

His mouth moves—something low, something easy—and she watches him like she’s used to the gravity he creates, like it doesn’t pull her apart the way it threatens to pull you apart right now. When she laughs, it’s a soft curve of sound you can’t hear over the bass, and his lips answer with the ghost of a smile.

He doesn’t look like he doesn’t want to be there.

Your stomach goes cold, then hot, then cold again.

Taehyung spins you by the wrist, oblivious. “Birthday girl! Stop zoning out, you’re killing my groove.”

You snap your gaze away from the balcony so fast your neck twinges. “I’m not zoning out.”

“Liar,” Jimin sings, popping up at your other side and fitting his palms to your shoulders from behind, swaying you on beat. “This is your party. Eyes on us, miss ma’am.”

“Yeah,” you say, too bright, too quick. “Eyes on you.”

You force your body to move. To laugh at something Jungkook says. To let Hoseok spin you out into a loop you nearly botch because your heels are not designed for this much enthusiasm. You let Jimin tilt your chin and quip about how you’re “glowing” and “devastating” and “a menace,” and you pretend the whole time that the top of your skull isn’t buzzing with the exact shape of the woman’s hand where it rests on the balcony rail, three inches from Yoongi’s wrist.

Ignore him. Ignore that.

The music surges, a chorus that rattles the floor, and you pour your attention into the only thing you can control: the way your head tips back when you laugh, the way your hips find the bass line, the way your dress catches the light like it’s armor.

Namjoon leans in at your ear, voice pitched under the noise. “You okay?”

You don’t hesitate. “Of course.” Your smile stretches just a little too tight. “It’s great.”

He studies you for a beat—he always has been annoyingly perceptive—but then he nods like he’s not going to pry here, not now. “If you need air, tug my sleeve.”

“I won’t,” you say, and you mean it like a challenge to yourself.

You don’t look back up at the balcony. You do not.

Except your body betrays you in small ways: the way your pulse stutters when the chandelier light shifts; the way your head tilts a fraction, as if lining up your peripheral vision with the stretch of the upper rail. You keep your focus fixed on Hoseok’s ridiculous body roll and Taehyung’s scandalized gasp at Jungkook’s footwork, and still you feel it—a prickling heat along your cheek like a spotlight.

He’s still looking.

You won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Shots,” Jimin declares, because he’s a menace and because the universe has a sense of humor. “It’s illegal not to do birthday shots.”

Before you can protest, a tray materializes—Hoseok works miracles—and you let them press a glass into your hand. Clear. Mean. The kind of burn that will either cauterize the jealousy or make it liquefy and pour out your eyes.

“To the hottest girl in Seoul,” Taehyung intones, scandalously sincere.

“To surviving Jimin’s planning,” Namjoon adds dryly.

“To sequins,” Hoseok declares, glittering under the lights.

“To,” Jungkook smirks, “telling anyone who flirts with you that they’re not on the guest list.”

“Please stop,” you groan, but your grin slips in anyway, helpless.

You fling your gaze straight at the bottom of the shot glass and tip it back. The burn is instant, bright, a clean white-out that blurs the edges of your thoughts. When it hits your stomach, the heat spreads. It helps.

“Again,” Jimin threatens.

“No,” Namjoon says, parental. “Later.”

“Traitor,” Jimin pouts, already winking at the bartender for later.

You move. Harder now. It’s easier to outrun a feeling than to look it in the face. You dance like you owe your body something, like you can sweat this out, like the bass can be a wall.

Someone bumps your shoulder in the crowd and murmurs an apology; someone else asks if you want a drink; a stranger in a too-tight shirt tries to sidle in closer until Jungkook simply appears, big-brothering him with a smile that’s all teeth. Your friends orbit you, constellation-steady, but even with all that, there’s a slice of cold aware in your ribs—because you can feel him, the way you can feel a storm before it breaks.

You do not look.

You laugh at something Jin says when he finally decides to return to the dance floor, his hand slicing through the air as he reenacts Namjoon banning kimchi, and you let that laughter sit bright on your mouth, weaponized. You’re fine. You’re glittering. You’re busy.

“Back in two,” you shout to nobody in particular, tapping your chest and miming a sip. You need water. The good kind—flat, unassuming. Something to anchor your mouth around that isn’t his name.

At the edge of the floor, the air thins a little. The bar is a line of elbows and straws and clinking glass, but the bartender spots your wave and slides you a highball of blessedly clear water like you’re a favorite regular. You take two grateful pulls and press the cold glass to the underside of your jaw.

“Happy birthday,” someone says at your left.

You turn your head. It’s the woman from the balcony.

Up close, she’s even more composed. Winged liner like a threat, lipstick that doesn’t dare smudge, a dress that looks like it was sewn on. She’s taller than you by a breath in her heels, and her perfume is a soft, expensive thing that settles around you like a verdict.

You find your manners where you dropped them. “Thank you.”

“Taehyung outdid himself,” she says, amused. Her gaze flicks over your shoulder, toward the floor, past it. Not calculating—cataloguing. “You look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” you answer, neutral, careful. “Enjoying the party?”

Her mouth tilts. “I am now.”

You take another drink of water to cover the sound your throat makes.

“I’m Sori,” she adds, offering her name like a business card.

You give her yours, because what else are you going to do? Pretend names don’t exist?

She nods, as if checking a box in her head. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Your heartbeat trips over itself. “From…?”

“From everyone,” she says lightly. “Small universe.”

You let out a sound that is not a laugh but would like to be when it grows up. “Yeah.”

Silence stitches between you, quick and neat. She doesn’t fill it. She just lets it sit there, poised, like she knows exactly how long to wait before it starts to itch.

“Yoongi mentioned the humor,” she says finally, as if she’s commenting on the weather. “He was right.”

The glass sweats against your palm. “He talks a lot for someone so quiet.”

“That’s the trick.” She lifts her own drink—champagne, of course—and tips it toward you, gaze steady. “Happy birthday.”

You clink without looking away. “Thanks.”

She leaves you there—mercifully—with her perfume and the ghost of her smile, threading back toward the stairs with an unhurried confidence that makes you want to kick something. She doesn’t have to look over her shoulder to know if he’s still where she left him. People like that never do.

You exhale hard, set the water down, and march yourself back into the heat of the dance floor like it’s a battlefield. Namjoon clocks your expression in a second and lifts a brow. You shake your head, a tiny, surgical movement. Later.

Jimin latches onto your hand and spins you again, yelling something about “chorus!” and “arms!” over the music, and you let him, because this is what you can control: the angle of your wrist, the slice of your smile, the decision to keep your eyes anywhere but up.

You feel Yoongi like static earlier; now it’s a low-voltage hum under your skin. You don’t have to see him to know he’s moved. You don’t have to look to know he’s closer.

You won’t look.

“Yo,” Jungkook shouts in your ear, breathless, grinning. “You’re on fire. Whoever breaks your heart is gonna die.”

“Bold of you to assume it’s breakable,” you throw back, dry, and Jungkook howls like you just body-slammed a line of defense.

Hoseok plants a feather-light kiss to your temple when he passes behind you. Jin shouts, “Shots later, water now,” like a dad. Taehyung declares that he’s stealing you for a “birthday twirl,” and you let him tug you three steps left, pivot, laugh, pivot again—

—and then you stop.

Because you know the shape of that stillness. It has a weight all its own.

You can feel him at the edge of your orbit before he says your name.

“Hey.”

It lands low, built for just you, a thread through the noise. You don’t turn for a full heartbeat. You finish the step you’re in, hand still in Taehyung’s, then you let go and face him because pretending to be oblivious in a three-foot radius is a different kind of embarrassing.

Yoongi stands there in a black suit that fits like a decision, hair ink-dark and loose around his face, the chandelier picking out lines of silver at his wrist and throat. The room could vanish and it would still feel too bright.

His eyes are on your mouth, then your dress, then your eyes, and he does not disguise the part where he has to swallow. The sound is swallowed by the bass, but you see it in the cut of his throat.

“Happy birthday,” he says.

Your smile is neat. Unbothered. “Thanks.”

A beat. You don’t ask why he’s late. You don’t ask who she is. You don’t ask anything. You’re not giving him that.

He studies your face like he’s trying to solve a song he’s heard a thousand times and can’t quite play.

“You look…” He searches for a word and discards five. “…good.”

“Yeah?” you say, and let your mouth tilt. “Must be the lighting.”

It lands and he almost smiles—almost—but something shadows his eyes when he realizes you’re not stepping into the usual rhythm, not handing him the joke and the soft landing. He shifts, just enough that your shoulders almost brush.

“You met Sori,” he says finally. Not a question.

You look over his shoulder at nothing at all. “She met me.”

“She’s—” He stops, tiny, and you watch him pick between truths. “—Jin’s friend.”

“Everyone’s friend tonight,” you say lightly. “You’re popular.”

His jaw flexes like he wants to bite the word in half before it gets to you. “It’s not like that.”

You lift your brows. “I didn’t say it was.”

Another beat. The bass thumps. Taehyung spins by with a finger-gun and zero chill. Jin is arguing with the bartender about cake plates. Jimin is mouthing, Tell him he’s hot, at you across three bodies because he wants to die.

Yoongi tilts his head, searching your face. “You’re mad.”

You laugh, genuine and bright and a little sharp. “It’s my birthday, Yoongi. I don’t have time to be mad.”

“Jealous, then,” he says quietly.

Your smile doesn’t change. “Of who?”

He flinches at that—not visibly, not for anyone else, but you feel it like a ripple under your feet. For a heartbeat his mouth opens like he’s going to say something he can’t unsay. Then he closes it, looks down, looks back.

“Dance with me,” he says.

You let the smallest silence bloom. You weigh everything inside it—his eyes, the ghost of the balcony, the woman’s perfume, your own stupid heart, the fact that all of your friends are absolutely watching this from the corners of their eyes and pretending they’re not.

You tip your chin toward the crowd, neutral as gravity. “I’m busy.”

It’s soft. It’s nothing. It hits him like a door.

He nods, once. Slow. Like he deserves it. Maybe he thinks he does.

“Okay,” he says, and steps back.

You turn away before your mouth can do something reckless. You catch Namjoon’s gaze over Hoseok’s shoulder, and he only inclines his head—once, commander-calm, we’ll talk later written in the lines of his mouth.

Jungkook reappears like a wall, grinning, hands up. “C’mon, birthday menace. Show me that murder footwork.”

You do. You move. You laugh too loud at something that isn’t funny and throw your arms up when the chorus hits and let Taehyung spin you until you’re dizzy. You let Jimin scream-sing into your ear and Hoseok beam like a lighthouse and Jin scold you for forgetting hydration. You pretend the entire time that you cannot feel the heat of a gaze trailing the edge of your orbit like a planet that refuses to admit it’s caught.

You don’t look back up at the balcony.

You don’t look when he disappears into the crowd.

You don’t look when, two songs later, the lights dim for cake and everyone howls your name and Jin marches forward with a confection so extra it probably has a birth certificate.

You breathe in. You breathe out. You lean into the noise and the sugar and the sparkler-bright chorus of voices.

You make a wish you refuse to name. And you keep your eyes closed a second longer than you need to, because for one more second, you don’t have to see who’s standing where when you open them.

The garden hits like a slap—cold air and the smell of damp earth, hedges trimmed within an inch of their lives, fairy lights strung in polite arcs that make everything look softer than it feels. The bass from inside is a heartbeat through the walls. Your own heartbeat is doing its own fucked-up drum solo.

Bench. Cold. Good. You drop onto it like you’ve been thrown, palms on either side of your thighs, eyes squinting up at a sky that refuses to stand still.

“Motherfucker,” you mutter to no one in particular, lips tingling where that stranger’s mouth was a minute ago. Did you say yes? You said “mmm.” That’s not yes. That’s… not words. Your stomach flips. You swallow it down with the aftertaste of liquor and sugar and something bitter you refuse to name.

Gravel crunches. Footsteps. Then:

“Y/N.”

Namjoon’s voice folds around your name like a blanket you didn’t ask for but kind of needed anyway. He steps into the spill of fairy lights, tie loosened, blazer open, worry etched neat between his brows.

“You shouldn’t be out here by yourself,” he says, already shrugging out of his jacket.

You try for breezy and land somewhere near winded. “I’m communing with nature.”

He drapes the jacket over your shoulders before you can protest. It’s warm from his body; you burrow without meaning to. “Why didn’t you come find me?”

You roll your head toward him, slow with the spin of the stars. “I didn’t want to cockblock your… whatever that was with the bartender about poetry.”

He huffs, half a laugh, mostly exhale. Then he crouches in front of you so you don’t have to chase his face with your eyes. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” you lie, perfectly, beautifully.

“Try again.”

“Some dude asked if he could kiss me,” you say, airy, like it was weather. “And I said ‘mmm.’ And then he kissed me.”

Namjoon’s jaw does a thing. “Where is he.”

“Relax, Kim Heights. He’s probably back in there telling his friends he blessed the birthday girl.” Your laugh scrapes your throat. “I’m fine.”

“Are you.”

“Yep.” You pop the p. “Just needed air. And fewer mouths.”

His eyes search your face—smudged lipstick, glitter on your cheekbone, the stubborn set of your mouth. “Do you want me to get him thrown out?”

You shake your head. Regret that decision immediately because the sky cartwheels. You catch the bench with both hands, breathe through it. “No bouncers. No scene. Please.”

He nods once, shifts, then reaches into his pocket and produces a small plastic bottle like he’s a magician. “Water.”

“Have you been hoarding hydration?”

“Jimin will over-serve you just to prove he can. I plan ahead.” He twists the cap and hands it to you. “Sip.”

You do. It’s blessedly cold, the kind of clean that slices through fog. You let it sit on your tongue before you swallow, like you can wash the taste of someone else’s decision out of your mouth.

Namjoon watches you drink, then tilts his head. “Jimin told you.”

“About?” You keep your eyes on the hedge line like it’s very interesting.

“Balcony? Sori?”

You shrug, small under his jacket. “He tells me lots of things.”

“Does it bother you?” he asks, gentle, like someone picking up a glass shard with two fingers.

You snort. “No. Why would it. It’s his life.”

“Right.”

You scrape your heel against the gravel, little crescent moons appearing where your shoe skids. “She has very sharp eyeliner,” you add, as if that’s neutral. “Could cut a man.”

Namjoon’s mouth twitches. “You’re allowed to be pissed.”

“I am allowed to be unbothered,” you counter, too fast. You tip the bottle back again. “Look at me. Unbothered.”

He lets the lie sit down beside you without challenging it. That’s the thing about Namjoon—he knows when to hold a mirror and when to cover it. He shifts from a crouch to sitting at your side, angled so you don’t have to move.

“You want to go home?” he asks after a beat. “I’ll get the car.”

Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with glitter or alcohol. “It’s my party.”

“And we can leave it,” he says, steady. “You don’t owe the room your body.”

You stare at the fairy lights until they double, then settle. “Maybe… in a minute.”

He nods, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, the picture of patience. The bass inside thrums through the soil; a night breeze lifts the hair at your temple, cools the heat at your throat.

Gravel again. Another set of footsteps. You don’t have to see him to know; your bones clock him like weather changing.

Yoongi stops at the mouth of the garden path, darkness and chandelier glow cutting him into edges. Black suit. Hands in his pockets like he doesn’t trust them. His eyes find you first, then flick to Namjoon’s jacket on your shoulders, then drop quick to your mouth. Something tightens, minute, in his face.

“Joon,” he says, a greeting that’s also a question.

“Hey,” Namjoon answers, just as neutral. Then he stands, a wall that’s also a door. “She needed air.”

Yoongi nods. His gaze tracks back to you, lingering like he’s bracing for impact. “You okay?”

You take your time answering. Lift the water bottle. Tip it like a toast. “Peachy.”

He absorbs the dryness without flinching. “You disappeared.”

“People do that when they’re magicians,” you say. “Or when they’re bored. Or when a stranger confuses a non-vowel sound for consent.”

Silence slices clean. Namjoon’s head whips toward you. Yoongi goes very, very still.

“Who,” Yoongi says. Not loud. Stripped.

“I handled it,” you reply, eyes on the hedge. “With my legs. I walked away. See? Fully functional.”

Yoongi’s jaw moves like he’s grinding a thought down to powder. “What did he look like.”

“Like a man I won’t think about again,” you say, flat. “Drop it.”

Namjoon lifts a hand, a quiet stall. “We’ll deal with it if you want us to.”

“I don’t,” you snap, and regret the snap, and let the sigh chase it out. “I don’t want this to be a thing. I want to sit on this cold bench and not be a headline at my own party.”

The men exchange a look. A whole conversation passes between them in the tightness around their mouths.

Namjoon inhales, decides something. “I’m getting the car,” he says, and when you open your mouth, he adds, “You can decide in sixty seconds if you’re getting in it. If you want to go back in, I’ll walk you. If you want to leave, I’ll drive. Either way, I’m retrieving it because the valet system here is a hellscape.”

You huff a laugh despite yourself. “Coward’s way of giving me an out.”

“Guilty.” He squeezes your shoulder over his jacket, a pressure that says I’ve got you either way. Then he steps past Yoongi, pauses just long enough to stare him down with brotherly menace, and disappears up the path.

The garden hums. Distant laughter. A bottle clinks somewhere inside. A moth flutters idiotically at a light.

Yoongi doesn’t sit. He steps closer, then stops like the air itself is a boundary he’s not sure he can cross. “You shouldn’t have to deal with that,” he says, low, like it’s a fact and not a feeling.

“Welcome to women,” you reply, dry. “We get party favors.”

His mouth twitches like he wants to be sick. “I’m—” He cuts off, jaw working. “I should’ve—”

“Been glued to my side all night?” You tilt your head, smile like a blade. “You seemed busy.”

He takes that hit, doesn’t try to dodge. “I was an idiot.”

“Cool,” you say, light. “Add it to the list.”

He finally moves, sits on the far end of the bench like he’s respecting a no-man’s-land only you can cross. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The fairy lights buzz faintly, a sound you’ve never noticed until now.

“I saw you on the balcony,” you say after a beat, because alcohol makes a coward brave and a brave person reckless. “Jimin says you went up there the second you got here.”

He exhales through his nose. “I did.” A beat. “I saw you first.”

You bark out a laugh. “Romantic. You saw me, then went the other way.”

“I panicked,” he says, honest in a way that makes your blood run hot and cold. “You looked—” He stops. Shakes his head. “I didn’t trust myself not to say something I can’t take back. Sori said hi on my way to the stairs. That’s all.”

You force yourself to ignore the way your heart flutters hearing the confession he quickly buried.

You stare at the gravel. A moth finally gives up on the light and flutters to the hedge. “She met me, too.”

His head snaps, eyes sharp. “What did she say.”

“That you talk about me,” you say, careful. You roll the cap of the water bottle between your fingers. “That I’m funny.”

He looks at the ground, then at you, like the angle might change the truth. “I do talk about you.”

Your laugh is softer this time, and it hates you for it. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what.”

“Don’t say shit like that when I’m drunk,” you murmur, tipping your head back against the bench slat. The stars blur into smeared city glow. “I’ll think it means something tomorrow.”

He goes quiet. Not empty—full. Brimming with all the words he keeps barricaded behind his teeth. When he speaks, it’s careful, like stepping across thin ice. “It means something tonight.”

Your throat works. You swallow, water useless against that kind of heat. “You’re late.”

“I know.”

“And you’re stupid.”

“I know.”

“And I’m not a back-up plan.”

His voice doesn’t waver. “You never were.”

You look at him then. Really look. The shadowed cut of his jaw. The suit that fits like he put it on to keep himself together. The way his hands are fisted in his pockets because if they weren’t, he’d be reaching.

“Namjoon’s gonna be back in, like, thirty seconds,” you say, because time is a thing you can hold when everything else slips. “He’s going to ask me if I want to leave.”

Yoongi nods once. “Do you?”

You let the question sit in the cold, let it fog, let it clear. You think of Sori’s perfume. Of a stranger’s mouth. Of the bench and the fairy lights and the way your name sounded when he said Hey in a room that was screaming.

“I want to not be in there,” you admit. “I don’t know what I want beyond that.”

“Okay,” he says, immediate, no argument threaded anywhere in it.

You look back at the path, the slice of light where the building breathes out party heat. “If I go,” you add, voice low, “I’m not doing it so you can play knight. I’m doing it because I don’t want to be watched while I figure out whether I’m allowed to be mad at you.”

His mouth tips, bruised at the edges. “You’re allowed.”

“Cool,” you say, eyes stinging with something you refuse to call anything. “I’m mad.”

Gravel again. Namjoon appears, keys raised like a flag. “Valet miracle,” he announces softly, taking in the scene with a general’s calm. “Car’s out front.”

He looks at you. Not at Yoongi. You.

“What’s the move, birthday girl?”

You breathe in. You breathe out. The bench is cold. The stars are still spinning, but slower now.

“I’m going home,” you say. “With Joon.”

A flicker crosses Yoongi’s face—pain, quickly leashed. He nods like it’s the only correct answer. “Text me when you’re safe.”

You slide Namjoon’s jacket tighter around you and stand. Your knees wobble; Namjoon is there without making a fuss of it. You take two steps, then pause, turn, and find Yoongi’s eyes in the half-light.

“Tomorrow,” you say, the word heavy as a promise you haven’t decided if you’ll keep. “Don’t be late.”

His exhale is almost a laugh, almost a prayer. “Okay.”

You turn and let Namjoon guide you up the path. Behind you, Yoongi sits very still on a bench that remembers your weight, fists his hands tighter in his pockets, and stares at the fairy lights until they buzz like a confession.

The night air is cool against your flushed skin, the thud of bass from the party muffled now, like it’s trapped inside a different universe. Namjoon keeps pace with you, his strides long and steady, his voice filling the quiet.

“…like, honestly, who needs three champagne towers? It’s not a wedding. And don’t get me started on the playlist—Taehyung thinks he’s a DJ but he only knows five songs. Five. Songs.” He huffs out a laugh, running a hand through his hair. “The bartender was cute, though. Kept quoting poetry at me when he poured—can you believe that? Like, Rilke over rum. Wild.”

You let him talk, words washing over you, but your mind isn’t with him.

It’s back in the garden.

On the bench.

On Yoongi.

You tell yourself you’re not mad—what right do you even have? He doesn’t owe you anything. He came, he mingled, he spent time with people. He was allowed to smile at someone else. Allowed to stand too close to someone else.

But it was your night. Your birthday.

And he wasn’t really with you.

He wasn’t at your side for the cake. He wasn’t laughing in the circle of friends when Jimin made you blush. He wasn’t with you when Jungkook spun you so hard you nearly fell. All the little pieces that were supposed to add up to tonight—the you-and-him pieces—he wasn’t in them.

And maybe that’s what hurts.

Because it feels like the night was supposed to be about you. But you’re walking away feeling like it wasn’t.

You blink, and suddenly the silver gleam of Namjoon’s car door is right in front of you. Three steps away. Namjoon is still talking, now about stanza breaks and the bartender’s dimples, and you realize you’ve barely heard a word.

“I need to go back.”

Namjoon stops dead, mid-sentence, brow furrowed. “What?”

“I need to go back.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “But you said you wanted to leave. You just said goodbye to everyone.”

Your stomach drops. You did? When? The thought slips through the fog of champagne and vodka like a knife—you don’t remember saying goodbye to your friends. You were too busy in your own head, running laps around the hollow ache in your chest.

“I need to tell him, Joon.”

Your voice cracks on the words, thin and begging.

Namjoon doesn’t ask who. Doesn’t need to. He’s known. He’s known since you bought Yoongi that guitar, since you remembered a birthday you never should’ve remembered, since you started saving your best one-liners for him and him alone.

But he shakes his head, steady, gentle. “Not tonight, Y/N. You need to go home and get in bed.”

The devastation crushes you in a sigh. Your throat burns. Your eyes prickle. “Namjoon—” your voice breaks again, and then the tears come hot, unbidden, “Please, I—”

“I know.” He cuts you off, but his tone is soft, like he’s carrying the weight for you. His eyes glint in the dim parking lot light. “You don’t have to tell me. I know.”

The words make your chest splinter. You want to say it anyway. Want to shout it out loud just to hear what it feels like leaving your mouth. But the look on Namjoon’s face tells you everything: save it. Save it for Yoongi.

You swallow hard, wipe at your cheeks with the back of your hand. “Maybe I can text him then?”

Namjoon exhales, long, patient. “If you do, you’ll regret it in the morning.”

“But—”

“No buts. Not like this. Not drunk, not half crying in a parking lot. You’ll hate yourself if those words land the wrong way.”

You sag against the car door, shoulders trembling under his jacket, phone heavy in your hand like it’s burning a hole straight through your palm.

And still, the ache won’t let go. Because the truth is there, heavy and undeniable:

You don’t want to go home.

You want to go back.

Back to the garden.

Back to him.

You wake up and your head is pounding, pounding, pounding—

Fuck, what time is it?

You glance at the alarm clock on your nightstand. 11:52 a.m.

You groan, ready to roll back into the abyss, when the pounding comes again. Not from your skull this time—from somewhere out in the living room.

Dragging yourself upright is an Olympic event. You crawl to the door, use the handle to haul yourself up, and silently thank the blackout curtains for saving you from spontaneous combustion. The apartment is dark, mercifully quiet—until you unlock the front door and crack it open.

Blinding light sears your eyes. You hiss, slapping a hand up to shield your face. “AGH—fuck.”

Blink, blink, blink. And then—

Yoongi.

He’s standing there, hair swept back casually, black hoodie, dark navy jeans, and somehow he looks so fucking hot your hungover brain considers dragging him inside and—wait. Why is he here?

“Can I help you?” Your words come out sharper than intended.

“Uh. I got your text. Thought you might need some water and stuff from the store.”

You blink again, this time at the plastic bags in his hands. Two of them, filled to the brim. Groceries. Supplies. Nourishment.

Text?

“I… texted you?” You step aside to let him in, then speed-walk back to your room, heart pounding harder than your head.

Your phone is right where you left it. You snatch it up and scroll.

You [9:48am]: might be dying. send me nourishment.

yoon [9:49am]: be there soon.

Your stomach sinks. Because you remember saying it out loud this morning. Into the void. To Siri. “Hey Siri, text Joon.” Not Yoon.

The universe, apparently, had other plans.

You shuffle back, sheepish, clutching your phone like it’s the smoking gun. “Ahh. My phone texted you on accident. Siri was supposed to text Joon. Not Yoon.”

He stares at you. Unreadable.

“Sorry, Yoongi.”

But he just shrugs, unbothered. “All good. I’m here now.”

And that’s the end of it, at least for him.

The grocery bags rustle as he sets them down on your counter like he’s done this a hundred times before. Bottled water, Gatorade, bananas, a loaf of bread, instant ramen, some kind of canned soup. Practical. Quietly thoughtful. So Yoongi it hurts.

You hover near the hallway like a feral animal half-ready to retreat. “You didn’t have to—”

“I know.” He doesn’t look up, just lines the bottles on your counter. “But you asked.”

Your throat tightens, because technically? No, you didn’t. Not him, anyway. But the evidence is glowing on your phone, timestamped, undeniable.

“Thanks,” you murmur, rubbing your temples.

He glances at you then—sharp, assessing—and points at your couch. “Sit.”

It’s not a suggestion.

You shuffle over, flopping onto the cushions with a groan. The pounding in your head has synchronized with your heartbeat, steady and merciless. Yoongi appears a moment later with a cold water bottle and two painkillers, pressing them into your hands without ceremony.

“Drink.”

You obey, swallowing around the lump in your throat, wincing when the pills scrape down. The water’s blissfully cold, shocking you back into your body.

Yoongi sits on the other end of the couch, angled toward you, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. Casual, except not at all—because his eyes never leave your face.

You shift under the weight of it. “You really didn’t have to come.”

His mouth quirks. Not quite a smile. “Guess I wanted to.”

The room is too quiet after that. Only the hum of your fridge, the faint city noise leaking through your blackout curtains. You fiddle with the bottle cap, unscrewing and rescrewing it, until the words tumble out before you can stop them:

“Sorry about last night.”

Yoongi’s brows twitch, but he doesn’t move. “What are you sorry for?”

You bite your lip, eyes darting away. “I don’t know. Being weird. Disappearing. Getting too drunk. Take your pick.”

He leans forward, forearms on his knees, finally breaking his stillness. His voice is low, deliberate. “You don’t have to apologize for any of that.”

You risk a glance, and it’s almost worse—the softness in his gaze, the way he looks at you like you’re something fragile he doesn’t know how to hold.

And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Because you don’t want to be fragile. You don’t want him to carry you like glass. You want to be wanted.

Your pulse hammers. You clear your throat. “Still… thanks. For showing up.”

“All good,” he says again, simple, final.

But he doesn’t leave. Doesn’t move. He just stays there, steady as ever, like he has all the time in the world to sit on your couch and wait for you to stop spinning.

You tip the water bottle back again, the plastic crackling against your palm. “The room’s not moving anymore,” you say, voice rough, “just… swaying.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “Means your stomach hates you a little less.”

He’s still angled toward you, one knee on the cushion, hoodie soft where his forearm brushes the back of the couch. From here he smells like detergent and whatever clean thing lives in the dark fabric of his clothes—cool, familiar, a scent your body recognizes faster than your head does.

“You brought a whole survival kit,” you add, nodding at the lined-up bottles and the bananas he peeled and then un-peeled because you said the stringy bits were “criminal.”

“You texted,” he answers like it’s math.

“I texted Joon,” you correct, then wince. “Apparently.”

“Lucky for you Siri can’t spell.”

“You’re annoying.”

His mouth twitches; he lets it die. “You okay?”

“Define okay.”

He watches you. Not the hungover kind of watch—no pity, no soft head tilt. He tracks your eyes, your mouth, the way your fingers worry the ridges of the bottle cap like you’re trying to sand yourself smooth.

“I should’ve been with you,” he says.

The sentence lands heavy and simple, no preamble, like he ripped a stitch so it wouldn’t fester.

You blink. “At the party.”

“Yeah.”

“You were there,” you say, because that’s the safe version.

“Not with you.”

It scrapes something raw. You chase it with water; it doesn’t help. “Why weren’t you?”

He drags a hand over his jaw, eyes dropping to the coffee table like he can line his thoughts up next to the Gatorades. “I walked in, saw you on the floor, and—” He exhales a quiet, stuttering laugh with no humor in it. “—my brain just… shorted. You looked—” His gaze flicks back to you, sticks for a second on your mouth. “—and I got stupid. I went upstairs to get it together and then people kept talking and—”

“And Sori said hi,” you say, neutral as a knife laid flat.

His throat works. “She said hi.”

Silence folds in around you. The clock on your microwave stutters out a soft electronic tick every minute; the apartment’s old pipes clink somewhere in the wall like they’re chewing on ice.

He leans in, forearms on his thighs now, voice low enough you feel it in your ribs. “I’m sorry I wasn’t where I should’ve been. I’m sorry you blew out candles without me next to you. I’m sorry you went outside alone. I should’ve been with you.”

You want to deflect—aim a joke at his chest and watch it bounce—but the way he says it pins you to the cushion. “Why say it now?”

“Because you asked me last night not to be late,” he answers, eyes steady. “And I don’t want to be late for this.”

“For what?” Your mouth is dry again. But you don’t reach for the water.

“For the part where I stop pretending this doesn’t matter,” he says, and the words are so bare you almost flinch. “You’re—” He swallows. “You’re my best friend.”

Your laugh comes out thin and mean to hide the way your pulse kicks. “Congratulations, you and Namjoon can share custody.”

He almost smiles. But he doesn’t. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “I hurt you yesterday.”

You look at the floor, the gray weave of the rug you bought on sale because the reviews said it hid red wine. “I hate that you can tell.”

“I hate that I gave you a reason.”

Something loosens in your chest and tightens at the same time. “Then don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.”

“You say that like you can control the future. Like it’s easy.”

“It’s not.”

You sit with that and so does he. The fridge hums in the kitchen, a car door thunks somewhere on the street. You can feel the apology vibrating in him, the unsaid parts pressing hard against the back of his teeth.

Your phone, abandoned face-down on the coffee table, gives a useless little buzz of an insignificant notification. His, tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie, is quiet.

“You know,” you say, softer now, “I didn’t even want a party.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But the one thing I did want was…” You stop yourself, throat hot, eyes stinging. Feeling a little ridiculous right now.

“Me there,” he finishes, no triumph in it, only truth.

You meet his eyes and hate that they’re careful. “Yeah. That’s what I was looking forward to. And where were you?”

He shakes his head, slow. “Not there.”

“Then say it again. Properly this time,” you push, because you want to hear him choose it twice. “What you’re sorry for.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t with you,” he says, steady. “I’m sorry I let the party swallow me when I should’ve found you. I’m sorry that I made you wonder if you mattered more than the people I was with.”

Your living room holds the words like they might break if it breathes too hard.

You drag a fingertip along the sweating ridge of your water bottle. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“It’s a start.”

His shoulders drop a fraction, tension leaking out like air from a pinhole. “I’ll take a start.”

“Hey! Don’t get cocky.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

You’re about to say something reckless and small and yours—something about how you would have let him hold the sparkler while you made your wish—when a low vibration murmurs against denim.

He glances down. The sound is so quiet it could be the building creaking, but you feel the shift in his focus like a draft under a door. He fishes his phone out, checks the screen with that same careful face he wears when he listens to a half-finished demo.

He hits decline.

The buzz dies.

You watch his thumb hover a second too long over the glass, as if his finger can erase a name. He tucks the phone back into his pocket, looks up at you, opens his mouth—

The phone vibrates again. Louder now, insistent, trapped in fabric. He doesn’t move at first, like not acknowledging it might starve it of oxygen. It keeps ringing, patient and relentless.

“Do you need to get that?” you ask, voice very calm, like you’re asking if he needs a coaster.

“No,” he says, just as calm.

The ring keeps threading between you.

“Who is it?” You tip your head, trying for breezy, landing on brittle.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Humor me.”

He shakes his head, jaw tight. The buzz goes on, familiar rhythm looping, and something inside you decides it’s done being polite. You reach forward, fingers wrapping around his wrist where the cuff of his hoodie meets warm skin.

“Let me see.”

He stills. Not resisting—shocked still. The privacy reflex hits late; you’ve already slid your hand down, already dipped your fingers into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie like you own the right, already brushed knuckles to glass.

The screen flares up against your palm.

It’s only four letters. White text, black background, neat little vibration under your hand like the phone itself is smug about it.

Sori.

You don’t even really know her. Didn’t know she existed until last night. Don’t know if she’s an old friend, a new one, or just a passing shadow to Yoongi. You don’t know if she’s someone who laughs at his sarcasm the way you do, if she knows the way his voice drops when he’s serious, if she’s ever had him smile at her the way he smiles at you like you’re his.

But you know this: the second you see her name, your stomach twists sharp and painfully mean.

It’s nausea, hot and cold at once, like you’ve swallowed something that doesn’t belong in your body. It coils low, climbs high, catches at the back of your throat. Your pulse stutters, and suddenly the whole room feels too small, too loud—even though it’s just you, him, the hum of the fridge.

Why should it matter? He can have friends. He can have whoever-the-hell Sori is. You’re not his girlfriend. You’re not his anything. You don’t get to have a say.

And still—you hate it. Hate the way her name looks lit up in his pocket. Hate the way it rang twice, like she knew he’d ignore her once and was ready for round two. Hate the way your hand trembled when you pulled it out, like you were already bracing for the blow.

It’s pathetic, you think. It’s not even her. It’s the not-knowing.

Where she came from. Why she knows him. How close they are. If she knew him before you did.

That last thought lands like a sucker punch. You swallow hard against the bile.

You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t—

“Y/N.”

His voice cuts through your thoughts. Low and so careful.

You look up, and he’s already watching you. Watching the exact way your jaw tightens, the exact way your fingers still press against his wrist like you forgot to let go.

He sees it all.

And the worst part? You see him see it. The flicker of realization in his eyes, quick and sharp, like a spark hitting kindling. He knows.

He knows you’re jealous.

Yoongi tilts his head, still caught under your fingers where they’ve wrapped around his wrist. His mouth curves, faint, the kind of smirk that says he’s decided not to let the silence swallow you whole.

“So,” he says, slow, amused, “we’re just grabbing people’s phones now? That a new birthday tradition or…?”

You blink, throat tight. “I wasn’t grabbing, I was—” You stop. Heat crawls up your neck. “—I don’t know what I was.”

“Investigating?” His smirk deepens, but his voice softens with it. “That’s bold. Didn’t peg you for the jealous type.”

The word hits too close. Your stomach flips. “I’m not jealous.”

“Mm.” He leans back, wrist still loose in your hold, like he’s giving you the chance to let go and not making a big deal out of the fact that you don’t. “Sure. Totally. That’s why you look like you’re about to fight Siri for connecting Sori’s call.”

Her name on his lips does something ugly to your insides and you suddenly feel like throwing up again. 

You groan and drop his wrist like it burns all the sudden. “Shut up.”

He chuckles, low and warm, no sting in it. “I mean, you didn’t even ask who she was before you went full detective. Kind of flattering, actually.”

Your chest squeezes. “It’s not—” You rub your temples, voice wobbling at the edges. “I just… I don’t even know who she is, Yoongi. I don’t know how you know her, or if you knew her before, or if she’s—” You bite the words off, sharp. “It doesn’t matter.”

His smirk eases, eyes steady on yours now. “You really want to know?”

You freeze. The question hangs there, heavy, tempting, terrifying.

“…No,” you say finally, lying through your teeth. “I don’t care.”

Yoongi hums, like he hears the truth tucked under the denial. Not pressing, not pushing—just sitting with it. Then he leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, voice dipping quiet.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, simple, sincere, “you’re the one I’d have rather been with last night. Not her. You.”

Your throat works, traitorous. You want to laugh it off, toss the line back, make it light. But the words sit heavy, glowing, and you can’t quite find the air to move them.

So instead, you look down at your lap, tugging at a loose thread on your blanket, and mutter the safest thing you can manage.

“You’re annoying.”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling now. “But I’m your annoying.”

You half-smile, acknowledging his words that make your heart flutter more than they should.

He looks down at his lap before finding your eyes again. “And you have nothing to worry about.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “What does that even mean.”

“It means,” he says, confident and steady, “I could never replace you. If that’s why you’re… jealous.”

Your chest goes tight. “I’m not worried about being replaced,” you shoot back, too fast. “I’m worried about—”

You hear yourself hit the edge and slam on the brakes. No. Not like this. Not with last night still in your throat, not with someone else’s name still buzzing in his pocket.

“Worried about?” he asks, softer now. Patient, like he’s learned your tells and is offering you a way down.

You take a breath that doesn’t go anywhere. Then the words arrive all at once, tripping over each other like they’ve been queued for hours.

“Look. I don’t care if you’re having fun and going on dates or fucking around and just looking for casual sex.” Your voice is too bright, too sharp. “But last night I was super fucking annoyed that all your attention was on someone I don’t even know and never even heard of, when I wanted to be having the time of my life with you. You. My hot best friend. The one person I could joke with about that horribly fantastic party. But you weren’t there. And I know you said sorry, and I guess I forgive you, but I’ll be hurt for a little bit, but my point is… I wore that dress for—”

BZZ-ZZZZ.

You flinch like the sound touched your skin. His phone rattles in his hoodie pocket again, insistently, as if the universe just cannot help itself.

You’re halfway to smacking it out of him when you see his face.

He’s looking at you like you just said something holy by accident. Like you hung the moon and he’s been figuring out how to thank you ever since. Warm, startled, wrecked all at once. It’s not a look you’ve ever seen him aim at anyone else.

BZZ. BZZ.

He doesn’t even glance down this time. He reaches into his pocket without breaking eye contact, pulls the phone out, hits decline, and sets it face-down on your coffee table like he’s putting a lid on a pot before it boils over.

Silence spreads, thin and shimmering.

“You wore the dress for who,” he says, voice low, as if he’s afraid of scaring the truth back into its hole.

“For—” The word tangles. You swallow, hate the quake in your throat. “For feeling good,” you say, cowardly. Then quieter: “For… me.”

His mouth twitches—there and gone. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and searches your face like it’s the only sheet of music he knows how to read.

“I didn’t give Sori my attention,” he says, measured. “I stood upstairs because I panicked. She said hi because Jin dragged her over. I nodded through a conversation I didn’t hear because every time you laughed, it was like the floor moved. Nothing happened. I left the balcony because I couldn’t stay one more second where I couldn’t touch you.”

Your pulse stumbles, catches, sprints. “You didn’t touch me downstairs either.”

“I tried,” he says, winces at himself, corrects quietly, “I asked. You said you were busy. You were right to say it.”

“I was mad,” you admit. It feels like handing him your throat. “I wanted you next to me and you weren’t. Then there was this… person. This name. And I—” Your voice roughens. “I hated not knowing if you were choosing her over me.”

His eyes soften like that’s the one hit that lands. “I wasn’t choosing anyone over you.” He taps a knuckle against the table, once, a valve for something hotter. “Sori is… Jin’s friend. She works A&R. Last night she wanted to talk about a feature for an artist. I told her no. Twice.”

“But she’s calling,” you say, because the facts are stacked on the table blinking up at you in bold font.

He drags a hand over his jaw. “She’s calling because I texted her at 2 a.m. to give her my number because Jin told me to.” A brief, humorless laugh. “She told me I was insane for texting her so late. Then she said happy birthday to you. Then she left her coat upstairs and thinks I can magic it out of the very locked building.”

“Oh.” The word is light; the drop in your stomach is not. “That’s… anticlimactic.”

“I’m sorry it isn’t salacious enough for your spiral,” he murmurs. “Want me to pretend I eloped?”

“Don’t tempt me. I’ll plan the reception out of spite.”

He smiles properly this time. Small. Real. Then it fades, not because it’s gone but because he’s turning the volume down to say the rest.

“You said you don’t care if I’m dating,” he says. “I’m not.”

“That’s a convenient coincidence.”

“It’s an inconvenient truth,” he replies, and if he were anyone else he’d be grinning at his own line. He isn’t. He’s looking at you like the next choice will rearrange the room.

Your heartbeat is a clumsy thing in your chest. “So what am I worried about, Yoongi?”

He tips his head, patient. “You tell me.”

You stare at him. At the hoodie you’ve seen a hundred times, the one you’ve stolen twice. At the hands he keeps hiding from the space between you like they might give him away. At the mouth that has laughed with you, cut with you, said things drunk that sober-you memorized and buried.

“I was worried,” you say, each word picked out like it’s lying under glass, “that I was the only one who felt… how I feel. And if I say it out loud, and I am the only one, I won’t get to have the part I already have.”

He inhales, slow, the kind of breath you take before you step onto thin ice. “The part where we’re… us.”

“Yeah.”

“And if you weren’t the only one?” he asks, so gentle you want to shake him.

“Then I’m still mad about last night,” you say, because your brain is a wild animal that insists on bargaining even with the door cracked open. “But maybe not… terrified.”

His gaze flicks, quick, to your mouth and back. “You wore the dress for me.”

It isn’t a question this time. It’s a mercy.

You let your eyes drop to your hands, the faint half-moons your nails pressed in your palm. “I wore it hoping you’d look at me and—” You bite down on the rest. Enough honesty for one breath.

“I looked,” he says. “I haven’t stopped.”

BZZ-ZZZZ.

The phone on the table makes a valiant attempt at resurrecting itself, skittering once against the wood. You glance at it, then back at him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink.

“Let it ring,” he says softly. “Please.”

You do. For once you let something that isn’t him wait.

He shifts closer, not enough to crowd, enough that his knee brushes the cushion seam next to your thigh. The hoodie smells like detergent and something that’s just him; your stupid body registers all of it like facts it’s been starving for.

“Say the rest,” he asks. “The part after ‘I wore that dress for—’”

You breathe out a laugh that’s almost a sob. “God, you’re greedy.”

“I learned from the best.”

You look at him, and it’s like the party, the garden, the bench, the whole world has been a long hallway pointing here.

“For you,” you say. Quiet. True. “I wore it for you.”

His eyes close for a second like the sentence hits bone.

When he opens them, there’s nothing careful left.

“Come here,” he says.

You move first—not because he told you to, but because the space between you has been lying this whole time. You shift across the cushion, knees knocking, and his hand comes up like gravity to your jaw, thumb gentle at the corner of your mouth where last night smudged something you didn’t want.

He pauses, searches your face for a no you aren’t giving.

“Yoongi,” you warn, a wry smile trying to save you both and failing. “If you ask me if this is okay I might combust.”

He huffs a laugh that’s more breath than sound. “Then save us both.”

You do.

And when your lips touch, it’s not fireworks. It’s not a car crash. It’s the simple, devastating relief of something finding its right place. He kisses you like he’s been waiting at a red light for a year and it finally turned green—he’s careful, then not, then careful again because he knows the shape of your edges. Your hand fists in the front of his hoodie. His fingers slide into your hair like they were always meant to be there.

The room doesn’t sway anymore. It stills.

When you pull back, barely, it’s only to breathe his name against his mouth and see the way it lands. He’s smiling, small and rueful and respectful in a way that makes your ribs ache.

“I’m still mad,” you whisper, because some small, stubborn part of you needs to plant a flag.

“I’ll earn my way out,” he murmurs. “Stay mad. Stay.”

“I planned to.” Your forehead tips to his. “For a long time, actually.”

BZZ. BZZ. BZZ. BZZ.

You both glance at the table like you’re looking at a mosquito that thought it was a hawk. Yoongi reaches out without looking, flips the phone over with two fingers, and finally silences it.

“I’ll block her later,” he says, almost amused. “Tell her Jin has her coat but she has the wrong number.”

“Please do not drag the coat into your lies.”

“It’s not a lie.” He kisses you once, quick and devastating. “I’ll change my number.”

You snort, breathless, and he grins against your mouth like he just solved something complicated. The headache behind your eyes is a faint pressure now, not a drum. Your stomach is quiet. The buzzing is gone.

“Yoongi,” you say, and he hums, thumb tracing the hinge of your jaw like he’s afraid you might vanish if he stops touching you. “I want to be stupid with you for a while.”

“Good,” he says, like he’s been waiting for someone to hand him permission to breathe. “I’m great at stupid.”

“Prove it.”

He leans back just enough to look at you, really look, and the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes go soft. “I’ll start by making you soup and holding your hair if you throw up.”

“Hot.”

“And then I’ll spend the rest of the day telling you every version of ‘nothing happened’ until even your jealousy gets bored and falls asleep.”

“Ambitious.”

He kisses your temple. “And after you nap, I’m going to apologize again for last night. Better. With sentences that aren’t trash. Then I’m going to ask you if I can take you on a date that doesn’t end with you wanting to fight Siri in the street.”

You blink. That word sits different now. Not heavy. Possible.

“And if I say yes?”

He smiles, quiet, certain. “Then I’ll try not to be late.”

You search his face for a loophole you can hide in. You don’t find one. “Okay,” you say. “Okay.”

He exhales like a man who’s been underwater and finally broke the surface.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, and you do, tucking yourself into the corner of the couch with him like it’s been waiting for this exact geometry. His hoodie is soft under your cheek. His heartbeat is stupid and steady against your ear. The city hums. Somewhere in your kitchen, a Gatorade bottle sweats itself into a little ring on the counter.

When your phone buzzes on the table, it’s a text from Namjoon.

Joon: alive?

You smile into cotton and type with one hand.

you: yeah

you: soup incoming

you: don’t worry about the coat

Three dots. Then:

Joon: …what coat

You huff a laugh you didn’t know you had left. Yoongi doesn’t ask what’s funny. He already knows. He just kisses the top of your head like he intends to make a habit of it.

“Tomorrow,” you murmur, eyes already slipping shut despite yourself, “don’t be late.”

“I won’t,” he says, and the way he says it makes your body believe him before your brain does.

The phone on the table stays quiet. The soup pot waits. The dress is hanging somewhere in the dark of your closet like a witness.

You think about the way he looked at you before he kissed you, like the moon finally turned around and noticed who’d been holding it up.

And you reckon no one has ever looked at you that way before.

The soup tasted better than it should’ve.

Maybe it was because you were hungover and half-dead, maybe it was because Yoongi had leaned against your counter in that hoodie, scowling at the recipe on his phone like broth was a personal enemy, maybe it was because he kept sliding glances at you like he couldn’t believe you were really there.

Whatever the reason, you ate it. Slowly, gratefully. He made you drink water in between bites, muttered something about “keeping electrolytes up” like he wasn’t the one who showed up with a bag of bananas and Gatorade in the first place.

You laughed at him. He kissed you quiet.

Later, you curled up on the couch with a blanket big enough for two, his arm slung heavy and sure around you. Movies played half-forgotten in the background, your head on his chest, his thumb tracing idle circles against your arm. The kisses came soft and unhurried, the kind you could fall asleep in.

At some point, you must’ve.

Because when you open your eyes again, it’s morning.

Your room is flooded with pale light that slips past the blackout curtains, painting everything in soft gray. Your head doesn’t hurt anymore; your body feels loose, weightless. For half a second you let yourself drift, float in the warmth cocooned around you—until you realize that warmth isn’t the blanket.

It’s him.

Yoongi is behind you, his chest pressed firm against your back, his breath slow at your nape. His arm is heavy over your waist, tucked under your shirt just enough to graze bare skin. And when you shift, careful, testing—

Oh.

Your ass fits right up against his front.

Every nerve ending in your body lights up like fireworks.

You freeze. Absolutely still. Wide awake now in a way that feels criminal. Your brain, traitorous, starts cataloguing everything at once: the heat of him pressed along your spine, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the solid weight against your hip that tells you exactly how real this is.

Shit.

Slowly—so slowly—you breathe in. Out. You try to convince yourself you can relax, that it doesn’t mean anything, that this is just what happens when two people fall asleep in the same bed. Gravity. Logistics. Biology.

But then his fingers twitch at your waist. Just the barest curl, like even in sleep his body knows it wants you closer.

And you realize: you’re not going back to sleep. Not like this.

Your heart is in your throat, your pulse hammering loud enough you’re afraid it’ll wake him. You tell yourself not to move. You tell yourself you can stay perfectly still until he wakes up first. You tell yourself—

Then his breath shifts, deeper, warmer, nosing the back of your neck.

Oh, fuck.

“Yoongi…” you whisper, so quiet you’re not even sure you meant for him to hear it.

He stirs, the smallest sound in his throat, voice thick with sleep. “Mm. Still dreaming.”

Your chest tightens. “Of what?”

He shifts, breath warm against your neck, words barely brushing your skin. “You. Always you.”

The confession hits you harder than his body pressed against yours. Your pulse spikes, your body aching with the knowledge of how close he is—how hard he is—and how much you want him.

You twist carefully in his hold until you’re facing him, and he looks wrecked in the soft light—hair a mess, lashes heavy, lips parted. Beautiful. Real. Yours.

Your hand finds the fabric of his hoodie, clinging. “We should…” you murmur, breathless, “brush our teeth first.”

That earns the faintest crook of his mouth, still half-asleep. “Practical.”

You slip out of bed on wobbly legs, padding toward the bathroom. He follows a moment later, dragging a hand through his hair, hoodie slouched off one shoulder cause he couldn’t be bothered to fix it.

The two of you stand at the sink, shoulders brushing, toothbrushes moving in quiet sync. He’s always had an extra toothbrush at your place. It should feel ordinary, domestic. Instead, the air between you hums, electric, sharp with what you’re not saying.

When you spit and rinse, lifting your gaze to the mirror, you catch him watching you—awake now, eyes dark and unflinching.

You set your toothbrush down, breath caught. “Yoongi—”

But he closes the space before you can finish, hand cradling your jaw as his mouth finds yours, cool mint still fresh on his tongue, and suddenly you’re gone—burning, melting, needing him like air.

It’s not the soft, careful kiss from last night—it’s greedy, impatient, like he’s been holding his breath for years and finally decided to inhale.

You gasp, hands fisting in his hoodie, and he uses that tiny opening to lick into you, tongue sliding against yours until you’re dizzy. The counter digs into the backs of your thighs before you even register he’s moved you, his hands braced firm at your hips, lifting, setting you down on the cold marble like it’s nothing.

The world tilts, and then it doesn’t matter—because Yoongi is standing between your knees, kissing you like the end of everything. Hard. Hot. Like if he stops, the whole world will collapse.

Your fingers claw into his hair, tugging, desperate. He groans into your mouth, the sound low and wrecked, vibrating straight through you.

You break for air only long enough to see him—lips red, pupils blown, hoodie collar bunched in your fists. His forehead tips against yours, breaths ragged. “Fuck, Y/N,” he mutters, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper, hungrier, like he’ll never get enough.

His hands roam—up your sides, over your waist, sliding beneath your shirt to find bare skin, warm palms branding every inch they touch. You arch into him, legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer until you feel the solid, unmistakable press of him right where you need it.

The sound you make is shameless. His answering groan is worse.

“Been dreaming about this,” he rasps against your mouth. “About you. For so long.”

You kiss him harder, swallowing the confession whole, because if you don’t, you’ll beg. And you’re already half a second from begging anyway.

The kiss doesn’t slow. It only deepens—messier, hungrier, your lips swollen, teeth clashing as his tongue tangles with yours. His hands grip your thighs like he’s terrified you’ll slip off the counter, thumbs pressing into the soft skin there as if reminding himself of the fact that this is real.

“Fuck,” Yoongi groans into your mouth, breaking away just long enough to drag his lips across your jaw, down your throat. “You taste… fuck, you taste better than I dreamed.”

Your head falls back against the mirror with a soft thud, a whimper spilling out before you can swallow it. “Yoongi—”

“Say it again,” he murmurs against your skin, lips hot at the hollow of your throat. “Say my name like that.”

“Yoongi.” It’s desperate this time, broken open.

He bites down gently, sucking a mark into your skin that will brand you tomorrow, and the sound you make has his breath hitching. His hands slide higher, skimming beneath your shirt until his thumbs are brushing the underside of your breasts, not quite touching, just teasing, making your body arch toward him instinctively.

Your fingers dig into his hair, tugging him back up so you can crash your mouth against his again. He takes it, gives it back tenfold, kissing you like he’ll starve without it.

“I wanted this,” you pant against his lips. “Last night. The night before, at the party.” You dive in for more kisses. “All night. You—”

“Me too,” he cuts in, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to yours. “Wanted you so bad I couldn’t breathe. Thought I was gonna lose it if I touched you.”

You whimper, and his grip on your thighs tightens. He kisses you once more, then pulls back just enough to look at you. Really look. His eyes are dark, blown wide, but there’s something steady under it, something careful.

“Let me,” he murmurs, voice rough but low and respectful. His thumb strokes against your skin, grounding. “Let me go down on you.”

The question hangs in the air, heavy, sparking against every nerve in your body.

Your breath stutters. Heat pools low in your stomach, your legs already parting without thought, like your body made the decision before your mouth could.

You nod frantically, hips jerking forward, the word tumbling out of you on a broken pant. “Please.”

Something in his face twists—like he’s both wrecked and relieved at once. He kisses you again, hard and quick, stealing your breath before dropping to his knees on the cold tile.

The sight alone nearly undoes you. Yoongi, kneeling between your thighs, hoodie hanging loose around his frame, dark hair falling into his eyes as he pulls off your sleeping shorts and presses your knees wider. Like you’re something to be opened. Something to be savored. But he leaves your lacy panties on.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and gravely, hands sliding up the insides of your thighs. His thumbs trace soft circles there, teasing closer, closer, until you’re arching toward him without shame.

He glances up once, eyes locking with yours, dark and steady. “I need to taste you.”

You moan just at the sound of it, head tipping back against the mirror, and then he leans in—pressing one hot, open-mouthed kiss over the thin fabric of your panties. The wet heat of his tongue seeps through, and you jolt, a whimper breaking free.

“Yoongi—”

He groans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. “So sweet already.” His fingers hook under the edge of your underwear, tugging them down your thighs with agonizing slowness, eyes never leaving yours.

When the fabric hits the floor, he nudges your knees apart wider, settling in like he belongs there, and lowers his mouth to you.

The first stroke of his tongue has your whole body jerking off the counter. He grips your thighs firmly, holding you open as he licks into you again, slow and deliberate, like he’s learning you by taste.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he groans against your cunt, tongue circling your clit before flattening to lap at you with long, unhurried strokes. “How do you taste so fucking good?”

Your hands slam against the counter edge, searching for stability. You’re panting, gasping, every nerve ending set on fire as he works you open with his mouth. His tongue teases, licks, sucks, alternating pressure until your thighs tremble around his head.

“Please,” you whimper again, tugging his hair without realizing it, and he moans into you like he likes the desperation, like he needs it. The sound shoots straight through you, white-hot.

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, mouth wet, lips red, eyes molten. “Yeah? You want more?”

You nod frantically, words spilling out ragged. “Don’t stop—please, Yoongi, don’t stop.”

His smirk is faint, wicked. “Wasn’t planning to.”

And then he dives back in, tongue relentless, sucking your clit into his mouth and flicking until your vision blurs out.

You choke on a moan, your whole body arching, thighs trembling around his head, and Yoongi just holds you steady, eating you like he could live here forever. Like he’s been starving for this exact moment, for you.

You’re so fucking close.

And Yoongi doesn’t let up. His tongue works you with steady, devastating precision—long, slow licks that drag all the way through your folds, sharp flicks against your clit, then sucking it into his mouth until you’re keening, your hips jerking helplessly against his hold.

“Yoongi—fuck—” you gasp, fingers tangled in his hair, pulling without thought.

He groans like your desperation is feeding him, his mouth sealing over you tighter, tongue pressing into you with purpose. “That’s it,” he murmurs against your cunt, voice wrecked but steady. “Give it to me. I’ve got you.”

Your thighs tremble around his head, every nerve firing, heat winding tight in your belly. He feels it—of course he does—because his grip on your thighs tightens, pinning you open as his pace grows just a fraction more deliberate.

He draws lazy circles over your clit with his tongue, building, building, relentless in the way only he could be. You’re panting, breaking apart, teetering on the edge—

“Yoongi, I—I’m—”

“Yeah,” he rasps, pulling you impossibly closer to his mouth. “Come for me.”

And right before you do, he slides his middle finger inside you and curls it perfectly.

You gasp, “Fuck—YOON—“

It rips through you sudden and hard and sharp, your whole body arching off the counter as pleasure detonates in waves. Your cry echoes against the bathroom tiles, thighs clamping around his head while he groans into you, pumping and curling his finger just right inside you. His mouth still on your clit, licking you through it, slow and unhurried, savoring every twitch and pulse.

Your grip in his hair turns shaky, your body slumping back against the mirror as aftershocks roll through you. You’re wrecked, panting, dazed—and Yoongi finally pulls back, lips wet, chin slick, eyes dark and glowing all at once.

“Fuck,” he breathes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re gorgeous like this.”

You barely manage a whimper before his arms are sliding under you, lifting you off the counter like you weigh nothing. You bury your face against his shoulder, still trembling, as he carries you out of the bathroom.

Each step toward your bed feels surreal, dizzying. The sheets are cool against your back when he lowers you down, settling between your knees, his hands braced on either side of you like he’s caging you in.

He leans down, kissing you deep—mint, salt, and you—and you can taste yourself on his tongue. He doesn’t let you look away, doesn’t give you space to doubt.

“Round one,” he murmurs against your lips, voice low and hot on your skin. “Now let me ruin you properly.”

His mouth trails down your throat, across your collarbone, slow and chaste even as his hands are shaking with urgency. He kisses you as if he wants to memorize every inch of your skin before he dares take more.

Then he leans back, tugging his hoodie over his head. It falls to the floor in a heap, followed by his t-shirt, leaving him bare chested above you—lean muscle, pale skin, the rise and fall of his chest unsteady as he stares down at you.

“Your turn,” he murmurs, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt. He pauses, searching your face. “Can I?”

You nod, frantic. “Please.”

The shirt comes off, your bra following, and for a long moment he just… stares. His mouth parts, his chest heaves, and he shakes his head like he can’t believe this is real.

“Beautiful doesn’t even come close,” he says, voice raw, almost angry at the limitation of language. “Fuck. I wish I had a better word, but you—” He swallows hard. “You make me stupid.”

Heat floods your face, your chest, all the way down to your core. You reach for him, dragging his mouth back to yours, kissing him messy, urgent, because if he keeps looking at you like that, you’ll combust.

His sweats are loose at his hips, and your hand slips down, tugging at the waistband until you find him. Hard, hot, heavy in your palm. You wrap your fingers around him, pumping slow at first, and the moan he lets out into your mouth nearly undoes you.

God, he’s thick. Not the longest, but girthy, solid, filling your hand so completely you know the stretch is going to wreck you in the best way. You stroke him again, thumb swiping over the damp slit, and his hips jerk helplessly against your hand.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he groans, kissing you harder, tongue pushing deep like he can’t control himself. His whole body shudders above you as you pump him, and it makes your stomach twist with heat knowing you’re unraveling him this fast.

But then he breaks the kiss, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. “Stop—”

You freeze, eyes wide. “Did I—?”

“No,” he blurts, voice wrecked, hands gripping your hips like he’s holding on for dear life. “It’s not that. It’s—” He exhales shakily, eyes squeezed shut for a moment before he looks at you again, raw and unguarded. “This is too much. You’re too much. I’ve wanted this for so fucking long, and now it’s actually happening, and if you keep doing that—I’m not gonna last. Not the way I need to. Not the way you deserve.”

Your heart thuds, your chest tight. He’s not joking. He’s deadly serious, like the gravity of this moment is messing with his entire body.

Yoongi kisses you again, slower this time but with more passion. “Let me take it slow first. Let me make it last.”

For a moment, time itself slows down.

You’ve imagined this—fantasized about it in quiet, shameful corners of your mind—but nothing could have prepared you for the reality of Yoongi above you, stripped down and wrecked, telling you he’s waited for this as long as you have. It feels unreal. Like the universe pressed pause just so you could see him clearly: your best friend, the man who knows your darkest jokes and your softest silences, looking at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. You’re so in love with him it feels like your body can’t contain it. Every heartbeat is a reminder: you’ve waited for this. You’ve lived for this. And now it’s happening, right here, in his hands.

Yoongi’s mouth returns to yours, slow and languid, even as his hands tug at the last barrier between you. He peels his sweats and underwear down, dragging them over his hips without disconnecting the kiss. When he’s completely bare, he pulls back just enough to look at you beneath him—really look—and the sound he makes is guttural, torn straight from his chest.

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes dark, hungry, but shining with something more. “You’re… god, I don’t even have the words. You’re everything.”

Heat floods through you, your thighs pressing together instinctively. But he’s already there, easing them apart with gentle hands, sliding down the bed until he’s between them again. He kisses along your inner thigh, slow, worshiping your skin, then presses one finger inside you, careful but firm.

You gasp, back arching. He groans at the sound, eyes locked on your face as he works you open, sliding deep, curling just right until your hips jerk. “So tight,” he mutters, kissing your knee. “Need to get you ready for me.”

Another finger joins, stretching you more, and the pressure builds deliciously. You clutch at the sheets, moaning helplessly as he pumps them steady, scissoring you open while his thumb circles your clit. He watches you unravel, his lips parted, his breathing rough. “That’s it,” he whispers. “Open up for me. Let me feel you.”

When your thighs start trembling again, he pulls back, dragging his fingers out slowly, leaving you empty and whimpering. He’s already reaching into the pocket of his sweats, pulling a condom out and tearing it open with his teeth.

Your eyes widen. “You—?”

“Always prepared,” he rasps, rolling it down his cock with practiced hands. He catches your expression and gives a small, crooked smirk. “What? You think I didn’t come over here prepared after seeing you in that dress?”

And then he’s there—thick and hot and heavy in his fist, lining himself up against your entrance. He pauses, hovering over you, one hand cupping your jaw, his forehead pressing to yours. His voice is low, almost shaking. “This is it. Are you okay?”

Your body is already begging, already slick and open for him. You nod frantically. “Yes. Please, Yoongi. I need you.”

He exhales sharply, hips rolling forward, and you feel it—his cock pushing into you, slow, careful, stretching you inch by inch. Your jaw falls open, a broken cry spilling out as the stretch burns in the best possible way. He’s thick, filling you so completely you can barely breathe.

“Fuck,” he groans, head dropping against your shoulder, his voice raw. “You feel—shit—you feel so good.”

The stretch has your body clenching tight around him, every nerve alight. He’s the biggest you’ve ever had, not in length but in sheer girth, the kind of fullness that makes you dizzy, makes your thighs shake. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, your nails digging in as he bottoms out, burying himself fully inside you.

“Yoongi—oh my god—”

He holds still, chest heaving, giving you time to adjust. His lips find your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth, peppering kisses like he can’t stop himself. “Tell me when,” he pants. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You shift, rolling your hips experimentally, and the shock of pleasure rips a moan out of you. “Now,” you whisper, desperate. “Move, please.”

He pulls back, slow, then thrusts in again, and the world tilts. The drag of his cock against your walls is overwhelming, toeing the line between pain and ecstasy, and you cling to him, panting his name.

“Fuck—” he grits out, thrusting again, harder this time, the rhythm building as he loses his control. “So tight, so perfect—been dreaming about this for so long. About you.”

Your heart lurches, tears stinging your eyes at the rawness in his voice. You kiss him hard, swallowing his moans, your body clenching around him with every deep, deliberate thrust.

He fucks you slow but rough, every push in like a confession, every pull out dragging another plea from your lips. His grip on your hips is bruising, his mouth a litany against your skin: beautiful, mine, always wanted you, fuck, I love the way you feel.

The world shrinks down to this—the stretch, the heat, the sound of his moans in your ear, the way he’s finally, finally inside you.

Yoongi thrusts into you again, slow and deep, and then suddenly pulls out, chest heaving. Before you can protest, his hands are on your hips, flipping you gently onto your stomach.

“Want to see you like this,” he mutters, voice rough, guiding you onto your hands and knees.

And then he’s pushing back inside, thick cock sliding into you from behind, and the angle makes you cry out, the stretch sharper, deeper. You drop your head forward, moaning his name as you rock your hips back into him.

“Yoongi—fuck, yes—”

His grip tightens, and he drives into you harder, each thrust making the headboard slam against the wall. The sound is obscene, wet and desperate, the slap of skin against skin echoing in your ears.

“Holy fuck,” he groans, and then he stops—just stops moving. His hands hold your hips while you keep grinding back on him, fucking yourself on his cock like you’ll die if you stop. The stretch is brutal, dizzying, but you don’t care—you need it, you need him.

And then his hand reaches around to find your clit. His middle finger makes contact with your bundle of nerves, drawing tight circles on you, and your whole body jolts back, forcing his cock even deeper as you cry out.

“Ahh! Yoongi—mmm—”

He watches you, totally entranced by your sounds alone. Then he rocks his hips—just a little—and he has you aching for more.

You whine, voice wrecked. “Want to ride you.”

He groans, ragged, and pulls out just long enough to shift. “Come on, then.”

He falls back against your headboard, sweat-damp hair clinging to his temples, cock hard and gleaming. You climb onto his lap, straddling him, and take him in hand, guiding him back to your entrance.

The second you sink down, both of you moan in unison—loud, broken, unrestrained. The angle is deeper like this, his cock spearing you open until you feel him in your gut.

“Oh my god,” you pant, nails digging into his shoulders. “So—so deep—”

He fists your hips, holding you steady, but it’s your body doing the work, bouncing on him, taking him in over and over as your tits sway with every movement. He leans forward, mouth hot and desperate against your chest, sucking a nipple into his mouth, tongue circling, teeth grazing.

You cry out, arching into it, and he switches to your other breast, leaving marks on your skin, kissing and sucking like he wants to brand you. Because he does.

Your body is on fire, every nerve ending alive. The words almost spill out—I love you, I love you, I love you—but you choke them down, terrified it’s too soon, terrified it will shatter this moment.

But the way he looks up at you as you ride him—eyes wide, blown, gazing at you like you’re his epiphany—almost gives him away. Like he’s holding back the same words. Like he’s already yours. And you both know it.

“Yoongi,” you gasp, hips bouncing faster, harder, chasing the edge.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he growls, head falling back against the wall, jaw clenched as he watches you take him. “You’re perfect—you’re fucking perfect—”

The coil in your belly snaps, and your orgasm crashes through you, violent and consuming. You scream his name, clenching tight around his cock, body shaking as you ride it out.

“Shit—” he groans, hips thrusting up into you desperately, chasing his own release. “Can’t—fuck, I’m gonna—”

You grip his hair, pulling his face against your chest as he unravels beneath you, spilling hot inside the condom with a guttural moan of your name. His whole body shudders, his cock pulsing inside you as he rides it out, holding you down on him like he can’t stand the thought of letting you go.

You collapse against him, both of you panting, trembling, sweat-slicked. His arms wrap around you, tight, like he’s gluing you to him.

And in the quiet that follows, the only sound your ragged breaths, you realize the truth you almost said out loud: you love him.

And maybe, just maybe, the way his lips press against your temple, lingering, passionate, means he feels the same.

But then—his hands shift. One trails down your spine, settling at your ass, squeezing lightly as if testing the weight of you. He groans low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your collarbone.

“Still so fucking tight,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Even after that.”

You jolt, still full of him, your body clenching reflexively around his cock where he’s still buried inside you. He hisses through his teeth, his grip on your hip tightening.

“Yoongi—” you gasp, shivering.

“Yeah,” he grits, forehead pressing to yours, breath hot on your lips. “You feel that? Can’t even move without—fuck.”

And just like that, the aftercare melts right back into heat.

You shift in his lap, rocking your hips the slightest bit, and his eyes roll back, a groan tearing out of him. “You’re insane,” he mutters, kissing you hard, teeth clashing, desperation bleeding into every stroke of his tongue.

“Can’t stop,” you pant against his mouth. “Don’t want to.”

He grabs your ass with both hands, grinding you down against him, his cock twitching inside you as if his body agrees. “Good,” he growls. “’Cause I’m not letting you off me yet.”

You moan into the kiss, your thighs trembling as you start moving again—slow, steady rolls of your hips that have him swearing, begging under his breath. His lips find your neck, sucking fresh marks into your skin, as if he needs to leave proof that this really happened, that you’re his now.

Every touch, every kiss feels like aftercare and hunger at once—his hands soothing over your back while his cock drags deep inside you, his mouth worshipping your skin while his teeth nip and claim. It’s overwhelming, addictive.

And as you ride him again, slower this time but no less intense, you realize you could live in this loop forever—heat and tenderness, hunger and care, his arms around you and his body inside you, the two of you unable to stop because stopping would mean admitting this isn’t a dream.

You keep moving until your thighs ache, until your chest is heaving and his hands are clutching you like he’ll die if you stop. He kisses you through it, messy and hot, every groan spilling into your mouth until finally your body gives up and collapses against his chest.

Yoongi doesn’t let you go. He rolls with you, easing both of you down until you’re sprawled across the sheets in a tangle of limbs, still connected, still pulsing with aftershocks. His hand drags lazy circles along your spine, his breath ragged against your temple.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters, voice rough with awe.

You laugh weakly into his chest, too exhausted to form words, your smile pressed against his damp skin. He tightens his arms around you in answer, burying his nose in your hair.

The room is quiet but charged, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, your bodies still humming. Every shift of your hips makes him groan, and every groan makes your pulse kick up again.

“You’re insatiable,” you murmur, teasing, though your voice is thin and shaky.

“Pot,” he mutters, squeezing your ass lightly, “meet kettle.”

You laugh again, softer this time, and let yourself melt into him. His hand drifts down to your hip, his thumb stroking absent patterns into your skin like he’s playing the piano.

It should feel like the aftercare part—gentle, winding down. But it doesn’t. Not really. Because beneath the laziness, beneath the sweat cooling on your skin, there’s still that ache, that pull. The knowledge that if either of you moved just right, it would start again.

You tilt your head, brushing your lips over his collarbone, and his body jerks, breath catching like the touch alone could get him hard.

Yeah. Insatiable doesn’t even begin to cover it.

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