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🎹 Pairing: BTS Suga (Min Yoongi) x Reader (Arts Center Founder!Reader)
Min Yoongi calls you after eight months of silence and asks you to pretend to be his girlfriend for two weeks. You say yes, because you're apparently that person. The plan: convince his parents, collect the grant funding, don't catch feelings. The problem: you already have them. The bigger problem: so does he. The biggest problem: he wrote a whole song about it and neither of you has said a single word out loud.
Two weeks. A Fake relationship. Real everything else.
🎹 Genres: Fake Dating, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Angst with a dahs of Hope, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Celebrity x Non-Celebrity, Emotional Drama, He has written eight songs about her and she doesn't know it yet, It's a bit of a rom-com, Min Yoongi and his hair, (Yes, that is a genre) 🎹 Short summary: "The deal was twelve days of fake. It ended up being the only thing that wasn't."
🎹 Chapter index: Read Part One Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 EPILOGUE
🎹 Rating: 18+ (minors DNI)
🖤 THE B-SIDE SERIES MASTERLIST
The dress has forty-seven buttons.
You know this because the seamstress counted them, efficiently and without apparent emotion, while doing up each one. You stood on the small platform and looked at yourself in three mirrors simultaneously and tried to feel nothing in particular about the fact that you were standing in a wedding dress in a bridal shop in Seoul while the man you have been pretending to date for four days sat in the waiting area reading magazines he was not reading.
The dress fits.
Of course it fits. His aunt looked at you once across a dinner table and announced you were Ji-eun's size with the confidence of a woman who has never once been wrong about anything, and she was not wrong about this either. It fits perfectly, effortlessly, in a way that feels almost accusatory given where you are and who is in the waiting area and what the next seven days look like.
You look at yourself in the three mirrors.
The three mirrors look back.
"Oh," his mother says, from the settee.
That is all she says. Just: oh. Soft and certain, the sound of someone seeing something they already knew was true.
You do not examine what she means by it.
The aunties begin while the seamstress is still making adjustments at the hem.
His aunt starts with the center — how long, how many children, what does the funding look like, is it hard, was it always what you wanted. You answer. You are good at talking about the center. The center is the thing you know how to be certain about when everything else is uncertain, and you talk about it the way you always do — directly, with both hands, the way your mother taught you to talk about things you have built and are proud of.
His mother listens.
And then she does the thing.
"She built it herself," she tells Mrs. Oh, as though Mrs. Oh was not present for your explanation and requires a summary. "From nothing. Grant by grant." She says this with a pride that you have done nothing to earn from her specifically and that lands somewhere in your chest anyway, warm and complicated. "Yoongi told us. He said she walked into banks and they said no and she went to the next one." She looks at you. "He said you never stopped."
You look at your hands.
"He talks about the center a lot," his aunt confirms.
"He talks about her a lot," his mother says, in the tone of someone making a distinction that matters.
"The center and her are the same thing," Mrs. Oh says, with the authority of someone who has been paying attention. She looks at you over the top of her glasses. "You are what you build. Yes?"
You open your mouth.
You close it.
"Yes," you say.
Mrs. Oh nods. Filed. Confirmed. She looks at his mother with an expression that completes a conversation you were not part of.
The questions continue.
Your family — just you and your mother, who is on a cruise and sends voice notes from glaciers and has a boyfriend named Sangwoo who makes her laugh in the uncomplicated way she deserves. His aunt finds this both charming and mildly concerning. Mrs. Oh asks if your mother knows about Yoongi. You say yes, which is technically true because your mother knows you are doing a favor for a friend and has texted three separate times asking for details you have not provided. His aunt asks if she likes him. You say she hasn't met him yet, which is also technically true.
"She'll like him," his mother says, with the serenity of a woman who has decided this.
"He's very likeable," his aunt says, which makes you look at her because likeable is not the first word you would use for Min Yoongi and you suspect she knows this.
"When he wants to be," his mother says.
"He wanted to be," his aunt says, looking at you, "from the beginning."
You study the middle distance.
The seamstress makes a small adjustment at the waist.
"Children," Mrs. Oh says.
"Mrs. Oh," his mother says.
"I'm asking."
"You're always asking."
"Someone has to." She looks at you with the directness of a woman who has outlived the need for social cushioning. "You're thirty-two. He's thirty-four. His brother has a baby. His parents—" She pauses. Something moves through the pause. She continues more gently: "His parents would like to know."
The fitting room is very quiet for a moment.
You think about his father at the dinner table. The careful way he moves. The way he looked at Yoongi at the end of the laughter with the expression of a man counting good things.
"We're not in a rush," you say. Carefully.
Mrs. Oh looks at you.
She looks at you with the eyes of a woman who has sat with a great many people in a great many rooms and understands the difference between we're not in a rush and we haven't talked about it and I don't know what we are and I'm terrified of what we are.
She nods once.
She does not push further.
This, somehow, is worse.
You do not know how he gets into the fitting room.
One moment you are standing on the platform being asked about your five year plan by his aunt, and the next moment the pale silk curtain moves and Yoongi is in the doorway.
He is supposed to be in the waiting area.
He is not in the waiting area.
His mother, you will reflect later, has a very particular talent for engineering situations and then looking entirely innocent about them. She is currently looking at her hands. His aunt is looking at her hands. Mrs. Oh is looking directly at Yoongi with the undisguised interest of a woman watching an experiment reach a critical stage.
Yoongi is looking at you.
He stops in the doorway.
He does not say anything.
You watch him see you.
You watch it happen in real time — the way his eyes move, once, the full length of the dress, and then back up to your face and then back down and then up again, like he is trying to find somewhere to look and every option is equally problematic. The management that usually arrives in half a second does not arrive. The surface he keeps so carefully level does not level. He stands in the doorway of a bridal shop fitting room and looks at you in forty-seven buttons and ivory silk and does not say a single word for what your internal clock clocks as approximately one full minute.
One full minute.
Min Yoongi, who says exactly what he means and nothing else, standing in a doorway saying nothing.
Then he clears his throat.
Then he looks at the wall.
Then he looks back at you.
"Hi," he says.
You are wearing a wedding dress.
"Hi," you say.
His ears are already doing the thing.
His mother is looking at her hands with the expression of a woman who arranged this and is now exercising tremendous restraint about it. His aunt has found something interesting in her own lap. Mrs. Oh is watching Yoongi with the open like a mad scientist whose hypothesis has just been confirmed in a laboratory setting.
"You were supposed to wait outside," his mother says, mildly.
"I was outside," Yoongi says. He has recovered enough to find the wall past your left shoulder. "The seamstress came to get me."
You look at the seamstress.
The seamstress is adjusting something at your hem with extraordinary concentration.
She did not come to get him.
You look at his mother.
She is looking at her hands.
Yoongi comes to stand beside the platform. He does this with the composure of a man who has decided that composure is the only remaining strategy and is committing to it fully. He finds a fixed point on the middle distance and holds it there. His ears are doing the full set — both of them, pink from the shell down — and you file this away with everything else you have been filing for three and a half years without meaning to.
He's good at this, you tell yourself.
Fifteen years on a stage. He can make anything look real.
You are in the middle of believing this when his aunt turns to him with the energy of a woman who has been waiting for exactly this moment and says:
"Yoongi-ya. Doesn't she make a beautiful bride?"
The fitting room waits.
You wait.
Yoongi opens his mouth.
He closes it.
He opens it again.
"She's—" he starts.
He stops.
He looks at you.
He looks at the dress.
He looks at the ceiling, briefly, like he is consulting it.
"She's beautiful," he says. Then, because apparently that is not enough, because Min Yoongi who uses words like a finite resource is spending them freely today in a bridal shop in Seoul: "And one day she'll make— she'll make m— she'll make a man—" He stops again. Clears his throat. "The luckiest."
The fitting room is completely silent.
You stare at him.
He stares at the wall.
You have never, in three and a half years, heard him say that many words in a row about you. In front of people. Out loud. With his actual voice. You have never seen Min Yoongi — who once gave a four word interview answer and considered it thorough — fumble a sentence. You have never watched him look at a ceiling for help.
He is good at this, you think.
He is performing, you think.
You think both of these things very hard while your face does something you cannot control and turns, you are fairly certain, the exact color of the Dragon Room door.
Then his mother looks up from her hands.
She looks at Yoongi.
"What do you mean," she says, pleasantly, "a man?"
The silence is different now.
Yoongi looks at his mother.
His mother looks at Yoongi.
"She'll make you," his mother says, with the patience of a woman stating something that should not require stating. "You will be the luckiest."
Something happens to Yoongi's face that you have never seen happen to it before — a full, complete, total failure of the management system. His ears go from pink to red. His jaw does the thing. He looks at you — which is a mistake, because you are also red, the full Dragon Room door situation, both of you standing in a bridal shop in Seoul in forty-seven buttons being told the obvious by his mother while his aunt covers her mouth and Mrs. Oh makes the sound of a woman who is absolutely not laughing and absolutely is.
"I—" Yoongi starts.
"Yes," his mother says, answering the sentence he didn't finish.
You look at the bolts of ivory fabric on the wall.
You consider whether it would be possible to simply walk into them and cease to exist temporarily.
It would not be possible.
The seamstress is looking at her measuring tape with the focus of a woman who is paid to see nothing and is earning every penny.
"One hour," you say, to no one. To the fabric. To the universe, which has clearly decided that today is the day everything becomes too much simultaneously.
"We still have twenty three minutes," Mrs. Oh says helpfully.
You close your eyes.
Yoongi looks at the ceiling.
His mother refolds her hands in her lap and says nothing, which from her contains more than most people's full sentences.
She is smiling.
She is absolutely, completely, entirely smiling.
He is still on the platform.
Not on the platform exactly — beside it, which is where he came to stand when he crossed the room, and where he has remained, apparently, because no part of his body has received or acted on the instruction to go back to the waiting area. He is just. Still here. Standing next to the platform in a bridal shop while you stand on it in forty-seven buttons and nobody is addressing the fact that there is no reason for him to still be here and he is still here.
His mother is not addressing it.
His aunt is not addressing it.
Mrs. Oh is definitely not addressing it because Mrs. Oh is looking between the two of you with the expression of a woman who has been given a gift and intends to enjoy it fully.
"So," Mrs. Oh says.
You look at her.
"How did you meet?"
"The center," you say.
"Through work," Yoongi says, at the same moment.
You look at him.
He looks at you.
"Through work," you say. "At the center."
"Right," he says.
"His work or your work?" his aunt asks.
"Both," you say.
"Mine," Yoongi says, at the same moment.
A pause.
"His," you say. "He came to — he was volunteering."
"I was sent," Yoongi says, which is technically more accurate and is also the wrong thing to say because now his mother is looking at him.
"Sent," she repeats.
"By the company," he says. "For — outreach."
"He stayed," you say, quickly. "He kept coming back."
"Every Wednesday," his mother says, to the room.
"Every Wednesday," his aunt confirms.
"For three and a half years," Mrs. Oh says, as though she is reading from a document.
Yoongi looks at the ceiling again.
You look at the seamstress, who is measuring something on your sleeve that has definitely already been measured.
"And then?" his aunt says.
"And then we—" you start.
"Became friends," Yoongi says.
"Friends," you agree.
"Good friends," he says.
"Right," you say.
"Close friends," he says.
"Yes," you say.
"Very close," he says.
You look at him.
He looks at you.
Stop, your eyes say.
I'm trying, his eyes say.
"How close?" Mrs. Oh asks.
"Mrs. Oh," his mother says.
"I'm asking a reasonable—"
"You are not asking a reasonable—"
"They said very close—"
"And when," his aunt says, cutting through cleanly with the efficiency of a woman who has a specific question and is going to get to it, "did it become more than friends?"
The fitting room waits.
You open your mouth.
"Gradually," Yoongi says.
"Suddenly," you say, at the same moment.
You both stop.
His aunt looks at you. She looks at him. She looks at you again. "Which one."
"Both," Yoongi says.
"Neither," you say, at the same moment.
Mrs. Oh puts her hand over her mouth.
She is laughing. She is absolutely laughing. She is an elderly woman in a bridal shop laughing at two thirty-two year olds who cannot agree on a single fact about their own relationship, and she is not trying very hard to stop.
"Gradually," you say, because you need to say something. "It was — gradual. And then at some point it was—"
"Sudden," Yoongi says.
You look at him.
"It felt sudden," he says. "Even though it wasn't."
He says this in his actual voice. Not performing, not filling silence, not managing anything. Just — the truth, stated plainly, the way he always states things that are true.
The fitting room goes quiet.
His aunt has stopped leaning forward. His mother has stopped looking at her hands. Mrs. Oh has stopped laughing.
You look at him.
He is looking at you.
Not the wall. Not the ceiling. Not the middle distance.
You.
Directly.
In a bridal shop.
With forty-seven buttons between you and approximately zero remaining explanations.
He's good at this, you think.
You think it.
You think it.
You look away first.
"So," you say, to the seamstress, to the mirror, to the bolts of ivory fabric that cannot answer back. "Are we almost done with the fitting?"
The seamstress looks up from the sleeve she has been measuring for six minutes.
"Yes," she says, with great professionalism.
"Good," you say.
"I have one more question," Mrs. Oh says.
"Mrs. Oh," everyone says, at the same time.
Including Yoongi.
Including you.
You look at each other.
You both look away.
His mother is smiling at her hands again.
Sure.
What's one more question, right?
She looks at Yoongi. Not unkindly. With direct, patient attention of a woman who has been in this room for 49 minutes and has saved the important thing for last.
"How long did you know," she says, "before you told her."
The fitting room does something.
Not the laughter quiet from before. Not the embarrassed quiet of the gradually/suddenly disaster. This is a different quiet entirely — the kind that arrives when a room full of people understands simultaneously that the question being asked is not a small one.
His mother's hands go still in her lap.
His aunt stops leaning forward.
The seamstress finds something to do near the curtain.
Yoongi is quiet for a moment.
Not the quiet of someone deciding whether to answer. The quiet of someone who has been asked the question they have been carrying the answer to for a very long time and is deciding, right now, in a bridal shop in Seoul, whether today is the day.
He looks at you.
Not the wall. Not the ceiling. Not the middle distance.
You.
In the mirror.
"A while. The first time I heard her play," he says. A pause. "Three years ago."
The room does something again. Deeper this time.
His mother's breath goes out quietly. His aunt sits back. Mrs. Oh nods once, slowly, the nod of a woman who asked a question and received the answer she already knew and finds she is not as satisfied about being right as she expected to be.
You look at him in the mirror.
He is looking at you in the mirror.
The first time I heard her play.
You run the math.
You run it again.
Four months in. A Wednesday in late autumn. You were friends by then — you would have called him a friend, would have said so with confidence if anyone had asked. He came on Wednesdays. He sat with Jisoo. He argued with a seven year old about beanies. He ate the chocolate from Dani's bowl without asking and nobody said anything about it because he had become, without announcement, a person who belonged in that building.
Friends.
You were friends.
The first time I heard her play.
Which means — four months in, a Wednesday, the center empty and the gala a week away and you playing alone in the Flower Room not knowing he was there — he was not standing in that doorway hearing a colleague. He was not standing there hearing a friend.
He has known since then.
Three years.
Three years of Wednesdays and the piano guy and the Flower Room panels that appeared without explanation and the cello stand that is better than it needs to be and the sheet music in a folder and Jisoo having the better practice room and I was in the neighborhood on a Thursday and forty-seven buttons and gradually and suddenly and it felt sudden even though it wasn't —
Three and a half years.
he's good at this.
You think it because you need to think it. Because the alternative — the alternative is that Min Yoongi has been carrying this since a Wednesday in late autumn three years ago, since a Flower Room and a cello and a song that had no name, and has said nothing, and showed up anyway, every Wednesday, and upgraded the panels and the stand and came on a Thursday when he had no reason to come on a Thursday — the alternative is that none of it was performance.
The alternative is that you have been the one not paying attention.
He's good at this, you think, one more time.
You look away from the mirror.
You look at the dress.
Forty-seven buttons.
Ivory silk.
The smell of the shop — floral, expensive, bridal — that you walked into 52 minutes ago not knowing it was a bridal shop, not knowing you would end up on a platform being told, sideways, in a room full of his family, that the man standing beside you has known something for three and a half years that you have spent three and a half years not letting yourself know.
"She plays the cello," he says, quietly. Like he wants to make sure you understood. Like he is not going to say it again but he needs you to have it completely.
You do not look at him.
You have it completely.
His ears, in your peripheral vision, are doing the full set. Both of them. Pink from the shell down. The tell that works on him even when nothing else does.
He is not performing.
You know this.
You have always known this.
You look at the bolts of ivory fabric on the wall.
You think about a Wednesday in late autumn, and a song that had no name, and a doorway, and a while said in the Flower Room three years ago meaning something you are only now, in a wedding dress that is not yours, beginning to fully understand.
How long did you know before you told her.
The answer, you are realizing, is: he still hasn't.
Not really.
Not in a way that asks anything of you.
He has told his mother and his aunt and Mrs. Oh and a seamstress who is being very professional about everything, and he has told you incidentally, as a casualty of the question, in a room full of people where you cannot respond and he knows you cannot respond and maybe that is — maybe that is why today is the day he decided to put it down.
Because here, in this room, with all of these people, it is safe.
It is just a story.
It is not yet a choice.
Your chest does something complicated and permanent.
You look at the mirror.
He is looking at his hands now.
Beside him on the platform that he has still, somehow, not left, his shoulder is approximately four inches from yours, and Seoul is outside the window doing what Seoul does, and seven days remain, and the line between fake and real has not just blurred —
You are no longer certain it was ever there.
Four months in.
A Wednesday in late autumn.
The gala was a week away and something had gone wrong with the venue — not catastrophically, not the kind of wrong that ends things, but the kind that requires four phone calls and a revised budget and the specific feeling of watching something you have built very carefully wobble on its foundation and having to hold it steady with both hands while also pretending to everyone else that it is not wobbling.
You had sent the last email at eight-thirty PM.
You had locked the front desk.
You had told Dani to go home.
And then, because you had nowhere else to put the feeling and your hands needed something to do that wasn't another email, you had gone to the Flower Room.
The cello was not yours, technically. It belonged to the center — purchased in the first year, second-hand, good enough for lessons. But you had been the one to tune it, restring it, treat the wood. You had been the one to stay late on Tuesdays sometimes, after everyone had gone, and play until the thing that was pressing at you from the inside found somewhere to go.
You had not told anyone about this.
It was yours in the only way that mattered.
The cello has always been yours in the only way that mattered.
Your mother is a free spirit in the truest sense — not as a personality description but as a fact of geography. You moved constantly growing up. Not chaotically, never desperately, just — continuously, the way some people live, following whatever made sense to her at the time. A boyfriend in London for a year. Six months on a sailing boat in the Caribbean with another one, the sea green and enormous and indifferent to your homework. An apartment in Madrid. A place in Busan that lasted almost two years, which was, until Seoul, the longest you had ever stayed anywhere.
Your father was not in the picture. This was not a tragedy in your life the way it might have been — it was simply a fact, like weather, like geography, present in the shape of his absence and not much else.
The closest thing you had was Jung Junho.
He came into your life when you were nine, in Busan, a classical musician from that city with large careful hands and the patient, specific way of listening that musicians develop — like he heard everything in layers, the thing being said and the thing underneath it simultaneously. He and your mother were together for five years. They were going to get married. He gave you the cello when you were ten — not a child's instrument, a real one, because he had heard you pick out melodies on the piano at his apartment with one finger and understood something about you that you didn't have words for yet.
He taught you what he could. The rest you figured out yourself, because that was the condition of your education — you moved too often for academies, too often for consistent lessons, often enough that you learned to learn alone.
You taught yourself.
Not because you were exceptional but because you had no other option — there were too many cities, too many schools, too many fresh starts to build anything consistent with a teacher and a schedule and a studio that would still be there next semester. So you figured it out alone, the way you figured out most things, because waiting for the right conditions to learn something is a luxury that requires staying in one place long enough to receive them.
Junho and your mother ended quietly. No damage, no dramatic final scene — just the slow drift of two people whose lives were pulling in different directions and neither of them willing to fight the current. He moved back to Busan. Your mother stayed for a few months and then didn't.
You were fourteen and you understood, by then, that this was simply how things went with her — not a failure, just a pattern, the way water finds its level and keeps going.
You kept the cello.
It is the only thing that has been with you in every apartment, every city, every six months on a boat and every year in London and the eight months in Madrid and every new school in a new place. The one fixed point. The thing that was always the same regardless of what the walls around it looked like.
You don't play as much now. You have the center — Dani, the kids, the music, and somewhere in the building of all of that the playing became something you do alone, privately, in the specific hours when the center is empty and the feeling pressing at you from the inside has nowhere else to go.
You planted roots.
Not out of spite for your mother, not as a corrective for a childhood of motion — it simply made sense to you, the way music makes sense to you, the way the center makes sense. You built the safe space you needed and made it available to everyone else and that is the whole story of it.
The cello is still yours.
You just play it quietly now.
You sat in the chair. Not the good chair — the center had one good chair and it lived in the Dragon Room because the Dragon Room got the most use and you had learned to allocate resources the way you learned everything else, practically and without sentiment.
The Flower Room chair was the one with the slightly uneven leg that you had shimmed with a folded piece of cardboard three months ago and which held, mostly, if you didn't shift your weight suddenly. You made a note to fix it properly when the budget allowed.
The budget had not yet allowed.
You took the cello from its stand.
It was the second one you had bought, an improvement on the first but still the kind that required you to adjust the instrument twice before it sat right, the kind that would eventually give out and need replacing. You had been putting this off.
The older kids used the Flower Room — Jisoo, then the Thursday ensemble group, the students who had been here long enough to graduate from the smaller rooms — and the older kids, you had noticed, got less attention than the younger ones. Not deliberately. Just the way of things. The little ones were louder about needing things. The older ones had learned to manage.
You were trying to fix this.
Slowly. With the money you had.
The overhead light was off. You had not turned it on when you came in because the overhead light in the Flower Room was fluorescent and white and correct in the way that felt wrong for what you needed right now. The room was almost dark — just the city coming through the window, Seoul doing its gold and orange thing outside the glass, enough light to see by if you knew where everything was.
You knew where everything was.
You played.
You did not hear him come in.
You did not know he was there until you finished — the bow lifting from the strings, the last note dissolving into the Flower Room air — and the silence that followed had a quality to it that silence doesn't have when you are alone. A presence in it. A held breath.
You turned around.
He was in the doorway.
Min Yoongi, who came on Wednesdays, and stayed an extra hour he was supposed to to make sure Jisoo was okay, who you had filed under friend with the confidence of someone who is very good at filing things and has not examined the folder in a while. He had his bag over one shoulder, his glasses on — the ones he wore when he wasn't performing anything for anyone, the ones that made him look like himself at the expense of everything else.
His hair was longer than when he'd first come to the center, half of it pulled back in a way that he had clearly done without thinking about it. He had a hoodie on. He looked — and you registered this the way you registered most things about him, quickly and without letting yourself linger — like a person who was not trying to be anything for anyone and had no idea what that did.
He was supposed to have left an hour ago.
He looked at you.
You looked at him.
"I didn't know you were still here," you said.
"I was leaving," he said.
Neither of you moved.
"How long were you—"
"A while," he said. "You're very good,"
"I'm self-taught," you said. "I've never had proper training, I'm not—"
"You play," he said, and then stopped, and you watched him look for the word the way he looked for words — not quickly, not with the impatience of someone trying to fill silence, but with the patience of someone who knows the right word exists and is prepared to wait for it. "Like it's the only real thing left."
The room went very still.
You looked at him.
He was still looking at the cello. His jaw had done the thing — the slight tightening of someone who has said more than they planned to and is deciding whether to take it back.
He did not take it back.
"I'm not—" you started.
"You're excellent," he said. Quiet and final, the tone he used for things that were true and had nothing to do with your opinion of them.
You did not say anything.
He did not say anything.
The moon in the sky threw its silver light across the floor between you, and the city was outside the window doing what it does, and Min Yoongi was in the doorway of the Flower Room at nine forty-five PM with his bag over his shoulder and his glasses on looking at a cello that was not his and not saying anything else.
he's my friend.
a very handsome friend.
those two things are going to be a problem at some point.
You filed it.
"Goodnight," you said.
"Goodnight," he said.
And then he left.
The next Wednesday, he was not there.
His tour had started — you knew this the way you knew things about him that you had not been told directly, through the ambient information of existing in his orbit, through Dani mentioning the schedule, through the absence of him in the building that Wednesday afternoon that had a different quality than a regular absence.
He had told you, before he left:
"I'll be back in a few weeks. I'll send someone to cover the Wednesday sessions."
"You don't have to do that," you said. "The kids will be fine."
"Jisoo won't be fine," he said, which was not exactly true and was also completely true. "I'll send someone. That kid needs something productive to do with his time anyway."
You had not asked who.
He had not said.
You thought about it for approximately four days and then filed it.
And then you went to the Flower Room.
You looked at the room around you. The acoustic panels on the walls — better than the other rooms, better than the center's grant history explained, installed quietly overnight without announcement. The cello stand, which was not the stand that had been here when the center opened — this one was the kind that held the instrument properly, at the right angle, the kind that cost more than a secondhand stand and had appeared one Wednesday without explanation. The chair you were sitting in, which had better back support than the others.
You had filed all of it under grant money and Dani, probably.
You had never asked.
You looked at the corner of the room.
There was a lamp there.
A small one. Warm-toned. The kind designed for reading, for late evenings, for spaces where the overhead light was too much and something gentler was needed. You had not noticed it before today because it had not been here at night before today — in the afternoon the Flower Room had beautiful light and needed nothing else.
At night, it needed exactly this.
A lamp that the afternoon kids didn't need.
A lamp that you would need.
That you would need, specifically, if you were here at night, playing cello alone after everyone had gone, in the dim fluorescent light that was wrong for what you were doing.
You looked at the lamp.
Your mind goes back to the fitting room.
He is still not looking at you in the mirror.
His mother is looking at her hands with the expression of a woman sitting very quietly inside something she has known for a long time.
You think about the Flower Room. The lamp in the corner that appeared one Wednesday without explanation. The acoustic panels. The cello stand that is better than it needs to be.
he upgraded the Flower Room.
he upgraded the Flower Room and then acted like he didn't and you filed it under grant money and moved on.
You think about Jisoo, who has the better practice room, who has the better cello, who Yoongi shows up for on Thursdays unplanned because she reminds him of himself.
You think about who else is in that room every week.
Who else plays there, alone, when the center is empty.
Who else he might have been thinking about when he put the lamp in the corner.
You look at yourself in the mirror.
The dress, the beautiful dress that is not yours.
The forty-seven buttons.
Him, standing beside the platform, looking at the wall past your left shoulder with the expression of a man who has said the true thing and is now waiting to see what happens.
The first time I heard her play.
He is so good at this, you think.
He is a performer, you think.
You think it one more time for good measure.
Outside, Seoul does not care about any of this.
Inside, in the quiet of the fitting room, something has shifted in the air the way it shifted in the Flower Room three and a half years ago.
Like a door that has been ajar for a very long time has moved just slightly.
Like the light coming through it has changed.
You look away from the mirror.
Seven days remaining.
The photographer is the bridal shop's idea.
Or rather — the photographer is presented as the bridal shop's idea, by his mother, who mentions it to the woman at the front desk with the casual energy of someone raising a thought that has just occurred to her and has absolutely not been planned since before you arrived.
"For Ji-eun," she says. "So she can see how the dress fits. From every angle."
The photographer nods. This is a service they offer. Of course it is.
You are still in the dress.
Yoongi is still inexplicably beside the platform.
"Just a few," his mother says, gesturing between you. "Together. So Ji-eun can see the full—" She gestures again, vaguely, at the dress, at Yoongi, at the general situation.
Nobody believes her.
Nobody says this.
The photographer positions you both with the efficiency of someone who does this every day — your shoulder turned slightly toward him, his hand at your waist, both of you facing the mirror. The dress and the light and the ivory silk and the forty-seven buttons all doing what they are supposed to do.
"Look at each other," the photographer says.
You look at him.
He looks at you.
The camera clicks.
His mother watches from the settee with her hands folded in her lap and the expression of a woman filing something important away for later.
Later — much later, in a different season, when you have long since stopped counting days — you will see this photograph. You will not be prepared for it. You will not be prepared for what your face is doing in it, or his, or the specific quality of the light, or the way you are both looking at each other like people who have forgotten, temporarily and completely, that anyone else is in the room.
You do not know this yet.
Right now you are just two people standing in a bridal shop.
Being photographed for Ji-eun.
For Ji-eun.
Sure.
Outside, the city is doing something with the sky that suggests rain is coming.
Not yet — just the feeling of it, the pressure dropping, the light going flat and heavy the way Seoul light does when it is making a decision. You stand on the pavement outside Blanc et Bonheur while Yoongi brings the car around and his mother and aunt and Mrs. Oh say their goodbyes.
His mother hugs you.
She holds on a beat longer than she needs to.
"Come for dinner tomorrow," she says. Not an invitation. A calendar item that has already been entered.
"I'll be there," you say.
She pulls back and looks at you with the expression of a woman who has known something for a long time and is simply waiting for everyone else to catch up.
"I know," she says.
Mrs. Oh pats your hand. "Beautiful children," she says, one final time, with the vindicated certainty of a closing argument.
His aunt hugs you and says nothing and somehow that is the most devastating one.
He pulls up.
You get in.
The car is warm and quiet and smells like cedarwood and the city moves past the windows and neither of you says anything for a while.
The rain starts.
Not dramatically — just the first drops on the windshield, tentative, Seoul testing the decision before committing to it.
"I'm buying you dinner," he says.
"You better," you say.
"Steak."
You look at him. "Somewhere expensive. Very expensive."
"Yes."
"With sides."
"Obviously."
"And dessert."
"Don't push it."
"You put me in a wedding dress," you say. "I'm getting dessert."
Something moves in his expression. The almost-smile, warmer than usual, arriving and staying for a moment longer than it normally would. "Fine," he says. "You deserve dessert."
You look back out the window.
The rain has committed now — steady and quiet against the glass.
"We can't go somewhere public," you say.
"I know."
"Someone will see."
"I know."
You think for a moment. "I'll cook. We can eat at mine."
He looks at you.
Not the wall, not the middle distance — you, directly, with an expression that does something complicated in the space of one second. Something in it tightens. Something that looks almost like—
"No," he says.
You look at him. "I don't mind—"
"You've been standing in a wedding dress for an hour being interrogated about your five year plan," he says. "You're not cooking."
He picks up his phone.
He orders delivery.
You look out the window.
You think: of course.
Of course the idea of the two of you in your apartment, eating something you made, like people who do that — like people who are the thing they are supposed to be pretending to be — is something he needs a wall around immediately. You stood on a platform in a wedding dress that wasn't yours, while he stood beside it for no reason either of you addressed and now the wall is back, assembled quickly and efficiently out of delivery food and practicality, and that is fine. That is completely fine. You are also putting walls up. You have been putting walls up for three and a half years with moderate success and declining conviction.
You are just, apparently, worse at it than he is.
"What do you want," he says, phone in hand.
"Steak," you say.
"From where."
"Somewhere very expensive."
He orders without argument.
You watch the rain and say nothing and feel, quietly, the small specific ache of misreading something and not being able to say so.
You are almost at your building when you remember the folder.
"My grant files," you say. "I left them in my office."
He doesn't say anything.
He turns left instead of right.
"You don't have to—" you start.
He makes a sound.
You know this sound. It is short and low and entirely conclusive and it means I will take you and this conversation is over in the specific register of a man who has made a decision and considers the matter addressed. You have heard this sound before. You know there is no redirecting it.
"We can eat in my office," you say, because this is apparently where your evening is going. "While I go through the files."
"Fine," he says.
"The food will be delivered here. I'll change the address."
He changes the address.
You look at him.
He drives.
This is the other thing about him — the way he just does things. No performance of the doing, no announcement of the doing, just the thing done, quietly and completely, and then on to the next thing. You have three and a half years of this filed away. The lamp in the Flower Room. The cello stand. The sheet music in the folder. I'll change the address, said and done before you've finished processing that he said it.
You look back out the window.
The rain is heavier now, the city going soft and blurred through the glass, Seoul doing its best impression of something out of a film about itself. The delivery will arrive at the center. You will sit in your office eating somewhere-expensive steak while you go through grant files. He will be there.
He will just — be there.
The way he has always just been there.
On Wednesdays. On a Thursday when he had no reason to come. In a fitting room doorway. Beside a platform for forty minutes with no explanation offered and none requested.
You think about the photograph being taken somewhere behind you on a camera card meant for Ji-eun.
You think about how long did you know before you told her and three and a half years and a lamp in a corner that the afternoon kids didn't need.
You think about of course he doesn't want to eat at yours. Of course the wall went up. He is managing this, the way he manages everything — present but controlled, here but careful, close enough that it feels real and far enough that it isn't.
He is so good at this.
You look at his profile in the rain-light.
Two grey hairs at his left temple.
The curve of his jaw.
His hands on the wheel, both of them, unhurried.
You look away.
Six days remaining.
You are so bad at this.
The food arrives twelve minutes after you do.
He carries it up from the lobby without being asked. You find this out because you are at your desk going through the folder when you hear his footsteps in the hall, and then your office door opens and he comes in with two bags that smell extraordinary and sets them on the edge of your desk like this is something he does.
Like this is a thing that happens between people who are what you are pretending to be.
He pulls the chair from the corner to the other side of your desk.
He sits down.
He unpacks the food without making a thing of it — two containers, two sets of chopsticks, the dessert placed at the edge of the desk with the matter-of-fact certainty of someone who said dessert and meant it. You close the folder and watch him do this and your chest does something you have been managing since a fitting room and forty-seven buttons and have not successfully managed since.
He looks up.
"Eat," he says.
You pick up your chopsticks.
Outside, Seoul is rain and light and the city doing what it does, indifferent and beautiful, while inside your office Min Yoongi sits across your desk eating somewhere-expensive steak like it is the most ordinary thing, like you have been doing this for years, like six days from now he will still be here and not standing in an apartment somewhere else with Tang and a cello stand and a lamp that was always meant for you.
You eat.
You do not say any of this.
Neither does he.
The rain goes on.
Somewhere around eleven-thirty, without either of you deciding to, the dinner becomes something else.
Not dramatic. Not announced. You finish eating and close the delivery containers and you go back to the grant folder and he stays in the chair across your desk and at some point you look up and he is reading something on his phone with the focused quiet of someone who has decided he is staying until you are done and has made his peace with however long that takes.
You look back at the folder.
You look back at him.
He is already looking at you.
This is the moment — the specific, mundane, devastating moment of looking up and finding someone already there, already looking, the way you only look at things you have been looking at for a while. The city is outside the window doing the rain. The office is warm. The folder is open. Everything is exactly as it should be and nothing is exactly as it should be and you hold the eye contact for two seconds longer than is strictly professional between two people who are only technically pretending.
He looks back at his phone.
You look back at the folder.
I should not be this aware of another person's breathing.
You find the page you need at eleven forty-seven.
Your eyes move across the page.
Your eyes move across the room.
He is still there.
You think, involuntarily and without wanting to, about the last time you were both in this office this late. The gala. The lamplight. The two of you on opposite sides of this desk and then not on opposite sides and then, how his mouth felt on your skin, how his tongue felt on your—
You choke on nothing.
Literally nothing. There is no food in your mouth. Your body has simply decided that the memory currently playing in your head requires a physical response and has selected choking.
Yoongi looks up from his phone.
"Are you okay."
"Fine," you say. "Water."
You reach for the water bottle on your desk, drink approximately half of it in one go because you need something to do with your hands and this is the available option, set it down, and look at the grant folder. You do not look at the desk.
You do not look at the desk.
"You sure," he says.
"Completely fine," you say. "Just. Throat. Dry."
He looks at you for a moment.
He goes back to his phone.
You go back to the folder.
You do not look at the desk.
You look up at one AM and he is asleep. Somehow at some point he moved to you office's couch.
Not dramatically — not slumped, not struggling against it. Just asleep, quietly and completely, his head tipped back against the couch cushion, his phone still loosely in one hand, his face doing something in sleep that it doesn't do when he's awake — open, unmanaged, the whole careful architecture of it relaxed into something younger and softer and so unreasonably easy to look at that you sit at your desk and look at it for longer than you are going to admit to anyone.
He has practice tomorrow.
The Gwanghwamun concert is in two days and the members have been running the full set and he needs to sleep properly, in a bed, not on your office couch with his neck at that angle, and you should wake him up.
You close the folder.
You stand up.
You cross the office.
The box should not have been there. You know this. You put it there two weeks ago when you were reorganizing the storage situation and meant to move it and did not move it and have been navigating around it since with the careful awareness of someone who knows a hazard exists and has not addressed it. In the dark, at one AM, tired and full of somewhere-expensive steak and three and a half years of accumulated information about Min Yoongi, you do not navigate around it.
Your foot finds the box.
The box does not move.
You do.
You land on his lap.
This is not a metaphor. This is physics — the box, the momentum, the couch, his lap, in that order, your hands going out to catch yourself and finding his shoulders instead, and suddenly you are sitting on Min Yoongi at one AM in your office and he is awake, he is very awake, looking at you with the startled alert expression of someone whose nervous system has made the transition from asleep to completely present in approximately half a second.
Then the expression shifts.
It shifts in a direction you were not prepared for.
One corner of his mouth moves.
"Are you throwing yourself at me now, doll?" he says. Low, still rough from sleep, and there it is — doll, at the end of it, quiet and certain, like it belongs there, like it has always belonged there.
Your face does the Dragon Room door thing.
"I tripped," you say.
"On what."
"A box."
"What box."
"A box that shouldn't be there."
"And yet," he says.
You open your mouth.
You close it.
You should stand up.
His hands have moved to your waist. Not decisively, not making a point of it — just there, settled, the way his hands are when he has decided something without announcing the decision. He is not suggesting, through any available signal, that you should stand up. His eyes at this distance are doing the thing they do in low light, warm and open, and he is looking at you like you are the only thing in the room.
You are still on his lap.
He does not appear to find this a problem.
You notice that you have noticed all of this.
He is still looking at you.
The rain is still going outside.
You think about the fitting room. About three and a half years. About the first time I heard her play said in his actual voice in a room full of people who were not you. About Mrs. Oh's question and his answer and the seamstress being very professional about everything.
You think about a lamp in the corner of the Flower Room.
A lamp the afternoon kids didn't need.
A lamp that was there when he left for his tour.
For you, you think. It was for you. It was always for you.
And then — because you are a person who feels things fully and says them when they need to be said and builds things out of them when you can, because you have never once in your life been good at lying to yourself, because the lamp and three and a half years and forty-seven buttons and a freaking wedding dress and his hands on your waist are simply too much truth for one day — you close the remaining distance and you kiss him.
He is still for half a second.
Just half a second — the space of someone receiving something they have been waiting for long enough that the arrival of it requires a moment of confirmation. Then his hands tighten at your waist and he kisses you back and it is nothing like the practice room and nothing like the fundraiser and nothing like the kitchen floor. Those were complicated and urgent and tangled up in everything else.
This is just — him. His mouth, unhurried, with complete attention, like he has decided this is worth doing properly and intends to do it properly. He smells like his cologne and rain and the fabric of his hoodie under your hands is soft and worn and his thumb traces a slow line along your waist that makes you forget, briefly and completely, what you were thinking about.
He makes a sound.
Low. Almost nothing. The sound of someone finding something they had stopped expecting to find.
Your hand moves to his jaw.
He tilts into it.
His hands move — one staying at your waist, one finding the back of your neck, thumb at the hinge of your jaw, tilting you toward him, and you go, entirely, without negotiation, because this is the thing about him that you have been filing away and managing and arranging Wednesdays around — that when Min Yoongi decides to pay attention to something he pays attention to it with everything and you are currently the thing he is paying attention to with everything and it is—
It is a lot.
It is three and a half years of a lot.
His mouth moves and yours answers and somewhere in the middle of it a small, traitorous, completely inconvenient part of your brain says: oh. this is what it was supposed to feel like. this is what it has always been.
You pull back.
Not dramatically. Just — back, far enough to breathe, his forehead against yours, both of you not quite willing to create more distance than that.
His hands have not moved.
Your hand is still at his jaw.
"You have practice tomorrow," you say.
Your voice comes out steady. This is impressive given current conditions.
He looks at you.
"I do," he says.
His voice is not steady.
This is the most satisfying thing that has happened today and today contained a great deal.
You stand up.
Your legs work. This is good. You were not entirely certain they would.
You go back to your desk and pick up your bag and the grant folder and you do not look at him and he does not look at you and the office is very quiet and the rain is very present and both of you are functioning in the careful, deliberate way of people who have just done something significant and have agreed, without discussing it, not to discuss it yet.
"I'm ready," you say, to your bag.
"Okay," he says, to the couch.
He stands.
He picks up his keys.
You turn off the office light.
The drive home is the quietest it has been.
Not the comfortable quiet of people who don't need to fill silence. Not the charged quiet of the card game or the bridal shop or the fitting room. Something new — the quiet of two people sitting inside something that has just changed shape and is still settling and neither of them is ready to look at directly yet.
The rain on the windshield.
The wipers.
Seoul at one AM, quieter than Seoul is allowed to be, the streets mostly empty and shining with it.
His hands on the wheel.
Your hands in your lap.
He pulls up outside your building.
Neither of you moves.
The engine runs.
The rain runs.
"Goodnight," you say finally.
"Goodnight," he says.
You get out.
You go inside.
In the elevator you press the button for your floor and lean against the wall and look at the ceiling and think about the lamp and his hands and are you throwing yourself at me now, doll and the sound he made that was almost nothing and meant everything.
six days.
you were already failing on day two.
You think about the lamp. He put a lamp there. For you. Three and a half years ago he stood in a doorway and heard you play and went home and came back the next Wednesday with a lamp because the Flower Room was dark at night and you were there at night and he—
The elevator opens.
You go inside.
You do not sleep for a very long time.
Nobody questions why you are in their practice room.
This is the thing about being in Yoongi's orbit for long enough — you stop requiring an explanation. He walked in with you, said nothing about it, went to find the choreographer, and the room absorbed you the way rooms absorb things that belong in them. You found a chair in the corner near the mirrors, and sat in it, and that was that.
You are Yoongi's person.
Nobody has said this out loud.
Nobody needs to.
Jin's wife finds you twelve minutes in.
You know her from the center — months of Tuesday afternoons, her showing up with her bakery apron still on sometimes, the cookies that have achieved a kind of legendary status among the kids who have tasted them. She is warm and direct and has the energy of someone who finds most situations interesting and this one particularly so.
She sits down beside you with a cookie in each hand and gives you one and looks at you with her whole face.
"Okay," she says, "I heard."
You look at her. "Heard what."
"About the—" she gestures between you and Yoongi's general direction across the room "—thing."
"What thing," you say carefully.
"The fake dating thing." She says this with the complete comfort of someone stating a weather fact. "I need you to tell me everything. Next week at the center. All of it."
You stare at her. "How do you—"
"Jin told me."
"How does Jin—"
"Yoongi told him."
"Yoongi—" You stop. You breathe. "Yoongi told Jin."
"Yoongi tells Jin everything eventually," she says, eating her cookie with serenity. "It just sometimes takes a while."
You look across the room at Yoongi, who is stretching near the mirror with his back to you and his ears, you note, doing the thing. Both of them. The full set.
He knew you were going to find out.
He said nothing.
You are going to address this later.
Jin materializes on your other side with the timing of a man who has been waiting for exactly this moment.
"Jagi," he says, to his wife, in the tone of someone who means please and also yes simultaneously, "let the woman breathe."
His wife looks at him.
"I need the tea," he tells her. "I also need the tea." He looks at you with the warm directness of someone who has decided you are good people and would like to know more about you. "Tell her everything. She'll tell me. It's a system."
"It's a good system," his wife confirms.
"It's a very good system," Jin says.
You look at the two of them.
You eat the cookie.
It is, as advertised, extraordinary. The kind of cookie that makes you feel that things are, fundamentally, going to be okay. You are not certain things are going to be okay. The cookie is convincing about it anyway.
"Next week," you tell her.
She beams.
Jin looks satisfied.
Jimin finds you five minutes later.
He says nothing. He just walks past your chair on his way to stretch, looks at you, and smiles — the full one, the one that knows things, the one that contains an entire editorial about the situation it has observed.
"Don't," you say.
He laughs.
Actually laughs, surprised out of him, bright and real, already walking away. "I didn't say anything," he calls back.
"You were going to."
"I wasn't going to say anything," he says, in the tone of someone who was absolutely going to say something.
He goes to stretch.
You eat the rest of your cookie.
Taehyung says hello, like the greeting is the only thing happening anywhere. He sits beside you for approximately forty-five seconds, asks about the center with genuine interest, and then steals the last cookie from Jin's wife's container with the smooth confidence of someone who has been doing this for years and has made his peace with the consequences.
Jin's wife watches this happen.
"Taehyung-ah," she says.
"It's very good," he tells her, already eating it.
She sighs the sigh of a woman who knew this was going to happen and brought extra.
Jungkook comes over between warm-ups, bouncing slightly on his heels the way he does when his body has decided it is ready and is waiting for everyone else to catch up. You know him better than the others — a month of Wednesdays will do that.
A month of him showing up at the center in a snapback with too much energy, somehow simultaneously the most famous person in any room and the one the kids decided was the most fun to boss around. He had been good with them. Better than good, actually, though you had not told Yoongi this because Yoongi had sent him there as a favor and you were not going to give him the satisfaction of being right about it.
He greets you like someone who has eaten Dani's emergency snacks and survived a full afternoon of Seojun's tempo opinions and considers that sufficient basis for a friendship. Then his expression does the thing it does when he has something to account for — a slight wince, preemptive, the face of a man preparing his defense before the charge has been read.
"How's Jisoo?" he says.
You look at him.
He looks at you.
Something settles into place — the month Yoongi was on tour, the sessions covered, the someone he said needed a productive thing to do with his time. The kid from Busan who showed up every Wednesday for four weeks and apparently left an impression.
"She's still mad at you," you say.
He winces. "The baduk game—"
"You beat her."
"She told me to play properly."
"She's twelve and she's never lost at baduk in her life and you beat her on the first game."
"I felt bad about it," he says, with the energy of someone who did not feel that bad about it.
"She wants a rematch," you say. "She's been practicing."
Something lights up in his face. "Yeah?"
"She's been practicing specifically to beat you. She told Dani. She made it official."
He grins — wide and uncomplicated, the grin of someone who has just been given a very good reason to go somewhere. "Tell her I'll come. Next week. Tell her I'm ready."
"I'll tell her," you say. "She'll make a whole thing of it."
"Good," he says, like this is exactly what he wants, and bounces back toward the center of the room.
Hoseok waves at you from across the practice room.
That's all — just a wave, warm and genuine, from a man who is on the other side of the room doing something with his phone that has pulled his whole face into a kind of concentrated stillness that doesn't belong to the usual version of him. You have met him before, briefly, through Yoongi, he's the kind of person who decides to be light because he has learned that light is a choice and has committed to it.
Right now he is not quite light.
He is something else — something quiet underneath the wave, something unresolved sitting in the stillness of him that you cannot name from across a room.
You wave back.
You file it without examining it.
Namjoon is the last to arrive.
He comes in fast and makes his way through the room with the long-strided focus of a man who is already thinking about the rehearsal. He spots you on the way past, does a brief double-take, and lifts a hand in greeting with the easy recognition of someone who has heard enough about you to feel like you are not a stranger.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey," you say.
He keeps moving.
The rehearsal starts.
It happens in the second run-through.
No warning, no cinematic slow motion, just the specific catastrophic physics of a very large man moving at full velocity around a corner that also contains another man who did not expect him there. Namjoon comes around the back of the formation at full stride, turning to say something to the choreographer over his shoulder, and does not see Yoongi until it is far too late to do anything about it.
The sound is not a crash.
It is the sound of physics being honest.
Namjoon goes down.
He goes down hard — the kind of hard that produces a silence in a room of professional performers who are not easily made silent. For a full second nobody moves.
Then everyone moves.
Namjoon is on the floor. He is trying, with considerable effort and visible concentration, to look like a man who is fine. He is not fine. You can see it from here — the way he has gone pale in a way that means pain being managed rather than pain being absent, the way he is breathing with just slightly too much care, the way his ankle is positioned wrong.
He puts his hand on Jin's shoulder and tries to stand.
He cannot stand.
He tries again.
He cannot stand.
The room goes from controlled to not controlled in approximately four seconds.
The choreographer is on the phone. A manager appears from somewhere — fast, focused, already calculating, the particular expression of someone for whom an artist's body is also a schedule and a Netflix deal and a concert in forty-eight hours. Two more managers materialize. Everyone is talking. Everyone is looking at Namjoon.
Nobody is looking at Yoongi.
You are looking at Yoongi.
He is three feet away from where the collision happened, upright, which is good, and quiet, which is not the same thing as fine. He has his hand at his left shoulder — just his fingers, pressed lightly there, the gesture of someone checking something they do not want to draw attention to.
You cross the room.
"The shoulder," you say, low enough that it is just the two of you.
He looks at you. "I'm fine."
"Yoongi."
"It's fine."
"Let me—"
"It's fine," he says, in the tone that means please don't make this a thing in front of everyone and also it hurts and also thank you for being the only person who checked.
You look at his hand, still at the shoulder.
You look at his face.
"Tell me later," you say.
He nods. One small nod. Okay.
Across the room, the main manager is saying something about the company medical center, about the doctor on call, about getting Namjoon looked at immediately—
Namjoon, from the floor, with the calm authority of someone who has made a decision and is not interested in discussing it, says:
"No."
The room stops.
He looks at the manager.
"Gangnam Medical Center," he says. "Call ahead."
Something in the way he says it — not a request, not a negotiation, like someone who knows exactly where he wants to go and why — makes you go very still.
You know Gangnam Medical Center.
You know who works there.
You know, in the way you know things you have not been told directly but have arrived at through the accumulated information of existing in a connected world, that Kim Namjoon did not say that address by accident.
The manager opens his mouth.
Namjoon looks at him.
The manager closes his mouth.
He steps away.
He makes the call.
You are driving.
You had looked at the way he was holding himself when they came out of the building and you had held out your hand for the keys and he had looked at you and you had looked back and he had given you the keys without a word because you both knew and neither of you was going to make it a thing.
So you are driving.
His family is waiting at the apartment. Dinner, his mother said this yesterday, like it was already decided, like you were already a person who came to dinner on Fridays evenings, and you had said yes with the ease of someone who has stopped noticing how easy it has become to say yes to these people. You notice now, in the car, with the city going past and Yoongi quiet in the passenger seat. You notice that you have been showing up to his family's dinners and his mother's schemes and his father's card games and Mrs. Oh's questions with something that stopped feeling like a performance several days ago and you are not sure when that happened exactly and you are not sure what to do with that.
You feel guilty about it in a way you cannot fully explain.
Not about them. About what comes after them.
You look at the road.
Yoongi is looking at his hands.
You clock this. You know what it means — the looking at hands, the breathing that is just slightly more deliberate than usual, the interior going somewhere that the exterior is trying very hard not to show. You have seen this before. You know the signs the way you know his silences — catalogued, filed, understood.
You do not say anything yet.
You let him breathe.
Two minutes. Three.
"His ankle," he says finally. "It's bad. Worse than he was saying."
"I know."
"He was managing it the whole time they were assessing him." A pause. "Trying to make it look better than it is."
"I know. I watched him."
Another pause. Longer. His hands tighten slightly in his lap.
"The concert—"
"You'll find a way," you say. Quietly. Certain. Not he'll find a way — you. All seven of you. The way you always have, across fifteen years and military service and a world that kept asking things of you and got them every time. "Like you always do."
He looks at you.
You look at the road.
He is quiet for a moment.
"He always does this," he says, about Namjoon, about the deciding-before-anyone-finishes-assessing. Something in his voice that is not quite exasperation and not quite admiration and is entirely both — the register of a man who has watched this particular person be stubborn for fifteen years and has made his peace with it and is also not entirely at peace with it right now.
"I know," you say. "You do it too."
He doesn't answer.
This is also an answer.
You drive.
His breathing evens out, slowly, over the next few minutes — the interior finding its level, the hands in his lap relaxing by degrees. You notice this the way you notice everything about him. You say nothing about it. He does not need you to say anything about it.
He just needs you to be here while it passes.
You are here.
"Gangnam Medical Center," you say, after a while. You say it with a smile you are not entirely trying to hide.
He glances at you.
"He knew where he wanted to go," you say. "He didn't have to think about it."
Yoongi is quiet for a moment. Then something in his expression loosens, just slightly, the tension of the last hour finding somewhere to go. He almost laughs — not quite, but close, the exhale of it. "He's fallen harder than he admits," he says.
He does not mean the ankle.
You look at him.
He looks at the road.
You look back at the window and think about small worlds and threads you only see when you stop looking directly at them.
"She's good," you say.
"Yeah," he says. No hesitation.
A pause.
"By the way," you say, in the tone you use when something is not by the way at all, "don't think I'm letting you off the hook for telling Jin about our — situation."
He has the grace to look slightly cornered.
"Jin's wife is expecting a full debrief," you continue. "At the center. Next week. Jin is expecting to hear it all from her immediately after, which means I'm essentially reporting directly to both of them." You pause. "She did promise to bake cookies. I'm planning to eat the entire batch myself. So there's that."
He exhales. Almost a laugh. More relaxed now, the breathing evening out. "They always know," he says. "All of them. I can't keep anything from them. It's — it's genuinely annoying." A pause. "Jimin especially. I hadn't even said anything and he already—" He stops. "He just knew."
"Of course he did," you say.
"It's a problem," he says.
"It really is," you agree.
The city goes gold outside the windows.
You drive.
Your phone rings at eight forty-six AM.
Not Dani. Not Yoongi's mother. Not a number saved with an emoji.
Incoming call: Choi Jisoo's sister.
You answer before the second ring.
"She fell," the sister says. Controlled. The voice of someone who has learned to be controlled in emergencies because the alternative is not useful. "Her wrist. I think it's sprained. I'm not sure. I don't—"
"Which hand," you say, already moving.
"Right."
"Is she crying?"
"She says it doesn't hurt." A pause. "It hurts."
"I'm coming," you say. "Don't move her. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
You grab your bag.
You grab your keys.
You go.
Gangnam Medical Center's emergency room at ten AM has the particular energy of a place that has already been busy for four hours and expects to be busy for eight more. Bright lights. The smell of antiseptic and institutional coffee. Three people ahead of you at the check-in desk and a nurse behind it who has the expression of a woman who has seen everything and is no longer moved by most of it.
Jisoo is in a chair against the wall with her right wrist cradled in her left hand and the expression of someone who has decided that displaying pain is beneath her.
Her sister is beside her — young, too young to carry what she carries, the exhaustion of it sitting somewhere behind her eyes in the way it sits on people who have been tired for so long they have stopped noticing it.
You sit on Jisoo's other side.
"Hey," you say.
"It's not that bad," Jisoo says.
"I know."
"I've had worse."
"I know."
"Teacher Min is going to make a whole thing of it."
"He doesn't know yet," you say.
Jisoo looks at you with the expression she uses when she finds adults adorably optimistic about something. "He'll know," she says.
You do not tell her that you have not texted anyone because you have been in the car for fifteen minutes and have been focused on getting here. You do not tell her that Dani, who knows everything before it finishes happening, is probably already handling the information distribution.
You take out your phone.
You text Minho.
He comes through the emergency room doors eleven minutes later in his pale blue scrubs with the small plush bear still pinned to the breast pocket — from a patient, always there, never removed — moving with the unhurried ease of someone who knows exactly where he is going and why.
He is not supposed to be here. This is not his ward, not his floor, not technically his jurisdiction on a Thursday morning when he has his own patients and his own rounds. He came anyway, because you texted him, because that is who he is — the person who shows up when the people he cares about need something, quietly and without making it a production.
He looks at Jisoo first.
"Hey," he says.
"Hi," Jisoo says, in the tone she reserves for adults she has decided are competent and will therefore be treated with conditional respect.
He crouches down to her level, looks at the wrist, asks her a few questions in the easy way he has with kids — not talking down, not performing gentleness, just treating her like a person who deserves accurate information about her own body.
Jisoo answers with the cooperative seriousness of someone who respects competence and is also quietly cataloguing everything for future reference.
"Scale of one to ten," he says.
"Three," Jisoo says.
He looks at her.
"Four," she says.
He keeps looking.
"Fine," she says. "Six. But functionally four."
"Functionally four," he repeats.
"I have things to do," she says. "I can't afford to be a six."
He looks at you.
You look at him.
This is, you have learned, the Jisoo experience — the assessment delivered with the practical clarity of someone who has decided that their own pain is an administrative inconvenience to be managed rather than an experience to be had.
"Not broken," he says, standing up. "Almost certainly a sprain. We'll get imaging to confirm but I'd put money on it." He looks at you. "You okay?"
"Fine. Thank you for coming."
"Of course." He gives the sister the reassuring summary you could see her needing — careful, clear, the way he talks to families, which is one of the things you have always admired about him — and then looks back at you. "I'm going to get you moved to a private room."
"You don't have to—"
"It'll be quieter," he says. "Better for imaging. Less waiting."
"Minho—"
"She needs imaging," he says, pleasantly and finally, which is the voice he uses when he has made a decision and is offering you the logic as a courtesy rather than a negotiation.
"I don't mind the waiting room," Jisoo says.
"You said functionally four," he tells her.
"I did say that," she agrees, with the tone of someone who has been outmaneuvered and is being gracious about it.
He leaves to arrange the room.
You look at Jisoo.
She looks at you.
"He's very efficient," she says.
"He is," you agree.
"I respect that," she says, like she is filing a professional review. A pause. "But Teacher Min is better looking."
You stare at her.
"And richer," she adds.
"Jisoo—"
"I'm making an objective assessment," she says, with the serenity of someone who finds the facts self-evident. "Teacher Min is better looking, significantly richer, and he came to my recital last year when he was supposed to be in Japan." She considers this. "That's a strong portfolio."
"Minho is a surgeon," you say, in the tone of someone who is not sure why they are defending this position to a twelve year old.
Jisoo looks at you.
"Does he have BTS money," she says.
"Jisoo," her sister says, from the other side of the hallway.
"I'm just doing the math," Jisoo says. "Someone has to."
"Nobody asked you to do the math," her sister says.
"Nobody asked me not to," she says. "Teacher Min is clearly the better option. I'm saying this as someone with a vested interest in the outcome."
"You're twelve," you say.
"I'm twelve with opinions," she says. "Those are different things."
Her sister looks at you over Jisoo's head with the expression of a young woman who loves her sister completely and finds her exhausting in equal measure. "I'm sorry," she says.
"She's not wrong about the recital," you say, before you can stop yourself.
Jisoo points at you. "See," she says. "Objective."
You look at the ceiling.
You look at the hallway.
You look anywhere that is not a twelve year old who is currently managing a sprained wrist and your love life simultaneously with the focused energy of someone who has decided both are her business.
"We're going to the private room now," you say.
"I'm just saying," Jisoo says, moving toward the room with the dignified suffering of a person who has made her point and is prepared to rest on it. "Teacher Min. Better option. That's my official position."
"Noted," you say.
"Filed," she says.
Her sister mouths I'm so sorry at you one more time.
You shake your head.
You are moving toward the private room, Jisoo's assessment hanging in the air behind you like a verdict that has been delivered and will not be revisited.
The private room is smaller than the waiting area and has one chair, one bed, and a window that looks out onto a grey Thursday morning. Minho arranged it in four minutes, which is the kind of efficiency that comes from knowing exactly who to call and being the person people want to do favors for. The sister sits in the chair. Jisoo sits on the bed with her wrist elevated on a pillow, looking around the room with the alert assessment of someone conducting a quality review.
"This is better," she announces.
"I'm glad you approve," you say.
Minho comes back through the door two minutes later with an update about the imaging timeline and a look on his face that is professional and warm and also, underneath both of those things, something quieter that you have been noticing since the emergency room and have not asked about yet. He sits on the edge of the bed opposite Jisoo and explains the next steps to her sister with the careful clarity he uses for families — no jargon, no glossing over, just the information they need in the order they need it.
You are standing by the window thinking about last night — about dinner, about the thing that happened, about the specific shape of the thing Yoongi did that you are still angry about and have not had a moment to process because the morning happened before the processing could — when the door opens.
He looks like he left somewhere at speed and has not entirely stopped moving.
Practice clothes — dark sweats, jacket half-zipped, his hair from rehearsal still doing what rehearsal hair does. No glasses. A man who has been crossing the city on a single objective and has arrived at it and is now taking inventory of the room to confirm the objective has been achieved.
He finds you first.
Then he finds Minho.
He stops.
A full, complete stop — the forward momentum arrested, the expression doing something fast and controlled that you recognize as the management system engaging at emergency speed. His eyes go from you to Minho to you to Minho's position in the room — sitting on the edge of Jisoo's bed, relaxed, in his pale blue scrubs with the plush bear on the pocket, entirely at home in a medical setting in a way that Yoongi, who has arrived at speed in practice clothes, is not.
The management system is working very hard.
It is not entirely succeeding.
You are still mad at him.
You are also — and this is the inconvenient part, this is the part you have been managing since you heard the door — moved. Unreasonably, unhelpfully moved. He has soundcheck in an hour. He has the biggest concert of the year in six hours. He left practice, crossed the city, walked through these doors, because Dani texted him about a twelve year old with a sprained wrist.
Because of course he did.
Because this is who he is.
You are mad at him and moved by him simultaneously and you have been doing this for three and a half years and you are very tired of it.
"You're here," you say. It comes out somewhere between accusation and relief. Both are accurate.
"Dani texted me," he says. He is still looking at Minho.
"You have soundcheck at one."
"Dani texted me."
"Yoongi—"
"Dani," he says, one more time, in the tone of a man who has decided this is the full explanation and is not elaborating further.
He looks at you then. Directly. The full version — not the wall, not the middle distance, you, taking in the fact that you are here and upright and apparently fine, and something in him settles by approximately two degrees.
"Is she okay," he says.
"Sprain," you say. "Minho looked at her."
Something moves through his face at Minho looked at her. It is fast. It is managed immediately. You see it anyway because you have been cataloguing his expressions for three and a half years and this particular one — the tight jaw, the careful neutral — is not new.
Minho stands up from the edge of the bed.
He looks at Yoongi professional and warm like he has decided to be courteous and is committing to it fully.
"She's fine," he says. "Sprain, not a break. Two weeks off the cello, then back to normal." A beat. "Good reflexes. She caught herself well."
Yoongi looks at him.
Minho looks at Yoongi.
The room has a specific quality to it that rooms have when two people who are aware of each other are in it and are being very professional about it.
Jisoo, from the bed, is watching this with bright, ancient attention like she has been handed a front row seat to something and intends to make full use of it. Her wrist is elevated. Her expression is serene. She looks like a twelve year old who has decided to simply observe and let events develop naturally because events are developing very interestingly.
"Thank you," Yoongi says, to Minho. Two words. The full extent of what he is going to give.
"Of course," Minho says. The full extent of what he is going to receive.
You look at the window.
You look at the ceiling.
You look at Jisoo, who looks back at you with an expression that says I see everything that is happening in this room and I find it very educational.
"How are you feeling," Yoongi asks her, crossing to the bed, and his whole register shifts — the Minho situation filed somewhere behind him, the focus moving completely onto her the way it always does when he is with her. He sits on the edge of the bed where Minho was, looks at the wrist, asks the questions.
"Six," Jisoo says, before he finishes asking.
He looks at her.
"Functionally four," she says.
"Jisoo."
"I have things to do today," she says. "I cannot afford to be a six."
"You're not doing anything today," he says.
"The concert—"
"You're watching from the seats with everyone else and your wrist is elevated the entire time."
She opens her mouth.
"Elevated," he says.
She closes it.
She looks at him with an expression that says she's deciding whether this battle is worth having and arriving at: not today. "Fine," she says.
He nods.
Something in his face, for just a moment, is not managed at all — just him, looking at this twelve year old who called him out on a Thursday for showing up for her and is now negotiating her pain level and her concert attendance with the serious pragmatism of someone twice her age. Something warm and quiet and entirely real.
Then he looks at you.
You are still mad at him.
He can tell.
He says nothing about it. He just looks at you because he knows he has something to account for and has not yet figured out how to account for it and is currently in a hospital room with an audience and is making the reasonable assessment that now is not the time.
Later, his expression says.
I know, yours says back.
Minho, who is a pediatric surgeon and a person who can read a room the way he reads patients — the thing being said and the thing underneath simultaneously — looks between you and Yoongi once. Just once. Then he looks at his phone and says, mildly, that he needs to check on the imaging, and excuses himself with the professional grace of someone who has decided that the room will function better with one fewer person in it.
The door closes behind him.
Jisoo watches it close.
She watches Yoongi.
She watches you.
"Functionally a two point five," she says again, to no one. Sagely. Like she is providing a status update on something larger than her wrist.
"Jisoo," her sister says, from the chair.
"I'm just saying," she says. "Things are developing."
Nobody asks what things.
Nobody needs to.
You needed air.
That is what you told yourself when you slipped out of the private room, and it is true enough that you are not going to examine it further. The hallway is fluorescent and antiseptic and not particularly better but it is not the room, and you stand against the wall and try to do the thing you are usually very good at.
You are not good at it right now.
You hear the door.
"Y/N."
Your name.
Not doll — which arrived without announcement and has lived between you ever since. Not Director, which was how it started. Not even director, said in front of people with something in it that made you both almost smile.
Your name. The way he says things when something is wrong enough to need the most accurate word.
You turn around.
"I just can't talk right now," you say, which is already not true. "Yesterday was a lot. Today was a lot. You have practice in forty-five minutes and you should already be on your way and I need to make sure the kids get picked up and your mother has been texting me all morning and I don't know what to say to her, Yoongi, I don't know what I'm—"
You stop.
You are crying.
In a hospital hallway. In public. You press your hand to your mouth and look at the ceiling and feel, genuinely, like the most on-brand version of yourself that has ever existed.
"I know," he says.
Not I know you're fine. The whole thing. All of it.
"Do you?" you say. Bitter. Tired. True. "Do you really."
His phone lights up in his pocket. The concert in six hours. Practice in forty-five minutes.
"Go," you say.
"Y/N—"
"Go, Yoongi." You look away. If you look at him you will start crying again. "You have somewhere to be."
A pause.
"Promise me," he says. "After the concert. We talk. Actually talk."
You think about twelve days and fake things and real things and the line between them that you stopped being able to find somewhere around day two.
"Okay," you say.
He goes.
You stand in the hallway until his footsteps are gone.
You think about fake things that stopped being fake before anyone noticed. About real things that have been sitting in the same room as you for three and a half years wearing the costume of something smaller.
You wipe your face. You go back inside.
Jisoo looks at you when you come through the door.
She looks back at you.
She says nothing. From Jisoo, that is the loudest thing she has ever said.
Read Part 4
I am but a women, last week I wanted to nail Yoongi to the cross , this week I want to cuddle him in my ample breast (where he can exercise the option to motorboat) because our sweet baby offered his love in the only way his weary heart knew how. That is quietly and constantly without any fanfare . Mama Min knows the heart of our resident shy boy and comes to his aide to give him a literal platform to confess these sweet tender feelings . And we say thank you . Because what do you mean , four months in you folded Min ,
Our Director-nim is an imbeciele when it comes to love but we love her still. BC similar to Yoongi ,Dani is not one to waste words but I do believe they would inform our Director of how the grant funds were being used . I like how Yoongi mirrors the Director by seeing a need and filling it without a grand announcement , similar to how she spoke of the older kids still needing attention but at that age they have learned to manage unlike the younger kids . Its nice that they both see what others can often ignore . Yet they ignore their feelings which everyone else can see plain as day.
Yoongi in the bridal shop was a sight to see ,with all the flushing ears and lost of his management system,I do believe he needed a complete reboot by the end . Him stumbling at the combination of Director-nim and bride in the same sentence. You would think after Auntie they would be better with questions . But who could have predicited the chaos Mrs. Oh would bring along with her.
Even when they leave behind the dress with 47 buttons and matching set of Dragon Room red ears and flushed cheeks , Yoongi still provides relief for his bride to be Director-nim
"This is the other thing about him — the way he just does things. No performance of the doing, no announcement of the doing, just the thing done, quietly and completely, and then on to the next thing"
Our resident love fool can see this about Yoongi in all aspects outside of herself , and hide behind the paper think excuse that he is simply performing , our Yoongi who gives four worded answers is not one to perform when he is not so inclined . And baby the ears do not lie . Shout out to Yoongi's gray hairs , as his noona I love the fact I have yet to grey . but after this shame of a contract I'm sure he will have more grey to join in .
Okay her meeting the band as one , of course Yoongi sent his baby to the center in replacement of him , but how dare he beat Jisoo , Out of all the members stories outside of Yoongi I am itching at the bit to read Hobi's , with the few details that have been released I'm interested in the world you will build around him and all of those feelings .
Jin's wife is so cute , because of course Yoongi told Jin. But its nice she has another Bangtan partner that can hopefully be source of friendship .Joon is clumsy in every universe I fear , but look at Director-nim checking in on her man. Again they pick and choose when they want to understand each other when no words are even being used . We could have saved 3 years if that was the case
My sweet baby Jisoo is in the hospital , Jesus take me now !!!!! (wait who's number is only saved with and emjoi) Now that I have forgiven Yoongi since last chapter Dr. Bae can buzz off , we already have a resident Bangtan Dr. Love affair going on with Joon. Jisoo is a treat but yes girl ask the right questions "Does he have BTS money" and what do u mean he flew in for her recital when he was suppose to be in Japan , my ovaries clenched just now , and him rushing over disregarding his schedule to check in and be present . Mr Min the man you are , even if the system management struggles to process in time in the presence of Dr.Bae .
But Yoongi what is the point of dropping everything you are doing to fly across town , but at the sight of tears , you dont carry that same energy and it gets pushed to later .... Now I see why we have been doing this song and dance for the last three years
🎹 Pairing: BTS Suga (Min Yoongi) x Reader (Arts Center Founder!Reader)
Min Yoongi calls you after eight months of silence and asks you to pretend to be his girlfriend for two weeks. You say yes, because you're apparently that person. The plan: convince his parents, collect the grant funding, don't catch feelings. The problem: you already have them. The bigger problem: so does he. The biggest problem: he wrote a whole song about it and neither of you has said a single word out loud.
Two weeks. A Fake relationship. Real everything else.
🎹 Genres: Fake Dating, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Angst with a dahs of Hope, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Celebrity x Non-Celebrity, Emotional Drama, He has written eight songs about her and she doesn't know it yet, It's a bit of a rom-com, Min Yoongi and his hair, (Yes, that is a genre) 🎹 Short summary: "The deal was twelve days of fake. It ended up being the only thing that wasn't."
🎹 Chapter index: Read Part One Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 EPILOGUE
🎹 Rating: 18+ (minors DNI)
🖤 THE B-SIDE SERIES MASTERLIST
He is in the Flower Room when you arrive on Thursday afternoon.
This is a problem.
For eight months you have known which days he comes.
Not because you asked. Because Dani tells you, and Dani tells you because some information is simply necessary, like weather forecasts and expiration dates and which days to be somewhere else.
He comes on Wednesdays. Or he used to — every Wednesday, without fail, without announcement. Now it depends on the schedule, on rehearsals, on wherever the comeback cycle is pulling him that week. He tells Dani when he's coming. Dani tells you. You arrange yourself accordingly.
So you have grant meetings on Wednesday afternoons. You do home visits on Wednesday afternoons. You have become, over eight months, a person with a very full Wednesday schedule, and this has worked perfectly, and you have never discussed it with anyone.
Today is Thursday.
He is not supposed to be here on Thursday.
You find out because Dani looks up when you walk through the door at four-fifteen and does the thing with their eyes — and then you realize something else. Dani did not text you. Dani did not call. Dani, who texts you when the supply closet is running low on glitter, who called you once at seven AM to tell you Seojun had left his metronome overnight, who knows everything that happens in this building before it finishes happening —
Dani did not warn you.
You look at them.
They look at their clipboard.
"He's in the Flower Room," they say.
You stand in the entrance.
"Since when."
"Three."
You look at the clock. It is four-seventeen.
"Why is he in the Flower Room," you say. "His session isn't until—" You stop. "He doesn't have a session today."
"No," Dani says. "He just. Came."
"Yes."
"On a Thursday."
"It is Thursday," Dani confirms, helpfully.
You look at the Flower Room door at the end of the hall. Yellow, like everything else in this building, with a small painted flower above the handle that Kim Soomin added five or four years ago and that has since become load-bearing in terms of the room's entire identity.
The Flower Room is the best practice room in the center.
It has the best acoustic panels, the best lighting, the best cello stand. It did not used to be the best practice room. It became the best practice room quietly, incrementally, over the course of approximately a three and a half years— new panels here, better stand there, a small lamp in the corner that appeared one Wednesday without explanation. You have never asked who arranged this. You already know. You have known since the second panel went up and nobody mentioned it.
Jisoo has the Flower Room every Thursday at four.
"So he's here," you say, "on a Thursday, at four, in the Flower Room."
"Yes," Dani says.
"Did he say why he's here?"
Dani looks at their clipboard. "I couldn't say."
"Dani."
"He said he was in the neighborhood."
You look at them.
"We are not," you say carefully, "in a neighborhood anyone is just in."
"No," Dani agrees. "We are not." They make a small note on their clipboard. "Should I tell him you're here?"
"No," you say, immediately.
Dani nods. Makes another note. Does not look up. "Your office is upstairs by the end of the hall," they say. "Past the Flower Room."
"I know where my office is."
"The window is quite small," Dani says, turning a page. "Very easy to walk past without looking in."
You pick up your bag.
"I'm not going to look in," you say.
"Of course not," Dani says.
You walk down the hallway.
You look in.
Through the small rectangle of reinforced glass.
And you see them.
Jisoo is at the cello. She plays it like she is having an argument with it
She’s too smart for her age, the instrument almost too large for her in a way she has decided is nobody's problem but hers. She came to the center through a school referral four years ago. The note said exceptional, difficult circumstances, please consider. You called the same afternoon.
What the note didn't say — what you learned later, in pieces — was that she had been holding a cello since she was five years old, that her parents used to drive her forty minutes each way to lessons every Saturday morning, that when they died she stopped playing for seven months because the instrument smelled like the back seat of their car. That she came back to it not because anyone asked her to but because she couldn't stay away. Because some things are louder than grief.
She plays like she is proving something. Has always played like this — not to an audience, not for approval, but to the music itself, like she is making a case for her right to be in it. Like she arrived somewhere she was told she might not belong and decided the telling was irrelevant.
You recognized this immediately.
You recognized it immediately. You have seen it before, in different forms, in people who have learned that the world does not automatically make space for you — that you have to insist on it, take up room, prove that you belong here as loudly and precisely as possible.
And when Yoongi walked into the center three and a half years ago and heard her through a closed door and you watched his face do the thing it does when something lands — not surprise, not admiration, something older than both of those — and you thought: oh, he recognizes it too.
He's hearing something else entirely.
He's hearing a seventeen year old in Daegu who knew the underground rap scene better than he knew his own reflection, who got on a bus to Seoul because Seoul made sense and staying didn't, who walked into a basement practice room with mirrors that fogged in winter and stayed until they didn't fog anymore. He's hearing the training years — the hunger of them, not metaphorical hunger, the real kind, the kind that lives in your stomach and your chest simultaneously and makes you work harder because stopping is worse than the hunger. He's hearing the rage that became Agust D and the grief that became his last album and the thing underneath both of those that was always just a boy who heard music differently and needed the world to know it.
He's hearing all of that in a twelve year old girl with a cello.
And he knows — because he is the person who got on that bus, who had exactly one person in his corner and not much else — what it means that Jisoo has a sister who works three jobs to make sure there is food and a roof and clean clothes. He knows what it means that there is no space left in that equation for lessons, for instruments, for someone to sit in a chair and listen to her play like it is the most important thing happening anywhere in the world.
He knows because nobody did that for him either.
So he does it for her.
He doesn't say any of this out loud.
Neither have you.
He upgraded the Flower Room instead.
Inside, Jisoo has stopped playing and is saying something. You cannot hear it through the glass but you can see the shape of it — unhurried, precise, a twelve year old making a point she has clearly decided needs to be made.
Yoongi is sitting on the floor beside her cello stand, back against the wall, legs crossed. Not in a chair. The floor, like he decided the chair was optional and the floor would do. He is looking up at her with the expression he gets when someone has said something that caught him off guard — not surprised, exactly. More like recalibrating.
She finishes whatever she was saying.
He looks at her for a moment.
Then he laughs.
You know his laughs. You have three and a half years of them filed away without meaning to. This one catches him completely — his head drops back against the wall, something in his face goes briefly, entirely unmanaged, and then it's gone.
Jisoo watches this with the satisfaction of a person who set out to accomplish something and accomplished it. Then she turns back to her sheet music with the focus of someone who has said what needed saying and is now ready to move on.
You stand in the hallway.
You should keep walking. Your office is six feet further and you have forty-three emails and a center to run and nine days of pretending to survive and you should absolutely not be standing outside the Flower Room watching Min Yoongi laugh at something a twelve year old said like it is the best thing that has happened to him all week.
You should keep walking.
You were never going to keep walking.
He sees you through the glass at four twenty-three.
You have been standing here for six minutes, which you know because you looked at your watch at four-seventeen and you have been looking at it every thirty seconds since, as though time is something you can manage by checking on it frequently. It is not. Six minutes. You are still here.
He turns his head and there you are, caught completely, hand half-raised to wave, the universal gesture of someone who was absolutely just walking past.
A beat.
You wave.
A small, caught, entirely undignified wave.
He looks at you for a moment.
Then he raises his hand back.
Jisoo swivels on her chair, sees you, and waves with her whole arm in the large uncomplicated way of someone who has not yet learned that enthusiasm requires apology.
You wave back at her the same way.
Something moves in his face that you don't have a clean word for. He says something to Jisoo, who nods and turns back to her sheet music, already somewhere else entirely. He gets up off the floor and comes to the door.
You are standing in the hallway like a person who was absolutely just walking past.
"Hey," you say.
"Hey," he says.
A pause.
"She's getting better," you say, nodding toward Jisoo, who is already playing again, slow and deliberate, like she and the cello are negotiating something.
"She fights it less," he says. "The tempo."
"I've been working on that with her."
"I know."
Of course he knows. He knows everything that happens at this center whether he is here or not, because Dani tells him, and Dani tells him because Dani understands that some information is infrastructure, and you have never discussed this with anyone either.
You look at each other.
Eight months of careful scheduling. Eight months of Wednesdays becoming grant days or becoming site visit days and all the elaborate, exhausting choreography of two people in the same orbit who have decided not to collide. And now it is Thursday at four twenty-three and you are both just — here. In the hallway. Standing in the ordinary space of each other like no time has passed and like all the time has passed and both of those things are true at once.
"I didn't know you were coming today," you say.
"I didn't know you'd be here," he says.
Which is, you realize, the first honest thing either of you has said that has nothing to do with his parents or the deal or the nine days remaining.
You look at him.
He looks at you.
"I'll get out of your way," he says.
"You're not in my way," you say, which is not strictly true, which you both know, which neither of you addresses.
From inside the Flower Room: Jisoo, starting the piece from the beginning. Slower this time. Like she and the cello have finally agreed on something.
"She said something funny," you say. "I saw you laugh."
Something shifts in his expression. "She said I didn't have to pretend I came to hear her play."
You look at him. "She said that."
"Yes."
"So then what did she say."
He is quiet for a moment. Not the quiet of someone deciding whether to answer — the quiet of someone deciding how.
"She asked me why I came."
"And?"
"I told her I was in the neighborhood."
You look at him.
He looks at the wall just past your left shoulder. This is one of his tells — Min Yoongi, who will hold eye contact across a dinner table and a card game and eight months of loaded silence, cannot look directly at the person in front of him in the small moments when looking would mean admitting something. The wall past your left shoulder means he knows exactly how the thing he just said sounds and is not ready to watch you hear it.
"We are not," you say, "in a neighborhood anyone is just in."
"I'm aware."
"What did she say to that."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"She said Teacher Min, it's Thursday." He says it in the particular flat delivery of someone quoting a sentence that destroyed them a little. "And then she looked at me. And then she looked at the door."
He stops.
You look at the door.
Your office door. Closed. Twelve feet down the hallway, the same door it has always been, the same door you have walked through every day for almost 8 years, the same door that is — you are realizing, standing here, with the information currently being handed to you by a man who cannot look directly at you — apparently something a twelve year old pointed at as an explanation.
The hallway is very still.
You understand what Jisoo was saying.
You understand it completely. Immediately. You have been not-understanding it for eight months with considerable effort and apparently all it took was a girl and a Thursday and a look at a door and now you understand it and there is nowhere to put that.
Teacher Min, it's Thursday.
Not: you don't come on Thursdays. Not: why are you really here. Just the day. Just the fact of it, stated plainly, with a look at a door, by a child who has been watching two adults move around each other in this building for eight months and has apparently run out of patience for the performance.
You look at the door to your office.
You look back at him.
He's not looking at you.
"She's twelve," you say.
"She's twelve," he says, "and she made a face at me that I have only ever seen on people who are in their seventies and have run out of patience for everyone around them."
"What kind of face."
"The kind," he says, carefully, "that meant she already knew the answer and was asking the question as a courtesy."
"She's inconveniently perceptive," it's the only thing you can force yourself to say.
"She gets it from spending too much time with adults."
He looks at you.
"Present company included," you add.
From inside the Flower Room, entirely unbothered, Jisoo plays on. Like she said what she needed to say and has moved on to more important things. Like the answer was obvious and the only question was how long it would take everyone else to catch up.
You look at each other.
Neither of you says anything else about it.
You press your lips together.
"Don't," he says.
"I'm not doing anything."
"You're doing the face."
"I don't have a face—"
"You have," he says, "several faces."
You look at him.
He looks back.
And there it is again — the real laugh, small and private and completely unguarded, and this time you are right in front of it. Close enough to feel the rarity of it. Close enough to remember every version of it you have collected over three and a half years without meaning to.
The laughter fades.
The hallway goes quiet again.
The distance between you is not very large and is also enormous and you are both aware of this and neither of you moves.
"I should—" you start.
"Yeah," he says.
"Emails," you say.
"Right."
You take a step back.
"Yoongi," you say.
He looks at you.
You want to say something. You can feel it — the thing that has been sitting exactly where he put it for eight months, the morning neither of you has named, the words that came out of his mouth that he did not mean and has never taken back. It is right there. It has always been right there.
You look at him and you think about a kitchen and something sharp and a door closing behind you and eight months of Thursdays spent somewhere else.
"The sheet music," you say instead. "She'll want to keep it."
A pause.
"I know," he says. "It's hers."
You nod.
You walk to your office.
You sit down at your desk.
You open your email.
You close your email.
From down the hall, through the walls of the Flower Room: Jisoo, still playing. Slower than before. Like she has finally decided that the music does not need to be won. Like it is enough to just — be in it.
You sit with that for a moment.
Eight months ago, it was also a Thursday.
The restaurant was the kind of place that required reservations two weeks in advance and had a sommelier who took his job very seriously and lighting so carefully considered that everyone inside it looked like the best version of themselves. Your boyfriend had made the reservation. He had told you about it three days in advance, which was the kind of thoughtfulness you had been trying to remember to appreciate, the kind that deserved appreciation, the kind that you were genuinely grateful for.
The mint green dress had been hanging in your closet for six months. You had bought it for something else and never worn it. Tonight you had put it on because it was a nice restaurant and he had made a reservation and you were trying.
You were trying.
Outside, Seoul was being dramatic about the weather. June rain — not the polite kind, not a drizzle, but the full committed version, the kind that hits the pavement and bounces back up, that turns the streets into moving rivers, that makes the city look from inside a warm restaurant like something from a film about a city. The windows were streaked with it. The light from the street lamps broke into pieces on the glass. Everything outside was blurred and everything inside was warm and your boyfriend was telling you something about a patient, something funny that had happened, and you were laughing in the right places.
You were doing fine.
Your phone buzzed.
You glanced at it under the table. A habit — you run a center, there are children, sometimes things happen after hours. A reflex.
Min Yoongi: Can you come over.
Not a question. He didn't punctuate it as a question but you read it as one anyway — the way he says things that are actually asking when he has decided that asking directly is not something he can do right now. You looked at the message for a moment. Then you looked up at the restaurant, at the sommelier taking his job seriously, at the rain doing its thing to the windows, at the man across the table from you who had made a reservation two weeks ago because that is who he is.
Your boyfriend was watching you.
Not accusingly. Just — watching. The way he always did, with a patience that was one of the things you loved most about him and that tonight felt like something else entirely. He was a good man. He is a good man. He knew about the center, about the kids, about the piano guy who came on Wednesdays and wasn't just a colleague and wasn't quite a friend and wasn't something you had a clean word for. He never pushed. Never made it a thing.
He understood, genuinely, that you were someone who ran toward people who needed help and that this was not a character flaw but the whole of your character, and he loved you for it.
But he was also a doctor. A pediatrician specifically — a man who had spent years learning to read what people couldn't say yet, what children couldn't articulate and parents were too frightened to name, the truth that lived in the space before the words arrived.
He was very good at this.
It was one of the things you admired most about him and it was, tonight, the thing that made it impossible to pretend.
He had been watching your face for long enough to know what it did when your phone lit up with that name. What it did when you came back from the center on Wednesdays quieter than you left. What it did right now, in this restaurant, in the careful light, when you looked at your phone and then looked up at him with the expression of a woman who has already made a decision and is only now telling her face about it.
He didn't need you to explain.
That was the thing about him — he never needed you to explain. He just waited, with the same patience he brought to every frightened child and every worried parent, for the truth to find its own way out.
"You need to go," he said. Not a question either.
"I—" you started.
"Is it him."
Is it him.
Not who is it. Not what's wrong. Just: is it him. Like he already knew. Like he had known for a while and had been waiting, with that same patience, for the moment you caught up.
He was not angry.
That was almost worse.
You looked at your phone. At the message that was not a question.
"Yes," you said.
You meant more than you said.
He knew that too.
He was quiet for a moment. Something moved across his face. The expression of a man who has understood something that he wishes he didn't understand quite so clearly.
"Go," he said.
"The food—"
"I'll have them box it." He picked up his wine glass. Set it down again. "My roommate will appreciate it. She's been in back to back tibial plateau fracture repairs since six AM and I guarantee she hasn't eaten since yesterday." A small, careful smile. The kind that costs something to produce. "Go."
You picked up your bag.
You stood.
You looked at him across the table, in the restaurant he had reserved two weeks ago, in the careful light that made everyone look like the best version of themselves.
"I'm sorry," you said.
"I know," he said.
You went.
Outside, the rain was immediate and total.
You had not brought an umbrella because you had come from the center and at the center you never thought about umbrellas until you needed one, and now you needed one, and you didn't have one, and so you walked to your car in the June rain in the mint green dress and told yourself this was fine.
It was ten-fourteen PM.
You drove to Hannam with the rain doing everything it could to the windshield and your wipers losing the argument and the city blurred and brilliant outside the glass. His building appeared through the rain like something out of a different category of life — the kind of building that exists in a part of Seoul where the buildings are allowed to be quiet about what they cost, where the security is good and the lobby is marble and the elevator operates with a smoothness that implies it has never once considered having a bad day.
You had been here before.
You knew the code.
He had given it to you a year ago after the first time you had shown up because he called, and you had thought: this is a line we are crossing, and you had crossed it anyway because that was the kind of people you apparently were with each other.
The elevator opened on his floor.
You knocked.
He opened the door before you finished knocking.
He was standing back from the door, already moving toward the window, like he had opened it and then needed to be somewhere else immediately. The apartment was dark except for the city — Hannam falling away below the glass wall, the Han beyond it, all of it refracted through rain until it looked like a painting of itself rather than the actual thing.
He was still dressed — dark clothes, like he'd come home from somewhere and not changed, or like he'd been somewhere in his head all day and the clothes were just what he'd been wearing when it started. His hair was pushed back from his face. He had a glass in his hand, nearly empty, and there was a bottle on the counter that you clocked immediately and that told you most of what you needed to know.
Not drunk. He was not drunk.
But he had been drinking in the careful, deliberate way he did when he was trying to stay level and the level was getting harder to maintain.
"Hey," you said.
"Hey." He didn't turn from the window. "You're wet."
"It's raining."
"I know." A pause. "Sorry. I should have—" He stopped. "You didn't have to come."
"I know," you said. "I'm here."
You set your bag down by the door. You found a towel in the bathroom, you knew where the bathroom was, you knew where the towels were — and you dried your hair and your arms as much as was practical and you came back into the living room and stopped.
Tang was sitting in the middle of the floor looking at you.
Tang was a black cat that the center kids had found shivering behind the recycling bins eight months ago and that Yoongi had taken home after three weeks of pretending he was still deciding. He had said, with great seriousness, that the cat reminded him of someone. He had not elaborated. You had not pushed because you were laughing too hard.
Tang did not behave like a cat. Tang behaved like a golden retriever who had been told he was a cat and found this information irrelevant. He was loud and opinionated and constitutionally incapable of understanding that personal space was a thing that existed. He had opinions about everything — your bag, your coat, the towel in your hand, the specific way you were standing in his living room — and he was sharing all of them simultaneously.
You crouched down.
He walked directly into your knees and started talking.
"I know," you told him.
He had more to say.
"I know," you said again.
He headbutted your hand with the urgency of someone who has been waiting all day for this specific interaction and needs you to understand the gravity of it. You scratched behind his ears. He closed his eyes and leaned into it with his whole body, swaying slightly, purring at a volume that suggested the concept of subtlety had never once occurred to him.
From the window, without turning around: "He's been like that all day."
"Stressed?"
"Loud," Yoongi said. "Same thing."
You looked at Tang, who had now climbed partially into your lap despite the fact that you were crouching and this was not a structurally sound arrangement for either of you. You looked at Yoongi at the window, his back to the room, the city below him and the rain against the glass.
You sat down on the floor.
Tang rearranged himself immediately, completely, with the efficiency of someone who has been waiting for exactly this and knew it was coming.
You sat with him for a while.
Yoongi stayed at the window for a while longer.
The rain.
The city.
The glass in his hand that he set down on the windowsill eventually without finishing it.
Then he came and sat on the floor too.
He tells you about the meeting.
He talks.
This is the first thing that tells you how bad it is — Yoongi, who measures words like they cost something, who will sit in silence for twenty minutes rather than say a thing he hasn't finished thinking, is talking fast. Faster than you have ever heard him talk. Like he has been holding this for days and the pressure of it has finally found the crack and now it is coming out whether he is ready or not.
The label first. The new album.
Four years — four years of solo work and military service and their own lives growing in directions nobody planned for, and now the label wants the biggest comeback and tour of their careers and all seven of them have come back to the table with four years of different opinions about what that looks like and none of those opinions are the same.
He talks about the charts and losing the Grammys and the award shows and the comments he doesn't read, can't read, because he knows himself well enough to know that reading them right now would break something he has only recently finished putting back together.
He talks about the fight — one of the worst in fifteen years, he says, and the way he says it tells you that fifteen years of fights is a number he has counted, that he knows exactly where this one lands in the ranking and it is not good.
They love each other. That is not the question.
The question is that they are not just seven men in a group anymore.
They are seven men with businesses and families and futures that extend beyond the thing they built together, and protecting all of that simultaneously while also trying to make something worthy of four years of waiting is — he reaches for the word and doesn't find it and keeps going.
Hoseok is getting married.
He says this and something in his face goes genuinely, unguardedly happy for a moment — the anger pausing around it, the fast talking slowing down, because this one is good news, this one is the kind of thing that cuts through everything else. They are so happy, he says. Both of them. Yoongi says it like it is the one clean thing in an otherwise complicated evening.
You smile when he says it.
Jin and his wife are trying for a baby. Their first. Yoongi says this and then goes quiet for a second, the fast talking pausing around it like even he needs a moment to hold it carefully.
They are trying to start a family in the middle of all of this. In the middle of comeback season and label meetings and a fight still sitting unresolved in the group chat. They shouldn't have to do this right now. They should have quiet. Space. Time. The thing that being in BTS has always made very difficult to come by.
It really gets to him. You can hear it underneath everything else — the anger, the whiskey, the words coming out too fast. This one is actually breaking his heart.
Namjoon is having episodes again, not sleeping, the weight of the comeback already sitting on him like it always sits on him, heavier than it sits on anyone else because that is what being the leader has always cost and Namjoon has always paid it without complaint and Yoongi has always hated that about him.
Namjoon is also seeing someone.
He hasn't said so.
He doesn't have to say so.
Yoongi has known him for fifteen years and he knows exactly what Namjoon looks like when he has stopped being careful, when something has gotten past the walls he builds, when he is trying very hard to act normal about something that is not normal for him at all.
Taehyung has disappeared — gone to wherever he goes before comeback season, the place nobody is given an address for, the place he comes back from quieter and more himself and ready.
Jimin is pouring everything into his own dance center, his own vision, and Yoongi says this with pride and something more complicated underneath it.
And Jungkook — that kid, he says, that absolute kid — has a motorcycle now and is being reckless with it in a way that keeps Yoongi up at night in a manner he will not fully articulate.
They are all drifting, he says.
He says it quietly. The fast talking has run out of momentum somewhere in the middle of Jungkook and the motorcycle and now he is just — here, on the floor, with the city below the glass and the rain against it, and he has poured himself another whiskey at some point and he is looking at it like it is something he is disappointed in himself for needing.
He hasn't been angry in months, he says.
He's angry now.
You look at him.
Your heart is doing something you don't have a name for and are not going to name right now, something that lives in the chest just below the ribs, something that has been there since the moment you walked in and found him at the window and has been getting louder with every sentence.
You know this man.
You know what it costs him to talk this fast, to say this much, to let any of it be visible. You know that the whiskey glass is not about the whiskey.
You know that I haven't been angry in months is not a complaint but a grief — the grief of someone who worked very hard to stop being angry and is watching it come back and doesn't know yet if he has the tools to stop it again.
You don't say any of this.
You sit with Tang in your lap and you listen and you let him finish.
He talked for a long time.
You listened the way you always listened to him — without filling the spaces, without offering solutions before he'd finished the problem. He needed to say it. You let him say it.
At some point you realized you were both crying.
You didn't know when it had started. His first, probably, quietly, in the way he cried — without drama, without announcement, the tears just there, like the next honest thing after words. And then yours, because you knew how much this cost him, how much he had carried, how long he had been the person who converted pain into output and now the output was stalling and the pain had nowhere to go.
The rain against the windows.
The city lights broken into pieces.
His hands on his knees, and your hand not quite touching his, and the space between you charged with three and a half years of almost.
He kissed you.
It wasn't the first time. You both knew it wasn't the first time.
There was the practice room first — seven months ago, a Wednesday evening after everyone had gone, him showing you a chord progression on the piano because you had asked and he had sat down without making it a thing, and somewhere between the third and fourth time he moved your hands to the right position the distance just closed. You were not with your boyfriend then.
You and him had been off for three months, one of the longer offs, the kind that felt like it might be permanent this time. You were just — you, and him, and a piano in an empty room, and something that had been building since the first Wednesday he walked through the door.
Then the fundraiser.
Four months after the practice room. A good night — the center had hit its grant target, there was wine, and you had ended up on the same side of your office desk laughing about something you couldn't remember afterward because what you remembered was the way he looked at you when the laughing stopped.
You were not with your boyfriend then either. You and him had tried again briefly in spring and it hadn't taken and you had both known it hadn't taken and ended it quietly, without drama, still friends, always friends.
And then tonight. The third time. The rain and the floor and his hands and the city below the glass.
And then tonight. The third time.
His hands first — they were always his hands first, the way they found your face like he had been thinking about exactly this, like the decision had been made somewhere before the moment and the moment was just where it arrived. He kissed you the way he did everything that mattered to him, slowly, with complete attention, like he had nowhere else to be and nothing else worth being present for.
You kissed him back.
You had always kissed him back.
That was the thing you could never explain cleanly — not to yourself, not to the version of you that sat in good restaurants in mint green dresses and tried to choose the right thing.
When Yoongi kissed you the careful part of you went quiet. The part that managed and planned — quiet. Just him and his hands and the rain against the glass and the city below and the floor of his apartment that you had somehow ended up on, and your fingers in his hair, and his mouth, and the specific warmth of being wanted by someone who does not want things lightly.
You forgot, for a moment, everything you were supposed to remember.
Then you remembered the restaurant. The rain on the windows there too. The careful smile across the table.
Go. My roommate will appreciate it.
You were not supposed to be back with your boyfriend now either.
Except that you were.
Three weeks. New enough that you hadn't told anyone yet. New enough that you had told yourself it was different this time, that you were ready, that the thing you kept almost-choosing and then not choosing was not the reason you kept coming back to something familiar and safe.
You had been lying to yourself.
You were very good at this, it turned out, when the truth was inconvenient enough.
You pulled back.
"Yoongi." His name, just that. The way you said it when you meant it directly.
He looked at you.
And then his eyes moved — down, and you watched him actually see you for the first time since you'd walked in. Not the you who showed up when he called, the you in the mint green dress that had been hanging in your closet for six months, the you who had left a restaurant to come here, the you who was here because he asked and you came, you always came—
"Are you back with him," he said.
Not a question. A recognition. The way he said things he already knew but needed confirmed.
You didn't answer.
He looked at the bottle in the corner. Back at you.
"How long, Y/N." he said your name fell from his lips like an accusation. Because it was.
"Yoongi—"
"How long."
"A few weeks," you said. "It's new, it's—"
He made a sound. Not a word. Just — a sound, low and brief, the sound of something landing somewhere it wasn't supposed to land.
"We agreed are just friends," you said. "You and I. We agreed—"
"I know what we agreed," he said. "I know exactly what we are, Y/N"
Tang had moved off your lap at some point during the kissing and was now sitting three feet away observing the situation with the detached interest of someone who has seen this before and has opinions about it but has decided tonight is not the night to share them.
You looked at Yoongi.
He was looking at the rain.
"You had a bad day," you said.
He didn't answer. Which was an answer.
"Yoongi." You said it quietly. "You need to talk to someone. A professional. You stopped seeing Dr. Chae, didn't you."
He was quiet for a long moment.
"I had a bad day," he said finally. Then, without looking at you: "Is that why you kissed me back."
The question landed somewhere between your ribs and stayed there.
You thought about the practice room. The fundraiser. The three weeks of trying to choose the right thing in a mint green dress in a restaurant that required reservations. You thought about the way the careful part of you went quiet when he touched you and how that had never once happened with anyone else and what that meant and how long you had been not-meaning it.
Is that why you kissed me back.
You wanted to say yes. Yes would be easier. Yes would mean it was circumstantial — the rain, the floor, the bad day, the orbit tightening in a weak moment. Yes would mean it was about him and his bad day and your tendency to run toward people who needed help and not about the thing that had been sitting in your chest since approximately the first Wednesday he walked through the center door and looked at everything you built like it was worth looking at.
You wanted to say yes.
"No," you said.
He looked at you then. Really looked at you, the way he almost never did up close — direct, unmanaged, the dark eyes doing the thing they did in low light where they stopped being unreadable and became something else entirely. Something that asked a question he wasn't going to finish out loud.
You looked back.
You should not have said that.
You meant it completely.
"You should talk to someone," you said again, because the alternative was continuing to look at each other like that and you were not ready for where that went. "You stopped seeing Dr. Chae. You're not sleeping. You're drinking again and the last time—"
"This isn't a bad day," you said. "I know what a bad day looks like and this isn't—"
"Come to the center," you said. "More than Wednesdays. It helps, you know it helps, being with the kids, being somewhere that isn't—"
"Stop," he said.
"I'm just saying—"
"Stop." He looked at you. Something in his face had shifted — the grief from earlier still there but something else coming through it now, something harder. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what."
"The thing," he said. "The fixing thing. The — come to the center, see your therapist, here is the solution, let me organize your recovery—"
"I'm not trying to—"
"You treat me like one of your kids," he said. "Like something you found that needed help and brought inside."
"That's not what I'm doing—"
"The company sent me to your center," he said, "because I was broken. And you fixed up the schedule and you talked to Dani and you made it work and that was—" He stopped. Something moved through his face. "That was your job. And now when I'm not okay you show up and you bring solutions and you try to—"
"You called me," you said. "You called me, Yoongi. I was at dinner—"
"You were with him," he said. "In that dress." His voice was very level now. The leveler it got the more you knew it was costing him. "Does he know? About the fundraiser? About the practice room?" A pause, and when he says the next part his voice drops just slightly, deliberate, the word landing with everything it carries and everything it means beyond what it says. "Does he know that when I call — you come?"
The silence after it is very loud.
You feel your face do something you cannot control. It turns, you are fairly certain, the exact color of the Dragon Room door.
Red.
He knows exactly what he said.
He meant both things.
You are not going to acknowledge either of them.
"We are friends," you said. "What happened between us—"
"I know what we are," he said. "Do you?"
The rain.
The city.
The empty bottle in the corner of your vision.
"You're not one of my projects," you said quietly.
He looked at you.
And then he said it.
He said the thing — and later you will not be able to explain exactly how he knew where to aim, except that he had always paid attention, had always listened, had three and a half years of knowing you and knowing therefore exactly where the soft places were, the ones you didn't talk about, the ones underneath the sunshine and the building and the I feel things fully and I say them when they need to be said — he found one of those places and he said the thing that lived there.
Quietly.
Without raising his voice.
The way he said everything that was true.
It took the air out of your lungs completely.
You stood up from the floor.
The mint green dress. The restaurant. His roommate and the takeout boxes and the careful smile.
"Fuck you, you have no right. You—" you interrupted yourself. "Good luck, Min Yoongi."
You picked up your bag.
You walked to the door.
Behind you: the sound of glass shattering. Not thrown at you — never at you, not even close, he was broken and broken people break things that are near them when they have nothing left, and the glass was on the counter and it was not near you, it was nowhere near you.
But you heard it.
And you didn't turn around.
The elevator was smooth and quiet on the way down.
The lobby was marble.
Outside, the rain had not stopped.
You stood under it for a moment, your hand on the strap of your bag, the city blurred and brilliant in every direction, and you thought: you knew. You knew he was going to hurt you eventually. Everyone who burns that bright does.
You walked to your car.
You drove home.
You did not cry until you were in your apartment with the door closed and the mint green dress on the floor, and even then you were not entirely sure what you were crying about — the thing he said, or the empty bottle, or the way he looked at you right before he said it, like he was sorry and was going to do it anyway.
Both, probably.
All of it.
Three days later you went back to your ex-boyfriend's apartment and told him you were sorry. He said he knew. He said it the way people say things they have been preparing to say for a while.
You were not back together after that.
That was the first thing Yoongi broke without meaning to.
Eight months.
Eight months of Wednesdays spent elsewhere and forty-three unread emails and Dani telling you which days were safe and which days to have grant meetings, and all of it — every single arranged Thursday, every carefully scheduled Wednesday afternoon — collapsing on a Thursday in February when his name appeared on your personal phone and his opening line was I need a favor.
You said yes.
You are still not entirely sure which version of yourself said it — the practical one with the budget page, or the one who stood under his awning in the rain and thought: everyone who burns that bright does.
Maybe both.
Maybe that's the same person.
You are on email number seven when someone knocks on your office door.
You know it's him before you look up. Not because of anything dramatic — not because of some deep cosmic awareness of his presence, though you would like to formally lodge a complaint about the fact that that also exists — but because Dani doesn't knock, the kids don't knock, and you are not expecting anyone else.
And because it is Thursday.
And he is still in the building.
And because eight months of knowing exactly where he is and making sure you are somewhere else has apparently not cured you of knowing exactly where he is.
"Yeah," you say.
He opens the door and stands in the doorway.
He does not come in. Yoongi has always done this — knocked, opened, stood at the threshold like he is giving you the option of the visit before committing to it. You used to find it considerate. You used to say come in and he would, and that was that. Today you do not say come in and he does not come in and you both exist in the doorway arrangement with the full weight of eight months and a rainy June Thursday and everything you now know sitting between you like a third person in the room.
It is six thirty-seven PM and the light is doing what late afternoon light does in a west-facing office in February — coming in low and golden and entirely unreasonable, hitting everything at the angle that makes ordinary things look significant. It is hitting him now. His brown eyes, which are normally dark enough to be unreadable, have gone somewhere else entirely in this light — warm, open, the color of something you do not have a practical use for thinking about right now.
You think about it anyway.
You think about the last time you were alone in this office. The fundraiser. The lamplight. The two of you on opposite sides of this desk and then not on opposite sides of this desk and everything that happened in the space between those two things. You think about a rainy June night and a mint green dress and is that why you kissed me back and no said too quickly and too honestly and you are absolutely not thinking about any of this right now.
You look at your computer screen.
He is still in the doorway.
You become aware, at some point, that you have been looking at your computer screen without reading anything on it for what feels like a reasonable amount of time and is probably not. You look back at him. He is looking at you. You have the distinct impression that he has also been somewhere else for the duration of this silence and has also just returned.
His hair is longer than it was eight months ago. There are two grey hairs that fall on his left eye that were not there before, or that you didn't notice before, or that you noticed and filed somewhere you are no longer able to access. You notice them now. You notice them with the specific, unwelcome clarity of someone whose brain has decided that this is the important information to process right now, with everything else available.
He clears his throat.
"Have you checked your phone," he says.
You look at your phone. Seventeen notifications, which is normal for six thirty-seven on a Thursday. You scroll. Three from your mother. One from Dani — sent four minutes ago, which means Dani knew about this four minutes ago and did not tell you in person despite being twelve feet away, which is a conversation you will absolutely be having — and then a chain from a number saved as Mom in law 🌸 that you did not save with that emoji or name and that has therefore been saved that way by the woman herself, directly, at some point when you handed her your phone and she handed it back and said nothing and smiled.
You read the chain.
You read it again.
"Your aunt," you say.
"Yes."
"And your mother."
"Yes."
"Are at—" You squint at the address. You do not recognize the address. You do not know what is at the address. You have a feeling, gathering quietly in the back of your mind, that you are not going to know what is at the address until you are already inside it, at which point it will be too late to make a different decision. "Why are they there."
"I don't know."
"Why do they need both of us."
"I don't know."
"Has anyone asked them—"
"I asked," he says. "My mother sent back a voice note that was four minutes long and did not answer the question."
You put your phone down.
You look at your computer. Email number seven, still open, the cursor blinking with the patience of something that has decided to wait you out and has nowhere else to be.
Outside the window, Seoul is going gold. In eight months you have sat at this desk on approximately one hundred and sixty Thursdays and none of them have felt like this one — charged in a way you cannot name cleanly, the air in this room doing something it does not normally do, the doorway occupied by a man you have been managing the absence of with considerable effort and mixed results.
He is right there.
He has always been right there.
"Can it wait," you say, "for me to finish my emails."
"I'll be in the car," he says.
He turns to go.
"Yoongi." He stops. "I'll need to come back after. To get my car."
He turns back. Something moves across his face — quick, almost nothing. "I'll have someone pick it up."
"That's—" you start.
"Give me your keys."
You open your desk drawer. Your keys are on a ring with a small enamel sun charm that one of the kids gave you for your birthday last year and a bottle opener and the key to the supply closet that you have never once successfully located when you actually needed it. You hold them out across the desk.
He crosses the room.
Min Yoongi is terrible at eye contact up close. From across a dinner table, across a car, across eight months of distance he can look at you directly and it costs him nothing. But this — a desk between you and only just, close enough that looking would mean something neither of you has agreed to yet — he finds the keys instead. He has always found something else when you are this close. You have never pointed this out. You have filed it away instead, the way you file everything about him that you are not supposed to be keeping track of.
He looks at the keys.
His fingers close around them.
Yours have not moved.
For approximately two seconds — not long, long enough — the keys and the sun charm and the bottle opener and the supply closet key that never works are held between both of your hands, and his fingers are against yours, and neither of you moves, and the afternoon light is doing its unreasonable thing through the west-facing window.
You think about a kitchen floor. About rain on a window. About no said in the dark.
He takes the keys.
Steps back.
"I'll be downstairs," he says, to the doorway.
"I'll be five minutes," you say, to your computer screen.
He leaves.
You look at email number seven.
You read the same sentence four times.
You close the laptop.
You do not know what is at that address.
You get your coat anyway.
The shop is called Blanc et Bonheur.
It is a bridal shop.
You would like the record to reflect that nobody told you it was a bridal shop.
The text from Yoongi's mother said address, come quickly, we need you both with urgency, like woman describing a minor emergency, and you had imagined — pharmacy, dry cleaner, some errand that required two people for reasons that would become clear upon arrival.
You had not imagined this.
You had not imagined the chandelier in the waiting area, or the bolts of ivory fabric arranged against the walls like clouds that have been professionally organized, or the smell of the place — something floral and expensive and bridal, unmistakably, irreversibly bridal — or the woman at the front desk who looked up when you walked in and smiled at you both like she has decided what kind of day this is going to be for you.
"Welcome," she said, looking between you and Yoongi with an expression that made several assumptions simultaneously.
You looked at Yoongi.
Yoongi looked at the chandelier.
Neither of you looked at each other.
This is because you are in a bridal shop.
Together.
Four days into pretending to be a couple, two days after a card game where his father said he calls you by your name, always your name, since the beginning. You are standing in a bridal shop and the woman at the front desk is smiling at you like she knows something and the chandelier is enormous and everything smells like wedding and Yoongi is looking at the ceiling like he find the architectural details up there extremely interesting.
Here is why you are here, technically:
Yoongi's cousin Ji-eun is getting married in six weeks. Ji-eun is in New York for work and cannot fly back for her fitting. You are, apparently, exactly Ji-eun's size — a fact his aunt established by looking at you once, at dinner, with the measuring eye of a woman who has been doing this her entire life and has never once been wrong about it. She announced this with the confidence of someone delivering useful logistical information and not at all with the energy of someone who has had a plan since approximately the second course.
The plan, you are now understanding, was this.
"It'll take an hour," Yoongi told you in the car, which tells you he knew it was a bridal shop and said nothing, which is a conversation you will be having.
"You said that about dinner," you said.
"This is different."
"You said that about the card game."
He had no response to this because there was no response to this.
You are in a bridal shop.
His mother, his aunt, and their friend Mrs. Oh are already inside, arranged on a cream velvet settee with the settled energy of women who arrived early, got comfortable, and are now simply waiting for the main event to begin.
His mother smiles when she sees you.
His aunt smiles when she sees you.
Mrs. Oh looks between you and Yoongi and says, to the room in general: "Good. You're both here."
Yoongi looks at the chandelier again.
You look at the bolts of ivory fabric.
The woman at the front desk has already appeared with a measuring tape.
You look at Yoongi.
He is still looking at the chandelier.
"Yoongi," you say, quietly, in the voice you use when you need him to be present for something.
He looks at you.
This is a mistake. You are in a bridal shop and he is looking at you directly for the first time since the office and the keys and the two seconds, and the chandelier light is doing something unreasonable to his face, and you are standing in front of bolts of ivory fabric and his entire family is on a settee watching this happen with the patient satisfaction of women who have been waiting for exactly this moment.
The look lasts approximately three seconds.
It contains, in those three seconds, the full weight of everything that has happened between you— the center, the friendship, the practice room, the fundraiser, the kitchen floor, the June rain, the thing he said that took the air out of your lungs and the glass that shattered after you left and eight months of Wednesdays spent somewhere else. It contains no said too quickly in the dark. It contains today is Thursday delivered by a twelve year old who has run out of patience for both of you. It contains his father's face at and the way he looked at it too long.
Three seconds.
You look away first.
"One hour," you say.
"One hour," he says.
Mrs. Oh makes a small sound that is not quite a word and is completely a comment.
His mother stands. "Come," she says, already moving, already knowing where the private fitting room is because of course she does, because she has known where everything in this situation is going since approximately the second course of the first dinner. "The seamstress is waiting."
Then she looks at Yoongi.
"You," she says, with the loving authority of a woman who has made a decision, "will wait here."
Yoongi looks at her.
"In the waiting area," she clarifies.
"Eomma—"
"There is a chair," she says. "And magazines. You will be fine."
His aunt has already appeared at his other side with the gentle but absolute energy of someone closing a gate. "We won't be long," she says, patting his arm.
"How long," he says.
"Not long," his mother says, which is not an answer.
You look at him over your shoulder as they guide you toward the back of the shop.
He looks back at you with the face of a man who has run the numbers and arrived at a conclusion he does not love. He is in a bridal shop. His mother put him here. He looks at you with not quite alarm, not quite resignation, something in between, something that on anyone else might be called help but on Yoongi is just the face of a person who has understood that the situation has developed beyond his ability to manage it and is now simply in it.
His aunt is closing in from the left. Mrs. Oh is on the settee and has already formed opinions. There is no exits strategy that does not involve disappointing his mother and he has never once in thirty three years successfully disappointed his mother when she has decided to want something.
He knows this.
You know this.
You almost feel sorry for him.
Almost.
You feel, absurdly, like you are being separated at customs.
You mouth: one hour.
He mouths something back.
You are fairly certain it is: I'm sorry.
You are not certain if he means the bridal shop.
You turn around.
You follow his mother.
Read Part 3
author's note 🎹
so. here we are.
the cat is officially out of the bag. the bag is lost. the bag never existed.
now you know what happened eight months ago. why he never called but never stopped showing up. he fucked up — he knows that — and showing up quietly to a center he has no scheduled reason to be at on a Thursday is his way of apologizing without knowing how to say it out loud yet. he knows it's not enough. don't worry. we'll get there.
and reader. my girl. I love her so much. she is someone who wears her heart on her sleeve, who feels things fully and says them when they need to be said, who built an entire center out of love and stubbornness and spite — and somehow, with this one specific person, she has been lying to herself for months. she is human. she fucks up in her own way too. we'll know her reasons too.
they were friends first. they made things complicated. and they have been lying to each other for months — even before they had to lie to the rest of the world. that's the real thing about fake things. they never start from nothing.
also. the ex-boyfriend. 👀
if you've read WHWYF you absolutely know who he is. you've known since the tibial plateau fractures and the roommate who hasn't eaten since yesterday. and yes — we will see more of him in this story. in every story, actually, because I am completely in love with that character and I don't apologize for it. and now that tiny moment where Yoongi acknowledges someone in the backstage tent but not the person standing next to them? that has a whole other meaning now, doesn't it?
🤭🤭🤭
I really loved writing this chapter because the thread that connects all the stories in this universe is starting to expand and pull and I can feel it and I hope you can too. you can absolutely read every single one of these stories as a standalone — I won't judge you, I promise. but if you read all of them? I will kiss you on the forehead. I don't make the rules. that's just how it works.
I wanted to end this chapter on a higher note because at the end of the day — underneath all the flashbacks and the rain and the June kitchen and the things nobody said — this story is a love story. a messy, complicated, fake-dating-real-feelings disaster of a love story. and I wanted you to feel that going into the weekend.
speaking of which — I'm traveling this weekend 🌍 I will absolutely try to write. I make no promises about the timeline but I make every promise about the quality because these two deserve that and so do you.
thank you for the asks and the notes and the reblogs and the questions that make me want to spoil everything immediately. you have no idea what it means.
see you soon. 🖤
— Ria
The Real Thing — Part Two Part of The B-Side Series Truths and Lies Book 1
🖤 THE B-SIDE SERIES MASTERLIST
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So basically for the last eight months , everyone else has decided to also partake in not naming this thing between our main couple , bc why is not a single soul shocked at this change in devolpements , not Dani , not Jisoo , not Tang or even his parents really or even Ms. Oh
curious will any of the center kids reappear in future stories like the good doctor?
The lore behind this couple is woven in so beautifully with current events , typically I prefer a linear story plot from A to B to Z , but the flashbacks if you will give us so much texture to this love story right . Do you consider the past scenes such as Yoongi first hearing Jisso and the FallOut as flash backs ?
I love seeing Jisoo interact with the adults around her and my heart aches for her and her big Sister , are most of the center kids dealing with such trauma ? I am curious how did you land on her as kinda the main center kid. Do you feel as though that is the case , or does each chapter kinda spotlight one of the kiddos.
Ummm little miss reader is a cheater cheater pumpkin eater , the timeline for some of those clasdestine meetings compared to her relationship with Dr.Bae aren't adding up on my end , but who am I to argue with destiny lol
I think its something poetic about Thursday being the night things all fell apart and the same day he pops back up at the center .
Tang is my highlight character of this chapter and maybe the only reason the FallOut was bearable to read. It sets a theme of when Yoongi calls she comes running (at least in my head) and I don't love that narrative for our girl . But at the same time I do love how tender she is with his fragile drunk self , other side of the coin I would have to cuss him clean out ,because having his heart broken over the changes with Bangtan does not give him permission (to dance) to lash out . Also what the hell did he actually say . And she better than me because I would definitely slapped him or at least broke a few things on my way out the door
I did not enjoy reading pain of the FallOut but it was a needed evil to make things make sense . Will the events discussed in the FallOut be plot points in the other members stories [ I haven't started Jins yet or finished Joon, I want to review Yoongis story first bc it was soooo good to read and rereading for my review is 1000/10 ] I love to see JK be Bangtans wittle baby in any universe
How the hell did we end up in a bridal shop!!!!! It rubs me the wrong way that readers mom is denied the chance to be involved with her daughter picking out a wedding dress ,as I reread the series . Yes she dragged her daughter all around the world from one romance or job to the next , she never left her behind and that says something for me . but maybe reader is more detached than what I think .
It kinda goes back to Reader being overly available for Yoongi , when I don't see the same for him in her regard . Because Yoongi if you look at it from her standpoint , its four against one in that bridal shop did our girl ever really stand a chance .
I can admit after reading FallOut I am at his neck , but he is a man at the end of the day so its only so much sympathy or understanding I can give him
synopsis: you & namjoon have been inseparable since kindergarten. as you navigate through college life that bond continues with pretty kisses and set routines. when you're in a bad mood on a busy day, namjoon has to remind you to not act out.
warnings: no usage of y/n, somewhat underground!bts, touches of dom/sub relationship, brat tamer!namjoon, bratty/spoiled! reader, hyperfem! reader, fingering, reader is described as “little” and namjoon “big” but only in height, spanking, face slapping, reprimanding, car sex, exhibitionism (only for the foreplay,) oral (f!receiving), dirty talk, praise, mating press, rough & unprotected sex, creaming, choking, hair pulling, backshots, very mean!namjoon, calls himself daddy towards the end, he has a filthy mouth, size kink, AGAIN...
word count: 8k
♪. freak / doja cat (literally perfect for this !)
🍒. author's note: this actually stemmed from a fic i was gonna put out early on in the year but i forgot abt it but i needed this out. luv joon & his short hair so that’s what i’m referring to >.<
since the first "get to know you" day of kindergarten, you and kim namjoon have been inseparable. having clicked as soon as a light blue clad joon's eyes met pastel pink and bows you during lunch time.
he could vividly remember the sloppily written lettering of your name on the small "hello, my name is" sticker laid prettily on your left shoulder, the thick curls of your hair pulled back into a ponytail with pink ribbon decorating the base.
the way your eyes lit up as you opened your hello kitty lunch box to find it full of sweets and a quick, homemade meal with chicken cut up into the shape of a bunny. watching as you pushed the box between the two of you to share, chubby cheeks stuffed to the brim.
though, he loved to leave out the part where he cried as the school day came to a close, balling a tiny yet impossibly tight fist into the fabric of your dress to the point where he had to be pried away by his eomma and promised that he'd see you the next day.
as time went on and in middle school came, you two would be seen attached at the hip: walking to school together with namjoon carrying your bag and tying your shoes, bringing you to class, and so forth and so on.
it was safe to say that from then on, the pair of you had wreaked havoc on each of the poor teachers of your school careers; gossiping in the back of class, being utterly unproductive during group projects, and many, many others that led to weeks spent in the library after school for detention.
see, as you graduated to high-school nothing changed.
sure you'd grown far maturer and became introduced to a world full of negative influences, but the bond between you two never wavered. the red ribbon of fate still connects you thoroughly by the pinky finger.
namjoon became captain of the robotics team and you a cheerleader, but your set routine as best-friends lingered—strengthening even.
he began growing protective, seeing as you were the same pretty little innocent thing you'd been since elementary, still dressed in pink and bows but now catching the unwanted attention of the outside world.
and when rumors of the two of you being together found themselves slithering into the minds of the student body, joon didn't do a thing to stop them, reveling in the comfort it gave him with assurance of your safety.
it even landed you a golden spot in the high-school yearbook of superlatives, both your names written in bold letters under 'Most Likely to Stay Together After Graduation.'
and stay together is exactly what you did.
fast forward to your senior year of college, it's the first semester and you and namjoon share a small yet comfortably luxe apartment in the heart of seoul, decorated to a distinct mixture of the two of you—lots of greenery and wooden accents for namjoon with pink throw pillows and hello kitty shaped plant pots for you.
it's endearing, seeing traces of your familiarity and passion like a juxtaposition throughout the home. wouldn't want it any other way.
about nine thirty is when you pop up out of bed, your hair strewn about your head askew to the left, proof of your habit of being quite the wild sleeper.
you make quick work of hopping the shower and starting your daily routine, lathering yourself in your favorite honey vanilla lotion and layering the scent with a lightly scented perfume.
by the time you throw on a matching set and your favorite robe, fuzzy slippers on your cold feet before trudging into the living room, you catch sight of namjoon bare chested with a pair if oversized plaid pajama pants hanging low on his waist, a watering pot in hand as he tends to the plants he likes to call your children.
the morning sun beams brightly between the white, linen curtains of the room, the harsh light bothering your eyes and makes you bring a nimble hand up to try and block it out whilst grimacing.
"and she finally awakes. morning, baby," he smiles, eyes low but ever so expressive as he looks at you with nothing short of adoration.
"there's tea and oatmeal for you on the counter. go on and eat for me, okay?" namjoon's always been a morning person, finding himself awake at the ass-crack of dawn to read, meditate, and do a little bit of writing here and there.
so it doesn't surprise you that he's chipper so early, cheesing, voice a little louder than intended. though, it does make you grumble with annoyance and pout, mood sour as your head pounds.
not saying much as you walk to the marbled island counter that sits dead smack in the center of the kitchen, your kuromi mug steaming from the peach tea he'd made and next to it, a brown wooden bowl and spoon filled with warm oatmeal that's topped with berries, honey, and vanilla granola—just to your preference.
"remember, we have to stop by the studio to meet up with the guys today," he's calling out to you. "gotta leave out by eleven."
"i know, joon," you grumble, snarky and mean but you really don't mean it. you just weren't feeling the best and your words escape you without the slightest thought of how they might sound.
"don't start. fix the attitude before we leave out," he says, voice stern and commanding as he washes his hands, drying them before leaning back onto his palms when he goes to glare at you shoveling food into your mouth.
you pause, cheeks round and swollen with oatmeal. "'m just tired."
"i know, princess. once we get back home, you can take the rest of the day resting up," he's promising, kissing your forehead from across the counter, and reassuring you that it'll be quick.
you hum and namjoon finds it all too amusing when you stomp your little self over to the sink, sulking and pouting as you wash out your dishes.
it takes everything in him not to take matters into his own hands and straighten you out right then and there. spanking your lil ass raw 'till you remember your manners but it's early, and hopefully the combination of food in your system and sun on your skin puts you in a better mood.
you drag your feet up the stairs, the sound of your slippers scrapping against the wooden flooring making him groan. "pick up your feet," he says, scowling when you merely put your middle finger up in his direction.
that's strike one.
at the vanity situated on your side of the room specifically dedicated to you and your makeup process, you sniff whilst putting the finishing touches to your beat: gold highlighter in your inner corners and a black wing on the outer, pink blush on your cheeks. you put extra attention on your makeup today, hoping that it would help with your mood.
just a heads up, it didn't.
namjoon stands dressed in all black: a pull over hoodie with a white tank underneath that's peeking out at the bottom, oversized, black sweatpants, a leather bomber jacket, and pairs it with low top, nike blazer courts. he leans against the door frame with crossed arms, admiring as you line your lips with brown and fill the inside with pink gloss.
"how are you feeling," he asks as he makes his way toward you, hands grasping onto your shoulders when he stands behind your chair. you make eye contact in the mirror, him almost immediately catching sight of your lip jutting out on instinct.
"do you think i look pretty?" you disregard his prior question, responding with your own because you need confirmation on days that you feel like shit.
he smiles at your reflection, bending down to speak into your ear and takes pride in seeing your reaction. squirming in your seat. "the fuckin' prettiest, baby."
"do you really think so?" he coos at your round eyes that stare back into his within the mirror. “or are you only saying it because you have to?”
"i know so, my love.”
you commend him for his efforts but it just wasn't enough. you were too far deep.
"god, i just want this day to fucking end," you say and it makes joon press his lips together and you know why. he's always hated when you cursed, believing that pretty girls shouldn't say ugly words, and he's right, usually is. but right now, you're blind to what differentiates ugly from pretty.
the angel on your shoulder tells you to revert back to old ways, fall into line and be his good girl for the day, but the devil on the opposite reigns supreme, poking and stabbing at namjoon's buttons that are clearly lined with the warning, "do. not. touch." it’s just so tempting.
"what'd i say about today?" you hear his voice ask, eyes now low and mean, just waiting for you to give him reason to take you over his lap. you're working your way up to strike two. just about one and a third now.
"to not act out and to fix my attitude." you roll your eyes as you recite the words, standing before nudging him out of the way so you could get pass. grabbing your bag, you leave the room with knitted brows. "ugh."
it takes namjoon a moment to gather himself. you hear him speak a few sharp words under his breath before bringing the skin of his lip between his teeth to stop himself, feeling the pot start to boil with each passing moment. but he breathes, tells himself that this run should be quick, the faster it goes, the quicker he can get you in bed and figure out a way to make this tantrum go away.
joon can't help the clenching of his jaw, chewing on his tongue as he heads downstairs, your jacket in his hand. taking care of you, he helps you work your arms into the sleeves of it: his old letterman jacket from highschool in which his name decorates the back with the number "7" underneath it. ironic, right?
his eyes peer down at you when he goes to open the door for you, shutting it and making sure to lock it once you know you have everything, because you're known for leaving things behind and throwing an absolute fit once you realize.
there's been so many times where you've been late for reservations, gathering, events, because fifteen minutes into the ride, you're only then noticing that you left your lip gloss on the kitchen counter and proceed to cry until he's forced to drive back to get it.
the boys have always told him that he's spoiled you rotten. giving you anything you could ever ask for at the drop of the dime just because he likes it when you're smiling from ear to ear. he's been giving you your way for the longest because you're so pretty when you look up at him with awaiting eyes.
it's been so long catering to you, expecting everything to fall into the palms of your hands. it's gotten so bad that whenever you hear the word 'no' directed towards you, you're immediately storming off and throwing a hissy fit.
it's not your fault for being princess, is what he likes to say. trying to justify both his and your actions but when push comes to shove, there's no other possible outcome other than being faced with the fact that you're a spoiled little brat and it's ultimately his fault.
that's why you huff when he goes to grab at the passenger side door handle just so that you wouldn't have to—just because you know you've got him so tightly wrapped around your pinkie finger.
he tugs at it, waiting for you to tuck your head under the frame and when you don't, he's bringing his free hand to the crown of your head, pressing down to force you into the plush of the seat as if he were a cop detaining a suspect before slamming the door shut.
there's nothing that you want more than to curl up into a ball and run back into the comfort of your own home, hands tightening into little fists and they rest on your thighs.
you can't help but take notice on the way namjoon's jaw bulges from its clinching, pearly white teeth grinding because he's this fucking close to being mean. this close to leaving you crying because that's the way you're trying to make him feel—like a fucking asshole.
he doesn't understand it. namjoon can't see to understand for the life of him how a girl so pretty can be so utterly filled with the overwhelming urge to be such a brat despite getting everything she's ever asked.
you wanna go out shopping for your girls trip next month? one that he's funding? yeah of course, he's holding your bags and trailing behind an empty handed you from store to store.
you've been looking at that one dior bag for the longest, right? the next day, you see a pretty box wrapped up in a pink bow with a bouquet of dozens of your favorite flowers resting in the bed when you come back from your weekly luxury spa visit.
but when he asks you for one thing. that being to put your attitude aside for just a couple hours, he's met with nothing. nada. zilch.
it infuriates him. the sweet, round faced namjoon with a thick wallet and a means to please you starting to fade into the version of himself who doesn't put up with your bullshit and isn't afraid of putting you in your place.
it's a rarity that you're in trouble—or even falling close to it. he's always been patient with you, able to talk to you in just the right tone to hold you off. gets your head floating and molding you until you break away from that more brattier side of you.
it's easy to do but quite frankly, namjoon is becoming fed up with your shit.
the night before, you had been fine. he'd held you in his arms, kissed both sets of your lips as a reward, whispered in your ear sweet nothings until your eyes fluttered shut. everything was perfect. absolutely what could've changed overnight?
when he made it to the driver's side of the car, lips pursed shut and pads of two fingers to the feature as he pulled out of the parking spot, you found yourself practically compressed against the passenger side door, head leaning against the cool glass, trying to melt and camouflage into it.
you know he still cares when he motions with his fingers and tells you to put something on the radio, eyes never moving from their position on the road.
and you do so, otw by khalid sounding from the speakers. it's mellowing, soothing. has the knot at the small of your back diminishing, making you sigh as you watch the blur of tall buildings and street lights shoot past you.
it's a fairly quick ride to the studio, being midday on a tuesday, everyone's already at work so traffic is minimal. namjoon's easily able to put an extra force behind his foot on the gas, weaving in and out of lanes because the streets are pretty much dead.
parking in the small lot situated at the back of the building, joon takes a look to his right to see you dozed off. eyes closed, hands folded in your lap whilst your neck bends uncomfortably to the right.
gently, he rests his hand on the side of your face, softly hoisting you up before unbuckling your seatbelt. "mama, we're here," he speaks just above what describes a whisper.
it takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, squinting once they finally open before you realize a tense groan. "mm, joon, can i just stay in here," you ask, comfortable in your spot. it's not like you were going to do anything in there but sit off to the side. could he just let you be?
"i don't know how long i'll be here for. you have to come in," he's saying, shaking his head back and forth. one good look at the way your face morphs into an unfitting scowl, he knows he's gonna have to take a different approach.
he removes his keys from the ignition, stepping out of the car before he's rounding the hood and making his way to your side. you watch as he opens the passenger door, leaning his body forward to where his upper half is in the frame, face now leveled with your own and just a few inches away. so close that you can smell the mint on his breath.
"don't get in here acting a fucking fool," he says, gripping into your chin when you go to turn your head the opposite way. his tone catches you off guard. only then do you realize that he's had it about up to here with you.
you pull your face away from his, only to get back a thick hand wrapping around your neck, fingers pressing into the base tightly to have you drawing closer and closer. his lips ghost your own as he's growing more stern and stern. "do it, and see what happens. i'll embarrass you."
"okay, joon." your eyes water, but he knows it isn't real. big, fat crocodile tears because you know its his weakness. you think they'll work but he's too far deep, grabbing your hands to guide you from the car's seat.
still, your lip is jutted out in a pout, allowing for yourself to be pulled up to the stairs of the studio, dark double doors opening before you in which you're stepping into with your free hand pulled into a fist.
the other six that make up bangtan are already situated in their designated booth, engaged in playful banter as they wait for the leader.
upon walking into the room and immediately catching sight of two free chairs seated to the far left that you just know namjoon will be pushing you into, you quickly decide against it when you see an empty chair next to jimin. you're then pulling your hand from his larger one to make a beeline directly to it.
he cuts his eyes, leaving the situation alone for now. he'll let you think you've gotten under his skin when in reality, you're just digging yourself deeper into a problem you'll have to face once you get home.
at this point, it's inevitable.
jimin stifles a laugh when you make your way over. pretty face balled up tightly and he thinks you resemble an angry little bunny. "hi, pretty," he greets, smiling when you sit and wave.
"hyung, what'd you do to her," jungkook turns to ask namjoon, a ball point pen pressed to his small notebook in which holds the lyrics of their upcoming album. "looks just about ready to knock someone's head clean off."
that makes them all laugh and you have to grab onto the underside of the chair to stop yourself from calling an uber and leaving. pronto.
its humiliating when namjoon chuckles, sitting down and making himself comfortable on the couch in which yoongi and hoseok does too, legs parted with his arms crossed at his roomy chest. "she wouldn't swat at a fly, let alone lay hands on somebody," he speaks, having zero regard for the way you glare at him from the other side of the room.
you want to say something, want to argue back with a sharp tongue and harsh words but namjoon's voice back in the car played repeatedly in your mind, the look in his eye when he grabbed onto your throat. it was grounding enough to have you pursing your lips to keep them shut.
leaning back in your chair, you pull out your phone, your case glimmers and gleams, rhinestones catching onto the iridescent light illuminating the room, and namjoon watches as you type, biting down on his tongue while a smile forms on your pretty lips.
you're typing away to someone with eager eyes, fingers tapping and your nails clanking against the screen and it drives joon mad. so utterly and completely insane. it's a little irrational but you probably could've blinked in the wrong way and his top would pop the fuck off.
you've made his patience wear dangerously thin. just a little more pressure until it snaps.
an hour and a half passes, full of paperwork signing and a few touch ups to certain tracks here and there. at least forty-five minutes of it was spent with you giggling under your breath at whatever pops up on your for you page and direct messages from friends.
a few times, you even tilted your screen into jimin's direction in between topics to show something you found funny in which he would always watch and chuckle before shooting a quick glance into his hyung's direction, welcomed with the sight of slitted eyes and a clenched jaw, and he's quick to put two and two together.
when yoongi finishes playing the tracklist for their new album, bangtan decides to call it quits, even so much as setting up an impromptu hotpot and karaoke night for celebration amongst the guys.
but unfortunately for you, namjoon has other plans. "can i rain check tonight," he asks before continuing. "i have to have to get home and do some work around the house."
your eyebrows shoot up, dropping your phone into your lap to look at him incredulously knowing damn well it's a lie, but you keep your mouth shut and wait until they exchange words, saying that it’s no problem and to get home safely.
"don't touch me," you say, wincing when namjoon tightly grips onto your forearm, neck bulging with veins as he seethes.
you're done for.
each of his buttons are pressed, control switches in gear—set in stone. there's no running or hiding because now, you're on strike three and no amount of faux tears can get you out of the lesson you're about to get taught.
"walk or i'll throw your lil ass over my shoulder," he says, voice deep, demanding, and leaving no room for back talk, and you can't make space, either. "and i dare you to try it. i really fuckin' do."
it has you pressing one foot in front of the other, legs shaky whilst your knees threaten to buckle beneath you. seems you might've bitten off way more than you could chew.
you and jimin lock eyes and immediately you're met with a smile so sickly sweet because he knows that'll be that last touch of gentle you'll get. the dark glint in his hyung's eyes tells him everything he needs to know.
you're fucked. both literally and figuratively.
good luck, he mouths over before you're being dragged out of the studio by the intense grip on your arm. you'll need it.
you shake in namjoon's hold, back flexing away from his touch when his hand moves to the back of your neck, clutching tightly. it's grounding. keeping your head from straying too far from the harsh reality of the situation at hand.
"been acting out your fuckin' ass all day," he speaks, fumbling with his keys to press the unlock button. but he waits to put you in the car, turning you around so that you face him.
you're able to see the skin of his forehead crease in annoyance, his thin eyebrows that arch with anger, and his lips that utter sharp words.
"you're being mean, joonie. don't be mean to me," you say, thinking it's gonna get you somewhere but news flash: it doesn't.
"i'm being mean," he laughs but it's humorless. tongue drawing circle on the wall of his inner cheek to stop himself from causing a scene. “you've been mean to me this entire morning and when you finally get me to where you've wanted, i'm being mean?"
"get in the fuckin' car." when you go to interject, he's grabbing your face, digging his fingers into the hollows of your cheeks so that your lips jut out in a pout. "don't talk to me."
he then nudges you away, going to round the trunk till he's getting situated into the driver's seat, not even opening your door like the gentleman he is. because right now, fiery hot annoyance bubbles within him and he's ready to put you in your place. asap.
you huff as you get into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut at your side before your arms are crossing over your chest that heaves, pretty tits pressed against your forearms and it takes everything in namjoon not to pull your top down and suck on your pebbled nipples right then and there.
"don't slam my doors. you know how i feel about that," he speaks, not bothering to look at you because he knows it'll have him crumbling. he needs you to learn. to learn that there's a time and place for everything. and the day that he actually needs to get things done is absolutely not one of them.
"i honestly don't care," you say, looking out the window so that you wouldn't have to face namjoon's intimidating eyes. "wouldn't be slamming shit if you just left me home."
that's when you feel the press of namjoon's nike clad foot to the gas pedal. "you keep talkin'," he grunts out when the driver beside him honks, continuing when he bobs the lanes in order to get around them. "keep fuckin' digging a hole you can't cry yourself out of."
"but imma tear your lil ass up when we get home. don't even worry about it."
your lips part into a silent gasp, eyes widening. "what, that's not even fair. you've been acting like an asshole to me all day! i just wanted to stay home and get some rest because my head was fucking pounding, namjoon."
"i asked you to do one thing. one thing only. gave you tylenol, fed you, and asked you to do one thing as simple as be good and you do the exact opposite." his fingers tighten around the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. "and now you wanna cry wolf because you're in trouble."
he's chuckling, low in a deep rumble from the center of his chest. you can feel the irritation bubbling up, rising to his neck in the form of stubborn veins and its suffocating. too much.
it's only when the car slows to a stop at a red light when namjoon acknowledges you, looking in your direction with mean eyes. "get in the backseat," he's saying as he presses down on the lock of your seatbelt, hearing the familiar 'click!' before he's roughing you up. "hurry the fuck up."
tears swell your eyelids at his tone. "stop cursing at me," you retaliate, voice small though the increasingly wet patch in your panties is thick, filled with arousal because the duality of him has you spinning. it's satiating.
"you only seem to listen when i speak to you like this so get in the fucking backseat. now."
it has you scrambling, your miniskirt catching onto the rounds of your ass when you go to climb over the center console and into the back, legs feeling like jelly but it feels so good.
the light turns green and off joon goes, speeding down the streets but one arm reaches behind his seat that's already slightly pushed back to accommodate his size, making it easy for his hand to grasp onto your ankles placing them onto the console before he's pulling down your skirt, never removing his eyes from the road.
he’s always been good at multitasking.
"get her ready for me," he says and now it's crazily obvious why he put you there. the backseat windows are tinted, only being able to see out but not the other way around. it blocks the view of inside the car, giving the perfect place to have you spread out and completely at his mercy.
you give him what he wants without needing further instruction, fingers shooting down to pull inside the skimpy cloth you call underwear and immediately being met with cool air directly on your clit. it makes a shiver run up your spine before you're spreading your pussy lips open, fingers in the shape of a ‘v’ as they glisten with your honeyed slick.
sucking in a breath through your front teeth in the form of a hiss, you and namjoon lock eyes in the overhead mirror, and it makes you gasp when his free hand slaps at your clit, palm hitting repetitively until you squirm.
"joon, joonie, i'm sorry, baby," you whine and hiccup, closing your legs over his hand, leaving it between your thighs that spasm from the sensitivity of your clit. but you forget namjoon's strong, easily able to get himself out of it by nudging them apart with his elbow as if it was nothing.
"hold them the fuck open. stop playing with me," he speaks and it's so mean but nonetheless has you growing wetter and wetter with each passing moment.
you put your forearms underneath the backs over your knees, toes curling when they press up against the seats up front. so undeniably spread open that it's degrading.
simultaneously, your fingers resume their thumbing at your pussy, tips catching at your entrance before dipping in, making room for the thickness of namjoon's dick that's soon to come.
the squelching is obscene, loud over joji's 'night rider.' your pussy talks, singing along to the beat that plays lowly through the speakers. you wish you could block out the sound, finding it embarrassing as is.
the pace you build up is slow but ever so needy, clenching around your digits and they drag in and out before scissoring, stretching it out. but you need more, need to feel namjoon. have him inside you.
so you beg, plead, "please, joon. touch me, please. i'm so sorry." tears run down your face, eyeliner dripping already because you've never been able to handle what you dish out, and namjoon finds it funny. the irony.
the way you're so quick to break, being so apologetic and sweet when beforehand you were nothing close. again, namjoon can't help but laugh.
"you already crying?" and in response, you nod your head, still fucking yourself as you spew. "i'm so sorry. i-i didn't mean it."
his hand finds home between your legs and you think he's gonna slip his fingers in but are sadly mistaken when another forceful slap is laid to your cunt. "shut up. i don't want to hear any of that shit. you wanted this so deal with it."
"but—"
he cuts you off before you can get the rest of your words out. "but nothing. hush." by then, he's already pulling into the garage, car being placed in park.
but when he goes to step out, he merely uses the control gears on the side of the seat to maneuver it closer to the steering wheel, providing more space for him to join you in the backseat.
when he rounds the trunk of the blacked out audi, pushing himself into the seat behind the passenger's side, he's pulling you to him, legs dangling off the side of his wide shoulders. "been acting up all day," he mumbles, lips puckering up but they don't meet the ones north. they trail downward, latching onto your clit, sucking so that he can feel it rub against his tongue.
you moan, back arching against the coolness of his dark interior, hands trying to clutch onto him, to push or pull, give some sort of relief to the emptiness of you but he's grabbing your wrists, pinning them to your stomach. "you don't get to touch me," he speaks, the breath from his words battering up against your core, leaving you shaky and defenseless.
he licks a stripe before spitting, messy in the way he eats because he wants you dripping, easy enough to slide in and out of without working up a sweat. namjoon plans on wrecking your shit, leave you walking funny for days, a reminder that pretty girls don't cry when they get what they deserve.
you have no choice but to sit there and feel him spit, suck, lick, repeat, over and over again, the sound of his smacking and you gushing loud in your ears until your muscles flex, ankles crossing over one another behind namjoon's necks, the heels of your feet digging into his back.
"stay right there. please, please, please," you cry, hands thrashing in his unrelenting hold and best believe your pleas aren't anywhere near quiet. it has him bringing his free hand up to your mouth, middle and ring fingers tapping on your glossy lips.
you know what he wants, so like the good girl you're trying so hard to be, you open, letting the pads of his fingertips rest heavily on your tongue before you're wrapping your lips around them, tongue swirling around the length of them as a welcome.
he's momentarily given you a reason to shut up, fucking your mouth with his fingers whilst he eats your pussy like it's the last supper. namjoon has always found pleasure in pleasuring you, loving the way you tasted like honey on his tongue, the way your moans would pull him in like a siren would a sailor. it was a danger, the way you had him wrapped around your little finger.
your thighs tighten around his head in which he's blind to, the sharp strands of his buzz cut poking at the sensitive skin there but still, he never lets up his tongue's dipping into your entrance, licking into your gummy walls that clench as you near your orgasm.
you twitch, gargle around his fingers that press to the back of your throat until you're drooling, unable to speak. but you try, incoherent babbling mixing with the sound of namjoon between your legs.
when your spasms grow quicker, he's forced to let go of your wrists, palm striking down onto your hips that rut on his face, dragging your clit up and down his nose, and it's all too much. way too much. so involuntarily, you're stopped, body pausing in the shock of your orgasm that wrecks through you without warning.
"did i tell you to fuckin' stop? keep going," he spits, spanking your ass and urging your forward, drinking up every bit that pours from you.
the way you bunch up his jacket in tight fists is endearing, almost getting namjoon to reach up and smash his lips onto yours but he stops himself, keeps up his hard exterior because he knows he needs to put you in your place. learn your lesson.
"so good, joon. right there," you whine, head thrown back as he cleans you up with his tongue, lapping up any left over so that he can slide your underwear and skirt back into your lower half before bringing your face up to his with a grounding grip onto the column of your neck.
his lips hover over your own, practically daring you to kiss him. you know better though. his mean gaze on you says that you're in for a real treat, so you wait for him to speak, too scared to break the silence that blankets you.
"you've been out of line ever since you woke the hell up. i'm tired of you acting like you don't know shit."
"but i apologized," you say, eyes round and compliant as you look at him. you're a complete 180 of how you acted this morning. now docile in the way you shrink under his gaze.
his palm smacks against your cheek, stinging hotly but it adds fuel to the fire, makes your stomach full with butterflies. "mhm, but you don't mean it. just saying what you know i want to hear." namjoon's tugging you, putting his muscles to work as they sit you upright. "get out."
he's opening the door, ducking down in order to push himself out of the frame, and he doesn't look back because he knows you'll follow, making sure to press down on the lock button situated on his keys once he hears the shut of the car door.
your hair is messy, matting up in the back because of the friction between the strands and the fabric of the car seats. the wobbliness of your legs lead to the stairs, walking past the threshold and into your home in which namjoon holds the door and waits for you to get in just before gathering the thick strands at the back of your head, using it as leverage to urge you deeper into the home.
you gasp at his handling, his chest clung to your back as he pushes and pulls. you can't help but bring your hand up to his, clutching onto his wrist to try and ease his grip.
his breath is hot on your ear, whispering right into it as he bends forward to meet your level, ass pressed against his upper thighs while the growing bulge in his joggers swells. "by the time i get up those steps, you better be just how i want you."
and you bolt, quick to kick your chunky shoes from your feet and pull the jacket from your arms, left in a little skirt and an oversized soccer jersey, though you don't get time to dwell before rushing to take it all off, left bare save for the pink set of your bra and panties. the thickness of your curls resting at your shoulders.
heavy feet fall onto wooden flooring of the hall, partly creaky, or maybe it was the sound of your heart thumping in your ears. namjoon makes his way closer to your shared bedroom, his own outwear discarded and now left in a white tank and his bottoms.
your eyes are round and glassy when you look at him, regret all over your features because you know you're in for it. the way he rounds the bed to sit at the side of it before beckoning you over to him with the simple gesture of his fingers.
he wrangles you over his lap, right arm wrapping around your waist to keep you in place while his left hand rubs at the smooth skin of your ass before striking down, the smack so hard that it has you yelping.
"y'so pretty baby but act so fuckin' bad," he speaks, unwavering when he continues to reprimand you. "make it so hard for me."
“you know i hate seeing you cry.”
you call out for him, grabbing onto his calves for stability, thighs shaking in delicious pain because while it hurts, it feels so good, adding to the slick between your legs. the tears begin to run for the third time in the last half an hour, hands going to push at his but you're being stopped with the one along your waist, pinning your wrists to your lower back.
"you've done enough. be a good girl, would you," he questions but doesn't wait for an answer. "'s exactly why you're in this predicament now." ass perched up while he spanks it raw.
his hits are rough and repeated, taking the time in between to massage them just to take that momentary relief away once more at the bat of an eye. he even slides his finger between your folds to pick up a little bit of your wetness so that he can smear it across your ass.
namjoon's hungrily listening to every whine and scream that he draws from you, his cock unbearably stiff within his boxers, tip leaky and with a pinkened blushed undertone from its neglect.
it's only when he's done with you that he brings it to attention, pulling at the back of your hair to pull your face up level to his, eyeliner dyed tears streaming down your cheeks and he coos, kissing your forehead, but still, never touches your lips.
he knows you need it, the way your eyes are cloudy, waiting for him to get you exactly where it's easy to break to down: giggly and ever so moldable. pushing down your more bratty side and swapping it out for the good girl.
so he places you on the bed, sits you in his previous position whilst he rids himself of his clothes. chest and below bare and tanned with the small ribbon bow tattoo that represents you resting on his left pec, kneeling down just enough so that he can unclamp your bra and discard your panties before pursing his lips to leave a glob of spit catching onto your entrance, adding to your already drenched cunt.
"needed me, baby? you needed me to fill you up to put you in a better mood," he questions. “all you had to do was ask. you’on need to do the extra shit.” bringing a hand to his cock to jerk, standing back to his feet to drag his tip from your clit to the strip of skin just above your puckered hole. he just just keeps doing it, back and forth, up and down, until your grow restless, quivering, advancing to wrap your legs around his hips to bring him closer.
but namjoon easily slides into you and presses his palms to the backs of your knees, pushing so that they rest at either side of your head so that you’re completely folded.
the stretch hurts, makes you vulnerable and at the hands of his mercy but you wouldn't want it any other way, laying the future of your orgasm in his hold because you know he'll cater to you in every way possible.
his hips rut, pelvis to pelvis, heavy balls pressed to the swell of your ass as he digs deeper. and your pussy spasms, hugging him, sucking him in like a whirlpool. it makes namjoon lay his weight onto your chest, picking up his pace.
“slow down,” you whine, lips parted with your head thrown back, he takes one hand from your leg to wrap around your throat, bringing your attention onto him. maintaining gut-churning eye-contact.
"take this shit," he speaks, harsh and cruel. staring into your eyes and it makes you want to shrivel up. "been fuckin' with me all day so take this shit."
“d-didn’t mean to.”
he drops his hips a hurried slam, pounding into you like you owed him something. it was unrelenting. forceful. upon the impact of his dick sliding into you, your body jerks up higher onto the bed.
“mm, look at you. be actin’ all tough in public but as soon as you get on this dick, you go silent.”
leaning over, namjoon puts his thumb onto your bottom lip, sliding it between so that he can pry open your jaw, getting your mouth wide enough so that he can spit directly into your mouth but some inevitably falls onto your cheeks and he seals, smearing it, berry lip gloss smudging while your skin stings.
he laughs in your face, finding you to be the prettiest thing. even when you’re absolutely wrecked. pussy pulsing, titties bouncing, tummy folding, and knees resting beside your head.
“you boutta cream on me,” he asks when he feels you tighten and you nod, spent on the feeling of him splitting you open with a smile on his face. “this your shit. just go ‘head.” namjoon continues to dog you out, watching as the familiar white ring coats his dick at the base and he loves the sight.
before you get the chance to come down from the high of it all, namjoon’s taking matters into his own hands and is once again repositioning you as if it were nothing. the swiftness of it gives you whiplash. he's strong without reason, makes it entirely too easy to turn you to lay on your chest in the middle of the bed, arms behind your back whilst your ass points up, arched impossibly low that it strains your spine.
his palm is pressed to your cheek, pushing your head down into the mattress. one knee to the plush of the bedding while the other is bent with his foot flat as he thrusts entirely too deep.
it's hard hearing the soppiness of you taking him in, hearing your pussy talking back, pleading to take it easy because he's being so rough and you can barely keep up. he leaves you gaping when he pulls out and kisses your clit to see it jump just to push back in with fervor afterward.
with your face forced onto its side, watching through the mirror of your vanity as namjoon loses himself in your warmth, thrusts growing sloppy and straying away from its pattern, you blindly reach behind you, feeling the weight of his dick drilling into you.
"move your hand," he speaks sternly, calling you by name and its grounding. but you can't bring yourself to do it, trying your hardest to intercept his pace by pressing down onto his lower stomach. pretty nails dragging down the skin.
"i can't, joon," you plead, eyes rolling to the back of your head, toes curling. "god, it's too much." you involuntarily break your arch, back hunching, going to stand onto your knees to get namjoon to let up but he doesn’t let you.
pressing down on your back, moving your hand himself and pulling your hips up to get you right back into position he wants you, namjoon isn’t one for mercy as he digs back in. "nah, don't run from it.” he lays a heavy smack to your ass, watching as the flesh jiggles, so he does it again.
and again. and again. and again.
“fuck me back, baby.” he knows you’re gone when you do as he says without hesitation, smiling to himself as he feels his own toes curl. “yeah, you got it. fuck…keep goin’.”
and just like that, you’re back to your old ways. taking everything that he has to offer. throwing your ass back onto him to meet his thrusts. it has him reaching a hand down to pinch and roll your clit between two fingers, building you up so that you’ll be milking him in no time.
“all you wanted. this is all you wanted. you know daddy’s got you, baby,
a few more plunges in and you’re fluttering, cream flowing out of you, running down your thighs, and that causes a ripple effect on namjoon, his balls constricting as he paints your walls white.
and when you shake so much that you're one step away from sliding off the bed, namjoon chuckles before holding onto you tight, laying his sticky chest into your back and grabs the side of your face to smack his lips to yours.
Love my people down. This is the filth I want to see across my timeline , for my own fantasy purposes Joon defiantly has the buzz cut for this session, it screams brat tamer. So fucking hot him spanking her , her trying to run from the dick only to end up full of cum . Thanks for posting
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✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: idol Min Yoongi x choreo female Reader
✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Idol!au, situationship, angst, smut, coworkers (pretend to be shocked pls), love triangle
✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: Across sleepless cities on tour, you and Yoongi cling to each other in an unspoken arrangement neither of you knows how to end, until someone new makes you wonder if you should.
✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Hi! New fic, yup. Warnings to be included within each chapter. Verrryy excited with this one esp cause it’s been cooking for a while. I think it’s gonna be angsty, and sexy, and yummy. Written for @glossdebut for winning a little contest I ran last year.
preview // part one // part two // part three
INTRO UNDER THE CUT
You’re part of BTS’ BTS.
Bangtan Tour Sluts.
It’s a term one of the make-up unnies coined half-jokingly, after realizing the truth: you’re a group of women who’ve practically dedicated your lives to seven men who are not even your family.
You’re a sorority of girls who go on tour with the group, taking on multiple hats, making sure every tour stop goes as best as possible.
You willingly do every beck and call of theirs because you actually like them. They are nice and you want to see them succeed. And even if they’re not being nice (oh the stories you could tell!), you still do everything for them. Like good girls. Like sluts.
Maybe that’s just what devotion looks like in this business.
Yours started with Hoseok.
Back before you had a name that anyone could recognize, you were just another girl on YouTube flexing dance moves in her tiny apartment. Somehow, he saw one of your clips, a clean cover of Dope, and sent your link to their performance director.
You got the email weeks later, went in for an audition, and the rest is history.
Then came the rehearsals. The late nights. The endless counts of eight. You were still so broke in those early days that you couldn’t even afford a cab after a late night practice, so you’d wait at the bus stop outside the studio, hoodie soaked through, sneakers squishing from the rain.
One night, Jin pulled up beside the curb and offered you a ride. You remember Yoongi was in the passenger seat. Wordless for the most part, but he blasted the heater so you wouldn't get cold. You thanked Jin profusely as he dropped you off.
He shrugged and said, “Good thing Yoongi saw you.”
You still remember the heat sinking back into your bones.
It added up over time.
Jimin once wrapped your ankle when you landed wrong after some crazy choreo you were trying to hit. Even crazier, Namjoon paid for your eomma’s emergency medical bills, because you were still struggling then.
They noticed you beyond your work. Not all at once, but steadily, gradually, eventually. And maybe that’s all it takes. You’d follow them anywhere after that.
So you do.
The thing is, some of the Bangtan Tour Sluts do become that over time.
You once overheard a manager say: stupid idols date fans; smart idols date other idols. Or each other.
The boys are fine shyt. But after living together for years, the latter feels… borderline incestuous.
They’ve tried dating other idols too, but it’s chaos. Too many schedules to align, too many eyes watching, security doubling the second they want to meet up even in a different city for a simple fuck.
It’s easier this way. Closer. Quieter.
You don’t even blame them for it. This arrangement. The girls are hot as hell.
There’s Angel from Wardrobe who’s become Taehyung’s emotional support buddy. She’s on-call to dress him and undress him, whenever the situation calls for it.
Jungkook’s got a couple in his roster. Bina from glam and Tiff, also from glam. It could be problematic, sure, but so far they’re having fun.
Somehow, even if you highly considered becoming Seokjin’s...
I am such a whore for Min Yoongi and glad to have found someone just as down bad for him . K I am at a lost for words of how damn good this smut was to read . Like them in the hotel and he’s fucking her face !!!!! The bit the toes were a bit beyond my fantasies especially with those big as feet he have but maybe that added to the stimulation idk lol , But yes it was pure to filth to read . On the other hand , these two are so emotionally dumb it’s painful to see play out . A jealous Yoongi is such a delight , I want to know who he will confront first over his emotions our resident tour slut or our leader . It is unclear does Namjoon have romantic interest in our reader , are they truly just friends . I know that must drive our Yoongles insane , but I don’t know why he just want approach her in the same way, . They were so cute with their matching blankies . Will we witness any threesomes here , the hair braiding scene threw me for a loop , it was oddly intimate at least for me , or is it suppose to mirror/parallel how close Joon and OC are platonically . Also also what’s behind the title ??? Are mirrors suppose to play some significance here or is it for what they represent , idk making our leads look into their reflections and is the smoke all the bs they are letting keep things unexplained . And have any of the BTS , the slut variety, been upgraded to girlfriend status , with access outside of the schedule . I am craving a basketball scene with our beloved shooting guard after witnessing(reading) how trash he is at pickleball . Thanks for posting !!!!
I am begging on my lucky stars for you to go to another live show because if this is the inspiration we receive after ,10/10 all writers see their muse live
🎹 Pairing: BTS Suga (Min Yoongi) x Reader (Arts Center Founder!Reader)
Min Yoongi calls you after eight months of silence and asks you to pretend to be his girlfriend for two weeks. You say yes, because you're apparently that person. The plan: convince his parents, collect the grant funding, don't catch feelings. The problem: you already have them. The bigger problem: so does he. The biggest problem: he wrote a whole song about it and neither of you has said a single word out loud.
Two weeks. A Fake relationship. Real everything else.
🎹 Genres: Fake Dating, Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Angst with a dahs of Hope, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Celebrity x Non-Celebrity, Emotional Drama, He has written eight songs about her and she doesn't know it yet, It's a bit of a rom-com, Min Yoongi and his hair, (Yes, that is a genre)
🎹 Short summary: "The deal was twelve days of fake. It ended up being the only thing that wasn't."
🎹 Rating: 18+ (minors DNI)
🎹 Chapter index Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 EPILOGUE
Part of The B-Side series Universe:
🖤 THE B-SIDE SERIES MASTERLIST
You have never been good at lying to yourself.
This is not a virtue. It has not always felt like one.
There are people who can look at something true and uncomfortable and file it somewhere dark and quiet and get on with their lives. You have tried this. You have tried it with intention, with commitment, with the full force of someone who understands the appeal.
It does not work.
You feel things the way you hear music — completely, from the inside out, no distance between you and the thing itself. You have tried the distance.
It just doesn't take.
Your mother used to say you wore your heart on your sleeve, and you would say I know, I'm working on it, and she would say I didn't say it was a problem, and you never quite believed her until you were old enough to understand what it cost people who couldn't.
You feel things fully and you say them when they need to be said and you build things out of them when you can. The feeling is not the problem. The feeling is the material. So you use it. Without apology. With both hands.
This is, more or less, the philosophy behind everything you have ever built.
Including the thing that should not exist.
Nobody believed the Maeum Arts Center would work. That is, historically, the wrong thing to tell you.
This is just the truth of it — that when you walked into a bank eight years ago and said I would like funding to open a music and arts therapy center for neurodivergent children in Seoul, the bank lady looked at you with the polite, careful expression of an institution that is about to say no in several different ways, and you walked out of that bank and into the next one, and the one after that, and eventually when literally any other person would have just stopped.
You started asking everyone else, grant by grant, favor by favor, one stubborn inch at a time, until one day you turned around and there it was.
Yellow walls.
That was the first decision — yellow, specifically the yellow of late afternoon in a room with good windows, warm and a little unreasonable.
The kind of color that says you are allowed to be loud here.
The walls are covered now: finger-painted handprints in every size, a mural that started as a class project and has been expanding for two years, a hand-lettered sign by the entrance that reads THE REAL STARS PRACTICE HERE because Kim Seojun, age nine, made it during a session where he was supposed to be working on fine motor skills, and you framed it, and now it lives there permanently, and you refuse to feel embarrassed about this.
The floors are scuffed wood, permanently chalky near the supply closet. There are plants in the windows that are thriving despite everything.
The front desk has a bowl of individually wrapped chocolates that Dani refills every Monday, because They understand that small comforts are also infrastructure.
Every room has a name — not a number, a name — and the kids named them, so Practice Room One is officially called The Dragon Room because Choi Jisoo drew a dragon on the door in marker three years ago and you told her it was permanent and you meant it.
Jisoo is twelve years old now, and hears music the way most people never will — not as sound but as sense, something that lives in her before she reaches for it.
Someone recognized this immediately.
He got her the better practice room and a cello that was not the center's cheapest option and has since denied both decisions flatly and without elaboration. Jisoo calls him teacher in a tone that implies she has a more accurate word and is choosing not to use it.
He pretends not to notice.
He absolutely notices.
You are thinking about him again.
You weren't going to do that.
You look at the schedule on your desk and keep going.
It smells like paint. And Rosin because it is Monday and the string kids have been in.
Sometimes, when Dani has eaten at the desk, whatever Dani had for lunch, which is usually something that makes you realize you have not eaten since approximately seven AM.
It is, genuinely, the best place you have ever been.
You built it. You would go to war for it. You would, and this is relevant, do almost anything to keep it running.
Almost.
You are in the Sunshine Room explaining to Kim Seojun why Für Elise does not need to be played at the speed of a man fleeing a crime scene to be considered a passionate performance.
"Speed," you tell him, sitting on the piano bench beside him, "is not the same as feeling."
Seojun considers this. He is nine years old and built like a question mark, all elbows and certainty. "My feeling," he says, "is that it should be faster."
"Your feeling is wrong."
"You said feelings are never wrong."
"I said your feelings about yourself are never wrong. Your feelings about tempo are subject to revision."
He thinks about this for a moment. Then, with the air of someone who has decided to be magnanimous: "I will play it fast and then slow and then you can decide."
"I have already decided, Seojun."
"You can decide again."
This is the negotiation you are in the middle of — Seojun playing the opening of Für Elise at a pace that suggests Beethoven was, in fact, running, and you telling him to slow down, and Seojun having opinions about this — when your phone goes off.
Not the center line. Not Dani's extension. Your personal phone — the one whose number is held by your landlord, your mother, and Dani, who is standing twelve feet away looking at their clipboard. Your mother is on a cruise in Antarctica and has been radio silent since last Tuesday, which she warned you about. Your landlord has no reason to call. Dani is right there.
That leaves one option.
One option that has not called in eight months.
You pull it out.
You look at the screen.
incoming call: Min Yoongi.
Directly.
You look at it for what is probably two seconds and feels like considerably longer.
Seojun looks at your face. Then at your phone. Then back at your face. "Is that bad?" he asks.
"Play the piece," you say. "Slowly."
"How slowly?"
"Like you mean it, not like you're winning a race."
You stand up. You step into the doorway. Dani is at the front desk twelve feet away and you know — you can feel it — that they have already clocked the name on your screen, because Dani notices everything and says approximately thirty percent of what they notice, and the sixty percent they don't say tends to live in the air around them like ambient information.
They look up from their clipboard.
They look back down.
You answer the phone.
"I need a favor."
Eight months. Eight months of center-related correspondence routed through Dani like diplomatic cables, and he calls your personal number, and his opening line is I need a favor.
This is, actually, very Min Yoongi.
The thing about him — and you have had eight months to not think about this, which means you have thought about it with some frequency — is that he does not do anything sideways. Other people would have opened with small talk. How are you, how's the center, hey so funny thing.
They would have built a little runway before asking for the thing. Yoongi does not build runways. Yoongi lands the plane directly in your living room and looks at you like well, here's the plane.
It is, depending on the day, either his most charming quality or his most catastrophic one.
Today you have not decided yet.
"Min Yoongi," you say.
But even as you say it, you are already doing the thing you have never been able to stop yourself from doing — feeling it first, thinking about it second, in that order, always in that order. Eight months of careful distance and his name on your screen and your heart just — opens the file. All of it. Right there. Like it never closed.
And it forces your mind to go back in time to understand it.
Approximately three and a half years ago, the company that manages BTS decided — or more accurately, decided for him — that Min Yoongi needed somewhere to be that was not his studio at two in the morning.
What you understood later was that the call was less goodwill and more intervention.
You knew who he was before he walked through the door. You would have been hard pressed not to — you live in Seoul, you run a center full of children who have opinions about music before they have opinions about anything else, and BTS is not a thing you can be adjacent to Korean culture and miss.
You knew the name Suga.
You had heard what he made, the mixtapes and the solo work, the kind of music that gets made when someone decides that honesty is the only tool worth using. The kind that makes you sit with it after, not because it's comfortable but because it's true.
You were wary when the company called. You said yes anyway, because the funding was real and the need was real and you have never been precious about where good things come from as long as they are actually good.
What you didn't know — what you pieced together later, in pieces, from things he said and things he didn't — was what the visit was really for.
He was in the middle of it then. His last album, though he didn't know yet it would be the last one.
Agust D was not finished, not closed, the trilogy still assembling itself, and he was somewhere in the dark interior of that process — converting the last of something that had taken fifteen years to excavate, bleeding it onto a record that the world would later call a masterpiece and he would later call done. He was drinking quietly. He was in his studio at hours that were not reasonable hours. And management, who had one eye on the asset and one eye on what the asset was costing, made the call.
A music center.
They sent him to your center because they needed him to be somewhere that had nothing to do with the music industry and everything to do with why music existed in the first place.
Children who knew exactly who he was and could not have cared less, because he was Teacher Min and Teacher Min was late on Wednesdays and had opinions about their finger positioning and that was what he was to them and fame is considerably less interesting than whether you are going to help them with the bridge section or not.
You understood later what the company was hoping for. That something ordinary might reach him where extraordinary had stopped working.
What you didn't expect — what none of them expected, probably — was that it would work. That he would sit in the corner of the Dragon Room on his third visit and hear Choi Jisoo play and just. Stop.
Jisoo was nine then. She had lost her parents eight months before — a car accident, her older sister barely an adult, both of them trying to stay above water by sheer force of will. She came to the center through a school referral and you knew within the first session that she was something rare. Talented doesn't cover it. She heard music the way he did — from somewhere it couldn't be taught, before anyone told her to be careful with it. It came out whole every time.
He recognized her immediately. You watched it happen from the doorway — the moment he heard her and went still, not the managed stillness he carried everywhere, but a different kind. The kind that happens when something outside you names something inside you that you didn't have words for yet.
She was nine years old and she had just lost everything and she was still playing.
You think that did something to him that the center itself couldn't have done. You think she reminded him why he started. You think some part of that last album — somewhere in the release of it, in the place where the anger finally loosens into something that can breathe — has this room in it. You cannot point to the measure. You just know.
You know Suga. You have always known Suga — the fire, the precision, the particular devastation of a lyric that doesn't blink.
You know AgustD. The thing underneath the fire. The part that took everything dark and made it into something that could exist outside his body so he didn't have to carry it alone anymore.
Min Yoongi walked into your center three and a half years ago in a black beanie.
He is the one you were not prepared for.
And stood in your doorway and looked at everything you built.
A building that smelled like paint. A person who looked up from a grant proposal and said you must be the piano guy without a single trace of anything except mild administrative recognition.
He didn't announce himself.
He didn't bring anyone.
He came back the next week.
And the week after that.
He was — and you want to be precise about this, for your own accounting — not what you expected. Quiet in the way of someone who has decided that words are a resource to be used carefully rather than freely. Funny in the way that sneaks up on you, deadpan and perfectly timed, gone before you're sure it happened. He sat on the floor of the Dragon Room and listened to Jisoo play with an expression you recognized — the expression of someone hearing music the way you hear music, from the inside out, like it's a language and not a performance.
He was, against all available evidence and better judgment, a person you genuinely liked.
And then — and this is where the story gets less tidy — there was a period. A difficult period. The kind that happens when someone is at the peak of everything and the bottom of themselves at the same time, and you were there for part of it, and then you weren't, and then there was a morning that neither of you has addressed, and then there were eight months of Dani's professional neutrality standing between you like a very elegant wall.
That's the context.
That's why hi does what it does.
"You don't get to hi me," you say again, because you already said it once and it still applies. "You get to explain yourself."
"I was getting to that."
"You were getting to the favor. That's different."
"The favor is the explanation."
"Then start with the favor."
He starts with the favor.
What follows is approximately three minutes of Min Yoongi — who is, among other things, a Grammy-nominated producer, a member of the most successful musical group in history, a critically acclaimed solo artist, a man who once wrote a lyric so precise it made a journalist cry in a press conference — explaining how he arrived at his current situation.
The situation is this.
He tells you about his father first.
This is not what you expected. You were braced for the logistics of it, the ask — and instead he leads with this, quietly, in the voice he uses when he has been carrying something alone long enough that it has changed shape. The cancer is back. He found out three weeks ago. His parents don't know he knows how bad it is. He is not going to tell them he knows how bad it is. What he is going to do is make sure that when they visit, his father sees his youngest son okay. Settled. Not alone in his apartment at three AM eating ramyeon, which is what he actually is.
You don't say anything. You let him keep going.
His mother called, he says. Asked the question she has apparently been saving for the right moment — Yoongi-ya, is there anyone — and he said yes. He said yes because his father laughed in the background when his mother made a happy sound and he is, whatever else he is, not someone who takes that laugh from his father right now. Not with everything else.
And then his mother said who.
And your name came out.
He says this last part with the energy of a man reporting a minor natural disaster — something that happened, meteorological in nature, outside his control. Your name came out. His mother said oh, the one from the center, which means he has mentioned you enough that you exist in her mind as a real and specific person, which is something you are going to put in a box and close the lid on for now. They asked questions. He answered enough of them that a retreat is no longer possible. His parents arrive Tomorrow.
He is asking.
You are quiet for a moment.
Then he says the actual thing.
He needs you to come to dinner. Tomorrow. To meet them. To be, for twelve days, the person whose name came out of his mouth on a Sunday night when his father laughed in the background and everything felt urgent.
His girlfriend.
Fake, he clarifies. Obviously fake.
He will compensate you for your time. He says this last part quickly, like he is aware of how it sounds and has decided that speed is the only solution.
You stand very still in the doorway of the Dragon Room.
There is a silence on the phone that contains several things simultaneously — his embarrassment, which he will not name, and yours, which you are also not going to name, and the question of which of you should feel more humiliated by this phone call, which you are going to call a tie and move on from.
From the front desk, twelve feet away, you feel Dani look up.
You do not look at them.
You look at the yellow wall directly in front of you instead, which is a mistake, because the yellow wall has a mirror on it, and in the mirror you can see your own face, which has performed, in the last thirty seconds, a remarkable journey — draining of color and then filling back up with the specific red of the Dragon Room door, bright and total and absolutely visible.
Dani makes a face.
You turn away from the mirror.
"You want me," you say, very carefully, "to pretend to be your girlfriend."
"Yes," he says.
"For twelve days."
"Yes."
"And you'll compensate me for my time."
A pause. "...yes."
"Min Yoongi," you say.
"I know," he says.
You think about the grant proposal open on your laptop. Fourth draft. The methodology section you have been revising since February, it's March. The number at the bottom of the budget page that you have been looking at for three weeks like watching a clock you cannot stop.
And then you think about the thing that he also said and now you can't ignore, he said your name.
Your name.
"Why," you say, "my name."
"It came out."
"Things don't just come out, Yoongi."
"This one did."
"My name specifically."
"...yes."
"You panicked and the name that came out of your mouth was mine."
Silence. Then: "Are you going to keep repeating it back to me."
"I'm going to keep repeating it back to you until I understand how this is the situation I'm in."
"You're not in a situation yet. I'm asking if you want to be in a situation."
"That," you say, "is the worst pitch I've ever heard and I once sat through a grant presentation where a man used the phrase youth sonic ecosystem fourteen times."
"Fourteen."
"I counted."
A pause. And then — quiet, and you almost miss it — the sound of him trying not to laugh. Just barely. The exhale of it.
Something in your chest does something you are not going to acknowledge.
"My parents arrive at four," he says, back to level. "They're here for two weeks. My mother has—" A pause. "She's very thorough."
"I know what your mother is."
"You've never met her."
"You've told me about her. She's thorough."
"She's very thorough."
"Yoongi." You lean against the wall outside the Dragon Room. Inside, Seojun has abandoned Für Elise and is playing something that contains what sounds like a battle sequence. You ignore this. "What exactly are you asking me to do?"
"Come to dinner. Tomorrow, I'll pick you up. Be—" Another pause, shorter. "Be her."
"Be her," you repeat. "Be the girlfriend."
"Yes."
"That you invented."
"Yes."
"Using my name."
"I've acknowledged that part."
"I want to make sure we're both clear on the full picture," you say, "which is that you have created a fictional relationship, cast me in it without my knowledge, and are now calling me after eight months to inform me that I have rehearsal tomorrow."
The silence this time is different. It has the quality of a man who knows he has no defensible position and has decided that honesty is the only remaining strategy. "...yes," he says. "That's the picture."
You look at the ceiling of the Maeum Arts Center. Yellow. Unreasonable. The very best color.
The grant proposal is open on your laptop. Fourth draft.
"What's in it for me," you say.
He does not hesitate.
Then he mentions the funding.
Not as a plea. Not as desperation. He says it the way he says most things — clean, no preamble, like he has thought about it already and arrived at a number and is now simply communicating the result. Three years. Full program. No strings beyond an annual summary that Dani could do in their sleep.
He knows about the budget.
Of course he knows — you have talked freely about grant committees and funding gaps and the specific indignity of begging institutions for money to do work that should have been funded already. He has been sending money to the center quietly for two years, through a foundation, no announcement, the kind of generosity that arrives without a name attached because the name was never the point.
He has offered more. Several times, through Dani. You have declined every time because you have your own pride and he lost the right to give you things directly when he stopped talking to you eight months ago.
But this is the thing about building something real — and the center is real, the kids are very real, Seojun's future as a person who can negotiate tempo is real, Jisoo's better practice room and better cello and the future already forming in her hands is real — you get very practical about what it takes to keep it standing. You think about the Wednesday group and the Dragon Room and the eight kids on the waitlist you have not been able to say yes to yet because the budget page says what it says. You stop being precious about it. You learn to look at an absurd situation and ask but does it help before you ask anything else.
Does it help.
Three years, no strings.
Yes. It helps.
"My price," you say, "is the spring showcase. You play one piece. On stage. With the kids. In front of everyone."
A pause. "Which kids."
"The Wednesday ensemble group."
Another pause. Longer.
You happen to know that he has heard the Wednesday ensemble group practice, because he comes on Wednesdays, because this is one of the facts you have continued to know despite the eight months, and the Wednesday ensemble group at their current stage of development sounds like — and you love them deeply, this is not in question — organized enthusiasm.
"How long is the piece," he says.
"Three minutes. Maybe three-fifteen if Seojun takes the repeat."
"He'll take the repeat."
"He always takes the repeat."
"I know," Yoongi says, and just for a second it doesn't sound like it's about the music.
You clear your throat. "Deal or no deal."
Silence.
"Deal," he says.
Just like that. No negotiation. Like he was going to say yes before you finished the sentence.
You have a thought about this that you immediately put in a box and close the lid on.
"Fine," you say. "What time."
"Seven. I'll pick you up"
"Okay."
A beat. He doesn't say anything about this. You appreciate that.
"Dress like—"
"I know how to dress, Yoongi."
"I didn't mean—"
"I'm aware of what you meant and I'm telling you I know how to dress myself."
"Okay."
"I don't show up anywhere looking unprofessional."
"I know you don't."
"I'm just making that clear."
"It's very clear," he says, and there is definitely, definitely something in his voice that you are not going to give any oxygen to whatsoever.
"Tomorrow," you say.
"Seven," he says.
You hang up.
You stand in the hallway for a moment.
From the Dragon Room: Seojun, who has worked his way through the battle sequence and arrived at what sounds like a victory theme.
From the courtyard: three of the older kids, who were supposed to be doing a chalk activity that has clearly escalated past its original mandate. Someone has drawn something enormous. It might be a whale.
From the front desk: nothing. No sound at all.
You turn around.
Dani is looking at you. They have the clipboard in front of them and they are very technically still doing their job, which you appreciate, because Dani is professional, but their eyes over the top of the clipboard are saying something extensive.
"Don't," you say.
Dani says nothing.
"The funding is—"
"Three years," Dani says. This is the first thing they have said. It comes out with the flatness of a person who has had a thought, filed it, and is now simply confirming the record.
"Full program. No strings."
"He called directly," Dani says.
"Yes."
"Your personal number."
"Dani."
"After eight months." They look down at the clipboard. Then back up. Something shifts in their expression — something very small, almost invisible, gone before you can name it. "Obviously," they say.
Not obviously this makes sense. Not obviously you should do it. Just: obviously. The Dani obviously, which contains an entire thesis that you have neither the time nor the emotional real estate to engage with right now.
"It's twelve days," you say. "It's practical."
"Absolutely," Dani says.
"Completely practical."
"Of course."
"You don't have to say it like that."
"I said of course."
"You said it like that."
Dani looks at you with the serenity of someone who has made peace with the universe and all its workings. "Should I book you a blowout for tomorrow or do you want to do that yourself."
You open your mouth.
You close it.
"...book it," you say.
Dani nods and picks up their pen.
From the Dragon Room, Seojun has looped back around and is playing Für Elise again, still fast, but this time there is something in it — a little more feeling, a little less racing. Like he has decided, on his own terms and in his own time, that maybe slow and fast aren't opposites. Maybe they're just different ways of meaning it.
You grab your jacket off the hook by the door.
Twelve days.
Fake girlfriend. Real funding. Min Yoongi, who called your personal number after eight months and said your name to his mother and apparently has been sitting on that fact like it's a completely normal thing to have done.
Fine, you think. This is going to be completely fine.
You are a person who built something real out of nothing. You can do twelve days.
Easy.
You step outside.
The kid in the courtyard has finished the whale. It is enormous. Someone has given it a name — you can see the letters from here, chalked in big wobbly print.
Gerald.
You look at Gerald for a moment.
Gerald looks back.
"Yeah, Me too," you tell him, and go to get your car.
He picks you up at six forty-five.
This is, you will reflect later, very Min Yoongi. Not six-thirty, which would be anxious. Not seven, which would be cutting it. Six forty-five — enough time, no excess of it, accounted for without being performed. He texts when he's outside. One message Here No punctuation because punctuation on a single word is, apparently, where he draws the line on formality.
You grab your bag and go downstairs.
He is leaning against the car when you come out, hands in his jacket pockets, looking at his phone with the focused patience of someone who is not actually reading anything on it. He looks up when the door opens.
He stops looking at his phone.
This is the thing — and you have had three and a half years to observe this and several months to try to stop noticing it — about Min Yoongi. His face does not do much. This is not coldness. You figured that out early, faster than most people do, because most people look at the still surface and assume the water is shallow, and you have always known that the still ones run deep. He is not a man who performs calm. He is calm, genuinely, the way a room is calm after someone has learned how to arrange it. Unhurried. Considered. The bluntness of him — the way he says the true thing without decorating it first, without building a runway — it is not cruelty. It is the opposite of cruelty. It is the respect of a person who thinks you can handle the truth and gives it to you whole.
You know this about him.
You know the face he makes when he's decided something. You know the particular quality of his silences — there are at least four different ones and they all mean different things. You know that when he goes very level and very still it is not because nothing is happening but because quite a lot is happening and he has made a decision about what to do with it.
You know all of this.
Which is why you see it — the thing that crosses his face when you walk out the door in the blue dress. It is fast. It is almost nothing.
Almost.
Your dress is blue.
This requires some context.
Your wardrobe is, generally, a reflection of your actual life — which is to say it is colorful in the way that happens when you work with paint and children and the occasional catastrophic craft supply situation, and practical in the way that happens when you have learned, through experience, that dry-clean only is a promise you cannot keep. You own cardigans in every weight. You own trousers with good pockets. You own an apron that has developed a permanent glitter situation that three years of laundering have failed to resolve, and you have made peace with this because the glitter is a feature, not a flaw, and also because Seojun put the first piece of it there during a project about stars and you are not emotionally capable of fully removing it.
You also own earrings. You would like the record to reflect that you own earrings. They are simply not always the conventional kind — you have a pair of tiny cellos that Dani gave you ironically and you wear unironically, a pair of small gold music notes that have become essentially structural, and a pair of strawberries that came from a market stall and bring you genuine joy every time.
The earrings you are wearing tonight are different.
Small. Simple. A pale blue stone that catches light without announcing itself. Yoongi gave them to you fourteen months ago, offhandedly, after a trip to somewhere — Japan, you think, or maybe Tokyo specifically — and said these reminded me of something without saying what, and you said thank you and put them in the small dish on your dresser and have not worn them until tonight.
You are wearing them tonight because they match the dress.
That is the only reason.
The dress itself you bought for a hospital gala your ex-boyfriend invited you to three years ago, wore twice since, and kept at the back of your closet for occasions that required you to look like someone who had not recently been in contact with tempera paint. It is, objectively, a good dress. The kind of blue that makes someone look at you and then look again.
It hits right.
You have done something with your hair — Dani's blowout, smooth and deliberate — and you look, from the outside, like the other version of yourself. The one that exists in grant meetings and funding presentations, the one that walks into a room and makes people understand immediately that the Maeum Center is not a passion project, it is a business, and it is her business, and she built it from nothing and she will build it further still.
You don't lead with this version of yourself. You don't need to, most days.
But you know how to be her.
Yoongi looks at you coming through the door in the blue dress and the simple earrings and his face does the thing that almost isn't a thing, and he does not say anything for a moment that is slightly too long to be neutral.
"Hi," you say.
He blinks. "Hi."
"You're staring."
"I'm not staring."
"You stopped breathing."
"I didn't—" He stops. "I was thinking."
"About."
"Nothing." He pushes off the car. "You look—" He stops again. Min Yoongi, who once wrote a lyric so precise it made a journalist cry in a press conference, who has spent his entire adult life finding the exact right word for the exact right feeling, is standing in front of you failing to complete a sentence. "You clean up well."
You stare at him.
"That came out—"
"You're going to want to try that again."
"You look nice," he says, quieter. The correction filed with his eyes somewhere near your collarbone, near the earrings, and then quickly away.
"Thank you," you say pleasantly.
He opens the car door. You get in. He closes it, walks around, gets in the driver's side, and starts the car with the composure of a man who did not just short-circuit in a public street over a blue dress.
You look out the window so he doesn't see you smile.
"The earrings," he says, after a moment, eyes on the road.
"What about them."
A pause. "Nothing."
You look at him.
His ears are pink.
Min Yoongi, whose bars could make a stadium go quiet, whose lyrics have been tattooed on strangers' ribcages and quoted in academic papers about the commodification of grief — his ears are pink because you are wearing earrings he gave you.
It is, genuinely, one of the most devastating things you have ever seen.
When you pull up to the restaurant. He glances at you. Something steadying in it, something that is both for you and, you think, for him. "Let's go do this, Doll." he says.
And there it is. Landing quiet and certain, like it has always been there, waiting.
You face forward.
You think: this is going to be a problem.
The private room is warm and small, and his family is already there, and the first thing you understand when you walk in is that Min Yoongi did not come from nowhere.
His father stands. Shorter than Yoongi, broader through the shoulders, the same eyes — the kind that take things in and file them without announcement. He smiles when he sees you and it rearranges his whole face, and you think: there it is. That's where Yoongi got the one he doesn't take out often.
"You must be—" his father starts.
"She is," Yoongi says.
His father looks at him. Yoongi looks back. You recognize this immediately — the language of two people who argue not because they disagree but because agreeing out loud has never been either of their first instinct. They are, from a distance of four feet, almost comically similar. The same set of the jaw. The same economy of expression. The same way of standing like they have already thought about this and reached a conclusion and are simply waiting for the room to catch up.
"I was going to let her introduce herself," his father says.
"She was about to."
"Before you interrupted."
"It wasn't an interruption, it was context."
"The context," his father says, turning to you with a patience clearly developed over three decades, "was her name."
You put your hand on Yoongi's arm. Lightly. He stops talking.
His father watches this. Something moves through his expression that you can't fully name yet.
"He's exactly like you," you tell him.
His father laughs — real and surprised — and Yoongi makes a sound beside you that is not quite objection but is in the neighborhood.
"I've been saying this," his father says, "since he was seven years old and told me I was explaining a recipe incorrectly."
"I was correct," Yoongi says.
"You were seven."
"The kimchi jjigae was underseasoned."
"He was right," his mother says, appearing from the other side of the table, and kisses Yoongi's cheek before he can arrange his face properly, and then turns to you with warm hands and a smile that is, you understand immediately, where Min Yoongi's face actually came from. Because his father gave him the eyes, the jaw, the bluntness, the way of standing. But the face itself — the structure of it, the particular arrangement that makes strangers stop and look — that came from her.
She is beautiful. Warm and deliberate and currently looking at you like she is very glad you exist.
"I've wanted to meet you," she says. "He doesn't tell us enough."
"I tell you—" Yoongi starts.
"Enough about the center," his mother says. "Not enough about you." She squeezes your hands and then, before you can respond: "Come sit by me."
It is not a question.
Yoongi's older brother Jihoon arrives fifteen minutes late carrying, by your count, a diaper bag, two coats, a tote bag whose contents remain unknown but are clearly substantial, what appears to be a portable sound machine, and a look of a man who has not slept more than four consecutive hours since approximately three months ago. His wife Eunji follows behind him carrying the baby, who is three months old and fully, aggressively awake, and who is also the only person in this family currently unburdened by anything.
"Sorry—" Jihoon starts.
"The baby," Yoongi's mother says, already standing, already making grabbing motions.
"Her name is Haerin—"
"Yes, yes. The baby."
The handoff happens. Haerin — round and duck-onesied and deeply skeptical of this restaurant — is transferred into her grandmother's arms and immediately closes her eyes.
Yoongi's mother looks vindicated in a way that transcends language.
"Don't," Yoongi says. "I'm not doing anything." "You're doing the face." "I don't have a face." "Eunji, tell him he has a face." "He has a face," Eunji says without looking up.
Jihoon grins at you. "Welcome. He talks about you constantly. It's the center this, the kids that, the director—"
"He calls her by her name," his father says, from behind his menu. Conversational. Like he is reporting something mildly interesting. "Not the director. Not my friend from the center." He turns a page. "Your name. Since the beginning."
The table is quiet for a moment.
Yoongi picks up his water glass and takes a sip looking like a man who has decided that this glass of water is the most important thing happening in this room right now.
You look at the menu.
The menu is also very interesting.
"The bulgogi looks good," you say.
"It does," Yoongi says.
Neither of you looks up.
The dinner is, against all expectation, the best time you have had in months.
This is the problem with Yoongi's family. You were prepared to like them adequately. You were not prepared for Jihoon's deadpan timing, for Eunji's quiet devastating accuracy, for his father's questions about the center that build on each other and reveal that he has actually been listening. You were not prepared for his mother to refill your glass before you notice it's low or to ask about the grant history with the genuine interest of someone who wants to understand rather than just be polite.
You tell them more than you mean to. The yellow walls. Seojun's sign. The Dragon Room. The way you built it grant by grant because banks are not in the business of funding things that should exist but don't yet.
"It sounds," Yoongi's father says, "like something that should have existed already."
"It should have," you say. "That's why I built it."
He looks at you.
Across the table, you feel Yoongi looking at you too.
You think about who he is on stage — the precision of it, the controlled devastation, every word placed to land exactly where he means it to land. You have heard that album. You know what he made and what it cost him. You know the lyrics that made journalists cry and critics write dissertations and strangers get them tattooed somewhere permanent.
And here he is, passing his father the side dishes first. Cutting Haerin's blanket back into place when it slips without being asked, without making it a gesture. Listening to his mother with the particular quality of someone who does not take for granted that she is still talking.
The same person.
Both of them, every time, the same person.
You find this so unreasonably moving that you have to look at your chopsticks for a moment.
"Isn't he handsome?" his mother says.
This arrives without warning, in the small pause after the table has been laughing about something Jihoon said. She is looking at Yoongi with the uncomplicated pride of a woman who made a beautiful thing and knows it. Then she looks at you.
"My boy," she says. "Isn't he the most handsome man."
Yoongi goes very still.
"Eomma—"
"I'm asking her a question."
"It's not a—"
"Yoongi-ya, I'm talking to your girlfriend."
You look at him. He is looking at the table with the composure of a man who has made a decision about where his eyes are going and is committed to it.
You look back at his mother.
"Yes," you say simply. "He really is."
His mother beams.
Yoongi says nothing. He picks up his chopsticks and takes a precise, deliberate bite of food and chews it with great attention, and you think: he is so good at pretending not to be affected by things.
You look back at your plate.
This is going to be a very long twelve days.
It is Jihoon who breaks the argument.
He is explaining, incorrectly, why a particular investment strategy is correct. His father is explaining, patiently, why it is not. Yoongi has entered on his father's side with the energy of someone who has been waiting for an opportunity to be right about something. All three of them are talking at the same time.
"You're all saying the same thing," Eunji says.
They stop.
"From different angles," she adds, rocking Haerin. "And arguing about the angles."
Silence.
Yoongi looks at Jihoon. Jihoon looks at their father. Their father looks at Yoongi.
"She's right," you say.
"She's always right," Eunji says, without vanity. Pure fact.
The table laughs. Full, warm, the kind that lingers. Haerin opens her eyes, decides this situation is acceptable, and closes them again. Yoongi's mother is laughing with her hand over her mouth. Jihoon is shaking his head. His father—
His father's laughter fades last.
In the quiet after, he looks across the table at his youngest son. Something in his face has shifted — the argument is completely gone from it. What is there instead is older. Quieter. The look of a man who is keeping careful count.
"I'm glad," he says. "To see you like this. Settled." A pause — something moves through it, brief and real. "Happy."
The room doesn't go quiet. Eunji adjusts Haerin's blanket. Jihoon refills water. His mother smiles at her plate.
But you feel it.
And you watch it move through Yoongi — fast, like weather crossing open ground. He looks at his father. Looks down. When he looks up again he is composed, level, the surface arranged exactly where he keeps it.
"Yeah," he says. Careful and quiet. "Me too."
You look at your hands.
The blue dress. The earrings from a trip to somewhere, Tokyo maybe, that you wore tonight because they matched.
Practical, you told Dani.
Twelve days, you told yourself.
You pick up your chopsticks.
You do not look at Yoongi.
Because you have your own unresolved feelings about the morning that neither of you has mentioned, about eight months of deliberate distance, about three and a half years of knowing someone and choosing proximity and then losing it. You have been very organized about all of this. You have filed it and managed it and told yourself it was handled.
And now you are sitting at a table with his family while his father looks at his son like he is counting good moments, and you are wearing the earrings, and he said doll in the car like it was always a word that belonged to the two of you—
You are realizing, with some clarity, that you have made a miscalculation.
Not about the funding. The funding is real and the center needs it and that part is fine.
The miscalculation is this: you told yourself twelve days of pretending.
You did not account for the possibility that you would not entirely be pretending.
Outside, his family disperses.
His mother hugs you again, longer. Jihoon shakes your hand with the grin of a man exercising significant restraint. Eunji says it was lovely and means every word. His father takes your hand in both of his, warm and unhurried.
"Come again," he says. "Don't let him think you have to be invited."
"She doesn't let me think anything," Yoongi says, beside you.
His father smiles. Pats your hand. Lets go.
You watch him walk to the car.
There it is again — something in the careful way he moves. The way he takes the step from curb to street with a steadiness that is just slightly more deliberate than it should need to be. You file it. You don't examine it yet.
Yoongi is quiet beside you.
The street is still. The restaurant hums warm behind you. Somewhere above, an open window is letting music out into the night air, slow and unhurried, drifting down without knowing where it's going.
"Let's take you home, Doll."
Quiet. No destination in it. Not a redirect. Not reassurance. Just the word, slipping out like it forgot to wait for permission. Like something true making its own way through.
You look straight ahead.
"Goodnight, Yoongi," you say.
He says nothing.
But you hear the exhale. Small. Almost nothing.
You walk to your front door.
You do not look back.
You are in significant trouble and you know it and you you sit in your living room for a moment in the quiet with your hands in your lap, and you think about twelve days, and the earrings, and his father's face at the end of the laughter.
You think: I should call Dani.
The text arrives at five fifty-three PM.
You are in the middle of closing the center — which is less a single task and more a sequence of small negotiations, because closing the Maeum Center requires confirming that all children have been collected by a responsible adult, that the Dragon Room piano lid is down, that no one has left a snack somewhere it will become a science experiment by Tomorrow, and that Seojun, specifically, has not hidden himself in the supply closet again in protest of going home, which he has done twice and will do again.
Your phone buzzes on the front desk.
Unknown number: Come to dinner. Yoongi will pick you up at six. This is your mother in law.
You stare at this for a moment.
Then you look at Dani.
Dani is reading it over your shoulder because Dani has no concept of privacy when they have deemed the information relevant, which is always.
"She got your number," Dani says.
"She got my number."
"From Yoongi."
"Presumably."
"Who is currently," Dani consults their phone, because Dani knows things, "in rehearsal for the Gwanghwamun concert."
"She called herself your mother in law"
You look at the text again.
Min Eunha: Yoongi will pick you up at seven.
Yoongi does not know he is picking you up at seven. Yoongi is, at this precise moment, somewhere in a practice facility running choreography for one of the largest concert events of the year, and his mother has drafted him as chauffeur without informing him, and this is so deeply, specifically funny that you have to press your lips together for a moment.
"Should I tell him?" you ask.
Dani considers. "She'll have already told him by now."
"You think?"
"She texted you at five fifty-three. She texted him at five fifty-two."
You think about this.
"She planned the whole evening," you say.
"She planned the whole visit," Dani says, with the tone of someone filing a thought they have held for several days. They pick up their clipboard. "Go get changed. You have paint on your neck."
You reach up. You do, in fact, have paint on your neck.
"It's a good color," you say.
"It's purple."
"It's a great color."
"Go," Dani says.
Yoongi texts at five forty.
Min Yoongi: I'm coming at six. My mother has opinions.
You: I know. She texted me at four fifty-three.
A pause.
Min Yoongi: She texted you before she told me.
You: Dani thinks five fifty-two.
A longer pause. You can feel, through the screen, the specific quality of Min Yoongi arriving at a conclusion about his mother that he has probably arrived at many times before.
Min Yoongi: I was in the middle of rehearsal.
You: I know.
Min Yoongi: She doesn't care.
You: I know.
Min Yoongi: Are you ready.
You look at yourself in the small mirror in your room. You have dealt with the paint. You are wearing a rust-colored top that is not the blue dress but is in the category of things that do not have craft supplies on them, and your hair is doing something acceptable, and you have put in the strawberry earrings because the blue ones feel like too much to explain to yourself two days in a row.
Ready, you type.
His response is immediate. Just: okay.
You know that okay. It is the okay of someone who is managing several things at once and has decided to manage them all quietly. It is the okay of someone who is feeling something about this situation — the rehearsal interruption, the mother's maneuvering, the fact that you are about to spend another evening with his family in a house that is his space and that he does not love sharing — and has filed all of it under fine because fine is more efficient than the alternative.
You know him.
This is, increasingly, the problem.
He pulls up at six fifty-eight.
Two minutes early. Of course.
He is still in his rehearsal clothes — black sweats, a worn jacket over them, his hair not the version from last night but the version that means he's been running through choreography and didn't have time to do anything about it after. He looks tired in the way of someone who is not going to say he's tired. He gets out of the car when he sees you and opens the passenger door, and you think — not for the first time — about the specific quality of his consideration. It is never performed. He does not hold the door because he is making a point about it. He holds it because it is the thing to do and so he does it, and that's the end of his thinking about it.
"Hi," you say.
"Hi." He looks at you. Something in his face adjusts — not the blue dress reaction, nothing that dramatic, but something. The strawberry earrings maybe. The fact that you showed up. He doesn't say any of this. "Ready?"
"I've been ready since four fifty-three," you say.
Something moves in his expression that is almost a smile. "She does this," he says. "Plans things and tells everyone at the same time and acts like the planning happened naturally."
"It's very effective."
"It's extremely irritating," he says, and gets in the car.
You get in. You look at him. "It worked though."
"Obviously it worked." He pulls into traffic. "It always works. That's what makes it irritating."
You think about his mother, warm and deliberate, refilling your glass before you noticed it was low. Planning from the first syllable.
"You love it," you say.
He doesn't answer.
Which is an answer.
He is quiet for most of the drive, which does not concern you the way it might concern someone who doesn't know him. His quiet is not absence. It is just — him, thinking, the interior running while the exterior idles. You have learned to sit in it. Most people can't. Most people feel the quiet and reach for something to fill it, and Yoongi registers this as noise, as effort, as someone requiring him to perform presence he is already giving. You don't reach. You just exist in the same space, and he drives, and the city moves past the windows.
After a while he says: "I'm sorry about this."
"You already apologized."
"I'm apologizing again."
"Yoongi—"
"It's my apartment," he says. "My parents are there. I know it's—" He stops. "I know it's a lot to ask."
You look at him. The line of his jaw. The way his hands sit on the wheel, unhurried, always unhurried, even when the interior is not.
His apartment. The one where everything has a place and the place is specific and the reason is usually music — stacked a particular way, a particular alignment, the kind of careful order that happens when someone's mind runs fast and they have learned that the outside world being organized is the only counterweight. You have been to his apartment. You know what the inside of it means.
And his parents are there.
"How's your dad doing?" you ask.
The question lands the way you meant it to — small, no weight added, just the question itself.
Yoongi is quiet for a moment.
"It's back, this time it is worse." he says.
You understand immediately what they contain: the cancer, the recurrence, the weight of why this visit matters more than the usual visit. He does not elaborate. He does not need to.
"I know, babe." you say.
Not I'm sorry. Not how bad. Just: okay. I have this information and I'm here and you don't have to carry it differently because I know.
He exhales.
"He wants to see—" He stops. Starts again. "He's been asking about my life. Whether I'm—" A pause. "You know."
"Settled," you say.
"Yeah."
You look out the window.
"Yoongi." You say it the way you've always said his name when you mean it directly. "I'm here. It's fine."
He doesn't say anything.
But something in his hands on the wheel goes slightly less tight.
"The aunt is also there," he says, after a moment. "My mother's sister."
"...okay."
"She asks questions."
"What kind of questions."
"The kind," he says, "that you should know are coming."
"How bad."
A pause.
"She asked Jihoon, at his wedding, in front of the officiant, whether he and Eunji had discussed having children specifically or were just hoping things worked out."
You stare at him.
"At the wedding," you say.
"During the ceremony."
"While it was happening."
"The officiant," Yoongi says, "recovered professionally. I'll give him that."
You look at the approaching apartment building. At the lights on in the windows.
"We should have made a story," you say. "A timeline. When we met, what we said—"
"We have a story," he says.
"We have the truth with some parts left out, which is different."
"The parts we left out are the parts that don't matter."
You think about the parts that don't matter. The morning. The eight months. The specific quality of his voice at 2:34 AM when he asked will you help me like it cost him something to say it.
"Right," you say.
He parks. He turns off the car. Neither of you moves for a moment.
"I'm sorry," he says again. Quietly. The third time now, which for Yoongi — who does not repeat himself without reason — means something.
"Stop apologizing," you say. "Let's go."
You get out of the car.
After a moment, he follows.
The apartment is warm with people in the way that his apartment probably hasn't been in a long time.
His mother has done something with the kitchen. This is the first thing you notice — not that she has rearranged it, but that she has worked within it, found where everything lives, and used it all. It smells extraordinary. His father is in the living room in the armchair that is almost certainly Yoongi's usual armchair, wearing the expression of a man who has found the most comfortable seat in the house through the reliable process of sitting in every seat until the right one revealed itself. Jihoon is on the couch with Haerin asleep on his chest, both of them out cold, father-daughter, breathing in the same rhythm.
Eunji, cross-legged on the floor with a cup of tea and her phone, looks up when you come in. She smiles at you with the warmth of someone who made a decision about you at dinner last night and is glad to confirm it.
And then, from the kitchen doorway, appears a woman who is clearly Yoongi's mother's sister, because she has the same bone structure and warm eyes and approximately none of the same restraint.
"There she is," she says, pointing at you.
"Auntie," Yoongi says.
"I'm just saying. There she is." She looks you up and down with the open appreciation of someone who does not believe in doing anything subtly. "Very pretty, Yoongi-ya. Good job."
"I didn't—" He stops. "That's not how—"
"Sit, sit." She waves you both toward the table, which has been set for the card game, chips divided into neat piles, a look about it that suggests this was organized by someone who wanted to win. "We've been waiting. Your mother said you were coming at seven."
"It's seven oh four," Yoongi says.
"Auntie has been here since five," his mother says from the kitchen, peacefully.
"I wanted a good seat."
The game is hwatu.
You have played it exactly once, in university, badly, and remember approximately nothing except that you lost everything and that the cards are beautiful — small, lacquered, thick as confidence.
Yoongi's father deals.
He does this with the ease of a man who has dealt these cards so many times that the shuffle is automatic, the distribution even, the whole thing done before the conversation around it has finished its first sentence. He sets the deck down. He looks at you across the table.
"You've played?" he asks.
"Once," you say. "I lost everything."
"Then you already know the important part." He picks up his hand. Studies it. Does not show any expression about what is in it, which tells you a great deal. "The rest is details."
Yoongi, beside you, leans slightly close. "Do you actually know how to play?"
"I know the basics," you say.
"The basics are not sufficient for this table."
"Watch me."
He looks at you.
You look back.
Something almost playful moves across his face — so fast you would miss it if you didn't know where to look — before he picks up his own cards.
The aunt starts forty-five seconds in.
"So," she says, arranging her hand with the focused attention of someone who is absolutely also managing a secondary conversation. "How long?"
"Three and a half years," you say, at the same moment Yoongi says, "About a year."
Silence.
Everyone at the table looks at you both.
Yoongi looks at you. You look at Yoongi.
"We met three and a half years ago," you say, smoothly. "We've been—" you glance at him—"together about a year."
"Together-together," the aunt clarifies, with a gesture that suggests she is specifying something specific.
"Yes," you say.
"Officially," Yoongi adds.
"What does officially mean," the aunt asks.
"It means," Yoongi's mother says, from her side of the table, "that they are together and you should play your cards."
The aunt plays her card. She does not look satisfied. She looks like someone who is going to return to this. "So before officially—"
"We were—" you start.
"Friends," Yoongi says.
"—close," you say, at the same time.
Another pause.
"Close friends," Yoongi says.
"Yes," you agree. "That."
Jihoon, who has woken up at some point during this exchange and is watching with Haerin still on his chest and the alert expression of a man witnessing something he will be thinking about for weeks, says nothing. He picks up his cards. He is smiling at them.
"What was the first thing you noticed about him?" the aunt asks. This is twenty minutes later, and you are, somehow, winning. You are not sure how this happened. You are beginning to have a theory.
"His music," you say, which is true. Which is so true that it barely needs to be said.
The aunt looks at Yoongi. "And you?"
Yoongi looks at his cards. Then at you. Then at his cards again. The tips of his ears, you notice, have gone a very specific color.
"The way she talks about her work," he says.
The table waits.
He doesn't add anything to this. He says it the way he says things that are true — without decoration, without the runway, just the thing itself set down plainly. The way she talks about her work. Delivered in a voice that has no performance in it.
You look at your cards.
Your cards are very interesting right now.
"Three years," his mother says, pleasantly, to you. Not looking up from her cards. "I call him every Sunday. Your mother calls on Sundays, you talk about your week—" she places a card, smooth and unbothered— "for three years, every Sunday, there was always something about the center. Something funny that happened. Something you said. Something you thought." She picks up her next card. "He never called you the director. Always your name. From the first week."
You look at Yoongi.
Yoongi is looking at his cards with the deep concentration of a man who has found them extremely interesting just now.
"He doesn't talk much," Jihoon offers helpfully. "So when he does—"
"We notice what he talks about," his father finishes, and takes a sip of his drink.
You think about eight months of silence. About Dani's extension and center-related correspondence and your name being said, apparently, every Sunday for three years to his mother on the phone while he said nothing to you directly.
You arrange your cards.
You are a little mad about this.
You are going to win all of his money.
"Are we playing?" Yoongi says, to his cards.
"We're playing," his father says, and deals the next round
Thirty minutes later, you are winning by a margin that has made Jihoon sit up straight.
You are winning because twenty minutes ago, while Yoongi was distracted, his father leaned over and showed you which cards to hold.
"But that's—" you started.
He raised one finger to his lips.
He looked back at you like a man who has never once lost sleep over this and does not intend to start.
You held the cards.
"She's cheating," Jihoon says, staring at your pile.
"I'm winning," you correct.
"Those are different things."
"Jihoon-ah," his father says, sorting his own hand, "sometimes the line is a matter of perspective."
"You taught her," Jihoon says, with the dawning horror of a son who has been the victim of this his entire life and is only now seeing it in a new light. He looks at his father. "You've been doing this to me for thirty years."
"You've been learning for thirty years," his father says. "There's a difference."
Yoongi is looking at his father with an expression you have never seen on him before — something open in it, the fondness so unguarded it almost doesn't look like him. And then he looks at you, and the fondness shifts somehow, gets complicated, gets warm in a different way, and he says:
"That's my girl."
Quietly. Not to anyone. Just out, into the air between you, the way something says itself when it has been waiting long enough that it stops asking permission.
Your chip pile suddenly requires your full attention.
Jihoon points across the table. "You're happy she's cheating with our father—"
"She's winning," Yoongi says.
"Same thing—"
"Jihoon," Eunji says, without looking up from Haerin, "you've lost four rounds."
"I've lost four rounds fairly—"
"Have you though," his father says.
The table erupts. His mother laughing, his aunt triumphant, Jihoon aggrieved in the way of a man processing a betrayal he did not see coming and is taking personally. Yoongi reaches over and takes a single chip from your pile and adds it to his own. You look at him. He looks back. On anyone else it would be a grin.
On him it is something small and private and entirely real.
You look back at your pile.
That's my girl.
He didn't even know he said it.
That's the problem.
That's the whole problem.
The evening winds down the way good evenings do — gradually, without anyone wanting to be the one to say it's time. The cards are put away. Tea is made. Haerin wakes up, decides the room is acceptable, goes back to sleep. The aunt has exhausted her question supply and is now telling a story about something that happened at a cousin's birthday that is long and elaborate and requires hand gestures.
At some point you end up on the couch beside Yoongi's father.
He is quieter at this hour. Still warm, but the energy of the card game has settled into something slower. He has a cup of tea in both hands. He is watching his family with the careful attention of a man who is not taking anything for granted.
"You're good for him," he says, without preamble.
You look at him.
"He's—" He pauses. Considers the words. "He carries things quietly. Always has. Since he was small. You'd never know from looking." He takes a slow sip of tea. "But he's lighter. When he talks about you." He says this not like an observation but like a fact he has held for a while and decided it was time to put down. "A father notices."
You don't know what to do with this.
You look across the room at Yoongi, who is listening to his aunt's birthday story with the expression of someone who has heard this story and all its iterations and has arrived at a relationship with it that transcends reaction.
He glances at you.
You look away.
You think about that's my girl, said to no one, just released into the air like a fact.
You think about a man who spends eight months not calling, who comes back with a practical arrangement and a funding offer, who holds a door and picks you up two minutes early and goes very still when his mother says something that catches him off guard.
You think: he is a performer. He knows how to make something feel real. The albums, the stage, the fifteen years of turning the inside of himself into something an audience could hold. He is very, very good at making things feel real.
That's why it feels real. Because he's good at it.
And then Yoongi laughs at something his aunt says — a real laugh, short and sudden and not performed, the one that escapes before he can do anything about it — and his father beside you makes a quiet sound of satisfaction, like a man hearing a song he wrote a long time ago and finding it still holds.
You tell yourself to stop it. You tell yourself twelve days. You tell yourself you are fine and this is manageable and you have handled harder things than Min Yoongi in a warm room being kind to his family.
You are not fine. This is not manageable. You have not handled harder things than this, actually, and you know it, and that is the most inconvenient true thing you have encountered all evening.
He drives you home at ten-thirty.
The city is quieter now. The car warm. You are both a little full and a little tired and sitting in the easy silence that has always been one of the things about the two of you — the way you can exist in the same space without it costing anything.
"Your father taught me to cheat," you say.
"I saw."
"He didn't tell me he was teaching me to cheat. He just showed me which cards."
"That's how he does it," Yoongi says. "He did it to me for fifteen years before I realized it was intentional."
You look at him. "When did you realize?"
"When I started doing it to Jihoon."
You laugh. He glances at you — quick, warm, gone.
"They likes you," he says, after a moment.
"I like them."
Yoongi nods. He doesn't say anything else about it. He doesn't say thank you for coming or I know this is strange or any of the several things that are true and available. He just drives, and you sit beside him, and the city moves past.
"The aunt is going to ask more questions," you say.
"Yes."
"We should figure out what we're saying."
"We're saying the truth," he says. "With some parts left out."
The truth. Right.
The truth is a complicated document at the moment — it has eight months in it, and a morning neither of you has named, and the way your heart did the involuntary thing the second his name appeared on your screen, and the earrings you told yourself you wore because they matched the dress.
The truth has edges.
You have been carefully not touching them for a long time and you are sitting in his car right now with all of them and your face, which has never once in your life done what you told it to, is almost certainly showing every single one.
You look back at him.
He is watching the road.
Good, you think. Keep watching the road.
"We gave different timelines."
"We recovered."
"We barely recovered."
"You're very quick," he says. Quiet. Almost nothing.
He is very still.
"I know you," you say, before you can decide not to.
He's still looking at the road.
"Yeah," he says. "I know."
You reach your building. He pulls up. The engine runs.
Day Two ends the way the previous one did — with you in the passenger seat of Yoongi's car, the city quiet outside the windows, the particular easy silence that has always been one of the things about the two of you that you have tried very hard not to think of as a thing.
"Same time tomorrow?" you ask.
"Rehearsal runs until four," he says. "I'll come after."
"You don't have to come get me every—"
"I'll come after four," he says, in the tone that means this is not a discussion, which is distinct from rudeness — it is just Yoongi, who has decided something and communicated it and considers the matter addressed.
You have learned not to argue with that tone.
You have learned a lot of things about him that you are currently pretending you haven't.
"Fine," you say. "I'll be at the center until six anyway. Seojun has decided Für Elise needs a second verse and I have to talk him out of it before it becomes structural."
Something moves in Yoongi's expression. "He's not wrong that it's incomplete."
You stare at him.
"The ending is abrupt," he says.
"Do not tell him that."
"I'm just saying—"
"Min Yoongi, I am begging you, do not give that child musical ammunition—"
"He's nine and he has good instincts."
"He is nine and he will use this against me for months—"
Yoongi looks at you. The almost-smile again, the small private one, the one that lives just at the corner of his mouth and never quite commits. "I'll pick you up at five," he says. "Text me if it runs over."
You look at him for a moment.
This is the problem. Not the card game, not the aunt's questions, not that's my girl dropped into the warm air of his apartment like it belonged there. This. The specific, understated quality of his consideration — the way he shows up without announcing it, drives you home without making it a gesture, tells you text me if it runs over like it is the most ordinary thing, like of course he wants to know, like where else would he be.
He does not perform care.
He just — has it. Quietly. Permanently. Pointed at the people he has decided matter.
You think about nine days remaining.
You think: you are so good at this. Performer, fifteen years, a Grammy stage, a stadium that goes quiet when he wants it to. Of course it feels real. Of course he can make text me if it runs over land like something it isn't.
"Goodnight," you say.
"Goodnight."
You get out. You don't look back.
Upstairs, you take out the strawberry earrings and put them in their dish. The blue ones are still where you left them.
You have never been good at lying to yourself. This has always been the problem and the point of you — you feel things fully and you say them when they need to be said and you build things out of them when you can.
Twelve days of pretending.
It is day two.
You are already failing.
Read part 2
author's note 🎹
hi. hello. welcome to The Real Thing.
if you're new here — hi, I'm Ria, pull up a chair, we're going to have a very good time and also possibly cry a little, I make no promises about the ratio. This is a standalone fic. You do not need to have read anything else to be here. You have everything you need. Come as you are.
if you have read What Happens When You Fall — first of all, thank you, genuinely, from the bottom of my heart, for everything that story has meant. It's complete, it's sitting right there on my masterlist if you're new and curious, and yes, you might recognize a name or two in this story. You might notice something small that makes you go oh. That's intentional.
because here's the thing about The Real Thing — it stands on its own. It has its own people, its own mess, its own slow disaster of two people who know each other too well to be doing what they're doing. You don't need the map. You just need to show up.
which brings me to the bigger thing I want to tell you about.
The Real Thing is part of The B-Side Series.
Seven love stories. One universe. Seven members, seven readers, seven different ways of saying I choose this, even knowing what it costs. They're all connected — same city, same people moving through each other's lives, the same found family building itself one story at a time. Some connections are obvious. Some you'll only catch if you're reading everything. All of them are intentional.
WHWYF was the first. This is the second. There are five more after this, plus a finale, and I am not going to tell you anything else about that yet except that it's going to wreck you in the best way.
The B-Side Series is named for the songs that don't make the album. The real ones. The private ones. The ones that exist underneath the public versions of their lives.
This is Min Yoongi's.
I hope you love it.
— Ria 🖤
The Real Thing — Part One Part of The Truth and Lies Series Book 1
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My thoughts in no particular order . Love Dani down , they add something so real to this whole piece and by the use of pronouns lets the reader know where we are in the stream of time , and its not something I have seen used often , so shoutout to you for really being inclusive .
Haerin, has to be the most asleep baby ever , but what a cutie , I need to see her and her uncle yoongi more to scratch a certain itch on my brain because a cute chunky baby in those beefy arms , would send me to the heavens .
The kids from the center , really pull you in from the first chapter , I am curious have you ever worked with children in any capacity , bc you mange to capture them very well . Speaking on the children , what was the inspiration for our OC Ms Director Ms.Doll if you will . In my five years of bangtan fics I don’t think I’ve ever ran across a reader with her occupation , And I love to read a love interest that outside of being with the member . Who comes with their own goals , backstory ,and personality.
But this type of persons makes so much sense for our Yoongi , I am curious who came before Ms. Doll , just because I am nosey .
Mama Min & her Sister , what a force to be reconned with , one may think this whole visit was a ruse to push Yoongi to address his feelings for Doll , given how well Mama Min makes plans and expects everyone to fall in line . Now Auntie is my type of nosey but it is obvious she is not malicious and neither is she easily fooled . We may have her to thank for our resident baby.
The Blue dress and those damn earrings , while a sweet gesture , it caused so much drama ! Because what do you mean Mr Yoongi “these remind me of something” you know what they remind me of ? That you just like our OC are a certain level of terrible at lying to yourself , and where she may where her heart on her sleeves , your heart is shown in your quite acts . But the problem still exists of not saying the quiet parts out loud and thus the 12 days of play pretend begin . Bc let’s be honest there was a relationship already between the two of you .
Last ramble for Part One . Can you please clarify the times Mama Min reached out to everyone about the dinner at Yoongi’s house , I fear there is a typo in one of the times mentioned that has had be spiraling and takes away from the audacity that A) only a mother could have and B) a mother that is beloved and respected
Summary: You were only supposed to help him—cook, clean, and leave. Nothing more. But in a house too quiet and a man too broken, your presence became something he couldn’t ignore… even if he tried. While he slowly begins to see you, you’re already learning how to step away. Because some feelings grow in silence— and some distances are created before they’re too late.
Status: Oneshot
Pairing: Idol!Yoongi x Reader
Word count: 9.3k~
Genre: Idol!au, Angst
Rated: T
Tags: ARMY, Stranger to ?, Yoongi is a Jerk, Slice of Life, Slow Burn
Posting Date: April 24, 2026
The Seoul sky had been overcast since morning, as if it shared the weight pressing down on Min Yoongi’s mood—heavy even before he opened his eyes. His apartment was tidy, too tidy for someone who was falling apart inside. The curtains were half-closed, gray light slipping in uninvited, and he sat silently on the sofa with a hoodie covering part of his face, staring blankly at the floor as if searching for something he didn’t even know himself.
Since that incident, everything felt different. Not just the news, not just the way people looked at him, but the way he saw himself. Quietly, that was what hurt the most.
His mother couldn’t stand seeing him like that.
And that’s where you came in.
On the first day you arrived, you didn’t bring much. Just a simple bag, a folded apron, and a list of ingredients you had prepared from home. You didn’t knock too loudly, just enough to let him know you were there. A few seconds of silence passed, then the door opened.
Yoongi stood there, his face blank, his eyes tired.
“What is this now?” His voice was cold, no small talk.
“You can call me Y/N,” you replied calmly. “Your mother asked me to help out around the house.”
His brows immediately furrowed. “I don’t need a babysitter.”
“You’re not a baby either,” you answered without emotion, taking off your shoes and stepping inside as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “I’m being paid to work. So I’ll keep working.”
He let out a rough sigh, clearly annoyed. “My parents are really too much.”
“You can complain to them later,” you said shortly as you walked to the kitchen. “Right now I’m going to start cooking.”
The way you spoke wasn’t challenging, but it wasn’t submissive either. Neutral. Professional. That was exactly what made Yoongi even more uncomfortable.
The first day passed in a strange silence. You cooked without much noise, just the soft clinking of kitchen tools and the warm aroma of food slowly filling the room. You didn’t force him to eat, only placed the food on the table and said, “If you’re hungry, it’s there.”
He didn’t touch it until night.
On the second day, you came again. On time. As if nothing had happened yesterday. You started by cleaning the kitchen area, tidying a few small things that were slightly out of place—not because they were dirty, but because they were unattended. Yoongi watched from a distance, sitting on the same sofa, in almost the same position.
“You’re paid to clean too?” he finally said.
“Sometimes,” you replied. “If it’s needed.”
“It’s not needed here.”
“But I see things that can be tidied up,” you continued, neatly folding a kitchen cloth. “And I’m paid to help.”
He clicked his tongue softly. “Annoying.”
“You too,” you replied lightly.
There was a pause after that. Not an empty silence, but one filled with something unspoken.
The following days moved in the same pattern. You came on weekdays, worked without much talking, cooked simple warm meals that felt like home, and occasionally tidied small things that others might not even notice. You never asked about the incident. Never touched on the clearly sensitive topic. And that was exactly what made Yoongi even more restless.
One afternoon, as the rain poured heavily, you were still in the kitchen when suddenly the sound of breaking glass came from the living room.
You didn’t panic. You simply walked toward the sound and saw Yoongi standing there, his breathing heavy, shards of glass on the floor, and an expression that… finally showed something other than blankness.
Anger. But not at anyone else. At himself.
“Why…” his voice was low, hoarse. “Why could I be that stupid…”
You didn’t answer immediately. You just grabbed a broom and began cleaning the broken glass slowly, carefully.
“If you want to be angry, just be angry,” you said finally. “But don’t hurt yourself.”
He let out a short, bitter laugh. “Too late.”
You paused for a moment, then looked at him. “Not yet.”
He lifted his head, looking at you for the first time longer than usual. “You don’t know anything.”
“True,” you nodded. “And I don’t need to know everything to see that you’re falling apart.”
The sentence wasn’t harsh, but it was enough to silence him.
The rain still fell outside, its sound filling the room. For a few seconds, no one spoke. Just two people in the same space, both not okay, but in different ways.
“I’m just working here,” you continued softly. “Cooking, tidying up, making sure you eat. That’s all.”
“Why don’t you ask?” he suddenly asked.
“Do you want me to?”
He fell silent. And that was already enough of an answer.
You went back to cleaning the broken glass, then stood up, threw it away, and returned to the kitchen as if the conversation was over. But something had changed.
That day, for the first time, Yoongi ate before you left.
Not much. But enough. And somehow, it felt like the beginning of something bigger than just a job.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
The house was too big for someone who chose silence.
The luxury villa in the UN Village area stood calm, neat, almost without sound. Every corner was perfect, clean, organized—as if there was no space for chaos. But you knew, it was exactly in places like that where chaos hid the deepest.
And Min Yoongi was proof of that.
You had worked for several well-known people before. Actors, CEOs, socialites—people whose lives always looked “perfect” from the outside. So when you first stepped into this house, you didn’t feel overly impressed. Nor awkward. Everything felt… familiar.
A fan? Of course. Who isn’t a fan of BTS? But you also knew your boundaries. Especially since your bias wasn’t him. Secretly, you had always paid more attention to Jeon Jungkook.
So when you stood in Yoongi’s kitchen, wearing an apron and chopping ingredients with a steady rhythm, you truly saw him as… just a normal human. A client. Someone who simply happened to need help.
Unfortunately, he didn’t see you as anything.
The following days grew heavier—not because your job was difficult, but because your presence felt like it was never acknowledged.
You still came every weekday. On time. Bringing fresh ingredients, cooking seriously, paying attention to details like temperature, taste, texture—every small thing that made food feel like “home.” You even started adjusting the menu based on what you saw him eat a little of the day before, hoping… maybe today he would eat more. But more often than not, that hope ended cold.
One afternoon, you finished cooking a warm soup and a few simple side dishes. You arranged them neatly on the dining table, making sure everything looked appetizing. The aroma filled the room, soft and comforting.
Yoongi walked past behind you. Without stopping. Without looking. A few minutes later, you heard the front door open. Then a notification from the phone on the table. Delivery.
You stood still in the kitchen, your hand still holding the wooden spoon. You said nothing. You showed nothing. You just… went back to stirring the soup that wouldn’t even be touched.
Sad? Of course. Tired? Yes. But you were paid. And you were professional. So you kept working.
Another day, you tried a slightly different recipe. Lighter, more suited for someone who might not have an appetite. You even noted the times he usually came out of his room, trying to match the timing so the food would always be at its best when he passed by.
The result was the same. Untouched. Sometimes not even glanced at. Yoongi stayed the same. Cold. Distant. As if you were just part of the furniture in that house—there, but unimportant.
If you spoke, he answered only as necessary. If it wasn’t important, he didn’t respond at all.
“Do you want to eat now or later?” you once asked.
“Up to you.”
And that was it. No thank you. No refusal. Not anything. Empty. The only being in that house who truly “acknowledged” your presence… wasn’t him. But his cat. Tang-ie.
The small cat initially only watched you from afar, sitting in the corner with sharp eyes, as if judging. You didn’t approach immediately. You knew animals like that needed time.
On the second day, he started getting closer.
On the third day, he sat near your feet while you cooked.
On the fourth day, he actually played with you.
You laughed softly when Tang-ie chased the end of your apron, or when he suddenly jumped onto the kitchen table (which you gently lowered him from right away). Even though you actually preferred dogs, you couldn’t deny that the cat was… cute. And warm. Unlike his owner.
One afternoon, Yoongi saw it. He stood at the doorway of the kitchen, watching Tang-ie roll on the floor near your feet, playing with your fingers without fear. Strange. Usually Tang-ie was selective with people. Not everyone could get close, let alone play like that.
“What are you doing with him?” he suddenly asked.
You glanced briefly. “Just playing.”
Tang-ie let out a small meow, as if confirming.
Yoongi frowned. “He’s usually not like that.”
“Maybe he’s in a good mood,” you replied lightly.
Or maybe… he’s just comfortable. But you didn’t say that. Yoongi stared for a few seconds longer, then left again. As usual. Without further comment. And you were alone again.
That night, like the nights before, the food you cooked grew cold on the table. You stood in front of the sink, washing dishes that weren’t really used. The water flowed softly, a small sound filling the silence.
In another room, you could hear the plastic sound of a delivery bag being opened. You paused for a moment. Just a moment. Then continued. Because you knew, if you paused too long, you might start feeling too much. And you didn’t have time for that.
On the fifth day, your body began to feel tired. Not from physical work—but from the feelings you kept suppressing. You still came, still cooked, still tidied parts of the house untouched by other staff because they were too “personal.” Yoongi’s workspace. His music room.
You never touched important things. Just small adjustments—slightly messy cables, papers about to fall, things that might not seem important but you still did them. Without being asked. Without being acknowledged.
One afternoon, you were sitting on the living room floor, playing with Tang-ie who seemed very active that day. You laughed softly as he tried to bite the edge of your sleeve.
Then footsteps. Yoongi. He walked past just like that. Without looking at you. Without looking at Tang-ie. Without looking at anything. As if you truly weren’t there. And for the first time since you started working in that house, you felt something beyond just tiredness. Empty. Like… all your efforts never really reached anyone.
You lowered your gaze, still stroking Tang-ie who had now calmed in your lap.
“At least you eat, okay,” you whispered softly.
Tang-ie let out a small meow. And in that huge house, with all its luxury and perfection, that was the only answer you got.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
That day should have been the same as the previous days. You came in the morning, brought fresh ingredients, greeted softly even though you already knew there would be no reply, then went straight to the kitchen. A routine that had started to feel like autopilot—chopping, sautéing, tasting, arranging plating neatly, making sure everything was warm at the right time. But somehow, that day felt heavier.
Maybe because you were starting to realize… this wasn’t just an unappreciated job. It was like talking to a wall that didn’t even want to acknowledge your existence.
When you finished cooking, you didn’t immediately return to the kitchen as usual. You stood there. Waiting.
A few minutes later, Min Yoongi came down from upstairs. His steps were relaxed, his expression the same—flat, empty, as if the world around him never really entered.
This time, you didn’t move.
“Do you want to eat now?” you asked.
He glanced briefly. “Later.”
You took a slow breath.
“Yoongi.”
He stopped. Not out of interest. More like… irritation. “What now?”
There was a pause. Short. But enough to make your chest feel tighter.
“Can I ask something?”
He didn’t answer. But he didn’t leave either. You took that as permission.
“I cook every day,” you began, your voice still soft, still controlled. “You see me buy the ingredients, I cook here, in your kitchen. But… you almost never eat it.”
He stayed silent.
“Do you just not like my cooking,” you continued, still trying to stay neutral, “or… is there another reason?”
Silence. Then he laughed lightly. Short. Cold.
“A reason?” he repeated.
You waited. And you hoped—just a little—that the answer wouldn’t hurt. But that hope was too naive.
“I just don’t want to eat food from someone I don’t know,” he said casually. “Who knows, maybe you’ll poison me.”
The words fell just like that. Without weight. Without hesitation. And for a few seconds, you truly couldn’t respond. Not because you had no answer. But because you didn’t expect… he would go that far.
You swallowed slowly, trying to keep your expression the same as usual.
“I buy the ingredients myself,” you finally said. “You also see me cook here. Right in front of you. And you still think I’d poison you?”
Your tone was still gentle. Still patient. Even inside, something was starting to crack.
He shrugged. “People can pretend.”
You looked at him. For the first time, not as a client. But as someone who… truly hurt you.
“I work here because your mother asked,” you continued softly. “She’s the one paying me. She just wants you to eat properly.”
“That’s her problem,” he replied quickly. “Not mine.”
His words were sharp. Fast. As if he wanted to cut off any chance of this conversation going further.
But you were still standing there. Still trying.
“I’ve never crossed any boundaries,” you said. “I don’t ask about your personal life. I don’t bother you. I just do my job.”
He looked at you, sharper now. “Then just do it. Without talking too much.”
Something in your chest finally dropped. Not anger. Not even an explosive disappointment. More like… something quietly running out.
You nodded slightly. “Okay,” you replied.
Simple. Short. Just how he wanted.
Yoongi turned and left, leaving you alone in the dining room still filled with the aroma of food slowly cooling down.
You stood there for a few seconds longer. Then you moved. You took the bowls, covered the food one by one, and stored them neatly as usual. Your hands stayed steady. Your movements remained orderly. Nothing changed on the outside.
Except… this time you didn’t taste the leftover food like you usually did. You had no appetite.
In the kitchen, the water flowed again from the tap. You washed the utensils with the same rhythm, but your mind was far noisier than usual. You knew. You truly knew.
As someone who used to be a fan, you knew how the world treated him after that incident. You knew the comments, the stares, how one mistake could erase all the good things he had ever done.
You knew why he became like this. Suspicious. Closed off. Pushing everyone away. You knew. That’s why you endured. That’s why you stayed patient. That’s why you never snapped back, never showed that you were hurt. Because you understood. But understanding… didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
That day, you went home a little later than usual. Not because there was extra work. But because you needed time to make sure… you could still come back tomorrow with the same face. The same attitude. Professional. Neutral. As if his words today… left nothing behind.
When in reality, since that day, every time you cooked in that large house in UN Village, there was one small thought that kept appearing without stopping—
If even after everything you’ve done, he still thinks you could poison him… maybe, in his eyes, you were never really seen at all.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
The second week felt longer than it should have.
Not because your workload increased, but because of Min Yoongi’s attitude… didn’t change at all. If the first week still left room for hope—no matter how small—the second week felt like proof that everything you did… truly wouldn’t change anything.
The house in UN Village stayed the same—calm, spacious, beautiful. But the atmosphere felt even colder. And you… kept coming. As usual.
Every morning, you opened the door carefully, took off your shoes, and went straight to the kitchen without waiting for a greeting. You no longer expected to hear “you’re here?” or even a small nod. None of that had ever existed from the start.
All there was… was the sound of your own footsteps. And sometimes… the small sound of Tang-ie running to greet you.
“Morning,” you whispered softly as you crouched down, stroking his soft fur.
Tang-ie meowed softly, immediately rubbing against your hand as if you were the only warm thing in that house. You smiled faintly.
“Only you greet me, huh.”
That day you cooked something even lighter. You even started taking notes on your phone—what food was completely untouched, which one was slightly eaten, which might still have a chance.
Like a quiet experiment. Even though you knew… the result would most likely be the same.
And it was.
That afternoon, Yoongi came down, glanced briefly at the dining table—then walked straight to another room. A few minutes later, the delivery notification sounded again.
You didn’t stop anymore. You didn’t turn around anymore. You just… continued your work. As if it was nothing. Even though inside, it felt like being hit repeatedly in the same place.
Another day, you were sweeping the living room when Yoongi suddenly spoke. “You’re still here?”
His tone wasn’t asking. More like… questioning your presence.
You paused for a moment, then looked at him. “Yes.”
He looked at you for a few seconds, then gave a slight smile—not a warm one. More like… testing. “You’re quite persistent.”
The sentence sounded light. But it wasn’t.
You didn’t answer immediately. You just lowered your gaze back to the floor, continuing to sweep slowly.
“This is my job,” you finally said.
“Not many would last,” he continued, still standing in the same spot. “Aren’t you tired?”
You stopped again. This time, you took a slow breath before answering.
“I am,” you admitted. “But I keep working.”
There was a pause. And for a moment, you thought… maybe he would stop there. But no.
“Or are you hoping I’ll change?” his voice was slightly lower now. “Is that why you stay?”
You looked at him again. And this time… there was something in your eyes you couldn’t fully hide.
“I don’t have the right to hope that far,” you answered softly.
It was honest. Very honest. And maybe that was what made him fall silent for a moment. But only for a moment. He clicked his tongue softly, then left again. As usual. Leaving you with words that still hung in the air.
That night, you sat on the kitchen floor, your back against the cabinet, Tang-ie curled near your feet. You weren’t usually like this—sitting too long doing nothing. But that day… you needed to stop.
“Is he always like this?” you whispered softly.
Tang-ie only blinked slowly. You smiled faintly, but your eyes didn’t really follow.
“I know why he’s like this,” you continued, your voice almost like you were talking to yourself. “I saw everything.”
You didn’t need to say what. Everyone knew. How the media attacked him. How people’s comments turned sharp. How one mistake became a reason to erase everything he had ever achieved.
As a BTS fan, you saw all of that. You read it. You stayed silent. And you felt hurt… even though it wasn’t happening to you.
“That’s why I try to understand him,” you whispered again. “That’s why I never get angry.”
Tang-ie shifted slightly, moving closer. You stroked him gently.
“But understanding… doesn’t mean I’m not tired, right?”
Your voice grew smaller. Almost gone.
Upstairs, you could hear Yoongi’s footsteps. Heavy. Slow. Like someone who didn’t really want to move but also couldn’t stay still. He never greeted you. Never asked. Never tried. And what hurt more—he never stopped hurting you, even in small ways.
The next day, you came back again. As if nothing had happened. You cooked. You tidied. You played briefly with Tang-ie. And you still spoke in the same tone—calm, professional, never crossing boundaries.
Meanwhile, Yoongi… still saw you as a disturbance. As someone who shouldn’t exist in his life. As if… you were never really human in his eyes.
And somehow, you didn’t know how long you could keep going like this—being the only one trying to understand, in a place where you were never truly seen at all.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
The news came without you knowing.
You continued your days as usual—coming in the morning, cooking, tidying the kitchen, occasionally sitting on the floor for a moment while playing with Tang-ie. Nothing changed in the way you worked, even though inside, you had long felt… empty.
Until one afternoon, the atmosphere in the house shifted. The sound of a phone call came from the study. Not too loud, but enough to make you realize—it wasn’t an ordinary conversation.
And your name was mentioned. You didn’t hear everything. But you knew. Min Yoongi’s mother had finally found out. That the food you cooked… was almost never touched.
That night, Yoongi came down with a different expression. Not better. Sharper. Colder.
“Did you tell my mother?” he asked directly, without introduction.
You frowned slightly. “No.”
He stared at you for a long time, as if trying to read whether you were lying.
“I never contacted her except for work matters,” you continued calmly. “I have no reason to tell her anything.”
He let out a rough breath, clearly holding something back. And you knew… he couldn’t direct it at the person he should. So as usual—you became the target.
The days after that changed. Not for the better. Just… different. Yoongi stopped ordering delivery. Not because he wanted to. Because he had to. And for the first time, he actually sat at the dining table when you served the food.
You stood not far away, as usual, not forcing, not waiting. Just making sure everything was ready. He took a spoonful. Tried it. Then stopped.
“Too salty.”
You nodded slightly. “I’ll fix it tomorrow.”
The next day—
“Not enough flavor.”
“Yes.”
The day after—
“Too soft.”
“Yes, I’ll pay more attention.”
There was always something wrong. Always. And you never argued. Not because you couldn’t. But because you chose… not to.
You knew this wasn’t about the food. This was about something bigger than that. About wounds he never processed. About anger that had nowhere to go. And you… just happened to be there. So you absorbed it all. Every day. Without protest. Without retaliation.
With only one same answer— “Yes.”
And maybe that was what made him keep doing it. Because you never fought back. Because you always stayed in your place. Because you didn’t leave.
The house in UN Village still looked perfect from the outside. An elite area, calm, filled with luxurious homes belonging to influential people. Here, everything looked like a life without problems.
But inside… nothing was truly okay.
One afternoon, you stepped out briefly to buy additional ingredients. The weather was quite bright, the streets in the complex were quiet, only a few cars passing occasionally.
You walked slowly, carrying several shopping bags. Until suddenly—
THUD.
A small bicycle hit you from the side.
Your body lost balance slightly, the shopping bags almost fell, and the child riding the bicycle wobbled too.
“Don’t you watch where you’re going?” a woman’s voice immediately sounded.
You turned. A neatly dressed woman stood not far from the child.
“I’m sorry, I—” you began.
“Do you even know what kind of area this is?” she cut in quickly. “Don’t just walk carelessly carrying that many things.”
You stayed silent. You were the one who got hit. But you were the one being scolded. The child wasn’t even scolded.
“You work here, right?” she continued, her tone demeaning. “Then be careful. Don’t cause trouble.”
You lowered your head slightly. “Yes, sorry.” Even though it wasn’t your fault.
But you were too tired to drag it out.
You continued walking. With heavier steps. With your chest feeling… tight. When you arrived home, you went straight to the kitchen. As usual. As if nothing had happened.
You washed the ingredients, chopped, cooked—all with the same movements. Neat. Organized. Professional.
But that day, your mind couldn’t fully focus. Those words still echoed. That tone. The way she looked at you. As if… you were beneath. As if… you had no value. You took a few deep breaths, trying to calm yourself.
“You can do this,” you whispered softly. “Just normal.”
Tang-ie came, sitting near your feet. You stroked him gently.
“Just a bad day.”
But it wasn’t over. During dinner, Yoongi sat as usual. You served the food. He took a bite. Then put the spoon down.
“This time it’s bland.”
You stayed silent for a moment.
“Yes, maybe I—”
“You cook every day, but it never tastes right,” he cut in.
His tone wasn’t loud. But sharp enough. Sharp enough to… pierce. And somehow—that day you weren’t as strong as usual. Maybe because of what happened earlier. Maybe because you had held it in for too long. Maybe because everything… piled up.
“Can’t you even cook?” he continued.
That sentence—something that might have felt ordinary on another day—felt different that day. Too heavy. You lowered your head. Trying to answer as usual.
“Yes, I will—”
But your voice stopped. Your breath caught. And before you could hold it in—your tears fell. One. Then another. You immediately turned away, trying to hide it, but it was too late. The room was too quiet not to notice.
“I… I’m sorry,” you said softly, your voice trembling but still restrained from breaking. “Maybe I wasn’t focused today.”
Yoongi didn’t answer immediately. And you didn’t dare look at him.
“I’d like to leave early today,” you continued, still forcing your voice to stay steady. “I’ll fix it tomorrow.”
You bowed slightly. Formal. Like clients and workers. As it should be. Even though your heart… was no longer whole like when you first came.
You took off your apron, placed it neatly, and took your bag. Tang-ie meowed softly as you passed. You stopped for a moment, stroking his head.
“See you tomorrow,” you whispered.
Then you left. Leaving that big house—which for the first time, felt truly… too cold for you to return to.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
The next day, you still came. As if nothing had happened.
Your face was calm, your steps steady, and your routine continued the same—opening the door, going straight to the kitchen, preparing ingredients, cooking with a rhythm you had memorized too well. As if yesterday’s tears were just… a small part that didn’t need to be carried into today. And maybe that was how you survived.
Tang-ie greeted you as usual, meowing softly near your feet. You gave a faint smile, stroking him briefly before starting to work.
“Today has to be better,” you whispered softly.
But the world doesn’t always give space for that. When you stepped out briefly to buy additional ingredients, you saw them again. The mother and child from yesterday. And this time… not alone.
Several other women stood nearby—well-dressed, the same aura, the same way of standing. You didn’t need to ask to know… they were from the same circle. Women in elite complexes like UN Village, used to living above, and seeing others… from below.
You tried to pass by as usual. Not looking. Not seeking trouble. But their voices… were too clear to ignore.
“That’s the one from yesterday, right?”
“Yes, the one working in that house…”
“Why is she always going in and out?”
Your steps slowed slightly.
“What does she even do?”
“Not a maid… but not family either…”
There was a small laugh. Then one sentence that made your steps truly stop, even if just for a fraction of a second—
“Could she be… a paid girl?”
The world felt… silent. Not because they stopped talking. But because your ears seemed to refuse to hear any further. You took a breath. Deep. Slow. Then you kept walking. Without turning. Without responding. Because this wasn’t just about you. This was about Min Yoongi too.
One small rumor could spread. And you knew… he had been hurt enough without something like this added.
So you stayed silent.
That day, you worked as usual. Cooking. Tidying. Keeping everything running. As if those words didn’t stick in your head. As if nothing had changed. But inside… you knew. You couldn’t keep going like this.
The next day, they were still there. The comments grew clearer. Bolder. Less filtered. And you… remained silent. Professional. Keeping your distance.
Until finally, you realized—staying silent wasn’t enough. Because if this continues… it wouldn’t just be you who would break. But also the person you had been trying to protect from the start.
That night, you gathered the courage to contact Yoongi’s mother. The conversation wasn’t long. But enough to make your heart feel heavier.
“I think… I have to quit,” you said softly.
On the other hand, the woman’s voice immediately changed.
“Why?”
You didn’t answer right away. Then you explained. About those women. About what they said. About how it could lead in the wrong direction. And how you… didn’t want Yoongi to be affected again.
A long silence.
Then— “I don’t agree.”
You went quiet.
“He needs you,” she continued. “Maybe he doesn’t show it, but I know. He eats now. That’s already a big change.”
You bit your lip softly.
“Yes, but because of me he ends up getting rumors like that…”
“I’ll handle that,” she cut in gently but firmly. “You don’t leave.”
You closed your eyes for a moment. On one side, you knew she was right. On the other hand… you were also human. And you were too tired.
“I’ll think about it,” you whispered finally.
But inside, you already knew the answer.
The next day, you came as usual. And as usual… Yoongi stayed the same. Cold. Distant. As if nothing had changed. Until finally, you gathered the courage to speak.
“I want to quit.”
The sentence was simple. But enough to make him stop in place.
He looked at you. For a long time.
“Why?” he asked shortly.
You lowered your head slightly.
“Personal reasons.”
He clicked his tongue softly.
“It’s only been two weeks.”
You stayed silent.
“Couldn’t handle it, huh?” he continued, his tone thin, almost mocking. “Weak.”
That word—something you might have ignored on another day—felt deeper that day. Sharper. And you still didn’t respond.
“Yes,” you answered softly.
Not because you agreed. But because you were too tired to explain.
He looked away, as if your decision didn’t matter.
“Fine,” he said.
Just like that. As if you had never meant anything. And that… was enough to make your chest feel empty again.
That day you still worked until the end. As usual. As if it was just a normal last working day. Without drama. Without emotion. Without anything.
But what you didn’t know—that night, Yoongi’s mother spoke to him. And for the first time, he heard something that… he had never seen himself. About the women in the complex. About what they said. About how you chose to stay silent. About how you endured everything… just so his name wouldn’t be dragged again.
A long silence after that. Yoongi didn’t respond immediately. Didn’t react right away. But something slowly… moved inside him. Something he had kept tightly shut. Something he had ignored.
About you.
About everything you did without ever being appreciated.
About how you stayed… even when you were hurt from all directions.
And for the first time since you came into that house—Min Yoongi felt… maybe all this time, he was the one who had never truly seen.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
The change came slowly. Almost unnoticeable if you weren’t really paying attention.
That morning, you arrived as usual—calm, neat, without excessive expression. You took off your shoes, went straight to the kitchen, and started preparing the ingredients. Tang-ie greeted you, as always, meowing softly and brushing against your legs.
You gave a faint smile.
“Last day, huh,” you whispered softly.
You didn’t know whether you would really leave today or not. But you had prepared yourself… for it.
Upstairs, Min Yoongi stood for quite a while at the edge of the stairs. Watching. For the first time… not just seeing you as something bothersome. But truly… seeing.
The way you moved in the kitchen. The way your hands cut ingredients with a calm rhythm. The way you occasionally paused to taste, then adjusted the flavor without rushing. All of it… had always been there. He just never cared to notice.
“You came earlier today.”
His voice suddenly broke the silence. You paused for a moment. Then turned.
“Yes.” Your answer was short. Neutral. Not cold, but not warm either. And that… was different.
Usually, you would add something. A small sentence. A more lively tone. Now… there was nothing.
Yoongi walked down slowly. “What are you cooking?”
You returned to the cutting board. “As usual.”
The same kind of answer. Short. Clear. Leaving no room for further conversation.
He stood there for a few seconds. As if waiting. But you didn’t continue. Didn’t ask back. Didn’t try to start a conversation. And eventually… he was the one who left first.
Strange. Usually, you were the one trying. Now… you were pulling away.
That day, Yoongi actually sat down when you served the food. He ate. Slowly.
And as usual— “Not warm enough.”
You nodded slightly. “I’ll fix it.”
No defense. No explanation. Just that. And somehow… it felt different. Not because his words changed. But because your reaction did. No longer trying. No longer hoping. Just… doing.
The next day, Yoongi started appearing around you more often. Not to get angry. Not to criticize. But… as if searching for something.
“Do you always cook by yourself?” he asked one afternoon.
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you tired?”
“I’m used to it.”
Your answers remained short. Always enough. No more. He looked at you for a few seconds longer. And for the first time, he noticed small things that previously… never entered his mind.
Your face. Not strikingly beautiful. But… natural. Calm. Without trying to look attractive. Without heavy makeup. Without an attitude seeking attention. And that… made it harder for him to look away.
The way you tied your hair. The way you tucked stray strands without realizing. The way you focused on your work… as if the outside world didn’t matter.
He frowned slightly. Why was he only noticing all of this now?
“Are you… always like this?” he asked again.
You paused briefly.
“Like what?”
“Just… normal.”
You looked at him. And for the first time… there was a clear distance in your eyes.
“I am just normal,” you answered.
The sentence was simple. But enough to silence him. Because now… you truly sounded like someone who didn’t want more. Didn’t want closeness. Didn’t want involvement. And that was the opposite of what he had always thought about people around him.
Yoongi was used to people approaching him. People want something. People see his status as BTS—as access, as opportunity.
But you… weren’t like that. You never tried to get close. Never took advantage. Never even… seemed interested beyond your job.
And that—was exactly what made him start paying attention.
Meanwhile, you… kept your distance even more. Not because you hated him. Not because you were angry. But because you knew your boundaries. You knew the kind of world he lived in. You knew how easily people could misunderstand.
You knew how one small step could turn into a big rumor—especially in a place like UN Village, where people spoke faster than they understood.
And you didn’t want to be part of that. You didn’t want to become the reason for new problems in his life.
So you stepped back. Slowly. Surely. Still polite. Still professional. But clearly… keeping your distance.
And for the first time—Yoongi felt it.
That distance. That absence.
Not a big loss. Not something dramatic. But… enough to make him realize—that the person who had always been in that house, the one he always ignored, the one he always hurt, was slowly… no longer in the same place.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
That day, you came with a decision you had fully made. Not one made out of momentary emotion, but because you had thought everything through—about your job, about your boundaries, about everything that had started to feel… too far from just being “professional.”
You finished cooking as usual. Calm. Neat. Without mistakes.
And when Min Yoongi sat at the dining table, you stood not far away as usual.
“I want to quit.”
This time, you didn’t wait for the “right” moment.
You said it immediately.
The spoon in Yoongi’s hand stopped. He didn’t look at you right away. Didn’t react immediately.
A few seconds passed, then— “You can’t.” His answer was quick. Too quick.
You frowned slightly. “I’m asking for permission, not your opinion,” you said softly, still polite.
He lifted his head. Looking at you. “You can’t quit.”
His tone wasn’t loud. But firm. And… strangely, it sounded like someone who didn’t want to lose something—even though he himself didn’t know what it was.
You took a slow breath. “What’s the reason?”
Silence. Yoongi opened his mouth, as if wanting to answer. Then closed it again. His gaze shifted briefly to the table, then back to you.
“…You just can’t.”
You stayed quiet. That answer… didn’t make sense. And you weren’t someone who would stay just because of “just because.”
“I need a reason,” you said softly.
He let out a rough breath, clearly frustrated—not at you, but at himself for not being able to explain.
“Just do your job,” he finally said. “Don’t ask too much.”
You looked at him for a few seconds. Then nodded slightly. “Okay.”
But this time… the distance was even clearer than before.
That day, Yoongi ate.
And for the first time—there was no comment.
No “too salty.” No “not enough flavor.” Not anything.
He just ate. Quietly.
And you noticed… even though you didn’t show it.
You knew. From the beginning… there was nothing wrong with your cooking.
And it seemed—he finally realized it too.
The following days changed. Not drastically. Not warmly. But… different. Yoongi started actually eating. Always. Without comments. Without criticism.
And that… felt more honest than all the words before.
Sometimes he still stood in the kitchen while you cooked. Not speaking. Just watching. And you stayed the same—calm, focused, not trying to get closer. Not giving more space than necessary.
Meanwhile, outside—Yoongi’s mother became even more confused. At first, she truly wanted you to stay. Because you didn’t just help—you cared. And that was rare.
Among her friends, your name was often mentioned.
“That girl is so kind,” she would say repeatedly.
Not because you were perfect. But because you were sincere. And that… showed.
When you said you wanted to quit, she had tried to hold you back. But after knowing your reasons—about the rumors, the pressure, everything you endured alone—her heart couldn’t bear it.
“Wouldn’t it be better… to just let her quit?” she said one night to Yoongi.
Her tone was soft. More like… worried.
“She’s endured enough.”
Yoongi stayed silent. Not answering immediately. His hands folded, his gaze empty ahead.
A few seconds passed. Then— “No.” The same answer. Short. But more certain than before.
His mother looked at him, slightly surprised. “Why?”
Silence. Yoongi looked away. “…She still works well.”
That wasn’t the reason. His mother knew. And for the first time, something began to become clear—something that had never been there before. Her son… was starting to change. Slowly. Very slowly. And maybe—he himself hadn’t realized it yet.
Meanwhile, in that big house in UN Village—you were still standing in the kitchen. Still cooking. Still keeping your distance. And Yoongi—for the first time—was starting to learn… what it felt like to not want someone to leave, but not knowing how to ask them to stay.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
A few days later, the atmosphere in the house felt slightly different. Not because of you. Not because Yoongi changed drastically either. But because that day… his mother came.
You already knew beforehand, so in the morning you prepared everything more neatly than usual. Not to show off, not to appear better—just because you wanted to make sure… nothing was wrong.
The kitchen was clean. The table was arranged. Warm dishes with simple but elegant plating.
When the door opened and Min Yoongi’s mother stepped in, the atmosphere that was usually cold… shifted. More alive. Warmer.
“You must be Y/N, right?” she greeted you with a genuinely warm smile.
You bowed slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you for taking care of Yoongi all this time.”
You smiled faintly. “I’m just doing my job.”
“But you do it with heart,” she replied immediately.
The sentence was simple. But enough to make your chest… feel a little warm.
Yoongi stood not far from there, watching. Silent. As usual. But this time… not completely indifferent.
At lunchtime, you served the food as usual. This time… they ate together. His mother sat at the table, took a bite. Then her eyes lit up.
“This is delicious.”
You were slightly surprised, but still smiled politely. “Thank you.”
“Really, this tastes perfect. Where did you learn to cook?”
“Self-taught.”
“No wonder Yoongi eats at home now.”
That sentence made the atmosphere fall slightly quiet.
Yoongi, who was eating, simply… nodded faintly. No comments. No corrections. No criticism. Just quiet… and eating.
And somehow—that felt far more meaningful than all the comments he had ever made before.
His mother smiled seeing that. Clearly… she noticed. All those small changes.
The conversation continued lightly. About food, about your work, about simple things. Until eventually—the topic shifted.
“By the way,” his mother said casually, turning to you, “I have an acquaintance.”
You glanced slightly.
“A friend’s son. A director at a big company. He’s kind, well-established, handsome too,” she continued with a smile. “I think he’d suit you.”
You paused slightly. Not surprised. But… not completely ready either.
“Oh… thank you, ma’am,” you replied politely.
“You don’t mind if I introduce you?”
You thought for a moment. This was normal. Nothing wrong with it. And you had never seriously thought about things like that, but you weren’t closed off either.
“Yes, that’s fine.”
Yoongi, who had been eating calmly—stopped. His spoon froze mid-air. His gaze didn’t go directly to you. But clearly… he heard.
“Good,” his mother continued happily. “I’ll send your number later.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The conversation continued. As if it was just a small thing. But not for Yoongi.
From that moment, the atmosphere at the dining table felt… slightly different. He didn’t speak. But he seemed… less calm than before.
And you noticed it. Even though you didn’t know why.
A few hours later, his mother left. The house returned… quiet. As usual.
You were tidying the kitchen when Yoongi suddenly appeared behind you.
“Give me your phone.”
You turned, slightly confused. “Why?”
“Just give it.”
His tone was flat. But there was something… unusual.
You hesitated for a moment.
“Eomma sent you the number, right?”
You didn’t answer immediately. And that… was already enough.
He stepped closer. “Give it.”
You finally handed your phone over. He immediately opened it, found the chat—didn’t take long. And before you could react—he deleted it.
You froze.
“Yoongi—”
“Don’t reply.”
You looked at him. “Why?”
He didn’t answer right away. His hand is still holding your phone, but his gaze now… elsewhere.
“No need.”
“That’s my business,” you said softly, but clearly.
He lifted his head, looking at you. And for the first time… there was something in his eyes that wasn’t cold. Not angry. More like… restless.
“You work here,” he finally said. “Just focus here.”
That sounded like a reason. But not a strong one.
You frowned slightly. “That has nothing to do with it.”
He stayed silent. Like before—unable to explain. And that… made you even more uneasy.
You took a slow breath.
“You don’t have the right to control that,” you continued, still calm even though your heart felt unsettled.
He looked away. His jaw tightened slightly.
“Do whatever you want,” he said finally.
But his tone… didn’t really mean that.
He handed your phone back. Then left. As usual. Leaving you with more questions than answers.
You stood in the kitchen, staring at your phone screen that was now empty. This should have been normal. You should have been angry. Or at least… annoyed.
But what you felt instead—confusion.
And a little… fear.
Because you knew—he wasn’t an ordinary person. He was part of BTS. His world… was different. And you didn’t want to be dragged into something you didn’t understand.
Meanwhile, in another room—Min Yoongi sat in silence. His hands were empty. But his mind wasn’t.
For the first time—your presence was no longer something he merely tolerated.
But something… he was starting to notice.
And maybe—something he was starting to fear losing, even before he truly understood what it was.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
That morning felt… too quiet.
You came as usual to the villa in UN Village, opened the door carefully, took off your shoes, then went straight to the kitchen. Tang-ie still greeted you, meowing softly and brushing against your legs like always. But something was different.
There were no footsteps from upstairs. No figure standing quietly on the stairs. Nothing. You kept cooking. Chopping, sautéing, adjusting the heat—everything moved like a routine already embedded in your body. But a few times, you glanced toward the stairs.
Empty.
After everything was ready, you waited. Usually, at least he would come down briefly. Today… nothing. You let out a quiet breath, then walked toward the stairs.
“Yoongi?”
No answer.
You knocked on his door. Gently at first. Then a bit louder. Still nothing.
Your brows started to furrow. “Yoongi, I’m outside.”
Silence.
You stood there for a few seconds. Then went back down. Maybe he’s sleeping, you thought. You tried not to panic. You continued tidying the house, organizing a few areas as usual. But the uneasy feeling… didn’t leave.
One hour. Two hours. Still no sound.
You went upstairs again. This time, your knock was firmer.
“Yoongi?”
Still no answer. Your heart began beating faster. “If you don’t answer, I’m coming in.”
No response.
Slowly, you opened the door. And the moment it opened—you knew something was wrong.
Min Yoongi lay on the bed, his face pale, his breathing heavy. The blanket was messy, and even from that distance you could see… he wasn’t okay.
You immediately approached. “Yoongi?”
No response. You touched his forehead—hot. Very hot.
“Oh God…”
You didn’t panic. You couldn’t panic.
You moved quickly—getting water, a small towel, making sure he was in a more comfortable position. You opened the window slightly, replaced the compress, and tried to wake him gently.
“Yoongi… can you hear me?”
He groaned softly. At least he was conscious.
“You have a fever,” you whispered, your voice automatically softer.
That day… completely changed. You were no longer just cooking. You were taking care of him. Watching over him. Making sure he drank, even if you had to insist. Replacing the compress multiple times. Sitting beside the bed, observing every small change.
Time passed without you realizing. Afternoon. Night. The room lights were dim, leaving only a warm glow that made the atmosphere calmer… but also quieter.
You sat on the chair beside the bed, your body starting to feel tired, but you couldn’t really leave.
“I should go home…” you whispered softly.
But you didn’t move. Because every time you tried to stand—you saw his face. Pale. Weak. And you couldn’t bring yourself to leave.
When you finally stood to get something—suddenly— Your hand was grabbed. You startled. Turned. Yoongi. His eyes were still closed. His breathing was heavy. As if… not fully conscious.
“Don’t…”
His voice was hoarse. Almost a whisper.
You froze.
“Don’t leave…”
His grip tightened around your wrist. You didn’t know what to do.
“Yoongi… I’m just—”
“Don’t leave me…”
This time clearer. Deeper. And somehow… it didn’t sound like someone with a fever. More like… someone truly afraid.
You stayed silent. A few seconds passed. Then slowly… you sat back down.
“Okay,” you whispered softly. “I’m here.”
His hand was still holding yours. And you… didn’t let go. That night, you didn’t go home. You stayed there, sitting beside his bed, occasionally replacing the compress, making sure he stayed stable. Tang-ie even climbed onto the bed, curling up near his feet, as if guarding too.
Time moved slowly. And without realizing—your head began to feel heavy. Your eyes slowly closed. And eventually… you fell asleep. Still sitting on that chair. Still beside him. Still with your hands almost touching.
A few hours later— Yoongi opened his eyes. Slowly. His vision was blurry at first, his head still heavy. But his body temperature had slightly dropped, his breathing more stable. He blinked a few times. Then—he saw you.
Sitting on the chair, your head tilted slightly to the side, asleep in a clearly uncomfortable position. Your face looked tired, but still calm.
And for a few seconds—he just… stared. Silent. Not moving. Not believing.
You… didn’t leave. Even though he knew—you could have. After everything he had done. After everything he had said. But you stayed. Taking care of him. Without being asked. Without obligation.
Something in his chest felt… tight. Not from sickness. But from a feeling he had buried too deeply for too long.
He slowly sat up. Still weak, but enough. And without making much noise, he stood… then walked toward you. Slowly. Carefully. As if afraid of waking you.
He stopped in front of you for a few seconds. Looking at your face more closely. Natural. Calm. Without defenses. And for the first time—he felt… guilty. Deeply.
Without thinking much, he bent slightly… and lifted you. You were light. Lighter than he expected. He carried you to the bed, laying you down carefully, making sure your head was comfortable on the pillow, and pulling the blanket over your body.
You shifted slightly, but didn’t wake. Yoongi stood there for a few seconds. Then slowly… sat on the other side of the bed. Watching you. For a long time. In silence.
Tang-ie moved slightly, getting closer to you, as usual. And Yoongi just… stayed quiet. His mind is full. Of everything he had done. Every word he had said. Every way he had treated you. And now—you were still here. Taking care of him. Without ever asking for anything.
He let out a quiet breath. His hand moved slightly, almost touching your hair… but stopped mid-air. Hesitant. Afraid. And eventually… he pulled his hand back. Lying down beside you. Still keeping a distance. But close enough to see you clearly.
The room was dim. The atmosphere is quiet. And for the first time since all that chaos— Min Yoongi closed his eyes… with a different feeling. Not anger. Not emptiness. But something… slowly becoming warm. Even though he didn’t yet know… what to call it.
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
Morning came slowly, slipping through the curtains with a soft, warm light. You woke up gradually. At first… you didn’t immediately realize where you were. Until you felt something.
Warm. Close. And… heavy.
Your breath hitched slightly as you realized—someone’s arm was wrapped around your waist. Your body stiffened instantly. Slowly, you opened your eyes.
And there— You were in Min Yoongi’s bed.
Held.
From behind.
His face was very close to your shoulder, his breath warm, steady—not like last night. He was much better now.
Your heart immediately started beating faster. Too loud, you were afraid he could hear it. You didn’t move right away. You didn’t know what to do.
Slowly… you tried to breathe. Calm. You had to be calm. But that was exactly what was hard.
A few seconds felt like forever. And then—you realized. He was awake.
You didn’t see it, but you could feel it. The way his breathing changed slightly. The way he holds… didn’t loosen. Didn’t tighten either. Just… stayed. As if he was aware, but chose not to let go.
You closed your eyes again. Pretending to still be asleep. Trying to steady yourself. Trying to quiet all the feelings that suddenly crowded your chest.
And in that position— Silence.
Only the sound of your breathing. Close. Too close.
“…Sorry.”
His voice was soft. Hoarse. Still with his eyes closed.
You didn’t answer immediately. It took a few seconds before you could find your voice.
“It’s okay,” you whispered. And that was honest.
You weren’t angry. Not upset. Not blaming. But… that didn’t mean everything was fine. Silence again.
His arm was still there. Still holding you. And you knew—if you didn’t say something now, you would be pulled further than you should.
“We need to keep our distance.”
The words came out softly. But clear.
You felt his body stiffen slightly behind you. For the first time… his hold changed. Not letting go. But… resisting. As if he didn’t want to hear it.
“I know where this is going,” you continued, still with your eyes closed, because you weren’t sure you could say it if you had to look at him. “And I can’t.”
Silence. Heavier than before.
“I don’t fit into your world,” you whispered. “Your life… isn’t something I can bring into mine.”
Every word felt like… you were pulling it out of your own chest. Slowly. Painfully. But necessary.
“I don’t want to be part of something that… I won’t be able to handle it later.”
His arm slowly… weakened. But hadn’t fully let go. And at that moment—for the first time—Yoongi opened his eyes.
His gaze was blank for a few seconds. Then… it fell onto your back. Close. Too close. And somehow—your words hurt more than all the harsh comments he had ever heard. All this time—people always came to him. Got close. Reached. Expected. No one ever stepped back. No one ever chose… no.
And you— You did. Without hesitation. Without trying to stay longer. Without even… giving him a chance. His chest felt tight. Not from anger. Not just from ego. But because—for the first time—he realized. This feeling… was real. Not just getting used to your presence. Not just comfort. But more. And you— You had already drawn the line first.
“…Do you think I’m playing around?”
His voice was low. Still hoarse.
You slowly opened your eyes. Looking straight ahead.
It wasn’t a harsh rejection. But that—was what hurt the most. Because you weren’t rejecting him. You were rejecting the possibility. Rejecting a path he hadn’t even explained yet. And that… left him with no room to fight back.
His arm finally… let go. Slowly. Like something forced. He pulled back slightly. But didn’t fully move away. His gaze remained on you. Silent. Heavy.
For the first time— Min Yoongi felt something unfamiliar. Rejection. Not because he wasn’t enough. Not because he lacked anything. But because… you chose not to enter his world. And somehow— That hurt far deeper than an ordinary rejection.
Meanwhile, you— Slowly sat up from that position. Sitting at the edge of the bed. Taking a deep breath. Holding everything you felt inside. Because the truth was— This wasn’t easy for you either. Not at all. But you knew— If you didn’t stop now… You might not be able to stop later.
Author Notes: Do you think I should make a Part 2?
I just want to give Yoongi a warm hug and cradle him in my arms . How hurt our baby must have been , seeing how an entire industry basically turned their backs on him and dragged him through the mug . And throughout out it all he did not last our or shrink from responsibility. Shout out to mama Min for doing whatever needed for her son . I dont know if I could have remained working in that type of slience and ugh what rude women in the complex , giving our girl a hard time for nothing ! They were the ones at fault not MC , but similar to Yoongi she seems to be the type to suffer in silence . Them ending up in the bed together was not on my bingo card , very interesting development . Tangie is defiantly the most astounding character lol . I am curious in this universe is Yoongi completing his active duty office assignment , or prephaps on a break from that duty . Will MC ever meet JK her bias , as a firm SOPE girl its kind unfathomable not being SOPE biased lol.
cowlick a min yoongi one-shot
pairing: idol!min yoongi x wife!f!reader
genre: pwp
rating: explicit content MDNI!!!
summary: you're the reason why your husband’s hair is a mess for the 'hooligan' mv.
warnings/tags: quickie in a trailer, riding, unprotected sex, they're married and reader wants to get pregnant, his boys make fun of him lol
wc: 1.4k
notes: i say im burnt out from writing smut and then i go and write this. it's just bc yoongi makes me so insane 😩 this was inspired by a convo between myself and aqua (contents of which may or may not be based on real life events) so im dedicating this to her 🫶💜 thank u for betaing last minute!!
Yoongi’s supposed to be on set. But instead he’s sweating under his leather outfit with you spread out on his lap, bouncing on his cock.
It starts off with him just going to his trailer because he forgot his lucky bracelet (the one you gave him on his birthday the first year you celebrated together). The door almost hits him on the ass by the time you jump him, and he barely has time to be surprised before you grab his face and pull him down.
“How’d you sneak in here?” he chuckles between breathless kisses, hands going to your waist like clockwork.
“I’m your wife. Duh,” you snap, fingers ensnaring the heavy chains around his neck.
“I start filming in five minutes.”
“I’ll be quick.” He never argues with you. He lets you push him down on the couch, straddle him, kiss and lick at the base of his neck, knowing you don’t need the reminder not to make marks unless you want a hit put on you by his stylist, and you’re always careful not to touch his face for that same reason. It takes him a second to realize you’re wearing a skirt. He opens his mouth to scold you for coming to see him in clothes like that since it’s so cold out but then you reach under to dip into your bare, sopping pussy. Ah. Easy access. You came with a plan.
In all the years you’ve been together, it’s never taken much for you to get him hard. You walk into a room and bam - he has to adjust himself. And when you touch him - there goes his thoughts for a few minutes. It’s always been like this, and he knows it’ll never change. So when you figure out how to get into his boxers without pushing down too much leather, he’s already stiff and leaking at the tip.
You smear down his precum and he bites his lip when you grab his cock with the fingers you had between your legs, glistening with your slick, making him nice and wet for you.
“Damn, baby. Were you playing with yourself while you waited for me?”
“Mhmm,” you nod, whimpering as you finally let him penetrate your walls. You’re so wet and warm and tight when you sink down on him that he has to hold in a breath to keep himself together. But then he reminds himself that this is a quickie. He knows you could stay here and ride him until his balls are empty, but, unfortunately, he doesn’t have that kind of time. His phone - that he shouldn’t even have on him in the first place (he does though, just for you) - has been vibrating in his pocket for the past few minutes, but the more he’s distracted, the longer it’ll take him to make you both come, so he ignores it.
Your hands grip his shoulders as you wiggle your hips to adjust to his girth that he finds so fucking cute every single time, but he can hardly feel your touch through the thick leather of his jacket. He curses, because his fingerless gloves are preventing him from fully touching the skin on your hip, so he grips you hard enough to bruise. Usually, he’d let you bounce and ride him until you came on him and got too tired to carry on, but to speed things up, he bucks up into you, watching your parted lips spill out moans as he grinds against your spot, grunting as it makes you squeeze him and suck him deeper in. He kisses you, swallowing your sweet sounds, and his balls tighten when your fingers dig into the side of his head, tightly fisting his hair. Telltale sign that you’re close. You must've really worked yourself up while you were waiting for him.
“Come for me,” he whispers against your lips, fingers dropping and finding your clit to press and rub you over the edge. You loudly cry out his name, pulling at his hair so his head tips to the side as he continues fucking up into you and kissing the underside of your jaw. “That’s it, baby. Fuck, you’re squeezing me so good.”
“Come inside," you warble, cheek lolling against his temple, fingers still entangled in his hair, cunt clenching him through your aftershocks.
“Mm.” Eyebrows pinched, his fingers return to flex on your hip, cock twitching at the mere thought of getting to fill you up. “Remember to take your pill.”
You whine, indignant. He sighs, shakes his head. You make that sound when he doesn’t give you what you want.
“I’ll give you a baby when we come back from tour, ‘kay?”
You whine again, louder and borderline disobedient, slamming down on him like it tells him something. Sucking in a hiss because damn that felt good, he slaps your ass and massages out the sting, a silent warning to stop being a brat. This is one thing he’s not going to let you win an argument about.
“Hey, that was the deal, right? I’m not leaving you at home alone and pregnant while I fly around the world for eight months.”
“Yeah, but by the time you’d get back, you’d have a baby. You wouldn’t have to deal with all my pregnancy bullshit,” you try to reason, hips still rolling, eyes glassy and pout pathetic. He frowns. You’ve both had this conversation multiple times before, but that’s the first time you’ve made this point. He doesn’t fucking like it.
Yoongi tugs down on your waist to get you to stop, pelvises pressed together, cock deep inside you. But you know better than to move.
“Look at me.” You refuse, and the leather of his fingerless gloves rubs your cheeks as he grabs them. “I want to deal with all your pregnancy bullshit. I married you, remember? I signed up to put up with all your bullshit for the rest of my life and I don’t plan on missing out on any of it.”
His eyes dart between both of yours, making sure what he said is sticking with you, and when you lean in to sloppily kiss him, he knows the message got through.
“Now, c’mon. You said you were gonna be quick.”
You sit up straighter, and you’re clearly weakened from your orgasm but you put in effort that he’ll worship you for later to bring him to his own peak. Slick sounds of your pussy and slams of your hips fill the trailer, and within seconds of you squeezing him, sucking on his earlobe, and toying with his chains, he’s muttering an incoherent string of curses and spilling deep inside you. His balls just keep pulsing and holyyy shit, he really could get you pregnant right now. (He would love nothing more, but later he’ll text you another reminder to take your pill).
“I love you so fucking much,” he pants into your neck, wishing he had the time to leave his mark. “Even though you’re gonna get me in so much fucking trouble.”
“Love you, too. Don’t forget you married trouble,” You grin, waggling his ring on your finger in his facr, and his hips jerk as you lift off of him. He tips his chin up when you start to lean in for another kiss but your mouth drops and your eyes go wide.
“Oh, fuck, your hair-“ You reach out to try and fix it, but just as you do, a loud pounding on the trailer door startles the both of you.
“Shit, gotta go,” Yoongi mutters, quickly stuffing himself back in this godforsaken leather as his manager starts yelling for him to come out. You try your best to smooth down his hair, but when you keep muttering curses under your breath, he knows it’s not working.
“It’s fine. I’ll see you later.” He kisses you, lingers a second longer than he has time for, and leaves you sitting on the couch, skirt halfway up your waist, fingers playing with his cum dripping out. Fuck, you’re gonna be the death of him. He needs to shoot this music video first.
Yoongi’s manager chews him all the way out onto the set, and his stylist gives him the evilest eye when she catches sight of his hair. He just scurries towards his band because his manager already said there’s no time to fix it.
“Where were you?” Namjoon exclaims as Yoongi walks towards the center of the platform. He shrugs, like he’s not still perspiring and his dick isn’t still hard. Luckily, his leather pants are bulky enough to hide it.
“I had to grab something.”
“Look at his hair! That means his honey came to visit,” Hobi says, waggling his brows. Yoongi shoots him daggers.
“Shut up.”
The maknaes burst into raucous laughter and Taehyung and Jimin mime grabbing at each other, making overexaggerated kissing noises and mimicking the way you cry out Yoongi’s name. Yoongi turns his back on them to go to his spot, just missing Jeongguk thrusting in the air like he’s mid-Baepsae.
“You brought this on yourself,” Namjoon mutters, stepping up next to him, fixing his gloves. Yoongi pretends not to hear. “It’s been, what, four years? And y’all still act like newlyweds.”
“We’re making up for the time we missed while I was in the military.”
Namjoon’s face pulls back, disgusted. “Okay, well, can you not do that on our schedule?”
“Sorry, leader-nim,” Yoongi fake apologizes, pressing his hands together, smirk lopsided and shit-eating. “Maybe if you let her come on tour, she wouldn’t find any downtime I have now to, yknow, make up.”
Namjoon sighs, long and distressed. Yoongi only feels a little bad. You’re his wife. He needs you by his side, and not just to have little quickies whenever there’s minutes to spare. He was enough of a wreck being away from you during his service. He doesn’t want that to happen because of work.
“Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”
Yoongi smiles, lighting up inside and out. “Thanks, bro. You’re the best.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Namjoon waves him off, just in time for the director to call for action.
He doesn’t know how crazy his hair looks until they play the footage back to check for mistakes and potential position adjustments. His band members tease him, but it makes him smile that it’s there because you need to grab onto his hair when he makes you come. No one outside of this set will ever know his cowlick is thanks to his wife, and that makes him like it even more.
He still left his damn bracelet.
.
.
.
thank you for reading!!! ahhhh i cant believe this happened lmao pls let me know what you think with comments and reblogs!! 💜
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Pairing: yoongi x reader
Genre: fluff, domestic, marriage au
Word count: 4k
Author’s note: i just need someone to catch me when i fall. To pick the things i accidentally left behind, hold my hand and tell me that i’m safe.
There’s something wrong with the snare file Hoseok gave.
Yoongi pursed his lips, staring at the screen of flattened audios full of soundwaves. His face shone by the light from the computer while the rest of the room is pitch black. Then, his passcode-only-accessible door beeped a certain combination and unlocked.
The light is flipped on and Yoongi didn’t even blink, resuming to type, like nothing happen. You walked in, with an exasperated sigh to say, “Can you please please please watch the fried chicken so it won’t burn, I need to poop.”
Oh how we love a domesticated man and Mr Min never disappoints , even with all his little snark. Their dynamic was enjoyable to read and realistic . I especially enjoyed that part of her ingnoring him at the counter when he declined the unasked question to fry the chicken. After Bangtan most recent Hot ones interview I am curious what is his preferred style . Anywho this was nice to read and totally loved him snubbing the chick at the store , very much domesticated . Out of curiosity if you had to cook for Yoongi what dish would you make .
Summary: When Kim Nam-joon—usually strong, composed, untouchable—falls apart over a late-night call, he doesn’t reach for medicine… he reaches for you. What starts as teasing and chaos slowly melts into something deeper, softer… and dangerously intimate. Because when distance disappears, all that’s left is longing—and the quiet things you’d only ever do for each other.
Status: Oneshot | BC MASTERLIST
Pairing: Idol!Namjoon x Reader
Word count: 4.8k~
Genre: Idol!au, Fluff, Smut
Rated: MDNI, 18+ 🔞
Tags: ARMY, Boyfriend!Namjoon, Secret, Drama, Slice of Life, Masturbate, VCS
Posting Date: April 11, 2026
The night in Seoul felt quieter than usual. Not because the city was truly silent—the lights were still on, cars still passing by—but because inside your room, everything felt… slower. The desk lamp cast a warm glow, softly reflecting off the walls, while you sat comfortably on your bed after a shower, your hair still half damp.
A small towel rested on your shoulders, your fingers busy drying the ends of your hair as you occasionally glanced at your phone. Moments like this were usually your favorite—calm, no distractions, no expectations.
Until your phone screen suddenly lit up.
Namjoon calling…
Instinctively, the corners of your lips lifted. Even before you fully realized it, your heart had already reacted—warm, light, familiar. You picked up the call immediately.
“Hello—”
“Y/N…”
That voice instantly changed your smile.
Soft. Hoarse. Not like usual.
Your brows furrowed automatically, your body leaning slightly forward. “What’s wrong with you?”
On the screen, Kim Nam-joon looked… different. His hair was messy, the thin t-shirt he wore slightly wrinkled, and his sitting posture wasn’t relaxed like usual. He was at the edge of a hotel bed, slightly hunched, one hand pressing against his stomach.
His face looked pale. His expression was holding something back.
He let out a slow breath, as if even breathing required effort.
“My stomach hurts…”
And for some reason—your reaction was purely reflex.
You burst out laughing.
“HAHA—I knew it!” you quickly covered your mouth, but the laughter had already escaped. “You just did Hot Ones, didn’t you?!”
Namjoon lifted his face slightly, looking at you with a mix of offense and resignation. “Why are you laughing… this is serious…”
“How many levels did you eat?” you were still trying to suppress your laughter, though your smile clearly hadn’t disappeared.
He shook his head slowly, wincing again. “I don’t know… the last one… it was like fire. Actual fire, Y/N. It went straight here…” his hand pressed into his stomach again, deeper this time.
You bit your lip, trying to stay serious… but the fond amusement was impossible to hide. “That’s what you get for trying to act tough. You can’t even handle spicy food.”
“But everyone else was eating…” he muttered softly.
His tone shifted. Smaller. More defensive—like a child looking for justification.
And that immediately softened your expression.
Your laughter faded, replaced by a gentler smile. You let out a small sigh. “Alright… how are you now? Did you drink milk or something?”
“I did…” he replied shortly. “But it still hurts…”
His shoulders dropped slightly, his body looking even more drained. Then, almost like he was talking to himself—
“Usually when I’m sick… you’re there…”
The sentence felt just like that. No drama. No pressure. But that was exactly what made you go quiet. Before you could respond, the atmosphere suddenly shifted.
“HEY—video call with Y/N noona?!”
“Hyung’s complaining again?!”
Several heads suddenly popped into the screen without permission. Jimin was in front with his mischievous smile, Jungkook beside him waving energetically, and Taehyung leaning back casually with an entertained expression.
“Noona! Please help, our leader is so weak!” Jimin attacked immediately, laughing.
“Can you not…” Namjoon tried to respond, but his voice was too weak to sound convincing—which only made the others more amused.
“Must be nice having a girlfriend,” Jungkook sighed dramatically. “Gets a video call the moment he feels a little sick.”
“Usually he gets taken care of in person, right?” Taehyung added casually, deliberately emphasizing in person.
Namjoon immediately covered his face with one hand. “Can you guys leave…”
“Why are you shy, hyung?” Jimin leaned closer to the camera. “Noona, he’s been like this the whole time—lying down, holding his stomach, going ‘ah it hurts… ah it’s burning…’”
“It DOES hurt!” Namjoon defended himself, though he sounded even less convincing.
You couldn’t hold back your smile. The scene was too… warm. Noisy, teasing each other, but still caring.
“Did you guys also eat something really spicy?” you finally asked.
“He forced it!” Jimin pointed at Namjoon.
“That’s a lie,” Jungkook cut in. “Hyung got competitive too.”
“You’re both the same,” Taehyung chuckled.
Amid all that, your eyes kept returning to Namjoon. He was still in the same position. Slightly hunched. Occasionally rubbing his stomach. He was trying to act normal… but you knew.
This wasn’t just him being dramatic.
“Guys, can you give Namjoon some space?” you finally said, your voice softer but firm. “He actually looks unwell.”
The atmosphere immediately calmed a little.
Jimin glanced at Namjoon, then at you. “Hmm… yeah.”
“I’ve been saying that…” Namjoon muttered quietly.
“We’ll leave you two,” Taehyung said as he stood up. “The personal doctor is online.”
“Get well soon, hyung!” Jungkook waved.
Jimin was the last one. He leaned close to the camera and whispered quickly, “Please take care of him, noona. He’s really whiny,” then ran off before you could respond.
The door closed. And suddenly… silence. Now it was just the two of you.
Namjoon looked at you again. Longer. More focused. No distractions, no other voices. His face was still pale, but something had changed—he seemed calmer.
“I miss you…” he said softly.
You paused for a moment, then smiled gently. “I miss you too.”
He let out a long breath and leaned against the headboard. “If you were here… you’d already be panicking, telling me to drink this and that, nagging me…”
“And you wouldn’t listen,” you cut in immediately.
He smiled faintly. “True…”
“And then you’d say ‘I’m fine’ when you’re clearly not.”
Namjoon looked at you more deeply, his smile growing slightly. “You know me too well.”
“Because you’re always like that.”
Silence. But not an awkward one. More like… comfortable. He shifted his phone a little closer, as if trying to shorten the distance between you.
“So… are you taking care of me now?” he asked softly.
You nodded. “Yeah. Even if it’s just through a screen.”
His gaze softened. Deeper.
“Then, Doctor Y/N,” he teased lightly, “what should I do?”
You pulled the blanket onto your lap and started in a half-serious tone.
“Okay. First—sit properly. Don’t curl up like that.”
He obeyed immediately, slowly fixing his posture.
“Second—get some warm water. Not cold.”
He glanced to the side. “The warm water is far…”
You gave him a sharp look. “Namjoon.”
He raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright…”
“Go get it now.”
He let out a long sigh, but eventually stood up. His steps were slow, a bit heavy. You watched without realizing it—the way he moved, the way he endured the discomfort.
Once he came back with a glass of water, you continued.
“Third—drink slowly.”
He did.
And somehow… that made you smile a little.
“And fourth…” you paused.
He looked at you, waiting. Your voice softened.
“Stay on the call with me.”
He went quiet. Then nodded slightly.
“Deal.”
He leaned back again, this time more relaxed. His breathing still wasn’t fully steady, but his expression was much calmer. And slowly, you started talking. Small things. Random things. Simple things you usually shared.
Namjoon just listened. Occasionally nodding. Occasionally smiling softly.
And without you realizing— his eyes started to glisten slightly. Not because of the spice anymore. But because… he truly missed you.
݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
Time passed without you realizing it.
You were still in the same position, leaning against the headboard with your phone in hand, while on the screen, Namjoon looked slightly calmer now. Not fully recovered—his hand still occasionally moved to his stomach—but at least his breathing wasn’t as heavy as before.
The atmosphere between you had changed. Not panicked anymore. More… slow.
“Are you feeling better?” you asked softly, your voice almost like a whisper.
Namjoon didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you for a few seconds, as if enjoying the fact that you were still there. Then he slowly shook his head.
“Still burning…” he muttered.
His hand pressed against his stomach again, more gently this time, like the pain was easing but not completely gone.
You nodded slightly, trying to stay calm. “Did you eat anything after that?”
“Manager hyung gave me milk and bread…” he replied. “Then told me to rest.”
His tone was flat. Not because he didn’t care—but more like… empty. Like something was missing.
“Did you take medicine?”
“Yeah.”
Short answer. Silence again.
Namjoon tilted his phone slightly, then slowly lay down. His movements weren’t rushed, as if he was being careful with his own body. The blanket was pulled up to his stomach, his hand still occasionally moving over the fabric, trying to find the most comfortable position.
You watched without realizing it. The small details. The way he breathed. The way his shoulders slowly dropped. The way his eyes occasionally closed for a moment before opening again.
“You look really tired…” you finally said softly.
Namjoon gave a faint smile.
“Yeah…”
Then, after a small pause—
“And… it feels different.”
You frowned slightly. “Different how?”
He went quiet for a moment. His gaze dropped, then returned to you.
“Usually when I’m sick…” he paused, taking a slow breath, “…I don’t have to think about anything.”
You didn’t interrupt.
“Because you already think about everything first.”
The sentence was simple. But the way he said it—without joking, without hiding it—made your chest feel warm… and heavy at the same time.
“What to drink, what to eat, how I should rest…” he continued. “You’re always nagging… but it means I don’t have to take care of myself.”
You smiled slightly. “It’s not that you don’t have to—you’re just lazy.”
Namjoon let out a soft chuckle. This time, more alive.
“That’s true…”
Silence again. But this time, it felt deeper.
“But now…” his voice dropped again, “…I have to remind myself.”
He glanced at the glass beside him.
“I have to get up and get water on my own. I have to remember to take my medicine…”
His hand touched the glass briefly, then let go again.
“Manager hyung helps… but it just…” he paused, searching for the word, “…doesn’t feel the same.”
You understood immediately. It wasn’t about who helped him. It was about who he wanted.
You leaned slightly closer to the screen, your voice softening. “Namjoon…”
He looked at you right away. Quickly. Like he had been waiting for you to speak.
“You’re doing well,” you said softly. “You’re still taking care of yourself even when you’re far from me.”
He shook his head. Quickly.
“I don’t want to be strong.”
You almost laughed.
“I just want to be spoiled…”
His voice was small. Honest. Unfiltered.
And that was… so him.
You covered your mouth for a moment, holding back a smile. “You’re the leader of BTS, you know that?”
“Yeah…” he replied quickly, “…but I’m also your boyfriend.”
You froze.
No argument. No quick response. Just a gaze that softened instantly.
Namjoon moved his phone a little closer. His face filled the screen—slightly tired eyes, messy hair, an expression he rarely showed to others.
“I’m tired of pretending to be strong,” he said softly. “With you… I don’t have to.”
You took a slow breath.
“Alright,” you replied gently. “Then you don’t have to be strong right now. I’m here.”
Namjoon went quiet.
Then he pulled the blanket higher, almost covering half his face, but his eyes stayed on you.
“Can I be clingy?” he asked.
You smiled warmly. “You’ve been clingy this whole time.”
He smiled softly. And this time… his eyes became slightly watery again.
Before the moment could go any deeper—
Knock knock.
A knock on the door.
“Hyung! Can I come in?”
A familiar voice.
Namjoon let out a small sigh. “Just come in…”
The door opened. And the atmosphere instantly changed.
Jungkook walked in first, one hand holding his stomach, his face wincing but still carrying his usual energy. Behind him, Jimin followed, his steps a little slower but his smile already there.
“Y/N noona!” Jungkook immediately waved at the camera. “I’m sick too…”
You shook your head slowly, unable to hold back a smile. “What is wrong with all of you…”
“This isn’t our fault,” Jimin defended himself right away. “That last sauce was evil.”
“Manager hyung gave us medicine too,” Jungkook added while sitting on the floor near the bed. “But it still… hurts differently.”
Namjoon glanced at them briefly. Then back at you. His expression shifted slightly. Calmer… but there was something else.
“I’m talking to Y/N,” he said softly, but clearly.
You smiled slightly. “If you promise not to eat spicy food again.”
He immediately shook his head. “No promises.”
You laughed.
And this time—Namjoon laughed too. Softly. But real.
For the first time since he said he was in pain… he actually looked a little better.
On the other side, Jungkook leaned his head against the bed, letting out a dramatic sigh. “I think I need Y/N noona too…”
Jimin immediately nudged him. “You need self-control.”
“You too,” Jungkook shot back quickly.
You laughed softly watching them.
The atmosphere became warm again. Light. But beneath all of it—Namjoon’s gaze never truly left you.
And without you realizing it—
the presence of the two people in that room didn’t feel disturbing. Instead, it slowly… became part of the rhythm of your night.
A habit that felt natural.
As if—this wasn’t over yet.
And it wasn’t.
Because without realizing it—
That night would continue, longer. More crowded. And more… close.
݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
The room that had been quiet earlier was now filled again—but not with chaos. More like… warmth.
Jungkook was already sitting cross-legged on the floor, his back leaning against the side of the bed, one hand still holding his stomach. Jimin climbed onto the bed, sitting a bit far from Namjoon but still within the frame, his face already full of expression again.
And like you could feel— they didn’t really intend to leave.
“Noona…” Jungkook moved a little closer to the phone, his eyes widening with an expression that was clearly too exaggerated to be serious. “Take care of me too…”
You let out a small laugh. “What’s wrong with you?”
“My stomach hurts too…” he pouted, his tone turning clingy. “I think it’s worse than Namjoon hyung…”
“HEY,” Namjoon protested softly.
Jimin immediately chimed in, “I’m sick too… but I’m the strongest.”
“You’ve been the noisiest,” Namjoon replied, his voice now slightly more alive.
You shook your head slowly, your smile still there. “You guys… one by one.”
You adjusted your sitting position, as if you were really dealing with multiple patients at once.
“Okay. Jungkook first,” you started, half serious. “Have you had milk?”
Jungkook nodded quickly. “I have. But I think it’s not enough…”
“Don’t drink too much either. You’ll feel nauseous.”
“Okayyy…” he replied, dragging the word, but still obeying.
He was still looking at you. Too focused.
“If you were here…” he continued, lowering his voice slightly, “would you hold me?”
Jimin immediately burst into laughter. “Here we go…”
Namjoon just glanced at Jungkook. Not angry. But enough to show—he heard.
You simply smiled slightly, completely unfazed. “I’d tell you to sit properly first.”
Jungkook laughed right away, then fixed his sitting position. “Yes, doctor.”
“And drink warm water too.”
“Yeah, yeah…”
Jimin cut in. “What about me?”
You looked at him, narrowing your eyes slightly. “You definitely ate a lot earlier.”
“No!” Jimin defended himself immediately.
“He had seconds,” Jungkook cut in quickly.
Jimin shot him a sharp look. “You too!”
You laughed softly watching them.
“Alright, you’re both the same,” you said gently. “Jimin, you drink something warm too. Don’t lie down right away.”
Jimin nodded, this time calmer. “Yes, Y/N noona.”
His tone was made formal, but his eyes stayed warm. In the middle of all that— Namjoon stayed quiet. He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t joke much.
He just looked at you. The way you responded one by one. The way you stayed soft but firm. The way you noticed small details, even from afar.
And without realizing it— he smiled.
“Y/N noona is really kind,” Jimin suddenly said.
You blinked slightly. “Huh?”
“Seriously,” he continued. “Even though you’re far away, you’re still taking care of all of us.”
Jungkook nodded. “That’s why I like video calling you.”
Namjoon raised an eyebrow slightly. “Excuses.”
“But it’s true,” Jungkook said casually. “Noona is really calming.”
You laughed softly, a little shy. “You guys are exaggerating…”
“No,” Jimin shook his head. “That’s why we all care about you.”
That sentence shifted the atmosphere a little. Calmer. Warmer.
You smiled gently. “I care about you guys too.”
And it felt sincere. It showed in the way you looked at them one by one. In the way your voice stayed soft. In the way you stayed present—even if only through a screen.
Jungkook suddenly leaned closer to the camera again. Closer than before.
“If I get sick again… can I just video call you right away?” he asked, his tone light but clearly intentional.
You smiled casually. “You have your hyungs.”
“But you’re better,” he replied quickly.
Jimin burst out laughing. “This guy…”
Namjoon finally spoke.
“Jungkook.”
“Yes, hyung?”
“That’s my girlfriend.”
His tone stayed calm. Not loud. Not angry. But clear.
Jungkook grinned widely. “I know.”
“You know but you still act like that.”
“I’m just talking,” he shrugged casually.
You simply shook your head, but your smile didn’t fade.
And interestingly— Namjoon didn’t look annoyed. He leaned his head back instead, his eyes returning to you. Calm. Certain. Because he knew. No matter how flirty Jungkook was. No matter how playful the others were. Your gaze never changed. It always returned to him. Always softer when you look at him. And that was enough.
“Y/N…” Namjoon called softly.
You immediately focused. “Hmm?”
“My stomach still hurts…”
His tone changed again. Softer. More clingy.
You immediately returned to serious mode. “I know. Did you drink again?”
Jungkook groaned dramatically. “Ugh, back to Namjoon hyung again…”
Jimin laughed. “Of course.”
You smiled, then said softly but clearly—
“Because he’s my priority.”
Silence. One second. Enough to make everything pause for a moment. Namjoon went still. And this time— his smile wasn’t just small. It was warm. Deep.
Meanwhile, Jungkook dropped his head onto the bed dramatically. “I want to be prioritized too…”
“You’re prioritized to drink water right now,” you replied quickly.
Jungkook laughed. Jimin laughed too. And the room was filled again with light sounds. Warm. Comfortable. As if distance didn’t really exist.
But slowly— that energy began to settle. Laughter turned into light conversation. Conversation turned into pauses. Pauses turned into a more relaxed silence.
Jungkook eventually leaned back more comfortably, no longer talking much. Jimin also grew quieter, only occasionally responding.
Meanwhile, Namjoon— stayed where he was. Still looking at you.
And among all the sounds that were slowly fading— what was felt the most was… that closeness.
As if tonight wasn’t just about being sick. But about being together. About small habits that formed without realizing it.
About how—even when far apart— you still found a way to feel close. And without anyone really announcing it— the atmosphere began to shift again.
Slower. More intimate. More… enclosed.
As if the space was slowly making room for only two people. And it was just a matter of time— before the others really left.
݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
The room was still filled with the remnants of Jungkook and Jimin’s quiet laughter—clearly, they had no intention of actually “leaving peacefully.”
Namjoon let out a long sigh, deeper this time, as if trying to gather whatever patience he had left. “Alright, go back to your own rooms,” he finally said. His tone was firmer, though still slightly hoarse from exhaustion. “It’s late. We still have a schedule tomorrow.”
Jimin glanced at Jungkook, then back at Namjoon with a suspiciously mischievous smile. “Wow… suddenly acting like a leader again.”
Jungkook nudged Jimin’s leg, holding back a laugh. “Wasn’t it you who said, ‘my stomach hurts so bad…’ earlier?”
Namjoon narrowed his eyes, but this time he didn’t immediately respond. He just glanced at them briefly, then turned back to the screen.
Back to you. And that alone was enough for Jimin and Jungkook to exchange a look, like they had just found the answer they were looking for.
“Ooooh…” Jimin dragged out the sound, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “So you want some alone time now.”
“Quality time,” Jungkook added casually, one hand still on his stomach, though his grin was clearly teasing.
Namjoon stayed silent. No denial. No defense. He simply took a slow breath, then said shortly—
“Out.”
Jimin burst out laughing. “Not even denying it anymore.”
“Alright, we get it,” Jungkook stood up, pretending to sigh dramatically. “Wouldn’t want to disturb someone who’s missing someone.”
“Missing her a lot, actually,” Jimin added.
Namjoon closed his eyes for a second. “Get out. Now.”
But there was a faint blush on his ears—and that only made them more satisfied. Before leaving, Jungkook glanced back at the camera, a small smile on his lips. “Good night, Y/N noona… take care of Namjoon hyung.”
“JUNGKOOK.”
The door finally closed.
Click.
Silence. Real silence. No more laughter, no more interruptions, no one else in the frame. Just you… and him.
Namjoon immediately let his body drop slightly onto the bed, like he could finally release all the energy he’d been holding in. His breath came out slowly.
“Finally…” he murmured, almost like a whisper.
You smiled softly. “Tired?”
“Yeah… but that’s not it.”
He adjusted his phone, positioning it more steadily beside the pillow. Now his face was closer, clearer. The room light made his eyes look deeper, warmer.
“I can finally be alone with you,” he said quietly.
You softened too. You had been “together” all this time, but now it felt different. Closer. Calmer. More… personal.
“I was with you the whole time,” you replied gently.
“But not alone,” he answered quickly.
Silence. And this time, it felt full.
Namjoon looked at you for a long moment. His gaze moved slowly, taking in every detail of your face, as if trying to memorize it again—or maybe just easing his longing in his own way.
“You just showered, didn’t you…” he said softly.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
“Your hair’s still a little wet.”
You smiled. “You really notice everything.”
“I always notice you.”
The answer came quickly. Honestly. And it left you speechless.
Namjoon lifted his hand slightly, his fingers almost reaching toward the screen. He stopped just inches away, then smiled faintly, as if realizing it was pointless.
“If I were there…” he murmured, “…I’d tell you to dry your hair first.”
“You can do it for me later,” you replied reflexively.
He chuckled softly. “Yeah… I’ll do it.”
Silence again. But softer. Warmer. Namjoon shifted slightly, then gently patted the empty space beside him on the bed.
“I made a spot for you,” he said quietly.
You looked at the screen and let out a small laugh, warmth blooming in your chest. “You…”
“If you were here…” he continued, his voice dropping, “…I wouldn’t let go of you.”
Your heart started beating faster. His gaze didn’t waver. Always on you. You eventually lay down too, positioning your phone so your faces aligned. Now it looked like you were lying side by side—only separated by a screen.
“It’s late, Namjoon…” you said softly. “You need to rest.”
He shook his head slightly. “I don’t want to sleep yet.”
“You’re sick.”
“I miss you more.”
The answer came instantly. Without hesitation. And it left you with nothing to argue back.
Silence again. Deeper this time. Closer.
Namjoon’s breathing was soft through the speaker, steadying, but his eyes stayed open—still fixed on you.
“Stay with me…” he said quietly. “Until I fall asleep.”
You nodded. “Okay.”
He seemed more relaxed after that. His hand, which had been resting on his stomach earlier, was calmer now on top of the blanket. His shoulders dropped, his body no longer tense.
But his eyes—still never leaving you. As if you were the only thing he needed to truly feel okay.
“Y/N…” he called again.
“Hmm?”
“If you were here…” he paused, then smiled faintly, “…I would’ve been holding you this whole time.”
You smiled softly. “Let’s just do it virtually for now.”
He laughed quietly. “Not enough.”
“You’re the one far away.”
“Yeah… that’s why I’m complaining.”
You held back a laugh. Seconds passed without words. Just gazes. Just quiet breathing. Just a feeling… that didn’t need to be explained.
Namjoon pulled the blanket up a little higher, then slowly closed his eyes. But before they fully shut, he opened them again, making sure you were still there.
“You won’t disappear, right?” he asked softly.
You shook your head, a warm smile forming unconsciously. “No.”
He nodded.
A few minutes passed in silence. His breathing grew heavier—but not from pain anymore. Something had changed—the way he looked at you, the way he stayed awake even though his body was clearly exhausted.
His eyes opened again. “Y/N…” his voice was lower now.
You responded gently. “Hmm?”
He hesitated. As if unsure, but also… unwilling to hold back. “I…” he took a slow breath, “…I still can’t sleep.”
You watched him closely. The slight tension in his jaw, the way his eyes stayed locked on you, the way he bit his lip briefly before continuing.
“I… miss you so much,” he whispered.
Not just ordinary longing. You could feel it.
Silence.
You didn’t respond with words right away. But your gaze softened—deeper, warmer—giving him space to be honest.
Namjoon shifted slightly on the bed. The blanket moved softly, his hands no longer still.
“I know we’re holding back…” he gave a faint, slightly embarrassed smile, “…but I also…”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
He didn’t need to.
You understood. And instead of pulling away—you stayed. Still looking at him the same way. Gentle. Accepting. Without judgment.
“It’s okay…” you said softly, as you slowly unbuttoned the top three buttons of your pajama. Just revealing a little of your chest—not everything.
Just that. But it was enough.
Namjoon’s breathing changed slightly. Deeper. Heavier. But also… more relieved. His eyes didn’t leave you, as if you were really there with him. As if distance didn’t matter. As if it was just the two of you in the world.
“Open one more, baby,” Namjoon whispered.
You bit your lower lip, wondering whether this was right or not. But this was Namjoon—the person you trusted most in your life. And he had given you everything. Your life had become better and more comfortable since he was in it. So slowly, you opened another button… then the one below it… and another… until your pajama was fully unbuttoned.
Your nipples were clearly visible on the screen, and Namjoon watched you without blinking. He occasionally licked his upper lip, his eyes already heavy and half-lidded.
You didn’t say much. Just stayed with him. Sometimes smiling softly. Sometimes calling his name quietly. Sometimes just… silent. But present. And that—was more than enough for him.
You couldn’t see his hands, but you knew what he was doing. Because they kept moving. Faster and faster.
After a while, his shoulders slowly dropped. His breathing steadied again. The tension in his face disappeared, replaced with clear relief. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, looking at you with a much calmer expression.
“Thank you, baby…” he whispered.
You smiled warmly. “Always.”
Namjoon looked… lighter now. Not just because the pain had eased—but because he wasn’t alone. Even from afar. Even through a screen. You were still there. For him. Always.
He finally lay down properly, this time without restlessness. His eyes slowly closed, his breathing becoming steady again. Before he fully fell asleep, he murmured softly—
“Love you…”
You looked at the screen, your voice almost a whisper.
“Love you too…”
And the call stayed on. A witness— that even across distance… you still found a way to take care of each other. To fill each other. To belong to each other.
You didn’t end the call. You stayed there. Keeping him company. Until he truly fell asleep.
And that night—even though you were separated by thousands of kilometers— you still felt… close. Very close.
Author Notes: Likes and reblogs make me happy, but comments? They make my whole day 👀. I’m still new to writing, so any kind of feedback would help me improve and keep going!
ugh I love this so much , this. Brand of idol content . After watching the hot ones interview I was so tickled but so annoyed like I know your stomached are going to be tore up . Especially Mr. Kim , self proclaimed I can’t handle foreign food , but I eating all these hot wings , personally as someone who is very much like Tae , I can’t handle spicy food at any level , I have no shame for tapping out , and no sympathy for people who eat spicy food then complain about the after affects , I like my booty to remain spice free. But back to this entry , I liked the character Joon represents , acknowledging that he has to be leader of the phenomenon that is Bangtan ,but he still wants to be someone’s little baby too, Joon is often on record stating how he likes cute things that may seem contrary to his appearance and reputation as Captain Destruction lol . In that sense I can resonate with that as people often are shocked that I am ver y much always in Bangtan business given my appearance . Which similar to Joon I get a little offended by the suggestion that we don’t share a certain look to enjoy our hobbies . Nevertheless this was very realistic and fun to read especially the brat line showing up and mooching off his girlfriend’s affection .
PS. What has been your favorite piece of content from recent clips , and if you had to plan a date for RM what would it included ?
A personal still working progress in collecting my almost forgotten all time favorite completed fanfiction version to re-read again later.
Jin
Series:
Oneshot :
Club Zombie by @floralseokjin - a pure romance of zombie seokjin
A lullaby on canvas by @jincherie - mermaid jin... Weww can I say more?
Bdsm, sub/dom, dirty talk, basically best smut:
Fume from @ropeseok - sir kink, marking, and spitting from your husband after tough day to calm your nerves.
Yoongi
:readmore:
Series:
Amor vicit omnia from @sunshyngal - the fics that bring me to BTS fanfiction. The worst thing you do to a man is to marry him, when he beg you not to. Mafia au where you desperately want to get away from your parents house, you choose to marry him and enjoy the loveless marriage, days spending cleaning houses, listening and dancing to the music alone, teaching flower arrangement like a rich princess you are.
Unexpected From @noona-la-la-la - this is a legendary series where yoongi having a turmoil in realization of his kink. He doesn't believe that he like to share his gf and being cuckold. A coffee for my cup of tea. But the emotional angst in yoongi really are written so well.
L
Oneshot:
Garden in my heart from @army-author - Flowers language between you and your bad boy.
Listen closely from @avveh - you find a special Private cam recording.
Fluffy request from @btslovestrong - yoongi taught you blow job for the first time.
Bedroom hymn from @writingseoul - falling in love with angelic yoongi, your angle.
Watch your mouth from @bangtanprincesss - short story of dirty talk in his studio.
Valentino from @versigny - Not only effort, Fallen in love takes time, and it's difficult task for busy people.
Don't be mad at me baby from @margielamadbitch - actually it's kind of yandere yoongi being jealous, and the y/n is quite patience with him. Just like how I imagine how her partner would be when angsty yoongi on strike and his unhealthy coping mechanism triggered. Hot steamy sex.
Bdsm, sub/dom, dirty talk, basically best smut:
Doll by @nochugguk - degradation
Beg from @jiminspelvis - DT, d/s
House rules from @dark-muse-iris - punishment from your husband
Withdrawal from @jungk0oksthighs - soft dirty talk from a druglord.
Ours from @worldwidemochiguy - Boot riding and dirty talks from rapline.
Money shot from @taequois - Yandere mafia yoongi do public humiliation before kidnapping in a bank robbery.
Namjoon
Series:
hammer-it-home with it's drabbles nailed it, feels like home, totally screwed by @gukslut - Engineer namjoon with emotional smut, two lonely people slowly build home together, love did not come once it can come multiple times and sometimes for the same person.
Captive drabble, one, two by @smasmashin - a soft bdsm theme of a workaholic stranger and a girl in her first opening gate to the office work world. She's full of bs and hopes just like all future graduates of a sky college. He told her a peak of his 'success' days by saying "I've paid the price" and he choose her as his price.
Oneshot :
Obligated from @underthejoon - Knowing your husband after Arranged Marriage, bound series.
Mad passion from @mintseesaw - soft yandere husband, arrange marriage.
the take home test from @versigny - uncommon kink from your classmate
Bdsm, sub/dom, dirty talk, basically best smut:
Ours from @worldwidemochiguy - Boot riding and dirty talks from rapline.
Repentance from @ppersonna - Jealous namjoon with his spitting and canning, aftercare is a must!
Punishment from @hyunnjin Daddy and brat kink
Birthday smut drabbles by @jamaisjoons various a to z smut
Heoseok
Series :
Sleepwalking to you, PT 2, PT 3, PT 4, PT 5, PT 6, PT 7, PT 8, PT 9, PT 10, PT 11, PT 12, Final. from @sunshyngal - Suicide story, When jiah falls in love with her husband, but he didn't return her feelings. She love him a little less today than tomorrow, but she don't know where she should run to for in her mind the safest place is with him.
Oneshot :
Bdsm, sub/dom, dirty talk, basically best smut:
Ours from @worldwidemochiguy - Boot riding and dirty talks from rapline.
Kneel from @ppersonna - Paddling as a first welcome to sub world.
dalliance from @sugaurora - Consensual roleplay with your master
Taehyung
Series :
love so shallow from @jimlingss - at the age of 27 with student loan and not so majestic life but warm with her friends cuddles, she look at her old diary and realize she never writes about herself.
When you least expect it from @johobi - (ft jungkook) You've known him from all of your live, and you love him that long too. Maybe it's time to let him go.
Oneshot :
black milk from @plumblackjeon - (ft jungkook) If I don't love you in this life, find me in another one.
Bdsm, sub/dom, dirty talk, basically best smut:
flicker from @chimoona - rope bondage on camera from kinky boy next door who always save you from the rain.
Thirsty bitch from @jingabitch - watersport kink.
Jimin
Series :
Oneshot :
everything from @kpopfanfictrash - you've been engaged to jimin since childhood. But you want to travel, you need to see the world outside, where he's no longer around. Bound series.
just like before from @sugaurora - when the whole world are vampire and you are the only human.
Loose ends from @scribblemetae - a surprising mix of soft , fragile, dominating, scary yandere jimin wrap in one sexy body; obsessed to avenge ridiculous teasing from his so called bully but ended up chain himself to her approval.
Bdsm, sub/dom, dirty talk, basically best smut:
the-devil-in-his-details from @johobi - prostate milk
Don't text me from @vanillajhs - Begging to yandere ex-bf.
Secret series from @avveh - Bdsm, Ptsd, angst mixed together. First public sex scene.
The cage from @gorehsk - yandere bf keep his Virgin baby girl in a cage. Warning, This is extreme.
Pick your filter from @ppersonna - soft pain kink with your husband
Jungkook
Series :
Falling sky from @fortunexkookie - jeons twins are your best friends. When one of the die.
Oneshot :
somnolent from @forgottenpasta - Jk don't know how addictive it is sleeping next to you.
through the flames and into the lava from @winetae - your boyfriend is a Dragon, or so he claim
wartime child from @ktheist - when you realize your baby have magic abilities, theres only one person you can turn to for help, his father. But first, you have to tell him about the existence of your baby. Despite he's busy taming the dragons.
Gotcha from @whatifyoulivelikethat - Childhood friend to lover, a romance about denials. A Virgin killer reader.
Ares by @littlemisskookie - imagine being the downfall of sexy god of war, jungkook. It didn't end happily. But for an exchange you could read how he makes you walk the isle of shame with his cum on your face for all others to see.
Sugarplum elegy by @bymoonchild - finding out that the man warming your morning bed is actually the Angel voice you've always adores .
Bdsm, sub/dom, dirty talk, basically best smut:
Room for dessert from @avveh - Pure filth series between you and the table waitress, mixed with angst.
oh my God they were quarantined roommates from @ot7always - Rimmed job from Jk your roommate in quarantine time.
the bias from @taetaewonderland - your boyfriend degraded you for choosing Taehyung as your bias.
Hate sex from @yeoreos - bad boy jk and his exclusivity of dirty talk.
Dolly by @kpop-dungeon - sadistic strict husband jk. K-Pop dungeon stories is not for the faint hearted. If you have those kind of kink, Her masterlist is hard to miss and you won't find similar intensity easily in bts fanfic community.
Meanie by - @bts-hyperfixation jk drabble with mean dirty talks which I like.
Will add again later. When I have free time
Cha eun woo - at your mercy by @kpop-dungeon - absolutely not for vanilla, that's all I have to say
Not in a way that actually hurts—never that—but in that sharp, dismissive way that makes everyone else keep their distance.
You don’t.
That’s what confuses Min Yoongi the most.
“Why are you here again?”
You don’t even look up from where you’re sitting on the studio couch, scrolling lazily through your phone. “You texted me.”
“I did not.”
“You literally said, ‘come over, I need quiet.’”
“That was not an invitation.”
You hum. “Felt like one.”
Yoongi sighs like your existence is a personal inconvenience, turning back to the computer. His fingers hover over the keyboard, then drop uselessly into his lap.
He hasn’t written a single thing since you got here.
You notice.
Of course you do.
“You’re stuck,” you say casually.
“I’m not.”
“You’ve been opening and closing the same file for ten minutes.”
“I’m thinking.”
“You’re brooding.”
“I don’t brood.”
You finally glance at him.
Flat look. Completely unimpressed.
“…You absolutely brood.”
There’s a beat.
Then he scoffs, turning away like that settles it. “You’re annoying.”
“Mm.”
Silence stretches for a moment.
He tries again—typing something this time, actually getting a few notes down before stopping, frustrated, deleting it all in one go.
You watch him.
Watch the way his shoulders tense. The way his jaw tightens. The tiny flicker of doubt he tries to bury under attitude.
And then—
“You didn’t eat today, did you?”
He freezes.
Just for a second.
“…I did.”
“You had coffee.”
“That counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
“It does for me.”
You sit up, setting your phone aside. “That’s why you’re stuck.”
He lets out a short, incredulous laugh. “Yeah, sure. My entire creative process is ruined because I skipped lunch.”
“Pretty much.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?” you tilt your head slightly. “Or are you just easier to deal with when you’re not running on caffeine and spite?”
His eyes flick to you.
Sharp.
Defensive.
“Don’t psychoanalyze me.”
“I’m not. I’m observing.”
“You’re assuming.”
“I’m right.”
“You’re not.”
You hold his gaze, completely unbothered.
And that—that—is what cracks something.
Because you’re not intimidated.
You never are.
Everyone else backs off when he gets like this. Lets him hide behind the dry remarks, the clipped tone, the carefully constructed distance.
You just… step closer.
“Yoongi,” you say, softer now.
He hates when you say his name like that.
“…What.”
“You get like this every time you’re overwhelmed.”
“I’m not overwhelmed.”
“You stop taking care of yourself. You snap at people. You pretend you don’t care about anything so no one notices that you actually care about everything.”
Silence.
Heavy.
He looks at you like you’ve just said something you weren’t supposed to know.
“…You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
You shrug lightly. “Okay.”
That’s it.
No argument. No pushback.
Just that.
And somehow, that’s worse.
Because now it feels like you’re letting him lie.
His jaw tightens. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like you’ve got me figured out.”
You stand, crossing the small space between you and his desk.
Slow. Careful. Like you know he might bolt if you move too fast.
“I don’t have you figured out,” you say quietly.
He watches you.
Doesn’t move.
“Not completely,” you add. “But I see you.”
That—
That hits somewhere deeper than he wants to admit. Than he wants to think about.
He looks away first.
“Congrats,” he mutters. “You want a medal?”
You almost smile.
“No. I want you to eat something.”
“…Unbelievable.”
You reach past him, grabbing the takeout bag you brought earlier and setting it in front of him.
He stares at it.
Then at you.
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“I know.”
“I don’t need you to take care of me.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you—”
“Because you won’t.”
That stops him.
Completely.
For a second, he just… looks at you.
Really looks.
Like he’s trying to understand why you’re still here. Why you haven’t gotten tired of the attitude, the walls, the constant pushing away.
“…You’re stubborn,” he says finally.
You shrug. “Takes one to know one.”
A quiet huff of air escapes him—almost a laugh, but not quite.
He reaches for the food.
Opens it.
Takes a bite.
And it’s small, but—
It’s something.
You don’t comment on it.
Don’t make it a big deal.
You just lean back against the desk beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushes his.
He doesn’t move away.
Minutes pass.
The tension in the room shifts—softens, just a little.
This is the Yoongi I think about most often late at night . The snarky version hiding his soft oeey gooey insides from everyone . In a recent interview during the Arirang era , Yoongi mentioned that while during his military service , for the first time in his life he got used to a set schedule as an office worker. Bringing this up now bc I always worry about him and the others whenever they share their daily 24 hour schedule and see how random their sleep schedules are . And i think most artist kpop idols included have the assumptions that great work is created in the late night hours , however i challenge that idea that great work can be created even following a traditional office schedule of the typical 9 to 5 . When your body and brain can be trained to lock into those inspirations and vibes. Pharrell actually works under this model to help persevere his life work balance . All that to say I hope Yoongi can reach a proper balance so he isnt burned out or getting so frustrated while creating his art . Looking back on the DDAY doc and the infamous SHIBAL moment , it made my little heart clench a little bit . But yeah loved this fic and it made me sit back and really think about our beloved yoongles . And to be honest whenevvver I dream of a life with him these moments are what I cherish most , kinda the everyday struggles with life with a megastar. (Yes i need to touch grass ,but are you even really delusional if you are aware lol) . Thank you for posting looking forward to more of your work .
jaehyun gets jealous, and he makes sure you know you’re only his.
❛ content 1.8k words, husband! jaehyun, jealousy, a lots of physical touch, possessive behaviour, lots of kisses, light biting, slightly suggestive at the end (?), hubby jaehyun just wants reader only for himself.
your laughter filled the air again, spilling through the rows of desks like sunlight. a few coworkers glanced up with faint smiles before turning back to their screens, but you didn’t notice — you were too caught up in your coworker’s ridiculous story about the time he accidentally spilled coffee all over a client’s laptop.
you leaned forward against the edge of your desk, eyes bright, hand covering your mouth as you tried to muffle another laugh.
that’s the exact sight jaehyun walked in on.
his chest tightened immediately at the view. the office smelled faintly of ink and warm coffee, and somewhere, someone’s phone was buzzing on a desk. but all jaehyun saw (all he cared to see) was you. you, grinning ear-to-ear at another man.
he should have known better. you loved him, you were completely his, you had stood in front of dozens of people and promised it. still, that irrational burn in his stomach rose fast, curling into his throat until it threatened to spill. his lips pressed into a firm line as he shoved his hands into his pockets, broad shoulders squared in a stance that screamed 'don’t test me'.
your coworker said something else, and you laughed again, head tilted back slightly. jaehyun’s eyes tracked the way your throat moved when you did, the way your cheeks flushed from genuine amusement.
that should’ve been his.
the click of his polished shoes against the office tiles made you turn your head, and the moment you spotted him — your whole expression shifted. your smile widened, your eyes softened, like every part of you was suddenly tuned to him and him alone.
“hyunie!” you called warmly, voice carrying across the small office. “you’re here already.”
the coworker blinked, turning to look at jaehyun.
“ah, this must be the famous husband. i heard a lot about you.”
jaehyun moved closer, each step steady but heavy. his gaze flicked briefly to your coworker’s face, then dropped — too close. his arm brushed against yours when he reached your desk, and only then did his lips twitch into something resembling a smile.
“yeah,” he said evenly, his voice low but unmistakably firm. “i’m the husband.”
your coworker’s brows rose at his tone, then he chuckled lightly, raising his hands as though to surrender. “got it. loud and clear. well—enjoy your lunch, you two.”
he retreated quickly, muttering something about an email he had to finish.
you then fully turned to jaehyun, brows lifting. his face was unreadable, though his eyes were fixed on you, scanning every detail like he needed proof you were really his. his hand slid to your lower back, warm and solid, guiding you toward the door with a touch that was a little firmer than necessary.
as you walked together, you could feel the heat radiating off him, his tall frame crowding your space like he refused to let even the hallway air touch you.
“hyunie,” you teased softly, tilting your head up at him slightly. “that was… a little intense.”
jaehyun didn’t answer right away. his jaw was tight, and his thumb moved in slow, unconscious circles against your hip, holding you closer than usual. his brown dark eyes flicked down to meet yours finally, and the storm in them made your chest tighten.
“he made you laugh,” he murmured, his voice almost a growl but with a thread of vulnerability woven in. “like… like the way you laugh with me. i don’t like that.”
your lips parted in surprise. “baby… he’s married. you know that, right?”
jaehyun leaned down, closing the distance until his forehead brushed yours. his voice dropped, a little husky, almost a whisper only you could hear.
“i don’t care,” he said, his pout barely restrained. “that laugh is mine. that smile—” his fingers pressed firmer into your hip, “—is mine. you are mine.”
you felt your breath catch as his warm lips brushed yours in the middle of the hallway — not rushed, not sloppy, but slow and deliberate. he tilted his head, deepening it just enough to make his point very, very clear. his hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he kissed you like the entire office could disappear and he wouldn’t even care to notice.
when he finally pulled back, his brown eyes were still locked on yours, chest heaving slightly.
“tell me i’m right,” he whispered.
you were still catching your breath, lips tingling, heat rising in your neck. god, he was ridiculous. ridiculous and so hot you could barely think.
you chuckled softly, brushing your thumb against his lower lip. “you’re right, hyunie. i’m yours. only yours.”
his lips curved then, the first real smile since he walked in, but his grip on your waist didn’t ease — if anything, it tightened, as though he never intended to let you go.
and, in all honestly, you didn’t want him to.
you never wanted him to.
jaehyun kept you tucked firmly against his side as he led you out of the building. it wasn’t like he was dragging you — jaehyun would never be rough with you — but the weight of his palm on your waist was unmistakable. it was claiming and protective. he held you in a way that left no room for doubt about who you belonged to, his fingers spread wide and pressing warm through the thin fabric of your shirt.
the moment the office door clicked shut behind you both, you immediately felt his chest expand with a deep inhale, like he could finally breathe again now that you were out of sight.
still, his silence spoke louder than anything else.
“hyunie,” you murmured, tilting your head as you walked across the parking lot together. “you’re awfully quiet.”
he didn’t look down this time, his jaw set as he guided you to his car. “mmh.”
just that. a clipped sound, tight in his throat. his hand squeezed your side briefly, thumb digging in for a second before easing. you recognized that tic — it was the physical version of his pout.
by the time you reached the car, you were already suppressing a smile.
he opened the passenger door for you, steady and courteous as always, but his eyes lingered, scanning your expression like he was making sure you hadn’t given away something important to someone else. only once you were settled in did he round to the driver’s side, sliding in with a tension that made the air feel heavier.
the car was warm, faintly scented with the cologne you’d picked out for him weeks ago. the engine didn’t start. instead, jaehyun turned in his seat immediately, his large hand reaching for your thigh without hesitation.
the heat of his palm sank through your slacks, grounding and possessive all at once. he didn’t move it right away — he just held you there, thumb resting against the curve of your leg, his dark eyes locked on yours.
you raised a brow. “you’re not going to drive?”
“no,” his voice was really soft, but there was still an edge underneath, an unmistaken stubbornness. “not until you tell me again.”
your lips quirked. “tell you what?”
“that you’re mine.”
his fingers flexed on your thigh, the muscles in his forearm tensing. he leaned closer, every inch of him radiating heat, until the scent of his cologne and the faint warmth of his breath wrapped around you.
“that no one else gets your smile. or your laugh. or…”
his hand slid a fraction higher, squeezing, enough to make your pulse jump.
“…anything.”
the jealousy in his tone was sharp, but his eyes — dear lord, his beautiful eyes — were way more than that. dark brown and glossy with something rawer. not anger. but fear. that tender, ridiculous fear of losing you, even though he had no reason to.
your chest softened immediately. married or not, he was still your puppy, desperate for reassurance.
so, you chuckled softly, brushing your knuckles against jaehyun’s jaw.
“you’re so dramatic. we literally have matching rings,” you lifted your hand slightly, wiggling your left ring finger, the gold band catching the light. “pretty sure that’s proof enough.”
“not enough,” he said instantly. his eyes dropped to your ring, then back to your eyes, intense and unyielding. “say it again. please.”
the word cracked his voice ever so slightly. that single crack undid you.
you reached up, sliding your fingers into his hair. the strands were soft, silky between your fingertips, and the second you tugged lightly, he leaned in like a man starved. his nose brushed yours, and you whispered, slow and steady, letting every word sink into him :
“i’m yours, jaehyun. only yours. always.”
his breath hitched. his lips parted, eyes fluttering shut like he was savoring each syllable. then he kissed you.
it wasn’t a tentative kiss — hell, there was no hesitation in it. his mouth was on yours with a hunger he hadn’t been able to show in the office, lips moving firmly against yours as though he could press the words into your skin and bone. his hand on your thigh tightened, dragging slightly higher, thumb pressing into the heat of your muscle through the fabric.
you gasped softly into the kiss, and that was all he needed. he tilted his head, deepening it, sliding his other hand up to cup your jaw. his thumb stroked along your cheekbone as if to ground you, but the kiss itself was anything but calm — it was consuming.
every breath was his, every sound muffled against the press of his lips. he kissed you like he was trying to drown out the memory of you smiling at someone else, like he needed to overwrite it with something stronger, louder, and undeniable.
when jaehyun finally pulled back, your lips were swollen, your chest heaving. his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged, but his hand still clamped on your thigh, thumb now drawing restless circles as though he couldn’t stop touching you.
“i swear,” he murmured, voice low and rough, vibrating against your lips, “if anyone ever tries to take your attention again, i’ll—”
his words broke off, the frustration spilling into a whine as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. his lips brushed your skin, hot and damp, moving slowly toward the spot just beneath your jaw.
“i can’t stand it. you’re mine. mine, mine, mine…”
the repetition was muffled against your throat, more a plea than a threat. his teeth grazed you, just barely, and you felt the shiver race down your spine.
you closed your eyes, fingers sliding under his collar to stroke the warm skin at the nape of his neck. his muscles were taut, strung tight under your touch, and you couldn’t help but laugh softly, even as your pulse raced.
“god, hyunie,” you breathed, lips curling. “you’re so hot when you’re like this. you know that?”
a low groan rumbled from him, muffled against your skin. he nipped lightly at your neck, then pulled back just enough to look at you again. his eyes were darker now, his lips parted and swollen from the kiss, his cheeks faintly flushed.
he was every shade of hot and cute at once, and you felt your stomach twist with warmth.
“say it again,” he whispered, voice hoarse.
and you knew he wouldn’t stop asking — not until every last inch of him was sure you belonged to him alone.
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⟡ content: kyungsoo pov, mdni, fwb (kinda toxic), angst, smut, mention of alcohol, brief mention of smoking, drunk sex, raw sex, p i v, car sex, masturbation (m. receiving), thigh riding, cum eating, fingers sucking, downbad!kyungsoo x f!reader | word count: 3.3k words
⟡ a/note: is this too much??? i never expected to have so much inspiration writing this request, lmao. hope you like it !!
Kyungsoo loved the way your eyes twinkled when you smiled, and the way you reflexively looked away whenever a laugh took over. He watched you from a distance, a soft smile tugging at his lips, entirely unaware that you had already caught his gaze.
“Soo!” you shouted over the thrumming bass. “C’mere.”
The trance snapped. Kyungsoo began to weave through the dense crowd, but the sight ahead brought him to a dead halt. A tall man stood by your side, his arm coiled possessively around your waist as he leaned in to murmur something against your ear. Even though the music was loud, he noticed it—that stranger was clearly flirting with you.
Kyungsoo cursed himself. He only stepped away to grab drinks, never expecting someone to move in so quickly—certainly not someone who could make you laugh that specific way, or make you scrunch your nose in the expression he adored. A surge of protectiveness flared in his chest, a fleeting urge to swing at the stranger, maybe from jealousy, but he suppressed it. After all… he was just your best friend—and the one who fucked with you when you feel needy.
The next thing he saw was the two of you making out right in front of him. Sehun—as you called him—made Kyungsoo feel nauseously jealous.
He didn’t bother saying goodbye. He simply set the glasses down on the nearest table and vanished, unable to endure the torture for another second.
Kyungsoo groaned. The persistent knocks at the front door made him wake up in the middle of the night, disoriented from the drinks he had drunk before going to bed. He stumbled out of his room to answer it, just wearing his pair of boxers. You were there on the threshold—giggling, tipsy, and clinging to him the moment the door swung open.
He hated his own weakness, but god… he really loved the way you sought out his lips. He was obsessed with the way your long nails scraped across his torso.
“Soo,” you whimpered. “Please, hmm?”
“Fuck.” More at his own lack of resolve.
Your clothes ended up on the floor, in a trail from the living room to his bedroom. Leading the way, his mouth was everywhere—along your jaw, your neck, and your collarbone—claiming every inch with a desperate precision that drove you crazy.
When you were in bed, there was no slow path. Kyungsoo was starving for you, and you certainly loved the way he sucked the sensitivity of your skin. He wanted to leave marks, to brand you so deeply that no one else would dare look at you the way he had.
He knew what was coming—the way you rode with a relentless rhythm that made his head hit the headboard. You moved with a desperate urgency, squeezing him so tightly that he had both hands buried in your hips. Kyungsoo’s pulse thundered in his ears as he pulled you beneath him, his fingers tangling in your hair with a possessive grip he usually tried to hide, kissing you messily.
When he finally filled you with his hot seed, the sensation made your back arch and
dug your nails into his shoulders. Moaning, your nails scratched sharp lines down his torso, but he only pushed deeper, losing himself, groaning.
You shattered, your body trembling under the weight of an orgasm that left you breathless, you didn’t let him go. Your eyes found him, hungrily, panting against his lips, asking for more.
Kyungsoo was weak for you, always had been. He couldn’t resist those eyes that begged for him; he couldn’t say no to you.
“He was such an asshole,” you murmured, pulling his forearm over your waist, tucking yourself against the curve of his body. “Can’t you believe he didn’t even wanna pay for the drinks?”
Kyungsoo feigned exhaustion, letting out a long yawn to mask the way his heart felt every time you talked about someone else. He buried his nose in your hair, breathing you in. “Is that so?”
“He didn’t even pay for his own,” you huffed.
He had to bite his tongue to prevent a laugh from escaping. At least, that tall man won’t be a threat anymore. “Wow, that’s… pathetic.”
“Right?” You shifted slowly, turning in the circle of his arms until you were facing him. You pressed a lingering kiss to his jaw, your lips curving into a soft, secret smile when he finally opened his eyes. “At least I’m exactly where I wanted to be.”
Kyungsoo felt his heart skip a beat. “H-here?”
You nodded. “I like you, Soo.”
The world seemed to stop for him. Kyungsoo hovered on the question, wondering if he was dreaming or… if the drinks were playing tricks on him. But before he could find his voice, you giggled softly and rolled away, falling into a heavy sleep seconds later—the sheer exhaustion of two rounds finally claiming you.
Sleep was almost impossible for Kyungsoo. He lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling as your steady breathing filled his room. You had never said that before. Had he misinterpreted the weight behind them? Did you like him as a friend or as… something more? He sighed, pulling you back into his arms as if your dreams might hold the answers he was too afraid to ask. Eventually, he drifted off, clinging to the desperate hope that you might repeat those words in the morning.
When he finally woke, the bed felt so cold it was hard to believe anyone else had been there at all. Frustration surged through him as he shifted. It wasn’t the first time you had slipped away before sunrise, and it certainly wasn't the first time you had left a gift on his nightstand.
He picked up the small scrap of paper. “Forgot to tell you: you were amazing last night. I’ll call you later, Soo! ILY <3.” A vibrant mark of your lipstick adorned the corner.
Kyungsoo traced the red tint with his thumb, eventually pressing the paper against his own lips. He closed his eyes, let out a shaky breath, and felt it—that familiar, painful stir of desire as the memory of your touch rushed back to haunt him. He was hard on just the thought of you.
Chanyeol’s living room was thick with the scent of beer and cheap snacks. Kyungsoo sat slumped on the sofa, half-listening to the overlapping stories of his friends, his mind drifting back.
“I’m telling you, Kyungsoo, you’re too tense,” Baekhyun laughed, waving a half-empty bottle in the air. “Drink up.”
Kyungsoo took a sip of his own beer and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. “I’m fine. Just tired.”
Suddenly, a rhythmic vibration rattled the wooden kitchen table behind them. A screen lit up, cutting through the dim light of the apartment.
“Hey, your phone is—,” Jongin noted, leaning over from the counter to squint at the display. A slow, knowing grin spread across his face. “Oh. It’s her.”
The change in Kyungsoo was instantaneous. He practically lunged from the sofa, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
“C’mon, man!” Chanyeol intercepted him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “Don’t do it. We talked about this, remember? You said you were gonna give it a rest. Let her wonder where you are for once.”
“Shut up,” Kyungsoo muttered, his eyes locked on the glowing device.
“Hey, he’s right,” Baekhyun added. “She only calls when she’s lonely. Stay here, man. Finish the drink. Call her later.”
The phone stopped ringing. For a heartbeat, silence reclaimed the room. Then, it started again. Kyungsoo didn’t hesitate this time. He shoved past Chanyeol’s arm and snatched the phone off the table, his thumb sliding across the glass before his friends could utter another warning.
He stepped into the quiet of the hallway, pressing the phone to his ear.
“Hello?” he breathed, his voice betraying every ounce of the resolve he had tried to build.
“Soo…” Your voice came through the line, low and honey-thick with need. He could practically hear the pout in your lips. “I’m in bed. It’s so empty. Please… I need you here, mh? Shit—I miss you.”
The second he heard you moan, the beer, the warnings, the frustration, the lecture from his friends—it all evaporated, replaced by a singular, driving heat.
“Where are you?” he asked, already reaching for his jacket hanging by the door.
“My place,” you whimpered. The sound sent a jolt of electricity straight to his gut. “Soo...”
“I’m coming,” he confirmed. “Don’t… move. I’ll be there in ten.”
Kyungsoo didn’t even look back at the living room. He heard Jongin sigh and Chanyeol call out his name in protest, but Kyungsoo was already out the door, the cool night air hitting his face as he hailed the first taxi. He knew they were right—he knew he was being weak—but the thought of you waiting, calling for him, wanting him, was the only thing that mattered.
He was going to treat you exactly the way you asked, even if it broke him.
“I’m busy, Soo.” The background noise suggested a loud street.
“I just wanted to see if… if you were free for dinner. Just... food?”
“Dinner? Like a date?” A small, sharp laugh came through the speaker. “Soo, I’ve got plans tonight. Maybe I’ll call you later… y’know, if I’m bored, okay? Bye."
The line went dead before he could even breathe out a response.
Kyungsoo groaned, dropping his head into his hands. He was thinking too much—he knew he was. He was losing his mind, trapped in the orbit of someone who only wanted him when the sun was down and the pride was tucked away.
“Hey, let’s grab another round in the kitchen!” Chanyeol urged, his voice a little too loud, a little too forced.
“Another round?” Kyungsoo frowned, sensing the deflection. “I told you I don’t wanna drink tonight.” He turned his head, his gaze cutting through the crowded room until it landed on the one person he had been trying to erase from his mind.
You weren’t alone. You were tucked into a corner with a man he didn’t recognize, your bodies nearly fused together. You were laughing, that melodic sound he loved. He watched, paralyzed, as the man’s hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you even closer.
Kyungsoo felt sick. “I need some air,” he simply said before leading to the terrace.
The night was cold, but it did nothing to cool the fire in his blood. He fumbled a cigarette from his pocket, and the flame of his lighter was unsteadily in the breeze. Kyungsoo took one drag, hoping the nicotine would act as a bandage for the raw ache in his chest, but he couldn’t even bring himself to smoke. He just leaned against the railing, staring at the rest of the city.
Kyungsoo was so lost in his own head that he didn’t hear the door slide down. He didn’t even notice a presence until a pair of slender fingers reached out and snatched the cigarette right from his hand.
Kyungsoo blinked, his heart skipping a beat as he looked up. It wasn’t a hallucination. You were standing there, looking ethereal in the moonlight, leaning your back against the rail as you took a slow drag of his cigarette. You exhaled a plume of smoke, your lips curving into that smile, those irresistible eyes locking onto his.
“What’s weighing on that head tonight, Soo?”
Kyungsoo let out a long, shaky breath, staring out at the city lights. “I’m just tired,” he lied. “I’ve had a long week. That’s all.”
You stepped closer, the scent of your perfume mingling with the fading smoke of the cigarette. Your warm fingers grazed his jaw before settling against his cold cheek. “You’re a bad liar.” Your thumb traced the line of his lower lip. “You haven’t drunk at all. And looking at this cigarette won’t answer anything. Talk to me, Soo.”
How do you know he didn’t drink tonight? Again, you were messing with his head again.
Kyungsoo flinched by your touch, stepping back until his spine hit the cold stone of the terrace wall. He needed distance; he needed to breathe without your scent filling his lungs. “Don’t.” His voice cracked. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t act like you care what’s in my head when you spent the last hour glued to someone else.”
You tilted your head, a smile ghosted on your lips with an unreadable expression, but you didn’t back away. “Is that so? You’re jealous?”
“Jealous?” Kyungsoo let out a bitter laugh that felt more like a sob. “Maybe I am. But I’m also exhausted from the way you run to me when you’re lonely and then treat me like a stranger. I’m exhausted from waiting for a call that only comes when you’re bored or needy. I’m—” He looked at you then, his eyes raw with pain he couldn’t hide anymore. “I’m tired.”
“Soo…”
Kyungsoo held his breath, terrified of what you would say next, but even more terrified that you wouldn’t say anything at all.
You let the half-finished cigarette slip from your fingers before you lunged forward, kissing him. You wrapped your arms around his neck, hugging him so tightly that the air left his lungs. Kyungsoo stood frozen, his hands hovering mid-air, and then… he crumbled.
Your fingers buried deep into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. Kyungsoo’s hands settled firmly on your waist, his grip possessive yet trembling slightly, as if he were afraid that if he squeezed too hard, he’d wake up from a dream.
“My place, hmm?” he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, velvet register that always made your pulse skip.
A slow, genuine smile spread across your face. “I thought you’d never ask, Soo.”
Kyungsoo’s knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel, his breath hitching every time your lips brushed his jaw. The tension increased to the limit when you were practically crawling toward him. Kyungsoo barely managed to park his car and killed the engine in a dark alley.
You didn’t make it to his place.
He pulled you across the console. You scrambled over to sit straddled atop him in the cramped driver’s seat. The space was tight, but it only made the friction much better. You began moving your hips in a slow, torturous grind back and forth against his thigh, your hands fumbling with the button of his pants.
Kyungsoo let out a low groan as he felt your fingers slip beneath the waistband of his underwear. His own hands were gripping your waist before sliding down to catch your ass cheeks.
You wrapped your fingers around his hard cock, jerking him off. “Soo,” you moaned against his mouth, yet moved your hips over his thigh. “I need you. Shit—I’m yours.”
Kyungsoo felt his own body betray him; he was about to cum right there in the front seat. “Fuck—I’ve wanted this so much.”
The make-out session was messy—teeth clashing and tongues tangling. The windows already began to fog from the heat radiating off your bodies. Kyungsoo’s breath hitched as his warm palms slid up the silk of your dress, his fingers bunching the fabric around your hips. When his skin met yours, and he realized there was no lace in the way, he let out a low, shaky groan.
“You’re not wearing anything,” he rasped, his voice dropping into a rough register. “Did you know—” he had trouble breathing properly, “I-I was gonna… shit—fuck you here tonight?”
You let out a half-giggle, half-chuckle and leaned in to nip at this earlobe. “Maybe,” you breathed near his ear. “I wanted to feel you against me all night, Soo.”
Your mouth pressed an open-mouth kiss against the curve of his neck, sucking directly, giving him a fresh mark as your thumb circled the tip of his cock. “Without anything in the way.”
“Fuck—” he breathed, his eyes fluttering shut as he gripped your ass cheeks even tighter, pulling you down hard against his lap.
Kyungsoo ended up cumming through your finger. The hot sticky sperm made every stroke messier, sloppier. His head fell back against the headrest, his thighs were trembling, his whole body tensed, groaning in an intense pleasure he only felt when he was with you.
A soft chuckle left your mouth. “Keep going, Soo.” Your tongue traced a path from his neck to his jaw, and then to his lower lip, which you sucked into your mouth. “Lemme treat you right. Like you deserve.”
“Baby—”
“Shhh.” You moved your hips in a slow, torturous grind that made him hiss. He could feel the warmth of your cunt against his thigh, almost dripping. “Shit… should I cum too?”
You slowly slid your sticky, cum-coated fingers into your own mouth, cleaning them with an eye-locking gaze, letting them pull out with a pop sound. Kyungsoo’s mouth fell open, a choked sound dying in his throat. He looked stunned, his arousal surging back immediately. He reached down, gathering the slick heat from his length onto his fingers, trembling. He pressed them against your lips, sliding them into your mouth with a desperate urgency.
“Mmh…” you hummed in response, soaking wet between your folds.
“Fuck—you’re so bad for me.”
You swallowed, your eyes never leaving his, curving your lips after pulling his fingers out. “Am I?”
“That’s why I like you so much.”
Kyungsoo finally guided you down. When he thrusted into you, the slick, messy friction of his own spent cock and the wetness of your cunt acting as a lubricant, he let out a sound that was less of a moan and more of a pained, desperate growl, making you moan too.
“Fuck,” Kyungsoo groaned, his hands flying to your waist, his fingers digging into your skin. “You feel so tight—so fucking perfect.”
He was incredibly hard again, his cock pulsing inside you as your tight, wet walls clenched desperately around him.
You threw your head back, your nails clawing into his shoulders as a loud, uninhibited moan ripped from your chest. “Ah—Soo!”
“F-fuck,” he choked out, his hands flying to your bare waist, his thumbs digging ruthlessly into your hips to anchor you.
Kyungsoo didn’t waste a second. He arched his back and thrust upward, hard and unapologetic, his hips slamming into yours with a wet, heavy slap. He picked up a frantic, punishing rhythm, his hips hitting yours so hard the car rocked on its suspension.
“Is that what you wanted? For me to fuck you raw like this?”
“Yes!” you whimpered, your teeth sinking into his lower lip, dragging against the sensitive skin until you tasted a hint of blood. You rolled your hips back, meeting every heavy, upward strike with a desperate grind of your own. “Oh—harder, Soo!”
His hands slid down from your waist, his fingers digging deep into the soft flesh of your bare ass cheeks, squeezing and massaging the skin like stress balls as he drove into you. “No one else gets to hear you make these noises, huh? You’re fucking mine.”
“Yours—fuck!” you cried out, your voice breaking as the heavy, wet friction pushed you right to the jagged edge. You arched your spine, your internal muscles clenching around him so violently it nearly derailed his rhythm. “Soo, please—right there!”
Kyungsoo let out a low, primal roar, his veins popping in his neck as he gave in to the chase. He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming fast, messy, and relentlessly deep, burying himself to the hilt over and over again.
You screamed his name into his neck, your body locking up as a blinding, toe-curling orgasm ripped through you. Kyungsoo’s hips bucked one final time upward as he came violently inside you, his loud, guttural shout filling the fogged-up car. He pulled you flush against his chest, his arms wrapping around your sweat-slicked back, both of you completely breathless, sticky, and ruined in the dark.
That night, Kyungsoo knew he could never escape from you.
warnings: swearing, one-night stand, strangers to lovers, sex scenes (car sex, unprotected sex, oral f/m receiving, breast play, fingering etc), angsty conversations, mentions of military emergencies and injuries (nothing graphic), broken promises, break up, happy ending (kinda)
words: 25k
summary: you had sex with a guy from the club once. two months later that same man appeared before your eyes once more and invited you to his place, saying how he couldn't forget you. you couldn't remember his name, but he was cute and that was somehow enough for you to follow him. the rest - is part of your love story.
I really hope you'll enjoy this one-shot inspired by a whole bunch of Jaehyun's military pics I've seen on the internet😌
happy birthday, valentine boy <3
You pulled the shirt up the guy's stomach, forgetting all about pulling the piece of clothing off him as soon as your eyes landed on the perfect six-pack adorning his stomach. You let your fingers trail his abs, paying more attention to the outline of each muscle than anything else until his tongue glided over your pulse point and your body responded with millions of shivers down your limbs.
“You’re a gym fanatic?” You questioned the guy above you, connecting his body with his possible hobbies. He looked way beyond ripped for a person who just eventually went to the gym if the muscles on his arms, stomach and pecks were of any indicator.
He let a little chuckle out, eyes running down onto your palm over his skin.
"No, not really. Though I am going to the gym regularly."
"It's paying off." You had no intention of keeping your praise from him.
"I know." Jaehyun smirked, leaning back in to kiss your mouth. His lips moved feverishly against yours, keeping the pace of your whole encounter hungry and quick.
He pressed you further into his mattress and only then you'd remembered you wanted to get him naked. You finished the task this time and threw his black tee somewhere in the room. The man above you leaned back in and you felt a touch of cold metal against your chest, making you shiver all over; his tongue licked into your jaw giving the shivers an additional boost.
It was his necklace.
You sneaked a hand between your bodies and before he could feel the touch, pushed him back off you with another hand. “Is that a dog tag?” You asked blindly.
As he moved back a little, a lonely beam of light from the lamp proved you right. He silently glanced at you holding the necklace and back into your eyes.
You turned the silver metal in your hands to see it in the dimmed light. “Jeong Yuno” you read out loud. “I thought you said your name was-.”
“It is. Both are correct.”
“Huh?”
“It’s a long story.” You knew what he meant by that. It’s a long story, and you’re a quick fuck, drop it.
“Fuck long stories.” You chuckled and let the necklace go, leaving it to dangle between your chests. “You’re not eighteen, right?” You pushed him back a little once more once the thought struck you.
It’s not like he was serving in the military right after school and somehow stumbled upon you at a club, right? That would’ve been an epic fail you couldn’t recover from.
"Military is my main occupation; I'm not a conscript." Jaehyun let a chuckle past his lips and pressed them into your jawbone again.
"Really?" You tried to force him back once more, but he knew already you'd do that and caught your fingers in his, forcing your arm back on the bed.
"I am a ROK Army Special Forces captain.”
“Really?” You raised a skeptical eye at him.
“What? Did you think military people don’t do one night stands?”
“No, that’s just so hot.” You gripped his wrist, making it move down your body in your hold. He’d understood your action and patted you through your panties, making your eyes roll into your head. “You’re what-. Serving the country during the day and going to clubs for a fuck at night? Can I see your uniform after?”
“Depends on your behaviour.” You gasped, feeling Jaehyun’s fingers run under the cotton, sneaking right into your heat. “Looks like you’re a good girl, huh.”
“Want to give me your phone number?” Jaehyun asked with much nonchalance, like he’d asked you only to ask. You swallowed a scoff.
“Do you need it?” You weren’t ashamed to act hard to get.
“I mean-, sex was good so why would I not?” He said with much passion and you thought he was done with his sentence, but he’d added in a much weaker manner. “Not want to find out what kind of person stands behind it?”
“Oh.” You weren’t even trying to hide the smirk or the teasing. “Is that what you do?”
“What do I do?” He scratched his brow, confused, watching you pick up your dress shirt from the chair.
"You called me a one-night stand about five times last night and now you want a phone number." You gave him a look he didn't like and sighed.
"Okay, let's never see each other again, okay?”
“That’s better.” You nodded. “See you never, Jaehyun.” You chuckled, actually taking time to walk over the bed to stand before him. “Thanks for serving our country.” You leaned in to peck his cheek and walked out of his apartment.
It wasn't much of a surprise when a person groped your upper arm from the back; men, especially intoxicated men, felt entitled to a woman's body when they were at a club. You let the eye roll surpass you before you turned around and with all the sweetness you could muster planned to tell the man to fuck off.
It was always better to talk to them like to babies; intoxicated men were much worse than kids.
You tried to shook the grip off you as you turned around, eyes half closed with all the light that suddenly burned your eyes from behind the man.
“You need to be more gentle if you want a lady to dance with you.” Whatever cocky sweetness you had in store for this stupid creature died down in your throat by a third word and all you were left with was a whisper.
The reason behind that was your eyes getting used to the light.
"I could tell it was you from the back." You looked at him confused, lowering your gaze down to the man's chest; R.O.K.A. fleece zip-jacket covering his arms from you.
You were so shocked to see him like this, wearing some sort of his uniform; you couldn't say a word.
You reached your fingers out to the zip and pushed it down to his abdomen to see if he was wearing a matching black shirt.
He was.
You pushed the jacket to the side and saw the same four letters adorn his chest. You could even see the chain of his dog tag peek around his neck.
"Your hair seems longer than two months ago?" He still held his grip on your arm, so you felt it's only fair if you'd run your fingers through his fringe. "Why are you here wearing this?”
“I’m on leave and I got back to the city like an hour ago.”
“Okay?” You stared blankly. He wanted another night with you, didn’t he?
“I was looking for you.” You raised your brows up.
Oh, he definitely did.
It’s been two whole months since you saw each other. For not longer than four hours. You literally flirted with him at the club for fifteen minutes and in another forty you were kissing each other at the entrance of his apartment. You woke up at seven AM because an alarm went off on his phone and left not ten minutes after. You had issues remembering his name, though you had a perfect memory of him inside of you and his lips all over your skin.
You would've lied if you'd said you couldn't remember his striking face, or his body, or the way he kissed your mouth with so much fervour; you remembered all of it and maybe even thought of him a couple of times as a good memory, but what you couldn't remember was his name. What was it?
He didn’t lie about his occupation though, it seems. You were glad to know he was honest.
“For two months?” If he needed you for some reason, he could’ve found you here pretty much any day of the week the club was open. “You’re lying-.”
“No, tonight. I was looking for you here tonight and I found you.” He leaned in for you to hear him better as the DJ changed the song.
"You did." You chuckled, still confused at this sudden wish to see you. "Why now?" You let your eyes stare a little too long at his features. You were even contemplating in your head by now if he'd looked better with shorter or longer hair. Probably either; a face like that hardly could look bad with any hairdo.
If you had a drink you would’ve already flirted with him by now, probably even tried to kiss him. But you were stone cold sober and blinked at him like you had no idea what he wanted.
Damn.
"You didn't give me your phone number and I couldn't come find you before; now I have the chance, and I'm here to tell you I've been thinking about you this whole time." You let the furrow of your brow, that you didn't even realise you had, go, surprised with the admittance.
That was… cute. You remembered how you brushed him off in the morning after, and it seemed… to work, huh? Now he was here to beg for more time together.
“I’m not sure I can return the sentiment.” You looked at him apologetically. He was cute and all, but there was no point in lying. You didn’t even remember his name.
“I know, I’d be surprised if you come home with me tonight.” You couldn’t understand if he was asking or saying it as a given. He finally paid attention to his fingers gripping your arm and let you go; you took it as an opportunity to step closer to him. Okay, maybe it wasn’t the alcohol that boosted your flirtatiousness last time.
Maybe it was him.
“You’re cute, but I don’t remember what your name is.” You cupped his cheek, getting on your tiptoes to get in front of his face.
“You can read it on my dog tag as you undress me?” He gave you a cocky brow and you liked that answer. It felt like he deserved a kiss, so you quickly pecked his mouth and went back to your height.
“I will. Wait for me here, Mr. Stranger and we can go.” He nodded and you took off in the direction of the bar, raising your hand up to attract the bartender’s attention.
The guy quickly crossed the space to you and leaned in to listen.
“Woo, I’m leaving early today.” He nodded. “Make sure things don’t turn into shit, and for the love of god, please, don’t fuck in the backroom once your shift is over. We’ve got cameras installed there. None of us want to be blinded like the last time.”
“He was st-.” Woo tried to justify his actions but honestly - you didn’t want to hear it. You were traumatised enough.
"Please! Keep it to yourself; just don't do anything that'll make me want to get you fired, okay?"
"Yes, boss." He saluted you military style, leaving you wondering if that was a coincidence.
"Is that your friend?" The guy gestured back at the bar, clearly a witness to the whole encounter.
"Worse. He's my subordinate." You sighed and saw his eyes double in size.
"Do you own this place?”
"No, no. Just manage." You shook him off quickly.
"Really?" He leaned in confused. He glanced over your body and it must've done nothing to him, because he returned his gaze back at your face as confused as before.
God, he was so clueless.
You were wearing pants. You were a lady on business duty, clearly. If you were here to seduce men you would’ve worn a skirt. Last time you were in a literal dress shirt. Who does come to a club in a dress shirt? Not you. Not your club visitors either.
“Is that disappointment on your face? You liked better the illusion I was here to party and fuck?”
"No, no; quite the opposite. I've imagined seeing you here a few times and always feared you'd be here with someone else. That's a relief.”
“Damn, you’re really cute. What was your name?”
He chose to ignore you. “You’re good to go?” You nodded. “After you.” He gestured and you beelined before him to the exit.
"So." You sing-sang, sighing as you buckled up in his car.
He had a car; it was good to know.
It felt like it was totally new, and the scent of new leather was proving your point. You looked behind your shoulder and saw a backpack with the national flag velcro patch attached to it. "You're serving outside the city." You stated.
He nodded his head and you focused your attention on his face. Lips pursed as his teeth bit into his cheek in an obvious sign of his focus on the road. His fingers tapped against the steering wheel to the beat of a jazzy tune on the radio as he waited for a long enough gap to drive out of the parking spot.
“It’s still not connecting to me, usually they let people leave barracks in the morning. Unless you serve in a different country, it’s impossible for you to only be back in the city at 2AM.” You’ve been trying to connect his words through the whole short walk to his car.
He moved his leg from the gas pedal, dropping his back onto the backrest; wildest smirk plastered over his mouth.
“You can’t even remember my name but are complaining that I took too long to find you?”
"I'm just trying to connect your story to make sure you're not a psycho that came here to murder me." he played with his eyebrows, smiling and returned his attention back to trying to drive away from the club. "And I can remember that you had two names; I just can't remember what it was." He took a short glance at you like yeah, that's exactly what I'm saying, you don't know my name and focused back on the road, finally pushing the gas pedal and driving off the parking space.
"Can you please take my glasses out of the glovebox?" His pointing finger gestured to your side, and you pulled the lock to open the compartment.
Great. You didn't even know his name and he was acting like you were here to take his orders.
"Are these real?" You easily spotted the black frame of the glasses and took them out, inspecting.
“Yes.” He reached his hand out palm up and you figured you should extend the arms of the glasses for him to not bother with that while driving. You left questions about his poor eye sight for another day. “Thank you.” He graced you with a single nod, eyes focused on the road; nonchalantly letting a cough past his lips, he once again pointed his finger towards the glovebox once you reached to close it. "Can you also take out the card that's in there." He began to piss you off a little with all his requests.
You quickly fished the laminated card lying on top of a bunch of papers out and locked the glovebox with force, pushing it towards him.
He glanced quickly at your annoyed face expression and thought it was a good idea to chuckle once more. “That’s for you.”
You felt deeply confused, but still moved the card back to your face so you’d see what it was.
Oh. OH.
It was his military ID.
Date of birth, first name, surname, his rank, unit, and service status were all written on the little piece of plastic with a very cute, despite his standard uniform and a beret, photo.
“Yuno.” You softly said.
Right, that’s what his name was. Now you could remember.
“That’s me.” He responded and your head raised back up to see him.
Just in time you've stopped at the street light and he'd propped his head on his left hand that rested against the armrest. He scrunched his nose on one side to adjust the glasses over his nose, a soft smile adorning his mouth as he looked at you, and it was hard for you to not smile back, so you just did.
And maybe you were too tired to be thinking straight, but in that moment you felt like you fell in love with him. Over a simple gesture of fixing his glasses. Or maybe it wasn’t even that.
“What was the other one?”
“Does it matter?”
"Mmh. I have to decide how I'm going to call you." Yuno grinned; the horns from the car behind were the only reason he pulled himself together and went back to driving.
You looked out the window and realised you can’t remember how you’ve gotten to his apartment last time. You were pretty sure he was drunk back then. You’ve had a few drinks yourself because one of your friends was leaving the club and you had a farewell party; then he appeared out of nowhere and you’ve lost your mind as his eyes quite obviously settled on you.
You contemplated whether or not you wanted to ask if he drove you to his place last time, and by the time you’ve decided on doing so - he’d made a turn and drove down the parking lot.
You didn’t make much conversation going out of the car, waiting for the elevator, or walking down to his apartment. He’d let you trail behind him like you lived here together and you felt confused.
You get that he was a military man, but if he wanted sex he needed to make some sort of move on you. Like the first time.
Not make it feel like a chore - especially when you had a total less than thirty minutes of conversation between you and barely knew each other’s names.
In the same quiet manner he walked into the apartment, taking his shoes off and you’ve done the same, barely catching up to him walking into the bedroom, backpack still intact on his shoulder since he retrieved it from the backseat.
“Do you want a short or a long sleeve?” you’ve watched him put his backpack on a chair and take the fleece off his shoulders. He’d taken the watch off his wrist and left it on the table next to the closet he was currently staring at.
He felt a little bit like a psycho; you couldn't shake the thought now that you've thought it. You were glad you stayed by the door frame. If he'd shown any signs of psychosis, at least you had a head start to the exit.
"Excuse me?”
“For sleeping.” He peeked from behind the door. “Short or long sleeved tee?”
“Oh.” You gulped on a huge lump of air. “Weren’t we about to have sex?”
“I’ve been up for almost twenty hours; if we could just sleep-.” Yuno held in a yawn, eyes on the wall; you followed his gaze to make sure he was looking at the clock over there.
“You brought me here to sleep?” He nodded like it was a given.
He for sure was nuts.
“Why?” You pressed, a little psyched yourself. Maybe it was the lack of sleep on your part, but you were sure one of the serial killers you’ve read about was also pretty and harmless to the eye.
“I told you, I couldn’t forget you. I was in the city and wanted to see you. Came to the same place I saw you at last time and damn, you’re in my bedroom again.”
“But to sleep?” You didn’t know if you should step forward or back, out of his apartment.
“Yes. You didn’t give me your phone number and the club isn’t even open for the next three days. I pushed my luck.”
“Was the bringing me here part necessary?” You folded your arms over your chest. You’d decided on staying and pressed your shoulder against the door frame.
“You didn’t give me your phone number.” He peaked out again and looked at you like he was sincerely finding it difficult to see why you couldn’t understand.
“You know, normal people just ask for a phone number or KaTalk ID once more.”
“Well, consider me not normal.” He let a sigh out and you could see it on his face - the moment he processed what he said to an almost stranger he’d just kidnapped to his apartment.
“I am.” You shrugged and Yuno smiled.
“I’m going to shower and I’ll sleep on the couch.” He’d taken some clothes out for you and put them on the bed, approaching you with his sleeping attire in hand.
“Couch? Why?”
“Because I genuinely look like a psycho, don’t I?” You couldn’t hold back a smile. You gave him a few nods and walked to meet him halfway.
“But you should stay here with me. If you’re saying you wanted to see me, isn’t it better you stay close so you could see what you’ve been looking for?” You let your pointing finger draw lines over his chest; Yuno replied with a nod. “Be quick, I want to get in bed with you.” You raised on your tiptoes, smooching his lips.
You were awkward at initiating physical touch with him as he lay in bed, flat on his back, eyes closed. You'd looked at him for a few minutes before you'd crept a brush of fingers over his bicep and he'd startled you with how fast his eyes opened.
It was just military training, you hoped.
He'd glanced over at you and you fully reached for his arm, moving it up to slide under, and he understood you perfectly, scooting closer to your body and scooping you under his arm. Then you'd let your arm rest over his clothed chest, and then with featherlight strokes moved it up to his chin and jaw, guiding his eyes onto you.
Now you were softly panting into his mouth, as Yuno continued letting the licks of his tongue stroke yours, your back pressed into his arm as he'd hovered over you - keeping you under and fully enveloped in his presence.
Your fingers gave short strokes to the short hair on his nape and behind his ear, and you could even feel him purr against your skin when his lips focused much on licking into your neck. He'd returned back to your mouth and you were the one to push him on top of you, mouths moves paced.
You weren't sure what time it was; you'd kissed and then just cuddled in silence and then kissed again. It felt like you were in rem and dreamt all of this happening to you, brain so tired you weren't even able to believe you were still awake and actively indulging in the most heart-wrenching make out of your life. He was a good kisser.
No, fuck that. He was an excellent one and his body pressure felt perfect, and his body temperature was exactly warm enough to make you feel cozy under his touch. It’d felt so good you were almost convinced if he’d asked, you would’ve told him you loved him right there and then.
You tickled behind his ear and he’d nuzzled his face in your neck like he was a kitty.
“Do you have to leave the city tomorrow?” You wondered; if he’d said he was away this whole time, was this just his weekend leave?
"No, I'm on vacation. I'll be here for a little while." He reassured you, pressing lips into your jaw.
He'd stretched his limbs and only then it hit you that he must be twice as tired as you are. He probably woke up at six AM or worse.
"Do you only work at that club?" He'd asked before you could tell him to rest.
"No, I actually have an office job at my brother's company. He owns a law firm and I'm an associate lawyer. The club is my brother's wife's side kick and I manage the place when I need money. It's a very long story." You let him know the truth without regrets.
"Wow." He let a surprised chuckle. "So you're a nepo baby, if you can say that about siblings." He clearly said it with no bad intention, so you took no offence.
"Mmh. And you're a ROK Army Special Forces captain. Don't act like it's nothing shocking.”
“Depending on what’s shocking for you.” Yuno’s thumb brushed your side.
“Where are you serving?”
“My main occupation was always here, in the city. I was recommended to a division at the border a few months back and ever since then I’ve been not far from Yongdae. I can’t disclose where exactly.”
“Yongdae?” You pressed your palm into his chest. “So you’re a liar, Jeong Yuno?”
"Why?" He clearly didn't catch up to your teasing yet.
"You said you only came to the city an hour ago. Yongdae is like a two hour drive from here." As far as you could remember the map in your head, it was hardly a day-long job to drive anywhere within your country.
"We had a farewell party; one of my friends was moved to the south.”
“And you didn’t drink?”
“I was set to come find you.”
“You’re cute.” You smiled, letting your lips land on the corner of his mouth.
"Literally everyone was telling me to lay back and get back home tomorrow." He paused and as his brow furrowed, questioned you. "Wait, how do you know what time we're permitted to leave?" Yuno shuffled. "Ah, don't answer. You said you had a brother. Where did he serve?”
“Marine.”
“I see.” He nodded and clearly suppressed another urge to yawn. He’d finally given in to the wish to sleep, it seemed. “You don’t have anywhere to go in the morning, right?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Good. I’m really going to pass out, I’m sorry. We’ll talk more in the morning.”
"No, no. You should sleep; I can't even imagine how you had the strength to drive to the club and then back home. Military discipline is crazy." He gave you a smile, and then a little kiss to your lips, dropping on his back after, falling asleep.
You woke up, first instinct to run to the bathroom and make yourself presentable without making much noise, but then you reconsidered and brushed your hair down the parting with your fingers and wiped your eyes and mouth, in case you were drooling in your sleep.
You turned around, met with Yuno’s clothed back, hidden behind the duvet all the way up to his ears. You scooted closer to him and caressed his back between the shoulder blades in light taps of your palm. You really tried your best to be careful and soft in case you’d scare him; it didn’t help.
You could hear exactly the moment his breathing turned from soft sleeping breaths into regular breathing, and he'd immediately sat up, probably on instinct.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up like this." You watched him press the backs of his palms into his eyes and turn around to take a look at you. You smiled apologetically, eyes scanning his sleepy ones and the print of the pillow on his cheek. Hair, though short, still able to stick all over the place on his head.
It was hard to not pinpoint how much hair he had on his head. And body, for that matter.
"It's okay." He rasped and looked away, shaking his head a little.
"You can lay back down." You patted his pillow, awkward to suggest anything at all. He'd just given you the wildest look, like you weren't even invited to his bed in the first place, and it made the supposed morning after feel even worse.
Morning after what though? You, being stolen? You weren't drunk and you didn't have sex last night, and somehow the feelings were much more awkward than that first time.
“I’m sorry, I can’t mess up my schedule, I need to go for a run.”
"A run?" You worked hard to swallow the bewilderment you felt in that moment.
"Yes. I thought I'll wake up on time by force of habit." He glanced at the clock and so did you; it was past 11AM, definitely not the time he usually got out of bed. "And I'd be back before you're awake. I'm sorry.”
“No, it’s totally okay. I can leave and we’ll settle on a different day.” Yuno stood from the bed and furrowed his brow at you. “I’ll give you my phone number.” You smiled, but his face stayed serious.
"No, please stay. I'll be like forty minutes and then I'm all yours." He shuffled with his clothes, changing out of the sleeping shirt into his training shirt and hoodie, sweatpants switched for running shorts. "If you want to, of course. I won't insist." He added much more aware of what this might've looked like, and you felt bad, for some reason.
“Yuno?"
“Yes?” He turned around at your holler.
“Come here.” He obeyed, following the gesture of your finger and walked back to the bed on your side, waiting for you. You reached a hand out and pulled him in by the zipper of his hoodie.
“Your discipline is sexy, but forty minutes. I’ll be waiting right here, okay?” He nodded, finally letting a slip of smile adorn his lips. You pressed your mouth into his cheek and let him go.
"All men do is lie, and you definitely are not an exception." You stretched in his bed, hoping the sound of your voice would run all the way to the entrance where he, given by the sounds of it, was taking his shoes off. It's been definitely longer than forty minutes, and you were bored out of your mind in his bed after you'd inspected his room with your eyes and spent good fifteen minutes in the bathroom brushing your hair with your fingers and chewing on his toothpaste.
"What? Sorry, I couldn't hear you from back there." He peeked through the door, and then walked himself through it and you stared at his arms. Both busy, one with two cups and the other one with a paper bag.
"It's nothing." You swallowed your grumbling and sat up.
"I ain't got a single clue what you like, so I got an Americano and one coffee with milk. If you don't do coffee at all, I have tea in the kitchen. I got a lot of pastries in this bag because again, I had no idea what you like, so if none of it matches your taste I can fry you eggs, or I think I have oatmeal or cereal? I have to check, I haven't been home for weeks." It looked like he panicked a little and you'd swallowed a cry at his cuteness.
“Yuno, it’s okay.” You calmed him down. “I’ll have whatever you brought. Thank you.” He crossed the room and put everything on the bedside table next to you.
“It’s okay to eat in bed.” He gestured with his hands. “I’ll join you after a shower.”
You sat up on your knees, inspecting his face glistening with sweat, patches of red still visible on his skin from running.
“Which coffee do you like?”
"It doesn't matter." He shook his head but the way his eyes wavered let you know it wasn't true. You were a lawyer; you liked to think you were able to see people lie.
"Really?" You gave him a stern brow.
"Okay, I like my coffee without milk." He gave in.
“Good, because I like it with milk.” Opposites attract and shit, huh. Yuno smiled and your arms locked around his neck. “Is it a cappuccino or a latte?”
“The latter.”
"You even hit the jackpot." You giggled leaning in to kiss his lips. Yuno kissed you back, pulling back right after.
"Give me five minutes to shower; I'm sweaty.”
"I don't care." You tried to flush your chest against his, his fingers catching your torso in a deadly grip, not letting you touch his soaking shirt.
"I do." He whispered and you stopped, letting him go and falling back into the bed. "You can start eating without me.”
“How is it?” Yuno ruffled his hair with a towel, standing at the foot of the bed, watching you take a bite off one of the pastries, and you nodded, taking a sip from the cup. You put it back on the bedside table, swallowing everything that was in your mouth to give him a proper reply.
“Amazing. You’ve got a good taste.” You flirted with a little raise of your shoulder. “In both pastries and women, it seems.” He teased his lower lip between his teeth and leaned into the bed, still standing. His fingers found your foot under the covers and pulled onto it, so you slid all the way down to the edge of the bed.
“I sure am.” He smirked and set his knees onto the bed, leaning his whole body over you. “I’m sorry I made you wait.” Yuno trailed the outlines of your lips with his mouth, gaze focusing back on your eyes.
“I’m sure it’ll be worth the wait.” he loved your flirting, gifting you one of his pretty smirks, and he dove in to kiss your mouth, lips running slowly against yours. One of his arms moved between your bodies, all the way down to your thigh to make you hook your leg around his waist.
As you followed with his wishes, you felt his groin flush into your core and before you knew it a moan escaped your lips. Yuno smiled through the kiss and made another thrust with his hips; your arms finally giving in and locking around his neck.
He trailed his mouth down your chin and neck, stopping right when his mouth met with the material of your shirt. He sat up on his heels and pulled you in with him to a sitting position like you were a rag doll, pulling the shirt over your head.
His eyes traveled over your exposed chest he was yet to see in the daylight, palm covering one mound in its hold with a little squeeze of his fingers.
"So beautiful." He let a hitched breath out as his mouth latched onto the other, quickly running the trail down to your nipple and sucking on it. Your fingers groped onto his shoulder, lips calling out for God, as his mouth went sloppy, kissing the skin under your breast and running a wet trail to the other side to make shivers run down your back while his tongue teased the sensitive bud.
“Tell me what you like.” He’d demanded. The only reason you’d seen his darkened gaze set on you was your eyes widening at the sound of his voice. It was so guttural, you’ve never heard it like this before. Not like you had many chances to.
"This." You whined as his lips gave pressure to your nipple once more. He mumbled a little good against your skin and after a few more teasing runs of his tongue against your chest, ran his mouth down your stomach.
Kisses, on kisses and even more kisses, which made you feel like his mouth was everywhere at the same time. You felt like he’d used some magic on you, making you squirm under his sensitive touch. His fingers still teased your nipple and he'd been so whole-consuming with his foreplay you'd only figured out where he was going when his mouth took the fabric of your panties between his teeth to pull it down.
You’d caught his head with your palms before he could go any further, forcing him back up onto your eye level. He’d complied to your wishes with no protest.
“Don’t tell me that’s something you don’t like.” He teased, fingers brushing the column of your throat.
“Just not today.” You flattered your eyes.
"Why?" He whined like you'd told a child he’s not allowed to watch any more cartoons for tonight.
"I have to keep my secrets to entice you, don't I?" He'd smiled at you, mouth pressing into your cheek to run all the way down to your ear.
"I am already enticed. No point in keeping secrets." He whispered against your ear, pulling back to see if he'd persuaded you.
"There's nothing a man wouldn't do to get between a girl's legs; you're not an exception, it seems." You'd taken his face in your hands, pulling him back in.
"Okay, we'll have it your way." He'd let you pull him in for a kiss.
"Besides, we can't spend the entire day in bed. I have to get to know you." You ran your fingers through his hair, loving the feeling of his thick short hair against your skin.
"You can do that later; I won't take long. This, I can promise." He smirked, but you'd just raised a brow suppressing the smile, and he raised back up to your face, fingers running over the side of your underwear. "Am I allowed to finger you?"
"As far as I can remember from our last time,"
"First time." He corrected you.
“Okay, our first time; your fingers will do both of us a favour.”
“They certainly will, baby.” He’d let his hand travel back down to your underwear, boldly getting behind it and against your skin. You curved your back, thighs trying to run away from his touch. He let his thumb circle over your clit and your gasps filled the room.
"When do you have to go back?"
Yuno groaned. "Don’t even remind me that I have to. I don’t want to think about that when I'm in bed with you."
"But I need to know for how long I'm going to have you for.” You smiled, caressing the side of his face. He’d pressed his other cheek to the side of your bare breast, giving your rib attention with his tongue, even though you’ve just got your breath back to normal. You were beginning to hope he’d run out of strength to get hard at this point.
"You can have me for as long as you want to." Yuno's fingers tickled your bare waist, and he'd raised his head to wrestle your body perpendicularly to his. He'd ended up with his face over your lower stomach, and you couldn't understand how he did that, lowering his face against the bare skin there and just stared into your soul from down there.
“I can’t have any more sex tonight.” You let him know honestly, it was beyond your strength to give him more of you. He’d taken, quite literally, it all.
“I’m just looking at you.” He let his lips land below your belly button and you sucked your stomach in at the tickle.
“You're not going to vanish for another two months once two weeks are up, right?”
"To ensure that I don't have a reason to do that," Yuno trailed his eyes to the bedside table and you did the same, looking at his phone. "I'm going to need your phone number." You got the clue and reached out to give him his phone to unlock.
-
“I promised my friends I’ll go bowling with them Wednesday night. Do you think you’d want to come with me?”
“I’m terrible at bowling.” Yuno chuckled. “But it’s not about the game only, isn’t it?”
“Mmh. I don’t want to be separated from you if I have a chance to not do so.” He let his mouth land on your temple, keeping it family friendly in front of all the people that walked the same street as you.
“Then you have to promise me you’ll teach me the proper way to play.”
“I will.” He pecked your lips, forgoing propriety. “So it’s settled?”
“Mmmh.”
“So, how serious your friends are about bowling?” You scratched your brow, watching Yuno pull out something that looked like a wrist support from the seat pocket. Did he have proper attire to play the game? Was he part of a pro-bowler club? You felt out of place before you even made it out of the car.
“I fear, very serious.” He let out with a sigh. You were doomed, weren’t you.
“And who’s the best player so I make sure I team up with them?” Yuno looked at you with a shy smirk. “What? You’re trying to say it’s you?”
“I’m not even bragging, I swear.” He let out with a scoff.
“Sure, you’re not.”
“Okay, you can ask them who won three previous all-night tournaments we pulled.” Yuno gave you a brow, but you honestly couldn’t give him the praising reaction he was looking for - you were too stunned to speak.
All-nighters? He can’t be serious, can he.
“All night? I can’t stay all night though.” You leaned to him over the armrest.
“I know, you have to go to work. I also wasn’t planning to make you suffer this long. I plan to be on top of you in no longer than four hours.” You giggled at his blatancy, letting your mouth leave a pink stain over his cheek.
“You just said it yourself, I have to go to work in the morning.” Yuno’s eyes darted at the clock on the panel of his car.
“What? It’s half past eight, it won’t even be midnight in four hours. I’m sure you can spare me an hour.”
“An hour? Are we doing ten rounds?” You found a perfect chance to tease him. You’ve experienced his stamina enough at this point, you’d need way beyond an hour to do ten rounds with him.
“Oh, you. Shut up.” Yuno rolled his eyes waving you off, then it seemed to strike him a little. The familiarity that could’ve possibly made someone uncomfortable in such a new relationship.
But you weren’t uncomfortable, you were glad to see the real side of him. You were excited to meet his friends and see his normal life. Judge his personality outside of being under him or on top of him.
“If you didn’t get it by the all-nighters, we’re a little manic when it comes to bowling. I’m sorry for the man I’m about to be.” Yuno stopped you next to the elevator door leading you from the parking lot, eyes looking like he was sincerely concerned, sorry and worried all at the same time.
If he was going through so much stress with that invitation, you sure were thankful as hell he still kept it.
“Really?” You let your arm slide around his neck, Yuno pulled you in with his, running it to your waist. “A man of passion, then.”
“Yes. Unfortunately, competitiveness is by far my worst personality trait.” You could not not smile at his admittance. Also, at the fact he was calling being competitive his worst trait - like he either was a saint or had poor judgement of his own self.
“Then I should be really glad, Yuno. I can’t even pick one of mine to tell you.” His other hand wrapped your waist too, and now you were flushed against him, your own arms making the contact even closer; letting your mouths trail the traces of each other.
“You’re just being too harsh on yourself.” He let his lips land on yours for a split second. “You seem perfect to me.”
“You’ve known me for three days.”
“And two months. I want us to keep that time in the counts.”
“I haven’t even remembered your name until Sunday night.”
“Well, shame on you. I’ve had plenty of time to think what you were like in actual life.”
“And how is it matching?” You felt Yuno’s palm slide down your waist, caressing your lower back with the tips of his fingers.
“I told you just now, perfect.” He kissed you, your mouth gasping as you felt his fingers crawl lower down your spine; featherlight taps turning into full palming of your clothed bum. “Is that okay?” Yuno pulled back, eyes concerned when you’d began panting like you were deprived of air. His fingers tapped your butt, showing you what exactly he was asking about.
"Mmh, perfectly fine." Yuno laid his palm more boldly, giving the skin more pressure than before. "Though if you are to continue, we might as well go back to your bed now. Before I get so hot and bothered, I'll have no choice but to do the same to you."
"As much as I would love to do that, I can't skip tonight. My pride is on the line." Yuno sneered.
"I should probably just stay out and watch."
"Oh, no." He sing-song into your ear. "You'll be the secret treasure of my team.”
“Is that them?” You asked, running your eyes through bowling alleys and settling on the farthest one.
The first one was empty, the one next to it had a bunch of school kids on, the next one seemed to have a family and the farthest one you could see looked the most suitable.
A loud bunch of twenty somethings with all types of outfits presented, letting you know they all came from different backgrounds. Someone clearly from an office job, someone wearing a pair of joggers and a hoodie; both men and women.
It then struck you that this whole time you've imagined a bunch of buzz cut military dudes ogling over a girl their friend brought. You stared up at Yuno who'd given up contact with you to wave excitedly at his friends who'd partially waved back at him.
You had to admit once more to yourself that he looked utterly cute. For a supposed tough military guy he was sickening, even.
You didn’t expect an answer out of him anymore. “How do you know all of them, again?” You questioned, as you passed through the alleys.
"Mostly school. Some are friends of friends that eventually joined the group." Yuno glanced at you, and you nodded accepting that information. You might've also had a question next, but it didn't matter as a tall guy, who seemed twice Yuno's size jumped in his arms and definitely beat all the air out of his lungs at the abruptness of the motion. Weight, you were sure, also.
“Seokmin get off his back, God,” one of the two females chirped and you pursed your lips up in a sudden burst of awkwardness. Seven heads stared at you, while Yuno was trying to make his friend, Seokmin, let go of him.
You tried very hard to not give out your flawless hearing, eyes strained on the two males closest to you as someone from his friend group whispered who’s the girl? and the other replied with he said he’d bring a plus one, you didn’t read the chat?
“This fucker! Been ignoring my messages for five weeks.” Seokmin finally stepped back from Yuno, arm still around his shoulder; assumably to shake him every now and then in his hold, just like he was doing now. “I was beginning to believe he died on his special mission or what; then he’s suddenly up in the chat once the bowling night came about. You sneak.”
“Jae, we’re all happy you're back in the big city.” The dark-haired girl mirrored clearly everyone’s sentiments lightheartedly and your head whipped in his direction.
You just hoped no one thought you’d felt jealous or anything else.
It was his name.
Jae.
Jae what? There was definitely another half to it.
Jae-Yuno also immediately looked at you and despite your very new relationship, you could tell by the look in his eyes he was curious if you’d remembered the name he told you that night.
The one you carelessly forgot the moment you walked out of his apartment.
Despite a very good clue, you couldn’t remember it. Still.
You had to know now, though. It was clear Yuno wasn’t his go-to choice and everyone called him Jae____.
He’d looked at your eyes for a second longer and then just dropped your name to his friends with a little oh, by the way before that.
“And she’s your…?” The black-haired girl spoke once more and you’ve felt beyond curious how he’d explain what happened between you two to his friends.
“Acquaintance.” He said firmly, the tone of his voice asking for no more further digging about this from his friends.
You swallowed a smile.
Acquaintance it is, he was sickeningly right. And cute, again. Because you had a tiny bit of doubt about this question popping and his answer being quite revealing on the nature of your encounters. You liked the modesty of the answer.
“It’s so nice to meet you, everyone.” You smiled, feeling like a kid introduced to a new class. “Though I am terribly sorry in advance for my bowling skills. I’ve told Y-, Jae,” you corrected yourself and looked back at the man beside you whose eyes shined suddenly with a glint of mischief. “He was insisting I come, so please put the blame on him.”
Yuno shook his head with an eye roll and took a step closer to you to introduce his friends.
Seokmin, Mingyu, Dongmin were his school friends; Jihyo - the black-haired girl, was Mingyu’s college girlfriend before they figured they were better off as friends; Donghyuck and Jeno - the juniors he supervised during their mandatory military service and became close with; Johnny - his coffee mate he’d met when he was five on the playground, they grew up together and been close ever since. And then just Rosie. He didn't elaborate much about her, just gave you her name and she'd given you a little nod of her head to prove indeed she was her.
You looked at Yuno for a split second and realised he wasn’t planning to say anything else. Everyone moved around to begin the game, and you’ve listened to them decide on the team, Yuno, no, Jae chosen as the leader of a team within the second, same for Mingyu.
Yuno had a definite idea of who should be on his team and who shouldn't, and in all that fuss, it really only made you like him more, with how serious and protective he was about you being part of his team. Despite you letting him know that a) it's okay and b) you don't care much.
He must really like it between your legs, huh.
They’d ordered food and settled on the couches and the game started off by Mingyu’s team who’d shot a strike straight up on the first try and you’d gasped impressed, until Yuno did the exactly same and walked back to the couch you sat on with a satisfied grin on his lips.
He’d dropped himself next to you, probably closer than necessary and draped an arm over the backrest above your shoulders.
“Good moves, huh?” You teased in a whisper, uncomfortable in the presence of his friends’ stern eyes, and you were sure ears, to flirt with him to your heart’s content.
"I told you, didn't I?" He'd moved in even closer, pressing his thigh against yours and leaned in with his mouth to your ear. "So what's my name?" He let his tongue swipe against your ear shell and you'd shivered immediately, folding more into his side.
"Jae-?" You moved back to look him in the eyes; he'd nudged you to go on with a little shake of his head. "Jaebeom?"
"Wrong." He'd rolled his eyes and moved a bit away.
"You're not mad, are you?”
“No, that’s entertaining.” He smiled, letting the sincerity of his feelings linger on his lips a little longer.
“It’s your turn.” Donghyuck called out for you and you looked at the screen to prove to yourself that it was, indeed, your turn.
"Come, I'll help." Yuno stood in front of you in a blink and walked out to get the ball for you. "You know how to hold the ball, do you?"
"That I do, don't worry." You shook him off with more confidence than you actually had.
"Okay, shoot your shot, I'll see the technique first and will tell you how to improve the next turn." He'd folded his arms, turning full coach mode on to watch you score points, or fail. More likely.
You bent your back, taking a couple of steps back and as you tried to aim, you’d straightened your back back up and turned to Yuno.
“Don’t stare like you’re going to scold me if I miss.”
“Oh he will.” Mingyu clearly eavesdropped, giggling from his alley.
Yuno mumbled a dude, shut up and stepped closer to you.
“Nevermind what I said, I’ll help you now too.”
“Am I that bad?” You cackled.
“No, it’s just your posture.” He sighed like he was an actual coach and squatted first, raising to his feet and bending every limb of his in a perfect bowling position, showing you the proper posture to do it. “You won’t be able to let the ball slide when your knees aren’t bent. You need to sit down as you let the ball go.” You’d tried to do the same as him, sincerely, but under the stern stares of his best friends the realisation hit you like a wave and you’d felt awkward for ruining their pro-bowling club night.
Yuno watched you try to do it his way once and he’d tolerated it no more, standing behind you and forcing your body to move the way he needed it to in order for you to score much needed points.
It worked, kinda, you were able to score five points and you were beyond happy, high-fiving Jae’s open palm who’d been clearly suppressing his real thoughts on the throw.
For the next five rounds your turns went with Jae’s hips pressed into yours and you weren’t sure anymore it was his attempts to improve your game or to make you horny.
“Are you making it sexual or is it just me?” You questioned, giving him a high five as you’d managed to score nine points with his help, of course. He’d wrapped his fingers around yours for a second too long.
“Am I?” He played with his brows and moved his attention to his own turn.
You sighed, getting on the couch next to the other two women in this circle and looked over at Yuno fiercely talking with a couple of guys from the opposite team; you've turned your gaze at the girls and were met with two sets of eyes blinking at you.
"So you two are a thing?" Rosie clearly was the braver one to ask the pressing question. Jihyo slapped her arm, but all you could muster was a chuckle. "Jae never brought a girl before; you two have been together for a while?" She continued and you had to really put in effort to make your mouth work.
“No, like he said - we’re acquaintances. He randomly invited me here and I said yes.”
“How do you know each other? You’re not from the military, are you?” Jihyo smiled; for some reason her darker locks made you like her more than her friend.
“I am not. I’m a lawyer.”
"Do you win many cases?" Jihyo seemed to be excited.
"I don't have that much experience yet to lead the case all by myself. I'm an associate, but next year I'm expected to lead."
"Wow, it must be very hard. I'm a vocal coach, not much of stress, except for when the students can't hit a note.”
"And you, Rosie, what do you do for a living?" You smiled, curious.
"Oh, my turn!" She jumped up from the couch and left with no further comment.
"She's coming from wealth; that's a sensitive subject for her. She doesn't have a job in a sense we all do. She's not trying to be mean.”
“It’s okay.” You shook her off, not able to shake off the question. “How do you all know her, then?”
“He didn’t explain it to you, did he?”
“No. Explain what?”
“We all have wealthy families, him included. Some more, some less. Rosie is the excessive type, Seokmin is on the lesser side, but he still grew up in Apgujeong, went to the same school as us,” you wanted to ask what she meant by that. “I went there also; we just never knew each other before university,” you nodded. “She and Dongmin studied in the US, had a thing because they were the only Seoul-born kids on campus that year, once they got back it’s like they never fucked.”
“Wow.”
"Yeah, years ago they were on the summer break back home and he brought her to our gathering, that's how we met Rosie." You nodded, acknowledging the story. "I think he's calling you." Jihyo gestured with her nose behind you, and you'd turned around to see the man that brought you here calling you with his finger.
“Already gossiping about me?”
“No, not about you.” You grabbed the ball from his hands and stood in front of the lane. Yuno tried to get behind and you’d caught him just in time to make him stop. “No, please let me do it myself this once.”
“Sure.” He smiled and stepped back.
You'd gathered all your new knowledge and stepped back, bending your legs at a perfect angle and extending your arms at the perfect time.
The ball went right in the middle and you watched it, anticipating.
Strike.
It was a fucking strike.
Before you could realise it, turn around and exclaim in victory; Yuno had turned you around with his hand and grabbed your waist, flushing you against him and lifting you off the ground. His palm ran lower and patted your butt, giving it a couple of squeezes along the way. He'd kissed your cheek and pulled back.
"Good job, baby, now we're going to win this.”
You literally dropped dead in the seat of his car, exhausted, overwhelmed, and everything above and beyond that after hours of bowling. You'd managed to secure Yuno's strike of wins by a point; he was still the champion, and he was too buzzing and happy to share the same sentiment of tiredness as you.
"I'm sorry we didn't leave earlier." Jae pouted at you on the first traffic light on your way. "I'm going to drive you to your apartment. With no expectations." He'd glanced at you and at the clock.
Understanding must also go on the list of his good traits.
"You can stay." You reached out a hand to pat his cheek.
"Just for sleeping, you need to go to work tomorrow.”
“Okay.” You giggled. “Just to sleep.”
You let your fingers caress his jaw bone. “Why did you say I was an acquaintance?”
“We haven’t talked about how I should introduce you to my friends, and we haven’t discussed us at all.” Us, your soul echoed. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you. I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“No, it’s actually a perfect description of us and also a perfect explanation.” You let your palm drop from his jaw onto the shoulder and you ran it lower onto his bicep to give it a tiny squeeze. “Can I ask more questions?”
“Of course.”
“You didn’t tell me how you know Rosie?”
“I know. I couldn’t say it in front of her. We’re not that much of friends, and she’s sensitive in all the wrong places and about wrong things, I’m sorry for judging her. She doesn’t like me because I accidentally ruined her fling with one of my military colleagues by exposing her lie.”
“Really?”
"Yes, she lied about her life; I can't even remember now what it was, but I accidentally said it wasn't true because he asked and wanted to make a surprise. She's been sour ever since. Not like we've been friends ever before.”
“Hm.”
“What is it?”
"I feel like it's quite the opposite." You chewed on your lower lip and closed your eyes, too tired to watch the lights pass. "It almost felt like she was a bit into you."
"She was into Dongmin, then she was into Seokmin and maybe it's me, this me, I'm not sure. She likes to write poems so if it helps her creative flow or whatever, it can be me.” Yuno shook his head like he was barely interested, focusing on more on the turn left.
"Jaewoo." Yuno even turned his head at you, brows furrowed. So it wasn't it. "Jaemin?" It took him a second to figure out what you were doing and burst into a fit of laughter.
"Jaehee?" You came up with one more option a few moments later.
"It's honestly getting kind of painful." He chuckled in response.
“Jaejoon?” You scratched your temple as Yuno parked his car in front of your building.
“No.”
“Jaesok?” You questioned in the elevator.
“Oh, drop it, I like you calling me Yuno.”
“But I want to know,” you whined once more, “Jaehyun.” You let your last option out and the way his eyes fluttered not in annoyance but in astonishment for the slightest second before he’d rolled them again, let you know all you needed to.
You fisted his shirt and pressed him into the elevator wall, getting on your tiptoes.
“Jaehyun.” You whispered, mouth pressing into the side of his jaw. “Jaehyun.” You almost gasped against his skin.
There it was, his name; now you remembered it for sure, because you could feel yet again the beads of sweat running down your back as he’d stuffed himself inside of you, your mouth not having a rest for a second, constantly moaning those syllables off your lips.
Jaehyun.
You'd repeated his name once more, and somehow you were carried to your apartment door in his arms. He'd gone straight to bed; dropping you there and almost ripping everything he had on off his body, your arms doing the same with your garments, eyes focusing on every part of him.
Before he’d thrown his jeans away from his hold, he reached into the back pocket to retrieve a foil pack. “I see your expectations were met.” You chuckled, he was such a bluffer.
"I had none; it was just lost in here, and I found it by a chance." He'd smirked, spreading your legs and pulling your underwear off.
"Lucky coincidences, right, Jaehyun?" You teased, trying to get his attention, but his gaze glued to your now exposed folds, palm running to feel how ready you were to take him.
He’d rubbed you a couple of times and let you put the condom onto his leaking tip. He’d made you both burst so quickly and so sharply, you fell lifeless onto the mattress and opened your eyes next when the sun was already slipping through the curtains.
-
“So, which one do you want me to call you? Which one do you like better?”
“Both sound amazing as moans off your pretty lips, baby.” He flirted more confidently than he’d done before; you loved pinpointing him getting more comfortable around you in small gestures or words he dropped unknowingly for his own self.
He rolled off the bed and began gathering the clothes he carelessly threw around your room last night.
"Jaehyun?" You called out, just curious about his reaction to his name and he'd given you enough; twirling on his feet, looking at you with his soft eyes, expecting continuation out of your lips next.
"You have to go to work, don't you?" He raised a brow, putting the hoodie over his head.
"Mmmh, I am, and you're going for a run as soon as you're back home?"
"Yes." His fingers smoothed the material down his arms.
"When can I see you next?"
"After work, I think. I could pick you up, or if you need some alone time I could come by later. Anything works for me, I'm free.”
“Yuno?” You let his name roll off your lips once more; it was like an addiction. Seeing his eyes raise up and connect with yours.
“You’re just calling my name, aren’t you?” He walked back to the bed and let his fingers squeeze the skin above your knee. “Which one do you like better?”
He let his palm trail up your thigh and you had to catch it before your stomach twisted with want.
"Both." Jaehyun entwined his fingers with yours; he'd never done it before like that, and you felt a flutter in your chest. He'd knelt before the bed and made your hand rest on his shoulder, taking the other in his hold instead. "When will you tell me how you got two names?”
“When you’re back from work?”
“Deal.” You leaned in, and he’d made a soft motion of his nose against yours.
“I like you more every next day I see you.” He’d admitted in a half whisper and pressed his mouth chastely to yours.
“I like you too.” You smiled, pressing your lips into his cheek. “Yuno, or Jaehyun, it doesn’t even matter. You’re right.”
"My family and colleagues call me Yuno, colleagues because that's what's written in papers and family because my grandma gave me the name. Jaehyun is also the name my family gave me, but I've changed it because you can't write it in Hanja. Friends mainly call me Jaehyun because they've known me to be Jaehyun since we were kids.” He opted to explain it to you now and you appreciated his openness.
“So the change’s been quite recent?”
“Middle school.” You nodded, understanding.
Your phone buzzed and you saw the clock on the screen and your next questions regarding his name fell out of your brain.
You were going to be late for work, shit.
“Aah, I have to get up.” You rolled your eyes and pulled Jaehyun closer to you. He’d squeezed you in his hold, mouth pressing into your cheek and moved back, allowing for you to get up.
“I also need to go, but I’ll see you later. Just let me know when.”
“Mmh. Bye?”
“Bye.” He nodded and blew you a kiss.
You’ve never found it harder to find any will to go to work within your system than in the past week.
It’s been hell willingly leaving Jaehyun for an entirety of eight to nine hours to go and act like you cared for anything that was happening at work, when all that’s been occupying your brain ever since he found you was him.
The thoughts turned whole consuming the more time you’ve spent with him, on him, under him. Even now, when you were supposed to work you were texting Jaehyun about your plans for tomorrow.
Your eyes set on the calendar counting down the days you had left before it was his time to return to the military base. The time was passing by too quickly. How were you down already to 5 days? How has it been only nine since you met him?
It felt like an eternity. It felt like he has always been around. Kissing you, lulling you to sleep, taking strolls in the park with you, going out with his friends. It’s been nine days and imagining what will happen in another five made you feel so hollow. He was so right for you. He was your person, you were sure.
No one could connect like that and get along on literally every level there is in such a short period of time.
You couldn’t imagine not having him around. Couldn’t imagine only calling him on weekdays, kissing his mouth on weekends. It was stupid.
It felt surreal. Who came up with this stupid rule?
Who send him all the way up to the north, when he belonged here, in the city, glued to your side. Be your boyfriend.
“Want to go for lunch now?” Lawyer Kim caught your attention.
“Ugh, yes. Yes. Sure, let’s go.” You nodded urgently and grabbed your wallet.
“Let me at least take over from here. You’ll have to drive yourself all the way back to the city.” You gave him a short glance. “Please.”
“Okay, okay. You can drive.” You agreed, with much dramatic exasperation in your voice at his persistence.
You pulled the car over on a curb, turning the emergency lights on in case someone was going down the same road and decided to ram your car. Jaehyun immediately undid his seatbelt and reached for his door, but you’ve fumbled a little with your moves; palm covering his knee when you could see him determined to take the wheel.
“Wait.” You hastily told him, making the man next to you pause all his actions.
You undid your own seatbelt in a slow manner and turned to him, concern washing over his face in a second.
You knew he was about to change that facial expression in a whiplash. You'd moved your seat back a little and in one motion moved your leg up over to Jaehyun's thigh. In three more not that gracious motions of your body you'd ended up on his lap, a puff of air the only sound accompanying the moment.
You moved your fingers over to his nape, running them through Jaehyun’s hair and finally rested your forehead against his.
“I think I’m really going to miss your presence this week.”
"I will too. I am going to really miss seeing you whenever I feel like it. These two weeks we had, they were really special for me, baby." Jaehyun leaned more, letting your noses touch. His palms moved up your thighs onto your waist, and you slid a bit further up his legs to get your torso's closer.
"I have a condom in the pocket of my jacket, because I want you to use it just this once before you have to go." You admitted shamelessly, trailing Jaehyun's mouth with yours. He'd immediately reached for both sides of you, retrieving it from the right one.
"I don't know if this is weird; we've only been doing this for two weeks. But I hope you would want to be my girlfriend, because I'm willing to be exclusive and devoted to you.”
“Because I offered you a quickie?” You chuckled, instead of giving him a proper answer.
"Because you proved to me that when there's the right person everything is clicking within a day." Jaehyun took your head in his hand and you happily let him guide your lips to his; melting into the kiss as you put more body weight against him.
"I want only you, exclusively, too." You let him know and he smiled happily; that true sincere smile that made his dimples pop, and pressed his mouth into yours once more. You had to push him back once more. "Now, boyfriend, do you want to use this rubber or not?”
“I do.” He admitted, arms snuggling onto your waist, to lift your clothes up your stomach. He tried to be sweet even as you were crumpled in the car, placing kisses and caressing your body, but soon enough he’d figured his wishes were hard to realise, so you’d both pulled your jeans and uniform pants down and quickly helped him roll the condom down his length.
It wasn't a goodbye sex in its exact meaning, but it also was; thus, it felt like every feeling was multiplied by a hundred. It felt like he was reaching deeper than before; your walls were swallowing him tighter than before. Jaehyun's mouth running against your skin felt hotter than before.
Your thighs were on fire, he’d tried helping you by thrusting from under you, but the car was too small and too uncomfortable for you to let him do what he wanted. He’d ended up grabbing your thighs and guiding you down along his length, until he quickly enough felt like he’d reached his high, and rubbed your clit until you could join him.
“Oh god. Never again.” Jaehyun chuckled right into your ear, while you panted against his chest in a post-orgasm bliss. “I like to be able to reach all of you when I’m making love to you. No more car sex.”
“You’re too cute.” You caressed his cheek, pecking Jaehyun’s lips. “But I do agree, this was horrible. Though, an experience.”
“I never had sex in a car before.”
“Me neither.” You chuckled.
He’d helped you put all your clothes back on and with a little rumble paid his attention to the fact he’s going to be late and get told off. You’d quickly let him leave his seat to drive to your destination.
"You have to be in the city before eight PM to catch me home." You leaned into your phone, staring at your boyfriend through the screen. He did the same, eyes running over his phone.
"I'll be in the city before midday, baby." You beamed at the promise; he'd sealed it once more for your heart to be content. You were constantly paranoid about not having enough time together before he'll have to leave once more. "Why are you half naked, by the way?”
"I'm getting dressed for work." You informed him, trying on a blouse that was supposed to give professionalism.
"You're on lawyer duty this morning?" He smiled at the phone and you leaned in once more to nod. "Can I protest?"
"Why?" You chuckled.
“Too much cleavage, I think everyone will be distracted.”
"Perhaps, someone's jealous?" You teased.
"Mmmh, I am. Jealous of tomorrow, me who's going to bury his face in all this." He'd flirted and moved his attention somewhere else; losing all the emotion from his face at once.
"What is it?”
“I have to go, but I’ll see you very soon and in person.” you sent a million flying kisses into the camera before he’d cut the call and you focused back on getting ready.
“Boss, isn’t that the guy that came here a couple of times with you?” You barely heard the question, focused on recounting the gin bottles once more as the beats of Akon’s Smack that took your mind elsewhere. Woo repeated his question directly into your ear canal and you had to wipe it from his spit midst turning around; brows furrowed and confused.
It was one AM, you told Jaehyun to sleep because he was up since six, and he even gave in and messaged you goodnight when you promised to wake him up once you’re back.
But he was right there, in front of you, eyes smiling as well as his lips, while looking at you.
“Jae? What are you doing here?” You leaned in over the bar, when he’d done the same on the other side of it.
He was taken of the opportunity to answer as two people wrapped his shoulders to lean over the bar with him. You’ve recognised Mingyu and Rosie by his side, your eyes involuntarily sliding down where her fingers gripped his forearm.
He’d lowered his gaze there also and made a small motion to free himself, but she’d just readjusted her hold.
“What do you want to order, Jae?” She chirped, oblivious to the person behind the bar.
“Wait.” Mingyu looked you dead in the eyes and didn’t take a second to recognise you. “You’re a bartender?!”
“That’s my manager.” Woo came in, probably assuming these people wanted to place an order; probably to eavesdrop on gossip.
“Ooof, is that courtesy of this young man?” Mingyu chuckled, patting Jaehyun and gestured over at his chest and neck, making four sets of eyes, yours on top ogle over your cleavage.
“Why would you stare at my girlfriend’s chest?” Jaehyun furrowed his brow, punching Mingyu’s shoulder like he was upset. He’d smirked right after at his friend and the other guy patted your boyfriend’s shoulder once more.
Jaehyun had left a few marks there five minutes into your meeting today, and you've put on much concealer over your skin to cover it in order not to be suffocated in a turtle neck at a club. It clearly didn’t help, huh.
"Your girlfriend?" That bit of information made Rosie scandalised; also made her let go of his arm so it was a win for you.
"How would I know that if you don't talk shit about your life?" Mingyu shot back with a mock accusation and Jaehyun ran his eyes into his head.
"Can you give us a moment?" Jaehyun looked at his friends and Mingyu dragged Rosie away in a second. "Hi baby.”
“What are you doing here?” You’d said in unison; Jaehyun reached a hand to hold your fingers over the bar. “You messaged goodnight, I thought it meant you were sleeping.” You softened and got on your very tippy toes to be closer to his face.
“I was, but then I thought of a question. Needed to ask it immediately.”
“So you gathered all your friends to accompany you here for a question?” Jaehyun shifted his weight and his palm landed on your jaw, caressing with his fingers.
“I find it impossible to be apart from you when we’re in the same city, baby. You’re not mad, are you?” He moved his neck back a little to stare deeply into your eyes. Of course, you weren’t mad. For all you knew, the feeling was reciprocated. You really wished to be with him the whole time, especially when it was this limited. You’d even considered not going to work. At all.
He’d pulled your face in closer, and the distant sound of Woo’s voice was the only reason you were able to find strength and put a hand on his shoulder.
“I can’t do this when I’m on the clock. I ask this of my staff and can’t go against my own set of rules.” You gasped out.
“Okay. Can you finish early tonight? My friends really want to party with you.”
“Only your friends?”
"You know partying is not what I want to do with you at all, sweetheart." You bit into your lower lip, letting your noses touch. You'd no more self-control to refrain from kissing him any longer when he was so close and so seducing just by his existence.
"Okay, give me another thirty minutes and I'm all yours." You let your palm rest over Jaehyun's cheek; mouth pressing into the dimple on his cheek.
“Like you’re not now?” You scrunched your nose up and he’d let you go, not taking it any further. “I’ll be over here, waiting.” He’d gestured at the bar stool next to him and sat down on it.
“Here? What about your friends?”
“These two gossipers surely already told the news to the rest of the group and if I go there now, I’ll be dead by the time you’re done.” He bit onto his cheek, holding in a smile, head shaking in a thought.
"You should've told them we were acquaintances if that's what you were comfortable with." You shrugged a little, trying to play indifference, when you thought how his friends told you how they were rich kids; by your own conclusion, they were probably pretentious enough over their friend's choice and he could be faltering sharing it, even though Jaehyun was part of the group too and didn't seem one bit like it."They didn't know about us because it's none of their fucking business and because we've not been together properly, even for a week. I wanted to talk about what you're comfortable with before telling them anything." You nodded and bit into the corner of your lip feeling immediately stupid for whatever you thought was the reason a moment ago.
You didn’t say anything back. You leaned over the bar and pecked his mouth before he’d realised what you were doing and moved back to the task you had before he came over. Jaehyun sitting obediently on the bar stool the whole time.
You'd returned from the back room forty minutes later, clocked out and changed into the emergency clothes you had in here for instance, just like this, and this time went straight to Jaehyun, who sat at the bar still, a drink in his hand. He clearly didn't see your approach because he'd looked startled as you flirted with him before he worked out it was you.
“Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again and try to impress you?” You flirted with the stupidest line you could come up with.
“Did you swap clothes with someone?” Jaehyun looked at you astonished, a little; arm immediately sneaking over your lower back to pull you in between his legs. “Love the skirt.” He’d grabbed onto your bare thigh way higher up than you would’ve expected him to, keeping in mind the skirt was extra short and he’d still managed to surprise you.
"I had a spare fit in case someone ever wanted me to quit early, you know."
"I fear you're quitting early every week from now on." Jaehyun's other arm grabbed your waist, and you pushed him back.
You’d raised your palm up and Woo scooted closer in an instance.
“I’ve clocked out, but I’ll be here for a little while if anything is needed.” He’d nodded, not even trying to focus his gaze on you, watching Jaehyun’s lips trail kisses up and down your neck instead.
"I do kindly remind you of the no fucking in the backroom rule, boss. Clocked in or not," he'd given you both a brow and you wanted to gasp scandalised, but Jaehyun took over with a hearty laugh and you'd given in chuckling yourself. "Have a great time though. I'll even consider giving the first set of your drinks on the house.”
“How’d he know this is exactly what I’ve been wanting ever since I came in here.” Jaehyun turned you around in his arms and finally leaned in, pressing his face against your cheek.
"You weren't exactly trying to keep your intentions a secret." You smiled, and forced his face away, to finally kiss him.
You've gone through haste makeouts in the morning. An absolute mess of feelings and pure physical need for release has guided the first six hours of your meeting and now you've slowed down to just holding each other, being next to each other. Enjoying the press of his lips against yours, palm pressing into the small of your back.
You've only ever felt that content with your own self, never with someone else. Not with someone you've known for a couple of weeks. Never with someone so open about his own feelings, so certain of what he wanted. Certain that he wanted you.
“What was the question? Or was there none?” You let your palms press into his thighs, mouths pulling apart to take a few proper breaths in.
“No, there was. Must you work at the club at night? Are you really needed here like that?”
"No," you couldn't suppress a laugh. "There's an actual office rented with more staff working there during daytime; I just prefer it this way. I do all the administrative tasks and etc. in my office, simply because I can. Why?”
“Was just curious, there’s nothing to it.” Jaehyun chuckled and pulled you back in by your chin. “Glad to know you’re not just forced to work at night.”
“Are we not going to go to your besties?”
“Right. We are.” Jaehyun let an exasperated sigh out and stood up, leading you to his friend group.
"You know, I still can drive you back this time too." You caressed his clothed chest, unable to part yourself from his body.
"You don't have to. I'll take the bus; you won't have to spend half of your day on the road." The tips of his fingers tickled your cheek and you raised your eyes up to look at his. Weird wave of realisation and literal grief washed over you.
You were down to another five days before you could touch his shoulder like that again.
“You’re right, the bus is the right decision.”
“Mmh.” Jaehyun pecked the corner of your mouth.
“But we’ll have a little more time together if I go with you.” You let your arm slide up his chest and around his neck. Jaehyun looked at you pleadingly, knowing he’d worry more once you’re left to drive back home in the darkness. “No, you are right, I should stay here and get ready for work.”
“I will miss you.” He whispered, mouth immediately latching onto yours.
You clutched onto his shoulder, suddenly sinking into your own feelings that were not letting you go of him. You weren’t ready; you weren’t able to accept that someone else was deciding when you were allowed to see him. He was your boyfriend, but he wasn’t all yours.
“I can’t wait for your very last day there. I can’t wait for the day you’ll always be in the city.” You tucked yourself under his arm, face peppering kisses onto his neck.
“Me too, baby.” Jaehyun pecked the crown of your head. “I have to go now, though. See you Saturday, right?” You nodded, letting his lips trail every bit of yours for the last time for today. “I’ll be here before midday and we’ll go out for a brunch. We’ll do everything you want us to do, and then I’ll drive you to work and wait for your return to kiss your pretty mouth until you’re asleep. Deal?”
“Deal.” You once more trailed the outline of his face with your finger and loosened your grip.
Jaehyun moved his arm away too, and with one more look at your face exited the apartment.
You’d schemed all week, asking questions like what time he’s going to leave the base, what time he’ll be at the bus station, what time is his bus, what time he thinks he’ll arrive, all two fish out information and not seem suspicious. Jaehyun took it for your eagerness to see him - which it undoubtedly was, but you’ve also been gathering information to surprise him.
It wasn’t hard to spot him in a group of military men even if you weren’t seeing his face this far from you. He was taller, with glasses over his nose, though it might not be that much of a distinctive trait in his friend group, and had something to his step that even that made him look hot and seducing. You probably needed a CT scan of your brain.
You let the group walk much closer, finally working out features of your boyfriend not in your memory but with your own eyes; they’d walked all submerged in conversation and not payed attention to a single thing around them.
You’ve not expected him to see you even as you stood up not far away from where they were walking simply because he wasn’t expecting you there.
“Jeong Yuno.” You called out and he’d made a one-eighty so swiftly, eyes landing on you without a single struggle to find you. “Hi.”
He’d scooped you in a hug the very next moment. “Oh my god, baby. What are you doing here?” He’d taken a look at you and furrowed his brow. “You’ve not driven here, have you?”
“No, came here on a bus.”
“Did something happen?” You shook your head no and took his face in your hands.
“I missed you so much, Jae. I couldn’t wait until midday. I wanted to see you as soon as possible even if it means I had to go all the way down here.” You pulled him in and he’d kissed you with no thought of withholding his feelings. His palms trailed your waist and soon enough lowered down your thighs, pushing your core against his.
“Ugh, Jeong.” One of the man called and he’d pulled back, so displeased he was interrupted.
“We’re coming, a minute.” You pulled onto his sleeve at the certainty in his voice. “Mmh?”
“Actually, I found a very cute hotel nearby and even booked a room there.” You chewed onto your lip and fluttered your eyelashes at him. “For two people, for tonight.”
He’d grabbed your neck and pressed your mouth into his all before you could read the face expression he had. “Give me a second.”
You watched him walk away from you to explain to his friends how he wasn’t going back to the city tonight and even endured their glances with a little wave of your fingers as they all collectively stared at you after he’d said something clearly mentioning you.
“So, where is it?” Jaehyun asked upon his return to you.
“Wait,” you pulled onto his wrist. “Before we go there, you have to promise me we’ll go out for dinner. We won’t procrastinate in bed all day.”
“Pinky promise.” Jaehyun took your fingers in his and then forced your lips to meet once more in a kiss. “Wait, but what about the club for tonight?”
“Left Woo to run it.” Jae nodded like he cared, and you walked to the hotel with him, knowing damn well he was not keeping that pinky promise.
“If you said it was supposed to be for six months and we met when you’ve already served two of them, which is twenty four weeks minus eight” you folded Jaehyun’s fingers instead of yours for counting. “You’ve come back once, I’ve been here four times already-.” You folded more fingers. “It means eleven more weeks, and then I can wake up with you in a bed whenever I feel like it?” You moved on your elbows to Jaehyun’s face.
“That is, if everything continues as it is. Near the border, I mean.”
“Of course, it will.” You chuckled at his silliness and pressed your mouth into his. “I can’t wait to have you more than just for dinner at the cafe and this hotel room.”
“That can be achieved if you’ll just let me come back to Seoul. We could go to so many places there.”
“I don’t want you to. It’s a long road and you have to go back and forth, and-.”
“But that is exactly what you’re doing for me, isn’t it?” He’d stopped you, sitting up with his back against the headboard.
Jaehyun deliberately pulled you from his chest and made you sit up, thighs over his. He’d taken your palms in his and the concentration and slight worry over his face made you more worried than he was. You’ve squeezed his fingers between yours to give him courage, and Jaehyun finally focused his gaze on your eyes.
“I love you.” your heart immediately thumped in your head, he’d looked even more worried as you graced him with silence, but you couldn’t undo the freezing. Your whole body suddenly felt like it was made of ice that burned, if that made any sense at all. You were frozen, but also terribly on fire, heart pumping blood like it was its last day alive.
Was he sure? Wasn't it too soon? Is he even aware of what this confession is doing to your heart, mind, body, and soul?
"It's okay if you're not ready to say it back, no pre-." He must've taken your astonishment the wrong way, huh.
“No.” You quickly rearranged your thoughts, unclasping his hold on your fingers and leaning into him, palms landing on his soft, fuzzy cheeks. “I love you, Jaehyun.” He’d smiled, relieved and perked his lips up for a peck you happily granted him. His arms locked around your head pulling you in closer, legs between his legs and you could tell he was feeling himself as if the weight of the world fell off his shoulder.
You thought something was off at work when you’ve talked to him today, but it seems like the issue was the nerves. He was still so undeniably cute. Dear Lord.
“I think I loved you before you asked me to be your girlfriend. When on your vacation you took me to work and picked me up, when you bought me pastries on your morning runs, when you took me bowling I felt like I was getting deeper into you every time we were together. I probably fell for you when you came to the club and said you came here for me first thing you were able to be back in the city.”
“I love you.” He smiled, relieved you were able to reciprocate. Maybe, a little surprised at the fact he was accepted and understood. “Been wanting to tell you for weeks.”
“I love you.” You smiled mischievously, kissing his shoulder. “I love you.” Your mouth pressed into his jawline and Jaehyun wrapped an arm around your shoulder. “I love you.” You kissed his cheek and moved before his mouth.
“Once I’m back to the city, you’ll have to move half of your staff to my place, because there’s no way you’re staying far from me.” You hugged his neck, excited at the mere mention of him living in the same city as you.
You’ve been contemplating for the past three weeks - flowers or no flowers? Should you bring a cake or just take him home and do all the celebratory events you’ve prepared there.
You’d stared at the watch on your wrist for the nth time in the last ten minutes and finally figured it was time to come out of the car to greet him, taking a small flower bouquet from the passenger seat with you.
You'd taken just two steps from the car, when you'd seen Yuno's silhouette exit the gates and took off like a mad woman in his direction.
People watching you cross the parking lot like that had a good reason to think you were running away from a killer.
“Baby.” You cried out, emotions overflowing in your system. Before you knew it, before you could ever reach him, happy tears streamed down your face.
Jaehyun was coming back to the city and he was coming back for good.
You choked on a sob, finally jumping into his arms. Jaehyun took you in his hold, squeezing the life out of you with his hug. He'd lifted you off the ground and your arms found their place over his neck, the bouquet in your hold brushing the back of Jaehyun's head.
You gave each other a couple of long looks, like you haven’t seen each other in ten years and locked lips in a kiss.
You were so relieved, in such bliss, you’ve let your kiss portray exactly that.
You were finally able to let go of that constant fear at the back of your mind - what if something happens? What if anything at all happens and you’re never seeing him again?
You’d choked even more on the thought and grabbed his face with your fingers like he’d returned from literal war.
"I'm so happy you don’t have to go back here again." you mumbled, lips setting on his jaw. Jaehyun’s fingers somehow reached your clothed inner thigh and caressed it while holding you in the air.
You felt like kissing his face and neck right then and there, unable to contain your excitement a minute, much less take it home.
Jaehyun slid his tongue against your lips and you've granted him access into your mouth, letting a whine surpass your lips. Jaehyun smiled, his arm dangerously teasing your inner thigh.
"See you Monday, Jeong. Don't be late and don't overwork yourself on the weekend, huh." Some guy commented through a chuckle, and you pulled back.
Eyes stern in a second.
"What did he mean?” You questioned, non-accusatory, yet. Maybe you’ve gotten it wrong.
"It's nothing, baby.” Jaehyun shook his head, trying to kiss you once more.
"What does he mean about the Monday?" You pulled back and Jaehyun let you back on the ground.
Right this moment you could tell by his eyes he has to be back here Monday, it’s just that you were still in the midst of not accepting the reality.
Or the lie, or the fact he’d kept it away from you all of this time and made you excited like a stupid fool over nothing.
"Why did you lie?” You let the disappointment out on the surface.
"I didn’t, baby.” He pleaded, but it didn’t really reach your heart. It was thumping in your head once more. Absolutely tearing apart your bodily system with borderline betrayal. This was betrayal, right?
“Liar." You spat, hurt. Suddenly, it wasn’t the happy tears that streamed down your face.
"I didn't know until five minutes ago. I didn't have the time to tell you. I received the command just now." Jaehyun still tried to pull you back in, but it was useless. You were suffocated out in the fresh air; under his touch, you were set to immediate death. Of pain and disappointment.
"Why didn't you say no?" It was such a stupid question; you knew he couldn't. But you had to ask.
"I can't. I literally can't." Jaehyun looked at you like you were insane. Maybe you were, for believing what he told you. For letting him lead you on with the promise.
“You're lying again?" You cried.
"No, of course not. I'm a man of duty, wherever it calls - I follow. That's why the commander decides, and I just do what I'm told.” Jaehyun tried to showcase his military voice to you, but you weren’t impressed one bit by it.
"No." You cried and stepped back.
"Baby, please." Jaehyun pleaded, understanding of your reaction, but also hurt and worried. You could see that, but you also knew it was always necessary to put yourself first. You couldn't feel pity at this moment for him, for the person who didn't even find it important to tell you about his plans. Even though you thought you were important; even though you thought you were loved.
"Please what?" You stepped back and couldn't understand why did you even decide on bringing the flowers.
"I love you." Jaehyun went for the low blow, it seemed.
"Do you even? Maybe it's just convenient to have someone that's ready to spend half of their weekend on the road for a fuck?" You decided to go for one too.
"Stop, saying hurtful things won’t make it better. You know I love you and I always show it to you." Jaehyun tried to touch you once more.
"No, don’t touch me. I-I can’t." You wiped your nose. "I'm going back home."
"I'll drive."
"Whatever." You shook your head, running back to the car without him. You couldn't imagine yourself driving for two hours straight; in the back of your head, you were glad he offered. You trailed to the passenger seat and threw the bouquet to the backseat, fastening your seatbelt afterward.
Jaehyun followed not long after, quietly leaving his belongings in the seat behind him and starting the engine. You pressed yourself against the door, unable to feel fine while having him this close. Knowing it's once more only for less than two days. Tomorrow he'll have to go back to be in time for his 6 AM Monday weekly kick-off.
Your eyes caught glimpses of his fingers over the screen, connecting his phone and searching for your shared playlist in his profile.
You felt your palms turn into fists at the desperation and powerlessness you had in this situation. You had no capability to change the situation. You had to obey; to be part of his world, you had to be as obedient as he was.
Follow the rules Jaehyun was set to follow. You didn’t want to, you couldn’t.
You could not do this any longer.
You couldn't accept that some man in a uniform decided how your relationship is going to go. When you can see the man you love, and when you're not.
The inner turmoil was suffocating you; you felt your breath get even more uneven than before. Jaehyun couldn't keep his distance from you anymore; he took your hand, kissing the back of your palm.
"Baby, please. Don't cry." You tried to pull your hand out of his hold. "I love you more than anyone in this world. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. See you on my deathbed, grey and with a bunch of our grandchildren hugging your shoulders." Jaehyun's lips peppered kisses over your palm. "I swear to God none of this is intentional. I want to spend all of my time with you and I am not allowed to. They need me there. I have to obey. If I could’ve, I would've been back in the city after our first meeting.” Jaehyun pressed his lips against your palm, talking into your skin, not forgetting to leave a few kisses as he finished his sentence. “Thank you for the flowers, by the way. No one ever gave me flowers.” He’d kissed your palm once more as a thank you.
Your heart melted, just a little.
You couldn't make yourself pull your hand out of his hold, let him know it was hurting you more than what he must've imagined it would.
You should've said something to him about how much he meant for you. How much you've come to love him, those weeks you were apart yet still together. You couldn’t stand being ruled by a man you’ve never seen in your life, but more than that you’ve came to realisation you couldn’t imagine separating yourself from the guy, whose feelings were not considered in the decision making process.
You couldn't imagine not taking your weekend trips all the way up to the north to see him, live in your little bubble for this short period of time. Enjoy his love, care, and thoughtfulness.
"How long for?" You made a sound for the first time in an hour, and it must've startled Jaehyun so much his hand made the wheel turn left a bit; he even had to let go of your fingers that he held on to patiently and straighten the car in its lane, only to recollect your digits between his in a moment.
"Mmh?" He asked confused, eyes darting between the road and you.
You sounded too hoarse the first time and decided to repeat the question. "How long do I have to wait for you again?"
Jaehyun looked at you, clearly scared to give you the real answer. You bit your tongue, giving a short caress to his fingers holding yours.
"A year."
You squeezed your eyes to not burst into tears right in the middle of the driveway.
Another whole fucking year. You were going to go insane.
It's been officially eighteen hours since you last left Jaehyun’s bed for more than three minutes. He'd left you there alone and miserable for at least an hour to go on his stupid run, even though you were obviously grieving. He'd also left you for another fifteen minutes to go pick up your burger order, but other than that he'd obeyed to your wish to stay there.
It was probably simple for him to obey to someone else's wishes, wasn't it?
You haven't talked much; you could tell he was getting more concerned by the minute because the time was ticking, and you barely talked to him, and he needed to leave soon, but he couldn’t.
Not when you were feeling yourself like this, not when you looked at him like you were dissociating. Even when your mouth let moans out, your eyes looked at him with a glint of hollowness.
He’d glanced at the clock on the table once more and let a sigh out signalling he wanted to talk, but was so deep down into this silent awkwardness he simply couldn’t.
You’d given him a boost of confidence by raising your gaze at him. Jaehyun cleared his throat, but it clearly didn’t help him speak in his regular voice. You’ve entertained the silence for too long.
"We're all good, aren't we?" He'd looked at you sheepishly and that tore you apart completely.
"We are." You blinked through the sudden wave of tears and had no other reply but falling on his chest for a hug. Jaehyun let his arms wrap your shoulder, and before you knew it you wailed like someone physically ripped you open and took a piece of your heart out.
“I’m so sorry, baby. I don’t know what I could do to make it less painful. You’re always sacrificing so much for me and I can’t even get back in the city.” Jaehyun whispered against your temple, palm caressing your back.
“That is not true.” Your fingers wiped the tear stains off your cheeks, colliding with Jaehyun’s fingers that reached to do the same.
“You come to me every weekend, quit the club, took care of my apartment, my bills, my-, well, basically my everything. You’re taking care of everything and I can’t even keep one promise I gave you, and it pains me so much. I swear it does.”
“It’s your duty.” You shook your head, not understanding where these words of support were coming from. He was right.
He wasn’t keeping the only promise he promised to keep.
But the rest - it was your choice, it was something you wanted to do for him. Because you loved Jaehyun, you fell in love with him and the feeling was whole-consuming and deep.
No, not in the past tense. It is. You still loved him the same. This tiny nuance couldn’t change a thing.
It can’t.
“I knew who you were when I let myself fall in love with you. I’m reaping what I’ve sown for myself. It wasn’t ever going to be easy. But I love you; love can endure all. Can’t it?”
“I am taking a vacation next month. Two weeks, okay? Pick anywhere you want to go in the whole wide world, and I’ll take you there. You won’t have to worry about a single thing. Just wake up in bed with me every morning and do everything your heart wishes for.”
“You can’t randomly leave the country. Not the special forces captain.” You chuckled for the first time this weekend and wiped your tears off his shoulder.
“I’ll have to approve our destination with my commanding officer, but for the rest there won’t be an issue.”
“Are you sure?” You had no reason to doubt the man in front of you, but you also did.
“I promise. We’re going on a holiday. Our first holiday together.” He leaned in and pressed his mouth against yours, making it a little bit easier in your chest to accept this whole thing.
-
“Yuno?” Your voice trembled into the phone. You heard a bunch of noises on the other end of the line, but nothing much that you could match to your boyfriend’s voice or any words at all.
“Baby.” His voice finally screeched through the line and you’d choked up on the tears trying to leave your eyes. “I’m okay.”
“I got an emergency alert on my phone about the border, and I've read the news that something happened, and I don't understand. What is going on?" You tried to contain yourself; you've talked about this with him before.
In case of emergency, you have to not give in to panic. He's in a dangerous zone, but he's trained to work in emergency situations; you shouldn't worry about him and take care of yourself. He'll try to contact you the first chance he gets to let you know he's safe.
What bullshit it was, why would you care about yourself when he was clearly in danger. He didn’t pick up his phone for two hours and at this point it felt like your soul was leaving your body.
Another great perk of being in a relationship with a military man is that in case of emergency, there's about zero chance anyone would tell if he's safe and where he is. It was really lucky Jaehyun actually had his phone by now.
"It's okay. It's all good." He tried to calm you down, but the sounds overlapping with his voice signalled it was just a lie.
“Do you know what happened?”
"Some mess from the north, I don't know yet, I am only going to go there now for the night."
"Please, please, be safe." You cried on the phone.
"I will, darling. I love you. I really do." He whispered into the phone. Why was he making it sound like a goodbye? He can’t be serious right now. It can’t be anything of actual danger to him. It can’t.
"I love you too, Jae.” You whispered, unable to say anything else. Ask any questions.
“I think I’m not coming to the city this weekend.” He sighed into the phone.
“It’s okay, just please, be safe.”
“I will be. I have to go, I’ll get in contact when I get the chance. I love you.” He hung up before you could tell him how much you loved him too.
-
His absence in the city on the weekend wasn't easy, worsened by the fact it was nearly impossible to talk to him in general.
By what you were able to gather from the internet, there was a fire open near the border, descendants, and an interception, neutralised all within thirty minutes. You were finding it hard to understand why they were not letting go of the situation two weeks later.
Yes, you got that it was an emergency, illegal armed border crossing, but according to the uniformed man on the TV everything was perfect and taken care of.
Somehow, Jaehyun’s been locked up at the base for weeks straight, his unit in full combat readiness. You barely heard his voice and that, adding up to the whole thing made it impossible for you to carry on with your regular life in the city.
It was a happy call, when Jaehyun managed to call you from a landline phone, like he’d been in a dungeon with no connection, to tell you he managed to ask for a two hours of leave for tomorrow. If you could come see him - he’ll be happy to.
Of course you could, of course you would come see him. That’s why right now you were watching the bus take the left turn to the bus station, messaging Jaehyun about your arrival right after.
He was supposed to be free in thirty minutes, enough time for you to walk to the gates.
“You’re here.” Jaehyun let a sigh out as you stepped out; making you so startled upon his presence. “I was given an extra hour, I figured I’ll come pick you up.” You stared at him paralysed. He hasn’t worn much his camouflage uniform with you, making your eyes ogle on his name tag and his rolled up sleeves. Hair noticeably shorter than the last time you’ve seen and touched him. “Come here.” Jaehyun pulled onto your wrist when a man tried to descend the bus and pushed into your back.
“Are you okay?” You took his face in your arms, trying to see if anything at all changed. Your fingers trailed over his arms, tanner than they’ve been before and looked over his skin for a sign of any physical harm he might’ve endured in those weeks.
“Baby, I’m all good.” Jaehyun chuckled, and took your hands in his instead. “I’m perfectly fine now that you’re here.” He guided your arms onto his shoulders and ran his fingers against your waist, leaving a kiss on your neck. “I missed you so fucking much. I can’t believe I haven’t seen you for almost a month.”
“Can you go back home next week?” Jaehyun pulled back, eyes uncertain.
“I’m not sure, baby. Every morning they extend the emergency status.” He caressed your cheek apologetically, leaving a kiss over your forehead.
“Should we go to the cafe?”
“One of my colleagues rents an apartment down the street.”
“You want us to go see him?”
“No.” Jaehyun shook his head with a chuckle. “I want to give you a very big, long, hug, and he’d told me the passcode.”
“Is he okay with us intervening like that?”
“Of course. He said as long as we don’t touch his bed we can do whatever.”
“And what did you tell him we were going to do?” You chuckled, Jaehyun’s arm wrapping your shoulder to walk to the apartment.
“Nothing, I said we’re both very intelligent and decent kids.”
“Did he believe you?”
“No.” Jaehyun laughed, giving you a side hug.
-
“Can’t imagine getting up from under you in an hour.” Jaehyun ran his fingers against the sides of your neck, extending your neck to kiss your cheek.
“Have you ever imagined to quit this and get a different job?” You raised your head up and asked the question that bothered you for a little while.
“No.” Jaehyun defended, eagerly. You could tell the question offended him, but you were way past tip-toeing about it. Maybe you should fight it out and come to some sort of piece of mind. “Never.”
“I understand.” You took a mental step back, not able to ruin the limited time you have in his arms.
“I’m really sorry.” He tucked your head under his chin and shifted his legs, wrapping them more around yours.
“I think I cried every day of this week because I miss you and can’t do a thing about it. People in jail get to get visitors, and you don’t. I haven’t even been to the place you spend all of your time at. Isn’t that unfair? Don’t you feel like it’s just a little unfair?” Jaehyun trailed your cheeks with his fingers like he could still see the tear stains over them.
“I’m sorry, I really am sorry.”
“But it’s not even your fault, what are you sorry for?”
“I should’ve known it’ll be difficult when I started it all.” You had to raise your head from his chest to see his eyes. It’s not like he was regretting dating you. He can’t be really saying that to you right now.
“Despite the emergency status, you have your permit to leave the country for our trip, and we are going to spend two weeks like any normal couple would, and it'll all be better after that. We are just a little worn out by the schedule. But it doesn't mean I don't love you." You patted his clothed chest, forcing the words of your love into his chest.
“About that.” Jaehyun sighed so heavily, you slid to the back of the couch on your side and he’d turned on his, fingers taking your chin to look in your eyes. “The permit was taken back, because of everything that’s been happening. I’m not allowed to leave the country any longer for the meantime, and-.”
“It’s fine.” You even managed a smile out, covering the fingers holding your face. “I have a whole list of places I want to visit within the country. We could see what we both like-.” You blinked at him, understanding it all without him needing to say it. You weren’t going anywhere. He was declined the vacation at all. Jaehyun mouthed I’m sorry, but you’ve ignored it. What was the point of those words you couldn’t know any more. “It’s okay. We’ll do it next time, right? When you’re able to, we’ll have the best time together. I love you.” It felt a little like you were trying to convince yourself you did, so you stopped talking. Your mind was deceiving you, so much disappointment was hard to carry with your head held high.
You leaned in and laid your lips atop of his; Jaehyun kissed you back, palms taking your head in their hold properly, as you leaned back into the backrest of the couch, Jaehyun took the lead of the kiss, leaning over you and pressing you down from above.
“Are you sure it’s okay?”
“It is, I promise.” Jaehyun leaned back in, but you paused.
I promise. He always says that. It never goes like he promises it will.
You let him turn your neck to fit better under his lips, and he groaned against your skin.
“Do you want to?” He asked, letting his palms wander lower, making your leg hook around his body.
“When do you think I’ll see you next time?”
“If it was up to me, I wouldn’t make you leave in the first place.” Jaehyun’s palm ran up and down inner side of your thigh, making your arms cover with shivers.
“Baby.” You murmured; you wanted an answer, not his sweet talking.
"I don't know. No one knows. They should've lifted the emergency status last week; it's still on. Then they cut everyone's right to go on vacation for the foreseeable future. I don't have an answer, that's the honest truth.”
“Okay. Then I definitely do. I miss your touch.” You let his palms trail up your stomach, bunching up your shirt. His fingers burned against your skin and you forced all the uneasiness out of your head.
He was your man, you loved him, you’d do anything to make him happy and content. You have to endure this one bit of difficulty to be back in the city together. He will, eventually, come back. You need to work on your patience to have your happy ever after.
You undid the buttons on his combat shirt and pulled it down Jaehyun’s shoulders. He let you leave him in his plain black shirt. Your fingers went down to his belt and you’d pulled the tucked material up, when Jaehyun’s fingers caught yours.
“What?” You looked puzzled at him, it’s not like he was shy for you to see his stomach. You did about a hundred times before, anyway. “What are you hiding?” You smirked, sneaking a palm blindly under his clothes. He tsked and took your palms back out.
“Your fingers are freezing,” Jaehyun pinned your arms above your head and leaned his body down to your stomach, making a sloppy trail all the way down to your jeans. He expertly undid the button and pulled them down to your knees, his thigh getting back in between your legs to create friction.
“Oh my god.” You whispered, as his digits sneaked over your chest, pulling the bra down. Jaehyun teased your nipple with his fingers and in combination with his leg and lips you felt like you were on fire. “I missed you.” You let out a hitch breath mid sentence. “I feel so lonely without you.” You spread your legs wider and Jaehyun pressed his legs harder, and your hips moved against his pants and you moaned into his shoulder. Unable to do anything else, you gripped onto his shoulder and let him take care of you.
He let go of your nipple to grab onto your ass, trying to imprint each of his fingers into your skin. Jaehyun’s mouth met yours then, and you let your tongue slide against his lips, until he’d granted you access and stuck your tongue into his mouth, sloppily kissing his mouth.
Jaehyun moved his grip, and now his hand ended up before his thigh, and in less than a second he’d pulled your underwear aside and smothered his fingers in your slickness. You’d taken a sharp inhale as he moved his fingers to your hole and pumped them in and out of you with much determination.
You found his belt blindly once more, this time undoing it.
You sneaked your hand down into his pants and he’d made another displeased sound with his mouth. “Are you okay?” He asked like it wasn’t you who needed to ask that.
“Perfectly.”
“Why are you so cold?” You were sure your palms were warming up mid action. You had no idea why you were freezing, or maybe you did. You’ve been so nervous and anxious the whole time, your limbs went cold.
“Give me five minutes, I’ll warm my hands up.” You smiled, stroking his length in your hand. The warmth and weight of his cock felt so good against your palm. You missed that so much. You missed his digits sliding in and out of you. You missed the feeling of his cock pulsing inside of your throbbing heat with no barrier.
“Love you so fucking much.” Jaehyun panted into your neck, as you pulled the zipper down and properly took his length out of the restraining clothes. Your hands covered his cock to give it double pressure as you stroked him, watching the tip get pink and glistening. You could only ever want it in your mouth when you see it. “When I get home I want you.”
“You’re not home, do you not want me?”
“You know what I mean.” Jaehyun licked his lips.
You raised up on your knees, making Jaehyun let go of your body and scoot to the side, so you’d have more space to sit. You made him raise his hips up and let you pull all of the fabric down his legs. As you did so, your head leaned to his tip and your hands rearranged the grip over him and you’d giving him a lick, getting a very long fuck out of Jaehyun’s mouth.
You sat on your folded legs and let one of the palms leave his length for support of your weight and took more of him into your mouth. Jaehyun was always quick with finding ways to give you pleasure, so now also he found a way to sneak his fingers between your legs and against your clit.
You took more of him into your mouth, swallowing the spit and pre-cum and mixed on your tongue, lowering properly on his length. You’d raised your hips from your legs to get the better angle and bob your head rhythmically on him, when you head him move; next thing you felt was his tongue against your perked up ass and sliding right into your heat.
You couldn’t even imagine how he reached it, given all of the circumstances, but he did, an arm angling you better so his tongue would be able to slide up and down your sensitive bud.
It felt straight up from an adult movie, having sex on the couch of his colleagues’ apartment, giving each other pleasure with your mouths at the same time. It felt nasty, but it also felt so fucking good. You couldn’t keep your moans inside, couldn’t stop humming and gasping mouth full of his cock. Couldn’t stop yourself from reaching your ass back so he’d be able to get his tongue further, do more with his tongue. And his tongue was capable of so much. So much it was hard for you to comprehend that a human muscle moved like that.
“We need to stop.” You moved away from his cock, but your palms were still stroking his length.
“What’s wrong?” Jaehyun pulled on your shoulder to see your face, eyes full of concern, but you couldn’t focus on that. Not when his mouth was glistening like that.
“I mean you have to go back soon, we can only do this once, and I want to feel you inside.” You leaned to Jaehyun’s face, making him lay back down on his back, swiping your tongue against his lips and kissing him next.
“You mean so much to me.” Jaehyun took your thigh once more and wrapped over his waist. He guided you to lay on your side next to him and you’d hugged his neck, pulling him close. Jaehyun took his length in his grip and with a couple of strokes pressed himself into you, swiping his cock against your folds. You spread your legs wider to feel him better; to get him covered in all of you before he sunk in. He’d teased enough, lowering down to your entrance and gave it a few strokes of his member, before he let him slip inside by an inch, and then pull out. He’d done the same thing once more and by the third time your thigh hooked over his waist didn’t let him pull out. He’d stayed caged and got the clue to slip in further.
As he did, your mouth pressed against Jaehyun’s, you’d gasped and he let a grunt out as he slipped further, and with next motion fully slipping in you’d kissed his lips, gasping for air when he pulled out and began slow stroking of your insides with his length.
He’d picked up the pace faster than you expected, and in no time you were grunting into each other’s mouths, nasty sound of skin slapping against skin and the couch legs fighting the wish to move from its spot.
“What do you want me to do?” Jaehyun licked your dried out lips.
“What do you mean?” You took his face in your hold, confused.
“I can cum somewhere else if you want to.”
“No, don’t, it’s okay.” You pulled him in closer and with a few deeper thrusts Jaehyun shuddered and loaded his seed inside of you.
You followed suit as soon as his fingers rubbed your clit, making your heart wrench.
“If I tell him we had to use the shower, he’s definitely going to know what was up.” Jaehyun chuckled to himself.
“You’re going to shower?”
“I thought you would go? I just came inside of you, you don’t like the stickiness.” Jaehyun rubbed his palm against your arm and then wrapped it around his clothed chest.
“I’m going to take a piece of you back home.” You pecked his mouth and asked non-verbally to help you put your undies back on. Jaehyun obeyed, letting you drop back next to him on your knees.
You looked over at him once again, concerned all of a sudden with the shirt’s presence on his skin. Jaehyun never liked a shirt on, was first to pull it off his body. You patted his chest and leaned in for a kiss, taking his attention to your mouth. You took the hem of the shirt in your fist and lifted it up all the way to his peck in one swift motion and pulled back.
Jaehyun closed his eyes in defeat and before you saw what it was you imagined the worst.
But somehow what was before you looked even worse.
“What is that?”
“I’m okay, baby. It’s nothing.” He’d taken your hand in his and tried to cover up once more.
“Why did you lie?” You pulled the material back up and ran the phantom of your fingers over his bruised skin. “Does it hurt?”
“No, not anymore.” He took your hand in his and sat up. “I’m not lying, I’m all good. If it hurt I would’ve busted myself like an hour ago.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t want you to know. You’ll begin to imagine all sorts of things could happen to me here.”
“Because they seemingly can. What happened?” You pressed and pulled the shirt even higher to see if there was anything else there.
“I was in a car that slid down a small hill, nothing serious. ” He said slowly, watching your face for a reaction. “I was in the back next to a box of ammo and when we flipped down the hill the box hit me a few times.”
“What.” You looked him dead in the eye. Was that a made up story? A joke?
“The road was a sheet of ice in the night and the driver lost control and got us in an accident.” Jaehyun said it differently.
“Oh my god.” You hugged his shoulders, face tucked into his neck. “All this time I fear you’re going to get shot or something worse, but you’re able to get on the verge of death by a car accident.” You blinked at him. “Jaehyun.”
“This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you. We can’t see each other properly and barely talk right now, and now you’ve seen the bruise and heard the story and will worry yourself more. I didn’t want to tell you because I wanted to keep your head from that.”
“Can’t you quit?” You felt the tears up in your eyes once more. “I’d be the happiest if you just quit.”
He caressed your back to calm you down, but it didn’t help much. It just couldn’t.
It’s been a month since you last saw Yuno.
It was your decision not to see him. He had a couple of chances to see you spontaneously for an hour or two, but your answer was always I can’t leave the city right now.
You managed to dodge him last weekend, when he’d messaged you Friday morning he’s free to come, you replied back with oh my god baby, that’s amazing news, but I’m out of town with lawyer Kim for our case.
You managed to dodge him just this past weekends too, when you promised to come see him, but your car broke down and there was no tickets for the bus, until it was too late for him to even consider going to you himself.
The worst part of it all was the fact he wasn’t understanding what you were doing. He was so oblivious to your weak reasons to not see him, to not talk to him, to not call back. You cut by half all of your communication, and despite very gentle did I hurt you? did I do something wrong? are you mad at me? it seemed he didn’t catch up on what was going on. Or maybe he did, given he’d not asked you about the upcoming weekend. Maybe he knew what was going on and agreed with you on that decision.
It probably was a good thing, he was giving you and himself time to get used to being apart. To get used to not be together, so once he comes back home and sees your message - he understands it all.
Jaehyun couldn't remember when was the last time he was this excited to leave his stupid job. Probably, not ever since that next weekend after you’d agreed to be his girlfriend.
He was seeping with excitement, happy to return to you the happy sentiment of a surprise visit. Life’s been even more though on you two lately, not letting you see each other for another month, but not anymore. He was successful with keeping it secret that he was finally given a proper vacation.
First thing back, he’d went to his apartment. Back in the sock drawer of his wardrobe he kept another one of his surprises hidden from you and it’s been months since he got it.
It felt like it was the right time to let you know how he felt about you. No more uncertainty, no more tears, no more pain in your eyes when he had to leave you.
He’d planned in his head how he’d change to his civilian clothes, opting for a pair of black jeans and a classic shirt, how he’d leave all of his belongings there and run to you. To see the girl he love so much.
Jaehyun walked into his apartment with lifted spirits, that is until he’d reached his bedroom and saw a very bright pink post-it on his bed. First thought that ran through his mind was you. You spent at his place without him, left behind something from your lawyer papers probably and he’d picked it up to give it to you tonight, when his eyes focused on it to read.
A lot of scribbling but he still managed read the whole thing.
We have to brake up
I can’t do this any longer
I can’t be your weekend duty my whole life
I love you
I’m sorry, Yuno
Jaehyun let the piece of paper drop to his feet and ran through his apartment inspecting; your clothes were gone; your toothbrush - nowhere to be seen. All of you was gone, safe for that stupid pink devilish creation.
He’d taken the box out of the socks drawer and left his apartment immediately. It was the weekend, morning; where else could you be if not home? That’s where he went to, fuming, burning. Angry, not understanding what was the reason. Why were you breaking up with him? Was he wrong about something? Did he hurt you? Yes, you’ve been a little distant because of everything that’s happened, but it all happened against his or yours will. It was not something Jaehyun imagined to be a reason for you to dump him. You’ve said yourself love can endure all. Because you loved him, you were ready to wait until it all became alright once more.
It can’t be the change of your heart - he’d seen I love you crossed out by a million lines written on that piece of paper. You wrote it, you love him.
It was you who noticed Jaehyun first not far from your building’s entrance, and that sudden meeting made you freeze in place. You were leaving the cafe next door, and he was clearly heading to your apartment.
You thought you outplayed him and somehow he was outplaying you now, heading to you. Oblivious to what awaited him at his home? Or full aware? Given he was wearing civilian clothes he’s been home before, but it was hard to read his face expression from the distance and thus you had no clue what was the intention of that visit. You watched him approach the door fully convinced he won’t waver his gaze anywhere else and pass you unknowingly, but as he turned to the door his head turned in a different direction and you’d seen his face get as astonished at the sudden meeting as yours two minutes ago.
You’d averted your gaze, but it was clearly too late and he’d changed the trajectory of his walk, coming to you.
“No.” You shook your head before he could open his mouth.
“Hi.” Jaehyun blinked at you. You were expecting a confrontation, but he’d greeted you and went quiet.
“Hi.” You replied, looking at him confused.
“We aren’t doing this.” Jaehyun licked his lips and took a step closer to you. “You’re not my weekend duty.”
“Jae, please, this is not a convenient moment.” You gestured to the cafe behind you and weren’t allowed to say anything else by the man in front of you.
“Fuck convenience, our life is on the line. I know it’s been a whole fucking mess these past weeks, but here.” Jaehyun reached for his pocket and before he opened his mouth once more he showed a small jewellery box to you.
“No.” You stepped back, panicking. He wasn’t about to do something so stupid. “Where did you even manage to get that?” If he was back for an hour or so, how was that possible?
“I had it for months. When you know, you just know. I don’t need ten years to decide. I knew how I wanted this to go month in.” He reached his hand out to yours, but you pulled back. No. No. You were not gonna say yes to that, when it was not changing a single thing between you it was marrying to make things even worse.
“Jaehyun, no.” you shook your hands in front of the box. “Stop.” He ignored your protesting, trying to get on one knee, the levels of panic spiked in your system, you grabbed onto his arms, stopping him.
“Jaehyun, no. I won’t marry you. Don’t embarrass yourself.” You could only choke on your own words. It was so fucking heart wrenching to see hurt in his eyes grow by a minute.
“Why?” He grumbled.
“I can’t.” It’s not going to change a thing, how can’t he see that.
“Why?” He pressed, more sternly this time.
“I broke up with you.”
“That’s stupid. You didn’t, that piece of paper can’t be a real brake up. We were fine. No; we were good. We were amazing.” Jaehyun stepped closer to you once more, fighting the wish to raise his voice by an octave.
“I can’t marry a man that’s eighty percent of the time absent from my life.”
“That is not for forever!” He blew up.
“Now it feels like it is!” It was only fair you did also.
“Okay, we can go, I’m sorry-.” Your company finally made it out of the cafe and you looked at him, same for Jaehyun. “Is something wrong?” He looked at you and you blew air out of your noise.
“No. I don’t know this man. We can go.” You glanced at Jaehyun and with a little shake of your head in disapproval walked past him.
You’d taken about two steps away from Jaehyun, trying to calm your heart down, when his fingers wrapped your upper arm, dragging you back, to look at him.
“How long has this been going on for?” Your first intention was asking him what the hell was he even meaning, but you’d seen his eyes drag behind you and you fell lost for words.
He can’t possibly be serious.
“Wow, sir, back off. What the hell do you want from her?” The man beside you stepped in, but Jaehyun completely ignored his existence. What was he even looking at you like this for?
"How long have you been fucking this guy behind my back?” You would’ve rather been pushed on the ground than hear him say these words out loud.
"Are you insane?"
"Look me in the eyes and say he's not the reason you stopped coming to see me." you stepped in closer, eyes wide open to look Jaehyun in the eyes.
"He's not. The only reason is your stupid job."
"You knew what my job was when you chose to be with me.” Jaehyun looked at you, boiling with rage, it seemed, but you were the only one allowed to be fuming. He threw a scene and accused you of something that never happened. He was… insane! Wanting you to marry him and accusing you of cheating all in a span of ten minutes is in a capability of a real mad man.
"Because you always lied how it was about to be over! It's been over a year, Jaehyun! You promised to be back in four months!" you screamed, but then realised who was watching you and put in all of your strength to calm yourself down. "I never signed up to be in a distance relationship. I can’t do it like this. This is the end of the story.”
"I'm sorry, old sport." Your company pushed Jaehyun’s hand off your arm and tried to lead you away.
The very next moment poor man ended up bent in half, cries of pain leaving his mouth. You gasped, arms covering your mouth in shock.
"That is my girlfriend, you fucking dickhead and you better leave before I snap your fucking bones!"
"What is wrong with you?" you slapped Jaehyun’s chest. He’s never been angry like that, never were violent, at all. Who was this? What the hell was going on?
"Talk to me.” Jaehyun demanded. “I know, it has not been perfect lately. But we can’t be flawless, all the flaws are the parts of our love.”
“Jaehyun, please. I have nothing to tell you, especially when you act like this! I already told you everything I had to say.”
“Really? So you have not an ounce of shame after all.” Jaehyun let go of the man and you let a sigh out, at least he was not going further with threatening a fucking lawyer.
“You-.” You chocked, because you didn’t want to answer to him any longer, what you were doing and who you were with is none of his business any longer. “This is Lawyer Kim.” You hissed and found no satisfaction in the way his stare crumbled defeated. He’d taken a step back from the man but found it unnecessary to apologise, it seemed. “He helps me with my case and now for what you’ve done I’ll completely understand if Lawyer Kim stops working with me! You-, I can’t even tell you what I truly think of you right now. Get lost, I mean it.”
“One minute, please. Don’t you think I deserve a minute? After the time we spent together?” You contemplated, if a minute would make him leave, then okay. Let it me a minute.
You excused yourself to Lawyer Kim and took a step back. Jaehyun followed.
“Do I not get a say in this? Get a second chance? The love you bring into my life is everything to me. I know we’re physically apart, but we are close. We are close, I love you. Nothing has changed.” Jaehyun pleaded, clutching his hands before him. The desperation in his voice made it harder for you to be honest. You still had to.
“I realised that I’ll always be number two, okay? Always. There won’t be a matter in life where I’ll come first, because duty always comes first.” Your eyes fluttered and you managed to focus them on Jaehyun. “I couldn’t say it to your face, now I did anyway, but it doesn’t mean I don’t love you. It doesn’t mean I moved on!” You felt your voice raise and took a second to calm down. “You are to be mad at me, I agree, this is some high-school girl way of breaking up by leaving a post-it on your bed. But I need more than everything you’re able to give.” Jaehyun’s mouth opened and you had to raise your palm up to stop him. “Not because you’re not enough, because your occupation doesn’t allow you to.”
“Can we talk, please, somewhere without the stares of your colleague?” Jaehyun glanced behind himself. “I’m sorry for what I did just now, I’m not like this. You know it-.”
“No. His presence is the perfect opportunity for me to be collected. I’m sorry, Yuno. I really am, I wasn’t build to be the obedient wife waiting for her husband to return from war and it seems I’ll never be.” It’s been too long since you figured it all out for yourself and was too scared to admit it to his face.
“I’m not-.”
“You know what I meant.”
“You love me, but can’t be with me. That’s… great. Definitely makes it easier for me to accept this.” Jaehyun’s gaze defocused and his face crumbled defeated; nothing but pain and realisation he can’t do anything about this settling over his features. You knew this feeling all too well. This is how you felt this whole time, not having a say in anything. Not having an opportunity to influence what was happening.
“I have to interrupt, we’re fifteen minutes late already.” Lawyer Kim cleared his voice behind you and you nodded, looking back at the man.
“Right, right. I’m so sorry, lawyer Kim. Thirty seconds.”
“Good luck, Yuno. Sincerely, I wish you well. The ring is beautiful and I’m sure the woman that will be strong enough to endure all the nuances of your life will wear it proudly.” You pursed your lips and squeezed his fist that still held the box. “And thank you for serving our country, always.” You held on to his fist to lean in and kiss his cheek, sucking up all the heartbreak and leaving him to stand there. You smiled at lawyer Kim as he’d led you to his car.
You had to throw away all of the thoughts about Jaehyun and proceed with bidding your sincerest apologies to the man that’s driving you to your client.
Epilogue
You were rushing through the street to mean your client. You hated to come right on time as much as being late, because it meant you could possibly coming later than your client and won’t have a few minutes to get your brains together. There was only one parking spot way too far down the street and you were running all the way back to the cafe you were supposed to meet him.
Thankfully, the man seemingly was also being late, because when you entered the cafe he was nowhere to be seen. You let the hostess know the name the table was booked under and made yourself comfortable on the chair.
You ordered yourself a cup of tea and spread your papers and a few questions you had prepared for the man in your notebook.
“I’m so sorry for being late.” The man rushed in, startling you from the papers. You raised your head to assure him it was nothing, but the smile died down as soon as you saw his attire. “I haven’t mentioned my occupation, did I.” He chuckled, and you finally found your manners to stand up and shake his hand in greeting.
“It doesn’t make any difference for our case, it’s okay.” You shook your head, and gestured for him to take the seat in front of you.
“I hope it was okay for me to ask you come here. Could only make it out for lunch.”
“No, no. It’s all good, Mr. Lee. As long as we proceed with our case, I’m good to come anywhere.” You smiled politely and let the man place his order as the waitress approached the table, before getting to your job.
“You should order some food too.” He’d suggested, but your head shook a no. You couldn’t digest any food now. Not after you’d seen who he worked as and your brain went elsewhere.
“Special forces?” You managed to ask, gesturing to his chest.
“It is.” He gave you a little pleased bow. “How’d you know?”
“That patch,” you showed the one you meant with your fingers on the same area on your chest. “is engraved in my brain.” You let an awkward chuckle out. “My close friend also served there.”
“Really?” He asked pleased. “Then I guess it was some sort of destiny for you to be my lawyer.” He smiled and you nodded, agreeing.
Right, it was time to get to business. You gathered your pen and notebook before you to start off.
“Which way are you going?” Mr. Lee asked you politely.
“Ah, there,” you gestured to the left. “There’s a real problem with parking spots on this street. Had to park like ten minutes away from him.”
“Yes, that’s true, unfortunately. We don’t have a parking lot, so everyone who works at the building parks here.”
“Oh, this is the street?” You asked surprised. You didn’t know. So this is where Jaehyun would’ve worked, if he ever managed to keep his promise of returning to the city…?
“It is, also to the left. If you don’t mind, I’ll walk you to your car.”
“Of course.” You pursed your lips and you’d proceeding with your polite conversation all the way up to your car.
“I guess I depart here.” You looked at the man politely.
“Me too.” He gestured to the building and you focused your eyes right at the entrance of it. There wasn’t any specific plate saying what the building was and it made sense, it was never disclosed to public for security reasons. “I didn’t say a thing.” The man chuckled and you bid your farewell, unlocking your car and opening the door.
You heard a group of people leave the building the same time your client walked up the stair and you raised your head to see them all salute the man, referring to him as colonel Lee.
You smiled to yourself and went back to sitting down in your car, as your eyes fell on Jaehyun. His gaze like magnetised already was on you.
You first thought of immediately jumping in the car and running away, but you couldn’t. He stared at you, then quickly ran down the stairs to you.
“Are my eyes deceiving me?”
“They’re not.” You fumbled with your fingers, unable to look him in the eyes. “What are you doing here?”
“I was transferred back to the city, like I told you I would be.” you raised your eyes at him.
Why didn’t you call me, then? You didn’t want to see me after what I’ve done to us? You should’ve told me you were here.
“Really?” Your pulse immediately quickened.
“Mmh. When that extension ended, they finally let me return because I spent too much time on that special duty. Even got myself a major rank.” He patted his shoulder and you’ve noticed the difference in number stripes only then. He was down to one.
“That’s great. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” He blinked. “You’re the lawyer colonel Lee talked about?” You nodded. “Can’t imagine what sort of inquiry he must have.” Jaehyun chuckled, awkwardly and looked you in the eyes. You could tell Jaehyun spent much more time inside just by looking at his pale face. His hair looked much longer and you guessed now that he was working like a normal human there was no point in following certain rules he had to before.
“I can’t disclose-.”
“I know, I know. I’m not asking.” Jaehyun trying to reassure you he didn’t.
“Well, I guess it was good to see you, Yuno.” You smiled, sensing the awkwardness settling between you two.
“Was it?” He turned his head a little to the side like a puppy. He was still very cute, it seemed. Horrible observation.
“Why would it not be?” You forced a smile onto your lips.
“Do you, maybe, want to see me sometime again?” He blinked, what felt like ready for any answer you could give him.
“What for…?” You tried to not sound too harsh.
“For a lunch? Or dinner, doesn’t matter much.” He shrugged and looked you up, all the way down to your shoes and up to your eyes. You could tell he knew you saw that, but wasn’t really bothered by the fact.
“Would that be a good idea?” You held in a smirk by a bite to your lower lip.
“Of course? I have so much free time nowadays. Much more than I’ve ever had.” He looked at you and ran his tongue over his over teeth.
“I’m happy for you.” You let out, swallowing whatever might’ve come out next.
“It only matters if the feeling is sincere.” Jaehyun took a step closer.
“It is, no doubt about it.”
“Good, then I’ll text you and we’ll see what we can do about it, deal?” He grabbed onto the open door of your car next your fingers and you nodded.
“Deal.”
i pushed those 25k words out of me like a baby for his bd lol
let me know your thoughts!!!
I couldn't let the ending be sad on Jaehyun's bd so I had to urgently add in an epilogue
I hope everyone caught on how he was Yuno in the narration until she guessed his name😉😊😉😊😉
snowghoul
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