lost_bookmark

A/N: Posting Update: Okay, I've been good at staying ahead on writing chapters in this story… until now. I have nothing pre-written. I have some loose ideas for the next two chapters, but I'm trying to focus on Replay right now because the chapter is almost done and it's the final chapter. So, I'm going to take a week off of posting to get myself caught up and finish things.

I will see you in two weeks! 💜

The bass doesn’t just vibrate through the soles of your sneakers. It beats in perfect sync with your heart, rising up from the grassy lawn. From this far back, the massive stage is just a shimmering, neon-bright glow against the dark summer sky, and the members of the band are tiny silhouettes darting through flashes of strobe light.

​But it doesn't matter.

The lawn is a chaotic, beautiful sea of thousands of people. However, right here, in your own little pocket of the crowd, you and Yura are living your absolute best lives.

​"Turn! Turn!" Yura shrieks over the roaring crowd, her laugh loud and breathless.

​Your fingers are locked tightly in hers, the grip sweaty and unshakeable as you spin each other around in wild, dizzying circles. The warm summer night air rushes over your bare shoulders. You’re wearing matching outfits. Simple black tank tops and red-and-white checkered pleated skirts and every time you spin, the fabric flares out around your thighs.

“Spin faster!” Tae explains as he films the two of you getting dizzy from behind his phone.

“Don't go faster,” Joonie calls from the blanket. “Someone is going to get hurt.”

Your fingers slip from hers. The spinning world almost knocks you off your feet. Hobi who was dancing nearby grabs you by your waist at the moment and steadies you.

"If you two keep that up, you're going to paint this grass with whatever you had for lunch," Jin scolds. He's standing near the edge of your group's blanket, arms crossed over his chest. "Stop spinning and get something in your stomachs! I didn't spend twenty minutes in the food truck line for you to starve."

"Okay, okay, we're stopping!" Yura gasps, waving a hand in surrender as she stumbles toward the blanket, immediately takes a bite of the hamburger in her fiancés hand.

“Babe!” Jungkook exclaims.

Without a second thought, you throw yourself right onto Yoongi’s lap. He lets out a soft, surprised 'oof' as your sudden weight lands on him, his hands instinctively coming up to catch your waist. Even in the dim light of the concert, you can see a helpless smile spreading across his face.

"Rough landing," Yoongi mumbles, his voice low against your back as he adjusts his grip, pulling you a little closer so you don't slip off. "You're completely out of breath. Did you actually listen to Jin for once?"

"Only because my head is spinning," you laugh, leaning back against his chest and looking up at him.

He reaches up with one hand, gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your sweaty forehead, his fingers lingering against your skin for a sweet, quiet second despite the chaos of the concert roaring around you.

"Here," he says, nodding toward the cup of lemonade sitting by his knee. "Drink some of this before you pass out on me. I am not carrying you back to the car."

"You absolutely would," you tease.

The taste of the cold, sweet lemonade is tart and refreshing, as you swallow before pressing a quick kiss to Yoongi's lips. He catches on instantly, his hand at your waist tightening just a fraction as he kisses you back. It’s soft. It's a quiet contrast to the booming bass vibrating through the ground beneath you. When you pull back, Yoongi’s eyes are warm, a lazy, satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

"Eat," Jimin demands, his eyes crinkling as he beams down at you. He doesn't just offer the pretzel. He practically uses it to block your entire view of Yoongi, holding the warm, cheese-dripping dough inches from your nose. "You're burning like a million calories spinning around out there. If you don't eat this, I'm going to feed it to Jin, and he's already had his share."

"Hey! I heard that!" Jin’s voice carries perfectly over a sudden dip in the song's bridge, his hand paused mid-air as he points a fry accusatorially at Jimin. "I require sustenance after surviving the trenches of the food truck lines!"

You laugh, leaning forward to take a massive bite of the pretzel directly from Jimin's hand. The salty, buttery dough and warm cheese sauce are absolute heaven after running yourself ragged on the grass.

"Good, right?" Jimin asks proudly, dropping the remaining half into your hand with a satisfied nod before plopping down on the corner of the blanket next to Yura. He immediately starts badgering her to steal some of Jin's fries, sparking a playful tug-of-war over the cardboard container.

Yoongi’s hand rests comfortably on your hip. The contrast of his cool skin against your heated, post-dance warmth is incredibly amazing. Above you, the sky is dark with twinkling stars, but the air is thick with the sweet, nostalgic scent of funnel cake, crushed grass, and summer sweat.

"Better?" Yoongi murmurs, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder.

"Much better," you hum, shifting slightly to get more comfortable in his lap. You hold up the rest of the cheesy pretzel. "Want some?"

Yoongi eyes the cheese suspiciously, then looks up at your face. His eyes narrow seeing the mischievous look in your eyes.

"If you get cheese on my shirt, you're buying me a new one," he warns, though he leans forward anyway, taking a small bite of the pretzel.

He chews slowly, his gaze locked onto yours completely unfazed by the sudden burst of green and purple strobe lights that washes over the crowd. Suddenly, the beat on the stage drops. The crowd lets out a collective, deafening roar as the opening chords of a massive fan-favorite song start to echo through the speakers.

"Oh my god!" Yura shrieks, leaping to her feet. "They're playing it! Get up, get up!"

Before you can even swallow the last bite of the pretzel , Jungkook is yanked to his feet by Yura. He doesn't even stumble, effortlessly matching her high-octane energy with a massive grin, instantly singing along to the opening chords. Hobi is already bouncing on the balls of his feet, his arms thrown into the air as he leads the rhythm for your little patch of the lawn.

"Get up! Come on, Yoongi!" Jimin urges, grabbing you by the hand to pull you up, while Tae pivots his phone camera to capture the transition from peaceful picnic to absolute chaos.

"Oh, no," Yoongi groans. His hands tighten around your waist, holding you down as if he could physically anchor the two of you to the blanket. "We are perfectly comfortable right here. Tell them we're taking an intermission."

"Absolutely not!" You laugh, twisting in his grip to tug at his hands. "You heard her! It's THE song. You can't sit this one out."

Yoongi lets out a heavy, dramatic sigh, but he doesn't let go of your hand. Near the edge of the blanket, Jin is already belting out the opening lines at the top of his lungs, using a stray plastic fork as a microphone. Joonie sways beside him, shaking his head but laughing warmly at the sheer theatricality of it all. The beat builds and it makes the entire lawn of eighty thousand people hold its breath.

And then…the drop.

The sky explodes in a shower of gold and purple lasers, cutting through the humid summer air. The crowd erupts, jumping in perfect, rolling waves. You leap into the air, your hand still firmly locked in Yoongi’s, the warm night wind catching your hair. Around you, your friends are a blur of wild, joyful movement. Yura and Jungkook are jumping side-by-side, singing directly into each other's faces. Jimin is spinning a laughing Hobi and Tae is dancing backward, catching the magic of the moment on camera with a massive, boxy grin.

In the middle of the madness, Yoongi pulls you back against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your waist from behind. He doesn't jump as high as the others, but he sways in perfect time with your body, keeping you safe amidst the surging crowd. He leans down, his chin tucked into the crook of your neck.

"Happy?" He murmurs against your skin, his low voice barely audible over the roaring chorus of the crowd, yet completely clear to you.

You turn your head just enough to press a quick kiss to his jaw, looking out at the glittering sea of lights, the neon glow of the stage, and the family of friends dancing around you.

"Insanely happy," you breathe back, leaning fully into his warmth as the music carries you both away into the night.

The open night air away from the crowd is a welcome relief against your damp skin as you all slowly filter out of the venue. The distant sound of eighty thousand people dispersing into the dark parking lot feels like the slow comedown of an adrenaline rush.

​You’re walking shoulder-to-shoulder with Yoongi, his arm draped comfortably over your shoulders, his fingers lightly playing with the strap of your black tank top. Next to you, Jungkook is carrying a sleepy-looking Yura’s bag, while Jin and Joonie lead the pack, still softly humming the chorus of the final song. ​As you finally reach the row where the cars are parked, the beep of a key fob echoes through the cool air.

​Yura’s head snaps up. The sleepy, exhausted look on her face vanishes in an instant, replaced by a sudden, wicked spark of mischief. She catches your eye, giving you a sharp, silent nod. You know that look. It’s the universal signal for impending chaos. ​Before Jungkook can even react, Yura lunges. With lightning-fast reflexes, she snatches the keys right out of his hand.

​"Hey!" Jungkook gasps, his hand frozen in mid-air.

​"Run!" Yura shrieks.

​She grabs your wrist, and the two of you bolt. Your red-and-white checkered skirt flutters wildly around your thighs as your sneakers pound against the pavement of the parking lot. Behind you, the boys erupt into a chorus of startled shouts and laughter.

​"Hey! Get back here!" Jungkook yells, already giving chase, though he's laughing too hard to make any real ground.

​Your heart is pounding in your chest, a wild, breathless laugh bubbling up your throat as you and Yura tear through the rows of parked SUVs. She hits the unlock button again, the headlights of Jungkook's sleek black car flashing in the dark.

​Yura doesn't just run…she practically launches herself toward the car. She opens the door and slides into the driver’s seat in one fluid, chaotic motion. You throw open the passenger door, diving inside and slamming it shut just as Jungkook’s shadow looms over the hood.

​Click.

​Yura locks the doors, throwing her head back against the headrest as she gasps for air, laughing so hard her shoulders shake.

"We made it! Oh my god, we actually made it!" She exclaims.

​Outside, Jungkook presses his hands against the driver's side window, his face contorted into a dramatic pout as he taps on the glass. Behind him, Yoongi slowly catches up, his hands shoved into his pockets, shaking his head with a slow, amused grin plastered across his face.

​You roll the window down just a tiny, teasing crack.

​"Babe, open the door," Jungkook whines, resting his forehead against the cool glass. "I'm tired, I want to go home."

"You can go home," Yura says. "But you're riding with Yoongi. Y/N and I are leading the way... get behind us!"

"Wait, what?! This is my car! You're stealing my car?!" Jungkook’s jaw drops, his wide eyes darting from Yura to his own steering wheel.

"We’re going to be married!" Yura beams, tossing the keys in the air and catching them with a grin. “It's our car!”

Through the narrow gap in the window, your eyes lock with Yoongi’s. He’s standing just a few paces back, his hands still shoved deep into his pockets, watching the entire dramatic standoff. You offer him a bright, unapologetic smile, press your fingertips to your lips, and blow him a lingering, sweet kiss through the glass.

Yoongi’s eyes soften instantly. A slow, lazy grin spreads across his face. He raises one hand from his pocket, mimics catching the kiss right out of the cool night air, and presses it firmly against his heart before tucking his hand away again.

"Hear that, Kook? You've been evicted," Yoongi calls out, his low voice laced with amusement. "Get your stuff. You're riding with me."

"Yoongs, you're just going to let them do this?!" Jungkook whines. "They are literally joyriding in my vehicle!"

"I am not getting between a woman and her post-concert adrenaline, Jungkook. I like living," Yoongi replies dryly. He points a thumb over his shoulder toward his own car. "Besides, Y/N just blew me a kiss. I'm legally obligated to take her side."

"Ah, the power of love, truly a beautiful and terrifying thing," Jin sighs as he, Joonie, and the rest of the guys finally catch up to the scene. Jin pats a heartbroken-looking Jungkook on the back. "Come on, driver-less Kook. I'll let you cry on my shoulder in Yoongi's back seat."

"I call shotgun in Hobi's car!" Jimin yells, instantly sprinting past everyone toward Hobi's car.

"No way! I was already walking faster than you!" Tae shrieks, immediately giving chase, his camera still rolling to capture their chaotic sprint across the parking lot.

Yura turns the key in the ignition, and Jungkook’s car purrs to life, the dashboard glowing in the dark. She looks over at you, her eyes sparkling with absolute thrill as she adjusts the rearview mirror.

"Ready to show them how it's done?" She asks, a wicked smirk playing on her lips.

"Always," you laugh, buckling your seatbelt as you watch Yoongi get in his car.

Yura shifts the car into drive, rolls down her window just enough to wave a cheerful goodbye to a pouting Jungkook, and hits the gas, leaving the boys behind in a flurry of laughter, taillights, and the sweet promise of a late-night drive home.

The familiar streets of your city begin to blur past the windows, the hum of the tires on the asphalt a soothing contrast to the high-energy chaos of the concert. ​Yura’s hand rests lightly on the steering wheel, her shoulders finally dropping as the post-concert adrenaline begins to settle into a happy, comfortable exhaustion. You both laugh, shaking your heads at the memory of Jungkook’s dramatic pout in the parking lot. ​As the car glides to a stop at a quiet, red-lit intersection just minutes from home, you lean your head back against the headrest. The streetlights cast amber shadows across the dashboard.

​"This was the best night," you say softly, a genuine smile tugging at your lips. "I don't ever want to forget it."

​"We'll never forget it," she promises, her voice quiet and certain.

You two look at each other and share a big smile.

​Ahead of you, the traffic light shifts.

​Green.

​Yura turns backs, slips the car into gear, and presses her foot to the gas. The car moves forward into the intersection.

​And then… the world violently shatters.

​A sudden, blinding wall of white light floods the passenger side of the car, instantly erasing the quiet summer night.

​There is no time to scream.

No time to brace.

The sound comes first…a terrifying, metallic crunch. ​Then comes the spray of shattered glass. The world spins into an abyss of pain, confusion, and blinding white light. Through the confusion, a voice tears through the night…raw, desperate, and broken.

​"Y/N! Y/N!"

​It’s Yoongi.

His voice is a sound you’ve never heard from him before. It’s completely stripped of his usual calm, sharp with pure terror.

​Everything returns in slow, disjointed fragments.

​The heavy, metallic smell of iron. The harsh, swaying fluorescent lights above. You’re moving, but you aren’t walking. The world bounces rhythmically beneath you, accompanied by the muffled wail of a siren. Your eyes feel heavy, fluttering opening only to a dizzying haze. Your body feels distant, weighed down by a dull, throbbing ache.

​"Stay with us, stay right here," a paramedic’s calm, steady voice echoes from somewhere above your head, but you can barely process the words.

​You try to move your fingers, and immediately, someone catches them. ​The grip is frantic and trembling ​You force your gaze to shift to the side. Sitting on the cramped bench beside your stretcher, doubled over with his forehead pressed against your knuckles, is Yoongi.

​His usual quiet composure is completely shattered. His hair is a tangled mess, and his breath hitches in choked sobs that make his whole frame shake. The white t-shirt he’d worn to the concert is soaked in dark, crimson stains…and as your vision slowly focuses, you realize his hands are covered in deep, raw cuts, blood dripping onto your shared grip.

"Yoon..." the name barely leaves your lips, coming out as a weak rasp.

​The moment he hears you, Yoongi’s head snaps up. His eyes are bloodshot, flooded with tears that stream freely down his pale cheeks.

​"Hey, hey…don't try to talk. Don't move," he begs. He lifts your hand to his trembling lips, pressing a desperate, lingering kiss to your knuckles. "I'm right here. I've got you, baby. I'm right here."

You weakly nod against the firm structure of the neck brace, forcing your eyelids to stay heavy, half-open. You believe him. With every slowly draining ounce of energy in your body, you believe him.

Yoongi is here.

His hand is around yours.

You are going to be fine.

​You have to be.

​The stretcher rattles violently as the ambulance takes a sharp turn, tires screeching against the asphalt outside. ​He leans closer, his forehead resting lightly against the side of your head, with excruciating care not to press down. You can smell the copper scent of blood mixing with the summer night air of the concert. Yoongi takes your left hand in his. You can barely feel him slip your ring off your finger.

​"I've got it," Yoongi whispers, his voice cracking as his fist tightens around the thin silver band of your engagement ring. He brings his closed fist up to his mouth, pressing a desperate, desperate kiss to his own knuckles where your ring is safely tucked away. "I’m holding onto it. It’s right here. You just stay with me, Y/N. Do you hear me? You stay right here."

The darkness pulls you under, drowning out the frantic wail of sirens. It drowns out the desperate warmth of Yoongi’s hand, and the heavy scent of copper and summer night air. When you finally break through the surface of unconsciousness, the world has been reduced to a sterile silence.

​Your eyelids feel like lead, but as you force them open, the first thing you notice is morning light filtering through blinds. ​A sterile white ceiling. The steady, slow rhythmic beep... beep... beep... of a heart monitor starts to cut through the silence. The sharp, clean smell of antiseptic and bleach hits your nose. ​You try to turn your head, a dull, throbbing ache radiating from the base of your skull down to your collarbone.

​"Sweetheart?"

​A voice, soft and trembling, breaks the silence. You blink, your vision slowly clearing to reveal two faces hovering near the side of the hospital bed. Your mother’s eyes are bloodshot, her face exhausted, while your father stands just behind her, his hand resting heavily on her shoulder.

​"Mom? Dad?" Your voice comes out as a dry, scratchy whisper.

"Oh, thank God. Thank God you're awake. Doctor! She's awake!" ​Your mother lets out a choked sob, immediately reaching out to cradle your face in her trembling hands.

"You're okay. You're safe. We're right here." Your dad leans closer to you.

​You swallow hard, your mind floating in a strange, terrifying fog. You look around the room. The white walls, the IV drip hooked into the back of your hand, the vase of fresh flowers on the windowsill. The room feels heavy, but more than that, it feels entirely empty. A cold, hollow ache sits right in the middle of your chest, but you don't know why. You search your thoughts for what happened, for where you were before this, but coming up empty is like staring into a horizon where you can't see anything. There is nothing. Just blank, terrifying white noise.

​"What... what happened?" You ask, your voice raspy as your dad gently holds a cup of water with a straw to your lips.

​You take a small sip, the cool liquid soothing your dry throat.

​"You were in an accident," your dad explains. "A really bad car accident. A drunk driver ran a red light."

A sudden, sharp panic spikes in your chest, sending the heart monitor into a faster, more urgent rhythm. Beep-beep-beep-beep. A memory doesn't return, but an instinct does…a frantic, phantom sensation of sitting next to someone, of shared laughter, of a warm hand slipping away.

​"Was... was someone with me?"You ask, your voice rising in pitch as your eyes dart between your parents' faces. Your heart is pounding in your chest, demanding an answer to a question you don't even fully understand. "Was someone else in the car? Who was driving?"

​Your mother’s hand freezes on your arm.

​She exchanges a swift, tense look with your father. A look loaded with unspoken words, and secrecy. When she turns her gaze back to you, her eyes are glistening with fresh tears, her expression changing quickly. ​She reaches out, gently smoothing the hair back from your forehead, her touch trembling.

​"That doesn't matter anymore," your mother says, her voice barely above a whisper. "None of that matters now. All that matters is that you're alive."

​"No, wait…" You pull back slightly, confusion and fear swirling violently in your chest. "Who was it? Why can't I remember? Who was with me?!"

​"Honey, please, calm down, you're going to hurt yourself," your dad urges, his hands coming down gently on your shoulders to keep you from sitting up too fast. "The doctors said you suffered a severe concussion. Traumatic brain injury. Your memories... they might take time. Or they might..." He trails off, unable to finish the sentence.

​"You need to rest," your mother insists, her thumb stroking your cheek as if trying to soothe a child. "Just focus on healing. Forget everything else. You're safe now. With us."

The suffocating weight of the hospital room crushes inward, the sharp beep-beep-beep of the monitor accelerating into a deafening, continuous whine. Your mother's face distorts behind a veil of unshed tears, her desperate words blurring together as the sterile white walls begin to crack, dissolve, and wash away into a terrifying, endless void.

​You're falling. The copper smell of blood, the blinding white glare of headlights, and the agonizing sound of Yoongi's broken voice screaming your name echoes as you're being pulled down, down, down…..

​Your eyes snap open.

​A sharp gasp tears from your throat as you hit the mattress, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs. The room is dark, save for the soft, familiar glow of the street lights outside.

​No sirens.

No hospital monitors.

No blood.

​You sit up abruptly, your chest heaving as hot, silent tears instantly burst from your eyes, spilling over your eyelashes and trailing down your cheeks. Your tank top is drenched, sticking uncomfortably to your skin. Your hair clings to your forehead, and your hands are shaking so violently you can barely pull the covers off your lap.

​Beside you, Yoongi stirs, shifting instantly from deep sleep to high alert. Within an instant, he's sitting up, his dark eyes blinking away the fog of sleep as he takes in your shaking form. Through the dark he can see your ragged breathing, and the tears pouring down your face.

​"Y/N?" His voice is thick, deep, and raspy with sleep, but laced with immediate concern.

​Without waiting for an answer, he reaches for you. His large, warm hands wrap around your waist. ​"Hey, hey…what is it? What's wrong?" He asks quietly.

​You don't say a word. You can't. The phantom terror of losing him, of waking up in a cold room where his memory was being erased, is still there. You're terrified that you are suddenly back there.

​You scramble across the mattress, burying your face directly into the crook of his neck, locking your arms around his shoulders with a desperate grip. You hold onto him so tightly your knuckles turn white, clinging to the soft cotton of his shirt. Your hot, sweaty forehead presses hard against his skin, and a choked sob escapes your lips right into his shoulder.

​"Woah, baby..." Yoongi lets out a soft, breathy sigh, his arms instantly wrapping firmly around your back. He pulls you all the way into his lap, gathering you against his chest until you are completely flush against him.

​"Shh, I've got you. I'm right here," Yoongi whispers, his hand coming up to cup the back of your head. His fingers weave through your damp hair, pressing your head closer to his neck as he begins to gently sway the two of you back and forth. "It was just a dream, Sweetheart. Just a bad dream. I'm right here. You're safe."

​He shifts slightly, his nose brushing against your sweaty temple as he presses a slow, lingering kiss to your skin, entirely unbothered by how damp and overheated you are. His cool hands move up and down your back, rubbing steady circles through your sweat-soaked tank top.

​"You're burning up," he says softly against your ear. "You sweated right through your shirt, baby. What on earth were you dreaming about?"

​You tighten your grip on his shoulders, burying your face deeper into his skin. The horrible, metallic smell of the accident completely vanishes, replaced entirely by him. You shake your head, not ready to talk about it.

The sobs don't stop.

They come in violent, shuddering waves that leave your chest aching, your fingers still fisted in the back of Yoongi's sleep shirt.

He doesn't rush you.

He simply keeps holding you, rocking the two of you in slow, patient motions. One of his hands is spread across your back while the other cradles the back of your head.

"It's okay," he whispers again, kissing your hair. "You don't have to tell me. Just breathe with me."

You try.

You really do.

But every time you close your eyes, you see blinding headlights.

You see him crying at your side.

Your grip tightens even harder.

"I can't..." Your voice breaks. "I can't let go."

"You don't have to," he tells you.

"No..." you whisper frantically. "I mean it. Don't make me let go."

"Okay," he whispers, nodding against you.

No questions.

No hesitation.

"Come on." He simply presses another kiss against your temple.

He carefully slides off the bed, never prying your arms from around him. Instead, he lifts you with him, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as your face remains buried against his neck.

"Let's get you in the shower," he says.

The feeling of his body beneath your cheek calms you enough that you don't protest. He carries you into the bathroom. The overhead light flicks on, making you squint as he turns it on.

"I'll start the water." He gently lowers you onto the counter.

Only when he tries to step away do your fingers panic.

"No." Your voice comes out far sharper than you intended. His head immediately turns. "I... don't go."

"I'm only turning the faucet on," he promises.

"No." You shake your head, already reaching for him again.

He understands. Without another word, he reaches behind the shower curtain, turns the handle until steam begins rising into the room, then comes back to you.

"I'm here." He smiles weakly at you and you grab the hem of his shirt like it's the only solid thing in existence.

"...Come with me." You look at him.

"In the shower?" His eyebrows lift ever so slightly and you nod immediately.

"I can't..." You can't finish the sentence.

Can't let you out of my sight.

Can't lose you.

Can't wake up without you.

The words remain trapped somewhere deep inside your chest.

Yoongi doesn't need to hear them.

He sees them written across your face.

"...Okay." He nods. "I'm getting in."

He helps peel your damp tank top over your head before tugging his own shirt off, dropping both onto the floor. Neither of you pays much attention to the growing pile of clothes. A minute later, warm water pours over both of you. The steam fills the bathroom, wrapping everything in a comforting haze. You stand beneath the spray with your arms still wrapped tightly around his middle. Your forehead rests against his chest. He doesn't ask you to move. Instead, one hand rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades while the other reaches for the shampoo.

"I've got you," he promises.

The familiar scent fills the air as he works the shampoo into your hair with impossibly gentle fingers. His nails lightly scratch against your scalp.

It's soothing.

Almost hypnotic.

The panic slowly loosens its grip.

Your breathing evens out.

For several quiet minutes, the only sounds are falling water and the soft lather between his hands.

"...We were at a concert," you whisper under the sound of the shower falling around you. "Yura and I were spinning... and Jin yelled at us," you continue. Yoongi's fingers slow on your scalp. ​"I collapsed on your lap," you murmur, your arms tightening around his waist as if double-checking that he's still solid, still real. "And Jimin... he fed me a..."

​"A pretzel," Yoongi finishes softly.

You slowly tilt your head up.

​The warm water continues to fall around the two of you, but the atmosphere inside the small area instantly shifts. Yoongi’s hand comes to a complete rest on the back of your head, his fingers tangled in the soapy lather of your wet hair. ​His eyes meet yours. The quiet, relaxed air he’d carried just moments before is gone, replaced by a weight so heavy it seems to take the very breath from his lungs. ​Your voice trembles, barely carrying over the steady rush of the shower.

​"It wasn't a dream, was it?" You ask.

​Yoongi doesn't speak right away. He just stares down at you, his lower lip trembles slightly as the water falls down his pale cheeks. Slowly, painfully, he shakes his head no. ​A cold wave of realization crashes through you, making your knees feel weak.

​"The... the ambulance..." You swallow past the thick, aching lump in your throat, your voice breaking into a fragile whisper. "Did you... did you really take my engagement ring off my finger in the ambulance?"

​Yoongi closes his eyes. A single, choked sob breaks out of his chest. ​His hand slides down from your hair, his shoulders violently shaking as he drops his forehead against yours. The tears spill freely from his eyes now, mixing with the hot water washing over his face. Yoongi’s hands tremble as they frame your face. The water cascades over his shoulders, but all of his focus is locked entirely on you.

​"Yes," he rasps, his voice breaking as he keeps his forehead pressed against yours. "I took it off. In the ambulance... while they were cutting your clothes. Your hands were swelling so fast," Yoongi whispers. "The paramedics... they were moving so fast, Y/N. There was blood everywhere, and they kept saying your vitals were unstable, and I... I panicked. Your parents..."

​He pauses, swallowing hard as a fresh wave of emotion washes over his face.

​"I knew how your parents felt about us," he continues, his voice barely audible over the rush of the water. "I knew the moment they got to that hospital, they were going to pull you away from me. I was terrified... terrified that if things went wrong, or if they took control, they would take that ring right off your finger. I was so scared it was going to get lost in the trauma room, or that they’d take it and I'd never be able to give it back to you."

​The two of you look at one another. He turns you and through his tears, he still rinses your hair.

​"I kept it in my pocket the entire time," Yoongi chokes out. "Even when your mom told me to leave the waiting room. Even when they wouldn't let me back in to see you. I held onto it so hard my palm was bruised.”

The hot water continues to cascade over your shoulders, washing away the lingering suds, but neither of you moves away from the spray. Yoongi’s hands are impossibly soft as he gently tilts your head back, cupping the nape of your neck to help you rinse away the remaining lather. Even through his quiet sobs, his care for you is so incredibly tender.

​Slowly, you raise your own shaking hand.

​Your fingers reach up, brushing the wet strands of dark hair back from his forehead, running your hand through his wet hair just to feel the silkiness of it, to feel the heat of his scalp beneath your palm. You trace the line of his jaw, stopping where your thumb can brush against his cheek, wiping away a drop of water that mixes with his tears.

​"Yoongi..." you whisper.

​He blinks, his dark eyes locking back onto yours, searching your face as if still terrified you might fade away if he looks away for even a second. ​Your thumb lingers on his cheek, tracing the familiar curve of his cheekbone as the warm water falls around you both.

"I remember," you whisper, through the rushing of the water.

Yoongi’s breath hitches. His hands slide back down to cup your neck gently, but his posture freezes, his dark eyes widening just a fraction as he stares into yours.

"It wasn't from the dream," you say, your voice trembling. "I remember the ambulance. I remember waking up on that stretcher, and seeing you beside me."

A fresh tear spills over his eyelashes, catching in the stream of water on his cheek. He doesn't pull away, but he looks at you as if he's terrified to get his hopes up.

"I remember how tightly you were holding my hand," you continue. "Your hands were cut, and you were shaking so hard, but you wouldn't let go. You just kept repeating my name."

Yoongi lets out a ragged, shallow breath, his lower lip quivering as he squeezes his eyes shut. His forehead drops heavily back against yours.

"I was so terrified," you whisper against his skin, your hand dropping from his face to wrap around his wet shoulder, pulling him as close as you could get him. "I was in so much pain and scared... but when I felt your grip on my fingers, I wasn't scared anymore. I remember thinking... I'm going to be okay. Because Yoongi’s here."

He makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat, his arms instantly wrapping around your back, pulling you flush against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his body shaking with deep, silent sobs as the hot water pours down over the two of you.

You close your eyes, holding him just as tightly. You pull back just enough to look at him, cupping both sides of his face in your wet hands, forcing him to look back at you through the haze of tears and steam.

“I remember loving you," you whisper.

Yoongi blinks, a soft gasp escaping his lips at your words. The quiet grief that had weighed down his shoulders for so long seems to shatter completely.

"Y/N..." he breathes as you look up at him and take a deep breath.

“I can still feel it.” You nod. “What I felt looking at you in that ambulance. What I felt in my dream when he danced at that concert. I'm remembering loving you.”

Without another second's hesitation, Yoongi leans in to capture your lips in a deep, desperate kiss. It’s hot, wet, and filled with years of unspoken relief. It's a kiss that tastes of salt and shower water. His hand tangles back into your wet hair, holding you close as if making sure you never slip away again, while his other arm locks securely around your waist. When he finally pulls back, his breathing is ragged.

“I love you,” he whispers and you hold him tighter. “You don't have to say it back. What you just said…. it's enough for me.”

“Yoongi.” You stare up at him. “I'm falling in love with you.”

He kisses you again.

​"God, Y/N..." he breathes out, his voice a low, raspy whisper against your lips. ​"Then take your time," Yoongi murmurs softly, his lips brushing against your skin with every word. His grip on your waist stays firm. "Fall as slowly as you want. I'm not going anywhere. I'll be right here every step of the way."

“Thank you for holding onto me,” you say, sliding your hands down his chest.

“Always,” he tells you, with a small smile. “Always.”

<Next>

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"I am protesting!" Jimin announces, dramatically throwing his keys onto the table by the door. He sheds his heavy black coat and marches straight into the living room, tossing his hands in the air. "I am officially registering a formal complaint with the Union of Best Friends. This is supposed to be Yoongi’s bachelor party. The night of nights! The final stand!"

​"Jimin, we're literally just going to Joon's," Yoongi says.

​"Exactly! That is the tragedy!" Jimin cries, dropping onto the armchair across from you and resting his chin in his hand, looking deeply offended. "You want to eat steaks, drink whiskey, and play cards. In a living room. That we see every single week. Yoongi, there are clubs! There are flashing lights! There is champagne that costs more than my rent! We could have rented a private cabin in the woods!"

​"I don't want flashing lights, Jimin," Yoongi replies calmly, walking over to the couch to sit on the edge of the cushion by your knees. "I want a medium-rare ribeye, a quiet room where nobody is shouting over a bass drop, and a decent hand of poker."

​"You are eighty years old," Jimin sighs, rolling his eyes back so far you're surprised they don't get stuck. "A fossil. A literal relic of the past. Jin is already seasoning the meat with some artisanal sea salt he bought online, and Hobi is organizing his poker chips by color. It’s a retirement home, Y/N. I am attending a retirement home."

“Well you don't have to go to that retirement home,” Yeri says, stepping out of your kitchen with some snacks. “When you get married, you can have the party you want.”

“At least you get to drink,” you tell Jimin. “I'm currently carrying a minor. I don't get to drink.”

“I promise I have something nice planned,” Yeri offers you the platter of snacks and you take some of the fruit offerings. “We just need to wait for Elly to get here.”

“Is your mom not coming?” Yoongi looks at you.

“No,” you shake your head. “She probably doesn't want to hear about anal sex and threesomes again. Now that I'm knocked up before marriage. I really am the biggest whore.”

“Stop it,” Yoongi sighs.

“I think I want to stay here,” Jimin moves to sit beside you.

Yoongi grabs Jimin by the back of the shirt and hauls him from the couch. Bending down, he drops a kiss on your lips.

“I'll see you later tonight,” Yoongi says. “You two have fun.”

The front door finally clicks shut, cutting off the faint, lingering sound of Jimin still complaining in the hallway about the lack of strobe lights. Yeri lets out a breathless laugh, setting the snack platter down on the coffee table. She shakes her head, looking at the spot on the couch where Jimin had just been trying to nestle in next to you.

"You would think Jimin would give up this little crush he has on you now that you're literally carrying Yoongi's baby," she says, teasingly nudging your shoulder. "But no. The man loves the drama," she says.

"He lives for it," you agree, finally leaning back into the cushions and picking up a piece of fruit. "I think he's just genuinely offended by a peaceful evening."

Before Yeri can reply, the front door clicks open again, and Elly walks into the house. She’s resting a hand on her stomach.

"Did I miss the chaotic exit?" Elly asks. "I swear I passed Jimin in the driveway looking like he was being marched to an execution instead of a steak dinner."

"You timed it perfectly," Yeri smiles. "We were just talking about how nice a quiet night is going to be. Now, come on. We are heading out."

"Heading out? I thought we were staying here to eat fruit and hide from society." You blink, looking between the two of them.

"Oh, absolutely not," Yeri says, a mischievous grin spreading across her face. "Yoongi isn't the only one who gets a special night. Just because you two are sober and incubating the next generation doesn't mean we're spending the evening on a couch."

Ten minutes later, the three of you are piled into the car, with Yeri handling the driving. You try to pry the destination out of them, but Elly just winks from the passenger seat. It’s only when Yeri pulls up to the sleek, candle-lit entrance of a high-end luxury wellness center downtown that the realization hits you. The sign outside glows with a soft, amber light. The Sanctuary Spa.

"Surprise!" Yeri beams, turning off the engine. "We are doing a full spa night. I booked us a private suite. Prenatal massages for the moms-to-be, a private heated soaking pool, and heavy catering. No flashing lights, no bass drops, just pure luxury."

"They have specialized belly pillows so you can actually lie on your stomach for the massage." Elly turns around in her seat with a huge smile.

Stepping inside, the scent of lavender and eucalyptus instantly washes away the stress of the week. As the receptionist hands you a plush, oversized robe, you realize Yoongi definitely had the right idea about avoiding the clubs…this is exactly the kind of sanctuary you needed.

The private suite is nothing short of heaven. Soft, ambient music drifts through the air, and the room is bathed in the warm, golden glow of candlelight. In the center sits a massive, heated soaking pool that's a comfortable temperature for pregnancy. Nearby, a beautifully arranged spread of artisan cheeses, sparkling cider, and gourmet pastries awaits.

"Okay, I take it back," you say. "This beats hiding on the couch."

"Told you," Yeri says proudly. "Only the best for the bride. Now, go get face-down on that table. I know your back has been killing you."

Elly wasn't exaggerating about the specialized pregnancy massage tables. The moment you lie down, your stomach settling comfortably into the custom cutout, you let out a heavy, involuntary sigh of pure relief. It feels like the first time in weeks your lower back isn't under pressure.

For the next hour, the room is quiet save for the occasional contented sigh. The masseuses work out every ounce of tension, using gentle, soothing techniques that leave both you and Elly practically melting into the tables.

By the time the therapists quietly slip out, leaving the three of you alone to enjoy the rest of the suite, you feel like a completely new person. You, Yeri, and Elly migrate to the edge of the heated pool, dipping your legs into the warm water while sipping on chilled sparkling cider.

"So," Elly says, resting her hands on her bump with a relaxed smile. "How are you feeling about everything?"

"Honestly? A little overwhelmed. But... really happy. Yoongi has been amazing." You take a slow sip of your cider, the warmth of the room settling deep into your bones.

"He's terrified of making you uncomfortable," Yeri chimes in with a soft laugh, swirling her cider. "Jin told me Yoongi spent three hours reading pregnancy forums last week trying to figure out the best pillows to buy you. He's totally whipped."

"He really is the best." A genuine smile tugs at your lips.

"To the future," Yeri says, raising her glass.

"To the future," you and Elly echo, clinking your glasses together in the quiet, peaceful sanctuary.

Meanwhile, your phone buzzes on the side table. You reach over and slide it open to find a text from Yoongi.

Yoongi: Well, poker chips are already being thrown. Hope your night is quieter than mine. Miss you.

You smile, quickly typing back a selfie of you, Yeri, and Elly in your plush robes, holding up your sparkling cider.

You: Pure peace over here. Good luck with the dance lessons. Don't miss me too much.

You stare at the glowing screen for a moment, a sudden wave of reality breaking through the peaceful bubble of the spa room. Turning your head, you look over at Elly. She’s leaning back against the tiled edge of the pool, her eyes closed as she enjoys the warmth.

​"Hey, Elly?" You ask softly, setting your glass of cider down.

"Yeah? What's up?" ​She opens her eyes, blinking sleepily at you with a relaxed smile.

​"Did Chris... was he suddenly too busy to go to Yoongi's party tonight?" You ask.

​The relaxed expression on Elly’s face falters slightly. She lets out a heavy, tired sigh. She looks down at the swirling water for a long moment before meeting your eyes.

​"I tried to talk him into it, Y/N," she admits softly, her voice laced with a mix of apology and frustration. "I really did. But... after that fight at your parents' house, he just didn't feel right going."

​Yeri quietly sets her glass down too, sensing the shift in the room's energy, but she stays silent, giving you and your sister-in-law the space to talk.

"Look, he loves you. He made sure to tell me that before I left. You're his sister, and that hasn't changed. But..." She hesitates, biting her lip before delivering the hard truth. "He said Yoongi jumping in when it came to Nick and Sarah just... it rubbed him the wrong way."

You feel a familiar tightness return to your chest, the serene warmth of the spa suddenly feeling a little colder. You look down at the water rippling around your legs, absorbing Elly's words.

"Yoongi was just defending me," you say softly. "Chris was practically yelling at me, Elly. Right in front of Nicky."

"I know," Elly says instantly, reaching out to place a comforting hand over your knee. "I told him that. I told him he crossed a line and that Yoongi was doing exactly what any good partner would do. But Chris... To him, Yoongi is an outsider who stepped into a family tragedy and took over. You and Nicky leaned on Chris a lot … after for help. Even if it was just school things or staying with us so you could get stuff done. Now Yoongi has stepped into that role."

She lets out a shaky breath, her eyes pleading with you to understand, even if Chris didn't deserve it.

"He's threatened, Y/N. It's stupid, and it's unfair to both you and Yoongi, but he’s carrying so much guilt over not being enough after Nick died. Seeing Yoongi handle everything so effortlessly? It just makes him feel like a failure." Elly frowns.

You stare at the glowing water, the pieces of the puzzle finally clicking into place. You hadn't realized how deeply Chris’s resentment ran, or how much of it was rooted in his own insecurity rather than pure malice.

"Did you... did you talk to him about what Nicky said?" You ask quietly, looking back up at her. "About the name?"

"I did. The night after we talked in the breakroom. I sat him down and I told him exactly what Nicky told you." Elly’s expression softens completely.

"How did he take it?" You ask.

"He cried," Elly whispers. "He didn't even argue. We'll find something else. He wants to fix this," Elly promises, squeezing your knee tightly. "He’s just an idiot who doesn't know how to build the bridge back after he blew it up. He didn't go to Namjoon's tonight because he didn't want his awkwardness to ruin Yoongi’s night. He told me, 'Yoongi deserves a good night without me lurking in the corner making it weird.' It was his messed-up way of trying to be respectful."

"See? The boys are an absolute disaster at communicating, but the foundation is still there. They'll figure it out." Yeri reaches over from your other side, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into a half-hug.

"Yeah. A total disaster." You agree.

Your phone buzzes against the stone ledge again. You pick it up, expecting another chaotic update from the bachelor party. Instead, it’s a picture message from Hobi.

You tap it open. It’s a photo taken from across a dimly lit poker table. In the center of the frame is Yoongi, looking devastatingly handsome, a slight, genuine smirk on his lips as he rakes in a massive pile of multicolored poker chips.

But it’s the person sitting directly to his right that makes your breath catch in your throat.

It’s Chris.

He’s wearing a baseball cap pulled low, a slight, reluctant grin on his face as he holds up a middle finger to the camera, looking entirely defeated by whatever hand Yoongi just played.

Beneath the photo, a text finally appears from Yoongi's number.

Yoongi: Look who showed up at the buzzer. He brought a bottle of the expensive stuff he knows I like. We're good, Doll. Stop worrying. Enjoy your spa night.

You stare at the screen. Taking a deep breath, you turn the phone around, showing the screen to Elly and Yeri.

"He went. The stubborn idiot actually went." Elly gasps, her hand flying to her mouth.

"I told you," Yeri beams, raising her glass of sparkling cider back into the air. "Family is messy. But they're a team."

You pick up your own glass, the lingering ghosts of past grief and recent arguments finally settling into a peaceful, quiet truce. You look at the photo of your brother and the man you love one last time before locking the screen, feeling the first real sense of closure you've had in a long, long time.

"To the team," you say softly.

"To the team," they echo, the glasses clinking together in the warm, candle-lit sanctuary of the room, the future finally looking a whole lot brighter.

The heavy double doors of the reception hall swing open with a soft whoosh. ​After months of spreadsheets, seating charts, and emotional rollercoasters, this was supposed to be the easy part. The final walkthrough. Just you and Yoongi checking the floor plan before the big day.

​Instead, you both stop dead in your tracks.

​The main floor is not what you expected. In the center of it all stands your mother, her reading glasses perched precariously on the tip of her nose, clipboard gripped in one hand like a weapon. To her right is Taehyung, looking like a manic avant-garde director in a silk shirt, wildly gesturing toward the far corner of the room with a velvet napkin.

​"No, no, the hydrangeas need to face south-southwest," Taehyung's voice echoes across the vaulted ceilings. "If the lighting catches them from the east, the shadow completely ruins the geometric flow of the head table. Move table seven three inches to the left!"

​"And where are the gold chargers for the buffet line?!" Your mom yells. "I specified satin gold, not metallic! If I see a fingerprint on those plates, so help me…."

​Yoongi’s hand drops from your lower back, his arm going rigid as his dark eyes sweep over the sea of round tables.

​Your eyes follow his. You start to count.

​Table one. Table two. Table three... Four... Five...

​You blink, rub your eyes, and count again. There are easily fifteen tables spread across the hardwood floor. Each table has eight chairs.

​Mathematics do not lie.

​"Yoongi," you whisper, your hand instinctively dropping to rest over your baby bump, which is currently tightening with a sudden spike of pure adrenaline. "Tell me I'm hallucinating. Tell me the pregnancy hormones are messing with my math skills that are already pretty weak."

​"Unless your eyes are seeing double, Doll..." Yoongi’s voice drops. "There are way more than forty place settings out there."

​"We agreed on forty," you hiss, your voice rising in pitch as the realization smacks you in the face. "A strict, intimate family-and-close-friends-only ceremony."

​"I count at least a hundred," Yoongi murmurs, his jaw tightening as he watches Taehyung carefully adjust a gold-trimmed placeholder card on a table that shouldn't even exist.

​Before you can even formulate a strategy, your mother catches sight of you two by the entrance. Her face lights up with glee.

​"Oh! Perfect, you're here!" She calls out, waving her clipboard to beckon you over. "Y/N, sweetheart, don't look at the centerpieces yet, Taehyung is still styling the moss. Taehyung, look, the bride is here!"

"Ah! The beautiful mother-to-be! Do not panic, darling, we are correcting a massive architectural tragedy. The original floor plan lacked drama." Tae nods at you and Yoongi.

​You march down the steps onto the reception floor, Yoongi tracking half a step behind you like a silent shadow.

​"Mom," you start, your voice deadly calm as you stop right in front of her clipboard. "Tae. What is this?"

​"It’s your reception, silly!" Your mom says, dismissively waving her hand.

​"Mom. We had a guest list of forty people," you say, pointing a finger toward the sprawling grid of tables. “Who are these tables for?!"

​Your mom’s smile falters for a fraction of a second, her eyes darting to Taehyung for backup. Taehyung, sensing the shift in the weather, suddenly finds a stray piece of confetti on the floor incredibly interesting and begins nudging it with his shoe.

Your mom sighs, her shoulders dropping slightly as she realizes she’s been caught red-handed. She clutches the clipboard tightly against her chest, looking between you and Yoongi's unreadable expression.

​"I know... I know..." she says with a sigh. "But honestly, the place is massive and it looked funny and empty with only forty people, so I invited some extra people...."

​Yoongi crosses his arms over his chest, his jaw tightening as an eyebrow creeps up toward his hairline. You just stare at her, your hand still resting on your stomach, feeling your blood pressure ticking upward.

​"Who?" You ask, your voice dangerously level. "Mom. Who are 'some extra people'?"

"People from church...." She mumbles.

"Mom, you haven't been to church in twelve years!" ​You blink.

​"But when I run into them, they ask about you!" She replies instantly, tossing her hands up.

“That still doesn't count for double the attendees,” you say.

"And," your mother adds, her voice climbing an octave. "Well, I invited some of your father's old colleagues who watched you grow up. They were so heartbroken after Nick... well, they just really wanted to see you happy. And besides, it would be rude to only have OUR side filled, so..."

She trails off, gesturing to Yoongi. Yoongi’s eyes narrow. He slowly turns his head, his dark gaze sweeping the sprawling perimeter of the reception hall.

"If your side is filled with church ghosts and your dad's old construction buddies..." he murmurs, his voice deceptively quiet. "Then who the hell did my parents invite?"

He spots a familiar head of elegantly styled hair near the back bar.

"Mom!" Yoongi calls out.

Yoongi's mom perks up, scooting in a chair she was unfolding, and walks over to the group. She has a bright, slightly too-innocent smile plastered on her face, but the moment she sees the rigid set of her son’s shoulders and your hand clamped firmly over your pregnant belly, her smile falters.

"Oh, hello, layouts look wonderful, don't they?" She tries to laugh it off, waving a hand toward a cluster of tables near the dance floor. "Taehyung is truly a magician."

"Mom," Yoongi interrupts, crossing his arms tighter over his chest. "Who did you invite?"

"Just a few people, darling!" She offers a nervous, high-pitched chuckle, adjusting the collar of her blouse. "Just some old family friends. And... well, your old high school basketball coach."

Yoongi’s entire face blanks. He stares at his mother for three long, agonizing seconds.

"Coach Hwang?" Yoongi asks, his voice dropping into a flat, dangerous register. "Mom, that man yelled at me all the time. He literally made me do suicides until I threw up because I missed a free throw. Why is he coming to my wedding?!"

"He asked about you at the grocery store last month!" His mother defended, throwing her hands up in a gesture that looked remarkably like your own mother's.

"He called me a lazy ass at seventeen!" Yoongi says.

"Well, he wants to see your lazy ass get married!" She crosses her arms. “And my knitting club thinks you have a beautiful bride.”

“I don't even know your knitting club!” Yoongi exclaims.

“Let’s calm down,” You dad says, stepping in. “Just think of the extra money you're going to get.”

“MY question is,” Jin comes up crossing his arms. “Do we have enough cake for this now?”

You raise an eyebrow at your mother as she and Yoongi's mom share a look.

“Does this mean we get the football cake?” Nicky asks.

“Yes, Nicholas,” Jin sighs, making a face. “Unfortunately, I think it does.”

The heavy double doors of the reception hall now click shut behind you, cutting off the distant sound of your mother arguing about satin gold and Jin mourning the artistic integrity of his beautiful cake.

You and Yoongi walk down the pavement in total, stunned silence. The evening air is cool, but your face still feels warm from the sheer absurdity of the last twenty minutes. Yoongi unlocks the car, and you both slide into the front seats and shut the doors.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. Yoongi just rests his hands on the steering wheel, staring blankly out the windshield as if trying to process how a forty-person intimate gathering suddenly ballooned into a hundred-person stadium event.

Then, the silence breaks. A small bubble of laughter escapes your throat. You try to press your hand over your mouth to stifle it.

"Doll, it's not funny," Yoongi says, though his voice lacks any real bite. He rubs a hand over his face, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. "They completely hijacked the whole thing. Both of our moms shouldn't have done that. We agreed on a boundary, and they just ran right over it with a clipboard."

But you can't stop. You lean back against the passenger seat, your hand resting over your baby bump as you keep laughing, the tears finally pricking the corners of your eyes.

"I can't help it, Yoongi!" You get out, your shoulders shaking. "The knitting club? The construction buddies? It’s a circus!"

"I'm going to have to look my old basketball coach in the eye while eating a football-shaped cake," Yoongi mutters, though the corner of his mouth twitches slightly, his defenses finally starting to crumble against your amusement. "He’s going to ask me if my free throws still suck."

"Oh, it gets better," you giggle, wiping a stray tear from your cheek and looking over at his devastatingly handsome, entirely stressed-out profile. "Think about my side of the guest list. Trust me, those church ladies aren't coming for the flow of Taehyung's hydrangeas."

"No? What do they want?" Yoongi turns his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours, a brow raised in curiosity

"They just want to see if I'm walking down the aisle with an ankle monitor on," you wheeze, flashing him a brilliant smile. "A shotgun wedding while I'm pregnant? They're expecting a scandal, Yoongi."

Yoongi stares at you for a beat, holding back for as long as he can, before a low, gummy smile finally breaks across his face. He lets out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he reaches over the center console to take your hand, his thumb soothingly tracing the back of your knuckles.

"An ankle monitor," he repeats softly, the tension completely draining from his shoulders. "You're ridiculous, you know that?"

"But you love it," you tease, leaning over to kiss him.

"Yeah," Yoongi murmurs pulling back, his gaze softening completely as he looks at you. "Yeah, I really do. Football cake and all."

The smell of extra-hold aerosol hairspray hangs thick in the air of the random, sunlit holding room. You lean your head back against the antique wallpaper, fighting off a sudden, aggressive wave of nausea. Your stomach rolls in tandem with the sharp, throbbing ache radiating from the arches of your feet and the ceremony hasn’t even started yet. You look down at the offending heels seriously contemplating throwing them out the window and walking down the aisle barefoot.

The door clicks open, and Yeri slides into the room, looking breathtakingly elegant in a soft, flowing peach-toned dress that perfectly matches the one Elly is wearing. She closes the door behind her, letting out a breathy laugh as she fans the air in front of her face.

"Oh wow, it smells like a salon in here," Yeri teases, stepping closer and giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "How are the feet holding up?"

"They're not," you groan, resting a hand over your bump. "If I have to stand in these shoes for more than twenty minutes, Yoongi is going to have to carry me back down the aisle like a sack of potatoes. Please tell me the chaos has died down out there."

"Well, the church ladies have taken their seats, and I haven't seen an ankle monitor inspection team yet," Yeri giggles, leaning against the vanity table. "But I actually came to give you the official status report. The guys are finally good to go."

"Yoongi is okay?" You let out a sigh of relief.

"He's upright," Yeri smiles softly. "But I had to run and get Hobi to actually step in and help with the bowties. Yoongi's hands were shaking too much. He was completely fumbling it. Nicky just stood there looking at him like. ‘Are you gonna cry, Coach?’"

"He's really that nervous?" You ask softly.

"Terrified," Yeri confirms with a fond nod. "But the good kind of terrified. He just walked down the aisle with his parents. We're ready for you whenever you are."

Yeri gives your shoulder one last gentle squeeze before motioning toward the door, leading you out of the quiet sanctuary of the holding room and into the grand, carpeted hallway just around the corner. The hallway is bathed in warm sunlight streaming through high arched windows, casting a soft glow on the nervous energy buzzing near the entrance of the main hall. Waiting at the far end, looking immaculate in a tailored dark suit, is your dad, who immediately straightens up the moment he catches sight of you, his eyes welling with proud, unshed tears as he adjusts his lapel. Standing beside him is Namjoon, looking exceptionally dashing as he offers you a warm, reassuring dimpled smile, stepping forward to gently offer his arm to Yeri. Nicky, looking impressively sharp and grown-up in his matching suit, stands right beside Elly, puffing out his chest with all the pride of a best man while trying desperately to look nonchalant about walking his aunt down the aisle. As Namjoon leads Yeri through the heavy oak doors, followed closely by Nicky side-by-side with Elly, the chords of the ceremonial music swell through the hall. Your dad steps up beside you, offering his arm with a slight tremor in his hands.

"You look beautiful, Sunshine," your dad whispers as he keeps his eyes straight.

“Thanks, dad,” you whisper back.

“Are you ready?” He looks at you.

“Yeah.” You nod.

You take a deep, steadying breath, looping your arm through your dad's as the heavy oak doors slowly swing open.

​The soft murmur of the packed room instantly falls silent. You hardly notice the sea of faces. The church ladies, your dad's construction buddies, or Yoongi's high school basketball coach. Your eyes lock onto the end of the aisle.

​Standing by the altar, Yoongi looks so striking it takes your breath away. His tailored black suit fits him perfectly, but it’s his expression that stops you in your tracks. The quiet, cool exterior he usually wears is completely gone. His dark eyes are shining, his lips parted slightly, and his throat works as he swallows hard, watching you walk toward him. From the second row, Hobi and Jungkook give you a discreet, excited thumbs-up, while Jin looks on with tears in his eyes.

​Your dad walks you all the way down, stepping up to take Yoongi’s hand. He gives it a firm, meaningful squeeze before placing your hand gently into Yoongi’s.

​"Take care of her," your dad says softly, his voice thick with emotion.

​"With my life," Yoongi replies without a second of hesitation.

​As your dad takes his seat next to your mom, Yoongi pulls you up onto the small platform. The moment his warm fingers lace through yours, the lingering nausea and the sharp ache in your feet vanish into the background. He leans down slightly, his voice a quiet murmur meant only for you.

​"You look stunning, Doll," he whispers, his eyes scanning your face, down to the soft swell of your bump beneath the ivory lace, and back up. "Absurdly, unfairly beautiful."

​"You're not so bad yourself," you whisper back, a soft smile breaking across your face. "Hands still shaking?"

"A little. But I'm good now." ​Yoongi squeezes your fingers tightly.

The officiant smiles warmly as the two of you settle in front of him.

"Family and friends," he begins, his voice carrying through the quiet chapel. "We're gathered here today..."

Yoongi's thumb slowly strokes over the back of your hand.

You don't hear much after that.

Maybe it's the pregnancy hormones. Maybe it's because the only thing your heart seems capable of focusing on is the man standing in front of you. The words all blur together.

All you really remember is Yoongi.

The way he looked at you. The way his hands never let go of yours. The way the world seems to disappear until…

"...I now pronounce you husband and wife." The officiant declares.

Then Yoongi leans down and presses his lips to your.

Yes.

That's what you remember.

Warm light floods through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a halo over the dozens of tables, the sprawling dance floor, and…to Jin’s silent agony… two bright, neon-green, football-shaped grocery store cakes sitting right next to a stunning, four-tiered artisanal masterpiece.

​"I tried to hide it behind a fern," Jin muttered to Namjoon as the wedding party filed in, his arms crossed tight over his chest as he glared at the frosted pigskin. "Her mother found it. She placed it right under the primary spotlight."

​"It's iconic," Namjoon reasoned, dimples flashing as he patted Jin’s shoulder. "Nicky is currently threatening to tackle anyone who touches it."

​Before the debate over the confectionery tragedy could escalate, the DJ’s voice boomed over the high-end sound system.

​"Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for our newlyweds"

​The roar from the crowd was deafening. The church ladies were clapping with vigorous, scandalized enthusiasm. Your dad’s old construction buddies were letting out boisterous whistles.

​Yoongi’s arm was wrapped securely around your waist, his palm resting right above your hip, supporting half your weight as you navigated the applause. The moment you reach the head table, he pulls out your chair for you.

​"Feet holding up?" He murmured against your hair.

​"I am three seconds away from slipping these shoes off under the tablecloth and never putting them on again," you whispered back, leaning back into him.

​"Do it," Yoongi said without missing a beat, sliding his hand under the satin drape to instantly guide your heels off. "I’ll kick them under the table. Nobody’s looking at your feet anyway."

​The relief was instant and divine. As the first course was served, the hall filled with the clinking of glasses, warm laughter, and the sunset turning into dusk. The chaos of the planning, the ballooning guest list, and the lingering anxieties of the past months seemed to evaporate into the golden hour glow.

​Standing at the edge of the room, Hobi clinks a spoon against his champagne flute, stepping up to the microphone with a blinding smile.

​"Alright, alright, settle down, everyone," Hobi announces, his eyes shining with warmth. "Before we get to the wild dancing…and before Jin officially loses his mind over the bakery choices…we have a few words."

​The room quiets down, turning towards the head table. Hobi raises his glass toward Yoongi.

​"Yoongi, man... I’ve known you for a long time. I’ve seen you cool, I’ve seen you composed, and I’ve seen you completely unbothered by everything," Hobi says, chuckling as Yoongi shakes his head with a slight smile. "But today? Seeing your hands shake when she walked down that aisle? That’s love. Y/N, you brought out a side of him that makes us all so ridiculously happy. To the both of you, and the little one on the way."

​Cheers echo through the hall, but before Hobi can put the mic down, Chris steps forward from the side of the head table. ​A quiet hush falls over your family's section. You hold your breath for a microsecond, your fingers tightening around Yoongi’s hand. Yoongi doesn't flinch.

​Chris clears his throat, pulling a crumpled piece of paper from his suit pocket. He looks out at the room, then down at you.

"I had a whole speech written out," Chris begins, his voice carrying clearly through the hall. "A bunch of jokes about how Y/N used to beat me up, or how Yoongi is way too quiet for our loud-ass family."

A soft chuckle ripples through the crowd, but Chris keeps his eyes locked firmly on you. A soft, bittersweet smile touches his lips.

"But standing here today... looking at my big sister... I can't stop thinking about Nick," Chris says softly. The air in the room stills, a collective, tender breath catching in the throat of everyone who knew and loved your older brother. You feel Yoongi’s thumb gently stroke the back of your hand, as a lump forms in your throat.

"Nick was the backbone of this family," Chris continues, his voice thick with emotion as he looks over at Nicky, who is sitting upright, listening intently to his uncle. "He was the standard. And after we lost him, I worried... I worried so much about how we were going to survive it. But Y/N... you stepped up in ways that still blow my mind. You poured every ounce of your love into making sure Nicky never felt alone."

Chris swallows hard, his eyes glistening as he looks at you, his voice trembling slightly with pure, unadulterated pride.

"Nick would be so damn proud of the woman you’ve become, Y/N. He would be proud of the mother you're going to be to this baby. And seeing the way you and Yoongi are raising Nicky... the way you love him, protect him, and guide him... I know Nick is looking down on this room right now, at peace, knowing his boy is surrounded by absolute love."

A stray tear spills over your lash line, and Yoongi instantly reaches up with his free hand, gently wiping it away with his thumb, his own chest heaving with quiet emotion.

Chris turns his gaze from you to Yoongi. The lingering tension from the past weeks, the awkwardness, the pride…all of it melts away into complete, genuine acceptance.

"Which brings me to you, Yoongi," Chris says, a small, slightly crooked grin finally breaking through his emotional speech. "You walked into our storm, and instead of running away, you built a house in it. You proved to our family time and time again that you’re going to protect my sister and my nephew with everything you've got."

Chris raises his glass high into the air, looking directly into Yoongi's eyes.

"So, Yoongi... welcome to the family," Chris says. "You are officially my new big brother now... be prepared for me to annoy you even more now."

You push back your chair and step away from the head table, completely disregarding your bare feet on the cool hardwood floor. Chris steps toward you, dropping his glass onto a passing waiter’s tray, and opens his arms. You throw you arms around him and he wraps you in a hug

"I know I don't say it," you whisper into his shoulder. “But I love you.”

"I love you too, Sunshine," Chris murmurs back, his voice thick as he squeezes you carefully, mindful of your bump. "And I meant every word. Nick is smiling down on us right now. I know it."

As Chris lets you go, Yoongi rises from his seat and steps up beside you. For a fraction of a second, the two men just look at each other. There are no speeches left to give, no leftover misunderstandings, just a deep, mutual love for you and Nicky.

Chris steps forward first, extending a hand, but Yoongi bypasses it entirely. Yoongi reaches out and pulls Chris into a heavy, solid bro-hug, clapping him firmly on the back.

"Thanks, Chris," Yoongi says. "That meant a lot. I've got them, I promise."

"I know you do, man," Chris says, slapping Yoongi’s shoulder before pulling back with a wide, relieved grin. "Now go feed my sister some food before she eats that ridiculous football cake herself."

The room breaks out into a fresh wave of loud applause and cheering. Jin loudly approves of Chris’s jab at the cake from three tables away, while your mom dabs her eyes with a lace handkerchief. Yoongi gently wraps his arm back around your waist. He looks down at you, as he leans down to press a tender kiss to the side of your forehead.

"You ready for this next chapter of our lives together?" He asks softly against your skin.

"With you? Always." You smile up at him.

The gentle, romantic strains of a slow ballad filter through the venue's speakers, pulling couples toward the center of the hardwood floor. You rest your head against Yoongi’s chest, swaying slowly to the rhythm. His arms are wrapped securely around your waist, supporting your back, while his hands rest comfortably over the gentle curve of your stomach.

​Across the room, you spot Nicky at the dessert table, aggressively digging his fork into a massive slice of frosted football cake.

​"Is that his third piece?" Yoongi asks, his chest rumbling against your cheek as he chuckles, having followed your gaze.

​"Yep," you murmur contentedly, tightening your arms around his neck. "And I am choosing peace. He’s going home with my parents tonight. If he has a sugar crash at midnight, that is officially between him and my parents."

"You're devious, my wife." ​Yoongi lets out a soft, gummy laugh, pressing a warm kiss into your hair.

​"I'm efficient," you correct him with a grin.

​Before Yoongi can reply, a sleek silhouette materializes right next to you on the dance floor. Jimin steps into your space, holding an empty champagne glass and wearing a look of sheer, dramatic tragedy.

​"Well, well, well," Jimin begins, resting his hands on his hips. "Look at the two of you. Disgustingly blissful."

"Can we help you, Jimin?" ​You raise an eyebrow at him, not dropping your arms from Yoongi’s neck.

​"I’m just facing reality," Jimin sighs, shaking his head mournfully. "Now that you two are officially married, and Y/N is inevitably going to become just as boring as Yoongi once that baby arrives... we don't have much time left."

"Jimin, please. Not right now." ​Yoongi lets out a long, heavy sigh, his shoulders dropping as he stops swaying.

​"I'm serious!" Jimin insists, taking a small step closer and leaning in. "I'm offering a practical compromise! I’ll be passive, and Yoongi can do most of the work…I'll only touch when he lets me."

​"What did you just say?!" Your mother exclaims.

She halts dead in her tracks mid-stride, holding a plate of leftover appetizers, her eyes wide with horror. ​Jimin freezes. The color instantly drains from his face, as he processes who just overheard him.

​"Nothing!" Jimin squeaks, his voice shooting up three octaves.

Jimin doesn’t even wait for a response. He pivots on his heel so fast he nearly slips on the polished hardwood, abandoning his empty champagne glass on a nearby table as he sprints toward the safety of the bar, practically diving behind Hobi and Namjoon for protection.

Your mom’s glare follows him like a laser beam before swinging back to you and Yoongi. She crosses her arms tightly, the plate of appetizers shaking slightly in her hand.

​"That better be a joke!" She says, pointing a scolding finger at the two of you, her voice dropping into a fierce, hissed whisper. "There are church ladies here! Mrs. Gable is sitting at table four with a pacemaker, Y/N! If you give one of them a heart attack with that kind of talk, you are dealing with them!"

​Yoongi buries his face directly into the crook of your neck, his entire body shaking with quiet, uncontrollable laughter. You can feel the vibration of his chuckles against your skin as he tries desperately not to let your mother hear him laughing.

​"Mom, it was just Jimin being dramatic, I promise," you say, trying…and failing…to keep a straight face while soothingly rubbing Yoongi’s tense, laughing shoulders. "Nobody is having a heart attack. Except maybe Jimin when he realizes Hobi isn't actually going to shield him from you."

Your mother slaps both of you on the arm, the thwack echoing over the soft ballad playing in the background.

​"It is not funny!" She gasps, though the slight twitch at the corner of her lips betrays her stern expression. "You two are impossible. I spent two weeks worrying about satin gold chargers and seating arrangements, and you let that boy talk about... about arrangements right in front of the punch bowl!"

​Yoongi finally lifts his face from your shoulder, his eyes watering from holding back his laughter, though he dutifully pulls his shoulders back to look contrite.

"We'll keep him on a shorter leash. I promise." He nods

​"You better," she huffs, adjusting her dress before taking a slow, deep breath and looking at the two of you properly. Her eyes soften, the sharp edge of her maternal panic melting away into something gentle and warm. She reaches out, gently placing a hand over yours where it rests against Yoongi's arm. "You look so beautiful, Y/N. Both of you."

​"Thanks, Mom," you say softly.

​"Now," she says, pointing toward the dessert table where Nicky is currently eyeing another piece of the neon-green football cake. "I am going to go stop Nicky before he explodes, and then your father and I are taking him home. You two enjoy the rest of your night."

​She turns and marches off, already calling out Nicky's name before he can get the fork to his mouth.

​"Well," Yoongi murmurs, resting his forehead against yours as the music slows to a quiet close. "We survived the wedding and the night is almost over.”

“I can't wait to go home,” you sigh.

“About that.” He clicks his tongue. “I have a little surprise.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, looking up at him.

hip. He leans in closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear so his voice drops into a soft, private murmur.

​"Joon and Yeri have a cabin by the lake..." he whispers, the corner of his mouth twitching into that familiar, devastating smirk as he pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes. "And I have the keys for the weekend."

​You blink, stunned, as he slips a polished brass key out of his suit jacket pocket, dangling it between his fingers with a subtle wink.

​"Wait," you breathe, a wide, disbelieving smile spreading across your face. "Tonight? As in... right now?"

​"Right now," Yoongi confirms softly, taking your hand and pressing the key into your palm before closing your fingers over it. "I already had Jungkook throw our bags in the trunk while we were getting ready. No church ladies, no football cakes, and…most importantly…no Jimin asking to join a polyamorous union."

You smirk up at him, the heavy exhaustion in your limbs suddenly feeling a whole lot lighter at the prospect of a quiet getaway.

​"I guess we can use my pregnancy as an excuse to leave early," you say, flashing him a sly, mischievous grin. "Nobody argues with a tired, pregnant bride."

​"Works for me," Yoongi agrees with a low chuckle, his thumb tenderly rubbing the back of your hand. "Because you look like you're about two minutes away from passing out right here on the dance floor, and I intend to get you into a comfortable bed as fast as humanly possible. Let's give some quick goodbyes and get the hell out of here."

Leaving a hundred-person reception without causing a scene is an art form, but with the promise of a secluded lake cabin waiting for you, you and Yoongi execute it with military precision.

You slip back into your shoes while Yoongi makes a lightning-fast round of rounds. You offer a quick, affectionate hug to both your and Yoongi's parents and throw a grateful wave toward Jin, Hobi, and Namjoon across the room. You wrestle a piece of cake away from Nicky and give him a hug before telling him you'll see him in a couple days. Elly and Yeri give you a big hug then Chris steps up giving you another hug saying he'll see you at work when you get back.

Jimin spots the two of you heading toward the side doors and opens his mouth, clearly preparing to deliver one final dramatic speech. Before he can utter a single word, Jungkook and Tae expertly step into his path, handing him a fresh plate of appetizers to keep him occupied.

Yoongi catches your hand, pushing open the heavy glass exit door. The cool night air hits your face, carrying the quiet hush of the evening and leaving the booming bass of the DJ well behind you.

​Twenty minutes later, the city lights fade into the dark, quiet stretches of tree-lined roads. The car ride is peaceful, filled only with the gentle hum of the heater and Yoongi’s hand resting securely over yours on the center console.

​When he finally pulls up the gravel driveway, the cabin sits nestled among the pines, its wide front porch illuminated by warm, string fairy lights reflected on the calm water of the lake below.

​Inside, the cabin is pure warmth and cedar. Yoongi sets the bags down by the door and immediately turns to you. Before you can even unbutton your coat, he steps in close, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you against him in the dim living room.

​"Husband and wife," he whispers softly, resting his forehead against yours. "How does that sound?"

​"It sounds perfect," you whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck and sinking into his warmth.

"Just us," he says, his hands settling over the warm curve of your bump. "Just us and our little one."

The fire crackles, a low, lazy sound that fills the quiet cabin. Inside, the only light comes from the flames and a single, dusty lamp on the nightstand. You are already in one of his old t-shirts, the fabric laying over the small, firm curve of your belly. Yoongi is still in his dress shirt, the top buttons undone, his tie forgotten on the floor.

He leans against the doorframe to the bedroom, watching you. A smirk playing on his lips, the same one he’d worn when he’d slid the ring on your finger a couple hours ago.

“You look exhausted,” you say, not looking up from where you were fiddling with the hem of the shirt. “We can just sleep. I won’t tell anyone our wedding night was a dud.”

He lets out a low chuckle, pushing off the frame and walks towards you.

“A dud? Is that what you’re calling it?” He stops in front of you. “I’m just savoring the view. My wife. In my shirt.” He grins.

He reaches out, his hand resting on your hip, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the bone.

“I’m serious,” you say. “I’m not going to break. But I am going to be very annoyed if you treat me like glass.”

His hand slides from your hip, flattening against the curve of your belly. He is so gentle it almost makes you angry.”

“I’m not going to treat you like glass.” His voice is low and rough. “But I’m not going to be an idiot, either. So you’re going to have to tell me what feels good. What doesn’t. And if you need to stop, you say the word. No games.”

“Fine. But if you go all soft on me, I’m kicking you out of bed.” You roll your eyes, but your heart is hammering.

“Deal.” He leans in, his lips brushing your ear. “I promise you, wife, the only thing soft about me tonight will be my hands.”

He kisses you then, not the soft, sweet kiss from the altar. This is a claiming kiss. Deep and slow, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting of the champagne he had earlier. His hand stays on your belly, while his other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head.

“Okay. That’s a good start.” You pull back, breathless.

“Shut up,” he mutters, but he was smiling. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then the sensitive spot just below your ear that makes you gasp. His hand on your belly moves up, under the hem of the shirt, his palm flat against the warm skin. He traces the line of your ribs, the swell of your breast.

“You’re bigger here,” he murmures, his thumb brushing over your nipple. It was true. Everything was more sensitive, more swollen. You arch into his touch, a low sound escaping your throat.

“Don’t be a brat and point it out,” you sigh.

“I’m not complaining. I’m appreciating,” he laughs, a quiet huff of air against your neck.

He pulls the shirt up, over your head, and you are bare before him. His eyes travel down your body, lingering on the curve of your belly, the heavy weight of your breasts. There is no judgment in his gaze.

Only love.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, and the sincerity in his voice made your sass falter for a second.

“Yeah, yeah. Get your pants off.” You smile at him.

"Bossy. I like it." He lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head.

His hands go to his belt, working the buckle before he shrugs off his shirt, letting it fall to the floor. Yoongi kneels between your spread thighs on the bed, his dark eyes fixed on your face as his fingers trace lazy patterns along the inside of your leg.

"Still warm enough?" He asks, moving his hands up your body.

A soft sound leaves you when his thumb drags across your nipple. Yoongi watches the way your breath catches, the way your hips shift restlessly against the sheets. His tongue circles one nipple in a slow, wet spiral, the tip flicking lightly before he flattens it and drags it across the stiff peak. He sucks gently, just enough to pull it into his mouth, then releases it with a soft pop. His hand stays busy lower, fingers gliding through the heat between your legs, parting your folds with two knuckles before one fingertip finds your clit and rubs in the same unhurried circles his tongue is tracing around your nipple.

"Fuck," he breathes against your breast.

He switches to the other nipple, tongue lapping in broad, lazy strokes. His finger slips lower and presses just inside your entrance. Not pushing in yet…just resting there, as he licks and teases.

Your belly rises and falls with each shaky breath. Yoongi’s free hand spreads wide over the curve of it, thumb stroking the taut skin while his mouth works your nipple and his finger finally sinks in, slow and careful, to the first knuckle. He curls it, searching, and when he finds that spot inside you his lips curve into a small, satisfied smile against your breast.

"There," he whispers. "Right there."

He keeps the pressure light, the movement of his finger shallow and teasing. He never gives you enough to come, only enough to make your thighs tremble. Every few strokes he pulls out completely, drags his slick finger up to circle your clit again. He sinks back inside, deeper this time, until you’re gasping his name into the quiet cabin air.

"Tell me," he mumbles, pressing his lips against your lips. "Tell me what you need."

"Don't talk," you gasp. "Just…fuck, Yoongi."

He doesn't need to be told twice. He reaches down, guides himself to your entrance, and pushes in with one smooth stroke. You both groan. He's warm inside you, filling you in a way that makes your toes curl. He pauses, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath coming in ragged pants.

"You okay?" He asks, his voice strained.

"Better than okay. Move." You look up at him.

He does. He pulls out almost all the way and thrusts back in, harder this time. The bed creaks in rhythm. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the small room, mingling with your shared breaths and the occasional moan. He's not gentle, not now. He's fucking you, plain and simple, and it's exactly what you wanted.

Your hands find his back, nails digging into his shoulder blades. He hisses, but doesn't slow down. If anything, he speeds up, his hips pistoning against yours. The angle is perfect, hitting that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. You're not quiet. You can't be. Every thrust pulls a sound out of you, a mix of moans and half-formed words.

"Yeah," he breathes, his voice rough. "That's it. Let me hear you."

He shifts his weight, one hand sliding under your ass, tilting your hips up. The new angle drives him deeper, and you cry out, your back arching off the bed. He thrusts into you with a desperation that mirrors your own, his control fraying at the edges. His movements become less controlled, more frantic. He's chasing his release, but he's not leaving you behind. Each thrust is aimed to drag you along with him.

You feel the pressure building, that coil in your belly tightening. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper. The firelight flickers across his face, catching the sheen of sweat on his brow, the concentration in his eyes. He's watching you, watching your face as you get closer, and it's that focus that pushes you over.

You come with a broken cry, your body clenching around him, your vision going white at the edges. He follows a second later, a low groan torn from his throat as he spills inside you, his hips stuttering through the last few thrusts. He collapses against you, careful of your belly, his face buried in your neck.

For a long moment, there's only the sound of your breathing, the fire crackling, the distant lapping of lake water against the shore.

"Dud?" He asks, looking up at you with a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Shut up." You slap his chest weakly.

He laughs, low and warm, and presses a kiss to your forehead.

"I love you, wife," he whispers softly.

"Love you too, husband." You smile, feeling the weight of him on top of you, the warmth of his skin against yours.

It's perfect.

It's messy and real and exactly what you needed.

He pulls out slowly, rolling off you to lie on his back, one arm draped over his eyes. His chest rises and falls in deep, steady breaths. You turn on your side, propping yourself up on an elbow, and trace patterns on his chest.

"So," you say. "Was that too soft for you?"

"Not even close. But give me ten minutes, and I'll show you what not-soft really looks like." He peeks out from under his arm, a lazy grin spreading across his face.

"I'm holding you to that." You laugh, the sound bouncing off the wooden walls.

He reaches out, his hand finding yours, his fingers intertwining with your own. He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to them. It's a tender gesture, a sharp contrast to the frantic lovemaking moments before, and it makes your heart ache in the best way.

The chaos of the day finally settles into something peaceful. His breathing evens out, and you think he might be falling asleep. However, then he speaks, his voice a low murmur in the dark.

"Thank you," he whispers.

"For what?" You ask.

"For marrying me. For letting me in. For..." He trails off, gesturing vaguely at the tangled sheets and the evidence of what you'd just done. "For this."

“Thanks for staying,” you whisper back.

He turns his head, his eyes finding yours in the dim light. He pulls you as close as he can get you. His fingertips lightly graze the side of your stomach. You place your head on his chest and close your eyes for a moment.

Neither of you says anything else. You don't need to.

Outside, the lake laps gently against the shore, and somewhere in the trees a breeze stirs the pines. Inside, wrapped in his arms with your wedding band resting against his chest and your baby nestled safely between you.

For the first time in a very long time, home isn't a place.

It's him.

<Next>

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The rhythmic clacking of your mother’s heels against the hardwood floor is matching the steady, aggressive downpour of rain outside. She paces a tight, frantic line between the front window and the dining room table, a mountain of silk ribbons and safety pins clutched to her chest.

​"I just don't understand the rush, Y/N," she says, turning on her heel so fast her skirt swirls. She stops to glare out the window at the gray sky. "Look at it out there. It’s freezing. It’s pouring. The yard is a complete mud pit. If we just waited until June, we could do a gorgeous backyard tent. The hydrangeas would be blooming..."

​Crunch.

​You reach into the family-sized bag of Doritos resting on your lap, pop one into your mouth, and chew deliberately. You are currently propped up on your parents' living room couch, your feet tucked under a knit blanket. Your head goes back and forth as you track your mother’s movements.

​"The hydrangeas will survive without us, Mom," you say. "And I don't want a backyard tent. I want to be married."

​"But two weeks' notice!" She throws her hands up, nearly dropping a roll of white lace.

​"Yoongi and I are perfectly fine with just going to the courthouse," you add casually, brushing a stray speck of orange cheese dust off the front of your sweater. "We'll sign the papers, get a judge, and call it a day. Less stress for everyone."

​Your mother stops dead in her tracks. The frantic pacing halts so abruptly you can almost hear her joints protest. ​She lets out a sharp, horrified gasp that sounds like she’s just witnessed a crime.

​"The courthouse?!" She shrieks.

Before you can even swallow your chip, she bundles up the mass of white lace clutched in her hands and hurls it straight at you. ​The fabric lands right over your face, burying you in a cloud of tulle and floral netting. ​From beneath the lace, you hear her heels click violently against the floor as she marches over to the couch.

"Over my dead body, Y/N! You are my only daughter! You are not getting married in a cold, fluorescent-lit basement by a man who handles traffic tickets for a living!" She exclaims.

​You reach up, blindly peeling the lace away from your eyes to see her standing over you.

​"Yoongi wouldn't mind," you offer with a muffled laugh. "He'd probably prefer it."

​"I don't care if Yoongi wants to get married in a dark cave!" Your mom fires back. She snatches the lace back off your lap, shaking it out with an aggressive snap. "We are doing this properly. If it has to be in two weeks, then it has to be in two weeks. But it will be beautiful, and it will not involve a waiting room number!"

​The front door clicks open, saving you from the impending lecture on seating charts. ​Yoongi steps into the door, shaking the rain off his jacket. His hair is damp at the tips, and his boots leave a faint, wet trail on the mat. He quickly sheds his coat and finds you on the couch.

​"Hey, what's going on in here?" Yoongi asks. He walks into the living room, immediately dropping down onto the edge of the couch by your feet. He reaches under the knit blanket, his cold hand finding your ankle and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "What did I miss?"

​"Your bride wants to get married next to a vending machine." Your mother shakes her head, already heading back toward the dining room table to deal with another spool of ribbon.

"A vending machine? Are we getting the good snacks, or the stale pretzels?" ​Yoongi looks at you, his eyebrows raising a fraction.

​"See?" You laugh, leaning forward to offer him the bag of Doritos. "He's on board."

Your mom whirls around, a pair of fabric shears pointed directly at the two of you like a weapon.

​"This is not funny, you two!" She says, her voice trembling with a mix of exhaustion and absolute seriousness. She drops the scissors onto the table with a loud clatter and presses her palms flat against the wood. "I am working on pure adrenaline and half a cup of coffee trying to save you from a lifetime of wedding regret, and you're sitting there trading jokes over a bag of chips."

​You and Yoongi both instantly quiet down. Beside your feet, Yoongi’s hand shifts slightly under the blanket, his thumb rubbing your ankle in a steady, calming rhythm. Your mom looks between the two of you, her eyes softening just enough to let you see the love hiding behind her frantic energy.

​"You should be thanking your lucky stars," she continues, pointing a finger back and forth between you. "You should be kissing the ground I walk on. Do you have any idea how hard it is to book a venue in fourteen days? You should be incredibly lucky that I was able to pull some major strings with the board and rent out the clubhouse at the golf club."

​"The country club?" You ask, blinking in surprise. “Am I even allowed there? I threw a club through the window once.”

“They don't know that it was you.” Your mom glares at you. “Keep your mouth shut and you definitely don't bring it up," your mom adds, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "The club manager owes your father a very large, very old favor involving a zoning permit, and I am not letting a teenage temper tantrum from ten years ago ruin this contract. The main banquet hall is ours for that Sunday."

​"The banquet hall?" You frown. "Mom, that place is massive. We didn't budget for a country club setup. I'm literally growing a little demon inside of me."

​"Don't worry about the deposit, Doll," Yoongi cuts in smoothly while slapping your ankle slightly. He shifts on the edge of the cushion. His dark eyes find yours completely unbothered by your mother's grand plans. "If your mom managed to lock down a real indoor venue on a two-week notice, we'll make it work. It's a hell of a lot better than trying to cram forty people into a muddy backyard if the storm doesn't break."

"Your father and I already paid for it," your mom says. She crosses her arms tightly, though the sharp edge of her posture melts into something a lot closer to a satisfied smile. "Consider it our wedding gift to you both. Early. Very early."

"Mom, no, you can't…" You open your mouth to protest.

"We can, and we did," she interrupts. "The contract is signed, the kitchen is briefed, and the linens are included. It's done, Y/N."

Beside your feet, Yoongi lets out a low, appreciative whistle. The tension in his shoulders visibly drains away, and he looks over at your mother with a genuine, respectful nod.

"Wow. Thank you. That's... incredibly generous. Seriously," he tells her.

"You're very welcome, Yoongi," she says, her expression softening completely as she beams at him. "At least SOMEONE appreciates the miracle I just performed. Now," she adds, her eyes snapping back to you with renewed vigor. "Since the venue is taken care of, we have exactly thirteen days to turn a massive, empty country club banquet hall into something that doesn't look like an annual corporate tax seminar. Yoongi, eat a chip. We need to talk about centerpieces."

The heavy wooden door to Chris’s office is open just a crack. You stand in the hall for a minute, your knuckles hovering inches from the polished oak. ​You take a slow breath, adjust the heavy knit cardigan over your midsection, and rap twice against the wood.

​"Hey," you say quietly, pushing the door open a few more inches.

​Chris doesn't look up immediately. He’s buried behind two giant monitors, a blueprint spread flat across his desk with several plastic scale rulers pinning down the edges.

​"Yeah, come in," he mumbles, his fingers flying across his keyboard for another three seconds before he finally blinks and looks up. When his eyes land on you, his posture doesn't stiffen, but the professional mask shifts into place instantly. "What's up? Invoice issue?"

​"No, nothing with the billing," you say, stepping into the room and letting the door click shut behind you. You don't sit down in the leather chairs across from him. Instead, you just rest your hands on the back of one, leaning slightly against the sturdy frame. "I just... I wanted to ask you something. Personal."

"All right. Shoot." ​Chris sets his pen down. It rolls an inch before hitting his coffee mug with a tiny clink.

"Did you... have you talked to mom today?" You ask, a faint, nervous chuckle escaping you. "Did you hear that she’s currently forcing Yoongi and me to get married at the golf club in two weeks?"

​The tight line of Chris’s mouth suddenly breaks. A genuine, surprised laugh huffs out of his nose, and he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

​"Yeah, actually, she called me at seven this morning while I was driving to the yard," he says, shaking his head. "I’m honestly surprised you’re letting it happen."

​"I don't really have a choice," you say, rolling your eyes, though the familiar banter eases a fraction of the weight in your chest. "She threw a massive pile of white lace directly at my face yesterday. I think if I say the word courthouse near her again, she’s going to write me out of the will. Yoongi told her we'd make it work just to keep the peace."

​"Smart man," Chris mutters, his eyes dropping back down to the blueprint for a split second before returning to your face. The brief moment of humor fades, replaced by that quiet, careful neutrality that has defined the last few weeks between you. He clears his throat, shifting slightly in his chair. "She was screaming into the Bluetooth about centerpieces and zoning permits. Sounded like she was preparing for war."

​"She is," you say softly.

​The silence stretches between you for a moment. You trace the seam of the leather chair under your fingers, swallowing the sudden lump in your throat. You didn't come in here just to complain about your mother's frantic wedding planning. ​You take a breath and clear your throat.

​"Anyway... she’s harassing the kitchen staff today because she needs a final head count for the catering by tomorrow morning," you say. You pause, your eyes locking onto his. "So... I just wanted to ask you directly. Were you... are you planning on coming?"

He just stares at you across the expanse of his desk, his jaw tightening just a fraction before he lets out a slow, heavy sigh. He reaches out, his fingers tracing the edge of his plastic scale ruler, sliding it back and forth against the paper.

​"Y/N," he says, the words coming out quieter than usual, stripping away the last bit of corporate distance. "You're my big sister... why wouldn't Elly and I come?"

​"I don't know," you admit softly, your fingers tightening slightly on the back of the leather chair. "We've just... we've been swinging at each other so hard lately, Chris. After everything that happened, I wasn't sure where we stood."

​Chris rubs a hand over his face, his jaw shifting as he looks out the window at the gray, pouring rain before turning his gaze back to you.

​"We stood in a really bad place for a minute," he says bluntly. "I shouldn't have upset you. Especially while you're pregnant." He swallows hard. "Nick would haunt my ass from beyond the grave if I missed your wedding over a stupid argument. I'm not risking that."

"Yeah. He'd probably rig your space heater to blow cold air forever." You laugh lightly.

​"Exactly," Chris mutters, the tight corners of his mouth finally unraveling into a genuine, tired smile. "Look, Elly’s already looking at maternity dresses online. She's complaining that everything makes her look like a giant peach, but she’s excited. I'm going to be there.”

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat, and offer him a genuine, peaceful smile.

"Thank you, Chris. Seriously. It means a lot to me. And tell Elly she won't look like a peach…or if she does, I'll just look like a marshmallow next to her." You shrug.

​"Deal," Chris murmurs, picking up his blue pen again, the corporate mask sliding back into place, but this time it feels lighter, like a shield he no longer needs to use against you. "Now go back to your billing before Mom calls my phone again to complain about the floral arrangements."

​"On it, Boss," you say softly.

​You turn and slip out of his office, letting the heavy door click shut behind you. The rain outside is still drumming against the glass, but as you walk down the hallway back to your desk, the cold, hollow ache in your chest is finally gone.

"I can't breathe," you announce to the triple-mirror reflection, your voice muffled by a collar of stiff, synthetic lace that is currently trying to suffocate you. "And I'm seventy percent sure my skin is breaking out in hives. Is tulle supposed to feel like steel wool?"

You try to shift your weight, but the heavy, structured satin of the gown refuses to cooperate, bunching awkwardly over your four-month bump like a crumpled tarp. Between the intense pregnancy bloating, the itchy fabric, and the fact that you’ve been standing on your swollen feet for two hours, you are officially ready to set this place on fire.

The heavy velvet curtain slides back, revealing Elly and Yeri sitting on a sofa outside. Your mother is standing a few feet away, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she glares at the boutique consultant.

"Oh, Sunshine," Elly winces instantly, her hand dropping to her almost six month belly. Her eyes are filled with pure pity. "That looks... incredibly heavy."

"It weighs more than Nicky does," you groan, trying to look at your profile in the mirror and immediately regretting it. The structure of the dress completely flattens your chest while making your midsection look like a giant, lumpy potato. "I look like a Victorian ghost that died of indigestion."

"It’s not you, Y/N, I promise. The dress is wearing you, and that lace is definitely not doing your skin any favors. Here, take a sip." Yeri lets out a soft laugh, leaning forward to hand you a cold bottle of water.

"Thank you," you mutter, blindly reaching for the bottle.

"Excuse me," your mother’s voice suddenly cuts through the room. She turns toward the boutique consultant, who looks like she’s trying to dissolve into the wallpaper. "What exactly is the strategy here?"

"Ma'am, we are just trying to find a traditional silhouette that accommodates…" the consultant begins, her voice tight with corporate politeness.

"Accommodates what?" Your mom interrupts, stepping forward. "You have brought my daughter four different gowns, and every single one of them looks like an oversized tent designed to hide the fact that she is expecting a child. Look at her! She is glowing, she is beautiful, and we are not ashamed of the bump!"

You blink, the water bottle pausing halfway to your mouth. You look at your mom in the mirror. You're almost afraid to move right now.

"Exactly," Yeri chimes in, nodding firmly. "The empire waists you keep bringing out are just gathering all the fabric in the wrong place. She needs something sleek. Something soft that hugs her curves instead of trying to bury them."

"Yes!" Your mom says, pointing a finger at Yeri before turning back to the trembling consultant. "Listen to her. My daughter is marrying a man who treats her like she hung the moon. I will not have her walking down the aisle at the country club looking like a walking pile of laundry. Go back to the racks. Find something chiffon, find something silk, and if it has a corset backing that compresses her stomach, I will personally throw it out the window. Go."

The consultant nods rapidly and practically flees the bridal suite.

The heavy curtain falls shut again, leaving the four of you in the room. You let out a long, ragged breath, the stiff lace scratching against your jawline as you look over at your mom.

"Thanks, Mom," you say, a small smile finally breaking through your misery. "I was about to lose my mind in here."

"Don't thank me yet," your mom sighs, walking over to help you lift the heavy train so you can sit down on the edge of the velvet stool. She reaches out, gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your forehead, her eyes softening completely. "I know this timeline is…..short, and I know you're tired. But you deserve to feel beautiful on your wedding day. Bump and all."

"She's right. And honestly, once we find the right fabric, Yoongi is going to absolutely lose his mind when he sees you." Elly smiles warmly from the couch, shifting her weight.

“Yoongi is not going to care what we wear for our wedding,” you sigh, rolling your neck.

"Don't be so sure about that," Yeri tells you, her eyes sparkling with amusement. "Namjoon said tux shopping was an ordeal. All the guys had to throw in their two cents and Yoongi looked like he was so overwhelmed he was on the verge of tears. Joon had to kick everyone out except Hobi."

A real, wet laugh escapes your throat, the tight, suffocating weight of the afternoon finally evaporating into the room. You look down at your hands resting over your stomach, the itchy fabric of the dress suddenly a lot easier to tolerate.

"Alright," you say, taking a deep breath and looking at the door. "Round five. Bring on the silk."

The consultant scurries back into the room a few minutes later, holding a gown that looks entirely different from the heavy fabric you were drowning in. It is made of a soft, flowing silk that drapes effortlessly, featuring a delicate lace bodice that stretches comfortably without a single piece of stiff boning.

The moment you slide it over your head, the contrast is instant. The fabric cools against your irritated skin, and instead of fighting your four-month bump, the dress embraces it, cascading down from just above your waist in smooth lines.

"Oh, Y/N," Elly breathes, her face completely lighting up as she stands up from the couch. "That is the one. Absolutely. You look beautiful."

"It balances everything perfectly. It looks elegant, but more importantly, you actually look like you can breathe." Yeri nods with a warm smile.

You turn to the triple mirror, a genuine smile breaking across your face for the first time all afternoon. You don't look lumpy, and you don't look like a Victorian ghost. You look like a bride. Even your mother is standing perfectly still, her eyes tracking the way the silk pools around your feet, her expression softening into pure maternal pride.

"Yes," your mom says softly, nodding firmly. "This is it. We'll take it."

The consultant beams, clearly relieved to have finally broken through the tension. She pulls out a small digital tablet, her fingers tapping rapidly against the screen.

"Wonderful choices, ladies! It really is stunning on you. Now, let's look at the calendar so we can schedule your first fitting session. We typically do a three-stage alteration process to ensure the hemline and bust are…" She starts.

"No," your mom interrupts flatly, waving a dismissive hand. "No need for a fitting session. Wrap it up, we are taking it with us today."

The consultant’s fingers freeze over the tablet. She blinks, looking up with a polite customer-service smile.

"Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am, but we don't typically allow gowns to leave the boutique without our in-house alterations team verifying the fit, especially with a changing silhouette. If we look at next month…” She tries to continue.

"We don't have next month," your mom says. "The wedding is in less than two weeks. Twelve days, to be exact. So we are taking the dress now, and I will have my personal tailor handle the hem next Tuesday."

The consultant stops entirely. Her gaze slowly drops from your mother’s face, lingering significantly on your slightly rounded midsection, before moving down to the calendar on her tablet. A tiny, condescending laugh huffs out of the worker's nose. It is a light, airy sound, but in the quiet of the bridal suite, it’s hella loud.

"Less than two weeks?" The consultant murmurs, a patronizing, knowing smirk touching the corners of her mouth as she looks back up. "Well... I suppose when circumstances require a... rushed timeline, we have to make exceptions."

The air in the room instantly turns to ice.

Elly’s jaw drops slightly, her hand instinctively tightening over her own bump as she glares at the woman. Yeri’s peaceful, serene smile vanishes instantly, her eyes narrowing into something sharp and incredibly protective as she steps a fraction closer to you.

But it’s your mother who moves first.

The proud, satisfied warmth that had just been on her face completely evaporates, replaced by a cold, terrifying fury. She steps directly into the consultant's personal space, her heels clicking sharply against the floorboards, forcing the woman to take a panicked step backward against the dress racks.

"What did you just say?" Your mom asks, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that makes your stomach do a completely different kind of flip.

"I…I just meant that with the short notice, it's unusual…" the consultant stammers, the condescending smirk instantly wiping off her face as she realizes exactly what kind of line she just crossed.

"Let me make something entirely clear to you," your mom cuts her off, her index finger extended and pointing directly at the worker’s chest, though she doesn't touch her. "My daughter is marrying an incredible man. They are building a family, they are celebrating a life, and the only 'circumstance' at play here is that… I… demanded a beautiful venue that happened to have a sudden cancellation. You will not stand in this room and imply anything less."

The consultant’s face goes completely pale, her hands trembling slightly against her tablet. "Ma'am, I apologize, I didn't mean to imply…" She shakes her head.

"You laughed," your mom says, her eyes flashing with pure fire. "You looked at my daughter, you looked at her daughter, and you laughed. I have spent the last two weeks listening to people's opinions, and I am entirely finished with it. You are going to go to the back, you are going to carefully wrap this dress in a garment bag, and you are going to ring up my credit card. And if I hear so much as a sigh from you while you do it, I will speak to your store manager, your regional director, and whoever owns the lease on this building. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, ma'am," the consultant whispers, her voice cracking. She quickly grabs the silk gown from the hook, avoiding everyone's gaze entirely, and practically sprints out of the dressing room.

The heavy velvet curtain swings shut behind her, leaving a ringing silence in her wake.

You stand in the middle of the floor, staring at your mother in absolute awe. Beside the couch, "I've never seen you like that before," Elly lets out a long breath, a small, triumphant grin breaking across her face.

"That was amazing," Yeri says and then turns to you. “I think I know where you get it from.”

Your mom lets out a sharp, ragged exhale, smoothing down the front of her tailored skirt as her breathing slowly returns to normal. The fierce, terrifying mama-bear energy completely recedes, leaving her looking just a little bit flushed. She looks up at you on the stool.

"I spent years not protecting you," your mom says firmly, crossing her arms. “I'm not doing that again. Now, step down from there, Y/N. Let's get you back into your regular clothes so we can take your dress home."

The ride back from the bridal boutique is surprisingly quiet, the heavy garment bag laid carefully across the backseat of your mom’s car like a piece of high-security cargo. Your mother’s knuckles are still a little white on the steering wheel, but the rigid line of her shoulders has finally softened. By the time she drops you and Elly off back at the office, the rain outside was finally trying to clear into a soft mist.

"I need to go lay down before my stomach decides it hates me again," Elly groans softly as you both walk through the lobby, holding a hand over her bump. She gives you a quick, genuine squeeze. "But seriously, Y/N... you look beautiful in that dress."

"Thanks, Elly. Go get some rest," you smile, watching her head down the corridor toward the breakroom to grab a ginger ale.

You take a deep breath, clutching the plastic handle of the garment bag tightly in your hand. Instead of going back to your desk, your feet take you straight down the quiet hallway toward Yoongi's office. You open his door but he doesn't look up immediately. His eyes dart between two different screens on his desk.

"I'm almost done here, Doll. Just trying to switch over this account….,” he trails off.

"Yoongi," you say softly, letting the heavy door click shut behind you.

His fingers freeze instantly at the sound of your voice. He blinks, his head snapping up, and the moment his dark eyes land on the massive white garment bag clutched in your hand, his entire posture shifts. His hands stop tapping the keys on his keyboard and he slides his glasses off.

"Hey," he murmurs, getting up from his desk and walking over to you. He reaches out, taking the heavy weight of the dress bag from your hand and hangs it on the hook against his door. "How did it go? You look exhausted."

"My mom is a certified lethal weapon," you breathe, stepping right into his arms as they wrap around your waist. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar, comforting scent of him. "I thought she was going to get arrested. Like mother, like daughter."

Yoongi lets out a low, rumbling chuckle against your hair, his hands resting flat against your back, holding you flush against his chest.

"Yeah? What did she do?" He asks.

"The consultant at the shop... she made a comment. A nasty little condescending laugh about the two-week timeline and... and the bump," you tell him. "She tried to imply it was a shot-gun wedding. Yoongi, my mom didn't even hesitate. She stepped right into her face and told her that I was marrying an incredible man, that we were celebrating a life, and that if she so much as breathed wrong she'd have her fired."

Beside your ear, Yoongi’s breathing hitches for a fraction of a second. The easy amusement in his posture tightens into something fierce and quiet. He pulls back just enough to look down into your eyes.

"Did she upset you?" He asks. "Because if she did, I can go down there tomorrow…"

"No, no," you quickly interrupt, reaching up to rest your palms against his chest. "Mom handled it completely. She didn't let her say another word. But... when I was changing back into my clothes, Mom looked at me and said... she said she spent years not protecting me, and she wasn't going to do it again."

Yoongi stays perfectly still, his eyes softening with a deep understanding. He knows the weight of your family’s history, the silent burdens you've carried, and the messy road it took to get everyone where you are today. He slides one of his warm hands up to cup the side of your neck, his thumb tracing your jawline gently.

"She loves you, Y/N," Yoongi says softly, his voice firm and certain. "She’s your mother. She’s proud of you. She should be."

"I know. It just... it felt nice. To have her stand up for us like that." You shrug.

"Good," Yoongi says. He leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then to the tip of your nose, before resting his forehead against yours. "Because you deserve that. Every single bit of it."

You stay like that for a long, peaceful moment. Then, a sudden thought pops into your head, and a mischievous grin breaks across your face. You pull back just a fraction, looking up at him with raised eyebrows.

"So..." you trail off, poking his chest with your index finger. "Yeri told me some interesting gossip today."

"Yeri? What did she say?" Yoongi’s eyebrows knit together in immediate suspicion, his eyes narrowing slightly.

"She said that Namjoon told her tux shopping was an absolute ordeal," you tease, your smile widening as you watch a faint, dark pink tint creep up his neck. "She said all the guys were throwing in their two cents, and you looked so overwhelmed by the attention you looked like you were on the verge of tears. Joon apparently had to kick everyone out except Hobi."

"Oh, my God. I am going to kill Namjoon." Yoongi immediately lets out a sharp, embarrassed groan, his hands dropping to his face as he shakes his head.

"Is it true?" You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck, leaning into him as he tries to hide his face. "Did Coach Yoongi get overwhelmed by a bunch of suits?"

"It wasn't the suits, Doll," Yoongi mutters, finally dropping his hands and looking down at you, his cheeks still slightly flushed but his expression incredibly tender. He sighs, a small, self-deprecating smile on his lips. "It was Jin and Jimin arguing over silk lapels for forty-five minutes while Jungkook kept trying to pick out a white velvet jacket for me. Taehyung was trying to get me to buy a top hat. My head was spinning. I just wanted a plain black tux so I could stand at the end of the aisle and look at you."

You tighten your grip around his neck, pulling him down into a deep, slow kiss. When he pulls away, his hands slide down to rest over your lower stomach, his fingers spreading wide across your four-month bump, holding you close.

"Twelve days, Doll," Yoongi whispers against your lips, his dark eyes shining with a quiet excitement. "Just twelve days."

"Twelve days," you repeat, leaning your head back against his shoulder, finally ready for whatever comes next.

​"I am still processing that trauma," Jin announces to the pristine glass display case. "A grocery store sheet cake. Sheet cake, Y/N. With the plastic dome lid? The kind of frosting that leaves a wax film on the roof of your mouth for three business days?"

​" I liked it," Nicky points out from your left, his hands shoved into his hoodie pockets as his eyes locked onto a tray of red velvet cupcakes. "I thought the football shaped one was cool."

​"It is an abomination to the culinary arts, Nicholas," Jin says, turning on his heel with a dramatic flourish that caused the bakery consultant behind the counter to perk up instantly. "You are celebrating a holy matrimony and the impending arrival of a new generation. You do not celebrate with a cake that contains the same chemical compounds as drywall."

​Beside you, Yoongi let out a low, exhausted sigh, sliding his hands deep into his coat pockets. He looks at you, his eyebrows raised in that silent 'I told you we shouldn't have let him come' look that you know all too well.

​"We were trying to save money, Jin," you say, leaning against the counter. "And honestly, the grocery store sample didn't taste bad."

​"Because your palate has been corrupted by pregnancy cravings and industrial grease," Jin shoots back, though his eyes softened immediately as he looked at your midsection. He taps his index finger against the glass. "Look at this display. This is art. This is structure. If we are going to do this in ten days, we are going to do it with flavor profiles that don't come out of a bucket."

​The consultant, a young woman with a neat apron and a clipboard steps forward with a bright, professional smile.

"Welcome to La Petit Cloud. Are we looking for a wedding consultation today?" She asks.

​"We are rescuing a wedding," Jin corrects smoothly, leaning against the counter. "We need something elegant, structural, and it must be delivered in exactly ten days. Chiffon, light berry compote….none of that artificial strawberry syrup…and a stable buttercream that won't slide off the tiers if the country club turns up the heat."

"Ten days? That's... a very tight turnaround for a custom order." ​The consultant blinks, her pen hovering over her clipboard.

"I am prepared to pay the premium rush fee," Jin said, not even glancing at you or Yoongi as he pulls a sleek black card from his wallet and taps it against the counter. "But the cake will be perfect. Now, what do you have for samples? The blushing bride is eating for two, and her husband to be looks like he's about to fall asleep standing up."

​Yoongi didn't even look offended. He just shifts his weight, his arm sliding around your waist to pull you against his side.

"He's right about the sleep part," Yoongi murmurs near your ear. "But if Jin's buying, I'm not going to argue with the upgrade."

​"Me neither," Nicky chimes in, finally looking up from the red velvet. "Do we get to eat the little squares with the tiny forks?"

​Ten minutes later, the four of you are crowded around a small marble table in the back corner of the shop. The consultant had brought out a slate platter containing eight different flavor combinations, each one a perfect, miniature square of cake with a tiny silver fork resting beside it.

​Jin sits with his arms crossed, his eyes narrow like a judge at a high-stakes pastry competition. Nicky is already reaching for the first one before the plate even touches the table.

​"Slow down, athlete," Yoongi says, his hand shooting out to gently tap Nicky’s wrist. "Let the bride choose first."

​"I want the white one with the gold flakes," you say immediately, your mouth practically watering at the sight of it. You take a bite, and the moment the cake hits your tongue, the memory of the grocery store sheet cake evaporates into thin air. The sponge is unbelievably light, almost damp with a subtle hint of lemon zest, and the cream was real rich, smooth, and perfectly balanced. "Oh, my god."

​"See?" Jin says, a triumphant, blinding smile breaking across his handsome face. He leans forward, pointing a finger at you. "What did I tell you? That is Madagascar vanilla bean with a lemon curd layer. It doesn't taste like cardboard, does it?"

​"No," you admit around your second bite, completely defenseless against the sugar. "It's incredible."

​Yoongi takes a small bite of a dark chocolate espresso tier, his dark eyes instantly lighting up with appreciation. He nods slowly, looking over at Jin.

"Alright. I'll give it to you. This is a lot better than the one shaped like a football" Yoongi tells him.

​"I still want the football," Nicky mutters, though he was currently inhaling a square of almond cake with raspberry filling. "But this is crazy good. Can we get the chocolate one for the bottom?"

​"We are doing a three-tier," Jin decides, his voice carrying the absolute authority of a man who has taken over the creative direction of your reception. "Lemon vanilla for the top, the almond raspberry for the middle, and the dark chocolate for the base. It’s classic, it’s clean, and it covers all the bases." He turns to the consultant, who was standing nearby with her tablet. "We'll do a naked-frosting finish with real white roses and fresh blackberries cascading down the side. No plastic pillars. No fondant."

Yoongi watches you for a second, a slow, amused grin breaking across his face as he takes in the sight of his future wife completely checked out of the conversation. ​He leans in closer, his shoulder brushing yours, and nudges your elbow gently.

"Hey, Doll," he asks. "You okay with this? Or do we need to rein the director in before he orders a chocolate fountain next?"

​"Mmph," you reply, entirely unbothered. You are currently focused on licking a stray smudge of lemon buttercream off your thumb, too blissfully comatose from the sugar rush to care about the finer details of cake architecture. "Jin can do whatever he wants as long as I get a giant box of the leftovers. This is the best thing I've ever tasted."

"You see? True talent recognizes true talent. Honestly, Yoongi, I don't know how you lived with her before this. Her standards were in the gutter." ​Jin lets out a loud, theatrical sigh, resting his chin in his hand as he beams at you.

"My standards brought me to him, didn't they?" You shoot back around your tiny fork, pointing it at Yoongi.

​Yoongi reaches over to wipe a tiny speck of frosting from the corner of your lip with the pad of his thumb.

"Yeah, they did," he says, his thumb lingering against your cheek for a moment before he turns back to the consultant. "The three-tier plan is perfect. Write it up. Just make sure the kitchen notes say the top tier is strictly reserved for the bride."

​"Excellent," Jin says, snapping his fingers and handing his black card to the consultant before you or Yoongi can even attempt to reach for your wallets. "Now, Nicholas, step away from the raspberry almond. You've had three samples, and your jacket is already covered in crumbs."

Nicky looks down at himself and discreetly brushes the cake crumbs off his jacket. ​As Jin handles the final paperwork and delivery details with the relieved consultant, Yoongi’s hand slips over the small forming bump around your midsection.

"And one more thing," Jin's voice cut through the scratching of the consultant's pen, sharp and filled with absolute creative authority. He leans over the counter, tapping his immaculate black card against the marble. "I need your mother’s phone number."

You pause, your tiny silver fork hovering an inch from the slate platter.

"My mom’s number? Jin, why do you need to call my mother? She is currently operating on three hours of sleep and pure maternal rage. If you cross her right now, she might actually hunt you down," you tell him.

"I am not afraid of your mother, Y/N. I am afraid of a subpar color palette," Jin sniffs, adjusting the collar of his trench coat. "If she allows the florist to put standard carnations anywhere near my Madagascar vanilla bean masterpiece, I will simply pass away on the country club floor. I need to ensure there are no hydrangeas or aggressively vibrant lilies within a twenty-foot radius of the dessert table. It will ruin the aesthetic integrity of the naked frosting."

He checks his reflection in the glass display case, smoothing a perfectly styled lock of hair. "Give me the digits. I will handle her with my signature charm." He smiles.

Nicky looks up from his empty sample plate, his mouth still faintly dusted with almond cake crumbs.

"I think grandma would win that fight, Jin," he says.

"Silence, Nicholas. Go fetch a napkin for your face," Jin commands gently, waving a dismissive hand as he takes the clipboard from the consultant to sign the receipt.

You slowly lower your fork, a sudden, heavy wave of wedding-planning exhaustion hitting you.

You lean heavily against Yoongi's side, tilting your head up to look at his sharp profile. His arm is looped securely around your waist, his large, warm hand resting right over your bump. You tug lightly on his heavy jacket, drawing his dark eyes down to yours.

"Yoongi," you whisper, your voice barely audible over the sound of Jin explaining the visual tragedy of standard floral wire to the nodding consultant.

"Yeah, Doll?" he says quietly, leaning his head down so his ear is inches from your lips.

"Be completely honest with me," you breathe, a tired but desperate little smile playing on your mouth. "Is it too late to run away to the courthouse right now? We can leave Jin here with the cake, grab Nicky and make a run for it."

"The car's parked right outside, Doll," he whispers back, his eyes dancing with quiet amusement. "But if we leave now, Jin's keeping the lemon curd tier. Are you really willing to make that kind of sacrifice?"

You look back at the beautiful, half-eaten square of cake on the table, then back up to his face, letting out a soft laugh.

"Fine," you sigh, resting your forehead against his shoulder. "We stay. But you're dealing with my mother's seating chart tonight."

In the quiet of your bedroom, the world feels incredibly small and blissfully still. The frantic energy of your mother’s country club chaos and Jin’s cake takeover can't touch you here.

​You’re propped up against a mountain of pillows, the oversized knit cardigan discarded in favor of one of Yoongi’s worn, soft cotton t-shirts.

​Yoongi is sitting cross-legged on the mattress beside you. The overhead lights are off, leaving the room bathed in the warm, amber glow of the bedside lamp. He has cocoa butter lotion lathered in his hands, warming it between his palms before he reaches out.

​His large, warm hands press gently against the skin of your stomach, smoothing the lotion over your bump. He’s completely focused, his dark eyes fixed on his hands, his thumbs tracing slow, deliberate circles around your midsection. Every now and then, his touch lightens, his fingers spreading wide to just feel the small, firm curve where your baby is growing. ​The tension in your shoulders, built up from another afternoon of answering your mother's frantic texts about linen colors, finally melts into the mattress.

​"Your hands are warm," you mumble, leaning your head back against the pillows and watching him. "That feels amazing."

​"You're tight right here," Yoongi says softly in the quiet room. He presses a little deeper into the side of your hip, easing a dull ache you hadn't even realized was there. "You've been on your feet too much today. I told you to let your mom handle the seating chart logistics."

​"If I leave her entirely unsupervised, she’s going to seat my third cousin next to the golf club manager, and we’ll end up banned for life before the salads are even served," you laugh softly, though the sound is lazy and heavy with sleep. “My third cousin is worse than me.”

​Yoongi’s lips twitch into a faint, affectionate smile. He doesn't look up, his thumbs continuing their slow, soothing tracks over your skin. The scent of cocoa butter fills the space between you, warm and comforting.

​You look down at his hands, then at him. A thought that has been rattling around in the back of your mind since the bridal boutique showdown finally pushes its way to the surface.

​"Hey, Yoongi?" You ask quietly.

​"Yeah, Doll?" He replies.

​"Since... well, since this whole thing has gotten so much bigger," you trail off, shifting slightly on the pillows. "We went from a quick courthouse sign-off to a full ballroom setup at the country club. Do you think we should have a wedding party?"

​Yoongi’s hands don't stop their rhythm, but his thumbs pause for a split second against your skin before resuming their slow circles. He lets out a low, amused huff through his nose.

​"You mean besides Jin, who has already appointed himself the Executive Director of Pastries and Florals?" Yoongi asks, his eyes flicking up to yours with a quiet spark of amusement.

"I'm serious," you say, reaching out to gently nudge his knee with your foot beneath the covers. "The venue is big, my mom is going to expect a full processional. And honestly... now that Chris and I are okay, I really want Elly up there with me. Her and Yeri.”

Yoongi sighs, shifting his weight slightly on the mattress. His hands remain flat and warm against your stomach, but his dark eyes fix yours. He thinks about it for a moment, the steady rhythm of his thumbs easing back into motion.

​"Well," he says. "I think it makes the most sense if you have Yeri up there that Joon walks with her."

​"Obviously," you say. “But what about the other one? Who walks with Elly? I wouldn't make you have Chris up there just because they are married or because he's my brother."

"Not Jimin." ​He doesn't even hesitate.

“Why not?” You ask innocently.

“You know why,” he says quietly, making you laugh.

​Yoongi’s hands slow on your stomach, his thumbs coming to a rest just above your hip bones. He rubs the last bit of cocoa butter into your skin, then pulls your knit blanket back up over your waist, tucking you in carefully before leaning back against the headboard next to you.

​He slides his hand into yours, his long fingers intertwining with yours over the blanket.

​"Do you think Nicky would do it?" He asks softly, his dark eyes flicking up to meet yours.

​You blink, shifting your head on the pillows to look at him properly.

"You want Nicky up there with you?" You ask him.

​"Well," Yoongi says. A small, wicked little smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, though his eyes remain incredibly tender. "He is the reason we're together, isn't he? If he hadn't joined my basketball team, I wouldn't have met his difficult aunt who swore at me.”

"Nope," you say instantly, keeping your face completely deadpan despite the sudden flutter in your chest. "That definitely wasn't me. You're thinking of a different difficult aunt. I am a delight."

Yoongi lets out a low, rough chuckle. He doesn't buy your innocent act for a single second.

Shifting his weight, he leans over you. He presses his palms into the mattress on either side of your shoulders, trapping you beneath him in the best way possible. Before you can even attempt to protest again, he drops his head, his lips finding the sensitive spot right beneath your ear. He presses a slow, lingering kiss against your neck, his breath hot against your skin. You gasp softly, your fingers automatically gripping the fabric of his soft t-shirt.

"I think it WAS you," he mumbles against your skin, making your toes curl under the knit blanket. He shifts his lips a fraction of an inch higher, tracing the line of your jaw. "And if I remember correctly... I think you were calling me names behind my back too."

You try to swallow the laugh bubbling up in your throat, tilting your head back into the pillows to give him better access, even as you try to maintain your innocence.

"Nope," you gasp out, your hands sliding up his chest to rest against his shoulders. "Not me, Coach."

"No?" He whispers, leaning back down until his lips are brushing yours. "Then I guess we'll just have to ask Nicky when I ask him to be my best man tomorrow. See if he remembers who called me a dick."

You let out a real laugh, winding your arms tightly around his neck and pulling him down to close the final inch of distance between you.

"Okay, fine," you mumble against his lips. "Maybe it was me."

Yoongi’s low rumble of a laugh is the last thing you hear before his mouth covers yours, deep and slow, turning the chaotic countdown of the last ten days into nothing but background noise.

"If I have to tie one more pastel-green silk ribbon around a miniature jar of organic honey, I am going to use these shears to chop all my hair off," you announce to the dining room table.

You are currently buried beneath an avalanche of tiny glass jars, a spool of wire-edged ribbon that refuses to hold a knot, and a stack of personalized labels that read Y/N & Yoongi: A Sweet Beginning. Your fingers are sore, your back aches, and you are seventy percent sure you have a cramp in your left thumb.

"Don't do that, Doll," Yoongi says, not even turning around as he stirs some pasta sauce with a wooden spoon at the stove. "I like your hair. And your mom would probably have a stroke if you showed up to the country club with a buzz cut."

"She’d find a way to make a lace veil cover it," you groan, dropping your head onto the table. "Why are we even doing honey? Who actually wants a two-ounce jar of honey? It’s just going to sit in everyone's pantry until it crystallizes into a solid block of regret."

"I like honey," Nicky chimes in from your left.

He is currently slouched over his math homework, his chin propped in his hand as he mindlessly spins a pencil on the table. A half-eaten green apple sits on his notebook, right next to a stray smear of pencil lead.

"You like anything that is ninety percent sugar, Nicks," you sigh, reaching out to drag his math sheet closer. "And why is this pencil spinning? I don't see any long division happening on this page."

"Division is a scam," Nicky mutters, though he reluctantly picks up the pencil and scribbles a number down. "And grandma said the honey represents 'the sweetness of our family's future.' She also made me carry three boxes of those jars out of her trunk yesterday. They weigh a ton."

"Your grandmother is a marketing genius operating on zero sleep," you sigh, squinting as you try to thread a ribbon through a microscopic pre-punched hole in a paper tag. "I am going to pass out."

Yoongi turns down the heat on the burner, letting the sauce drop to a low, quiet simmer. He wipes his hands on a clean dishtowel slung over his shoulder and slowly walks over to the table. Instead of heading for his phone or checking the time, he stops right next to Nicky’s chair, leaning his hip against the edge of the table.

He looks down at Nicky, his expression calm, steady, and entirely unbothered by the chaotic pile of craft supplies separating them.

"Hey, Nicks," Yoongi says, his voice quiet and casual. "I need to ask you something."

“I swear the wind blew the garbage can into the side of the garage and put the dent there.” Nicky blinks, looking up from his paper.

"What dent?" Yoongi asks, crossing his arms over his chest before shaking his head. He tilts his head slightly toward you. "Since Sunshine and I had to scale this thing up from a courthouse run to a full-on country club production, we have to do the whole wedding party setup. Joon is walking Yeri down the aisle. But Elly still needs an escort."

He pauses and takes a deep breath.

"I was wondering if you’d do me the honor of being my best man. Walk Aunt Elly down, stand up there with me, keep me from passing out. What do you think?" Yoongi asks.

Nicky’s pencil slips out of his fingers, clattering loudly against the wood. His jaw drops, his eyes widening into huge, dinner-plate circles as he stares up at Yoongi.

"Hell yeah!" Nicky shouts, a massive, brilliant grin breaking across his face as he practically jumps out of his chair.

Thwack.

"Language, Nicholas!" You exclaim, though a huge smile is already tugging at your own lips. You had just managed to launch a soft, unused spool of green ribbon straight at his chest. It bounces harmlessly off his hoodie and rolls onto his math homework.

"Ow!" Nicky laughs, not even pretending to be hurt as he snatches the spool and tosses it back onto your pile. He looks straight back at Yoongi, his chest puffing out with an immense, sudden wave of fifteen-year-old pride. "But seriously…heck yeah, Coach! I'm totally in."

"Good. I was hoping you'd say yes. I don't think I could handle being up there by myself." Yoongi lets out a low, amused chuckle.

"Oh, you don't have to worry about a thing," Nicky says, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair with supreme confidence. "I'm basically a pro at this point. I did Uncle Chris and Aunt Elly's wedding, remember? I know the exact walking pace so I don't trip on the dress. I know when to hand over the rings. I won't let you down, Coach."

"I know you won't," Yoongi laughs, his eyes softening as he looks down at him. "Just make sure you don't lose the ring in a bag of chips before the ceremony."

"I'm going to look so awesome in a tux. Do I get to wear the shiny shoes?" Nicky asks.

"Only the shiniest," Yoongi promises. “Hobi will make sure of it.”

He shifts his gaze over to you, his dark eyes sparkling with a quiet, triumphant light. He reaches across the table, his hand finding yours amidst the sea of lace and honey jars, his thumb gently rubbing the back of your knuckles.

"See?" Yoongi says softly, a small, knowing smirk touching his lips. "Told you I'd handle the best man situation."

"You're a genius," you laugh. "Now, please tell me that pasta is done, because the baby is currently demanding garlic bread or I might actually eat one of these ribbons."

"Pasta's ready, Doll," Yoongi smiles, giving your hand one last squeeze before heading back to the kitchen.

The room is massive…all vaulted ceilings, heavy brass chandeliers, and towering arched windows that look out over the rolling hills of the course. It currently smells faintly of lemon floor wax and old money. ​You are currently sitting at a table shoved into the corner of the room eating gummy worms as you watch the drama unfold.

​"No, absolutely not," your mother’s voice echoes sharply off the hardwood floors. She is standing near the far corner of the room, gesturing wildly at an imaginary layout with a rolled-up blueprint of the hall. "If we put table seven next to the service doors, the draft from the kitchen will cool the prime rib before the guests can even pick up their forks. And what is this spacing? It’s a banquet, not a crowded subway car!"

​"Honey," your dad sighs. "The manager said the tables are standard sixty-inch rounds. There’s plenty of room. The waitstaff needs to be able to walk through."

​"They can walk in a zig-zag!" she fires back. "And I don't like the angle of the dance floor. It’s too... rectangular. This is awful. I don't remember this place looking so awful."

​"It’s a wooden parquet floor, sweetheart," your dad mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. "It only comes in rectangles."

​Beside your table, Yoongi is leaning heavily against a white Roman pillar. His arms are crossed over his chest, his eyes half-closed, and his head is tilted back against the plaster. Every time your mother raises her voice a decibel, a tiny, involuntary twitch occurs near his left eyebrow.

​"You okay over there, Coach?" You call out quietly, tossing a green worm into your mouth.

​Yoongi doesn't move his head, but his dark eyes slowly slide over to you.

"I've been calculating the escape routes," he mutters. "If I take the service stairs by the pantry, and you climb out the window in the ladies' locker room, we can make it to the car in under forty seconds. We leave the candy. It'll only slow us down."

"Not a chance. I'm taking the candy." ​You let out a muffled laugh, holding the bag out to him.

Yoongi pushes off the pillar, stepping over to snatch a yellow gummy worm from your bag before dropping back onto the edge of your table. "I'm serious. If she starts mapping out a 'zig-zag' traffic pattern for the soup course, the waitstaff is going to strike."

​Before you can answer, the heavy double doors at the main entrance burst open with a resounding thud.

​"I have never been so profoundly insulted in my entire artistic life!" A voice booms through the cavernous banquet hall, echoing off the high vaulted ceilings.

​You and Yoongi both turn to see Taehyung striding down the center aisle of the ballroom. He looks like a high-fashion hurricane, draped in a floor-length charcoal wool coat, a silk scarf trailing behind him like a cape. He handles the floor with the dramatic weight of a runway model, his face twisted into a mask of pure, theatrical betrayal.

​"Taehyung?" You blink, a gummy worm hanging loosely from your mouth. "What are you doing here?"

​"What am I doing here?" He stops at the edge of your table, throwing his hands flat against his chest. "I am demanding answers, Y/N! I had to find out from Jungkook…who found out from Hobi, who found out from Jin…that there is a wedding task force happening. Jin is directing the pastries. Namjoon is apparently a groomsman. And what am I doing? Sitting at home, completely abandoned, while my best friends plan the event of the century!"

​"Tae, it’s been a crazy couple of days," you start, trying not to laugh. "We only had two weeks…"

​"I don't care if you had two hours!" Taehyung interrupts, tossing the edge of his scarf over his shoulder.

He spins around, taking in the full scope of the massive country club ballroom for the very first time. His dramatic rant suddenly grinds to a halt. His eyes slowly track up the towering arched windows, lingering on the heavy brass chandeliers, before dropping down to the muted cream walls.Taehyung tilts his head, his nose wrinkling in immediate, unfiltered distaste. He takes two steps forward, dragging a single finger along the edge of a nearby chair back, then turns back to look at you and Yoongi with a look of genuine horror.

​"Oh... oh no," Taehyung sighs. "This place is outdated. Y/N...Yoongi. Look at these curtains. I don't think they have changed them since 1994."

​Across the room, your mother stops mid-argument with your father. Her head snaps toward Taehyung so fast you can almost hear her neck click.

​"What did you just say?" She calls out, her voice dangerously calm.

​Your dad takes a strategic step backward, completely extracting himself from the splash zone. Yoongi instantly tenses next to you, his hand dropping over your shoulder to pull you back a fraction, bracing for impact. ​Taehyung, completely oblivious to the danger, turns to face your mother. He gestures broadly to the entire room.

"I’m just saying, ma'am. The lighting is completely flat. It completely washes out the warmth of the wood." He looks at her.

​You hold your breath, waiting for the explosion. You're ready to see your mother banish him from the property using her blueprint as a weapon. ​Instead, your mother slowly lowers the rolled-up blueprint. She looks at heavy drapes and goes back to Taehyung. The manic edge in her eyes suddenly clears.

​"He gets it," she announces loudly to the empty ballroom. She marches straight down the floor toward him. "Finally! Someone has actual eyes!"

​Taehyung blinks, his dramatic posture faltering for a split second as your mom steps right into his personal space, grabbing his arm.

​"We need to get rid of the heavy curtains," Taehyung continues, completely unfazed as his eyes sweep the perimeter. He gestures toward the towering windows. "They're suffocating the natural light. We need something light and airy. And these lights? They are way too sterile. We need an amber glow."

​"An amber glow!" Your mother gasps, her eyes lighting up as if Taehyung had just handed her the keys to the kingdom. "Oh, yes! How do we mask those dreadful fluorescent lights?"

"We refuse to turn them on," Taehyung says. He gestures dramatically toward the grid of recessed lighting in the ceiling. "We make them put different bulbs in the chandeliers. Low wattage, warm amber filament. Golden, romantic, candlelight warmth."

"Yes! Exactly! Oh, you are a godsend, young man. What did you say your name was?"Your mom claps her hands together.

"Taehyung," he says, offering a sweeping, elegant bow that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else, but somehow worked perfectly with his floor-length coat. "And I am officially taking over the visual design of this union. We have eight days, ma'am. We must work quickly."

"Taehyung," your mother repeats. She links her arm through his, completely abandoning your father, who is still standing by the dance floor looking incredibly relieved to be dismissed. "Come with me. Let's discuss what we can do about these atrocious chair covers."

As the two of them march off toward the far corner of the ballroom, their heads bent together in rapid-fire coordination, you slowly turn to look at Yoongi. He is still leaning against the table next to you, a yellow gummy worm halfway to his mouth. He watches the unlikely duo walk away, his dark eyes wide, a slow, utterly bewildered grin spreading across his face.

"Well," Yoongi murmurs, popping the gummy worm into his mouth and chewing slowly. "I didn't have Taehyung becoming your mother's best friend on my wedding bingo card."

"Me neither," you laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder. "But honestly? If it keeps her from annoying me, I'll buy him whatever silk scarf he wants as a thank-you gift."

"Deal," Yoongi chuckles, rubbing your shoulder, the massive, empty country club banquet hall suddenly feels a whole lot warmer.

<Next>

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The energy in the community center on Saturday made Jimin's living room feel like a zen garden. You are currently stationed at a long folding table, completely surrounded by six and seven-year-olds. In the center of the table sit several massive blocks of soft, colorful air-dry clay.

"Remember what we said, guys!" You call out, gently intercepting a tiny hand that is reaching for a plastic cup of water. "No water today. This clay is already super soft. If we add water, it turns into sticky soup, and then your monsters won't have any bones."

"My monster doesn't need bones, Y/N! He's a space jellyfish!" Minjun announces proudly, enthusiastically slamming a bright green lump of clay onto the table.

The familiar slap-slap-slap instantly echoes in your mind, a miniature, pint-sized echo of Jungkook's terrifying dragon from the weekend before. You can't help the fond smile that tugs at your lips. Your fingers, though still recovering their old rhythm, feel lighter today as you mold a flower in your hand. Across the room, sitting at an identical folding table surrounded by his own frantic cluster of kids, is Hobi.

If your table is a semi-controlled workshop, Hobi’s table is a full-blown theater production. He is entirely in his element, his loud, bright laughter ringing out over the chatter of the room. He’s wearing an oversized tie-dye shirt that matches the chaotic palette of the clay, and there is already a prominent smudge of neon pink clay on the tip of his nose.

"Whoa, whoa, look at that technique, Jiwoo!" Hobi exclaims, his hands gesturing wildly in the air, mimicking the shape of a bird soaring. "That's not just a bird, that’s a super-sonic eagle! Look at those wings! Pow! Pow!"

The little girl next to him giggles hysterically, burying her face in her hands as Hobi does a dramatic, slow-motion dive with his own lump of clay, making sound effects that has the entire table captivated He builds a space where they are entirely free to be as loud and creative as they want.

You watch him for a moment with the same realization you had while watching Yoongi's students. This was the world that had kept turning while you were gone…beautiful, vibrant, and full of life. However, you weren't looking at it from the outside anymore. You were right here, in the middle of it.

Hobi suddenly looks up across the room, catching your eye past the sea of tiny heads. Seeing you watching him, his face immediately breaks into that familiar, brilliant heart-shaped smile. He holds up two clay-stained hands, giving you an enthusiastic, supportive double-thumbs-up, his energy vibrating all the way across the crowded center. You laugh, giving him a small wave back before turning your attention down to Minjun’s space jellyfish.

"Okay, Minjun," you say softly, leaning in close. "Let's figure out how to make those tentacles hold together. What do you think if we press them a little harder into the clay?"

"Like this?" Minjun asks, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in pure concentration as he aggressively mashes a neon blue coil into his green blob.

​"Perfect," you smile, smoothing down the seam where the two colors meet. "See? No water needed. It’s a structurally sound space jellyfish."

​"Y/N! Y/N, look!"

​A sharp, panicked tug on the hem of your shirt pulls your attention away from Minjun. You look down to see a little girl named Sunhee. Her lower lip is trembling violently, her big eyes brimming with a catastrophic level of six-year-old despair. On the table in front of her sits a tragic, unrecognizable mass of air-dry clay.

​It had clearly started as a cat. You can see two sad, squished ears folded flat against the top but in her excitement, she must have dropped it or pressed down too hard. Now, the purple and yellow clays had marbled together into a flattened lump.

​"I ruined it," Sunhee whispers, a fat tear finally spilling over her lashes. "I wanted to make my kitty, but I squished him. He doesn't have a face anymore."

​"Oh, sweetie, hey, it's okay," you say gently, instantly shifting into a low kneel beside her tiny chair so you're at eye level. "We can fix this, Sunhee, I promise," you say softly, wiping a fresh tear from her cheek with the clean back of your wrist. "Look at these colors. The purple and yellow mixing together actually look pretty cool. It looks like a magical storm. What if your kitty has special powers?"

You gently take her small, sticky hands in yours, guiding her fingers to the sides of the flattened lump.

"Let's use the pads of our thumbs. We're just going to pinch right here at the top, very gently, to bring those ears back up. See? Just like that." You smile softly.

Sunhee’s ragged breathing slows down, her eyes wide as she watches the shape slowly emerge from the chaos. With your hands over hers, you show her how to smooth out the deep dent in the middle, flattening a sturdy base so the creature can stand.

"Now, he needs a face,"Yoongi slides a small chair over, sitting down awkwardly on the low seat so he's closer to eye level with Sunhee. He reaches into the center of the table and picks up a small wooden stylus tool, handing it to the little girl with a quiet smile.

"If you use the pointy end, you can dot two eyes right here," Yoongi says. "And maybe a little star on his forehead?"

Sunhee blinks at him, completely captivated by his calm demeanor. She snatches the tool and immediately goes to work, carefully poking two deep dimples into the front of her new cosmic cat.

"He's an alien kitty now!" She announces proudly.

"Exactly," Yoongi murmurs, a tiny smile touching the corners of his lips. "Go show Hobi over there. He's the expert on aliens."

Sunhee scoops up her clay masterpiece and scrambles away, running toward Hobi's table where a chorus of theatrical gasps immediately welcomes her.

As the table settles back into its noisy rhythm, you shift your weight, sitting back on your heels with a soft breath. You look down at your hands, which are completely covered in dried white clay. For the first time in months, they don't feel stiff or clumsy. They just feel warm.

Yoongi stays seated on his low chair, his dark eyes locked on your face. He reaches out, his pale fingers sliding under yours.

"It's starting to become natural again," he says softly.

"What do you mean?" You blink, shifting your gaze from your clay-stained fingers up to his face.

His grip firming just a fraction as his eyes soften, a deep, nostalgic warmth reflecting in them. He looks across the noisy room at the kids, then right back into your eyes.

"You working with them," he says. "Watching you just now with Sunhee, knowing exactly how to catch her before she completely broke down... it's like second nature to you again. You didn't have to stop and think about how to fix it. Your hands just knew what to do. Your heart just knew."

Before you can respond, a little boy named Kiho thrusts his hands forward, practically shoving his masterpiece into the space between your noses. He is bouncing on his feet, his sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as he bounces on his toes.

"Look! Look what I made!" He chirps.

You and Yoongi slowly lower your gaze, looking down at the plastic tray resting in his sticky palms. Sitting in the center of the tray is a remarkably detailed, slightly lumpy mass of bright orange air-dry clay. It is thick in the middle, tapered at both ends, and features a series of layered, overlapping flaps meticulously pressed along its sides. Rising from the head are two distinct, curved appendages that hook downward. It's complete with tiny spikes and two bulbous, oversized eyes staring blankly back at you.

It is, without a doubt, a masterpiece.

Your jaw drops slightly. You blink once. Twice. You look up at the boy, trying to find your voice. "Oh, wow... buddy, this is incredible. What... what exactly is it?"

Kiho puffs out his chest, looking at you like you're the one who needs a remedial science lesson.

"It’s an *Anomalocaris*!" he announces proudly, pronouncing the five-hundred-million-year-old name with a terrifying level of clarity. "My dad readed me a big book about the ocean before the dinosaurs were even born! It's the apex predator of the Cambrian seas!"

Very slowly, you turn your head to look at Yoongi.

Yoongi is already looking back at you.

His dark bangs are shadowing his eyes, but his mouth is slightly open, his jaw completely slack as he stares at you. Yoongi turns back, his eyes darting from the flawless orange clay creature and back to the little boy. He clears his throat.

"Hey, Kiho," Yoongi says. "Can I take a picture of that?"

"A picture?! For real?! Like, on a real phone?!" Kiho’s eyes go completely wide. He bounces so hard on his sneakers they emit a series of rapid, high-pitched squeak-squeak-squeaks.

"Yeah, for real," Yoongi says, already reaching into his pocket and pulling out his phone. He unlocks it with his thumb, blinking against the bright screen. "Hold it right up to your chest so I can get the details. Don't move."

Kiho freezes instantly, holding the tray out like it's a priceless museum artifact, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth as he tries not to breathe. Yoongi leans over the low table, framing the shot with care, ensuring the curved frontal appendages and the tiny clay spikes are perfectly in focus.

Click.

"Got it," Yoongi says, nodding once. "Good job, scientist."

"Yes! I'm gonna go show Hobi!" Kiho yells, turning on his heel and sprinting toward Hobi’s table.

You watch the boy weave through the sea of chaotic kids, a breathless laugh bubbling up from your chest. You turn back to Yoongi, who is already hunched over his screen, his thumb flying across the keyboard with terrifying speed.

"Why did you take a picture of that?" You ask, leaning your chin on your hand, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. "Are you secretly starting a digital gallery of Cambrian marine life?"

Yoongi doesn't look up, but a wicked, slow-burning smirk spreads across his face, his eyes shining behind his dark bangs.

"I'm sending it to Namjoon," he says bluntly.

"With what explanation?" You ask.

"No explanation," he clarifies, his thumb hitting the send button with an authoritative tap. "No text. No caption. Just the raw, orange apex predator."

He flips his phone screen-side down on the folding table, leaning back against the low plastic chairs with his arms crossed over his chest. For a few seconds, the room returns to its usual background noise. Hobi making explosive spaceship noises, a kid crying because their clay turned brown, and a dozen tiny voices.

Then, exactly forty-five seconds later, Yoongi's phone doesn't just buzz…it practically violently-vibrates itself across the polished linoleum table. Yoongi doesn't even hesitate. He snatches the phone, flips it over, and holds it up so you can see the screen. A wall of text is already scrolling upward, the bubbles appearing so fast the app is practically glitching.

Joon: IS THAT AN ANOMALOCARIS?!

Joon: YOONGI WHO MADE THIS

Joon: Look at the lateral swimming flaps! Look at the stalked compound eyes! The anterior appendages are completely proportional to the main body segment!

Joon: Whoever made this understands the Burgess Shale fauna on a spiritual level. Tell me it has both arms. Please tell me the appendage didn't fall off into the dust.

Joon: Where did you find this genius?

You bury your face in your clay-stained hands, your shoulders shaking with silent, uncontrollable laughter. The sheer, unbridled vindication radiating through the text messages is enough to fill the entire community center. Yoongi lets out a low chuckle, his gummy smile breaking fully free as he starts typing a response with one thumb.

Yoongi: A seven-year-old made it.

Yoongi: Both arms are attached, Joon.

Yoongi: It doesn't look like a shrimp at all.

A second later, the phone violently-vibrates again, a singular, massive bubble popping onto the screen.

Joon: AGE IS AN ARBITRARY METRIC FOR GENIUS. DO NOT SQUISH IT. I AM SECURING A DISPLAY CASE.

Yoongi lets out another low, wheezing chuckle, shaking his head as he taps the power button to lock the screen. He slides the phone smoothly back into the deep pocket of his pants, patting the fabric with smugness. The petty war over the Cambrian period had officially been won, and he didn't even have to say a word to do it.

"He's probably already putting on his museum cardigan," Yoongi murmurs, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners as he looks back at you. "He's going to track that kid down and try to sponsor his elementary school tuition."

"You are terrible," you laugh, leaning your shoulder against his arm, your chest feeling remarkably light. "He was genuinely having an existential crisis about his clay shrimp last weekend, and you just handed a seven-year-old his dream legacy."

"It's about maintaining balance in the universe," Yoongi retorts. He reaches out, his thumb gently catching the edge of your wrist, pulling your hands down from your face. "Come on. Look at your friend over there. He's losing the battle against the glitter glue."

You follow his gaze across the noisy, chaotic room. Hobi is currently surrounded by a frantic circle of kids, holding a bottle of neon pink glitter glue high above his head while Sunhee and two other kids leap frantically to reach it.

"No, no, no! One drop at a time, my beautiful artists!" Hobi is yelling, his voice a mix of theatrical terror and pure joy, the pink clay smudge still perfectly centered on his nose. "If we dump the whole bottle, the alien kitty will drown in space stardust!"

"We should probably save him," you say, a genuine smile splitting your face as you push yourself up from the tiny plastic chair.

"He chose this life," Yoongi grumbles softly, but he's already standing up beside you.

“So, did I.” You nod.

"Alright, everyone! Time to put the clay monsters to sleep!" Hobi’s voice cuts through the room.

The next forty minutes are a blur of damp paper towels, scraping dried clay off plastic tables, and carefully lining up a small army of multicolored alien kitties and structurally sound space jellyfish along the back window sill to dry. By the time the last parent waves goodbye, the community center is quiet again, save for the hum of the industrial air conditioner and the satisfying sound of Hobi sweeping up stray glitter.

"You two are literal lifesavers," Hobi pants cheerfully, leaning heavily on his broom as he waves you and Yoongi toward the exit. The pink smudge is still on his nose, but his smile is as bright as ever. "Go, get out of here. Enjoy the rest of your Saturday. I've got the final lock-up!"

"Don't let the glitter dust win, Hobi," Yoongi calls back, throwing a lazy wave over his shoulder as he guides you toward the heavy glass doors.

The transition from the air-conditioned community center to the late afternoon July heat is like walking into a warm wall. The humidity has softened into a gentle, heavy breeze that stirs the leaves of the nearby oak trees. You walk side-by-side, the quiet of the afternoon settling over you both after the loud energy of the classroom. Your fingers are finally clean, though a faint scent of damp clay still clings to your skin.

Yoongi walks with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched, his eyes fixed on the pavement a few feet ahead of his sneakers. He’s unusually quiet, but it’s not his usual relaxed silence. There's a subtle stiffness in his stride, a slight hitch in his breathing that tells you his mind is working through something heavy.

You reach his car, the metal radiates the heat of the afternoon sun. Yoongi hits the unlock button, the sharp chirp echoing in the quiet lot, but he doesn't open his door right away. Instead, he stops, leaning his lower back against the vehicle, his eyes tracking a stray leaf blowing across the concrete.

"Hey," you say softly, stepping into his space. "Everything okay?"

Yoongi lets out a slow breath, his dark bangs falling forward on his face. He shifts his weight, his fingers nervously twitching inside his pockets before he finally pulls his right hand out to rub the back of his neck. It’s becoming a familiar, vulnerable gesture that instantly puts you on alert.

"Yeah," he mumbles. He finally looks up, his dark eyes searching yours, carrying a hesitant, tentative weight. "I was just... thinking about what we talked about. About coming home. One night at a time."

You nod gently.

"Right now, you're staying at Leah's place," he continues, his words coming out a little slower now, carefully measured. "And... well, you know how everyone has boxes of your stuff."

“Yeah,” you say, waiting for him to continue.

He pauses, swallowing hard. The tight set of his jaw betrays just how deeply those memories still sting, even now.

“Since her place doesn't have a lot of room. If you wanted to,” he continues. “We can bring all that stuff over to my place. You could put your stuff in my garage. You wouldn't have to unpack it. You wouldn't even have to look at it if you don't want to. It can just... sit there. Safe. That way, whenever you're ready for a piece of your past, you don't have to go hunting through everyone else's living rooms to find it. It'll already be… home. Waiting for you."

​He isn't just offering you a concrete floor and some storage rafters. He’s offering to bring the ghosts back into his space…the very things that used to haunt him. He’s willing to live right next to the physical evidence of the life he lost, just to make your healing a little bit easier.

​You look down at your hand, tracking the way the dark stone of the ring rests against your skin. For months, your past has felt like a terrifying, scattered puzzle, pieces of it locked away in your parents' lies, pieces of it buried in your own fractured mind, and pieces of it literally boxed up in the closets of the people who loved you.

​"Yoongi," you whisper.

"Look, if it's too fast, or if it makes you feel crowded, just forget I said anything. We can leave it. We can…" ​He shifts uncomfortably against the side of the car, his eyes instantly darting to your face, looking braced for a polite refusal.

​"Yoongi, stop," you say gently, stepping all the way into his space until the tips of your shoes touch his sneakers. You reach out, your hands sliding up his arms to rest against his shoulders. "I want to."

"You do?" ​Yoongi freezes, his dark eyes widening just a fraction behind the fringe of his bangs.

​"Yeah," you say, a soft smile pulling at the corners of your lips. "I want my things back. And I want them there. With you."

He lets his forehead fall forward, resting it heavily against your shoulder with a soft huff that sounds an awful lot like relief.

​"You're sure?" His voice is muffled against your shirt. "You don't have to do it to make me feel better, Y/N. I meant what I said. One toothbrush at a time."

​"I am sure," you murmur, your fingers gently tangling into the soft, dark hair at the nape of his neck. "I think... I think keeping my past spread out everywhere was making it easier for me to pretend it belonged to someone else. Like it was just a story about a girl who looked like me. But it's mine. And if I'm going to start putting myself back together, I want the pieces to be in the place where I'm building my future."

​Yoongi doesn't answer right away, but his arms come around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest with a fierce desperation. He holds you so tightly, his hands splayed wide across your back as if he's physically anchoring you to him so no storm can ever tear you away again.

“Okay, then let's go get your life.” Yoongi leans down and kisses you.

Thirty minutes later, his car glides smoothly into a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood, finally pulling up to the curb in front of Jungkook and Yura’s house. ​The garage door is rolled completely open as sunlight pours onto the driveway. In the center of the driveway is Jungkook and he’s meticulously buffing the chrome exhaust pipe.

​He looks up when Yoongi turns the car off.

​Yoongi pushes his door open and steps around to your side of the car. He holds out his hand for you as you step out. Together, the two of you make your way up the driveway.

​"Look who decided to grace us with their presence," Jungkook calls out, tossing his microfiber cloth onto the seat of the motorcycle. He stands up, wiping his greasy hands on a towel tucked into his waistband. "What are you guys doing out this way? Yoongi, you didn't tell me you were stopping by."

​"We're here to grab some things," Yoongi says. "We're grabbing Y/N's stuff. The boxes you and Yura have been keeping."

​Jungkook freezes for a split second, the towel loosening in his grip. His eyes dart from Yoongi over to you, a flash of sudden understanding lighting his eyes. The realization hits him…what this means, what you’re choosing to do.

“Yeah,” Jungkook says with a nod of his head and looks at his bike. “Yura's inside. She will grab them. Y/N, I need to talk to you for a moment.”

Yoongi raises his eyebrow for a moment before he heads inside.

Jungkook doesn’t immediately explain himself. He waits until the front door clicks completely shut behind Yoongi before he lets out a breath, the intense focus in his eyes shifting into something a little more restless. He runs a hand through his dark hair, leaving a faint streak of engine grease near his hairline without even realizing it.

​"What's up?" You ask, tilting your head, your eyes shifting from his serious expression down to the gleaming motorcycle resting between you. "Is everything okay?"

​Jungkook looks at you before he points towards the spare matte-black helmet resting on a nearby shelf in the garage.

​"Do you want to go for a ride?" He asks, bouncing slightly.

​You blink, your jaw goes entirely slack. You stare at him, your hands dropping to your sides.

​"You want me to... what?" You sputter, a breathless, disbelieving laugh escaping your throat.

Jungkook doesn't wait for you to process the shock. He jogs toward the shelving unit, grabs the heavy matte-black helmet, and heads back to you, presenting it to you like a prize.

You take it automatically, your hands dropping slightly under its unexpected weight. The cool, smooth fiberglass shell feels solid and scary against your palms. You look down, inspecting the dark, tinted visor.

"You'll love it," Jungkook says. He continues to bounce slightly on his heels. "Seriously, Y/N. You'll never feel so free. When you're out there on the road, everything else just... goes quiet. The wind blows away all the noise in your head. It’s just you, the bike, and the pavement."

You look from the helmet up to his face, your heart doing a nervous little flip. The idea of speeding down the asphalt on two wheels feels terrifying, but the look in Jungkook’s eyes. It makes the fear soften into a strange, thrilling spark of curiosity.

Before you can find your voice to answer, the screen door to the house clicks open.

Yura steps out onto the concrete walkway, carefully balancing a large, taped-up cardboard box against her hip. Her eyes immediately drop to the helmet in your hands, then shift to Jungkook’s overly eager expression, and finally to your wide, hesitant eyes. She lets out a long, theatrical sigh, though the affectionate shake of her head betrides her exasperated tone.

"Jungkook, let her breathe," Yura says, adjusting her grip on the box of your past. She steps further into the garage, setting the heavy cardboard down on a plastic workbench with a dull thud. She wipes her hands on her shorts and fixes her husband with a pointed, warning look. "If you scare her off the bike before she even puts a foot on the peg, I'm locking you out of the garage for a week."

"I'm not scaring her! I'm offering her a masterclass in freedom." Jungkook throws his hands up defensively, though a massive, guilty grin splits his face.

Yura rolls her eyes, but as she steps closer to you, her expression softens into something deeply warm and supportive. She reaches out, gently tapping the thick foam lining inside the helmet you're holding.

"Make sure the helmet fits her properly," she instructs Jungkook, her voice dropping into a firm, maternal register. She looks back at you, her eyes crinkling. "Don't let him speed, Y/N. If he starts acting like he's on a racetrack, just pull his hair. He listens eventually."

Jungkook chuckles, already stepping into your space and reaching for the helmet straps to guide you through the fit.

Jungkook’s large, warm hands are surprisingly gentle as they brush past your jawline, his fingers deftly threading the woven chin strap through the rings. He leans in close, his brow furrowing in concentration as he checks the clearance near your temples.

​"See? It needs to be snug so it doesn't rotate if things get bumpy, but it shouldn't pinch your cheeks like a chipmunk," Jungkook explains. He gives the front of the helmet a firm, reassuring wiggle. "How's that feel? Can you blink okay?"

​"I think so," you say, your voice sounding strange and muffled inside the thick, padded foam. Through the dark tint of the visor, the entire driveway is washed in a cool shadow. "It feels heavy, but..."

​The heavy front door of the house swings open with a sharp creak, cutting you off. ​Yoongi steps out onto the threshold, his shoulder initially propping open the screen door as he balances a second, heavily taped cardboard box in his arms. His eyes automatically sweep the garage layout, tracking Yura standing by the workbench, Jungkook leaning over your personal space…and then his gaze locks onto you. Or rather, the massive, matte-black motorcycle helmet currently swallowing your entire head.

​The change in his expression is instantaneous. The relaxed, lazy slouch vanishes from his frame, replaced by an absolute, terrifying rigidity.

​Thud.

​Yoongi doesn't just put the box down; he drops it entirely, letting it hit the wooden porch step with a hollow, heavy rattle. He doesn't even look at it as he storms down the short walkway, his sneakers clicking aggressively against the concrete.

​"No," Yoongi says, shaking his head. "No. Absolutely not."

​Jungkook straightens up instantly, his hands dropping from your helmet straps as his shoulders square defensively.

"Come on, why?" he asks. "I'm not taking her onto the highway! I would be so careful."

​"I don't care," Yoongi retorts, stepping directly between Jungkook and the bike, his chest heaving slightly as his dark eyes flare with panic. He doesn't look at Jungkook. His eyes are entirely fixed on your tinted visor, trying to read your expression through the dark plastic. "Take it off, Y/N."

​You reach up, your clay-dried fingers fumbling slightly with the unfamiliar buckle until you manage to pop the strap free. With a firm tug, you pull the heavy helmet off your head, shaking out your hair as the warm July breeze hits your face again.

​"Yoongi, wait," you say softly, stepping forward and laying a hand on his forearm. You can feel the tight, iron-hard tension locked into his muscles, his pulse racing under his skin. "Listen to me. I want to go."

“It's dangerous,” Yoongi tells you.

“It wasn't a problem when she rode with me on my Vespa,” Jungkook says.

“That thing barely went forty!” Yoongi exclaims.

Yura steps in, smoothly placing herself right between Yoongi’s rigid frame and Jungkook’s defensive stance. She crosses her arms, looking between the two of them with the calm, unshakeable authority of someone who has spent years managing their chaotic energy.

​"Alright, let's lower the heart rates before someone pops a blood vessel," Yura says, her voice cool and steady as it cuts through the tension. She looks at Yoongi, her eyes softening with an understanding that goes way back. "Yoongi, breathe. Kook isn't going to drag her onto a highway or pull any stunts. But if you're going to lose your mind over him driving her..."

​She turns a brilliant, plotting smile toward Jungkook, then looks back at Yoongi.

​"How about this?" Yura proposes, tilting her head. "Yoongi, go back home and get your keys. Kook just put the new tires on your bike. The four of us can go together. You take Y/N on yours, and I'll ride with Kook on his. We'll stick to the back roads. We'll drive out to the canyons, keep it nice and easy. It’ll be like old times, the four of us. Like when we used to go on road trips."

Yoongi’s hand is a knot of rigid tension under yours, but as your fingers slide between his, you feel his pulse gradually slow down. He’s still staring at Jungkook like he wants to banish him from the friend group, but the fierce panic in his eyes softens the moment he feels your touch.

​"Yoongi," you say softly, stepping closer until you can feel the heat radiating from his chest. "I want to do this. But I want to ride with you. Please?"

​He looks down at your hands, his thumb smoothing over the dark stone of your ring out of pure habit. He lets out a long, defeated sigh that blows his dark bangs off his forehead. The fight completely drains out of him.

​"Fine," Yoongi mutters, finally shifting his gaze up to meet Jungkook’s triumphant grin. He points a strict, warning finger at his friend. "But you follow behind me. You do not pass me. You don't even think about showing off. If you so much as rev that engine too loud near her, I’m draining your oil while you sleep."

​"Yes, Captain! Understood, Captain!" Jungkook chirps, saluting with his grease-stained towel, his bunny teeth fully on display.

​Yoongi rolls his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitches. He turns back to you, his expression melting into something incredibly tender.

"I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. I'm going to grab my keys. Don't let him talk you into doing backflips on the driveway while I'm gone," he tells you.

​"I promise," you laugh, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

​He offers a final, lingering look before turning on his heel and jogging down the driveway toward his car. The car starts up with a smooth purr, backing out into the quiet street and disappearing around the corner.

​As soon as Yoongi's car is out of sight, Jungkook immediately drops the military posture, letting out a victorious shout as he grabs his microfiber cloth and goes back to aggressively polishing his chrome exhaust pipe. He’s practically vibrating with energy, already planning the route in his head. ​You watch him for a second before leaning against the plastic workbench next to Yura. You look at her, tilting your head toward her husband's frantic, joyful cleaning routine.

​"Is he actually going to keep that promise to Yoongi?" You ask, a knowing smirk playing on your lips. "Nice and easy? Staying behind us?"

​Yura doesn't even hesitate. She lets out a dry, breathy laugh, crossing her arms over her chest as she watches Jungkook buff the metal like his life depends on it.

​"Not a chance," Yura says frankly, a brilliant, plotting smile lighting up her face.

​"Alright. Come here," Yoongi commands softly from where he sits on his own bike.

​You step up to the side of the bike, suddenly very aware of the raw power ticking beneath the metal. Yoongi reaches back, taking your hand and guiding your foot onto the passenger peg.

​"Swing your leg all the way over. Keep your weight centered," he instructs, his steady voice calming your nerves.

​You shift your weight, sliding onto the seat behind him. Your knees fall on either side of his hips, and the sheer size of the bike makes you lean forward into his space.

​Before you can even adjust your grip, Yoongi reaches blindly behind him, grabbing both of your hands by the wrists. He pulls your arms firmly around his waist, locking your fingers together over his stomach. He pulls them up and presses your hands flat against his chest, forcing you to lean completely against his back until there isn't a single inch of space left between you.

​"Listen to me," Yoongi says. "Once I start this engine, you hold on to me tight. You don't lean against the turns, you don't try to balance the bike, and you do not let go of me. Understood?"

​"I won't," you answer, tightening your grip, burying your face slightly into the space between his shoulder blades.

​"I mean it, Y/N," he repeats, his grip on your wrists squeezing once more before he releases your hands to grab the handlebars. "If you get scared, you just squeeze harder. I’ve got you."

​Behind you, Jungkook’s engine suddenly roars to life. Yura sits comfortably behind him, giving you a thumbs-up. Jungkook revs the engine again, practically begging for a race.

​Yoongi shakes his head, turning his key. With a sharp click of the starter, his bike erupts into a deep, thunderous purr beneath you. The heavy vibrations travel instantly up your spine, terrifying and exhilarating all at once. ​Yoongi kicks up the kickstand, shifts the bike into first gear with a solid, metallic clunk, and glances back at you one last time.

​"Hold on," he shouts.

​He twists his wrist, and the driveway blurs beneath you as the two of you launch forward into the warm July evening.

The wind is a living, roaring thing around you, ripping past your helmet and tearing at the sleeves of your shirt. But inside that pocket of air right behind his shoulders, everything feels miraculously still.

Safe.

It IS freeing. It’s a wild, breathless kind of freedom you never felt before. Every time Yoongi takes a sweeping bend on the nearly deserted back roads, you lean exactly when he leans, your bodies moving as one. The dark stone of your ring is pressed tightly over his chest. With every mile of open asphalt that flies beneath your feet, the heavy, tangled noise in your brain simply unravels, scattered into the July wind.

Up ahead, the massive, jagged shadows of the canyon walls begin to rise against the colorful purple and gold of the sky. The road stretches out into a long, flat, two-lane straightaway….the perfect, unobstructed runway leading right into the mouth of the gorge.

Yoongi keeps his pace steady. One that is careful for the passenger holding onto his ribs. Then, a sudden, high-pitched, metallic shriek splits the evening air from behind. True to Yura’s words, Jungkook’s patience has officially expired.

Jungkook doesn't just pull out to pass. He drops down a gear with a terrifying crack of his exhaust. You feel Yoongi’s entire frame stiffen instantly. His back goes completely rigid against your chest.

In a blur of roaring machinery and spinning rubber, Jungkook’s bike blasts past your left side. As fly ahead, Yura doesn't look panicked at all…she’s leaning effortlessly with the acceleration, throwing her head back in a laugh you can't hear but can absolutely see. Jungkook, tucked low over his handlebars like a professional racer, deliberately cuts back into the lane just a few yards ahead of Yoongi’s front tire.

"That brat," Yoongi’s voice shouts out.

You can feel the heavy, dangerous challenge ripple straight through Yoongi's muscles. His left foot clicks down on the gear shifter with a snap. But before he twists his right wrist to unleash the engine, he remembers the weight behind him. He hesitates for a fraction of a second, his knuckles white on the grips.

"Y/N!" he shouts back over his shoulder, his voice vibrating hard against your chest. "Squeeze!"

You don't need to be told twice. You bury your face directly into the middle of his back, locking your elbows down and wrapping your legs tightly against his hips, squeezing him with every ounce of strength you have.

The moment he feels your grip lock in, Yoongi doesn't hold back. He cranks the throttle.

The matte-black bike doesn't just speed up… it lunges. The front tire feels dangerously light for a split second as the raw torque slams you backward, your chest pressed flat against his spine as the bike tears down the road.

Yoongi is a natural on the road….calculated, aggressive, and entirely fearless. Within seconds, the distance Jungkook had put between you begins to shrink. The canyon walls swallow the last rays of the sun, plunging the two-lane road into shadows. But the heat radiating from the two machines is immense.

Yoongi closes the gap. He doesn’t pull any reckless stunts, but he commands the asphalt, steering his bike into the left lane until he steers in perfectly parallel with Jungkook. For a long, heart-pounding stretch of straight road, the two bikes fly side by side at a blistering pace.

Through your visor, you look to your right. Yura is laughing behind Jungkook's shoulder, her eyes crinkling with pure adrenaline. Jungkook turns his head for a fraction of a second, his dark visor locking onto Yoongi. His entire posture screams triumphant, competitive glee. Yoongi doesn’t turn his head to look back. He keeps his eyes locked dead ahead on the stretching of pavement, but his jaw is set so hard you can see the tight flex of his muscle right through his helmet strap. He holds the bike perfectly steady, matching Jungkook mile for mile, a silent, stubborn point proven.

The road begins to curve inward, leading toward a wide, gravel scenic pullout overlooking the deep gorge of the canyon below.

As if sharing a single mind, both men roll off their throttles at the exact same moment. The deafening roar of the engines drops into a low rumble. Yoongi guides his bike smoothly across the gravel, his boots dropping to the ground with a crunch of gravel as he brings the massive machine to a final halt right at the wooden guardrail. Jungkook slides in a second later, kicking up a small cloud of dust.

The silence of the canyon hits you the moment the ignitions are clicked off. Your thighs are shaking from the grip, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. Yoongi doesn't move immediately. He sits balanced on the bike, letting out a long, ragged breath that fogs the inside of his visor.

"Everyone alive?" Jungkook’s voice booms out, entirely unbothered as he yanks his helmet off in one smooth motion, his sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. He looks at you with a happy smile. "Tell me that wasn't the best thing you've ever felt, Y/N!"

"You're a menace to society, Jeon Jungkook," Yura gasps, though she’s smiling as she unbuckles her own gear and slides off the back of his seat. "Yoongi was keeping a perfectly respectable pace."

Yoongi finally kicks his kickstand down, ensuring the bike is fully stable before he reaches behind him. His large hands cover your wrists, gently releasing your death-grip from around his waist. He turns his body around in the seat, immediately reaching up to pop the buckle of your white helmet. He lifts it off your head with immense care, tossing it onto the seat before his hands immediately fly to your face.

His palms are warm, framing your cheeks as his dark eyes scan every inch of your features, checking for panic, tears, or regret.

"You okay?" Yoongi murmurs, his voice rough and incredibly low, entirely tuning out Jungkook and Yura’s bickering a few feet away. His thumbs trace soft circles over your cheekbones, wiping away the phantom sting of the wind. "Did he scare you? Are you shaking?"

"I'm okay," you breathe out, a sudden, bright laugh bubbling up from your chest. Your skin is tingling, your vision sharp and clear in the sunset. You lay your hands over his arms. "Yoongi, it was... it was amazing. I wasn't scared at all. You had me."

The rigid, protective panic in Yoongi's eyes finally melts away, replaced by a soft, breathless look of absolute relief. A slow, genuine gummy smile breaks across his face, his forehead dropping forward to rest against yours for a quiet second.

"Yeah," he whispers, his breath warm against your lips. "I had you. I'll always have you."

You don't even let him finish the breath.

​Before he can pull his forehead away, you lean forward and press your lips to his. There is no hesitation anymore. No pausing to check the temperature of your own fractured memory, no fear of the ghosts lurking in the corners of your mind. There is only the roaring hum of the engine cooling beneath your thighs, the scent of leather and the solid, unshakeable reality of Yoongi’s mouth against yours.

​​His large hands leave your cheeks, sliding down to cup the back of your neck, his fingers burying deep into your wind-tangled hair to pull you impossibly closer. The kiss isn't frantic like the ride. It’s deep, and heavy with a desperate sort of relief.

​"Alright, alright, get a room, you two! There are innocent canyon mountain goats watching!" Jungkook’s loud, teasing voice shatters the peacefulness, followed immediately by a sharp smack and a muffled "Ow! Yura!"

​Yoongi slowly breaks the kiss, though he doesn't let you go right away. His thumbs rest right at the curve of your jaw, his breathing ragged as his dark eyes drop to your lips, then up to your eyes.

​"Hey," Yura's voice cuts in, much closer now. You look over Yoongi’s shoulder to see her stepping up to the side of the bike. She’s already shed her heavy jacket, wearing a simple t-shirt, and she stretches her arms over her head with a grin. "Come here, Y/N. Let's leave the boys to compare engine sizes. Come walk off the adrenaline with me before your legs turn to actual jelly."

​You look back at Yoongi, a breathless, happy smile still playing on your lips. He offers a slow, supportive nod, his hands sliding down your arms to give your fingers a reassuring squeeze.

​"Go on," Yoongi murmurs. "Take a walk. I'll make sure Jungkook doesn't accidentally push his bike over the cliff."

​"Hey! I am a professional!" Jungkook protests from the background, though he's already crouching down to inspect his rear tire with a flashlight.

​You slide your leg off the passenger seat, your boots hitting the gravel with a satisfying crunch. Yura was right…your thighs feel loose and shaky from gripping the bike at eighty miles an hour, but as you hook your arm through hers, the cool evening air feels incredible against your flushed skin.

​"You did good out there," Yura says softly, guiding you away from the rumble of the garage talk and down a narrow, dirt walking path that hugs the edge of the scenic overlook. "Seriously. You handled it like a champ."

​You let out a soft laugh, looking back over your shoulder. In the distance, Yoongi is leaning against the guardrail, his arms crossed over his chest. Even while Jungkook is gesturing wildly about something mechanical, Yoongi’s eyes are tracked entirely on you, watching your silhouette walk away into the sunset.

​"I trusted him," you say simply. "The whole time. I just knew he wouldn't let anything happen to me."

​Yura stops walking, leaning her forearms against a sturdy wooden viewing rail that overlooks the gorge. She looks at you, her expression melting into something deeply nostalgic and heavy with affection.

​"He never would," Yura says softly, the wind catching her hair.

​"Honestly," you admit, a small, breathless laugh escaping your lips, "I'm surprised we even came out here at all after Yoongi had that fit in your driveway. I thought he was going to banish Jungkook from the group chat right then and there."

​Yura lets out a long, slow sigh.

​"What?" You ask, tilting your head, your smile fading slightly as you look at her profile. "Did I say something wrong?"

​"No," Yura says, finally turning her head to look at you. The playful, plotting look she wore in the garage is entirely gone, replaced by a gaze that is… saddened. "You didn't say anything wrong, Y/N. I just... I completely understand why he reacted that way."

"What do you mean?" ​You look at her, your heart taking a sudden, heavy dip against your ribs. The canyon air suddenly feels a little colder. ​Yura swallows hard, her fingers tightening around the rough wood of the viewing rail until her knuckles turn white. She turns and looks at you.

​"There's something you don't know," Yura says, her voice dropping into a hushed whisper. "Something about the night of our accident."

“What is it?” You ask, look at her.

​"We were all at a concert that night," she says, the words coming out in a flat, heavy rhythm. "The whole group. We’d been celebrating... I don't even remember what. Just a good night. A perfect night."

​A stray piece of gravel shifts under your foot as you lean closer, your breath catching in your throat. The heat from the motorcycle ride is completely gone now as you stare at her, anticipating her words.

​"I stole Kook's car keys," Yura continues, a faint, humorless smile touching her lips before vanishing instantly. "I was being playful. I snatched them right out of his hand, laughed, and ran out to the driver’s seat. You jumped in right next to me. You and I... we were leading the pack home."

​She finally releases her white-knuckled grip on the wooden rail, turning her head slowly to look at the guys and back at you. Her eyes are incredibly shiny, reflecting the first faint starlight.

​"When I took off after the light turned green..." Yura pauses, swallowing hard as if the words are physically blocking her throat. "When the drunk driver hit us..."

​She takes a ragged breath, her shoulders trembling just a fraction before she forces herself to finish the sentence.

​"Yoongi and Kook were right behind us, Y/N. They saw everything," she whispers.

Jungkook’s distant laughter, the soft rustle of the oak leaves…all of it suddenly drops away, replaced by a roaring, high-frequency static that fills your ears. You look at Yura, but your vision is blurring, the edges of the sunset fraying into jagged shadows.

​"Yoongi and Kook..." your voice is barely a breath, a fragile thing that threatens to shatter in the canyon wind. "They were right there?"

​Yura nods, a single tear finally breaking free and tracking slowly down her cheek. She doesn't look away from you. She stays right there, holding your gaze with a fierce, heartbreaking steadiness.

​"Right behind us," Yura whispers, her voice thick with the weight of a memory that isn't yours yet, but belongs so heavily to the people who love you. "Kook told me later. Before Yoongi's own car had even skidded to a complete halt, Yoongi’s door was already flying open."

​A sharp, phantom pain throbbed behind your temples, a sudden, blinding flash of white hot light behind your eyelids. Your hands instinctively fly to your head, your fingers tangling into your hair as you lean heavily against the wooden viewing rail.

​Glass.

The taste of copper and dust.

The smell of hot fluid leaking onto asphalt.

​And a voice.

​It wasn't a memory yet…but it was a sound. A raw, ragged, desperate sound that didn't belong in a world with sunshine and clay monsters. It was a throat-shredding scream, tearing through the quiet of a shattered night, repeating the same syllables over and over again.

​Y/N.

Y/N!

​"The guys told me later," Yura continues, her hand coming out to gently rest on your trembling shoulder, her touch the only thing keeping you from drifting entirely into the dark. "They said Yoongi didn't even hesitate. The doors were completely crushed, but the back window had shattered out onto the pavement. He didn't wait for the paramedics. He didn't listen to Joon trying to pull him back because the engine was smoking. He just... he crawled straight through the broken glass."

​You turn your head slowly, looking back down the dirt path toward the scenic pullout. Yoongi and Jungkook seem to be in their own conversation.

They were laughing.

They were happy.

​"He sat with you," Yura says softly, her voice pulling your attention back. "Yoongi stayed inside that crushed backseat. He didn't care about the glass cutting into his knees. He didn't care about the smoke. He just held your hand. He just kept talking to you, squeezing your hand, telling you to stay with him until help came."

​A hot, heavy tear slips past your lashes, burning against your flushed cheek. ​He hadn't just lost the life he knew that night. He had sat inside the wreckage of it, holding your hand while it slipped away.

​"He never told me," you whisper, your chest aching with a crushing wave of empathy. "He never said a word about being there."

​"Because he didn't want you to carry his trauma while you were trying to heal your own," Yura says gently, her fingers squeezing your shoulder one last time before she steps back, giving you space to breathe. "But when he saw you in that helmet today... it wasn't just a protective boyfriend moment, Y/N. For a split second, his brain went right back to the night he couldn't stop that accident."

Slowly, you raise your hands…still carrying the faint, sweet scent of the air-dry clay from the community center. You press them flat against your face. You rub your eyes, hard, trying to wipe away the dizzying, high-frequency static that is ringing in your ears. Under your fingertips, your eyelids hum with a phantom, frantic energy.

​When you drag your hands down, your voice is a raw, fragile thread. You look up at the deep colors in the sky and blink rapidly.

​"I woke up in the ambulance," you whisper, your eyes wide as the memory suddenly finds its way to you. The fragments are finally beginning to piece themselves together. "I... I remember now. It was so loud, Yura. The sirens were screaming, and the lights outside the windows were confusing."

​You look down at your palms, your breathing hitching as you visualize that narrow area.

​"I didn't know where I was. I was so terrified, and everything hurt so badly I couldn't even breathe to scream. But when I tried to move my hand... someone was holding it. So tightly it almost hurt." You squeeze your eyes tightly trying to hold onto the memory. "It was Yoongi. He was in the ambulance with me. He was covered in dirt, and his hands were bleeding, but he wouldn't let go of me. He just kept repeating my name over and over again, like he was trying to pull me back to life with just his voice."

​"He was," Yura says softly. "They tried to make him ride in the front, but Yoongi nearly took the paramedic's head off. He refused to leave your side. Not for a single second."

​She gently turns you around, guiding you to look back at the scenic pullout. ​In the soft glow of the headlights, Jungkook has his hands shoved into his pockets, his head tilted back as he looks up at the slowly darkening sky. Yoongi stands right beside him, mimicking his pose looking utterly at ease.

“He never left me,” you whisper.

“Not until he was forced to,” she whispers back.

"Alright, girls! We need to get going before the bugs start using us as a buffet!" Jungkook’s voice booms across the gravel lot as he turns.

Yura doesn't say anything more. She just squeezes your hand, her palm warm and grounding, before slowly letting go. You take a deep, shaky breath, letting the cool canyon air fill your lungs, trying to push down the overwhelming wave of emotion before you step back into the light.

As you walk back down the dirt path side-by-side, your boots crunching quietly on the gravel, Yoongi’s head snaps toward you. Even from a distance, you can see the immediate shift in his posture. The relaxed, leaning stance against the guardrail vanishes.

"Everything okay?" Yoongi asks softly as you step into the warm perimeter of the bikes.

"Yeah," you whisper, offering him a small that you hope looks reassuring. "Just a little dizzy from the adrenaline."

He doesn't seem entirely convinced, but he nods, reaching over to pick up the heavy white passenger helmet from his seat. His hands are incredibly gentle as he slides it over your head. His fingers brush against your cheeks, warm and solid, before he reaches down to secure the chin strap. He checks the fit with meticulous care, his knuckles occasionally grazing your jawline.

Knowing what you know now….visualizing those same hands bleeding and frantic, crawling through shattered glass just to find yours. It makes your chest ache with a fierce, almost overwhelming tenderness. You look at him through the visor, your heart hammering a heavy, steady rhythm against your ribs.

"Alright, up you go," Yoongi murmurs, stepping over his bike and settling into the driver's seat. He holds the heavy machine steady, his boots firmly planted in the gravel.

You slide your leg over the passenger seat, your knees hugging his hips as you settle in behind him. Before he can even reach back to guide your hands, you wrap your arms around his waist.

You don't just hold onto him. You squeeze him. You wrap your arms tightly around his torso, pressing your chest flat against his broad back, burying your face directly into the leather of his jacket. You lock your fingers together over his stomach, holding on with a desperate, fierce intensity that speaks all the words you can't say out loud right now.

Yoongi stiffens for a brief second, surprised by the sudden, tight grip. But almost instantly, you feel the tension drain out of his shoulders. He reaches down with one hand, his large, warm palm covering your locked fingers, squeezing back with a reassuring pressure.

"I've got you," he mumbles. "Always."

Behind you, Jungkook kicks his engine over, the raw roar echoing off the canyon walls as he pulls out onto the asphalt. Yoongi turns his key, his own bike erupting into a low, thunderous purr that shakes the gravel beneath the tires. He shifts into first gear, the metal clinking solidly into place, and slowly guides the heavy bike back onto the darkening two-lane road.

As the bike accelerates into the cool, purple twilight, the wind rushes past you once more. But this time, you don't feel the fear. You just squeeze him a little tighter, holding onto the one person who has been holding onto you, even when you didn't know he was there.

<Next>

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The living room floor of Jimin’s apartment looks like a construction zone for a very messy, very chaotic kindergarten class. ​You had laid down layers of old newspaper over his pristine hardwood floors, but it hadn’t stopped the sculpting clay water from splattering over everything. The air smells of damp earth and clean laundry, punctuated by the aggressive slap-slap-slap of Jungkook hitting his clay against a plastic cutting board with terrifying intensity.

​"Jungkook, please, the downstairs neighbors are going to think I'm running a black-market pottery studio," Jimin complains, though he didn't look up from his own project. He was hunched over a remarkably smooth wedge of clay, using the edge of a plastic ruler to meticulously carve out perfect, tiny craters. "And stop hoarding the water spray bottle."

​"You have to get the air bubbles out, or it cracks," Jungkook mutters, entirely locked in. He is currently using a toothpick to score microscopic scales onto a remarkably detailed dragon. It already has tiny horns and a curling tail. "If it cracks, the dragon dies, Jimin. Do you want that on your conscience?"

​"It's an elementary school craft night," you laugh, rubbing a stray smudge of white clay off your cheek with the back of your wrist.

You are currently working on a small, shallow trinket dish, carefully pinching the edges upward. With a small wooden tool, you are pressing a delicate, repeating floral design along the rim. It isn't perfect, but your hands are slowly starting to remember the motions, and that is everything.

​"This just isn't working," Namjoon announces solemnly.

You all look over at Namjoon, pausing mid-carve, mid-pinch, and mid-slap.

​Sitting in front of him is a graying, slightly lumpy mass of clay that looks like it has been through a minor crisis. It’s thick in the middle, tapered at both ends, and has two very fragile curved protrusions sticking out of one side. ​Jimin squints, leaning forward until his nose was practically touching the plastic sheet.

"Namjoon... are you making a croissant with antennas?" Jimin asks.

​Namjoon just sighs and drops his wooden scoring tool onto the newspaper with a dull thud.

​"What actually is it?" You ask gently.

"It’s an Anomalocaris." Namjoon straightens his spins as he looks at all of you.

​The room goes quiet mostly because none of you have any idea what he just said. Jimin blinks slowly. You freeze, a half-formed clay flower hanging off the edge of your trinket dish. ​Then Jungkook breaks the silence, his toothpick pointing directly at the lumpy clay creature.

​"That's a Pokémon," Jungkook says.

​"It is not a Pokémon!" Namjoon fires back, his hands gesturing wildly. "Well…okay, technically Anorith and Armaldo are based on Cambrian anomalocaridids, but that's not the point! The Anomalocaris was the apex predator of the Cambrian seas! It lived over five hundred million years ago. It had these incredible compound eyes, lateral swimming flaps, and two frontal appendages used to grab trilobites!"

You all stare at him with your mouths open.

Yoongi pushes the front door open with his elbow, balancing three heavy bags of takeout containers. The savory aroma of fried chicken and noodles starts to over take the damp earthy smell of the clay. He takes one look at the living room…the layer of newspaper, the frantic energy, and the three of you staring at Namjoon.

"Why are you all looking like that?" Yoongi asks, his voice flat but amused as he toes off his shoes. "Did Namjoon break another table?"

"Joon made a fancy Pokémon," Jungkook says instantly, not looking up as he carefully touches up his dragon’s tail. "But he’s in denial about it."

"It is NOT a Pokémon!" Namjoon’s voice cracks slightly with despair. He squares his shoulders, taking a deep breath to launch into his lecture for the second time. "Listen, Yoongi. Five hundred million years ago, during the Cambrian explosion, the oceans were ruled by an apex arthropod called the Anomalocaris. It didn't have bones, it had lateral lobes for swimming, and a radial mouth that could crush…"

Yoongi doesn't even let him finish. With the patience of someone who has survived almost a decade of impromptu history lessons. Yoongi sets the takeout bags down on the kitchen counter, pulls his phone out of his sweatpants pocket, and starts typing with one thumb.

The room goes quiet again, save for the low hum of Jimin’s refrigerator and the soft tap-tap of Yoongi scrolling through Google Images.

Yoongi squints at the screen. He looks down at Namjoon's lumpy, graying clay masterpiece on the floor. He looks back at his screen. He tilts his phone slightly to the left, matching the exact angle of Namjoon’s deflating clay lobes. Finally, he locks his phone, slips it back into his pocket, and looks Namjoon dead in the eye.

"You made a shrimp." Yoongi blinks at him.

Jimin lets out a high-pitched squeak and collapses backward onto the newspaper, covering his face as he dissolves into breathless, shoulder-shaking laughter. Jungkook’s shoulder twitches, a massive, victorious grin spreading across his face.

"An apex predator shrimp, Yoongi!" Namjoon says, as he picks it to show him. One of the fragile frontal appendages chooses that exact moment to lose its battle with gravity, snapping off and rolling onto the newspaper. "And it’s an ancestral arthropod! It’s not a decapod!"

"Whatever it is, its arm just fell off," Yoongi notes calmly, unboxing a container of steaming, crispy chicken. "Wash your hands. The 'shrimp' is dead, but the food is getting cold."

"It’s about the preservation of history," Namjoon mutters, staring despondently at the severed appendage resting on the newspaper. He hasn't even reached for the sweet and sour pork, which was highly unusual. Instead, he grabs a pair of wooden chopsticks and dips the tips into the spray bottle, attempting to use them like surgical tweezers. "If we just abandon it, the Cambrian period dies in this living room."

​"Joon, eat a noodle," Yoongi says, sliding a bowl of noodles right over the newspaper, effectively blocking Namjoon's view of the tragedy. "The shrimp is with the ancestors now. Let it go."

​Jimin is already happily munching on a piece of fried chicken, his cheeks puffed out like a squirrel.

"It's better this way, Namjoon. Now it looks exactly like the fossils you love so much," Jimin tells him.

​"It's true," Jungkook agrees, trying to guard his coiled dragon from any flying food. "Authentic taphonomy, remember? Or whatever you called it."

​You laugh, taking a container of food from Yoongi and sitting cross-legged on the floor. ​Yoongi watches the chaos with a faint, fond smile, leaning his back against the base of Jimin's sofa as he eats. After a moment, he turns his head toward you, nudging your knee gently with his elbow to get your attention away from Namjoon, who is currently trying to use a splash of water to paste the shrimp's arm back on.

​"Hey," Yoongi says. "Are you free next weekend?"

"Yeah, I think so. Why?" ​You blink, swallowing a bite of noodles.

​"Some of my high school students," he says. "They do this summer showcase every year at the local community theater. Nothing too crazy." ​He looks up at you through his dark bangs, his eyes soft. "I was wondering if you wanted to come with me to watch them. They've worked really hard, and... well, I think you'd actually like it."

​"A summer showcase?" You ask, a genuine smile tugging at your lips. "Like a recital?"

​"Yeah.” He nods, leaning his head back against the sofa. "Some of them are playing classical pieces, a few formed their own garage bands and think they're the next big thing. It’s loud, and half of them play completely out of tune because of stage fright, but..." He pauses, his gaze dropping to your clay-stained fingers before lifting back to your eyes. "They have this energy. They're just kids trying to figure out who they are through what they make. I think you'd get it."

​You'd get it. The words carry a weight that makes your throat tighten just a little…in a good way. He isn't just asking you out on a normal date. He is inviting you into his world, the one he had built while you were gone, and simultaneously reaching out to the part of you that was trying to heal. He remembers how much you loved watching people discover their own creativity.

​"I would love to go," you say softly, your knee still pressing against his. "Seriously. I want to see what you've been teaching them."

"Good. Just don't judge my teaching skills if someone runs off stage or forgets something," he says.

​"Hey! No flirting over the food!" Jimin shouts suddenly, pointing a piece of pickled radish at the two of you. "Y/N, don't let him charm you. He's just trying to get out of helping me clean up this mess later."

​"I am an invited guest who brought food, Jimin," Yoongi retorts without missing a beat, his voice instantly dropping back into its flat, unimpressed tone as he looks at your mutual friend. "You're lucky I don't charge a delivery fee."

​"Technically," Namjoon chimes in, his voice muffled by a mouthful of noodles, though his expression was triumphant. "The Anomalocaris was also a predator that brought food to its community. So Yoongi is fulfilling a very primal, ancestral role right now."

"Please. The shrimp is dead. We ate the chicken. Let the Cambrian explosion rest in peace." ​Jungkook lets out a dramatic groan, tossing his head back.

​You laugh, leaning into Yoongi's shoulder as the bickering starts up all over again.

You stare at your monitor, the spreadsheet of active claims blurring into a wall of meaningless numbers. Your fingers are still a little stiff from yesterday's sculpting session as they hover over your keyboard. You take a breath and try to focus until a sharp ping from your phone shatters the rhythmic clicking of the office.

"Look at you, popular at 9:00 AM on a Tuesday. Is Loverboy already suffering from severe withdrawal?" She teases.

You roll your eyes, a small, involuntary smile tugging at your lips at the thought of Yoongi.

"Leah, please, he's probably in the middle of a lesson at the commuinty…." your voice trails off as you pick up the phone.

The smile dies instantly.

The notification isn't a text bubble from Yoongi. It was just a string of numbers that were unknown to you.

Unknown Number: We need to meet and talk

The text is simple, demanding, and utterly devoid of context. Your stomach doesn't just drop…it bottoms out.

"Whoa," Leah’s tone shifts instantly from teasing to sharp concern. She abandons her post, slipping around the partition and into your small cubicle space. "Hey. Y/N. You went completely white. What is it?"

Without a word, you turn the screen towards her.

"No name? No hey how are you? Who the hell is that?" Leah squints at the short message.

You sit back in your chair letting your hand fall into your lap.

"It’s either Corbyn," you whisper, your voice sounding small. "Or my parents."

Leah’s expression shifts from playful to fiercely protective in a heartbeat. She leans over the desk, dropping her voice to a low, intense whisper.

"Okay. Okay, take a breath. Are you going to answer it?” She asks.

​Your heart is hammering so fast, a frantic rhythm that feels entirely too loud in the quiet office. You look down at the screen. With shaking fingers, you type out a curt, cold question.

You:​ Who is this?

​You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it. Almost immediately…too quickly…the bubbles appear.

​Unknown Number: It’s your mother.

​The name hangs on your screen. You haven't talked to your parents since the night you walked out of their house.​ You blocked their numbers and made sure not to tell anyone where you moved.

"Oh," she says, as she looks at your screen. “You don't have to talk to her. After all the years she lied to you. All the memories she kept from you. You don't owe her anything.”

Leah’s words swirl around your head, but the name on your screen keeps pulling you in.

It’s your mother.

The woman who spent years curating a reality for you. Every hidden memory, every carefully maintained silence…it all rushes back. It threatens to suffocate the fragile peace you've been building.

However, Leah is right. By all accounts, you owe her nothing. You can lock your screen, bury your face in an insurance spreadsheet, and not talk to her for another decade. But you can't do it. If you do it, a part of you will always still be locked in that cage that was built for you.

"I have to, Leah," you whisper, your voice cracking slightly.

"Okay. Public. Somewhere with witnesses, Y/N." She advises, making you nod in agreement.

You: Greenwood Park Square. The cafe on the north corner. Friday at 5:30 PM.

You don't add a greeting. You don't ask how she found your number. You just stare at the screen as the status flips to Delivered.

A few seconds pass. The little gray bubbles dance on the bottom of the screen.

Unknown Number: I’ll be there.

You lock the phone and slide it face down onto your desk, the glass clicking sharply against the surface. You turn back to your dual monitors, your chest rising and falling in a slow, deliberate rhythm as you prepare for Friday.

The bedroom is quiet, the sound you can hear is the slight thumping from the towels in Yoongi’s dryer down the hall. Currently, you’re sitting near the edge of his mattress, your knees pulled tightly to your chest. Even though the bed is massive, you instinctively tuck yourself into a tiny corner of it, trying to minimize your footprint, trying not to take up too much space.

Yoongi is across the room, standing by his dresser. He’s fresh out of the shower. He is meticulously folding a stack of clean t-shirts. It feels highly domestic already even though you're still finding your footing in his space.

You haven't been staying here every single night since that first real date. There’s been a careful, unspoken dance of boundaries. But lately, you can feel the subtle shift in his orbit. The way he naturally leaves a spare toothbrush on the counter instead of tucked in the drawer. The way there’s a fresh carton of the milk you prefer in his fridge. He’s trying to change the routine, gently nudging the door open wider without ever forcing you through it.

Even the guys and Yura have been dropping not-so-subtle hints.

“Take your time, no rush,” they say with knowing smiles.

Because the truth is, you two did live together once. In another lifetime, before the world fractured and your memories were stolen, you shared a home. You shared a kitchen. You shared a future. You were going to get married. Coming here shouldn't feel like navigating a whole new life with whole new boundaries. It should feel like coming home. But your hands are still learning how to mold clay, and your mind is still learning how to trust a space your heart knows it loves.

This is the second night this week you’re staying.

Yoongi finishes folding the last black shirt, smoothing his palm over the cotton with a soft sigh. He places it on the stack, then finally turns around. His eyes sweep over the bed, instantly taking in how tightly wound you are, hovering right on the edge of the mattress.

He walks over, his bare feet making no sound on the carpet. He doesn't climb onto the bed right away. Instead, he stands at the edge, looking down at you through the dark fringe of his bangs.

"If you sit any closer to the edge, you're going to roll off onto the floor," he says softly. He reaches out, his thumb gently catching under your chin, tilting your face up so you have to look at him. "You don't have to be nervous to be here. I want this to….eventually feel like your home."

“I…I just don't know what I'm allowed yet,” you say.

“Allowed?” He questions with a sigh.

Yoongi’s thumb lingers under your chin for a second longer, the pad of his skin warm and faintly calloused, before his hand drops away. He doesn't press you for an immediate answer to his declaration about home. Instead, he climbs onto the mattress, his weight shifting the springs in and sits down right next to you.

“You don't need my permission to do anything here,” he says. “You can leave a glass on the counter.” He looks at your shirt neatly folded on a chair by his bed. He reaches over and tosses it on the floor. “Look, the world didn't end. It's going to stay there all night. I don't care.”

​You let your chin rest on your knees, your eyes tracking the neat stacks of shirts on his dresser, but your mind is stuck on that one word.

Home.

He wants this to be your home.

​"Yoongi?" Your voice is a quiet, tentative thing in the dim room.

​"Yeah?" He asks.

​"What was it like?" You swallow hard, finally turning your head to look at him. "Our home. What was it like when we lived together before?"

​Yoongi pauses. He lets out a sudden, sharp huff of air that turns into a low chuckle, his shoulders shaking. He turns his head, looking back at you with an amused look in his eyes.

​"Awful," he says bluntly. “Oh my god, was it awful.”

​ "Awful?" You blink, a little startled, a laugh bubbling up past the lump in your throat.

​"Terrible," he confirms, moving up the bed to lean back against the headboard and stretch his legs out in front of him. "You moved in with me above a Chinese restaurant senior year of college. The rent was practically free, which was the only reason I took it, but man, everything broke constantly. The radiator didn't work in the winter, the AC unit rattled in the summer. I had to learn fast how to fix plumbing with electrical tape and a prayer."

​He looks up at the ceiling, a fond, distant smile.

​"We lived on cheap ramen forever," he continues. "The kind that comes in the styrofoam cups. We had boxes of it stacked along the counter. I was bartending part time and doing admin stuff for the music department to pay for college, bills… your ring. But then you scored a job downstairs at the restaurant because you befriended the owner…this terrifying older lady who ran the place with an iron fist but absolutely adored you. After that, you would come home late from your shifts with these massive containers of leftovers. Dumplings, fried rice, sweet and sour pork..."

​Yoongi’s eyes slide back to yours, his expression incredibly tender.

​"Those were good nights," he says softly. "We'd sit right on the linoleum floor because we didn't have a table yet, eating straight out of the plastic containers, listening to the muffled sounds of the kitchen downstairs. You'd tell me about the customers, and I'd play you whatever composition I was stuck on for class. It was messy, and we were broke, but...it was ours."

"I really did that? Befriended a terrifying restaurant owner?" Your chest rises and falls with a shaky breath.

​"You had her wrapped around your finger in a week," Yoongi murmurs, nodding his head. "You always had a way of finding warmth in places everyone else thought were freezing."

You let the warmth of the memory settle over you, a contrast to the cold knot that has been tightening in your chest all day. For a moment, you can almost see them…two college kids eating takeout on a linoleum floor, completely unaware of the storm that was coming for them.

Then, the reality of Friday crashes back in. The phantom weight of your phone feels heavy on the nightstand, even though it’s locked and silent.

Your laughter fades, the small smile slipping from your lips. You look away from Yoongi, your gaze dropping back down to your knees. The rhythmic sound of the towels in the dryer down the hall suddenly feels very loud again, filling the sudden space between you.

"Hey," Yoongi says softly, tilting his head at you. He leans in slightly, trying to catch your downcast eyes. "What's wrong? Where'd you go?"

You swallow hard, the silence stretching out until it feels fragile. You take a slow, deliberate breath, just like Leah had taught you in the cubicle.

"Yoongi," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "I have something to tell you."

He doesn't answer right away, but you feel his posture shift. The easy, relaxed slant of his shoulders straightens.

"I'm listening," he murmurs.

You keep your eyes fixed on the neat stacks of black t-shirts across the room. If you look at him now, you might lose your nerve.

"My phone buzzed this morning at work. It was an unknown number." You pause, a shaky breath catching in your throat. "It was my mother. She texted me," you continue, the words tumbling out before you can choke on them. "She said we need to meet and talk. And... I already agreed. I'm meeting her this Friday at 5:30 at Greenwood Park Square. The cafe on the north corner."

The bedroom goes silent.

It’s a heavy, absolute quiet that seems to suck the air right out of the room. The fond, nostalgic warmth from just moments ago vanishes, replaced by a sudden tension. Yoongi doesn't move. He doesn't say a word.

You finally force yourself to turn your head and look at him.

His face has gone completely blank. His dark bangs shadow his eyes, but you can see the hard, tight set of his jaw. A faint muscle twitches there. The smile from earlier feels like a lifetime away. Right now, he looks exactly like the man who had to watch his entire world get torn apart while he was left completely powerless.

He just stares at the space between you quietly.

​"Obviously, I'm not going to stop you," he says, the words coming out slow. He finally lifts his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours. "But..."

​He swallows hard, his jaw tightening so hard you can see the strain in his neck. He reaches out, his hand sliding up to squeeze your knee, his fingers trembling just a fraction.

​"...I just got you back," he whispers.

"She's not going to take me away," you say, as you slide your knees out from under your chin.

You move closer to him, closing the distance on the mattress until your thigh is pressed against his side. You reach down, wrapping your hand over his trembling knuckles. "I'm not going anywhere, Yoongi."

Yoongi doesn't relax. If anything, the rigid line of his shoulders seems to harden even more. He looks down at your intertwined hands, his chest rising and falling in a sharp, ragged breath.

"Your parents managed to do it once before," he says, his voice flat, but cracking at the edges under the weight of the memory. He doesn't look up, his gaze fiercely pinned to where your skin meets his. "They locked you away, changed your number, fabricated an entire reality, and let me spend years thinking I had just... lost you. They wiped me out of your life. They are capable of it, Y/N. They've proven it."

The honesty in his words hit you. You can feel the pain radiating off him. The agony of a twenty-something kid who had a ring around his neck and a future planned on a linoleum floor, only to have the door slammed in his face by people with money, power, and lies.

"Yes," you say softly, squeezing his hand until your own knuckles turn white, forcing him to look up and meet your eyes. "But I didn't know any better before."

Yoongi's breath catches.

"Before, I was waking up in a fog, trusting the people who told me they loved me because I didn't have anything else to hold onto," you continue. "I was a blank slate. But I'm not that person anymore, Yoongi. I know the truth now. I know what they did. And more importantly..." You reach up with your free hand, gently placing your palm against the side of his neck, feeling the rapid, frantic thrum of his pulse. "...I know who I am. And I know who WE are."

The rigid, terrifying calm in his face finally cracks. A tiny, broken sigh escapes his lips, and his eyes close as he leans his cheek heavily into the palm of your hand. He handles you like something fragile, yet he holds on with the desperation of a drowning man.

"I'm going to a public place, in broad daylight, on a Friday afternoon," you murmur, stroking his jawline with your thumb. "Leah knows. You know. The cage they built only worked because I didn't know I was inside it. They can't trap me again."

Yoongi opens his eyes, the dark intensity of his gaze softer now, but no less fierce. He reaches up, covering your hand on his cheek with his own.

"I'm coming with you. I'll drive separately if I have to, " he says. It's not a request. It's a fact. "I'll sit in the car. I won't come inside, I won't interfere, and I won't let her see me if you don't want me to. However, I am not letting you walk into that place alone."

"Deal," you whisper and lean against him. "You can be my apex predator in the parking lot."

"Don't bring the shrimp into this." Yoongi lets out a genuine, low chuckle, the tension finally draining from his frame as he wraps his arms fully around you, pulling you tightly against his chest.

​Friday was coming, and with it, the suffocating life you left behind. But tonight, you're with the man who had waited years to hold you like this again. Friday was still coming, but now, you weren't facing it by yourself.

The midday heat hits you the moment you step out of your car, a thick, heavy blanket of July humidity that makes your shirt cling slightly to your back. Your hands are sweating, and it has nothing to do with the weather.

You take a slow, deep breath, smoothing down the front of your shorts. You lock your car with a sharp beep, turning toward the cafe on the north corner. The patio is bustling with people seeking refuge under the umbrellas, iced coffees in hand, enjoying their Friday afternoon.

Before you can even take three steps toward the entrance, a familiar black car catches your eye, parked just a few rows over.

You pause, watching as the front doors open. Yoongi steps out, instantly sliding a pair of dark sunglasses up the bridge of his nose.

But he isn't alone.

From the passenger side, a tall figure emerges, adjusting a crisp white baseball cap. Jin. He stretches his broad shoulders, looking around the square with an air of absolute casualty, as if he just happened to be passing by for an afternoon stroll. He says something to Yoongi, flashing a quick, reassuring grin in your direction, though he doesn't wave or make a scene.

A sudden, immense wave of relief washes over you. Yoongi had promised to sit in the car, but of course, he brought reinforcements. Of course Jin came along…probably under the guise of grabbing a drink although he clearly already has one in his hand.

You don't know if he's here to support you… or Yoongi. However, you wouldn't put it past him to flip a table if you needed a distraction.

You catch Yoongi's eyes behind his dark lenses. He gives you a single, firm nod. Turning back toward the cafe, you square your shoulders. You push through the heavy glass doors, the sudden blast of air conditioning sending a sharp shiver down your spine. Inside, the atmosphere is a mix of grinding espresso machines, low chatter, and the sweet scent of baked pastries. Your eyes sweep the room, searching past the mid-day crowd until they lock onto a booth near the back window.

Sitting there, looking impeccably neat and entirely out of place in the casual summer crowd, is your mother. As you start the long walk toward her table, you glance back through the large glass windows of the cafe's storefront. Right on cue, Yoongi and Jin casually stroll onto the front patio. They select a small iron table right by the glass, giving them a perfectly unobstructed view of the entire interior. Jin sits down with an exaggerated sigh of relief from the heat, while Yoongi slides into his chair, his eyes already locked onto the back booth.

You take one final breath, pull out the chair opposite the woman who built your cage, and sit down.Your mother doesn't flinch. She sits perfectly straight, her manicured fingers lightly circling a tall glass of iced tea that she hasn't touched. The condensation trails down the glass, pooling on the polished wood of the table. She looks at you with the exact same cool, evaluating gaze she used when you were a child. The one as if you are a project that just needs a little realigning.

"Why did you reach out to me?" You ask. It’s quieter than you expected, but it doesn't shake.

"Because you are my daughter, Y/N. And running away without a word isn't a solution. We've been worried sick. Which brings me to my question…why did you block us? Your father and I have been trying to call you for months." She leans in slightly, her eyes searching yours. "Did you block Corbyn too? He's not talking to us either."

A harsh, humorless laugh slips past your lips. The sheer absurdity of her focus hitting you instantly.

"Of course I blocked Corbyn too," you say, leaning forward, matching her posture but leaving none of the warmth. "Why wouldn't I? You all lied to me."

"Y/N, we did what we had to do to protect…" She tries before you cut her off.

"You all controlled my life!" The words erupt from you, a low, furious whisper that makes a couple at the next table look over. You don't care. You don't take your eyes off her. "You kept parts of me from myself. You erased years of my life because it didn't fit into the neat little narrative you wanted for me. I had a life before the accident. I had a future."

Your throat tightens, the raw emotion of the truth threatening to choke you, but you push through it.

"I was going to marry someone," you say, your voice cracking slightly. "Someone who I LOVED. Someone who actually knew me, before you tried to turn me into a blank slate."

Out on the patio, through the clear pane of the glass window, Yoongi’s posture shifts. Even behind his sunglasses, you can tell he is entirely dialed into the movement inside the cafe. Jin has stopped playing with his drink, his expression turning sharp and watchful. You see him pick up a menu to hide his face as he fully turns to check out the situation.

Your mother looks down at her iced tea, her jaw tightening. For a fraction of a second, the perfect composure slips, revealing the cold, calculating person underneath.

"You were confused after the accident, Y/N," she says softly, though her voice has an edge to it now. "That boy... that life... it wasn't what was best for you. We gave you a clean slate."

"You gave me a prison," you fire back.

"Stop being dramatic, Y/N," your mother says, her voice snapping back into that familiar, dismissive sharpness that used to make you feel about two inches tall. She adjusts the gold strap of her watch, the metal clicking against her wrist. "You are rewriting history. The day you brought Corbyn home was a new beginning for you. He was stable. He was respectable. He is a good man from a good family, and he was willing to support you through everything."

​"He didn't know me," you say.

​"He knew the woman you became," she counters instantly. "The sensible one. The one who wasn't struggling above a greasy kitchen, chasing some dream with a boy who had nothing to offer you but a handful of cheap promises."

​"That boy is the only person who actually looked at me and saw me. You didn't give me a new beginning. You stole my choices because you were ashamed of the ones I made." You say, slapping your hand down on the table.

“You do not make a scene, young…” Your mother's voice trails off entirely.

The sharp lecture she was about to deliver cuts off as her gaze locks onto your hand, flat against the polished wood of the table.

She stares at your middle finger. There, resting securely, is the ring with the dark stone. The very ring Yoongi had worked extra shifts to buy, the one that had been hidden around his neck until you came to claim it.

"You let him convince you to wear that cheap thing again," she says.

"Nobody convinced me of anything," you whisper back. You don't pull your hand away. You keep it right there on the table. "It’s mine and I’m remembering."

"Remembering what?" Your mother scoffs, leaning back in the booth, her arms crossing over her chest. "A fantasy? A phase when you thought living paycheck to paycheck was romantic? Y/N, look at yourself. You are throwing away a stable future for a ghost."

"He isn't a ghost," you say, and for the first time in this entire conversation, a small, genuine smile touches the corner of your lips. "He's sitting right outside."

Your mother stiffens. Automatically, her eyes flicker past your shoulder, tracking your gaze toward the sunlit patio.

Through the glass of the storefront, Yoongi is sitting perfectly still. He doesn't move a muscle. He doesn't acknowledge her existence at all. Across from him, Jin casually takes a sip of his drink.

Your mother’s jaw tightens so hard you can see the sharp line of her cheekbones. The realization hits her all at once. She didn't come here to negotiate with a confused, isolated daughter. She walked into a trap.

"You've made up your mind, then," she says. She slides her untouched iced tea away from her, picking up her designer handbag from the seat beside her. "You're choosing this. You're choosing him. After everything your father and I sacrificed to give you a normal life."

"You sacrificed my identity for your own selfishness," you say, standing up from the booth. "I'm not choosing him over you. I'm choosing my own life. He just happens to be the person who loves me enough to let me live it."

You don't wait for her response. You don't give her the satisfaction of a dramatic goodbye or a final plea for understanding. You simply turn your back on the woman who built your prison, step away from the table, and walk toward the door.

The blast of thick, July heat hits you the moment you push past the heavy glass doors of the cafe, but this time, it doesn't feel suffocating. It feels alive. Yoongi is already on his feet before the door even finishes swinging shut. He meets you at the edge of the patio, his hand naturally finding the small of your back, his touch warm and grounding through your shirt.

"You okay?" He asks quietly, his eyes scanning your face.

"I'm perfect," you say, breathing out a laugh. You reach down, sliding your hand into his, letting your fingers intertwine. The dark stone of your ring presses gently against his palm. "Let's go home."

"Hey," Jin calls out cheerfully, sliding his sunglasses down with a grin as he follows behind you both toward the parking lot. "Since we survived the rescue mission, does this mean you're buying the celebratory fried chicken? Because I did a lot of intense stealthy staring back there, and it really worked up an appetite."

"I brought you as muscle, Jin, not a food critic," Yoongi grumbles.

"Muscle needs protein, Yoongi!" Jin scolds.

You laugh as Jin’s offended muttering fades into the background. Yoongi tightens his fingers arounds yours and leads you towards your car. Behind you, you buried your true ghost. Ahead of you, home was waiting.

You look around the community theater as you fan yourself with the program in your hand. Yoongi is next to you as he waits for his high school kids to take the stage. He’s leaning back in the velvet seat, but his eyes are fixed on the heavy crimson curtains, his thumb rhythmically tapping against the armrest in a fast motion.

"Yoongi," you tease softly, leaning your shoulder against his arm. “Calm down.”

"They're performing outside of the school district bubble today. It's different from the auditorium stuff they usually do." He lets out a small, huffed breath, his thumb finally coming to a halt.

"Why? You said they have practiced for months, right? You told me they know these pieces inside out." You tilt your head, fanning yourself a bit faster with the paper program.

"Because," he says. "When we're at the school, I'm right there at the piano or standing in front of them. If someone loses their place, I can drop a chord to cue them back in. If a string snaps, I'm there with a spare. Today... I'm not up there with them. I'm just a guy in the crowd. They have to save themselves if they trip."

You watch as he looks back at the stage.

"It's terrifying, letting them go out there where I can't catch them," he admits.

"They'll catch themselves, Yoongi," you whisper, sliding your hand over his tapping thumb. "You taught them how to play."

Before he can answer, the house lights begin to fade. The crowd's chatter dies down into a collective hush.

"Here we go," he murmurs.

The heavy curtains part fully to reveal the first act…a four-piece band that looks terrified to be breathing the same air as the audience. The lead guitarist is a lanky kid with his hair completely covering his eyes, clutching his guitar like a shield.

They start with a shaky count. For the first thirty seconds, the bass was a little too loud and the drummer missed a transition, causing Yoongi’s hand to tighten around yours. But by the first chorus, the lanky guitarist found his footing, leaning into the microphone to belt out a raw, energetic rock anthem.

They were loud.

Unpolished.

And completely full of life.

Next is a young girl, sitting behind a massive grand piano. Her hands are visibly trembling as she hovers over the keys. She strikes the first chord of a classical piece and stops. Yoongi doesn't move a muscle. Taking a breath, she starts again. This time, the notes flow beautifully, a stunning melody that completely captivates the room.

The final group of Yoongi's students take the stage with acoustic guitars. Midway through their cover song, a guitarist strums a bit too enthusiastically. With a distinct clink, his guitar pick slipped right through the strings and into the acoustic soundhole. He freezes for a split second, eyes widening in panic. However, remembering Yoongi's training, another kid picks up the rhythm, as the lead singer grins. The guitarist with the lost pick simply uses his thumb to keep strumming, laughing off the mistake.

As the final chord rings out in the old theater. The acoustic group bows, the kid who lost his pick grinning sheepishly as he shakes his guitar upside down to a chorus of laughter from the audience.

​Yoongi is on his feet instantly. He isn't cheering loudly like some of the parents, but the intensity of his applause and the sheer pride radiating off him is unmistakable. As the house lights come back up, he looks down at you clearly relieved.

​"See?" You say, standing up beside him and slipping your arm through his. "No casualties. Even the acoustic soundhole incident was handled with grace."

​"My heart stopped for a full three seconds," he mutters. "Come on. Let's go find them before they eat all the sheet cake in the lobby."

​The backstage hallway is full of tearful parents, and teenagers with post-performance energy. ​Weaving through the crowd, you spot them gathered near a fire exit. A cluster of high school kids holding instrument cases. The lanky rock guitarist is practically floating, high-fiving the bass player, while the young pianist is sitting on an overturned equipment trunk, staring at her hands with a quiet expression.

​"Mr. Min!" The drummer yells, his voice cracking as he points a drumstick toward you both.

​Instantly, the group swarms.

​"Did you hear the transition in the second verse? I totally botched…."

"I thought I was going to throw up on the keys, Mr. Min, seriously, my left hand went completely numb…"

"My pick is still trapped in there, it’s a rattle now, it’s a percussion instrument…."

​Yoongi lets them spill their panic and triumph for a long moment as he simply listens.

​"First of all," Yoongi says, holding his hand up. "The transition was messy, but you covered it before the audience noticed. Second." He turns his dark eyes to the young girl on the trunk, his expression softening into something incredibly gentle. "You stopped, you breathed, and you started over. That takes more courage than playing a perfect set."

​The girl’s face lights up.

​"And you." Yoongi glances at the acoustic guitarist. "Buy a pick holder. But good job keeping the rhythm with your thumb. That’s what real musicians do when things go sideways. You didn't look like students today. You looked like artists. I'm proud of you."

​A collective, quiet hush falls over the kids. Coming from anyone else, it might sound like standard praise, but from the notoriously strict, unbothered Mr. Min, it’s a standing ovation.

​As the tension drains from the group, the lanky guitarist’s eyes suddenly wander past Yoongi’s shoulder, locking onto you. He blinks, nudging the drummer with his elbow. Within seconds, a dozen teenage eyes shift from their teacher to you, taking the way you’re standing just a bit close to Yoongi's side.

​The kid who lost his pick squints, a slow, mischievous grin spreading across his face.

​"Uh... Mr. Min?" He asks. "Is that your girlfriend?"

​Yoongi freezes.

​"Oh my god," the bass player gasps, leaning forward. "Ooh! Mr. Min has a girlfriend!"

​"Shut up, don't yell it!" The pianist hisses, though she’s already grinning, her eyes darting between you and Yoongi.

​"No, seriously, look at him, he’s turning red," the drummer cackles, pointing a drumstick. "She's way too pretty for you, Mr. Min! How did you pull that off?"

​"Yeah, did you trick her with classical music?" The lanky guitarist chimes in. "Did you play her a sad piano song?"

​"Hey," Yoongi snaps, though his voice lacks any real bite. A faint, dusty pink color is rapidly climbing up his neck and settling into the tips of his ears. He clears his throat, throwing a warning glance at the drummer. "That's enough out of all of you. Pack up your gear before I give you summer homework."

The kids don't scatter immediately. They linger just long enough to let out a chorus of dramatic, high-pitched "Ooooohs" and theatrical sighs before Yoongi glares them down. He gestures aggressively toward the lobby where the promise of sheet cake waits, and finally, with a flurry of trailing giggles and the clatter of loose instrument cases, they scramble down the hallway.

​The heavy fire door clicks shut behind them, cutting off the echo of their laughter and leaving the backstage corridor suddenly, remarkably quiet. The air here feels heavy with the scent of old stage velvet, floor wax, and the residual electricity of a dozen teenagers letting go of their fears.

​You look up at Yoongi, a soft, slow smile spreading across your face.

​He’s still standing there with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his black trousers, his shoulders hunched slightly as that dusty pink color refuses to leave the tips of his ears. He looks incredibly endearing. This fierce, protective man who just went toe-to-toe with your past on Friday, now utterly defeated by the teasing of a few sixteen-year-olds.

​"Unbelievable," Yoongi mutters under his breath, shaking his head as he stares at the empty hallway. "I give them nine and half months of my life and they treat me like a comedy routine. They never grow out of it."

​"They adore you, Yoongi," you say softly, stepping closer into his space. The stiff, clumsy feeling that usually haunts your fingers feels miles away right now. You reach out, your hand slipping naturally around his forearm, the fabric of his button-down smooth beneath your touch.

​He lets out a soft, defeated huff, but his arm relaxes instantly under your hand. He turns his head to look down at you. The flustered expression slowly fading.

​"I wish..." You pause, your voice dropping to a gentle, tentative whisper. You look at fire in his eyes, sureness in stance…the pieces of him that grew while you were trapped in a life that wasn't yours. "I wish I could have seen you become this."

"Become what?" ​Yoongi blinks, his brow furrowing slightly in confusion

​You look toward the door where the kids had just vanished, then look right back into his dark eyes.

​"The man those kids adore," you answer softly. "The teacher who knows exactly when to hold them steady and when to let them trip so they can learn to catch themselves. I missed the part where you became this version of you, Yoongi. The one who builds spaces where people feel safe enough to create."

​The hallway goes completely still.

​"You didn't miss me becoming this person," Yoongi murmurs. "You made me this person. They are loving a version of me that you created."

​"I can hold out hope," you say, your voice cracking as you pull back just enough to look into his eyes, forcing him to see the fierce, simmering anger beneath your tears. "I can stay up every night trying to mold clay, trying to trigger a flash, praying that I will get my memories back. I can hope for that, Yoongi."

​Your grip on him tightens.

​"But I wasn't here," you whisper. "I wasn't in the crowd for your first real recital. I wasn't there to celebrate when you got this job. I didn't get to see you become someone so incredibly important to these kids in real-time. I had to find out from a bunch of sixteen-year-olds teasing you in a hallway."

​The tears finally spill over, hot and fast down your cheeks. Yoongi’s jaw tightens, a hard, protective shadow crossing his face as he listens to the raw grief of your missing years.

​"They took that from me," you choke out. "They locked me in a room. They handed me a blank life, and they let me live a man I couldn't truly love while you were doing this beautiful thing all by yourself. I want my memories back more than anything... but even if I get them, I will never, ever forgive my parents for what they stole."

​Yoongi doesn't try to shush you. He simply listens. Just like he listened to his students.

​"Good," he says bluntly, grabbing your face lightly. "Don't forgive them. You don't owe them peace, Y/N. I don't forgive them either."

​He slides his hands down from your face, wrapping his long fingers securely around yours, lifting your hands until the dark stone of your ring is pressed right against his heart.

​"But look at me," he commands softly.

​You lift your eyes, your vision blurry with tears.

​"They stole the past," Yoongi says, his gaze locked onto yours. "They got to keep those years in the dark. But they don't get today. And they sure as hell don't get the future."

​He lets out a soft, breathy laugh, a tiny smile finally breaking through the heavy tension as he glances toward the fire door.

​"If you want to see me be a teacher, you're going to get sick of it," he promises. "The winter concert is two hours long, the freshman brass section sounds like a dying moose, and I have to grade music theory papers until my eyes cross. You're going to be right there for all of it. I'm going to make sure you don't miss a single second."

​A wet, breathless laugh escapes your lips, and you lean forward, burying your face into the crook of his neck. The tight, defensive armor you’ve been wearing since Tuesday finally begins to unspool, piece by piece, in the quiet backstage corridor. ​Yoongi wraps his arms fully around you, holding you so tightly that the space between you completely vanishes. He rocks you slightly, his hand resting on the back of your head.

“What do you want to do now?” He whispers.

“I think I want to go home,” you look up at him.

“To Leah's?" He asks and you shake your head no.

“No, with you,” you say.

He goes completely still.

For one heartbeat, he just looks at you.

Then the smallest, most disbelieving smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah?" He asks quietly.

"Yeah." You nod.

Not your house. Not Leah's.

Home.

He reaches up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear before resting his forehead against yours.

"I've waited a long time to hear you say that," he whispers.

"I think I've been trying to get there for a while." You smile through the last of your tears.

"You don't have to rush," he murmurs. "One night at a time. One toothbrush. One drawer. One terrible cup of ramen if we're feeling nostalgic."

"I'd like that." You laugh, the sound light and genuine.

He intertwines your fingers with his, the dark stone of your ring catching the backstage lights.

"Come on," he says softly. "Let's go home."

Hand in hand, you leave the theater together. Not chasing the life that had been stolen from you anymore, but walking toward the one you were finally building, side by side.

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The clinking of silverware against ceramic is the loudest sound in your parents' dining room, mostly because Nicky is eating at the speed of a professional athlete who hasn't seen food in a week.

​"Slow down," Yoongi tells him from beside you, reaching over to subtly slide the basket of rolls out of Nicky’s direct line of reach. "The food isn't going to run away."

​"I'm hungry, Coach," Nicky mumbles around a mouthful of mashed potatoes, earning a look of disgust from both you and your mother.

​"Don't talk with your mouth full," your mom scolds gently, though she immediately reaches over to spoon another massive helping of chicken onto his plate anyway. She turns her eyes towards the rest of the table, lingering on your midsection, then on Elly’s. "It is so strange seeing both of my daughter-in-law and my daughter pregnant at the same time. I still can't believe it."

“Yeah,” Chris sighs. “But…mine's still coming first.”

"It’s not a competition, dumbass," you shoot back, adjusting the waistband of your maternity leggings under the table. Four months in, and you already feel bloated enough to pop. "And if it were, Yoongi and I would win because our kid is going to have to endure your DNA as an uncle."

​"Hey! Watch it," Chris scoffs.

"Here we go again. Can we make it through one dinner without you two fighting?" ​Yoongi just sighs, massaging his temples.

​"No," you two say in perfect unison.

​Elly giggles, resting a hand over her round five-month bump, while your dad just shakes his head, wisely keeping his mouth shut and focusing entirely on his food. Your ​mom clears her throat, clearly trying to steer the conversation back somewhere safe. She sets her fork down and leans forward.

"Well, have either of you started thinking about names yet? You're both far enough along to at least have a shortlist." She looks between the two of you.

​The table goes quiet.

​You swallow your bite of food and look across the table at your parents. You then look over to Nicky, who actually pauses his frantic eating to look up.

​"We’ve talked about it a little," you say. "Yoongi and I really want to honor Nick and Sarah. We were thinking about naming her Sarah, or maybe using Nicole if it's a girl…. "

​Nicky's eyes widened​ at your admission. Chris though… he has entirely stopped moving. His fork hovering halfway to his plate. He looks at Elly, his jaw slightly tight, and Elly’s expression instantly turns entirely apologetic, her cheeks turning faint pink. They exchange a long glance.

"What?" You ask. "Why are you guys looking at each other like that?"

​Chris clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. He rubs the back of his neck, completely avoiding your gaze and looking down at his plate instead.

​"Well..." Chris starts.

​"Christopher," you warn, leaning forward. "Spit it out."

​"Y/N... we’ve been working on our name list for the last two months." She offers a tiny, strained smile. "And... we had the exact same idea."

"The exact same idea as in...?" You trail off.

​"As in, we wanted to name our daughter Sarah," Chris blurts out, finally looking up. "We were going to tell mom and dad tonight. We wanted to surprise everyone."

​The dining room goes silent.

Your dad suddenly finds his water glass incredibly fascinating.Your mom looks between the two of you, her eyes darting back and forth.

​"You've got to be kidding me," you say, a dark chuckle slipping out of your throat. "You are literally copying me."

​"How am I copying you?!" Chris argues. "Elly and I are a month ahead of you! You haven't even had your anatomy scan yet!"

"It doesn’t matter who is a month ahead, Chris!" You fire back, throwing your hands up. "The point is we both want to use the exact same name for the exact same reason. You can't just call dibs on honoring Nick and Sarah!"

“Oh, you mean like you're trying to do.” He looks at you.

​"Nick was my older brother!" You snap, your voice rising.

You don't even see your mom take Nicky out of the room. You don't register how quiet the room has become without Nicky scraping his fork against his plate.

​"He was my older brother too!" Chris yells back, throwing his hands up. "Everyone seems to forget that!"

​"Okay, everybody take a breath," Yoongi interrupts. "It’s just a name conversation. Nobody is signing birth certificates tonight."

“Yup,” Chris laughs. “Here comes Coach Yoongi to the rescue. You are NOT the only one who lost him but somehow every time Nick and Sarah are brought up it's always about you! Everything is always about you!”

For a second, you can't even breathe. The room feels entirely too small, your chest tightening as the shock of his words register. Everything is always about you.

​"Chris," Elly whispers, her voice trembling as she reaches out to grab his forearm. "Stop. Don't say that."

​But Chris doesn't look at her. He is staring dead at you, his chest heaving, his jaw set in a stubborn, defensive line that you knew all too well…the look he got whenever he felt backed into a corner and decided to swing his way out.

​Beside you, the air shifts. The easy, mediating patience Yoongi usually carried completely vanishes. He doesn't raise his voice, but when he speaks, his tone is a low, dangerous growl that makes Chris’s eyes snap over to him.

​"Watch your mouth, Christopher," Yoongi says, his posture entirely rigid. "You don't get to yell at her, and you damn sure don't get to tell her how she's allowed to grieve her brother."

​"Yoongi, stay out of it," Chris snaps back, though his voice lacks a fraction of its previous venom. "You don't know …"

​"I know she misses him every single day," Yoongi cut him off. "And I know you do too. But taking your frustrations out on her because you're both hurting is crossing the line. Sit down and check yourself."

​"Hey! Both of you, enough!"

​Your dad’s voice booms across the room, slamming onto the table with a rare authority that instantly silences both men. He sets his glass down with a heavy thud, his expression lined with a deep, exhausting sadness. He looks at you, then at Chris, his eyes glassy.

​"Nick belonged to all of us," your dad says. "And Sarah did too. There isn't a single person at this table who gets to say they miss him more. I won't have you two turning their memory into a weapon to hurt each other with. Not in this house."

​The silence that follows was suffocating.

​You look down at your hands, which are shaking against your lap. The anger that has been fueling you seconds ago evaporates, leaving behind a cold, hollow ache. Chris is wrong…you don't think everything is about you. However, hearing him say it out loud. Knowing he’d been harboring that resentment while you were both trying to navigate the same impossible loss. It feels like a physical blow to the stomach.

​"Chris..." your voice comes out small.

You want to tell him he was wrong. You want to tell him that you didn't think his grief mattered less. You want to say that you were just hurt, that you were just missing Nick too.

​But you don't get the chance.

​"No, you know what? Forget it," Chris cuts you off, slamming his hands onto the edge of the table as he stands up so fast his chair scrapes against the hardwood. He doesn't look at your dad, and he purposely avoids Yoongi’s lethal glare. His eyes stay locked on yours, bitter and entirely defeated.

​"Take the name," he spits, throwing his hands up in the air. "Just take it, Y/N. You always get what you want anyway."

​"Chris, that's not fair…" Elly pleads, her voice breaking as she stands up after him, her hand instinctively covering over her bump.

​"No, Elly, it's fine. It's always fine," Chris scoffs, a harsh, humorless laugh escaping him as he grabs his car keys off hook by the door. "We'll find something else. Then at work tomorrow..." He lets out a sharp breath, shaking his head. "...I'll just pretend that none of this happened. Right? I'll put on a smile, and I'll pretend everything is perfect. We won't talk about it. Because I'm never allowed to talk about things."

​"Chris, please," Elly begs, her eyes brimming with tears as she catches up to him, her hand gripping his jacket sleeve. "Let's just sit down. Let's talk."

​"Talk about what, Elly? There's nothing to talk about," Chris says. He doesn't pull away from her, but his whole body is rigid.

​He finally looks at Yoongi, a dangerous flick of defiance in his eyes, before dropping his gaze back to you.

"See you at eight AM, guys. Don't worry, I'll keep my mouth shut. Like always," he says.

​With that, he turns, taking Elly's hand pulling her towards the front door. The heavy door slams shut, rattling the windows next to it. Nobody moves. Your dad stares at his hands. Beside you, Yoongi’s rigid posture slowly shifts, his hand dropping beneath the table to find yours.

Footsteps hesitate just beyond the kitchen door before your mom steps back into the room, Nicky hovering just behind her shoulder. Nicky looks down at the floor, his face tight with the awkward discomfort of a teenager caught in adult drama. Your mom looks at the two empty chairs, her hands moving nervously against her apron. She forces a small, fragile smile that doesn't even come close to reaching her eyes.

"Chris didn't mean any of that, Y/N. You know how he gets when he’s emotional. He just... he gets overwhelmed and lets his mouth run. He loves you." She nods.

"No, Mom," you say. "He did. He meant every single word of it. Nicky, get your stuff. It's time to go home."

The front door of your house clicks shut, locking out the silence of the car ride home. Nicky doesn't even wait. He shuffles past you and Yoongi in the entryway, keeping his eyes glued to his sneakers.

"I'm gonna go finish my homework in my room," he mumbles, his voice lacking any of its usual teenage energy.

“There's extra snacks in the pantry if you get hungry later," Yoongi says softly, patting Nicky's shoulder as the kid disappears up the stairs.

Once his door shuts, you drop your keys onto the kitchen counter. You lean your palms against the edge of the counter, staring blindly at a spot on the counter, your breathing shallow.

Yoongi moves into your space without a sound. He steps up behind you, his chest pressing gently against your back as his arms wrap around your waist. His hands rest right over your lower stomach and he tucks his chin into the crook of your neck. He lets out a long, ragged breath that stirs your hair.

"Stop spiraling," he murmurs against your skin. "I can practically hear your mind racing from across the room."

"He's going to fire us, Yoongi," you blurt out. You turn around in his embrace, forcing him to look at you. Your hands grip the fabric of his shirt. "Did you hear him? See you at eight AM. He’s the owns the company now. If Chris decides he's done with us, we're done."

"He is not going to fire us, Doll." Yoongi’s dark eyes narrow slightly.

"You don't know that! You saw his face. He thinks I always get what I want, and he’s harboring all this... this venom because he thinks his grief doesn't matter to anyone," you say, your voice cracking as the exhaustion finally starts to overtake the anger. "He's our boss. If he wants to make an example out of us, or if he just looks at us tomorrow and decides he can't handle working with me anymore... we have a baby on the way. We can't just lose our income because my brother throws a tantrum."

Yoongi catches your face in his hands, his fingers warm against your burning cheeks, forcing your frantic gaze to lock onto his.

"Listen to me," Yoongi says, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "Your dad would never let him completely tank our livelihood over a family argument, no matter who owns the company now. Chris is a hothead, but he isn't a monster. He's hurting, and he lashed out in the ugliest way possible."

"But what if he does? What if he walks into the office at eight AM tomorrow and tells us to pack up our desks?" You ask.

"Then we pack up our desks," Yoongi answers instantly, without a shred of hesitation. "If he wants to be petty enough to fire his sister and his head of IT. Let him do it. I can get a job anywhere. We will be okay. You, me, Nicky, and this baby. Chris doesn't control our future."

He slides his hands down to cup your belly again, holding you close.

"But tomorrow morning, we walk in there exactly like we always do," Yoongi continues. "We don't bring the dinner table to the job. If he wants to pretend nothing happened and put on his fake smile, we let him. We do our jobs, we keep our heads down, and we don't give him a single professional reason to swing at us. Can you do that?"

You swallow the lump in your throat, nodding slowly against his chest as you wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder.

"Yeah. I can do that," you whisper.

You stay tucked against Yoongi's chest for a few long, quiet heartbeats, letting the steady rise and fall of his breathing anchor you. The panic about the company doesn't completely vanish, but it numbs down into a manageable ache.

The soft creak of the floorboards near the kitchen entryway makes you both pull apart slightly.

You look over Yoongi’s shoulder to find Nicky standing there. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. He doesn't look like the confident kid Yoongi coaches on the field right now; he looks incredibly small.

"Hey," you say gently, wiping a stray tear from your cheek before he can notice. "Everything okay? Do you need a snack?"

"No, I'm... I'm good," Nicky mumbles. He clears his throat, his eyes darting to Yoongi, then to you, before settling somewhere near the kitchen floor. "Actually... can I talk to you guys for a second?"

"Of course. Come here," Yoongi says, his voice instantly softening as he guides you toward the kitchen island.

You sit down on one of the barstools, your stomach turning a brand-new kind of knot as you watch Nicky approach. He pulls his hands out of his pockets, twists the hem of his sweatshirt, and finally looks you dead in the eye.

"I want to talk about what you said at dinner. Before Uncle Chris lost his mind," Nicky starts. "About... wanting to name the baby Sarah. Or Nicole."

"Yeah. We really want to honor your mom and dad, Nicky. We thought it would be a beautiful way to keep them with us." You nod.

"I get why you want to do it. I really do. But... I don't think I'm okay with it." He looks away.

The admission hits you like a sudden splash of ice water. You blink, completely taken aback, your chest tightening in a totally different way than it did with Chris.

"You... you aren't?" You ask.

Beside you, Yoongi stays perfectly still, his eyes locked on Nicky, waiting and listening with the patient gravity of someone who knows exactly how heavy this kid's world is.

"No," Nicky says, his voice cracking slightly as a flush of heat rises up his neck. He looks incredibly conflicted, like he's furious at himself for even bringing it up. "It’s just... it’s already really hard carrying my dad’s name. Every time someone says 'Nick' or calls me 'Little Nick,' it’s like this permanent reminder of what’s missing. I love it, but it's a lot of pressure."

He takes a shaky breath.

"But if you name the baby Sarah... I’d have to hear my mom’s name every single day. At breakfast, at Christmas, when she’s crying, when you're yelling at her to clean her room." Nicky's eyes brim with sudden, heavy tears that he fiercely tries to blink away. "I don't know how to feel about that. It feels like... like her name shouldn't just belong to a little kid running around the house. It's HER name. And it hurts too much to think about hearing it all the time like it's normal."

A wave of realization washes over you. In your eagerness to heal your own grief and honor the brother and sister-in-law you lost, you completely missed how it would echo in the ears of the teenager actually living under your roof.

You stand up from the stool, stepping around the counter until you are right in front of him.

You step right up to him, your own breath catching in your throat as you see the raw pain flashing across his face. You reach out, and this time, you don't wait for him to take your hand. You wrap your arms tightly around his shoulders, pulling his rigid frame into you.

For a second, he stays stiff, but then he lets out a ragged, trembling breath and buries his face into your shoulder, his hands gripping the back of your sweater.

"I am so, so sorry, Nicky," you whisper into his hair. You squeeze him tighter, wishing you could physically shield him from the weight he's carrying. "I am so sorry. We didn't even think about how that would feel for you, and we should have. That is entirely on me."

Yoongi steps up behind Nicky, placing a hand flat against the kid's back, his chest rising in a heavy, sympathetic sigh.

"You're completely right," you continue, pulling back just enough to look up into his watery eyes. You keep your hands resting gently on his upper arms. "We were so focused on trying to do something meaningful to remember them by, but we completely missed how it would affect you. Your mom's name belongs to her. And you shouldn't have to face a painful reminder every single time we call out for your cousin."

"I didn't want to ruin it," he mumbles. "I know how much you miss them too. I felt like a jerk even thinking it."

"Hey," Yoongi interrupts softly, his voice firm but incredibly warm as he squeezes Nicky’s shoulder. "Look at me."

Nicky shifts his eyes over to look at Yoongi.

"You are not a jerk," Yoongi tells him, shaking his head. "It takes a lot of guts to stand up and say what you need, especially when everyone else around you is already emotionally charged. You living under this roof and feeling safe and comfortable is a million times more important to us than any name on a shortlist. You hear me?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Coach." Nicky nods slowly, a tiny, genuine fraction of a smile breaking through his tension.

"We're a team, Nicky," you say, reaching up to gently brush a stray tear off his cheek. "We make these choices together. The name Sarah is off the table. Completely. We'll find something entirely fresh for this baby, okay?"

"Okay," Nicky breathes, his shoulders dropping as the immense pressure he's been holding since dinner finally evaporates. He looks between the two of you, the awkwardness of the adult conversation fading back into his usual teenage demeanor. "Um... I'm actually gonna go finish that homework now. For real this time."

"Go ahead," you smile, letting your hands drop. "Love you."

"Love you guys too," he says, turning and heading back toward the stairs with a noticeably lighter step.

As his bedroom door clicks shut upstairs, the kitchen falls into a completely different kind of quiet. The tension from your parents' house is entirely gone, replaced by a bittersweet clarity. You lean back against the kitchen island, letting out a long, exhausted breath.

Yoongi steps closer, wrapping his arms right back around your waist and pulling you into his warmth. He rests his forehead against yours, his thumbs tracing soothing circles against your hips.

"You handled that beautifully, Doll," he murmurs, his dark eyes soft and filled with an undeniable pride.

"I can't believe I didn't think of it myself," you whisper, leaning into him, your hands finding their place against his chest. "Chris was screaming that everything is always about me... and then Nicky comes down and proves that in a way, I really am selfish."

"Hey," Yoongi cuts you off, his tone instantly protective. "Do not loop what happened with Chris into this. Chris was throwing stones because he's frustrated. Nicky was just telling us how he feels. There is a massive difference." He kisses the top of your forehead, his embrace tightening. "We're figuring this out as we go. And we just learned what we needed to learn. Tomorrow is a new day."

You and Yoongi walk into the office at exactly 7:55 AM.

Your stomach instantly does a nervous flip. Right there in the center of the lobby, standing in front of the cork bulletin board, is Chris. He has one hand up, pinning a newly printed subcontractor schedule to the board, his back completely to you.

You freeze for a fraction of a second, your hand tightening instinctively around the strap of your bag. Beside you, Yoongi slows his pace to match yours. You glance up at him, and he meets your eyes. Just as the door shuts behind you, Chris drops his hand from the board and turns around. You brace yourself for the tension, the tight jaw, or the bitter glare from the night before. Instead, Chris just offers a casual, easy nod.

"Morning," he says, his tone entirely level, completely wiped of any of the venom he’d spit before slamming your parents' front door.

He doesn't linger, doesn't look at your midsection, and doesn't acknowledge the massive elephant standing in the room. He just slides his hands into his pockets and turns on his heel, walking down the hallway toward his office like it's just any other day.

The silence he leaves behind is baffling.

"Unbelievable," you whisper under your breath.

Yoongi lets out a faint, humorless huff from the back of his throat, watching the empty hallway where Chris just disappeared.

"He wants to play it cool, we play it cool. It means we get to do our jobs in peace." He reaches down, his fingers quickly brushing against yours in a reassuring squeeze. "See you at lunch, Doll. Call me if you need anything,"

"I will," you promise, forcing a small smile.

He turns down the hall, as he heads toward the server room and his IT office. You step inside your office, shut the door behind you, and let out a long, shaky exhale. Dropping your bag onto the desk, you sink into your chair

You boot up your computer, the familiar sound of the hard drive filling the silence. When your inbox loads, the very first unread email sitting at the top of the screen is a project update sent by Chris at 7:30 AM. No personal notes, no acknowledgment of the screaming match, just cold, professional bullet points about a subcontractor delay.

You stare at his name on the screen. He really is doing exactly what he said he would…putting on the mask and pretending the foundation of your family didn't just fracture over a dinner table.

The morning drags by in a blur of spreadsheets and empty screen staring. By the time 12:15 PM rolls around, your phone buzzes on the desk. You pick it up, expecting Yoongi to tell you he's on his way up to your office, but instead, a text flashes across the screen.

Yoongi: Doll, I’m so sorry. The software for jobsite A isn't working. I’m stuck in the server room for the next few hours. Please eat something good. I love you.

You sigh, resting a hand over your stomach.

"Just you and me for lunch, kiddo," you mutter to yourself.

The thought of sitting alone in your office with your thoughts makes you want to fake sick and go home. Instead, you decide to brave the breakroom. You keep your eyes peeled for Chris as you step out into the hallway, but his office door is shut tight.

When you slide open the heavy glass door to the breakroom, the room is mostly empty except for Elly. She's sitting at the corner table by the window, a plastic container of salad sitting open in front of her. She isn't eating. She’s just staring out at the parking lot, slowly tracing the rim of her water bottle with her thumb. Your first instinct is to turn right back around and walk out before she sees you. However, just as your heel shifts on the linoleum, Elly turns her head. Her eyes lock onto yours.

She doesn't look angry. She looks incredibly tired, the skin under her eyes faint and shadowy.

You freeze, your grip tightening on your lunch bag. For a long moment, neither of you says anything. Then, Elly clears her throat and offers a tiny smile. She looks down at the empty chair across from her, then back up at you.

"Hey," she says, her voice quiet, almost timid. "Um... Chris went out to a job site with one of the project managers. He won't be back until later." She hesitates, her fingers twisting around her water bottle. "Do you... do you want to sit down?"

The raw vulnerability in her face completely melts the last of your defenses. You take a slow, careful breath and step into the room, letting the door click shut behind you.

"Yeah," you say softly, stepping toward the table. "I'd like that."

You pull out the chair across from her, your movements deliberate and careful as you sit down. You place your lunch bag on the table but make no move to open it, the heavy, lingering ghost of last night sitting squarely between you.

"Thanks," you say softly.

"Is Yoongi stuck working?." Elly asks.

"Yeah. Something about software on a jobsite," you reply, a faint, forced smile touching your lips. "He's in his element, at least."

The small talk hangs in the air until Elly lets out a small, shaky sigh. She pushes her salad container away, completely abandoning the food, and rests her hands over her stomach.

"Y/N... I am so incredibly sorry about last night. Chris... he shouldn't have said those things to you. He shouldn't have yelled. I tried to talk to him in the car on the way home, but he completely shut down. He just locked himself in that defensive mindset and refused to let me in," she says.

Hearing her say it brings a strange mix of relief and dull ache to your chest.

"He really believes it, Elly. That's the part that hurts. He really thinks I make everything about myself," you tell her.

"He's hurting," Elly whispers, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "We both are. It feels like we're constantly trying to balance celebrating this baby while carrying this massive weight of who isn't here to see her. Chris handles it by trying to control everything, by wanting to be the one to do the big, meaningful thing. When you said the name Sarah... it just blew up his entire plan, and he lashed out." She reaches across the table, her fingers hovering just an inch from yours. "But he loves you. He's just so bad at showing it when he feels backed into a corner."

You stare at her hand, swallowing the lump in your throat. This is your chance to clear the air about the name, but the reality of what happened after you got home hits you.

"Elly... something happened after we got home last night," you start, your voice dropping into a quiet, careful register.

"What do you mean? Is everything okay with the baby?" She blinks, withdrawing her hand slightly, her eyebrows knitting together.

"The baby is fine," you quickly reassure her, shaking your head. "It's... it's about Nicky."

At the mention of your nephew, Elly's posture straightens, her full attention locking onto you.

"He came downstairs after we got back," you continue. "He heard us fighting at the table. And he told Yoongi and me... he told us he isn't okay with us using the name Sarah."

"He isn't?" Elly's eyes widened slightly.

"No," you say, a heavy wave of guilt washing over your face as you repeat his words. "He told us that carrying his dad's name is already a ton of pressure. But he said that if we name the baby Sarah... he'd have to hear his mom's name every single day. Normal things. Like telling a little kid to clean her room, or hearing her cry. He said her name belongs to her, and hearing it all the time like it's just a normal, everyday thing... it hurts too much."

You take a shaky breath, looking dead into Elly's eyes.

"Yoongi and I completely took it off our list. I realized I was so focused on my own grief, on wanting to do this beautiful tribute, that I completely forgot to look at the kid actually living under our roof and how it would sound to him," you tell her

Elly goes completely still. Her hand slowly drops from her stomach onto the edge of the table, her fingers loosening. She stares past you, her eyes fixed on a random point on the wall as your words settle into the room. The faint hum of the breakroom vending machine suddenly feels incredibly loud.

You watch her face switch from confusion to a deep, striking realization. The faint pink tint in her cheeks drains away, leaving her looking incredibly small.

"Oh, my God," Elly whispers, her voice breaking as she finally blinks, looking back at you. Her eyes are wide, filled with a sudden, devastating clarity. "I didn't think about that. We didn't... Chris and I didn't think about that at all."

She covers her mouth with a trembling hand, a tear finally escaping and tracking down her cheek.

"We were so wrapped up in our own timeline, in wanting to surprise your parents..." She lets out a ragged, uneven breath, shaking her head. "But Nicky... Nicky has to live it. Every day."

She looks down at her own stomach.

"Maybe... maybe Chris and I shouldn't use it either," Elly says softly. "I don't want to make him upset. I don't want to bring a baby into this family whose very name makes her cousin feel like he's constantly facing a ghost. Nicky's comfort, his heart... that matters so much more than a name list." She looks up at you, her eyes swimming. "I have to talk to Chris. He's going to be upset, he's going to feel like another thing is being taken away, but... he loves Nicky. He wouldn't want to hurt him. I know he wouldn't."

"We're all just trying to navigate this the best we can," you tell her softly. "Don't beat yourself up. We missed it too, until he stood in our kitchen and told us."

"Thank you for telling me, Y/N. Seriously." Elly lets out a long breath, wiping her cheek with a napkin, and gives you a grateful, watery smile.

With the massive elephant finally out of the room, the weight in the breakroom completely lifts. You finally unzip your lunch bag, and Elly pulls her salad back toward her. For the next forty minutes, the atmosphere shifts into something genuinely comfortable. You don't talk about Chris, and you don't talk about the company. Instead, you trade complaints about your shared pregnancy symptoms. You laugh about how your four-month bloating makes you feel like a balloon, while Elly warns you about the heartburn.

By the time lunch ends, the knot in your stomach has completely unraveled.

A few hours later, you are back in your office, buried under a mountain of billing invoices. The clock on your computer screen reads 4:15 PM. Yoongi sent you a quick text twenty minutes ago letting you know the software is finally fixed, but he's still running diagnostics on something, so you’ve just been putting your head down and powering through the paperwork.

The steady rhythm of your typing is broken by the sound of heavy, familiar footsteps coming down the hall.

Your office door doesn't just open…it swings back. You look up, your fingers freezing over the keyboard, as Chris steps into the room.

He looks exhausted. His hair is a mess from being out on the windy job site, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows.. In his hands, he’s gripping three massive, greasy paper bags from the local fast-food joint down the street, the scent of fries and burgers instantly filling your office.

Chris doesn't say a single word.

He doesn't even look at you.

He steps right up to the edge of your desk, shifts the bags in his grip, and tosses one of the brown paper bags straight into your inbox tray. Before walks right back out the door, his boots thudding loudly down the hallway toward his own office.

You blink, completely stunned, staring at the doorway before looking down at the bag sitting in your tray. You pull it toward you and peek inside. It’s a double cheeseburger, a large order of fries, and two chocolate chip cookies.

A faint laugh escapes your throat before you can stop it.

You pull the bag closer, the grease already bleeding through the brown paper. You set the items out on your desk one by one.

The door to your office clicks open again, much softer this time.You look up to see Yoongi leaning against the frame.

"Is that...?" Yoongi trails off, his eyes dropping to the spread on your desk.

"A double cheeseburger and fries," you say. "The boss just delivered it. Personally."

"Yeah?" He asks, stepping behind your chair and sliding his hands over your shoulders, kneading the tight muscles at the base of your neck. "No pink slips attached to the bag?"

"No," you whisper, leaning your head back against his stomach, closing your eyes as his warm fingers work out the knots. "Just food."

"Good." Yoongi says. “I was really looking forward to keeping my dental insurance."

The grief wasn't gone. The two empty chairs at your parents' table would always be empty, and the road ahead with Chris, with Nicky, and with the new life growing inside you was still going to be messy. All you knew was, you just had to take it one day at a time…together.

"Come here," you murmur, pulling up an extra chair beside yours. "You have to split the fries with me. Your kid demands it."

"Whatever you say, Doll," Yoongi chuckles, taking a fry. “Whatever you say.”

<Next>

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Your bedroom is full of mess and anxiety.

You’re standing in front of the full-length mirror, clutching three separate hangers to your chest. On the bed behind you, Leah is casually lounging across your bed, a glass of white wine balanced expertly on her knee as she watches you pace.

"Alright, let's break it down again," you say, your voice hitting a slightly frantic pitch. You hold up the first option. "The silk plum slip dress. Is it too 'I'm trying to be effortlessly sultry but I actually spent forty minutes using double-sided tape to make sure I don't flash someone’ ?"

"It’s gorgeous. What’s option two?" Leah sips her wine, her eyes tracking the fabric.

You drop the slip dress onto the bed and hold up the second hanger.

"The black wrap dress. Safe. Classic. But is it too casual? Like, am I dressed too casually for a nice dinner?" Before she can answer, you whip out the final hanger. "Or the strapless dress. It’s chic, but what if it slides down while we're walking? What if I have to spend the entire night hitching it up by the armpits in front of him?"

Leah lets out a soft laugh, setting her wine glass down on the nightstand. She rolls onto her stomach, propping her chin in her hands as she looks at the mountain of discarded clothes surrounding you.

"Y/N, breathe," she says gently. "They're all stunning. Honestly, you could wear a burlap sack and Yoongi would probably look at you with stars in his eyes. Why are you so incredibly nervous? You were literally going to marry the guy at one point."

You freeze, the hangers heavy in your hands. You look at your reflection in the mirror…the slight flush on your cheeks, the anxious tension in your shoulders…and let out a long, shaky exhale.

"Yeah," you say softly, turning around to face her. "But Leah... I don't remember that."

Leah’s expression softens instantly, the teasing amusement melting out of her eyes.

"I have these fragments, right? I have the cave, and I have the river, and I have these bursts of adrenaline where my heart recognizes him before my brain does," you explain, gesturing vaguely to your chest. "But I don't have the day-to-day. I don't have the rhythm of us."

You drop the dresses onto the edge of the bed and sit down, burying your face in your hands for a second.

"When I was with Corbyn... I knew exactly how to dress for date night," you admit, your voice muffled. "Corbyn was predictable. If we went out, it was always the same three high-end steakhouses or that specific country club lounge. I knew the dress code. I knew he liked tailored, conservative, expensive-looking things that matched his aesthetic. It was like putting on a uniform. It was easy."

You lift your head, looking at Leah with wide eyes.

"I don't know how to dress for Yoongi. I don't know what his version of a real date looks like. Is he taking me to a hole-in-the-wall jazz club where I'll ruin the silk dress? Is he taking me somewhere incredibly fancy where the wrap dress looks lazy? He told me no chaotic campground and no friends screaming, but that's all I have to go on." You squeeze a handful of the strapless dress in your fist. "With Corbyn, I knew the rules. With Yoongi... I'm terrified I'm going to show up looking like a stranger to a man who knows every single detail of my soul."

Leah is quiet for a moment. She slides across the bed, covering your hand with her own and gently loosening your grip on the fabric.

"Hey," she says. "Look at me."

You look up.

"You just said it yourself. Corbyn wanted you to match an aesthetic." Leah points out, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. "Yoongi doesn't have a dress code, Y/N. He never did. From everything you've told me... that man isn't looking at the clothes. He’s just wanting you to walk beside him."

She reaches over, grabs the plum silk slip dress, and presses it into your hands.

"Wear this one," Leah decides smoothly, giving your shoulder a playful nudge. "It’s bold. And according to a certain story about a dormroom... we already know Yoongi handles 'bold' very, very well."

"You're terrible." A breathless laugh finally breaks through your anxiety, the tight knot in your stomach loosening just a fraction.

"I'm efficient," Leah corrects, sliding off the bed and heading toward the door to give you space. "Now put it on, fix your hair, and stop overthinking it. Your heart already knows the rules for this one."

The plum silk slip dress feels smooth against your skin, but your hands are still trembling slightly as you apply a final swipe of lip gloss. Downstairs, the front door of Leah’s house echoes with three knocks.

Your stomach flips.

"I've got it!" Leah’s voice rings out from the living room.

You freeze at the top of the stairs, your fingers gripping the banister as you look down into the entryway. Through the banister railings, you watch Leah swing the front door open for Yoongi.

Yoongi is standing on the porch under the warm glow of the entryway light. He’s dressed in a crisp, black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly up his forearms, dark pants, and clean leather shoes. His hair falls over his forehead in messy waves. He looks incredibly handsome.

Leah doesn't just greet him. She stops dead in her tracks.

Leah plants her hands on her hips, her eyes widening as she shamelessly locks her gaze onto his face, scanning him from head to toe with the intense scrutiny of a best friend.

The silence stretches for a beat too long.

Yoongi’s cool, unbothered posture visibly fractures under the weight of her stare. He awkwardly shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his hand lifting to instinctively rub the back of his neck. He clears his throat, a faint pink flush creeping up his collarbone.

"Uh... hello," Yoongi says. "I'm Yoongi. I'm here to pick up…"

"Wow," Leah cuts him off. "You are nothing like Corbyn."

Yoongi freezes, his hand dropping from his neck. He blinks back at her, completely caught off guard by the blunt opening statement.

"I... apologize?" He says cautiously, unsure if it’s a compliment or not.

"Don't apologize, " Leah says. “Come on in."

You practically fly down the steps, the hem of the plum silk swishing against your shins as you break the heavy tension radiating through the entryway.

​"Leah, knock it off!" You say, your voice a mix of a hiss and a breathless laugh. You step into the entryway, shooting your friend a pointed glare that screams please do not embarrass me.

​Leah doesn't look even remotely guilty. She just raises her eyebrows, gives you a slow, appreciative nod that approves of the dress.

​Yoongi’s eyes instantly snap to you the second your heels hit the hardwood floor. The awkward tension in his shoulders seems to melt, replaced by a quiet, sudden stillness as his gaze tracks down the silk, then back up to your face. For a fraction of a second, the rest of the room completely fades out. The intensity in his eyes makes your heart do that familiar, frantic flip. It's that automatic rush of adrenaline your brain still can't quite map out, but your chest recognizes perfectly.

​Breaking the spell, Yoongi lets out a soft, slightly awkward laugh. He looks between you and Leah, a faint, amused smirk finally tugging at the corner of his lips as he lets the initial shock of the greeting roll off him.

​"So..." Yoongi says, his voice low and raspy, sliding his hands comfortably into his pant pockets. "I'm nothing like Corbyn?"

​"Not even a little bit," Leah answers smoothly before you can stop her.

"Leah!" You cut in quickly, a burning flush instantly spreading across your cheeks. You reach out and gently but firmly plant a hand on her shoulder, nudging her toward the kitchen. "That is more than enough for you. Goodbye, go back to your wine."

"What? I'm just surprised! I expected someone in an extremely fitted suit who looked like they were about to audit my taxes. I didn't expect..." She waves a hand vaguely at Yoongi…at the rolled-up sleeves and the silver rings on his fingers. "...this."

​Yoongi lets out another low, quiet chuckle. The faint pink flush is still dusting his cheekbones, but his eyes are fixed entirely on you.

​"I'll take that as a compliment," Yoongi says softly, ​He takes a slow step closer, his eyes tracing the line of the plum silk dress. ​"You look... beautiful, Y/N. Truly."

"Have fun, kids. Don't do anything I wouldn't do…which leaves the floor wide open, honestly." Leah winks.

​"Leah, I swear to God," you mutter.

​"Don't worry. I'll have her back by a reasonable hour.” Yoongi smirks at you.

“Please don't,” Leah replies and disappears.

"She’s intense," Yoongi says softly, after she disappears. "She cares about you."

"Yeah, she does," you reply, though a genuine smile tugs at your lips as you smooth down the front of the plum silk. "I'm sorry about the Corbyn comments."

Yoongi lets out a low hum, taking a final step forward closing the distance between you. He brings one hand out of his pocket, and for a second, you think he’s going to touch your cheek. Instead, he reaches past you, his silver rings shining under the light as his fingers grab the handle of the front door.

He doesn't open it yet. He just stands there, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him.

"Don't apologize for her, and definitely don't apologize for him," Yoongi says. His eyes search yours, tracking the subtle tightness in your shoulders. "You're overthinking again. Stop."

"I am not," you lie.

"Y/N." He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "I know you better than you know yourself right now. Relax. There’s no test tonight."

He’s right.

Your brain doesn't remember your own nervous habits, but he does. It’s terrifying, but in the same breath, a massive wave of relief washes over you. Leah was right. There is no uniform. There are no rules to memorize.

"Okay. Fine. I'm a little nervous." You let out the breath you were holding, your shoulders finally dropping.

​"Why?" He asks, his voice barely above a murmur. It isn't defensive. It’s genuinely curious. "You're wearing the perfect dress, your friend didn't physically assault me, and I promised no campgrounds. What’s making that head of yours spin?"

​You look down at his silver rings still resting near the door handle, then back up into his dark eyes.

​"Because it's our first date," you say softly.

​Yoongi blinks, a brief flash of surprise crossing his features before a faint, knowing smile starts to touch the corners of his lips. He opens his mouth to speak…likely to remind you of some late-night diner or hidden memory your brain hasn't recovered yet…but you hold up a hand, cutting him off gently.

​"Well..." You offer him a small, incredibly vulnerable smile, your voice dipping lower. "For me, it's our first date."

​The quiet amusement melts off his face. The weight of your words hangs in the air between you, a reminder of the invisible gap left by your missing memories. You watch his throat move as he swallows.

​Slowly, Yoongi drops his hand from the door handle. He doesn't pull away. Instead, he carefully reaches out and cups the side of your face, his palm warm and solid against your flushed cheek. His thumb brushes gently over your cheekbone, your body leans into it before your brain can even process the motion.

​"Our first date," Yoongi repeats. He tilts his head slightly, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before locking back onto your eyes. "Okay. If it's a first date, then I need to properly make a good impression."

​"You already look incredibly handsome, Yoongi," you tease breathlessly. "The impression is made."

​"Good," he smirks, as his thumb gives your cheek one last, lingering caress before he steps back and fully opens the front door. "Then let's start from scratch."

Yoongi pulls into a parking spot near the town's river walk. The area is beautiful…a brick-lined pathway illuminated by fairy lights woven into the trees, stretching alongside the dark, shimmering water.

He leads you toward a small, upscale bistro right on the water's edge. The outdoor patio is shielded by glass panels, strings of warm bistro lights hanging overhead, and the soft sound of the river lapping against the stone walls below. As the hostess seats you at a candlelit table right by the railing, you look around in awe.

"Wow," you breathe, as you look out at the reflection of the lights dancing on the river. "Yoongi, this is incredible."

"Yeah?" He pulls out his chair and sits across from you. "You like it?"

"I love it," you say honestly. You open the menu, scanning the options. You look up at him through the candle glow. "I've never been here before. Have we... did you bring me here before the accident? Is this one of our old spots?"

Yoongi rests his forearms on the table, leaning in slightly. He shakes his head, a soft, incredibly tender look in his eyes.

"No," he says. "I've never been here either."

"Really? I just assumed...you would pick somewhere we've been before,” you tell him.

"Nah." Yoongi lets out a quiet, amused chuckle, his gaze drifting to the water before locking back onto yours. "I spent three hours looking up places when we got back home from camping. I wanted somewhere on the water, somewhere quiet, a place we didn't have history with."

He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing lightly against yours over the white tablecloth.

"You said it yourself back at the house, Y/N. For you, this is our first date," Yoongi says softly. "I didn't want to take you somewhere and expect you to chase ghosts or force yourself to remember a ghost of us. If we're starting from scratch... I wanted a place that belongs completely to the two of us tonight. No past versions of us. Just you and me, right now."

"Yoongi," you murmur, a breathless, radiant smile breaking across your face as you squeeze his fingers back. "You are really, really good at first dates."

"Told you. No test tonight. Now, let's figure out what we're eating." He smiles.

The waiter arrives a few minutes later. After taking your orders for the entrees, he gathers the heavy, leather-bound menus from your hands. With a polite nod, he disappears back into the warm glow of the indoor dining room.

Yoongi reaches for his glass, lifting it to take a sip. His eyes never leave yours over the rim. When he sets the glass back down, his fingers linger on the stem, turning it slightly.

"Y/N," he starts. "Can I ask you something? Something a little personal?"

“Of course.” You nod.

He nods slowly, but he doesn't speak right away. He looks down at the white tablecloth, seemingly gathering his words, before his gaze locks back onto yours.

"Jimin mentioned something to me awhile back," Yoongi says, his tone quiet. "He said... he didn't think you were as happy with Corbyn as everyone first assumed. Something about... no phones allowed. A rule or something."

He pauses.

You take a drink from your own glass and look away.

"Did you love him?" He asks softly. “Because that day at Jimin's studio when you first walked back into our lives… you couldn't answer that question.”

​"At one point... I think I did," you say softly, turning your eyes back to meet his. You trace the rim of your glass with a fingertip, choosing your words with careful honesty. "Or at least, I loved the version of my life I thought I was supposed to want."

​Yoongi doesn't move. He doesn't flinch or look away. He just listens.

​"I don't want him to be made out to be a monster," you continue, your voice steadying. "He wasn't. I had … nothing after the accident. When Corbyn came along it was like suddenly I had plans and a boyfriend. Then…I had everyone telling me how perfect he was. My parents, Leah, and even my doctors were saying he was doing a perfect job with helping me. It was like ... everyone around me was building this life for me, and I just went along with it," you explain, your voice dropping to a near whisper.

“Before I knew it,” you sigh. “My life completely fit his. Shared calendar, boring wardrobe for dinners at the country club. I knew what to expect everyday.”

​"And the phone rule?" Yoongi asks.

His eyes are fixed on yours, intense but completely devoid of judgment. He's just absorbing information, trying to understand the years he missed. Trying to understand this new life of yours.

​"The no phones rule was no phones after 8:30 PM," you admit. "He told me it messes with my sleep cycle. With my brain recovery. He had all these articles printed out about blue light and neurological healing."

"Did it?" He asks softly, with a tilt of his head. "Did it actually help your sleep cycle?"

​You take a slow breath, looking down at the white tablecloth. The memory of those quiet evenings in Corbyn's perfectly curated house flashes through your mind.

​"I don't know," you say honestly, lifting your gaze to meet his. "I really don't know, Yoongi. I just know that after 8:30, I felt entirely cut off from the rest of the world. If I couldn't sleep, I just lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, wondering who I used to be before the accident. Why my parents would suddenly change the conversation when I would ask questions. I thought the suffocating feeling was just my trauma. I didn't realize it was the environment I was living in."

​Yoongi’s expression softens, a deep, quiet understanding passing through his eyes. He doesn't launch into a speech about how controlling it was, and he doesn't trash Corbyn's name. Instead, he just reaches across the table again, his warm palm settling flat against the tablecloth, leaving it open for you.

​"Well," Yoongi says. "Good thing it's past 8:30 PM right now."

​You look down at his hand, then slide your fingers into his.

​"So," you tease softly, squeezing his hand. "What are the rules for a Min Yoongi first date?"

​"Rule number one." He smirks . "You use your phone whenever the hell you want. Rule number two... if you can't sleep, you call me. Doesn't matter if it's 2:00 AM or 4:00 AM. And rule number three..." He looks down at the plum silk dress, his eyes darkening. "You look perfect just like this.”

The waiter returns a moment later, carefully setting down two steaming plates between you. The rich, savory aroma of the food fills the space, effectively cutting through the heavy ghost of Corbyn's rules.

​"To no rules," you say softly, lifting your water glass in a mini-toast.

"To living again." ​Yoongi says, clinking his glass against yours with a faint, genuine smile.

You step out of the patio and onto the brick-lined pathway. The night is gorgeous. Above you, strings of warm fairy lights are woven tightly into the overhanging branches, casting a soft glow over the pathway. To your right, the dark river stretches out, reflecting the shimmering lights of the town.

Yoongi falls into step beside you, his hands tucked loosely into his pockets as he matches his stride to yours. For a few minutes, neither of you speaks. It isn't an awkward silence. It’s the comfortable, quiet of two people simply enjoying each other's presence.

"You know," you say softly, as you look out over the water, "I was terrified I’d ruin this dress if we went somewhere chaotic. But this is perfect."

"Yeah? The dress survived?" Yoongi lets out a low chuckle, his head tilting toward you.

"Barely," you tease, looking over at him. "I had a whole crisis before you arrived. I was convinced I was going to show up looking completely wrong for whatever you had planned."

Yoongi stops walking. He turns his body toward you, leaning one hip casually against the stone railing that separates the path from the river.

"You’re not the only one," he says with a faint smirk.

"What do you mean?" You blink, turning to face him fully.

Yoongi rubs the back of his neck, a sudden faint pink flush creeping right back up his collarbone under the fairy lights. He looks down at his clean leather shoes, letting out a quiet laugh.

"I changed my shirt three times before I even left the house," he admits.

"You did?" You let out a soft gasp.

"Yeah," he says, finally lifting his eyes to meet yours. "First I put on a jacket and tie, but then I thought, No, I'm trying too hard. So I took that off and tried a plain t-shirt under the jacket. Then I decided that looked like I didn't care enough."

He pauses, shaking his head at the memory.

"I finally settled on a completely different button-down," Yoongi continues. "And I was literally halfway out the door when Jimin video-called me. He didn't even say hello. He just stared at the screen, gave me this incredibly judgmental, funny look, and said, 'Are you seriously wearing that color to a first date?'"

"Oh my god. What color was it?" You laugh.

"It doesn't matter," Yoongi cuts in quickly, before he laughs along with you. "The point is, I ran back inside, tore it off, and put this black one on."

You step closer to him and place your hands on his chest.

"Yoongi," you say softly. "Were you actually nervous too?"

Yoongi’s smile softens. He takes one hand out of his pocket and reaches forward. He doesn't hold back this time. His fingers gently slide over yours, his silver rings cool against your skin as he intertwines his fingers with yours.

"Of course I was," he murmurs. "Y/N... it's our first date."

The brick path curves slightly, leading the two of you deeper into the quiet stretch of the river walk as you continue your walk. Your fingers stay tightly laced with Yoongi’s. Yoongi looks down at your hands, then glances up at the sky, a playful, soft smirk tugging at his lips.

"Well," he says, his voice a low, teasing rumble in the quiet night. "It’s officially getting late. I suppose I should get you home before you turn into a pumpkin."

You stop walking dead in your tracks.

Yoongi keeps going for half a step before the tension in your linked fingers pulls him back. He turns around, his dark eyes looking at you in confusion. Before he can ask, you step closer, letting go of his fingers only to wrap your hand firmly around his forearm. You hold onto him right there under the golden glow of the fairy lights.

"I don't want to go home," you say softly.

Yoongi’s playful expression falters. He looks down at your hand on his arm, then back up to your face.

"What do you mean?" He asks.

"Yoongi," you say, softly. "You know what I mean."

​He doesn't answer right away. The playful, confident smirk he wore just a moment ago completely vanishes. ​Slowly, his arm shifts beneath your grip. He turns his hand, his long fingers sliding down to wrap firmly around your wrist, his thumb resting right over your racing pulse.

​"Y/N," he murmurs. He takes a single step closer, closing the final inch of distance until the hem of your plum silk dress brushes against his pants. "Are you sure? Because if we go back to my place... if we cross that line tonight... "

​"I am sure," you say. "I was sure that day in the RV and I'm sure now. I want to see what our rhythm feels like."

​A quiet, breathless sound escapes his lips…halfway between a sigh and a laugh. The sheer relief and longing in his expression make your chest ache in the best way possible.

​"Okay," Yoongi whispers. “Okay.”

His home feels different.

The last time you crossed his doorway, your chest had been tight with a mix of panic and betrayal. You had practically forced your way in, demanding answers about a life you couldn't remember. You had been hunting for the pieces of your past that he had hidden away. That night, the house had felt like a place you wanted to run from.

​But tonight? Tonight, it looks softer.

Inviting.

​Yoongi doesn't immediately move to rush the moment. Instead, he leans his back against the closed door, his hands still tucked loosely into his pockets. His gaze is entirely fixed on you.

​"Still sure?" He asks.

"I'm sure," you say softly.

​Your voice is barely above a whisper. You don't step toward him, and you don't reach out. You just hold his gaze, letting the absolute certainty in your tone speak for itself.

He lets out a slow, shaky exhale through his nose. A breath he looks like he’s been holding since you were standing on the brick pathway by the river. ​The corner of his mouth twitches upward, not with his usual teasing smirk, but with a tender smile that reaches all the way to his eyes.

​"Okay," Yoongi murmurs.

​Slowly, he takes his hands out of his pockets and steps away from the door, finally closing the distance between you. He moves slowly, as if any sudden movement might startle the fragile reality you’re both building. When he finally stops, he’s close enough that the warmth radiating from his chest bleeds through the thin silk of your dress. He doesn't touch you yet. He just hovers there, looking down at you, searching your face as if memorizing this brand-new starting point.

Slowly, Yoongi lifts his hands. His fingers are careful as they find the bare skin of your shoulders, his palms warm and solid. He doesn't pull you in immediately. Instead, his thumbs trace the delicate lines of your collarbones. Your eyes flutter shut for a split second, your head tilting back slightly as your body responds to his touch. When you open your eyes again, his gaze is fixed entirely on your mouth.

"I've missed you," he whispers. "God, Y/N, you have no idea how much."

He leans down, and then, there is no more distance. The kiss isn't a frantic, desperate collision. It is deep, heavy, and achingly slow that makes your knees feel suddenly weak. A quiet, breathless sigh escapes you, and the sound seems to undo something inside him.

Yoongi’s hands slide up from your shoulders, his long fingers tangling into the hair at the nape of your neck to cradle your head, holding you perfectly still against him. He shifts his weight, pressing closer until his chest flush against yours. Pulling back he looks down at you.

“Let's go find our rhythm again," he whispers.

The moonlight through his bedroom window painted everything in shades of silver. The dinner clothes are now slightly wrinkled. You are on his bed and his mouth was on yours in a kiss that was less about exploration and more about a desperate, searching recognition.

He pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm on your skin. His dark eyes search yours in the dim light.

“Tell me,” he murmurs. “What do you like now?”

The answer should have been simple.

The only map you had led back to Corbyn…to his careful, predictable touches, his considerate, passionless routine. The sex always seemed to be scheduled like everything else, leaving you feeling emptier than before. The shame of that admission still burns your cheeks.

“I… I don’t know,” you whisper. “The only… the only sex I know is…”

“Boring,” he finishes for you, making you nod.

“Show me,” you breathe, the words barely audible. “Show me what I liked before. With you.”

For a moment, he is perfectly still, looking down at you as if memorizing this moment, your plea. Then, a fierce, determined look floods his gaze. He pushes himself down the bed. His hands go to the waistband of your underwear, his fingers hooking under the lace. He doesn't ask, he doesn't take them down slowly. In one smooth motion, he pulls them down your legs and off, tossing the scrap of fabric aside into the shadows.

He doesn't give you time to feel self-conscious. With his hands firm on your thighs, he pushes your knees apart. He holds your gaze for one second,before he lowers his head and buries his face between your legs.

It isn't tentative.

It isn't polite.

It’s a deep stroke from your opening all the way up to your clit, that made you arch off the bed with a sharp cry. Your hands fly to his hair holding him to you.

This, your body tells you. You know this.

His mouth is relentless, his tongue circling, flicking, pressing in exactly the right ways, as if he has a map etched into his memory. As you are lost in the sensation of his tongue, you feel the pressure of a finger at your entrance, testing, before sliding deep inside you in one smooth, perfect thrust.

You sob his name.

He adds a second finger, curling them perfectly, finding a spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids, all while his mouth continues its devastating work on your clit. It’s too much.

It’s everything.

As you shatter, crying out into the moonlit room, your body clenches around his fingers, one thought goes through your head and it's completely clear.

It was never boring. With him, it was never, ever boring.

"You want me to show you what else you liked?" He asks as he presses kisses against your inner thighs.

You could tell him no. You could tell him that you want to stay in the present like you had all night. You can't though.

Not now.

Nodding your head, Yoongi sighs against your thigh and raises to his knees between your thighs. Reaching up, his fingers find the delicate straps of your dress and he carefully pulls them down your arms until he can fully pull the dress off you.

"With him," Yoongi begins. "It was a checklist, wasn't it? Something couples do." He doesn't wait for confirmation. His hands trail up your sides, his thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just below your ribs. His touch is re-memorizing you. "With me… you liked to be known. Not just touched. Known."

He leans forward bracing himself on one arm beside your head. You can feel the warmth of him as he hovers over you. He still didn't kiss you. His eyes searching yours.

"You liked to take your time. You hated rushing." A faint ghost of a smile touched his lips. "You'd get annoyed if I tried to hurry you along. You said…" He pauses. "You said, 'The best parts are in the in-between.'"

Slowly, he lowers his weight onto you. You feel the fabric of his pants against your bare legs, the cotton of his shirt against your breasts. He settles his hips into the cradle of yours, and you feel him hard through the fabric against your core.

A soft gasp escapes you.

"You liked this," he murmurs, his lips now close to your ear, his breath warm. "The friction. The promise of it. You'd roll your hips against me, just like this, for what felt like hours. Driving us both mad." To illustrate, he shifts, a slow, grinding rock of his pelvis against yours. The pressure, even through the layers, was amazing. His hands come up to frame your face, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones.

“And you loved to be looked at," he continues, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You just… you loved the feeling of my eyes on you. You'd watch me watching you, and you'd get this little smile." He searches your face now, as if looking for that smile. "Like you had a secret. Like you were the most fascinating thing in my world, and you knew it."

He began to move again, that same slow, torturous rock, a deep, rhythmic press that made your back arch slightly, seeking more. One of his hands drifts from your face, down the column of your throat, over the swell of your breast. He palmed you, his touch firm as his thumb circling your nipple. You let out a shaky breath.

"You were vocal," he says. "Not loud, not for the sake of being loud. You'd sigh. You'd whisper. You'd tell me what felt good. 'Right there,' you'd say. Or 'slower.' Or 'more.'" His hand left your breast, trailing down your stomach. "You never just lay there. You participated."

His fingers dips lower, but doesn't go straight to your core. His fingertips dance across your knee, the sensitive skin of your inner leg, learning you all over again.

You were trembling.

Finally, his fingers find you, wet and ready. He doesn't push inside. He simply strokes you, his eyes locked on yours, watching every flicker of reaction on your face.

"You liked this," he states softly. "The teasing. You'd get so wet, so impatient, but you loved the torture of it. You'd bite your lip, your eyes begging me, but you'd never rush me."

He was right.

You are biting your lip now, your hips making tiny circles against his hand. The pleasure was a slow, deep burn, so different from the fire he'd made with his mouth.

"Look at me," he breathes, and you do. "This is what you liked. The connection. The… conversation."

Ripping himself away from you, Yoongi sheds his clothes quickly before resuming his spot on top of you. Taking himself in his hand, he rubs the tip of his length along your opening several times. He pushes forward slowly, letting you feel every inch of him as he fills you. He's breathing heavily, his forehead pressed to yours, his body shaking slightly as he tries to stay still.

"You loved this moment most of all," he gasps. "The full feeling. You'd wrap your legs around me and just… hold me here."

You lick your lips, blinking up at him.

"Then," he whispers. "When you couldn't stand it anymore, you'd move. You'd set the pace."

You understand. This was your show. Your rediscovery. You tentatively rock your hips, a shallow, experimental movement. The friction was unbelievable. A low groan rumbles in his chest, encouraging you.

Feeling good about yourself, you do it again…and again. You find a rhythm, slow and deep, your bodies moving together. Your hands come up to his shoulders, before pulling him down for a kiss. You move together under the moonlight. It isn't dramatic and frenzied. There are sighs, whispered names, the soft slap of skin, the creak of the bed. You watch his face, the way his eyes closed in pleasure when you angled your hips.You watch the way his lips part when he slides in a bit deeper making you moan out.

The room grows thick with the scent of sweat and sex. The creak of the bedframe matching the wet sounds of your bodies joining again and again. His breath hitches against your mouth when you angled your hips higher.

"Just like that," he whispers.

Your legs tighten around his waist, heels urging him closer as the slow rhythm builds. The heat pools low in your belly and spreads outward in waves. His hand roams your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast before cupping it fully, rolling your nipple between his fingers until you arched and gasped his name.

You move together, skin sliding on skin, his lips finding yours in messy, open kisses. A low groan escapes him when your inner walls start to pulsate around him. That coil inside you winds tighter and tighter, threatening to come undone.

The rhythm shifts suddenly, his hips snapping harder against yours as the slow grind gives way to urgent, deeper thrusts that rocks you up the bed. Each powerful drive of his cock sent jolts of raw pleasure through your core. You gasp as you clench around his length while the wet slap of skin fills the room.

"You always liked this part the best," he rasps against your ear, voice straining with effort, his fingers tightening on your hip to hold you steady as he thrusts into you with growing intensity.

"What part?" You choke out and his dark eyes locked on yours.

"Falling apart around me." The admission sends a fresh wave through you, your walls pulsing tighter as he drives into you faster.

The words strike deep, unraveling the last threads of your control. Your body seizes around him with a choked sob, your core clenching in rhythmic, desperate pulses that milk his cock as the orgasm crashes through you. Pleasure floods every nerve, your thighs shaking against his hips, breasts heaving against his chest. Your fingers trail down his back as he follows with a deep groan, his hips stuttering as your inner walls pulsate around him. His grip on you tightens, holding you flush against him as he buries himself inside of you deeper. He doesn't let you go as the tremors slowly ease, leaving you both trembling in the moonlight of his room.

Reaching up, you brush his damp hair back from his forehead, and he settles his head against your chest. You stare up at the shadows of the tree branches dancing across the ceiling, your fingers absentmindedly combing through his hair. It was like they know what to do.

You know they did.

You had asked him to help you find your rhythm again.

As you lie there wrapped in his warmth, you think maybe he had.

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​You sit on a low plastic step stool, one hand resting protectively over your still-flat stomach. You are currently only ten weeks along. However, the exhaustion is already heavy, and your emotions feel like they are barely being held together.

​Stacked in front of you are three giant plastic bins your parents had dropped off the day before. “Old baby stuff we held onto,” your mom had said with a teary-eyed smile. “Thought you might want to sift through it before you buy anything new.”

​You drag the top box toward you, the plastic loud against the concrete floor. ​The first bin is a time capsule of faded pastel onesies, tiny socks that had lost their elasticity, and a yellowed copy of a baby book with your name scribbled across the front in your mother’s neat cursive.

​You sort through it slowly. Every little garment was a reminder of a time when the world was smaller and simpler. A world before you became bitter and distrustful of almost everyone.

​Then, at the very bottom of the bin, beneath a pile of hand-knitted receiving blankets, you saw a patch of brown faux-fur. ​You stop what you are doing and blink down at it. Slowly, your fingers brush past the soft yarn of the blankets until your hand closes around the fake fur. When you pull it free into the dim garage light, you take a deep breath. It’s a small brown bear with plastic eyes that are slightly crooked and a felt nose that has mostly peeled away at the corner. It’s cheap, ugly, and absolutely priceless.

​Your tenth birthday party.

The roller skating rink down on Route 4.

The music was loud as you went around the floor with your friends. Your brother, Nick, had spent nearly his entire allowance….fourteen dollars in quarters….shoved into the coin slot of a rigged claw machine. He had ignored your mom telling him it was a waste of money. However, when the metal claw finally grabbed this exact, ridiculous little bear and dropped it into the chute. Nick had let out a victory screech that drowned out the annoying pop music blaring over the rink's speakers.

​He had skated over to you, completely out of breath, and shoved the prize into your hands. “Happy birthday. Don't say I never gave you anything,” he had said.

​A single tear leaks out of your eye.

​"Doll?"

You blink quickly, your thumb catching the tear on your cheek before it could hit the bear's fake fur. Sniffing hard, you lift the bottom of your sweatshirt to quickly swipe at your eyes, desperately trying to put the lid back on the emotional hurricane that was your first trimester.

​"Over here," you call out, your voice only cracking a little bit.

Yoongi steps onto the concrete steps. He has a cold glass of orange juice in one hand and a small plate of plain saltines in the other…his standard "please don't throw up" peace offering lately.

​"You've been out here a while," he says, stepping down carefully. His sharp eyes immediately scans your posture, the open bins, and the slight redness around your nose. He doesn't miss a thing, but instead of crowding you, he sets the snacks down on a nearby cooler. "Brought you some sugar. How’s the stomach?"

​"Fine. Good, actually. Just digging," you say, a little too casually.

​To prove your point, you quickly set Nick's little roller-rink bear down on your lap and reach back into the plastic bin, grabbing a handful of faded yellow receiving blankets. You don't want him to see you crying over a piece of cheap arcade fluff. You don't want to explain how a fifteen-year-old memory could make your chest feel like it was collapsing. ​Yoongi doesn't say anything right away. He just watches your hands move a little too fast as you look through the old cloth. He drops down right next to your low plastic stool.

​"What's that?" He asks quietly, nodding toward the small toy on your thighs.

​"Nothing. Just an old toy," you mutter, keeping your eyes trained on a tiny pair of denim overalls you'd just pulled out. "Nick won it for me. A million years ago."

"Are you going to give it to the baby?" Yoongi asks, gently.

​Your fingers still on the tiny denim overalls before putting them down. You look down at the little bear resting on your lap, its crooked plastic eyes staring blankly back at you. Your thumb moves to trace the edge of the peeling felt nose, the texture rough against your skin.

​"Maybe," you say softly, swallowing down the lump that was trying to form in your throat. You take a quiet breath, turning the toy over in your hands. "But... maybe I should see if Nicky wants it first. You know... since it's something connected to his dad."

​Yoongi doesn't answer right away. He reaches out, his warm palm settling over your knee. His dark eyes soften as he looks at the bear, then up at your face, studying the sadness in your eyes. He understands without you having to spell it out. Nicky is fifteen now, trying so hard to be tough and grow up, but he is still just a kid who misses his father.

​"That's a good idea, Doll," Yoongi murmurs, his thumb rubbing a comforting circle against your leg. "He’d like that. Even if he just puts it on his desk, it’s a piece of him."

​"Yeah," you whisper, finally letting out the breath you'd been holding. "I just don't want him to feel like we're keeping all these memories to ourselves. He deserves to have the little things too."

"You're a good aunt, Doll. He knows how much you care." He leans in, pressing a lingering kiss to the side of your head, his breath warm against your hair

​"I'm a hormonal mess," you correct with a watery laugh and pick up the glass of orange juice he’d brought you. You take a small sip.

"That too," Yoongi teases gently, shifting his weight on the concrete floor.

He stays right there by your side for a few more minutes, his warm hand never leaving your leg as you finish your orange juice. The cold, sweet liquid helps, pulling you out of the heavy fog of your bittersweet memory. You set the glass down on the cooler next to the crackers, your fingers lingering on the coarse brown fur of the bear still resting in your lap.

"I'm going to take it up to him now," you say, looking at Yoongi. "Before I chicken out or get too emotional again."

Yoongi nods, offering you his hand to help pull you up from the low plastic stool.

"Go ahead. I'll start bringing the bins inside so you don't have to look at them out here," he tells you.

Holding the small toy tightly against your side, you slip through the garage door and walk into the quiet warmth of the house. Walking up the stairs felt a little heavier than usual…partly from the absolute exhaustion of the first trimester, and partly from the weight of what you were carrying.

Reaching the top of the stairs, you walk down the hallway toward Nicky’s room. The door was cracked open just a few inches. Through the gap, you can see him sitting at his desk, his large frame hunched over an open textbook, a pencil tapping rhythmically against his desk as he stares down at his homework. He looks so much like his father as you stare at the profile of his face, yet so entirely like himself.

"Hey. Got a second?" You tap your knuckles lightly against the wood of the door.

"Yeah, what's up, Sunshine?" Nicky says, looking up from his paper in front of him.

You slide into the room, letting the door click shut behind you, and walk over to the edge of his bed, sitting down. You hold the small bear in both hands, presenting it to him.

"I was going through those old boxes grandma and grandpa brought over yesterday," you start, your voice steady, though your heart was thumping. "And I found this. I wanted to show you."

Nicky leans back in his chair, his dark eyes scanning the odd, ugly little plush toy. A look of mild amusement crossed his face.

"What is that? It looks like it survived a war." He laughs and a small laugh slips out of you.

"It survived a roller skating rink claw machine on Route 4, actually. Your dad won this for me at my tenth birthday party." You turn the bear over, pointing to the peeling felt nose. "He spent fourteen dollars in quarters…basically his entire allowance…ignoring my mom the whole time because she kept telling him it was a rigged waste of money. When the claw actually gripped it, he let out a screech louder than the music playing on the floor. He skated over, completely out of breath, threw it at me, and told me never to say he never gave me anything."

Nicky’s eyes widened a fraction. The amusement fades, replaced by a quiet focus as he looks at the bear. He reaches out, his fingers gently taking the toy from your hands. He turns it over, tracing the same rough felt nose you had been touching just minutes ago down in the garage. For a moment, he doesn't say anything, just letting the image of his dad as a stubborn, triumphant boy play into his mind.

"I wanted to see if you wanted it," you say softly, watching his face closely. "You know... since it's something connected to him. I want you to have the little things, Nicks. If you want to put it on your desk or keep it in here, it's yours."

Nicky looks at the bear for a long moment, his thumb brushing over the crooked plastic eyes. He looks like he is seriously considering it, his face thoughtful. Then, a soft, incredibly mature expression crosses his features. He holds the bear back out to you, shaking his head gently with a faint smile.

"No," Nicky tells you quietly, his voice steady. "Dad won it for you. It was your birthday present."

"Nicks, are you sure? I don't mind…" You blink, a sudden warmth stinging the backs of your eyes again.

"I'm sure," he interrupts gently, his eyes shifting down to your hand, which has instinctively come up to rest against your stomach. "Give it to the baby instead."

"The baby?" You ask.

"Yeah," Nicky nods, his smile widening a bit, looking entirely proud of the idea. "That way, he or she has something from him, too. It'll be like... a piece of my dad is watching over them in the crib. Plus, it's so ugly it's kind of cool. The kid will love it."

The absolute selflessness in his voice completely broke through your defenses. A fresh tear spilled over your lashes. You let out a wet, half-strangled laugh as you took the bear back from him, holding it tightly against your chest.

"I told Yoongi I was a hormonal mess today," you sniffle, wiping your cheek with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. "You're supposed to be making it easier on me, not making me cry more."

"Hey, I just think it belongs with the next generation. Go tell Coach to buy a shelf for it or something." Nicky chuckles, leaning back in his desk chair with a shrug.

"I will," you smile, standing up from the bed and holding the toy close. "Thank you, Nicks. Seriously."

"Anytime, Sunshine. Now let me finish this math before Coach comes up here and checks my grades," he sighs.

Slipping back out of his room, you close the door softly behind you. Walking back down the hallway, the tiny, cheap arcade bear felt heavier in your arms, but in the best possible way. It was no longer just a ghost from your past. It was a bridge to the future you were building. Nicky was right.

A little piece of his father belonged to the baby now.

Later that night, the house is finally quiet. You are sitting on the edge of the mattress, dressed in your softest pajamas, lazily brushing out your hair while the small, crooked-eyed roller-rink bear sits securely on the nightstand next to you.

​Yoongi walks out of the master bathroom, drying his face with a small towel. He has already changed for the night. He tosses the towel onto a laundry hamper and looks over at you, his eyes immediately dropping to the toy.

​"Nicky didn't want it?" He asks softly, walking over to his side of the bed.

​"No," you say, a soft, lingering warmth spreading through your chest at the memory. "He told me that his dad won it for me, so I should give it to the baby. He said that way, the baby has something from him, too."

​Yoongi’s movements slow.

"The kid has a good heart." He climbs into bed, propping his back against the headboard, and reaches out to pull you closer into his side. "Actually, while you were upstairs earlier, I was looking through some of our own stuff in the closet. I managed to find that little black cat plush. The one I won for you at the restaurant when I took you and Nicks out for the first time."

"You found it? I thought that got lost in the move." ​A tired, genuine smile breaks across your face.

​"Nope. Securely packed," Yoongi murmurs, his arm wrapping around your shoulders, his thumb running lazily over your arm. "I was thinking... maybe the cat and the bear can be friends in the nursery. Side by side."

​You let out a little haha, leaning your head against his chest.

"An ugly, lopsided claw-machine bear and a cheap arcade cat. Our child is going to have the most mismatched, bootleg crib accessories in the neighborhood." You smile.

​"Hey, those are high-quality prizes," he teases. He nods toward the dark corner of the room where the white wooden dresser stands. "I already went ahead and set the cat down over on the dresser. Go put the bear next to it. Let's see how they look together."

​You roll your eyes playfully but smile, shifting away from his warm side. Grabbing the small brown bear by its fuzzy torso, you stand up and walk across the cool hardwood floor toward the dresser. The room was only lit by the dim, golden glow of your bedside lamp.

​As you approach the dresser, you spot the little black plush cat sitting right in the center of the wood. You smile, lifting the bear to place it directly next to its new companion. ​However, as you reach out to adjust the cat's tail, your hand brushes against something unfamiliar.

​You stop.

You blink down at the cat in the dim light, confusion showing in your face. ​You reach out and gently take the cat into your hands, lifting it up into the faint light of the lamp. There is a thin, delicate satin ribbon tied in a neat little bow around the cat's neck. A ribbon that definitely hadn't been there when Yoongi first won it.

​You look closer.

​Tethered tightly to the center of the bow, catching the golden lamplight is a beautiful, classic diamond ring. The band is delicate white gold, and the stone is perfectly cut. ​Your heart gives a violent thud in your chest. Your fingers begin to tremble so hard you almost dropped the plush toy.

​"Yoongi..." your voice comes out as a breathless whisper.

You can’t even turn around. You just stare at the ring. ​From the bed, you hear the rustle of the sheets. Yoongi doesn't answer. Instead, you hear his quiet footsteps crossing the floor, until the familiar warmth of his chest pressed right up against your back. His arms wrap tightly around your waist, his hands coming up to cover yours, steadying your trembling fingers as you both hold the cat.

His lips press gently against the crown of your head, lingering there while your breath comes in shallow puffs. The weight of his solid chest against your back was the only thing keeping your knees from buckling completely.

​"I didn't want to wait anymore," Yoongi murmurs. His hands slid down from yours, untying the satin ribbon with steady fingers until the ring slipped free. It catches the light one more time before he holds it between his thumb and forefinger.

​He doesn't make you turn around right away. Instead, he keeps you tucked against him, his chin resting on your shoulder as he reaches around to slide the white gold band onto your finger. It fit perfectly. It’s cool against your warm skin. Your vision instantly blurs with fresh tears.

​"I know things are moving fast," he whispers, his thumb softly tracing the knuckle just above the new ring. "And I know your head is probably spinning with the baby, and the league, and everything else we've been trying to figure out. I want you to know something, Doll."

​He gently turns you around in his arms so you are facing him. He reaches up, his large, warm palms cupping your face, his thumbs gently wiping away the tears that are already starting to track down your cheeks.

​"I’m not doing this because of the baby," Yoongi says, his gaze locking onto yours, dead serious and completely unwavering. "I’m doing this because I can’t picture a single second of my future without you in it. I love you. I love the life we’re building. I love that kid upstairs."

​ "Yoongi..." You let out a wet, breathless laugh, your hands coming up to grip his wrists as you lean heavily into his touch.

"So, marry me, Doll," he whispers, a beautiful smile breaking across his face as he lean down, his forehead resting against yours. "Let me take care of you. Let me take care of them. Let's do this for real."

A fresh wave of tears blur your vision.

"Yoongi..." you whisper, gripping the front of his shirt. Your eyes drop briefly to your stomach before lifting back to his face. "You don't have to do this just because I'm pregnant."

"Doll." The smile disappears from his face immediately.

"I mean it," you rush on, voice trembling. "I know things happened kind of backwards and I know this wasn't exactly planned and…"

"Y/N." The firmness in his voice finally makes you stop. "If there wasn't a baby, I'd still be standing right here asking."

You look at the ring on your finger and then up at him.

"If there wasn't a baby, I'd still want to come home to you every night. I'd still want Nicky driving me insane. I'd still want every stupid argument, every event, every game, every morning where you're stealing my coffee." His thumb brushes another tear from your cheek. "The baby isn't the reason I'm here."

His forehead presses against yours.

"You're the reason," he whispers.

You take a deep breath as you take in his words.

"Now answer the question before I start thinking the ring isn't shiny enough," he jokes.

A laugh breaks through your tears.

"Yes," you sob. "Yes."

​Yoongi’s arms wrap securely around your waist, lifting you slightly off your feet as he holds you tight, burying his face in your hair. He let out a long, shaky breath…a release of tension you hadn't realized he was holding onto until that exact second

​When he finally sets you down, he doesn't let you go far. He keeps his hands resting on your hips, his eyes dropping down to look at your hand resting against his chest, the diamond sparkling in the quiet room.

​"Mismatched, bootleg crib accessories and all," he teases softly, his voice thick with emotion as he looks back up at your face.

​"And all," you agree, laughing through your tears as you reach over to the dresser, grabbing the lopsided roller-rink bear and the black arcade cat, holding them both against your chest along with him. "They're going to look perfect together."

You smile through the last of your tears, your heart feeling so full as you placed the bear and the cat side by side on the dresser. Yoongi’s hands stay on your waist, pulling you back against his chest as you both stare at the little white gold ring catching the lamplight.

Knock, knock, knock.

"Come in," you say.

The door creaks open, and Nicky steps into the room holding a crumpled piece of paper and a calculator.

"Hey, Coach, I'm stuck on this last algebra expression and…" Nicky freezes.

His eyes darts from you, to Yoongi, to your tear-streaked face, and then down to your left hand, which is currently resting on Yoongi's arm.

A massive, triumphant grin brakes across your face. The pregnancy hormones flare up again, but this time it was pure, giddy excitement. You couldn't wait to deliver the news. You practically rip your hand away from Yoongi's arm and thrust your fingers into the air, flashing the diamond right in his face.

"Look!" You say happily. "Yoongi proposed!"

You brace yourself for the wide eyes, the dropped jaw, the typical fifteen-year-old shock.

Instead, Nicky just stares at your hand, casually tapped his pencil against his calculator, and let out a dry, unimpressed snort.

"Yeah. I know," he says.

Your hand drops. You blink at him, completely derailed.

"What do you mean, you know?" You ask.

"I've known for like, three months," Nicky shrugs, walking over and tossing his math homework onto the foot of your bed. He leans back against the wall, looking incredibly smug. "You think you guys are sneaky? I saw the ring box hidden at the bottom of Coach's gym bag when I was looking for my extra ankle brace."

Yoongi stiffens behind you, his mouth dropping open.

"You went through my bag?" Yoongi asks.

"I was looking for my brace!" Nicky defends himself, though the smirk never left his face. He looks at you, raising an eyebrow. "See? Everyone says I talk too much, but I can actually keep a secret. I didn't say a single word to anyone. Not even to grandpa."

"Three months?" You repeat, your voice high. "You've been walking around this house knowing he was going to propose for three months, and you didn't drop a single hint?"

"Why would I? It was hilarious watching Coach sweat every time you went near his bag," Nicky chuckles, crossing his arms. He looks toward the dresser, his eyes softening just a fraction as he sees his dad's old roller-rink bear sitting perfectly next to the black arcade cat. "Besides... I knew it was coming eventually. It was just a matter of time."

Yoongi shakes his head, a reluctant, fond smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he walks over and knocks the back of Nicky's head with a gentle hand.

"You're a brat, you know that?" He asks.

"Yeah, yeah," Nicky grins, picking his homework back up off the bed and handing it to Yoongi. "Now help me fix this equation, Uncle Yoongi. I'm trying to get this done so I can go to sleep."

“That...” Yoongi blinks at him. “...sounds weird.”

Yoongi takes the paper, but before he looks down at the math, he reaches out, throwing a heavy arm around Nicky’s shoulders and pulling him into a brief, tight headlock. Nicky groans and complains, but he doesn't pull away, his laughter filling the quiet bedroom.

You stand by the dresser, looking at the two of them, the ring on your finger, and the two silly arcade prizes sitting side by side. Nicky was right.

It had always just been a matter of time.

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The blinding flash of a camera pierces through the darkness behind your eyelids.

​You flinch, burying your face deeper into the warm crook of Yoongi’s neck to escape the sudden intrusion. Beside you, the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of Yoongi’s chest abruptly stutters. The broad hand resting between your shoulder blades twitches, his fingers tightening defensively against your back as his entire body transitions from dead sleep to alert irritation in a fraction of a second.

​"Oh, look at them," a loud voice coos from the foot of the bed. "How adorable. Someone take another one!"

​Click.

Another flash floods the small space.

​"I am taking another one," Taehyung whispers back. "The lighting from the skylight is hitting Yoongi's cheekbone perfectly."

​"Move your elbow, Tae, you're blocking the frame," Jungkook mutters. "Get the ring on her finger in the shot. Yeah, right there. Perfect."

​Slowly, Yoongi exhales a long, shaky breath through his nose. He doesn't move his arm from around your waist, but his other hand reaches up, blindly grabbing the edge of the plush comforter and pulling it completely over both of your heads, plunging you back into darkness.

​"If you don't delete those photos and leave this vehicle in three seconds," Yoongi’s muffled voice growls from beneath the blanket. "I am going to feed your phones to the raccoons."

From outside the blanket fortress, the sounds of shuffling feet and snickers suddenly come to a grinding halt.

​"Raccoons are nocturnal. They won't even find them until tonight," Jungkook reasons in a loud whisper, clearly unmoved by the threat.

​"I don't care about their sleep schedule, Jungkook. I will find them and I will train them," Yoongi mutters.

​Before Taehyung can defend his artistic vision any further, the heavy screen door at the front of RV #3 creaks open, followed by a click of boots marching down the narrow carpeted aisle.

​"Alright, that’s enough, clear out! Move it, paparazzi," Yura’s voice rings out. "Jin is already screaming that the crepe batter is setting and Namjoon is about to try flipping one himself. We have a crisis situation outside."

​"But Yura, the cheekbone lighting…" Taehyung protests.

​"Out, Tae. Take your telescope and your camera roll and go," she orders smoothly. You hear a soft thwack of what sounds like a rolled-up dish towel hitting an arm, followed by Jungkook’s startled yelp and the quick, frantic scramble of three pairs of sneakers fleeing toward the exit.

​The main door of the RV slams shut, cutting off the distant, chaotic cheers of the campground and plunging the cabin back into its designated quiet status.

​For a moment, the only sound is Yura’s soft sigh as she steps up to the edge of the bedroom. She stops just outside the heavy curtain.

​"Hey," she says softly, tapping her knuckles twice against the wooden frame. "Breakfast is almost ready. I just wanted to make sure you slept okay."

Slowly, Yoongi reaches up and hooks a thumb under the edge of the comforter, pulling the heavy fabric back down. He blinks against the sudden brightness, his face still soft with sleep, but his arm stays firmly around your waist.

You shift against him, sliding your hands up his shoulders to prop yourself up on his chest. Resting your chin on your intertwined fingers, you look over the edge of the mattress and offer Yura a smile.

"I slept great," you say quietly.

Yura is leaning against the doorframe, the rolled-up dish towel still loosely gripped in her hand. The moment she sees you…propped up comfortably on Yoongi’s chest, your eyes clear and completely devoid of the phantom restlessness that had plagued you the night before. The lingering trace of worry completely melts from her expression. A soft, incredibly radiant smile spreads across her face.

"Yeah," Yura murmurs, her gaze sliding from your smile to the relaxed, unbothered way Yoongi's hand is resting on your hip. "I can see that. Your body definitely found its radar."

Yoongi lets out a low hum, a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he keeps his eyes half-closed.

"Tell Jin to keep Namjoon at least five feet away from the stove, Yura. We're coming out, but I'm not eating a charred crepe," he says.

"I'll do my best, but Jungkook is already hovering like a vulture," Yura laughs, giving the wooden frame one last, affectionate tap. "Hurry up, you two. The circus is waiting."

With a final, teasing wink at you, she turns on her heel and marches back down the narrow aisle, the screen door clicking shut behind her. You look down at Yoongi, a breathless laugh escaping you as you lightly poke his chest.

"You heard her. The food is in danger." You smile at him.

"Let them fight for it," Yoongi mutters. He reaches up, his hand cupping the back of your neck, his thumb lightly stroking your jawline. "We have at least five more minutes before they start throwing things at the door."

You look down at him, the soft morning light catching the stray strands of his messy hair. A sudden wave of gratitude washes over you, entirely replacing the last lingering traces of the anxiety that had threatened to pull you apart yesterday.

​"Yoongi," you say softly.

​"Hm?" He doesn't open his eyes.

​"Thank you." You lean down a fraction, your chest pressing closer to his. "For letting me stay here last night. For not making me feel weird about... not being able to sleep over there."

​"You don't ever have to thank me for that, Y/N," he says. He shifts his hand from the back of your neck, his fingers sliding up to gently tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "This is your space. It’s always been your space. Even when you couldn't remember it, the spot…right here..." He taps his chest lightly with his index finger. "...was always saved for you."

Then, right on cue, the universe remembers exactly who you are traveling with.

THUD.

A heavy, hollow sound vibrates through the outer wall of the RV, followed immediately by a sharp, metallic ping against the glass of the side window.

"YOONGI! Y/N! THE FIRST CREPE HAS BEEN SACRIFICED TO THE GOD OF ASHES!" Jungkook’s muffled voice roars from the gravel outside. "JIN IS CRYING! NAMJOON IS APOLOGIZING! REFORCEMENTS ARE REQUIRED!"

THWACK.

Another projectile…this one sounding suspiciously soft, like a pinecone or perhaps a tightly rolled pair of socks…strikes the screen door with a dull thud.

"If you don't come out in thirty seconds, I am sending Taehyung back in with a speaker!" Jimin warns loudly from outside. "And he’s threatening to play his early morning jazz playlist at full volume!"

Yoongi doesn't move. He doesn't even open his eyes. He simply lets out a long, deeply suffering sigh. His grip around your waist tightens, anchoring you flat against him as if he could physically shield the both of you from the impending acoustic assault.

"Ignore them," he mutters. "If we don't move, they'll assume the raccoons took us."

"I think the raccoons are on their side, Yoongi," you laugh quietly. You prop yourself back up on your elbows, looking down at his closed eyelids. "And honestly, I don't want to risk Taehyung's jazz playlist before I've had coffee."

"It’s not jazz, it’s avant-garde saxophone noise," he clarifies grimly, finally opening one eye to glare lazily at the ceiling. "There is no melody. It’s torture."

BANG BANG BANG.

This time, someone beats a chaotic rhythm directly against the side panel of RV #3.

"RISE AND SHINE, LOVEBIRDS! THE CAMPFIRE IS ROARING! THE BIRDS ARE SINGING! JIN’S DIGNITY IS CRUMBLING!" Hobi calls out.

Yoongi’s jaw tightens. He rolls his head to the side, looking toward the small nightstand where his reading glasses and his phone are resting.

"That's it," he says, his voice flat and entirely serious.

He detaches his arm from your waist, reaching over to grab his phone. His fingers fly across the screen. A second later, a loud, high-pitched ding echoes from the campground outside.

"HE’S ON THE WARPATH! SCATTER!" Someone yells from outside.

It's followed by frantic, chaotic crunching of three pairs of sneakers sprinting away from the vehicle. You blink, looking from the window back down to Yoongi, who is already tossing his phone back onto the mattress with a deeply satisfied expression.

"What did you text them?" You ask, a grin already tugging at your lips.

Yoongi settles back into the pillows, pulling the heavy comforter right back up to his chin with a slow, smug blink.

"I told them that if they hit the side panel one more time, I’m changing the Wi-Fi password on the RV router, and I’m deleting the gaming drive." He closes his eyes again, a tiny, content smirk gracing his lips. "We now have exactly four minutes of total peace before Jin marches over here himself. Use them wisely."

​"Look at the size of this one! Babe, look!" Jungkook exclaims.

A quiet lull settles over the group. The only sound is the gentle lapping of the lake against the shore and the occasional, frustrated sigh from Jin. The silence is shattered by Jungkook, who comes splashing through the shallow water. He’s dripping lake water all over the pebbles as he thrusts a plastic bucket forward to show off his latest catch.

​Yura, who is sprawled out on a picnic blanket with you and Taehyung, pretends to be surprised. "Oh, wow, Kook! That’s huge! You're basically a professional provider at this point." She smiles and looks at you. ​Jungkook beams, his chest puffing out so hard he nearly loses his balance on a slippery rock.

"I told you! I'm catching dinner. Yoongi, are you seeing this?" He calls out, looking for validation from the master.

"Great job. Go put it in the cooler before you lose it." ​Yoongi doesn't even turn his head from where he's sitting on his own bucket. He just raises one hand from his fishing rod, offering a lazy, blind thumbs-up in Jungkook’s direction.

​"Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable," a voice mutters from a few yards down the bank.

​Jin is standing rigid as he glares at the water. He re-baits his hook for what feels like the tenth time in twenty minutes.

​"The fish in this lake have no taste," Jin announces loudly to the open water, tossing his line back out with a sharp, aggressive flick of his wrist. "I am using premium bait. I am presenting it beautifully. It is a Michelin-star presentation, and I am being ignored!"

​"Careful, don't yell at them," Namjoon calls out.”You'll scare them away.”

​Namjoon is seated on a smooth boulder a safe distance away, though safe might not be the best term. His focus is entirely split between the horizon and a book balanced on his knee, a dangerous combination. Just as he turns a page, a sudden tug on his line yanks the tip of his fishing rod violently toward the water.

​"Whoa…!"

​Namjoon lunges forward, his book tumbling into the dirt as he catches the handle of the rod. It’s the second time in the last half-hour the lake has nearly claimed his gear, and his frantic, wide-eyed scramble sets off a ripple of laughter down the shoreline. Yoongi just shakes his head, a fond, silent laugh bouncing his shoulders as Namjoon awkwardly rights himself, pushing his hair back and pretending like he hadn't just wrestled a fishing pole.

​Up the slope, away from the shoreline, a much more domestic rhythm is playing out around the remains of the campsite. ​The clatter of tin plates being stacked serves as a steady backdrop to Hobi and Jimin’s cleaning routine. Hobi is wiping down the heavy wooden picnic table with a damp cloth, humming a cheerful melody that is thankfully not Taehyung’s avant-garde saxophone jazz.

​Jimin moves right behind him, carrying the dried skillets and coffee pots back toward the RV. He pauses at the edge of the campsite, balancing a stack of clean bowls against his hip as he watches the chaos down by the water.

​"If Joon drops that rod in the water I'm not getting it," Jimin calls out, laughing as he flashes a smile toward the shore.

​"Leave it," Yoongi’s gravelly voice drifts up the bank, his eyes still fixed on his undisturbed bobber. "If the lake wants the rod, the lake can have it."

You trace your fingers along the edge of the blanket, your eyes wandering away from the guys and up toward the steep, rocky ridge that rises just beyond the tree line. The sun hits the cliff face, casting shadows into the crevices.

​"Hey..." you murmur, your voice breaking the comfortable silence on the blanket.

"Hm? What's up?" ​Yura blinks her eyes open, tilting her head to look at you.

​"Isn't there..." You squint at the ridge. The words feel like they're being pulled out of you. "Isn't there a cave around here? Somewhere up past those birch trees... I think I remember a cave."

​Taehyung, who was cleaning his camera lens, freezes. The lens cloth in his hand drops directly into his lap. His eyes snap up to meet yours, widening to the size of saucers as a look of pure excitement floods his face.

​"The Quartz Cave," Taehyung breathes, his deep voice instantly rising in pitch. "Y/N! You remember the cave?!"

​"I... I think so?" You stammer, caught off guard by his sudden burst of energy. "We found it when it rained once, right? There were these smooth, purple stones in the back…"

​"YES!" Taehyung shrieks and leaps to his feet.

​Down by the water, Yoongi’s head snaps up, his sharp eyes instantly locking onto the blanket. Jungkook loses his grip on his fishing reel, turning around with a look of intense curiosity.

​But Taehyung isn't waiting for the rest of the group. Before you can even stand up on your own, he lunges forward and grabs your hand. His grip is warm, tight, and bursting with wild enthusiasm.

​"We have to go right now before the sun shifts!" Taehyung declares, a boxy, radiant smile overtaking his entire face. "Yura, bring the flashlight! The family treasure is waiting!"

​"Wait…Tae, hold on! The rocks are steep!" Yura yells, scrambling up from the blanket and quickly snatching Taehyung's flashlight from the picnic basket.

​With a joyful, ringing laugh, Taehyung takes off running, practically pulling you along with him toward the tree line. Your boots crunch loudly against the pine needles, a breathless, genuine laugh tearing from your own throat as you try to keep up with his sudden, chaotic sprint.

​"Yoongi!" Yura shouts over her shoulder as she bolts after you two, her boots pounding against the earth. "We're going to the ridge! We'll be right back!"

​"Hey! Don't run on the rocks!" Yoongi’s voice booms across the water, but it’s already growing distant.

You glance back for a split second and see him tossing his fishing rod completely into the grass, already getting up from his bucket to follow. ​Taehyung pulls you into the cool shadow of the birch trees, his grip on your hand unwavering as he guides you up a hidden trail you didn't even know you knew. Your feet move automatically, stepping over roots and rocks with a strange memory.

​"It's just up here!" Taehyung calls out, his dark hair bouncing as he looks back at you, his eyes sparkling with pure happiness. "You’re doing great, Y/N!"

​Taehyung is practically a blur of oversized flannel and pure adrenaline ahead of you. He scrambles up a steep incline of loose gravel, his boots slipping for a fraction of a second before he plants his foot firmly on a flat boulder and hoists you up behind him with a triumphant, dramatic grunt.

​"See? Right where we left it!" Taehyung gasps, breathless but grinning from ear to ear as he gestures toward the face of the ridge.

​Tucked neatly behind a dense curtain of overgrown ferns and a cluster of silver birch trees is a narrow opening in the limestone. It looks like nothing from a distance, but as you step closer, the opening widens into a natural archway.

​"Oh, thank god, nobody broke an ankle," Yura pants, catching up to you both and leaning heavily against a tree to catch her breath. She holds up the heavy flashlight, clicking it on. "If Yoongi had to carry either of you down this ridge, he would have actually fed us to the raccoons."

​"He wouldn't dare. I'm his favorite," Taehyung scoffs playfully, though he eagerly snatches the flashlight from Yura’s hand anyway. He aims the beam into the dark mouth of the cave. "Y/N first, since her brain did the magic trick today."

​You take a tentative step forward, brushing past the wet ferns. ​The cave isn't massive…it’s cozy, but the moment Taehyung sweeps the flashlight beam across the walls, the entire space comes alive.

​"Whoa," you breathe, the sound echoing softly against the rock.

​Embedded deep within the limestone are veins of raw, jagged quartz crystals. Under the glare of the flashlight, the walls fracture the light into a thousand shimmering points.

​"It's exactly how it was," Taehyung whispers, his voice dropping into a quiet awe.

He steps up beside you, carefully aiming the light at a small, flat ledge near the back of the chamber. ​There, sitting undisturbed in a neat, tiny row, are three smooth, polished purple stones.

You reach out, letting your fingertips slide across the cool, damp face of the limestone. The texture is a stark contrast of gritty stone and the sharp raw quartz. As your hand glides over the crystal, the violet reflections dance across your palms, and the final piece of the memory locks solidly into place.

​"I absolutely remember this," you say, your voice barely louder than a whisper. You turn to Taehyung and Yura, a breathless, triumphant laugh bubbling up from your chest. "The two of you dragged me out for a hike because Tae wanted to try capturing the sunset mist through the upper canopy."

"Oh, don't remind me. I was wearing my brand-new hiking boots and we hadn't even gone half a mile before the sky completely opened up." ​Yura lets out a dramatic groan, though her eyes are incredibly bright.

​"I don't think I've ever seen it rain that hard before," you continue, turning back to the small ledge where the three purple stones rest. You gently tap the middle one with your index finger. "The trail turned into a mudslide in five minutes flat. We scrambled up this ridge blindly, practically fell through the ferns, and took shelter right here."

​"We were here for forever," Taehyung chimes in, his boxy grin returning at full force as he shines the flashlight closer to the floor, illuminating the exact spot where you had all huddled. "The storm lasted three hours, but we completely lost track of time. We played twenty questions, we tried to map out constellations in the quartz, and then we found those stones and polished them with our shirts until the rain stopped."

​"And meanwhile," Yura laughs, shaking her head as she leans back against the cave entrance. "The boys down at the campsite thought we had been swept into the lake."

​"Oh, god," you chuckle and nod. The memory resurfacing clearly. "Yoongi and Jungkook were so mad by the time we finally hiked back down. Jungkook was pacing the shoreline with a life vest already strapped on, and Yoongi was standing by the trucks frantically trying to call us on our phones."

​"He didn't speak to me for two whole days after he screamed at me for an hour," Taehyung recalls.

“He made you cry.” You nod.

"I did not scream for an hour," a low, gravelly voice cuts through the quiet of the cave.

​You turn your head toward the narrow mouth of the cave. Yoongi is standing in the opening. He’s slightly out of breath from the steep climb up the ridge, a few stray pine needles clinging to the shoulder of his black sweatshirt, and his dark hair is slightly damp from sweat. ​He doesn't look angry now…not even close. His sharp eyes instantly find yours, scanning your face and taking in the absolute clarity and joy written across your features.

​"It was forty-five minutes," Yoongi clarifies, stepping fully inside. He rubs the back of his head, his gaze dropping to the smooth stone floor for a brief second before he looks back up at Taehyung. "And I didn't mean to make you cry, Tae. I... I still feel bad about that."

​Taehyung gasped theatrically, clutching his chest with his free hand while still holding the flashlight perfectly steady with the other.

"Hear that, Yura?! Yoongi just apologized for an incident that happened years ago! Quick, take out your phone and film it!" He exclaims.

​"Don't push your luck, Kim Taehyung," Yoongi mutters, though there’s zero bite in his voice. Instead, a quiet, incredibly soft smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he steps deeper into the cave, his boots clicking quietly against the stone.

​He stops right beside you, the protective tension entirely draining from his shoulders. Without a word, he reaches out, his warm hand gently sliding over yours where it rests against the limestone wall. His fingers weave through yours, squeezing tightly.

​"I was terrified," Yoongi says softly. His eyes scan the sparkling quartz ceiling before settling back onto your face. "The sky went completely black, the radio was warning about flash floods, and you three weren't answering your phones. By the time you walked back into camp laughing and covered in mud... I think my heart had stopped beating about an hour before that."

​"I know," you say softly as you squeeze his fingers back. "We were so caught up in the adventure, we didn't even realize what it looked like from the outside. I'm sorry we put you through that, Yoongi."

You slide your hand out of his grip and wrap your arms completely around his waist. Your chest presses flat against his, locking you against him.

​"I was so scared I lost you that night," he says, his hand rising to cradle the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair as if to physically hold you in the present. He lets out a ragged, trembling breath, his chin resting heavily against your crown. "But... that Yoongi doesn't even know what it truly means to lose you."

​He pauses, his grip tightening just a fraction more, his voice thick with the raw truth of the past few years.

​"That Yoongi was just dramatic when he knew you were probably safe with Tae. He didn't know what it felt like to look into your eyes and realize you didn't know who I was. He didn't know what it was to walk into that hospital to find you missing." He swallows hard, his chest heaving against yours.

​"She's not missing anymore," ​Taehyung tells him. "She’s right here. She found her way back to the cave. She remembered the purple stones. The fog didn't win, Yoongi."

​Yoongi lets out a long, shuddering breath against your temple. He doesn't look at Taehyung, but the tension in his jaw relaxes.

​"I know," Yoongi murmurs. He finally pulls back just enough to look down into your face, his dark eyes scanning the slight clarity in your eyes. "I know she's here."

The sound of Jungkook’s booming, victorious cackle bounces off the siding of the RVs as a stray spray of cold lake water and microscopic fish scales lands squarely across the front of your shirt.

​"JUNGKOOK!" Yura shrieks, her voice hitting a register that could shatter glass. She had taken the brunt of the assault directly down her left arm. "You are disgusting! I swear to God, I am sleeping in RV #2 tonight and you can cuddle with the cooler!"

​"It's a bonding experience, babe! The river god demands a sacrifice!" Jungkook howls, as he pumps the plastic spray nozzle again.

​"Run!" You gasp, grabbing Yura’s clean hand and bolting up the slight incline away from the picnic tables.

​Behind you, the outdoor cleaning station is a scene of absolute, domestic anarchy. Jin is standing triumphantly over a cutting board, despite the fact that the fish he's currently prepping is barely four inches long.

​"Look at the scales on this specimen!" Jin shouts to no one in particular, waving his scaling knife in the air. "The proportions! The symmetry! Jungkook’s fish may be larger, but mine has the soul of a gourmet entrée! Yoongi, tell them!"

"Your fish looks like bait. If you cut it any thinner, it’s going to evaporate." ​Yoongi, who is meticulously filleting a much larger fish with precision, doesn't even look up.

​"Min Yoongi! Respect the chef!" Jin exclaims.

​You and Yura collapse onto the steps of RV #3 where Taehyung is on the roof taking pictures of everyone, both of you breathless and wiping stray droplets of questionable lake water from your skin with the collar of your shirts.

​"If he thinks he's getting a hug today, he is sorely mistaken," Yura pants, gesturing fiercely toward Jungkook, who is now being put in a headlock by Jin for trying to steal a piece of lemon. She looks over at you, her irritation instantly dissolving into a bright, easy grin. "You okay? No fish gunk in the hair?"

​"I think I survived," you laugh, checking your sleeves. "But I can't say the same for your husband. I think Jin is about to use him as bait."

​"Good. Let the lake have him." Yura smiles.

​Right on cue, Hobi marches over from the fire pit, holding a massive wooden salad bowl like a shield and wearing a pair of bright yellow dishgloves that look entirely too pristine for a campground.

​"Victory!" Hobi announces, setting the bowl down on the picnic table with a dramatic flourish. "The greens are washed. The dressing is mixed."

​"Is the Chef done boasting about his minnow?" Jimin calls out, strolling over with a stack of clean burlap place mats. He glances down at Jin’s cutting board and lets out a soft, melodic giggle. "Oh, Jin. It’s... cute. It looks like a snack for a bird."

​"It is a delicacy!" Jin shouts, though his shoulders are shaking with his own squeaky, windshield-wiper laugh. "You will all beg for a bite of my five star minnow!"

While the chaotic banter swirls around the picnic tables, Yoongi quietly steps away from the cleaning station. He wipes his hands clean, his black sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the pale skin of his forearms. He doesn't join the loud debate about the fish. Instead, his eyes instantly track across the lot until they land on you, sitting on the RV steps.

​The lazy, content smirk from this morning is back, softening the sharp lines of his face as he walks over.

​"You smell like lake," he notes as you stand up.

​"Blame your friend," you say. "He targeted us."

​"I saw." Yoongi reaches out, his thumb catching a small stray drop of river water right below your collarbone, his skin warm against yours.

​Yoongi shifts closer, his hip resting against the railing of the steps. He doesn't mind the faint scent of the river on you. In fact, he pulls you just a bit closer by your waist.

​"The cave didn't tire you out too much, did it?" He asks softly.

​"No," you say honestly, your heart swelling as you look past his shoulder toward the distant rocky ridge. "Honestly, Yoongi... I feel lighter. Like a missing piece just slid right into place."

​Yoongi doesn't say anything for a moment. He just looks at you, before he leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

​"Good," he murmurs, pulling away just a bit. "Keep it there."

The smell of searing garlic and fresh lemon juice suddenly hits the afternoon air, drifting over from where Jin is finally laying his delicacy into a sizzling cast-iron skillet. The violent hiss of the hot oil sets off another round of cheers from Jungkook, who is currently trying to document the entire process on his phone while Jin aggressively bats his hands away with a wooden spatula.

"Back! Back, you paparazzi!" Jin yells, though he can't hide the wide, proud grin splitting his face. "This is a precise culinary art! One wrong angle from your camera and the minnow is ruined!"

Yoongi lets out a soft, amused huff against your hair, his chin resting gently on the top of your head as you both watch the spectacle from the safety of the RV steps. His arms are wrapped securely around your waist, holding you flush against his chest.

"He's going to talk about that four-inch fish for the next three months," Yoongi mutters. "We're never going to hear the end of it. It’ll be a legendary whale by the time we get back home."

"Let him have his moment," you laugh softly. "He fought hard for that fish today."

Up on the roof of RV #3, a familiar camera shutter clicks.

You look up to see Taehyung dangling his legs over the edge of the roof, his oversized flannel catching the gentle breeze. He lowers his camera, a massive smile stretching across his face as he looks down at the two of you.

"Perfect," Taehyung calls out, his deep voice carrying smoothly over the campground. “You two look like a poster for a romantic wilderness movie. Don't move! I’m changing the lens."

"If I see a single flash, Taehyung, I am climbing up there and taking your memory card," Yoongi warns, though he doesn't actually loosen his grip around you. If anything, he pulls you a fraction closer.

"No flashes! Only natural, cinematic lighting!" Taehyung promises, already adjusting the dials on his camera.

"Food is served! Gather around, people! If you don't get a seat in the next ten seconds, Namjoon is in charge of portioning the salad, and we all know how that ends!" Jimin calls.

"Hey! I am a very fair portioner!" Namjoon protests, though he carefully sets a massive stack of paper plates onto the picnic table with extreme, slow-motion caution, as if terrified the wind might cause a catastrophic event.

The group sits around the picnic tables. Yura sits down next to Jungkook, still shooting him a lingering, playful glare, but she doesn't object when he proudly slides the largest, perfectly grilled fillet onto her plate first.

"For the professional provider's wife," Jungkook says with a smug grin, dodging the playful swat she aims at his shoulder.

Yoongi gently guides you down the steps, his hand sliding down to catch yours, his fingers weaving effortlessly between your own. As you both walk over to the edge of the picnic table, the guys instantly shift, creating a space for the two of you right in the center of the warmth.

Jin proudly plates his tiny, perfectly browned minnow right in the middle of a massive serving platter, surrounded by lemons.

"Behold," he announces, gesturing dramatically. "The piece de resistance."

"I claim the tail!" Jimin giggles.

"Do not touch the art, Park Jimin!" Jin scolds.

You sit down on the bench, the wooden planks cool beneath you, but the atmosphere is warm.

You look around the table…at Yura and Jungkook bickering over the lemon wedges, at Hobi trying to teach Namjoon a specific way to fold a burlap placemat, at Taehyung showing Jimin the photos on his camera screen while Jimin throws his head back in laughter.

Then, you look to your side.

Yoongi is already looking at you. He has a quiet, unbothered plate of food in front of him, but his attention is entirely focused on your face. Without a word, he reaches under the table, finding your knee and letting his warm hand rest there, his thumb sweeping a slow, comforting arc across your skin.

"You're smiling," he notes softly, his voice private and quiet beneath the loud banter of the rest of the table.

"I am," you whisper, leaning in just enough so your shoulder brushes his. "I'm just... really happy I remembered, Yoongi."

Yoongi’s thumb pauses its movement for a split second, his grip tightening with a deep, emotional weight before he relaxes back into his easy, content posture. A tiny, incredibly beautiful smile touches his lips.

"I told you," he murmurs, his eyes locked onto yours with absolute certainty. "The spot was always saved. Your brain just had to catch up to where your heart already was."

"YOONGI! ARE YOU EATING THAT PIECE OF BREAD OR ARE YOU JUST STARING AT Y/N?" Jungkook’s voice suddenly booms from across the table.

"Jungkook." Yoongi’s expression instantly shifts into a flat, deadpan glare as he looks across the table at the youngest.

"Yes?" Jungkook blinks at him.

"I am going to change the Wi-Fi password right now." Yoongi warns.

"NO! I APOLOGIZE! IT WAS A COMPLIMENT! YOU LOOK VERY POETIC!" Jungkook exclaims, nearly dropping his fork as the rest of the table erupts into a chorus of chaotic laughter.

You lean your head against Yoongi’s shoulder, a small smile breaking out across your face as the afternoon settles fully over the camp, filling the woods with the brightest, warmest light you’ve ever known.

The announcement of an actual, proper hike after lunch is met with a collective burst of enthusiasm that you simply do not share.

​"The upper ridge trail has the best vantage point for the afternoon sun," Namjoon explains, enthusiastically pointing a fork toward the steep incline beyond the tree line. "If we hit the summit by four, the shadows across the valley will be perfect."

​"Yes! More cinematic lighting!" Taehyung cheers, already slinging his camera strap over his shoulder.

​As the group begins a chaotic scramble to lace up hiking boots, pack water bottles, and argue over who has to carry the heavy backpack, you feel a heavy, comfortable lethargy settling deep into your limbs. The emotional breakthrough at the Quartz Cave, combined with a stomach full of fresh fish and the warm afternoon sun, has left you completely drained in the best possible way. The thought of walking another rocky incline makes your muscles ache in protest.

​You slip your hand into Yoongi’s under the table, giving it a gentle squeeze.

"Hey," you murmur, leaning close so only he can hear. "I think I’m going to sit this one out."

​Yoongi turns his head, his sharp eyes instantly scanning your face. He catches the faint, sleepy shadow beneath your eyes and the relaxed, heavy slope of your shoulders. A look of instant understanding softens his features. He doesn't question it, nor does he try to coax you into joining. He simply nods, his thumb rubbing a reassuring circle into the back of your hand.

​"Alright," he says softly.

​You look across the table, clearing your throat slightly to catch the attention of the whirlwind. "Hey, guys? You go ahead without me. I’m just going to stay back and rest at the camp for a bit." You nod.

​The chaotic chatter instantly grinds to a halt.

​"Oh, no, are you feeling okay?" Yura asks immediately. She sets down the water bottle she was filling and steps toward you. "Is your head hurting? Do you feel dizzy at all?"

​"No, no, nothing like that," you assure her quickly, offering a reassuring smile to ease her worry. "I promise. I’m just really tired. My brain used up all its battery power finding that cave earlier. I just want to sit in the shade and do absolutely nothing," you say.

​Yura studies your face for a second, checking for any hidden distress, before she lets out a soft, understanding sigh.

"Okay. Honestly, that makes total sense. You've had a massive day." She wipes her hands on her jeans and takes a step closer to the RV. "Tell you what, I'll stay back with you. Kook can go with the guys, and you and I can just lounge by the fire pit and watch a movie."

​"No, Yura, go," Yoongi tells her. He rises from the bench, his hands sliding casually into the pockets of his black hoodie. "I'm staying behind."

​Yura pauses, her eyes shifting from you to Yoongi.

​For a silent, heavy moment, the two of them just look at each other. There is an entire, unspoken language passing between them. ​Slowly, a soft, knowing smile touches her lips. She nods.

​"Alright," Yura agrees softly, stepping back toward Jungkook, who naturally loops an arm around her waist. "He’s a better pillow than me anyway. If want a snack, the cooler is locked so the raccoons don't get into the melon. We're going to take the smaller one."

​"I know how to work the cooler, Yura," Yoongi mutters.

​"Just making sure!" She laughs, turning to the rest of the group. "Alright, let's move out! Let's go see the summit before Namjoon tries to map the terrain with his bare hands."

​"I have a compass, Yura!" Namjoon protests loudly as the group finally begins to move, their voices fading into a cheerful, echoing chorus as they disappear into the dense birch trees.

​Within minutes, the campground falls into silence. The only sounds left are the crackle of the dying campfire embers and the gentle, rhythmic lapping of the lake against the shore.

​"Come here," he murmurs, extending a warm hand toward you.

​You slide your hand into his, letting him pull you up from the wooden bench. Your legs feel like lead, and you let out a tiny, breathless sigh as you lean your weight against his side.

​"Inside or outside?" he asks

​"Inside," you whisper, looking up at him through your eyelashes.

The RV is quiet. You are curled on the small bench seat, watching Yoongi move as he tidies up. He glances over, a soft smile touching his lips. The same smile that had begun to feel like a key, turning something over inside of you. Since you’d stumbled back into his life, a ghost of yourself. Trying to find fragments of a past you couldn’t grasp, he’d been… careful. His touches were questions, his kisses were gentle. He’s been helping rebuild you from the ground up, brick by patient brick, afraid the slightest tremor might make you crumble again. But you weren’t crumbling.

Not anymore.

You were remembering.

And…there was something else you remembered from that cave night.

Barely warm water, washing the dirt away from your skin. Yoongi pressed behind you in a cramped shower that hardly fit the two of you. Fading mint hair falling over your shoulder as he pressed his lips to your neck.

“Yoongi,” you say standing.

“Hmm?” He turns, his smile gentle, inquiring.

You don't answer with words. You cross the small space in two strides, your hands coming up to frame his face, and you kiss him. It isn't one of the careful kisses you’d shared since the day he took you to your old college.

This was something else….something….more.

Your mouth opens under his, your tongue sweeping in to taste him…coffee, mint, and the unmistakable flavor of him. A sound of pure shock vibrates in his throat, but his hands fly to your waist, holding on to you. You walk him backward with your mouths connected. It's a clumsy stumble until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the RV’s bed where the two of you slept the night before. He falls onto it with a soft oof, pulling you down on top of him as he lands.

“What are we doing?” He pants against your lips.

“I remember us in the shower that night,” you whisper and his eyes scan your face. “You washing the mud out of my hair, kissing my neck…my shoulder.”

You grab the bottom of his shirt and pull it over his head, tossing it aside. Your own top follows a second later. The fabric joining his on the floor. He lays beneath you, chest bare, his gaze raking over you. His hands settled on your hips, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just above the waistband of your shorts. You reach back, unclasping your bra with a single flick, and shed it. The look in his eyes flickers with something a bit more heated.

“What else did we do that night?” You blink down at him.

He doesn't move for a moment, just drinking in the sight of you above him, your hair cascading around your shoulders, your chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.

“Fuck,” he groans.

Flipping you over, he buries his face in your neck, lips making contact with the smooth column of your neck just like he had in your memory. A low whimper escapes you, and the sound seems to spur him on.

His lips move lower, over the curve of your shoulder, his teeth grazing your collarbone. Locking eyes with you, his mouth closes over the peak of your breast. You cry out, back bowing off the mattress. His tongue circles your nipple before giving the same attention to the other, switching back and forth until you’re wiggling under him and his name starts falling from your lips.

His hands are everywhere…kneading the swell of your breasts, skimming down your ribs, gripping your waist to hold you still for his mouth. The rough pad of his thumb circles your other nipple, pinching lightly in time with the pull of his lips, and the sensation is maddening. You’re lost in it, in the feel of him, and the smell of his skin.

Drunk on sensation, your own hands drift from his hair, down the smooth skin of his back, seeking the waistband of his pants. Your fingers find the stings, fumbling with the knot tied there.

He freezes.

Throwing himself off you, he takes a few steps away from you pressing himself against a small closet of the RV. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath and runs his hands over his face, shaking his head.

“I'm sorry,” you say quickly, covering yourself with your hands.

“No,” he breathes out. “You don't have to be sorry. I…uh…”

“What?” You ask.

“I just don't know if that's a good idea yet,” he says softly as you blink at him. “I always hoped the day would come where you would walk back into my life and we would pick back up where we left off. Obviously, that can't happen and…there's a part of me that can't figure out if you want me because you desperately want your old life back. Or, do you truly want me now?”

​For a long moment, the only sound is the distant, rhythmic lapping of the lake outside. You look at him and you see the faint shadows of exhaustion around his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands.

​Suddenly, the pieces click together. He isn't rejecting you. He is desperately trying to protect the both of you. ​Slowly, you reach down and grab a discarded hoodie from the foot of the bed, pulling it over your head. It swallows you whole, but it offers a small shield of comfort.

Yoongi is still pressed against the small wooden closet, his bare chest rising and falling with sharp, ragged breaths, his eyes fixed on the floor as if he’s afraid to look at you.

​Carefully, you slide off the edge of the mattress. Your bare feet make no sound on the narrow carpeted aisle as you cross the small space between you. You don't rush him. You stop just a step away, allowing him the space to pull back if he needs to. He doesn't. But his jaw tightens, a muscle jumping in his cheek as you move closer.

​"Yoongi," you say softly.

​When he doesn't look up, you reach out, your hands gentle but unwavering as you place your palms flat against his bare chest, right over his heart. Beneath your fingers, his heartbeat is a frantic, thumping rhythm. It's completely betraying the controlled mask he’s trying so hard to wear.

​"Look at me. Please," you whisper.

​Slowly, his dark eyes lift, swimming with an agonizing mixture of desire, fear, and an exhaustion that breaks your heart.

​"I don't just want my old life back," you say. "And I don't want you just because a girl in a memory loved you."

"Y/N, the memories are coming back so fast lately... I need to be sure you aren't just reacting to the ghost of us. I can't handle being a placeholder for who we used to be." ​Yoongi lets out a shaky exhale, his hands twitching at his sides.

"I hear you," you say softly. Your fingers curl slightly against his bare chest, feeling the warmth of his skin. "And Yoongi... I would be lying to you if I said the adrenaline didn't play a part in it today. Finding that cave, the rush of the memories hitting me all at once, the sheer joy of feeling like….her… myself.... it flooded me. It made me want to reach for the most familiar, safest thing I know. Which is you."

Yoongi’s eyes close for a split second, a pained, tight swallow running down his throat as if your honesty validates his deepest fear.

"But," you continue quickly, stepping a fraction closer so your toes brush against his, forcing his eyes to snap back open. "That is only part of it. What I'm feeling right now. What I've been feeling for you."

You look directly into his dark, searching eyes, leaving absolutely no room for him to doubt the clarity in yours.

"I know I want you now," you tell him, your voice clear with certainty. "As much as a part of me desperately wants to remember our past. As much as I want to know the first time we ever kissed, the first time we held hands, the first time we..." You pause, a soft, breathless color rising to your cheeks, but you don't break eye contact. "...the first time we had sex. I want those memories because they belong to us. But they aren't the only things drawing me to you."

Yoongi’s hands slowly rise from his sides, his fingers hovering just an inch away from your waist, trembling slightly as he hangs onto your every word.

"I want to experience life with you now too," you whisper, your hands sliding up his chest to wrap gently around the back of his neck. "I want the Yoongi who sits on a bucket and silently watches over his friends. I want the Yoongi who threatens to feed phones to raccoons just so I can sleep a few minutes longer. I want the man who was willing to let me marry someone, even when his own heart was breaking. I'm not chasing a ghost, Yoongi. I'm chasing you. The man standing in front of me right now."

A long, ragged breath finally tears out of Yoongi’s chest, a sound of shattering relief. The rigid tension that had locked his shoulders completely evaporates.

Before the last word can even fully leave your lips, Yoongi closes the distance between you.

​His hands slide up from your waist, his broad palms framing your jaw with a sudden, fierce desperation that steals the air straight from your lungs. He pulls you to him, his mouth crashing down onto yours.

​You let out a soft, breathless gasp against his lips, your hands tightening instinctively in his dark, messy hair as he walks you backward. Your heels tangle in the discarded clothes on the floor, but Yoongi’s grip keeps you upright until the back of your knees hit the mattress.

​Together, you tumble backward onto the comforter. Yoongi catches the brunt of the fall on his forearms, hovering over you in the afternoon light through the RV window. He doesn’t break the kiss. His mouth shifts against yours, deep and heavy, pouring every ounce of the love, fear, and patience into the slide of his lips. It’s intoxicating, and completely consumes you, erasing everything else until the only things that exist are the heat of his bare chest against your fingers and the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat.

​When he finally pulls back, his breathing is ragged, his chest heaving as he rests his forehead gently against yours. ​He stays there for a long moment, just breathing you in, his thumb gently wiping a trace of moisture from the corner of your lower lip.

​Slowly, Yoongi shifts his weight. He doesn't pull away completely, but he rolls onto his side beside you, propping his head up with one hand while his other arm wraps securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He reaches down and pulls the comforter up over both of your shoulders, cocooning you in the warmth of the bed.

​"Yoongi?" You whisper, your voice a little breathless, your hand resting against his ribs.

​A faint, incredibly soft smile touches his lips. He leans down, pressing one last, lingering kiss to the crown of your head, his chin resting there as he holds you close.

​"That's it for today," he murmurs.

​You blink up at him, a little surprised.

​"I am going to take you out," Yoongi says softly. "A real date. No chaotic campground, no friends screaming outside the window.”

“I'd like that.” You smile.

“And… for record,” he says. “The first time we kissed was the same night we had sex for the first time.”

“What?” You look up at him quickly. “Were…were we even …together?”

“No.” He shakes his head and your eyes go wide. “It was also on my dorm bed….while Joon was asleep snoring and listening to his ocean sounds less than five feet away.”

“WHAT!?!” You prop yourself up and look down at him.

“It's fine.” He laughs thinking back at the memory. “He still doesn't know about it. We were quiet.”

“WHAT!?!” You ask again.

“You hated your roommate,” he explains. “I mean you HATED her. You showed up to our dorm room after you couldn't get a hold of Yura. You were upset because your roommate used your expensive drawing paper as a coaster. You walked all the way across campus in the middle of the night and knocked on our door.”

“That doesn't sound safe,” you whisper.

“No,” he shakes his head. “I told you I would yell at you later for it. I just gestured to my bed and you crawled in, pulling me in right along with you. You laughed about Joon snoring. We talked for a moment. Then you just went entirely quiet," Yoongi continues. "You were staring at my mouth. I asked you if you were okay, and instead of answering, you just reached up, grabbed my collar, and pulled me down."

"I did not." You stare at him.

"You did," he insists, entirely amused by your crisis at the revelation. "You kissed me like you were trying to erase the fact that your drawing paper got ruined. I'd been half in love with you for six months already. I wasn't exactly about to push you away. But then things started moving fast, and every time Joon rolled over or the ocean sounds on his phone changed tracks, we both froze."

"Oh my god," you groan, burying your face directly into Yoongi’s chest. "We are awful people. Namjoon was right there."

"Hey, I told you, we were quiet. Besides, you didn't seem to mind at the time. You kept biting your lip to keep from laughing out loud every time Joon snored," he laughs.

“I really was…bold, wasn't I?” You ask, making Yoongi laugh.

"Bold doesn't even begin to cover it," he murmurs, his large hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, his fingers idly playing with the ends of your hair. "You were terrifying. Brilliant, but terrifying. I was convinced for the first three months of our relationship that I was just a pawn in your war against your roommate. You would make me stay late in your dorm just because she hated it."

"Was I really that mean to her?" You ask, a breathless laugh escaping you as you settle back down onto his chest, your chin resting on your hands.

"She would hide your paint brushes and once accidentally washed your favorite silk blouse with a muddy pair of pants," Yoongi notes. "She deserved everything she got."

You look down at his lazy, utterly content smirk, a soft warmth blooming under your skin. The sheer domesticity of this moment. You swallowed up in his oversized hoodie, cocooned under a heavy comforter in a quiet RV while the afternoon sun paints the walls.

"And you really waited months for me?" You whisper, your finger tracing a slow, absent line across the smooth skin of his collarbone.

The teasing smirk slowly fades from Yoongi’s lips. His hand shifts from your neck to your cheek, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone.

"I would have waited years," he says. "We used to sit in the back of the campus coffee shop. I would pretend to work on my laptop, but I was just tracking the neon orange pen you always kept tucked into your messy bun. Every time you laughed at something Jimin said, or got mad at a textbook, I was just... stuck there watching you. So when you finally grabbed my shirt that night, I wasn't about to let you go."

"I'm glad I didn't let you," you say, leaning your face into the warm palm of his hand.

"Me too," he murmurs.

For a few beautiful minutes, the RV is entirely yours. There are no frantic camera shutters, no screaming chefs, and no looming shadows of what you lost. There is only the rhythmic, steady beating of Yoongi's heartbeat beneath your palm.

CRASH.

A loud, metallic clatter echoes from the direction of the fire pit, followed instantly by a high-pitched, panicked shriek from Jimin and a deep, authoritative bark of leadership from Yura.

"NAMJOON! THE COOLER WAS REINFORCED FOR A REASON!"

"I didn't mean to kick it!" Namjoon’s muffled voice booms through the open screen door of the RV, sounding entirely too close to the gravel driveway. "I was trying to dodge the pinecone Jungkook threw! The latch just... snapped!"

"THE MELON IS AIRBORNE!" Jungkook’s yell pierces the air. "THE RACCOONS ARE WINNING!"

Yoongi doesn't move a single muscle. His eyes slowly open, staring flatly at the ceiling with an expression of pure exhaustion.

"They're back," he states, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. "They didn't even make it to the summit. They failed the hike."

"I think the melon incident cut it short," you giggle, your shoulders shaking against his chest as the distant chaos escalates into what sounds like a full-blown footrace across the gravel.

"I'm changing the Wi-Fi password to 'NamjoonKilledTheMelon2026'," Yoongi mutters, though he doesn't actually reach for his phone this time. Instead, his grip around your waist tightens, pulling you back down into the plush safety of the mattress, burying his face directly into the crook of your neck. "Ignore them. If we stay perfectly still, Yura will handle the casualties."

You wrap your arms around his bare shoulders, letting out a soft, completely happy laugh as you listen to the beautiful, chaotic circus waiting just outside your door. You don't know what tomorrow's memories will bring, but as Yoongi holds you tight against the noise of the world, you know exactly where you belong.

Right against his chest.

<Next>

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A/N: This chapter is a bit shorter than the rest. It didn't feel right adding anything else to it and I wanted to get out before I went on vacation.

Also…. I'm going to put a TRIGGER WARNING on this chapter!!!

The next morning, the kitchen of Yoongi's place is filled with the warm, rich aroma of melting butter and sizzling bacon. Sunlight pours through the large windows and reflects softly off the polished granite countertops.

​Yoongi is standing at the stove, completely focused on the large cast-iron skillet in front of him. He’s dressed in a simple white t-shirt and dark sweatpants, his broad shoulders squared as he handles a spatula. If you look closely, you can still see the slight, lingering tension in the set of his jaw, but the frantic edge from last night is gone. He’s channeling all that protective energy into something safe.

​You’re sitting at the kitchen island, slouched slightly in one of the high-backed barstools. Your hands are wrapped completely around a large ceramic mug of hot coffee, your fingers disappearing into the ridiculously long sleeves of Yoongi’s black hoodie, which you still haven't taken off. Your eyes are a little puffy, and your limbs feel heavy from the emotional crash, but as you watch him flip an egg with a quiet, efficient flick of his wrist, the tight coil in your chest relaxes just a little bit more.

​A soft scuffle of footsteps breaks the morning quiet.

​Jimin walks into the kitchen first, his blond hair slightly messy from sleep. He catches sight of the two of you and pauses for a fraction of a second, his sharp eyes instantly assessing the atmosphere. ​Right behind him, Jungkook stumbles in, rubbing a fist over one eye and yawning broadly. He smells the food and blinks, his gaze darting from Yoongi’s back to you sitting at the counter.

​For a heartbeat, there’s a slight hesitation in the air. The careful treading of roommates who know a storm hit last night but aren't sure if the skies have cleared.​ Then, navigating the space with a natural, unbothered ease, Jimin glides over to the refrigerator.

​"Morning," Jimin murmurs, his voice soft and pitch-perfect for a quiet morning. He opens the fridge door, entirely focused on retrieving a carton of orange juice. "Smells like a restaurant in here. Yoongi, are you actually sharing, or am I going to have to steal from the pan?"

​"Touch the pan and lose a finger," Yoongi replies smoothly, not even turning around. "Sit down. There’s enough for everyone."

​Jungkook lets out a small, relieved huff and pads over to the island, sliding onto the stool right next to you. He doesn't look at you with pity, and he doesn't even try to ask about last night. Instead, he leans his chin heavily in his hand, staring longingly at the stove.

​"Please tell me you made the thick-cut bacon," Jungkook groans, his stomach letting out a timely, audible growl. "I've been dreaming about breakfast since six AM."

​"You dream about food every night," Yoongi mutters, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward. He plates the last of the eggs and turns around, setting two massive, steaming platters of food right in the middle of the island.

​Before he sits down, Yoongi steps up right behind your stool. He doesn't say anything out loud, but his hand comes down on your shoulder, his large palm warm and heavy through the thick fabric of his hoodie. He squeezes gently, a silent reassurance that says, I'm right here.

You're safe.

​You look up, meeting his dark eyes, and give him a small, genuine smile.

“Eat up, Doll," Yoongi says softly, sliding onto the stool on your other side, effectively sandwiching you between himself and Jungkook.

​Jimin pours three glasses of juice, sliding one toward you with a quick, friendly wink before taking his own seat across the island. Within seconds, the kitchen lapses into a comfortable, dynamic rhythm. Jungkook is already piling his plate high, complaining loudly about a level in his video game, while Jimin casually defends the game's graphics, occasionally throwing a blueberry at the younger man when he gets too dramatic.

​You, however, just stare down at the mountain of food Yoongi piled onto your plate. Your appetite is practically non-existent, the heavy emotional haze from last night weighing down your stomach. You pick up your fork and lazily poke at a piece of thick-cut bacon, shifting an egg around just to make it look like you’re doing something.

​Yoongi notices immediately.

He doesn't comment on it out loud. He knows better than to draw the roommates' attention to your lack of eating. He reaches over, his large hand wrapping around your coffee mug to refill it with fresh, hot coffee, giving your wrist a reassuring little squeeze before pulling away.

​The front door clicks open, the sound echoing down the hallway followed by the confident thud of leather dress shoes on the hardwood.

​"Jimin? I have those papers you left in my car," Namjoon says entering the house.

​He stops at the edge of the kitchen, blinking in surprise at the full house. His eyes sweep over the breakfast spread, landing on you. He pauses, his brain visibly tracking your presence, before a warm, dimpled smile breaks across his face. ​You’ve only met Namjoon once before back at Mavericks.

​"Oh, hello, Y/N right? Good to see you again," Namjoon says politely, offering a respectful nod. He sets the manila folder down on the edge of the counter near Jimin. "Here are the documents, Jimin. Make sure you sign section four before Monday."

​"Thanks. You're a lifesaver," Jimin says, snagging a piece of toast. "You want an egg? Yoongi actually cooked for once."

​"No, I just wanted to drop those off," Namjoon says, as leans against the counter, adjusting his glasses.

​Yoongi sets his fork down entirely, his dark eyes fixing onto Namjoon. The easy, domestic boyfriend facade slips away for a fraction of a second, replaced by that intense, protective calculation from last night. He clears his throat, his voice dropping into a casual, almost conversational tone that doesn't quite hide the underlying edge.

​"Hey, Joon," Yoongi says, leaning his forearms against the island. "Quick question for you. Professional opinion."

"Sure. What's up?" Namjoon looks at him.

​"Hypothetically," Yoongi begins, his fingers tracing the edge of his coffee mug. He doesn't look at you, keeping his gaze locked entirely on his friend. "If someone has a situation... say, someone dangerous from their past suddenly shows up again. Someone who has a history of... escalating behavior. Hypothetically, what kind of legal recourse is there? Can they file a ... restraining order?"

​The kitchen goes entirely, suffocatingly quiet.

​Jungkook stops mid-chew, his fork hovering inches from his mouth. Jimin's hand freezes on his juice glass. They both know Yoongi doesn't ask hypothetical legal questions on a Sunday morning.

And definitely not after last night.

​Namjoon's expression shifts instantly. The casual, dimpled friend vanishes, replaced entirely by the sharp, calculating gaze of an experienced attorney. His eyes flick briefly to you. Taking in your puffed eyes, the way you're drowning in Yoongi's oversized hoodie, and the fact that you're currently frozen, staring intensely at your plate.

​Namjoon straightens his posture, his voice taking on a measured, professional weight.

​"Hypothetically?" Namjoon repeats softly.

You let out a soft, heavy sigh, the sound cutting through the thick, sudden tension in the room. The metallic clink of your fork hitting the ceramic plate sounds excruciatingly loud in the quiet kitchen. You pull your hands back into the ridiculously long sleeves of Yoongi’s hoodie, folding your arms across your chest as if trying to shield yourself from the weight of the conversation.

​Namjoon tracks the movement, his sharp, observant eyes softening with a flicker of genuine concern. He shifts his weight, stepping away from the counter and taking a half-step closer to the island, entirely focused on you now.

​"Y/N," Namjoon begins in an incredibly gentle tone. "Let's put the hypotheticals aside for a second. Are you in trouble? Do you feel unsafe right now?"

​"It's just a hypothetical question, Joon," Yoongi jumps in immediately. His voice is a little too fast, a little too sharp, cracking through the kitchen like a whip. "I'm just asking from a legal standpoint how those things work. Don't press her."

​"Yoongi, it's fine," you say softly, your voice quiet but steady enough to make both men pause. You look up from your plate, meeting Namjoon's intense, analytical gaze. "I already know the law."

​A tired, bitter smile touches your lips, though it doesn't reach your eyes.

"The reality is... he hasn't actually approached me. He hasn't sent any messages, he hasn't made a scene, and he hasn't explicitly done anything to make me feel legally threatened. Seeing someone in a public place isn't a crime. Until he breaks a law or acts aggressively, there is absolutely nothing I can do. The police won't even do the paperwork."

​At the end of the counter, Jungkook slowly lowers his fork, looking down at his plate with a tight, helpless expression. Jimin covers his mouth with his hand, his eyes darting between you and Yoongi.

​Next to you, Yoongi goes completely rigid.

​"What do you mean, there's nothing you can do?" Yoongi demands, turning fully on his stool to face you. His dark eyes are full of frustration, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles are leaping under his skin. "So what, you're just supposed to sit around and wait for him to do something crazy before anyone takes it seriously? That's complete bullshit."

"Yoongi, calm down," Namjoon commands, his voice dropping an octave. He extends a hand, palm down, a firm gesture that successfully cuts off Yoongi’s rising tirade. "Losing your temper isn't helping her, and it's not changing the legal framework."

​Yoongi lets out a harsh, ragged breath through his nose. He doesn't look at Namjoon, but he sinks back slightly against his stool, his knuckles white where his hands grip the edge of the granite counter. The protective fury is still rolling off him in waves, but he forces his mouth shut, his eyes locked onto your profile.

​Namjoon turns his full attention back to you. The professional distance in his demeanor softens. He slips his hands into his trouser pockets, leaning forward slightly.

​"Y/N," Namjoon says carefully, choosing his words with extreme precision. His gaze searching your tired eyes. "How bad was it? The prior incident... what happened between you two?"

​The kitchen goes dead silent again. Jimin completely stops breathing, and Jungkook’s head snaps up, his chest tightening as he waits for your response. ​You stare down at the long sleeves of Yoongi's hoodie, your fingers tightly gripping the fabric inside the cuffs. The warmth of the kitchen suddenly feels miles away, replaced by the memory of a white room and the smell of antiseptic.

​"He beat me bad enough to put me in the hospital," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “He did some jail time. Not much … it was just a slap on the wrist.”

Namjoon’s posture alters instantly, his jaw tightening into a hard, rigid line as your words sink in. Across the island, Jimin looks down at his lap, his knuckles turning white, while Jungkook’s eyes flash with a sudden, dark intensity.

"A slap on the wrist," Namjoon repeats softly. He takes a slow breath, grounding his legal mind against the sheer ugliness of the reality. "And he's never tried to contact you? Letters, phone calls, social media…anything at all?"

You shake your head slowly, pulling the oversized sleeves of Yoongi’s hoodie tighter around yourself.

"No," you say, your voice flat. "Nothing. Last night at the bowling alley was the first time I've seen him since the trial. Honestly... I don't even think he saw me. He was across the room. He didn't look my way once."

"I don't give a shit if he saw you or not!" Yoongi explodes, slamming his hand down onto the granite countertop.

The sharp crack of his palm against the stone makes Jimin flinch. Yoongi is on his feet in an instant, his stool scraping harshly against the hardwood floor as he paces a tight, agitated circle behind you. The fragile calm he had managed to maintain while cooking is completely shattered, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt.

"You think it matters if it was a coincidence?" Yoongi storms, turning his dark, frantic gaze onto you. "The bastard is here, Y/N. He’s in the exact same town as you. You think I care about the legalities or whether he looked at you? He broke your ribs. He choked you. He put you in a hospital bed. I am not playing games with your life just because the law wants to wait for him to notice you're here! He knows where you live."

Namjoon’s sharp legal mind instantly hooks onto Yoongi’s final, frantic declaration. The attorney straightens completely, his eyes locking onto yours.

"Wait," Namjoon says, his deep voice slicing right through Yoongi's heavy pacing. "Y/N, is that true? Does he know your current address?"

You shrink back slightly into the heavy fleece of Yoongi’s hoodie, the sudden spotlight making your stomach twist. You look up at Namjoon, nodding slowly.

"We used to live together," you admit.

"Then you shouldn't stay there," Namjoon says flatly, adjusting his glasses. "Not right now. Legally, he hasn't broken any laws by being in the same town. However, the risk factor just skyrocketed. You cannot go back to your home. Just in case."

"She's not going back there," Yoongi growls from behind your stool, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Not a chance in hell."

"You can stay here!"

Jungkook’s voice bursts out suddenly, loud and entirely earnest. He leans forward across the counter, his heavily tattooed arm gesturing around the spacious, secure kitchen. "We have plenty of room. You can't even get into the community without the code, plus the security system. Nobody gets in here unless we let them."

"Yeah, seriously, Y/N," Jimin chimes in immediately, his usual playful demeanor completely replaced by an intense, protective seriousness. He sets his glass down with a firm click. "It's no trouble at all. You’ll be safe here with us. Yoongi won't have to pace holes in the floor worrying about you, either."

"No," you say quickly, the word flying out of your mouth before you can even think to hesitate. You shake your head, looking between Jimin and Jungkook, touched by their immediate kindness but entirely overwhelmed by the idea of completely upending their lives. "No, I can't do that. I'm not going to move into your house and bring all of this baggage to your doorstep. It's too much. I'll just go stay with one of my brothers."

"Y/N," Namjoon intercepts carefully, his deep voice carrying a heavy, sobering weight. "Does your ex know where your brothers live?"

The kitchen freezes again. You stop rubbing your eyes, your hands dropping slowly to your lap. The silence that stretches over the granite island is answer enough, but you force yourself to vocalize it.

"Yes," you whisper, the reality of your own lack of hiding places sinking in like lead.

"Then they aren't a safe place either," Namjoon states grimly, his sharp gaze shifting from you to Yoongi. “I’m not saying you’re in immediate danger. In fact, if he’s in the area, he’s probably been around a lot longer than you're even aware of. If he wanted a direct confrontation, he likely would have sought it out by now."

​He pauses, adjusting his glasses, his eyes holding yours with absolute seriousness.

​"But men like that can be a ticking time bomb," Namjoon continues, choosing his words with deliberate weight. "Right now, he's a variable we can't control. Seeing you…the person who put him in jail…could easily be the catalyst that sets him off. It forces him to face the consequences of what he did, and a fragile ego doesn't handle that well."

​Namjoon’s eyes move briefly to Yoongi, who had stopped pacing and is now standing entirely still behind your stool, his chest rising and falling heavily.

​"More than that," Namjoon adds. "If he sees you with Yoongi... someone he used to view as his property, moving on, being protected... he might not like that either. Jealousy and a perceived loss of control are the most common triggers for escalation. Returning to your home, or even going to your brothers' places, gives him a predictable map. Staying here disrupts that map entirely."

​"He's right," Yoongi says. "If he does look for you. It's not just your brothers there."

You bite your lip and think about what Yoongi isn't saying. Nicky… Sarah…Elly.

But as your eyes travel from the polished granite counter up to Yoongi, a different, equally terrifying realization settles into your chest.

"And what happens if he finds out about you?" You ask, your voice cracking slightly under the weight of the question. You look around the island, your gaze darting from Namjoon's grave expression to Jimin and Jungkook's tense postures, before finally zeroing in on Yoongi.

You pull your hands completely free of the long hoodie sleeves, gesturing helplessly between yourself and the man standing resolutely by your side.

"Namjoon just said it," you continue, the words spilling out faster now as the anxiety takes hold. "He views me as his property. If he sees me with you... if he realizes that I've moved on, that I'm with someone who is protecting me, his fragile ego isn't just going to take it out on me. Yoongi, men like him don't just walk away when they lose control. They lash out at whatever took that control away."

You stand up from the barstool, the sudden movement drawing everyone's eyes. You step directly into Yoongi’s space, your hands coming up to lightly press against his chest, feeling the rapid, heavy thud of his heart beneath his white t-shirt.

"I can't let him go after you," you whisper, looking up into his dark, fierce eyes. "He’s cruel, Yoongi. He doesn't fight fair, and he doesn't have a conscience. I survived him once, but I couldn't live with myself if something happened to you…or any of you…because I brought my nightmare into your house. If he finds out you're the reason he can't get to me..."

Yoongi doesn't let you finish. His large hands move swiftly, capturing your wrists and holding them firmly against his chest, effectively trapping your hands right over his heartbeat. He steps closer, closing the small distance between you until his shadow completely engulfs you. The lingering panic in his eyes from last night has hardened into something entirely solid, dangerous, and fiercely protective.

"Let him try," Yoongi says. He squeezes your wrists gently. "Let him try to come after me, Y/N. I am not some helpless bystander, and I am damn sure not afraid of a coward who puts his hands on women."

Across the island, Jungkook lets out a dark, humorless chuckle, leaning back on his stool and crossing his arms. The youthful, sleepy boy from twenty minutes ago is entirely gone. His jaw is set, and his dark eyes flash with a cold, protective instinct of his own.

"He'd have to get through all of us first, Y/N," Jungkook says smoothly, his voice carrying an underlying edge that makes it clear he isn't joking. "And trust me, he doesn't want to try that."

"Yoongi isn't alone in this house. We take care of our own. If you're with him, you're with us." Jimin nods in agreement, his expression calm but entirely serious as he looks at you.

Namjoon adjusts his glasses, watching the interaction with a quiet, approving nod. He steps back toward the hallway, picking up his car keys from the counter.

"The logistics are settled, then. You stay here. I will be in contact later and I’ll look into his old trial records and see what his current parole or probation status looks like. If he's violating any travel or residency restrictions by being in this jurisdiction, I’ll find it." He offers you one last reassuring, dimpled smile before turning to leave. "Stay safe, Y/N. You're in the best possible place right now."

As the front door clicks shut behind Namjoon, the kitchen settles back into a heavy silence. Yoongi slowly releases your wrists, his hands sliding up your arms to cup your face, his thumbs gently wiping away the stray tear that had escaped down your cheek.

"You're not a nightmare, Doll," Yoongi murmurs, his forehead coming down to rest softly against yours. "And you're not bringing baggage. You're just staying home. Let us handle the rest."

The room stays quiet for a long moment after Yoongi's words.

Not awkward.

Not tense.

Just heavy with everything that had finally been said out loud.

Your eyes slip shut briefly as his forehead remains pressed against yours. For the first time since the bowling alley, since seeing that face across the room, since the panic attack and the tears and the fear, you feel something you haven't felt in nearly twenty-four hours.

Steady.

Around you, the others seem to collectively exhale.

"Okay." Jimin is the first to break.

Everyone looks at him and he points dramatically at your untouched plate.

"If we're all done discussing legal strategy, criminal psychology, and witness protection programs, I'd like to address the real emergency. Those eggs are getting cold." Jimin gestures wildly toward the eggs.

"He's right." Jungkook immediately points at your plate. "You haven't eaten anything."

"I'm not hungry," you murmur, a faint, exhausted smile finally reaching your lips. "You can have them."

"Yes!" Jungkook doesn't hesitate for a fraction of a second, instantly dragging your massive plate over to his side of the island and digging in like he hasn't eaten in days.

The sheer normalcy of his black-hole appetite shatters the remaining tension. Jimin lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head as he heads toward the hallway.

"I'm going to take a shower.” Jimin shakes his head.

Yoongi finally drops his hands from your face, his gaze softening completely as he tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. He wraps a large hand around your coffee mug, giving your fingers a gentle nudge.

"Come on. Let's get you out of the kitchen," he tells you

He guides you down into the living room, effectively burying you beneath a mountain of plush pillows and a heavy faux-fur blanket on the sectional. Once you're settled, Yoongi slides right onto the couch next to you, opening his arm in a silent invitation. You lean heavily into his side, resting your head against his chest.

Listening to the distant clink of Jungkook loading the dishwasher and feeling the unyielding warmth of Yoongi's arm around your shoulders, your eyelids grow heavy. The nightmare isn't gone, but finally, you aren't carrying it alone. You close your eyes, breathing in the scent of him and hot coffee. You let yourself fall asleep.

The living room of the gated house is a chaotic maze of taped cardboard boxes, plastic storage bins, and loose hangers.

​Your brothers are doing most of the heavy lifting, their heavy boots thudding against the hardwood floors as they haul the last remnants of your apartment inside. Jungkook and Jimin are actively helping, moving furniture out of the way, while Yoongi stands near the kitchen island, quietly directing traffic and making sure your fragile items are handled with absolute care.

​Your parents, however, are standing right in the center of the living room, completely frozen.

​Your mom’s eyes are darting from the high ceilings down to the sleek, expensive sectional, a deep line of confusion etched between her eyebrows. Your dad has his hands stuffed into his pockets, his gaze locked intensely on Yoongi, who is currently adjusting a box of your books.

"Y/N, sweetie... I'm glad you're finally out of that place. Truly, your father and I have wanted you out of there since... well, you know. But why now? Why this fast? We didn't even know you were looking for a new place, let alone moving in with your boyfriend and his roommates." Your mom finally steps closer to you, lowering her voice so the boys won't hear.

"Mold problem," Nick says, carrying in some of your clothes.

​"Foundation problem," Chris says at the exact same time.

​The two brothers instantly freeze. Nick snaps his head toward Chris, glaring intensely, while Chris curses under his breath, realizing they hadn't coordinated their cover stories. ​Your dad’s eyebrows shoot straight up. He looks from Nick to Chris, and then slowly turns his gaze back to you, his arms crossing over his chest.

​"A mold problem and a foundation problem?" Your dad asks, his voice dripping with deep, paternal skepticism. "On the exact same weekend? And it required an emergency evacuation into a gated community?"

​"It’s... a really severe case," Nick tries to recover, sweating slightly as he avoids your father's piercing eyes. "The mold was... eating the foundation. It's a whole structural biohazard thing, Dad. We've seen it before."

​"Yeah, the landlord said we had to get her out immediately or the ceiling might collapse," Chris chimes in, nodding aggressively. "We didn't want to worry you guys until she was safe."

“What happened to your hand, Christopher?” Your mother asks her youngest, as she stares at your brother's wrapped hand.

Chris looks down at his bandaged hand like he’s only just noticed it’s attached to his arm, his face going entirely pale.

​"The hand?" Chris stammers, his voice jumping an octave. "Oh, this. It’s... a moving injury. Heavy lifting. I got into a fight with the radiator. Well, not a fight, a disagreement. A structural disagreement."

​"He tripped over the toolbox," Nick cuts in, his voice tight as he tries to throw a lifeline. "You know how he gets when he's carrying heavy boxes. Clumsy. Completely lost his balance and smacked it right into the doorframe."

​"Yeah! The doorframe," Chris echoes, nodding so hard it looks like his head might pop off. "Wood splintered. Nasty business."

​Your mother doesn't buy it for a single second. She steps closer to you, completely ignoring the boys now. Her observant eyes, the same ones that used to catch you sneaking out as a teenager, lock onto the side of your face. She reaches out, her hand resting against your arm, and you instantly stiffen. You try to keep your breathing shallow, but the sheer, suffocating weight of the lie is making your heart hammer against your ribs.

​She can smell the fear. It’s a maternal instinct, a sixth sense that has always kept her tethered to the emotional safety of her children. She looks at your puffy eyes, the way you are practically hiding inside the fabric of Yoongi's hoodie, and the desperate, frantic energy radiating off your brothers.

​"You're lying," your mom says softly, her voice dropping into a register that makes the entire room go dead silent. "All of you. Christopher, you didn't trip over a toolbox. And there is no mold eating a foundation. Sunshine, look at me."

You look at your brothers out of the corner of your eyes. They look down at their boots and you sigh.

​"Sunshine," your mom repeats, her voice trembling slightly as her fingers tighten on your forearm. "Talk to me. What is going on?"

"I saw him, mom," you whisper.

​Your mother's face drains of all color instantly. Her hand drops from your arm, her mouth parting in a silent gasp. Beside her, your dad’s entire posture alters. His shoulders square, his chest expanding as his fists clench so tightly inside his pockets that you can see his knuckles straining against the fabric.

​"What do you mean?" Your dad asks, his voice dropping. "Where?"

​"The bowling alley," you say, the words spilling out fast now that the floodgates are open. "He was just... across the room. He didn't see me, dad. I don't think he even knew I was there. But he's back. Yoongi's friend is a lawyer and... he thinks he’s probably been back in town for a while now. He hasn't broken any laws, he hasn't tried to call or text, but... he knows my address."

​A heavy, choked sob escapes your mother's lips. She covers her mouth with both hands, her eyes instantly brimming with tears as the terrifying ghost of your past crashes right back into her present.

​"Oh, god," she breathes, her voice shaking violently. She snaps her head toward Nick and Chris. "And you two knew? You knew and you didn't tell us? Christopher, your hand…"

​"Chris punched his car," Nick admits quietly, crossing his arms and looking at the floor. "We didn't want you to panic until we had her somewhere safe."

​Your mom doesn't even let him finish. She turns back to you, her eyes wide, frantic, and completely overwhelmed by panic. She grabs both of your hands, her palms cold and shaking.

​"No. No, absolutely not," your mom says fiercely, her voice rising with a terrifying urgency. "You are not staying here. You are packing whatever is left in these boxes and you are moving back home with your father and me. Right now, Y/N. Today."

​"Mom…" You shake your head.

​"I mean it!" She cries, a tear spilling over her cheek as she looks around the unfamiliar, expensive living room. "I don't care about a gated community, and I don't care about a security system. If that monster is back in town, I need you where I can see you. I need you in your old room, behind our doors, where I know exactly who is coming and going. You're coming home with us."

​Your heart plummets into your stomach. The thought of retreating back into your childhood bedroom, of running away from the life you’ve fought so hard to build, feels like completely surrendering to the fear. It feels like letting your ex win all over again.

​You look desperately toward Yoongi.

​He’s been standing entirely still by the kitchen island, but the moment your mother suggests taking you away, his dark eyes flash with a fierce, unyielding intensity. He steps out from behind the counter, his heavy footsteps grounded and deliberate as he closes the distance between you.

​Yoongi gently places his large, warm hand over yours, effectively covering the frantic grip your mother has on your fingers. The simple, solid weight of his touch instantly cuts through your rising panic.

​"Mrs. L/N," Yoongi says. He looks your mother dead in the eye, his gaze incredibly soft but completely unshakeable. "I understand exactly why you want her back in your house. If I were in your shoes, I’d want the exact same thing. You want to wrap her up and keep the world away from her."

​He shifts his weight, his shoulder brushing against yours as he addresses both of your parents.

​"But your house is the first place he’s going to look if he decides to start tracking her," Yoongi states flatly, his sharp logic cutting right through the fear in the room. "He knows your address just as well as he knows her old apartment. Going back makes her easy to find."

​Your dad watches Yoongi intensely, his eyebrows drawing together as he listens to the coach’s calculation.

​"Here, he doesn't even know I exist," Yoongi continues, his grip on your hand tightening in a silent promise. "He doesn't know this house, he doesn't have the gate code, and he sure as hell can't get past the security system. More than that... she won't be alone for a single second."

​"You don't understand!" Your mom suddenly screams, her voice cracking violently as she rips her hands away from yours.

​The raw, agonizing anguish in her voice echoes off the high ceilings, cutting Yoongi off entirely. She turns on him, her small frame shaking with a terrifying mix of maternal fury and absolute devastation. She steps right into Yoongi's space, pointing a trembling finger at his chest.

​"You think this is about gate codes and security systems?!" She cries, the tears finally spilling over her cheeks in a frantic rush. "You think you can just stand there with your logic and your calm voice and fix this? Yoongi, you don't understand the severity of what happened to my daughter! You weren't there!"

​Yoongi goes completely rigid, his jaw locking tight as he absorbs the impact of her words. He doesn't step back, but his dark eyes widen slightly under the weight of her grief.

​"You didn't get the phone call," your mom sobs, her chest heaving as she clutches her own shirt, reliving the worst night of her life right there in the middle of the room. "You didn't get a frantic, sobbing call from her little brother choking on his own breath, saying... 'Mom, come to the hospital, I think she's dead.'"

​Chris looks away instantly, his chest tight as his eyes well up with old, buried trauma, his bandaged hand instinctively clenching into a fist. Nick looks down at his boots, a dark, helpless shadow crossing his face. Across the room, Jungkook’s arms drop slowly to his sides, his face losing all color, while Jimin stares at your mother with a look of profound, aching sorrow.

"You didn't have to watch her go through life pretending she didn't care about things just to get by!" Your mom continues, her voice breaking entirely on a ragged, breathless sob. She presses the heels of her hands against her eyes, but the tears keep coming, spilling through her fingers. "You didn't see the years it took just to get her to smile again! She stopped trying, Yoongi. She stopped wanting things, stopped reaching for things, because that son of a bitch drilled it in her head that she didn't deserve anything!"

The living room is completely suffocated by the weight of her words.

Yoongi stands entirely frozen. His dark eyes glaze over. His throat bobs as he swallows hard, his jaw tight, his chest heaving with a slow, heavy breath. He looks down at you, his gaze searching your face, seeing the truth of your mother’s words written in the quiet, guarded way you hold yourself.

Your dad steps forward, his heavy hand coming down on your mother’s shaking shoulder, pulling her gently back against his chest. He wraps his arms around her, letting her bury her face in his shirt as her shoulders heave with quiet, exhausted cries.

Over the silence of your mother's weeping, your dad looks up. His eyes, hardened by years of carrying his family’s collective trauma, lock directly onto Yoongi.

"She's right, Yoongi," your dad says. "Gated walls are nice. Security systems are nice. But I've spent the last few years watching my daughter build a wall around her own heart just to survive. If he's back, and if he figures out she's here... I need to know, man to man, exactly what you intend to do. Because if you can't guarantee me that she stays safe and that she doesn't have to go back to hiding in the dark. Then she is coming home with me today. No arguments."

Yoongi takes a slow step forward. He doesn't look at your brothers, he doesn't look at Jimin or Jungkook, who are watching him with intense, unwavering solidarity. He looks your father dead in the eye.

"I can't change what happened to her," Yoongi says. "And I would give anything to have been there to stop it. But I am here now."

He reaches down, his large, warm hand finding yours again. This time, he weaves his fingers through yours, locking them tight.

"I'm not asking her to hide," Yoongi continues, his gaze unwavering as he addresses your father. "And I'm sure as hell not going to let her go back to just pretending to get by. She’s lived in the shadow of that coward for too long. If she stays here, she isn't hiding behind my walls. She’s living her life, and I am standing in front of her. I will protect her with everything I have. My roommates, my friends, my lawyer…we are entirely mapped around keeping her safe. If he so much as breathes in her direction, he has to go through me first. And I promise you, Mr. L/N, he won't survive the attempt."

Your dad stares at Yoongi for a long, agonizing moment, reading every line of the coach's face, searching for any sign of hesitation or empty bravado. He finds none. Yoongi’s posture is entirely unyielding, a solid brick wall of fierce, protective devotion.

Slowly, the tension in your dad's shoulders drops. He lets out a long, heavy breath through his nose and nods once, a silent passing of the guard.

"All right," your dad says softly, his hand gently rubbing your mother's back as her sobbing finally begins to subside. "All right. You stay here, Sunshine. You stay with him. But you call us every single day. You understand me?"

You nod quickly, a tear finally escaping your eye as you squeeze Yoongi’s hand back with everything you have.

Jimin quietly steps forward, offering a box of tissues to your mother with a gentle, respectful tilt of his head, while Jungkook clears his throat, awkwardly but earnestly rubbing the back of his neck.

"We'll take care of her, sir," Jungkook promises quietly, his voice dead serious. "We won't let anything happen to her."

Your mother slowly pulls away from your dad's chest, taking a tissue from Jimin with a watery, grateful murmur. She looks at you, drowning in Yoongi's black hoodie, and then looks up at Yoongi, seeing the way he holds your hand.

"You make sure she eats," your mom whispers, her voice cracked and raw as she reaches out, her fingers gently brushing the fabric of Yoongi's sleeve. "When she's scared... she doesn't like to eat."

"I know," Yoongi replies softly, his gaze melting into something incredibly tender as he looks down at you. "I've already got a plate waiting for her."

Your mother swallows hard, nodding as she takes a final step back into your father’s side. The raw, frantic panic that had threatened to tear the room apart slowly gives way to acceptance. They are still terrified…they are parents, and the scar on their family is too deep to ever truly fade…but as they look at the tight, unbreakable knot of Yoongi’s fingers woven through yours, they recognize a shield they can finally trust.

"We should get going," your dad says softly, his arm remaining firmly around your mother’s waist. He looks over at Nick and Chris, who are standing quietly by the door frame. "Boys, help them finish bringing in the last of the boxes, then come on home."

"We'll finish up here, Dad," Nick says quietly, his voice carrying a steady, supportive weight.

Your parents walk over to you one last time. Your mother pulls you into a fierce, trembling hug, burying her face in the crook of your neck, whispering another soft “I love you, Sunshine,” before she finally lets go. Your dad steps up next, wrapping his arms around you and pressing a firm kiss to the top of your head. When he pulls back, he offers Yoongi a single, tight nod. A silent, heavy contract between two men who would move mountains to keep you whole.

You watch from the center of the living room as your parents walk out the front door, the heavy wood clicking shut behind them.

The silence that follows is entirely different from before. It isn't suffocating or tense. It’s a collective exhale. The truth is entirely out in the open now. There are no more lies, no more cover stories about mold or foundations, and no more pretending. Chris clears his throat loudly, deliberately shattering the heavy mood as he lifts a final, taped box into his arms. "Alright, where does this one go? It says 'bedroom,' but since Yoongi’s basically glued to your side, do I take it to his room or what?" He questions.

"Christopher, shut up and give me that," Nick mutters, swatting the back of his brother’s head as he takes the box from him, guiding him down the hallway to give you two some space.

Jimin and Jungkook instantly follow suit, each grabbing a container with quiet, knowing smiles, deliberately leaving the living room empty. Once the hallway falls quiet, Yoongi slowly turns his body toward you. He doesn't say a word. He just reaches out with his free hand, his thumb gently catching a stray, lingering tear on your cheek and brushing it away.

With a soft, heavy sigh, you let your forehead fall forward, resting it right against his chest. You wrap your arms tightly around his waist, burying yourself completely in the comforting warmth of his frame. Yoongi’s arms come around you instantly, his chin resting against the top of your head as he holds you tightly.

"You're okay, Doll," he murmurs into your hair, his voice low, and soothing. "I've got you. We all do."

Standing there in the middle of the cluttered living room, surrounded by your cardboard boxes and the unyielding protection of the people inside these walls, the phantom chill of the bowling alley finally fades away entirely. You close your eyes, listening to the steady, rhythmic beat of Yoongi's heart beneath your cheek, you let yourself believe that you are finally, truly safe.

The screech of sneakers on hardwood, the rhythmic thud of a basketball, and the piercing blast of a referee’s whistle fill the crowded middle school gym. ​You’re currently squished tight on the bleachers, sandwiched directly between Elly and Sarah. The gym is packed to capacity for the game, forcing the three of you to sit shoulder-to-shoulder, knees knocked together.

​"Hands up, Nicky!" Sarah suddenly screams at the top of her lungs, cupping her hands around her mouth as her son sprints down the court. The second the opposing team misses a layup, she drops back down into her seat, effortlessly pivoting her head toward you without missing a single beat. "Okay, so back to what I was saying. Does he actually cook every night?"

​"Yes, he really cooks," you say with a laugh, pulling the long sleeves of your sweater down over your hands. "He made this incredible braised short rib a few nights ago. He pretends it's a hassle, but he spent four hours on it."

​"Unbelievable," Elly chimes in from your other side, leaning across your lap to join the interrogation. "Meanwhile, what’s the roommate dynamic? Last I remember Jimin was flirting pretty heavily with you at that bar we went to.”

"Oh, please," you say, laughing softly and shaking your head. "There is absolutely nothing weird going on with Jimin. He was just being a massive tease at the bar. Honestly, the roommate dynamic is surprisingly normal. Both Jimin and Jungkook are actually pretty helpful around the house."

​"Helpful how?" Sarah asks, her eyes briefly flicking back to the court as Nicky catches a pass on the perimeter. "Because if your brother is any indication, a house full of guys usually means a sink full of crusty dishes and an empty fridge."

​"No, they're actually great," you explain, adjusting your posture on the hard wooden bleacher. "Jungkook treats the place like his personal training ground, so he’s always doing the heavy lifting, taking out the trash before I can even look at it, or helping carry in groceries. And Jimin is surprisingly tidy. He's the one who makes sure the living room doesn't descend into total chaos, and he's always sliding a glass of juice or a snack my way when he thinks I'm stressing out."

​"So, no weird tension?" Elly presses. "You're living with three incredibly attractive guys, Y/N."

​"Absolutly not," you insist. "They’ve been so incredibly welcoming. They know... well, they know I needed a safe place to land, and they've completely accepted me into their space. Jungkook even let me hijack the TV to watch my shows the other night without a single complaint when Yoongi had to work late."

“Damn,” Sarah sighs. “Can I move in?”

"Don't let Nick hear you say that," you tease, nudging Sarah’s shoulder with your own.

​The three of you burst into a chorus of light, easy laughter, the sound easily blending into the roar of the gym. It feels liberating to just sit here and laugh…to feel the simple, ordinary joy of a Saturday morning basketball game instead of the suffocating weight that had threatened to crush you not too long ago.

​Down on the court, the final buzzer pierces through the chaotic noise of the gym. The crowd erupts into cheers as the scoreboard flashes the final numbers.

​The Bearcats win.

​Nicky lets out a triumphant shout, instantly high-fiving his teammates before jogging off the court toward the stands. You stand up along with Sarah and Elly, clapping furiously as Sarah practically beams with pride.

“Hey, Sunshine,” Chris says, leaning over Elly. “You know what this means, right?”

“What?” You look at your little brother.

​Chris rubs his hands together, a mischievous, deeply amused smirk spreading across his face.

You don't like that…at all.

“If the Ravens win their game later today…and let's be real, they will, since Yoongi’s kids have been undefeated all damn season. Yoongi's team is going to play Nicky and the Bearcats next week in the semifinals,” he informs you.

​”Okay?” You look at him not understanding the big deal.

“If the Ravens win next week, they knock Nicky and the Bearcats completely out of the running for the championship game. Yoongi would literally be crushing Nicky's dreams. The stakes are dangerously high, Sunshine.” Chris informs you. Elly looks at you with wide eyes as you stare back at her. “The question is, who do you root for? Your boyfriend that you live with….or… your nephew that you love more than anything?”

You look down at the court, where Nicky is currently being hoisted into the air by your brother, Nick. The sheer joy on your nephew’s face is blinding as he high-fives his dad, his chest puffed out with all the pride a middle schooler can muster. Nick looks just as thrilled, his loud laughter carrying over the noise of the gym as he ruffled his son's sweaty hair.

​That was your family down there. The boy who called you just to tell you about a good grade, and the brother who would do anything to protect you from your worst nightmare.

​And next week, Yoongi’s team was standing in the way of their absolute dream.

​“Shit,” you groan, dropping your head into your hands.

“Are you wearing black and blue for the Ravens, or green and gold for the Bearcats? Choose wisely, because Nick will absolutely hold a grudge if you bet against his kid.” Chris smirks.

​“I am not choosing,” you say quickly, peeking through your fingers at Sarah, who is currently watching her husband and son with a soft, knowing smile. “Can’t it just be a tie? Do middle school basketball games tie?”

​“Not in the semifinals, they don't,” Elly chimes in, leaning over to nudge your elbow, her eyes flashing with playful amusement. “Someone has to lose.”

​You let out a soft, defeated sigh, pulling your hands away from your face to look back down at the court.

Dammit.

Your bedroom…well, your and Yoongi's bedroom now, which is still a bizarre thing to think about, is dim except for the warm glow of the bedside lamp. The ceiling fan fills the silence as you sit cross-legged on the edge of the bed, pulling one of Yoongi's oversized t-shirts over your head.

Across the room, Yoongi is standing at the dresser in a pair of black sweatpants, absentmindedly folding the hoodie you'd stolen earlier. The sight still does something ridiculous to your heart. You watch him for a moment before speaking.

"Chris told me something today," you say.

"That already sounds dangerous." Yoongi glances over his shoulder.

"That's because it is." You snort.

"What did your idiot brother say now?" He sets the hoodie down and walks over to the bed.

"First of all…" You lightly slap his arm, making him laugh. "Second of all, he informed me that since the Ravens won their game today. Next week..." You trail off.

"Oh." Yoongi's expression immediately shifts.

"Yeah. Oh." You nod. “As much as I love Nicky. He doesn't have a chance to win, does he?”

Yoongi pauses halfway through sitting down on the edge of the bed. That hesitation tells you everything before he even opens his mouth.

"Oh my god." Your eyes narrow immediately.

"What?" He asks.

"You hesitated,"you tell him. “They are going to lose.”

"Doll…" Yoongi sighs heavily and rubs a hand across the back of his neck.

"They're absolutely going to lose." You shake your head.

​"You don't know that," he says smoothly, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward. He reaches out, his large, warm hand finding your ankle beneath the oversized t-shirt and giving it a gentle, grounding squeeze. "My team is strong, yeah, but... Nicky is a strong player. The kid's got a mean crossover, and he hasn't been hesitating. His jumpshot has come a long way."

​"Are you trying to soften the blow?" You tease, leaning forward and resting your chin on your knees.

​"I'm just saying, if the Bearcats execute their plays, they can pull it out." Yoongi nods.

​"But will they?" You press, raising an eyebrow at him. "Man to man, Yoongi. Be honest with me. Do I need to wear my green and gold shirt to support my nephew, or am I going piss off Nick because I wore black and blue for the Ravens?"

​Yoongi’s gaze softens completely, his fingers tracing a slow, soothing pattern against your ankle. The playful smirk fades into something incredibly tender.

​"You wear that green and gold," Yoongi tells you. “You always support Nicky first. I don't need you to root for me."

​He moves further onto the mattress, bridging the small gap between you. His large hand travels from your ankle up to the curve of your waist, his palm warm against the cotton of his oversized shirt. He leans in close, his dark eyes locking onto yours.

​"I'll have you right here with me at the end of the night," he murmurs, his breath brushing warm against your lips. "That's the only win I care about."

"You're very confident, Coach Min." You smile, placing your hands on his shoulders.

​"Just stating facts, Doll," he whispers. He leans down, his lips meeting yours in a slow, lingering kiss that tastes faintly of mint. It’s a gentle, unhurried pressure, his thumb tracing a comforting line across your hip.

"No matter what happens next week," Yoongi assures you. "Nicky needs to be proud of himself for how hard he's worked this season. He's earned every bit of his progress."

​Hearing him say that makes something ache in your chest in the best possible way. You think back to those evenings over the last few months, when Yoongi would voluntarily coach a player that wasn't his. He didn't have to do it, but because he knew how much basketball meant to your nephew…and how much your family meant to you…he’d spent hours working one-on-one with Nicky.

​Yoongi had been the one who fixed the hitch in the kid's jump shot. Yoongi was the one who taught him how to protect the ball on a drive, showing him how to use his size exactly the way Nick used to back in his own playing days.

​"You really mean that, don't you?" You ask softly, sliding your hands up from his shoulders to rest against the back of his neck, your fingers tangling in his hair. "Even if your Ravens completely dismantle them next Saturday?"

​"I always mean it," Yoongi mutters. He shifts closer, pulling your hip flush against his side. "The kid took everything I threw at him. He didn't complain once when I made him run drills until his legs shook, and he actually listened when I told him to stop rushing his release. Whether they win or lose, Nicky played like a real competitor this year. I'm not going to let him forget that just because my guys have a little advantage on the court."

​"You're a really good coach, Yoongi," you whisper, leaning forward to press your forehead against his chest, listening to the heavy, comforting thud of his heart. "And an even better man.”

"Don't go getting soft on me now, Doll." Yoongi lets out a low, rough chuckle against your hair, his arms winding completely around your waist to pull you tightly against his chest.

"Oh, please," you murmur, your voice muffled by his t-shirt as you laugh softly. "You like it."

"I know," he mutters, though his chest rumbles with amusement.

He shifts his weight, guiding both of you down until you're lying side-by-side on the mattress, your head perfectly pillowed on his shoulder. His large hand comes down to rest flat against your lower back, keeping you anchored right against his side.

The dim light of the bedside lamp catches the sharp angles of his face, softening the intense look he always wears when he's thinking about the game. He stares up at the ceiling fan for a quiet second, his fingers tracing slow, idle patterns against your back.

"If we're talking logistics," Yoongi says, breaking the silence. "There is one condition to this green-and-gold business."

"A condition? Coach Min, are you trying to bribe a spectator?" You tilt your head up, resting your chin on his chest to look at him.

"I'm negotiating," he corrects smoothly, his dark eyes flicking down to meet yours. "If I'm going to let you sit on the opponent's bench and look fine as hell in their colors while my team does the heavy lifting... I need a guarantee."

"What kind of guarantee?" You question.

"I need you to secure a batch of Sarah’s chocolate chip cookies. If Nick's going to be insufferable about the rivalry all week, the least his wife can do is pay tribute to the winning coach." Yoongi leans his head back into the pillow, a slow, lazy smirk finally tugging at the corner of his lips.

You burst into a bright, genuine laugh, the sound echoing lightly in the quiet bedroom. The sheer absurdity of him using a high-stakes middle school basketball game to trade for baked goods completely dissolves the last lingering shadows of the week.

"You want me to exploit my sister-in-law's baking skills for your pre-game snacks?" You ask, shaking your head in disbelief.

"I'm just saying, those cookies are elite," Yoongi says defensively, though his eyes are dancing with amusement. "And if Nicky loses, she's going to be baking to cope with the tragedy anyway. I'm just looking out for the community's resources. Do we have a deal?"

"Fine, I'll see what I can do," you agree, your laughter trailing off into a soft, contented sigh as you lay your head back down over his heart.

Yoongi's arm tightens around you, pulling the heavy comforter up over your shoulders until you're completely insulated from the rest of the world. Listening to the steady, unhurried rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, the outside noise completely fades away. You close your eyes, letting the safe, solid warmth of him carry you into a deep, dreamless sleep.

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A/N: What a morning! Our back neighbor's house was on fire…. and we stood over kitty litter and watched the firefighters put it out. I never thought I would be that person.

It was scary!

I got distracted… but here we go!

The middle school gym is the same nightmare it was when Nicky was running drills here not too long ago. ​The only difference is that Nicky isn't here. He is a high schooler now, hoping to play under a completely different roof, which made your presence in this gym feel entirely uncalled for.

​“I’m striking. I’m officially on strike,” you announce, your voice echoing off the high rafters as the heavy metal door bangs shut behind you.

You march across the polished wood, your work bag slung over one shoulder and a thick, heavy cardboard box clutched in your arms. At the far end of the court, two heads snap up. Yoongi is standing near the baseline, a whistle nestled in his palm, while Jungkook is effortlessly spinning a basketball on the tip of his finger. The gym is blissfully quiet since practice doesn't start for another twenty minutes, and the impending storm of chaotic energy hasn’t arrived yet.

​“You can’t strike,” Yoongi says, a slow, familiar smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he watches you approach. “You haven’t even clocked in yet, Doll.”

​“My job here is done,” you argue, dropping the heavy box onto the first row of the bleachers with a dramatic thud. “Nicky graduated. He moved on. He is legally a high schooler, which means my tenure as a basketball aunt-slash-guardian-angel has officially expired. I served my time.”

“Come on, no love for the new generation? The little bitty ones need you.” ​Jungkook catches the ball, tucking it under his arm with a grin.

​“The little bitty ones are eight years old, Jungkook. Eight,” you emphasize, turning to glare at your boyfriend. “They don’t need a team manager. They need a daycare provider. Why am I here, Min Yoongi? I'm pregnant. I'm tired. I'm hungry. I'm nauseous. I'm grumpy.”

Jungkook laughs, causing Yoongi to elbow him.

“And I didn’t think it was possible for you to be all five at the exact same time,” Jungkook teases, rubbing his ribs where Yoongi’s elbow had just made an impact.

​Yoongi ignores him entirely, his smirk instantly vanishing the second the words nauseous and tired leaves your mouth. He drops his clipboard onto the bleachers and is in front of you in three long strides, his hands coming up to gently cup your elbows. His brow furrows as his eyes scan your face, searching for any hint of paleness.

​“Are you okay?” He asks. “Did you throw up at work today? Do we need to go home? I can have Jungkook run the first half of practice alone.”

​“Hey! I mean, yeah, I can, but hey!” Jungkook protests.

​“I didn't throw up,” you sigh, letting your shoulders slump as you lean your forehead against Yoongi’s chest for a brief second. The familiar scent of your laundry detergent and leather gym bag was weirdly comforting. “It’s just that lingering, background nausea. The kind that makes me want to eat a sleeve of saltines but also throw them at anyone who breathes too loudly near me.”

“If it gets worse, you tell me right away. Don’t just sit here and suffer through it because you think you have to.” ​Yoongi’s thumbs rub soothing circles into your arms, a relieved but still fiercely protective look in his eyes.

​“I’m only here because you dragged me here,” you mumble into his shirt before pulling back to glare at him again, trying to regain your previous momentum. “With your sweet talk. And your text messages.”

​“Because I’m desperate, Doll,” Yoongi admits, guiding you to sit down on the lower bleacher so you could get off your feet. He sits right next to you, his hand immediately finding yours and rubbing the back of your knuckles. “Look, with the league expanding, the paperwork is turning into a total disaster. Jungkook and I can draw up plays in our sleep, but we are drowning in the logistics.”

​“He really is,” Jungkook chimes in, walking over and peering into the cardboard box you’d dropped. “Yoongi spent two hours yesterday trying to figure out why three different parents signed their kid up three different times.”

​“I had it under control,” Yoongi mutters, though a faint hint of pink on his cheeks told a different story. He turns his attention back to you, his eyes pleading. “You’re the only one I can trust to organize this stuff, Y/N. The sponsors, the schedules, the liability forms….if you don't help us, the parents are going to eat us alive before the first game even starts.”

"And what exactly do I get out of this arrangement?" You narrow your eyes at him.

"What?" Yoongi blinks.

"Compensation." You repeat.

"You're extorting me." A look of disbelief crosses his face.

"Correct." You nod your head.

"She's got a point." Jungkook immediately points at you.

"Stay out of this." Yoongi looks at his assistant coach.

"No, no," Jungkook says, dropping onto the bleachers beside the cardboard box. "This is a labor negotiation. We need terms."

"I want snacks." You cross your arms.

"Done." Yoongi nods, finally agreeing.

"Unlimited snacks." You narrow your eyes.

"Still done." He agrees.

"A giant soft pretzel." You smile

"Where am I supposed to get that?" He asks.

"The gas station down the street," you say.

"Fine." Yoongi sighs heavily.

"And one of those little blue raspberry slushies." You add.

"You hate blue raspberry." He raises his eyebrow.

"The baby doesn't." You smirk.

Jungkook laughs so hard he nearly drops the basketball and Yoongi pinches the bridge of his nose.

"This kid is going to bankrupt me before it's born." Yoongi crosses his arms.

"That's not my problem." You shrug.

"It literally is your problem." Yoongi nods.

"Then I guess you should have pulled out." You smile sweetly.

"OH MY GOD." Jungkook chokes.

"Why are you like this?" Yoongi mutters.

Because he's already losing the argument, he reaches into the box and places a thick stack of papers directly into your lap. When you look down, you see papers you are very familiar with. Liability forms, picture forms, handbook, insurance forms and you scrunch your face.

“You didn't even staple them this year,” you sigh.

“I love you.” He smiles.

You let out a heavy, dramatic sigh that echoes off the gym's rafters, sliding off the bleacher and walking over to the white plastic folding table set up directly in front of them. It’s entirely defeated, but your fingers are already twitching. On the center of the table sits a single, heavy-duty stapler.

​“You’re lucky you’re cute,” you grumble under your breath, dropping the chaotic stack of papers onto the plastic surface.

​Yoongi just watches you move, that soft, completely smug smirk returning to his lips. He doesn't even deny it, just stands there looking entirely too pleased with himself for successfully manipulating his pregnant girlfriend into doing free administrative labor.

Soon, ​the quiet sanctuary vanishes in a singular, violent instant. The impending storm has officially arrived, and it comes in the form of twenty eight-year-olds bursting into the facility like a pack of untamed puppies. The high ceiling immediately fills with a chaotic symphony. Shoes squeaking aggressively against the polished wood, basketballs bouncing in every direction except the correct one, and a low, ambient roar of parental chatter following close behind.

​“Alright, look at that, the circus is here!” Jungkook claps his hands together, his face lighting up with genuine excitement as he jogs out to the center of the court. He drops the ball he was holding and blows a sharp, loud blast on his whistle. “Ravens! Gather up on the baseline! If you’re wearing sneakers, I want to see you running right now! Let's go, let's go!”

​The kids scatter like ants, some of them sprinting directly toward Jungkook, while a few others continue to bounce basketballs off their own feet or stare blankly at the high ceiling. Jungkook doesn't even blink. He immediately transitions into high-energy chaotic older brother mode, wrangling them into an approximation of a straight line, high-fiving the tiny kids whose jerseys hang down past their knees.

​While Jungkook handles the mini-athletes, Yoongi turns his attention to the crowd of adults lingering near the entrance, water bottles and giant tote bags in hand. ​His posture shifts instantly. The lazy, teasing boyfriend disappears, replaced by the confident, authoritative head coach who commands respect the second he steps forward. He walks over to the edge of the court, clearing his throat, his deep voice easily cutting through the noise of the gym.

​“Parents, if I could have your attention for just a few minutes before we get started,” Yoongi calls out, raising a hand to gesture toward the front of the court. The crowd of adults quickly quiets down, their eyes locking onto him. “Have a seat on the bleachers. Welcome to the Bangtan Ravens,” Yoongi says, his voice level and steady, carrying easily to the back row of the bleachers where the parents were beginning to settle. He stands with his hands tucked into the pockets of his track pants, the whistle resting against his chest. “I know some of you from the older leagues, but for those I haven't met yet, I’m Coach Min. That’s Coach Jeon out on the floor.”

​A few parents nod, while others were still trying to wave down their kids who were already ignoring Jungkook’s line-up to attempt wild, two-handed half-court shots.

​“I’m going to keep this brief so we can get this started,” Yoongi continues, stepping closer to the bleachers. The lazy, soft-eyed expression he’d given you just minutes prior was entirely gone, replaced by the sharp, no-nonsense focus. “But we need to establish a few things first. I know this is the bitty league. I know they’re eight. But the expectations for this team are high. We aren’t here to just run around and burn off energy for an hour.”

​A collective murmur goes through the parents. A few moms exchange looks, their expressions shifting from casual to slightly intimidated.

​“Our goal is to build fundamental basketball players,” Yoongi says, his tone leaving absolutely zero room for argument. “And that requires commitment. Practice is three days a week…Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays, sharp at four. Games are every Saturday morning. If your kid isn't here for practice, they don't start on Saturday. It’s that simple.”

​Out in the court, Jungkook is currently letting an eight-year-old high-five him so hard the kid nearly tips over, but Yoongi’s presence keeps the bleachers perfectly locked in.

​You let out a quiet snort, focusing on the white plastic table. Classic Min Yoongi, you thought, grabbing the first liability form and aligning it with the emergency contact sheet. Treating third-graders like they're trying out for the Olympic developmental squad.

​Thump.

​You press the heavy-duty stapler down, the metal staple biting cleanly through the thick paper with a satisfying, solid click. You slide the finished packet to the left and reach for the next one.

​Yoongi’s voice drifts over your shoulder, becoming a steady, rhythmic background noise. “...if they don’t have the right footwear by next Tuesday, they sit. Safety is the priority, and...”

​Thump.

​You tune him out, your hands falling into a familiar, mindless rhythm. Align the sheets. Straighten the edges. Press. Slide. The background nausea was still there, a dull, metallic ache at the base of your throat, but the physical repetition of the work gave you something to focus on. You find yourself staring at the tiny silver staples, your mind wandering to blue raspberry slushies and the giant, salty pretzel currently waiting for you at the gas station down the road. Yoongi is definitely going to have to buy two pretzels if he wants to survive the car ride home.

​Thump.

​A shadow falls over the right side of the table, blocking out the harsh overhead gym fluorescent lights. ​You don't look up, assuming it was a parent who had sneaked away from Yoongi’s lecture to dump an unbent late form in your face.

“Sunshine,” Nicky whispers, making you look up from your staples. “Look at all the sports I can do in high school.”

“What are you doing here?” You ask. “I thought you had weight lifting?”

“I finished.” He smiles, flexing his biceps. “Look at these guns!”

“Yeah,” you laugh, looking down at the new papers. “Cross country, lacrosse, golf… Are you actually planning on playing lacrosse, or are you just trying to see how many helmets you can accumulate before you graduate?”

​“I’m keeping my options open,” Nicky shrugs, though his eyes dart over to the court where Yoongi was finishing his lecture to the parents. “But mostly, I wanted to see if Coach’s head would explode if I told him I was joining the golf team instead of playing winter ball.”

​You let out a genuine laugh, the sudden vibration causing a tiny flare of nausea in your throat that you quickly swallowed down.

“Oh, please do it. I want to see the exact moment his soul leaves his body.” You smile.

​“Tell me what?” Yoongi asks.

​You didn't even hear him approach. Yoongi is suddenly standing right beside the table, having wrapped up his parental lecture while you and Nicky were plotting his athletic demise. He has his clipboard tucked under his arm, his sharp eyes darting between you and his former star player with a suspicious brow raised.

​Nicky doesn't even flinch. He clears his throat, stands up a little straighter, and looks Yoongi dead in the eye.

​“Coach,” Nicky says, his voice dropping an octave in an attempt to sound like a mature high schooler. “I wanted you to hear it from me first. I’m retiring from basketball. I’ve found my true calling, and I’m going to dedicate my life to golf.”

​The gym seems to go dead silent for a fraction of a second, save for the distant sound of Jungkook shouting, “No, don't lick the ball!”

​Yoongi doesn't blink. He doesn't sigh. He doesn't even look surprised. He just stares at Nicky for three long, agonizing seconds, his face completely expressionless.

​“Yeah, right,” Yoongi says. He doesn't even waste the energy to scoff. Without missing a beat, he points his clipboard toward the chaotic baseline. “Grab a group of kids and start teaching them to dribble. Left hand only. They’re currently trying to use their heads.”

​Nicky’s solemn, professional athlete facade shatters instantly. His eyes light up, a massive, goofy grin spreading across his face.

“Yes, Coach!” He exclaims.

​He doesn't care that his grand retirement announcement has been completely dismissed. He is thrilled to be back in Yoongi's orbit, trusted with a group of kids. Nicky practically bounces onto the court, chest puffed.

“Alright, tiny humans! Listen up! Future PGA tour legend Nicky is in the house, and we are learning the crossover!” Nicky yells.

​“Left hand only, Nicky!” Yoongi barks after him, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward as he watches the teenager immediately dive into the fray, successfully distracting four eight-year-olds who had been trying to climb the bleachers.

Yoongi watches Nicky for another second, making sure the kid actually intercepted the kids. Satisfied that the teenager was sufficiently managing the chaos, Yoongi turns and jogs out onto the court to join Jungkook and Nicky in the madness.

​Thump.

​You slide another liability form into the completed pile. Out on the court the new Ravens are in full swing. Yoongi’s deep voice booms over the squeaks of sneakers, correcting a kid’s stance, while Jungkook was actively hyping up a small boy who had managed to dribble three times without tripping over his own feet.

​You let out a soft breath, reaching into the heavy cardboard box for the next stack of handbooks. The mundane repetition was doing wonders for keeping your stomach calm, even if the faint, metallic taste of lingering nausea was still hovering right at the back of your throat.

​“...Honestly, I was expecting some old guy who yelled a lot,” a muted whisper drifts over from the first row of bleachers, just a few feet to your left.

​You pause, your hand hovering over the stapler.

​“Right?” Another mom whispers back, leaning in close to her friend, her oversized canvas tote bag slung over her arm. “When my husband said he signed Leo up for the bitty league, I thought I’d be spending my Tuesday afternoons staring at a wall. But Coach Min? Oh my god. The eyes? The track pants? It is not a hardship to sit through these practices.”

​“And that little smirk he does when he’s being strict?” The first mom giggles, keeping her eyes glued to the court where Yoongi was currently demonstrating a chest pass, the fabric of his black athletic shirt stretching across his back. “It’s criminal. I’d let him assign me extra drills any day.”

​You slowly lower your hands onto the plastic table. The background nausea flared just a little bit, spiked by a sudden, sharp surge of pure, unadulterated amusement. You don't even look up at first, keeping your gaze fixed on the heavy-duty stapler, a slow, sweet, entirely unhinged smile spreading across your face.

​You turn your head toward them, placing your elbows against the edge of the folding table.

​“Be careful, ladies,” you speak up, your voice clear, calm, and perfectly carrying over the low hum of the bleachers.

​The two moms snap their heads around, their faces instantly flushing a bright, guilty crimson as they realize they’d been caught red-handed.

“His baby mama is incredibly nauseous today, and she has excellent aim. If you don't want a sleeve of saltines…and potentially worse…dumped directly onto your expensive sneakers, I would highly suggest you shut up.” ​You narrow your eyes at them.

​The silence that settled over that specific section of the bleachers was instantaneous. The second mom actually choked on her iced coffee, her eyes widening as her gaze drops directly to your stomach, and then to the fierce, protective glare you were casually sporting.

​“Oh…oh my gosh, we didn’t…we were just…” the first one stammered, frantically waving her hands in the air as her face burned a deeper shade of red.

​Before they could completely dissolve into a puddle of embarrassment, Yoongi walks back over to grab a sleeve of tiny orange cones from a box by you. He looks between your smug, dangerous expression and the two parents who look like they were about to confess to a federal crime.

​“Everything good over here?” Yoongi asks, his brow raised as his eyes scans your face, looking for any sign that your stomach had taken a turn for the worse.

​“Perfect, Coach,” you smile sweetly, lifting a fresh packet of paper.

​Yoongi stares at you for a long second, completely catching the heavy, mischievous vibe radiating off you. A slow, familiar smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he grabs the cones. He doesn't know exactly what you’d said, but he knows you well enough to know you’d just terrified someone.

You don't break eye contact with the two women, whose faces had now transitioned from a guilty crimson to a pale, mortified terror. The mom with the iced coffee looked like she was actively trying to dissolve into the wood grain of the bleachers.

“Actually, Coach,” you say, your voice dripping with artificial sweetness as you lean back against your seat. “You should know you have a couple of really dedicated fans sitting right here in row one.”

Yoongi pauses, the sleeve of orange plastic cones clutched in his hand. He looks at you, then turns his sharp, feline eyes toward the two moms. He blinks once, completely oblivious to the exact nature of the conversation but immediately picking up on the awkwardness radiating off the bleachers.

“Fans?” Yoongi repeats, his brow furrowing. He looks down at his track pants, then back at the women, his expression settling into his usual deadpan, no-nonsense coach persona. “The season hasn’t even started yet.”

“Oh, they aren't worried about the scoreboard, babe,” you chime in, resting your hands comfortably over your stomach. “They were just admiring your... fundamentals. Especially your chest passes. And that little strict smirk you do. They find it highly educational.”

The first mom let out a high-pitched, strangled squeak that sounded remarkably like Jungkook’s whistle. She looks frantically at the exit, clearly calculating if she could sprint out of the middle school gym before Yoongi could say another word. The second mom looks like she was praying for the ceiling to collapse.

Yoongi stares at them for two long, agonizing seconds. The gears shift in his head, and the second he realizes exactly what you were implying, a faint, dark flush crept up the back of his neck. His protective instincts, however, kick in way faster than his embarrassment.

His posture straightens, his shoulders broadening as he deliberately steps into the space between the bleachers and your table, effectively shielding you. He doesn't smirk. If anything, his face goes completely blank, the authoritative, cool demeanor he uses to shut down rowdy opposing coaches locking instantly into place.

“Right,” Yoongi says, his deep voice carrying a sudden, icy weight. He reaches out, his hand dropping onto your shoulder, his thumb rubbing a warm, possessive circle through your shirt in full view of the entire row. “Well, since you're sitting so close to the bench, let me introduce you properly.”

The moms nod rigidly, looking like students called into the principal's office.

“This is Y/N,” Yoongi says, his tone proud and entirely unyielding as he looks down at you, his eyes softening for just a fraction of a second before turning back to the bleachers. “She’s my girlfriend and the Ravens' official team coordinator. Every piece of paper, every schedule, and every jersey size goes through her. If she isn't happy, the team doesn't run smoothly and that won't make me happy.”

He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in, before adding a little parting shot.

“And she’s pregnant, she’s dealing with some pretty brutal morning sickness today, and she handles all of our logistics with terrifying precision. So I'd highly recommend keeping her happy.”

“We…we’re so sorry, congratulations, we'll be quiet!” The first mom blurts out, her hands flying over her mouth as she grabs her canvas tote bag and practically dragged her friend three rows higher up into the bleachers, far out of your immediate striking range.

You watch them scramble up the stairs like panicked squirrels, letting out a soft, satisfied hum as you reach for the stapler.

Yoongi lets out a heavy breath, shaking his head as he turns back to face you, a mixture of disbelief and amusement fighting for dominance on his face. He leans down, placing both hands on the edge of the plastic table, bringing his face level with yours.

“Doll,” he murmurs, his voice dropping low enough that only you could hear it over the sound of twenty kids screaming on the court. “Are you trying to start a war with the new parents before the first whistle blows?”

“I’m protecting my territory,” you shrug, aligning a fresh set of liability forms. “I'm not dealing with another Ara.”

A slow, genuinely amused smile finally breaks through his tough-coach exterior, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he reaches out and gently pinches your chin.

“Yeah, yeah. Just hang in there and then I'm driving you straight to the gas station for that blue raspberry ice-sludge,” he tells you.

“And the pretzel,” you remind him, pointing a finger at his chest. “Two pretzels. One for the baby, and one for me to throw at you if you keep smirking like that.”

“Two pretzels, copy that,” Yoongi chuckles, straightening up and tucking the orange cones under his arm. He gives your shoulder one last affectionate squeeze before turning back toward the chaotic court, his voice instantly booming through the rafters again. “Jeon! Stop letting them ride on your back, we have three minutes left on the dribbling drills! Nicky, get those kids off the bars!”

You smile, the background nausea finally fading. With a satisfying, heavy thump, you slammed the stapler down, driving the metal cleanly through the paper. Your tenure as a middle school basketball aunt might have expired, but as the coordinator…and the certified boss of Coach Min…you were just getting started.

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A/N: Posting Update!

There will not be any updates next week. I'm going on vacation and will not be bringing any of my stuff with me. I also have another little thing planned next month as well but I'll of course give you heads up when I skip that week.

The watercolor class is completely different from the charcoal workshop. Here, the only sounds are the soft, rhythmic scrape of brushes against textured paper and the gentle slosh of water in glass jars.

Soft music plays in the background. There are no sounds of whimpering anxiety from your fellow classmates. Just a serene, calming studio.

Yura had been right. Watercolor is entirely different. It doesn't demand the aggressive, physical presence that charcoal did. It doesn't leave you looking like a chimney sweep. Instead, it requires a strange, peaceful surrender. You watch a bloom of deep ultramarine bleed effortlessly into a wet wash of cobalt turquoise, the colors merging on the heavy cotton paper to create a seamless, dreamy twilight sky.

For the first time since everything happened, the frantic, buzzing static in your mind is completely quiet. You aren't forcing yourself to dig through the fog. You aren't desperately reaching for puzzle pieces. You are just watching the water do the work, building layers of color, feeling a profound sense of calm wash over you.

Your hands are steady. They feel like yours.

The serene silence is softly broken by the familiar ding of your phone resting on the edge of the wooden easel.

You set your brush down across the rim of your water jar, wiping your damp fingers on an apron before picking up the device. A smile already hitches at the corners of your lips before you even unlock the screen, anticipating the inevitable chaos.

When the notification pops up, it isn't a direct message. It’s a update from the collective group chat.

Jin changed the group name from "Operation Find Her Braincells" to "She's Back-ish"

A breathless laugh escapes you, drawing a curious but friendly glance from an elderly woman painting a bowl of fruit two easels over. You offer her a sheepish nod before quickly looking back down at the screen as the messages immediately begin to cascade.

Jin: It is a temporary title!

Jin: But after the Masterclass Demonstration of the Sacred Mussel Technique, I felt the previous name was insulting to her muscle memory.

Taehyung: I still have the shell on my nightstand. It radiates protective energy.

Jimin: Taehyung, please throw the garbage away, it smells like the pier at low tide.

Jungkook: I told you guys she’d stick the landing! (Even though Yoongi sabotaged our acrobatic routine because he has weak ankles).

Yoongi: My ankles are fine. Shut up.

Yura: Leave him alone, Yoongi.

Yura: Anyway, Y/N!! How is the watercolor class going?? Is it a masterpiece yet?

You lift your phone, framing the half-finished twilight sky on your easel. The colors look even better through the lens, the deep blues and soft, bleeding turquoises vivid against the white of the paper. You snap the photo and type out a quick reply.

You: Not a masterpiece yet but it’s a lot more relaxing than charcoal

​You hit send, attaching the photo to the message.

​Hobi: WAHHHH!! Look at those colors! Y/N, that looks so professional!! My artistic queen! 🎨✨

​Namjoon: Really impressive blending, Y/N. The transitions are super smooth. You should be really proud of that, it’s looking beautiful.

The chat continues to scroll at lightning speed, a blur of emojis and enthusiastic punctuation, when a new message from Jin halts the art appreciation train completely.

​Jin: Speaking of beautiful transitions!

Jin: Now that Y/N is reclaiming her braincells, we need to finalize the schedule for the Annual Summer Solstice Wilderness Spectacular. 🌲⛺🔥

Yoongi: Please don't call it that.

Hobi: OOOOOOOH IT’S TIME!!! 😍🎒

​Your thumb hovers over the screen. The what?

​Jungkook: RV #1. Yura and I already spent the weekend upgrading the sound system and installing the LED underglow. It looks like a spaceship. We are leading the convoy.

Yura: Can confirm. Also, I bought three industrial-sized bags of marshmallows. We're doing gourmet s'mores.

Taehyung: I get the loft bed in RV #1! I already packed my silk pajamas and my telescope.

Jungkook: Absolutely not, Tae, that’s the designated gaming zone. You’re in RV #2 with Jin and Namjoon.

Jin: Excuse me?! RV #2 is the Culinary Oasis! I have already pre-marinated forty pounds of short ribs. Namjoon is banned from touching any open flames, but he is permitted to chop vegetables under strict supervision.

Namjoon: I sliced one finger one time three years ago, Jin. But fine. I’ll stick to being the navigator. (Though last time we went, Yoongi took a wrong turn and we ended up in a tractor dealership parking lot for four hours).

Yoongi: I was avoiding a toll. And RV #3 is the quiet zone. No yelling, no LED lights, and absolutely no gaming after midnight.

​You stare at the screen, your smile slowly faltering. You blink once. Twice. You look from the phone back to your serene, peaceful watercolor painting, then back to the chat, which is currently a chaotic flood of tent-emoji spam and arguments over who is responsible for bringing the bug spray.

​You slowly type out a response, the steady feeling in your hands suddenly replaced by a mild sense of impending dread.

​You: Wait... camping?

The rapid-fire scrolling of the group chat suddenly halts. The silence on the screen is almost deafening, lasting for three long, agonizing seconds before the text bubbles start popping up again, frantic and overlapping.

​Yoongi: ...

​Jimin: Oh, brilliant. Nice job, everyone.

​Yura: 🤦‍♀️

​Yoongi: Of course she doesn't remember the camping trip. She literally lost her memories, and we're throwing forty pounds of short ribs and LED spaceships at her.

​Jin: Hey! I was trying to build excitement! Anticipation is the finest spice of life!

​Namjoon: Yoongi is right, though. Sorry, Y/N. We overshot. The Annual Summer Solstice Wilderness Spectacular is just our wordy name for the group camping trip we take every year.

​Jungkook: Wait, wait, don't panic! Y/N, you don't need to worry about anything. You’re in RV #1 with me and Yura. We have the best snacks, the best music.

Jungkook: I promise I won't let Taehyung bring his telescope into the gaming zone. It’s going to be perfect.

​You stare at the screen, your thumb hovering over the glass. The peacefulness of the watercolor studio suddenly feels miles away, replaced by the mental image of being trapped in a moving vehicle that looks like a neon spaceship, surrounded by forty pounds of raw meat, competitive gaming, and smelly mussel shells.

Yoongi’s name pops up, separating his message from the chaos of the group chat.

Yoongi: Hey.

Yoongi: Don't feel pressured to go if you don't want to. I know this is a lot to take in at once, and honestly, the thought of being trapped in an RV with Jin’s ribs and Jungkook’s LED lights for three days is giving me a headache, too.

Yoongi: If you’d rather stay behind. I'll stay with you.

You let out a soft breath, the tension in your shoulders easing just a fraction as you read his words. Leaving the chaotic group chat burning in the background, you quickly type back to him.

You: I don't even know anything about camping... I don't remember what to pack or what to do.

A moment later, the three little dots appear.

Yoongi: You don't need to know anything. You're not expected to bring anything but yourself.

Yoongi: Honestly, you loved it. You're usually the one who insists on going every year, even if you spend half the time complaining about the mosquitoes.

Yoongi: Jin already bought enough food to feed a small army. Everything is covered.

Yoongi: But the offer still stands. If it feels like too much too fast, you say the word and I’ll tell them we're sitting this one out. No questions asked.

You stare at his messages for a long moment.

The knot of anxiety in your chest loosens, not because camping suddenly sounds less chaotic, but because of the simple certainty behind his words.

If it feels like too much, we'll stay.

Not you'll stay.

We'll.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard.

You: You'd really stay behind?

The reply comes almost immediately.

Yoongi: Obviously.

Yoongi: The woods will still be there next year.

Yoongi: Besides, somebody has to protect civilization from Jin's experimental campfire recipes.

A laugh escapes you. Across the studio, the elderly woman glances over again. You quickly duck your head. You glance back at the group chat.

Thirty-seven unread messages.

Somehow, while you'd been talking to Yoongi, the conversation had devolved into an argument about whether raccoons could be trained to participate in capture-the-flag.

You honestly aren't sure which side is winning.

A small smile tugs at your lips.

Maybe camping sounds overwhelming. Maybe the idea of spending three days in the wilderness with seven human disasters and Yura should concern you.

But beneath all the chaos...

You can feel it.

The excitement.The strange sense that this is something important. Not because of the trip itself. Because it's theirs.

A tradition.

A memory.

Maybe one you don't remember. But maybe one you can make yours again. Before you can second-guess yourself, you back out of your conversation with Yoongi and jump into the main chat.

Your fingers move across the screen.

You: Okay.

Immediately, seven typing bubbles appear.

You: I'm in.

The response is instantaneous.

Hobi: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Jungkook: LET'S GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Yura: 🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉🎉

Taehyung: THE FAMILY IS WHOLE AGAIN

Jin: VICTORY!!!!!

Jimin: God help us all.

Namjoon: Excellent. I'll update the roster.

You laugh as messages begin flooding the screen.

Then another one appears.

Yoongi: Good.

Just that.

One word.

Yet that one makes you smile the most.

Jungkook: WAIT.

Jungkook: If Y/N is officially attending, we need to conduct the Orientation Ceremony.

You: The what?

Jin: Oh no.

Yura: Absolutely not.

Taehyung: ABSOLUTELY YES.

Jungkook: Every first day of camping starts with the Orientation Ceremony.

Jimin: That's not true.

Jungkook: It is now.

Jungkook: Y/N needs to know the rules.

You: There are rules?

Jungkook: MANY.

Jungkook: Rule #1: Never trust Jin when he says "I added a little extra spice."

Jin: That's slander.

Namjoon: It's actually excellent advice.

Jungkook: Rule #2: If Taehyung says "come look at this," prepare to lose at least two hours of your life.

Taehyung: Because beauty cannot be rushed.

Jungkook: Rule #3: Never challenge Jimin to any game involving balance.

Jimin: Correct.

Jimin: You will lose.

Jungkook: Rule #4: Never ask Yoongi if he's having fun.

You: Why

Jungkook: Because he'll say no.

Jungkook: Even while actively having fun.

A full ten seconds pass.

Yoongi: Shut up.

The chat explodes.

Hobi: HE ADMITTED IT!!!!

Taehyung: SCREENSHOTTED.

Jimin: Historic day.

Jin: Mark the calendar.

You find yourself laughing so hard your eyes start watering.The sound echoes softly through the quiet watercolor studio. For a moment, you don't feel like someone desperately trying to recover missing pieces of herself.

You feel like someone with plans.

A camping trip with friends who won't stop talking. In an RV apparently covered in LED lights. And a quiet man who had offered, without hesitation, to stay behind if you needed him to.

Your phone vibrates again with a message from Yoongi.

Yoongi: For the record.

Yoongi: You're going to have fun.

You smile at the screen and type back.

You: Is that your professional camping assessment?

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Then return.

Yoongi: No.

Yoongi: That's me remembering.

The smile slowly fades into something softer.

Warmer.

Because Yoongi remembers enough for both of you.

The heavy, metallic thud of a storage bay door slamming shut echoes across the driveway, followed immediately by Jungkook cheering as he tests the LED underglow of RV #1. It’s early morning, the sun barely cresting the horizon, casting a crisp golden light over the three massive vehicles.

​Everything is packed. Every square inch of storage has been meticulously checked, re-checked, and crossed off a master spreadsheet that Namjoon had printed out in a three-ring binder.

​Jin is currently standing on the steps of RV #2, hands on his hips, wearing an apron over his travel clothes that says The Chef Is In. He looks like a general reviewing his troops, his eyes locked onto the massive cooler tucked safely inside the "Culinary Oasis."

​"Everything is locked and loaded," Hobi announces, jogging back from the rear of Yoongi’s designated quiet zone, RV #3. "Tire pressure is perfect, the water tanks are full, and I’ve successfully stowed Taehyung's telescope in a heavily padded closet where it cannot turn into a gaming hazard."

​"It's an instrument of science, Hobi!" Taehyung protests from the window of RV #1, already wearing his silk pajama shirt under a denim jacket.

​Namjoon, however, isn't looking at the RVs. He’s standing near the edge of the driveway, looking over his clipboard with a slightly worried expression. He taps his pen against his chin, looking back toward the garage.

​"Hey, Jin," Namjoon calls out, raising his voice over the low hum of the idling engines. "Come here for a second. Look at the weight distribution and the final route calculations."

"What is it, Joon? If you're going to tell me forty pounds of short ribs is a structural hazard, I don't want to hear it." ​Jin sighs dramatically, stepping down from the RV.

​"No, it's not the meat," Namjoon says, waving a hand. "I’m thinking about the logistics once we actually get deep into the valley. Look at the camp layout. The nearest general store from our site is a forty-five-minute drive down a narrow, winding mountain pass. If we want to go pick up a bag of ice, it's going to be a nightmare."

"What are you proposing, Joon?" ​Yoongi walks over, a travel mug of black coffee gripped firmly in his hand, looking entirely too awake for someone who hates mornings.

​"I think it’s a good idea if there are two smaller chase vehicles trailing us," Namjoon explains, pointing his pen toward the driveway. "One car for quick supply runs, and another just in case someone…and I'm not naming names…takes a wrong turn into a commercial machinery business again."

​"It was one time," Yoongi mutters into his coffee.

​Jin pauses, his dramatic demeanor suddenly shifting into serious calculation. He rubs his chin, looking back at the massive convoy, then nods slowly.

"Actually... Namjoon makes an excellent point. Last year was an absolute tragedy. We ran out of standard-issue sea salt by day two, and I had to resort to using coarse Himalayan pink salt on the sweet potatoes. It completely threw off the flavor profile. We almost starved." Jin states.

​"We didn't almost starve, you drama queen, we had a mountain of food," Jimin chimes in, leaning his head out of the passenger side of RV #2. "But he's right about the supply runs. Driving an RV down those mountain roads just for a grocery run sounds miserable."

“I can drive one SUV,” Hobi says. “Yura, why don't you and Y/N…”

“No,” Yura cuts Hobi off quickly. Her voice has a sharp, sudden edge to it that makes the playful morning air instantly freeze.

​The casual bickering about short ribs and telescopes completely stops.

​She is still standing near the door of RV #1, her hand gripping the metal handle a little too tightly, her knuckles turning white. She tries to force a quick, dismissive smile to smooth over the awkward tension, but the shadow that crosses her face is unmistakable.

​You know exactly why she said no.

​You might not remember the sound of the shattering glass or the crushing weight of the impact, but you know the aftermath. You know Yura was behind the wheel when the drunk driver slammed into your car. You know she walked away with minor cuts and a devastating, suffocating mountain of guilt and blaming herself every single day for the fact that you woke up in a hospital bed with a blank slate where your life used to be. The mere thought of getting behind the wheel of a chase vehicle, navigating narrow, winding mountain roads with you in the passenger seat, is clearly sending a wave of panic straight through her.

​Hobi blinks, his enthusiastic smile faltering slightly as he senses the sudden shift. He looks between Yura and you, his mouth opening to apologize for putting her on the spot. ​Before the silence can stretch out and become heavy, Jimin steps down from the passenger side of RV #2. His movements are casual and completely erasing the awkwardness. He slides his hands into his pockets, offering Yura a warm, incredibly reassuring smile.

​"Actually, count me out of the RV rotation," Jimin says easily, throwing an arm around Hobi’s shoulder. "I'll drive the second SUV. Hobi needs a co-pilot on the walkie anyway to keep him awake, and frankly, if I have to spend the next four hours listening to Jin explain the chemical breakdown of a short rib marinade, my ears are going to bleed."

​"Hey! My marinades are an educational experience!" Jin protests from the steps.

The collective laugh that follows Jin’s outrage ripples through the driveway, pulling everyone’s attention back to the caravan. Jungkook starts cheering again, trying to sync the LED lights to a heavy bassline, and Namjoon nods, crossing something off his clipboard with a satisfied click of his pen.

​The heavy, suffocating weight in the air lifts for them. But for you, it settles deep into your chest, growing heavier by the second. ​You look back at Yura. She is trying so hard to blend back into the chaos, laughing at something Jungkook just said, but her shoulders are tense. Her hand is still resting near the door of RV #1, trembling just a fraction.

​She’s terrified, you realize, a sudden, sharp ache blooming behind your ribs. She’s terrified of hurting you again.

​You look at the massive, rumbling RVs. You look at the spreadsheets, the excitement, the years of tradition laid out so perfectly before you. And suddenly, the "She’s Back-ish" title of the group chat feels entirely wrong. You aren't back. You are a fragile puzzle someone is trying desperately to glue back together, and right now, your presence is making someone walk on eggshells.

Without a word, you back away from the noise of the driveway. ​You find him near the back of RV #3, adjusting a side mirror. Yoongi takes a sip from his travel mug, his eyes tracking you the moment you round the corner. He doesn't say anything right away. He just lowers the mug, his sharp gaze instantly taking in the tension in your jaw, the way your fingers are clutching the hem of your sweater, and the faint shine of tears threatening to blur your vision.

​"Hey," he says softly. "What's wrong?"

​"Yoongi..." Your voice cracks, the sound small and fragile. You swallow hard, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. "I don't think I should go."

"Where is this coming from? We talked about this. You said you wanted to go." He sets his coffee mug down on the bumper of the RV, turning his full attention to you.

​"That was before," you whisper, blinking rapidly as a hot tear finally escapes. You look back toward the front of the driveway. "Did you see her? Did you hear her voice when Hobi suggested she drive? Yoongi, Yura is so uncomfortable. She's terrified."

​"Y/N…" He tries.

​"No, listen to me," you interrupt, the distress finally bubbling over. "She’s carrying this massive, awful mountain of guilt because of the accident. Because of what happened to my head, to my memories. If I’m in that RV, if I’m on this trip, she’s going to spend this trip watching me like I’m made of glass. I’m ruining it for her before we even leave."

​More tears fall, and you angrily wipe them away with the back of your hand, frustrated by how quickly the panic has overtaken the calm within you.

"I should just stay home. It’s better if I stay behind. I don't want to be the reason she’s upset. I’m upset that she’s upset, and it’s just... it’s too much." You shake your head.

​Yoongi stands there, letting you get it all out. He doesn't try to cut you off, and he doesn't tell you you're being dramatic. Instead, he steps closer, closing the distance between you until the chaotic noise of the rest of the group feels entirely locked out.

​"Look at me," he commands gently.

​You hesitate, then lift your eyes to meet his.

​"You're fine," Yoongi says."You aren't ruining anything. You are not a burden to Yura."

​He reaches out, and pulls you into his chest. His arms wrap themselves around you.

​"Yura carries a lot of weight for what happened," he says softly. "We all know that. But leaving you behind isn't going to fix her guilt, Y/N. It’ll just make her feel worse, because she’ll think her fear took this away from you. She wants you here. Everyone wants you here."

Yoongi’s chest rises and falls against your cheek, his heartbeat steady. His chin rests lightly on the top of your hair, his hands broad and warm against your back.

​"If you stay behind, she's going to sit in that RV for four hours thinking she ruined your chance to make a new memory," Yoongi murmurs. "She loves you, Y/N. That's why she's terrified. But running away from each other isn't the answer."

"I just don't want to break the tradition. I feel like an imposter." ​You sniffle, your face still pressed into his dark sweatshirt.

​"You're not an imposter," he says firmly, his hands sliding up to your shoulders as he gently pushes you back just enough to look into your eyes. He reaches up, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from your cheek. "You're just recovering. And if you need to be treated like glass for a little bit while you heal, then we'll all just be really careful. Understand?"

​Before you can answer, the heavy crunch of gravel signals someone approaching.

​"Hey! Yoongi! Y/N!" Jungkook’s voice booms around the corner of the RV, full of morning energy. He skids to a halt, a bright pink walkie-talkie clamped in his hand and a massive grin on his face. "Jin says the short ribs are secured, Namjoon finished the final clipboard inspection, and…."

​Jungkook stops mid-sentence, his eyes instantly catching your red-rimmed eyes and the way Yoongi still has you in his arms. The playful energy instantly drains from his face, replaced by a look of concern.

​"What happened?" Jungkook asks. He looks at Yoongi, then at you, his brow furrowing. "Is it the chat? I can delete the chat."

​"No, Kook, it's not the chat," Yoongi says. "We're just taking a minute."

​"RV #1 is fully fired up, Y/N. The LED lights are set to a calming twilight blue because I remembered you liked that color. Yura already claimed the front passenger seat so she can manage the snacks, and we're just waiting on our last passenger. You ready?" Jungkook looks at you, his large, doe-like eyes softening. He steps closer, holding out a hand toward you.

​You look at Jungkook's outstretched hand, then glance back toward the front of the driveway where you can hear Jin and Taehyung loudly arguing about whether a silk pajama shirt counts as proper wilderness attire. The panic from a moment ago tries to flare up again, a heavy weight pressing on your lungs. You look back at RV #1. You can see her silhouette through the tinted windshield, adjusting the sun visor, still looking rigid.

​Yoongi watches the subtle shift in your expression, reading the hesitation in the line of your shoulders. He glances at Jungkook, then moves his gaze back to you.

​"She's not riding in RV #1," Yoongi states calmly.

"Wait, why? We have the gaming zone setup! And the s'mores…" ​Jungkook blinks, looking caught off guard.

​"She's riding with me," Yoongi interrupts smoothly, his voice leaving absolutely no room for argument. He reaches down and picks up his travel mug from the bumper of RV #3. “I want to spend some time with her alone before we don't get any.”

​Jungkook opens his mouth to protest, but he looks at your face, notices the quiet gratitude in your eyes, and stops himself. A look of understanding dawns on him. He nods seriously, tapping his walkie-talkie against his palm.

​"Copy that," Jungkook says softly, offering you a reassuring, slightly smaller smile. "But you're still getting gourmet s'mores when we arrive. I'll personally deliver them to RV #3. Don't let Yoongi eat them all, he acts like he doesn't like sugar but he's a liar."

​With a quick, playful salute, Jungkook jogs back around the corner, his voice instantly crackling over the walkie-talkie as he alerts the rest of the group to the change in plans.

​Yoongi walks over to the passenger side of RV #3, pulling the heavy door open for you. He looks over his shoulder, his dark eyes steady and entirely unbothered by the chaos of the morning.

​"Go ahead," he says gently, nodding toward the RV. "It's quiet here. No LED lights, no forty pounds of meat, and definitely no raccoons."

​A small, breathless laugh finally escapes you. You step up into the cabin of the RV, the interior smelling of clean upholstery and Yoongi's coffee. As you settle into the passenger seat, you look out the side mirror and see Yura stick her head out of the window of RV # 1. When she sees you look at her, you offer her a small, tentative wave. A look of profound relief washes over her face, and she throws you a fierce, blowing-a-kiss motion with both hands before disappearing back inside her vehicle.

​Yoongi climbs into the driver's seat beside you, pulling the door shut with a solid, isolating thunk that instantly cuts out the noise of the driveway. He puts his coffee in the cup holder, starts the engine with a low, rumbling purr, and rests his hands comfortably on the steering wheel. He doesn't look at you immediately, giving you the space to just sit with your thoughts.

​"Thank you, Yoongi," you say softly, leaning your head back against the headrest.

​He shifts the massive vehicle into gear before reaching over and grabbing your hand. His thumb lightly rubs the ring on your middle finger.

“Always,” he whispers.

"WE HAVE ARRIVED!" Jin announces dramatically as he steps out of RV #2.

"Somebody help me unload the tables!" Jungkook yells from RV #1.

"The telescope comes out first!" Taehyung argues.

"The food comes out first!" Jin shrieks back.

Within minutes everyone falls into their usual routine. People who have done this dozens of times before. Namjoon unfolds maps and checks campsite markers. Jin begins inspecting the outdoor cooking setup. Jungkook and Hobi haul equipment from storage compartments while Jimin starts assembling folding chairs before anyone can sit on the ground and complain.

You step down from RV #3 and pause.

The air is cooler here and clean. Pine needles crunch softly beneath your shoes. The stream babbles over smooth stones nearby. Your feet automatically carry you a few steps toward the water's edge as you stare at the winding stream.

"Whoa, careful." Hobi appears beside you carrying two folding tables under one arm.

"The rocks get super slippery near the water.”

You glance toward the stream. Toward a large fallen log resting diagonally across the water.

The words leave your mouth before you even think about them.

"No," you say automatically. "Only by the fallen log over there."