Mic Drop Entertainment

Your eyes snap up from the tablet, where the next online order has come through, to meet warm brown ones. “I should have known,” you reply before you can think better to bite your tongue. Heat suffuses your cheeks. You pull your lips between your teeth to stifle the groan of embarrassment that begs to be released.

The man chuckles, absently using a knuckle to push up the hornrimmed glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know if I should be offended or honored by that comment. But, I guess I do come here a lot.”

Nearly every day for the last six months, at least. That’s how often he comes here—to your coffee shop. It’s tiny, barely big enough for a handful of small tables and chairs. But it’s yours, and you’re proud of it.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to seem…” you trail off. Not sure how to finish that thought because you’re not entirely sure how you meant it or why you said it other than the fact you’re a bit frazzled this morning and apparently forgot your mouth filter at home. It was a late night last night for you. It's not an excuse, but still.

He waves a large hand in the air, dismissing your apology. “Please, it’s quite alright. I’ll take it as flattery; could use a little boost to my confidence anyhow.”

That almost makes you sputter in disbelief. There’s absolutely no way this man needs any flattery. Surely, he comes by it in droves. Because, well, he’s honestly so gorgeous it should be criminal.

His hair is fluffy, somewhere between charcoal grey and black, though the warm lighting of your cafe gives it a golden honey halo effect. The eyes behind his black-rimmed glasses are dark swirls of espresso that match his coffee order—a straight nose sitting above soft, pink lips that have a light glossy sheen to them.

As usual, he’s wearing a pressed slack and jacket combo, a cream-colored collared shirt underneath with a bold print tie. His choice of ties is what drew you to him in the first place, and made you pay a little closer attention to the mysterious man behind the large decaf iced Americano.

You clear your throat, daring to be bold, while it seems you’ve no filter to stop you. “Well, if you ever need further flattery, you know where to find me.” It’s clear that you give him an assessing once over, his eyes locked onto yours as you do so.

“Do you paint?”

The question throws you off, nearly making you drop the tablet in your hands. Your fingers flex against the case, your thumb brushing along the glass screen. Busying yourself with reviewing the next order on the screen, you turn, giving him your back as you decide how to answer his random question. You’ve never actually had a conversation with him; this man that you feel like you know yet is a complete stranger.

“Why do you ask?” you deflect as you go through the motions of scooping grinds and swapping out the portafilter for a freshly filled one. However, you know it’s not always polite to answer a question with a question; you’re just not sure how to decipher his curiosity or where it came from to begin with.

The bell above the door rings, and you wince as the espresso machine gurgles and hisses loudly as you mechanically pop a cup in the machine and hit the brew button. The noise fills the quiet space of the coffee shop. It’s not until the cup is filled, you’ve added two lumps of sugar, and you’re grabbing a lid that the man responds.

“There’s paint under your fingernails. Or, at least, what I would guess is paint.”

Glancing down at the cup in your hand, you take in the colorful myriad of flecks coating your skin. The colors fill the grooves of your knuckles and hug around the bed of your nails.

“Double espresso with two sugars,” you announce, ripping your gaze from your hand to the interior space of your cafe. A woman steps around the man, giving you a hurried smile as she holds out her hand to receive the cup. You hand it off. “Have a good day.”

Giving the cafe's inside a quick glance, you ensure all the customers within are taken care of. A college student is busy pounding away at their laptop keyboard in the corner, utilizing your free wifi. A half-empty cup of hot cocoa sits cold and abandoned beside them. A trio of friends sit at your only table big enough to seat more than two people, laughing softly and sipping hot lattes and teas. No one seems to need your attention; except the man still standing there, large decaf iced Americano in hand.

You lick your lips, a nervous habit you picked up after endless stressful nights pouring your heart, soul, blood, sweat, and tears into opening the small cafe. Most believed it would flop; others rallied to your side and helped your dream come true.

“Look, sorry if I’ve overstepped somehow,” he begins, but you shake your head, letting him know he’s not.

Gesturing at the wall behind the man, you finally answer, “In my spare time.”

He glances over his shoulder, eyes zigzagging across the giant unfinished mural covering the windowless back wall of the cafe.

“That?” he asks. “You’re painting that?”

It’s hard to decipher if that’s disbelief or awe coloring his voice.

“I am,” you answer a bit hesitantly.

“Wow!” he exclaims, a giant grin spreading across his face, crinkling his eyes at the corners. “I’ve been meaning to ask after the artist every time I come in and see something new added, I just uh,” he brings his free hand up and rubs it across the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the floor under his feet, “well, could never bring myself to.” It’s pretty, the way his cheeks take on a flush of color as his eyes cut to you from over the frame of his glasses. “It’s wonderful work.”

“Thank you.” You can’t help your own flush of shyness at his praise.

“So, uh,” he lifts his cup and gives it a swirl, the ice sloshing around inside, before taking a small sip through the straw, “I know you probably see it on the order, but for the sake of propriety, my name’s Yoongi.”

Min Yoongi, to be more precise, you know. It’s a name you’ve read so many times it’s ingrained in your mind. However, it’s still nice for him to offer it to you. Willingly establishing your connection one step further than his coffee order.

You feel so silly tapping the name tag on the front of your apron, but you do it before you can think better of it, mumbling your name as if he can’t read it for himself after you brought direct attention to it. “Sorry, I’m not normally so weird,” you give a shaky laugh, willing yourself to shut up before you chase him off from how awkward you’re being.

Something changes in his demeanor, his eyes taking on a light twinkle that sits somewhere between mischief and wonder. “I like weird,” he offers casually as if that doesn’t make your stomach swoop and your heart beat a little harder. “Maybe we can talk more about your art sometime. Maybe over dinner? Or lunch if dinner is too forward.”

If you were a cartoon, you’re confident your tongue would actually be tied into a jumbled knot right now with you frantically trying to talk around it, a comical scene for sure. Yet, there is no knot, just a thick feeling that you have to swallow past. “Um, yeah, sure. That would be great. Dinner…or uh, lunch. Both. Either one. Though, dinner might be better considering my hours.”

Yoongi glances at the vinyl hours printed on the front window by the door. They’re backward from his vantage point, but you assume he has no issue reading them, considering he turns back to you and asks, “How does seven work for you?”

“Tonight?” The beating of your heart lurches again, and you can barely hear him over the rushing in your ears.

“Yeah, if that’s not too soon. Perhaps next week, if that’s better? I don’t want to come on too strong. Or well, rather, what I mean to say is, don’t feel pressured.” You can tell he’s feeling hesitant now, trying to backtrack and offer you a way to politely decline his offer for dinner tonight. You didn’t mean to come off sounding so put out. You just weren’t expecting his request to be for tonight.

Mentally, you dig through your schedule. You’re not closing today. Marvin comes in at noon to help with the lunch rush, and then you leave at four to make it to your five o’clock class. It would be today of all days that your new art class starts. It’s the beginning of the fall semester at the local university, and you just so happened to decide to take a few art classes they were offering, the first of which starts tonight.

The class should only be around an hour long, with plenty of time to get home and change before the date. Is it a date? Or just strangers getting together to talk about art? Isn’t that what a date is anyway, though?

“Seven. Tonight. That would be great.”

“Okay, perfect. Can I pick you up? Or we can meet here if that works better.”

It’s endearing he’d offer, both picking you up and meeting in a familiar place. Considering you live above the coffee shop, though, it makes no difference. Though, he doesn’t necessarily know that.

“Here is fine.”

“Wonderful. Have you tried that steak house on the corner yet?”

“The new one that opened last week?” He nods. “I haven’t, no.”

“Perfect.” Yoongi smiles. “Here, at seven. Consider it a date.” His smile falters, and his brows pinch, forming a line between them. “Not that I…well, it’s not that…it doesn’t have to be…if you don’t want this to be a date, that’s—”

“It’s a date,” you confirm, giving him what you hope to be a warm smile to ease his mild panic. “I’ll see you then, Yoongi.”

“See you then,” he responds, tacking your name on at the end in his deep drawl. The way it sounds coming from his mouth should be added to one of those spicy erotica audiobooks you may or may not have downloaded on your phone.

Just as Yoongi is leaving, it’s like the world finally takes a breath, and the exhalation that follows brings with it a rush of early morning commuters seeking their morning fix. The everyday bustle and hubbub of the day filter back in, and you’re soon lost to the sway of the shop, coffee, tea, and cocoa. It all comes alive beneath your nimble fingers, much reminiscent of the way holding a brush makes you feel: a thrill of the soul with each pour.

☕☕☕

Yoongi

In all Yoongi’s years of teaching, he’s never been late to a class, especially on the first day of the semester. Yet, he’s nearly fifteen minutes late getting into his classroom this morning. Students are already filled in and scattered around the theatre-style seating. No one says anything. It’s far too early in the morning for smart mouths and snarky remarks about his tardiness. Not that he would expect that from any of the students anyway.

“Good morning, welcome to Art 320. I’m Professor Min.” He drops his bag and coffee off on his podium at the front of the classroom. Turning to the large chalkboard behind it, he scrawls his name to the side and then begins to write directions. “We will begin with Chapter 1, ‘Mediums and Forms’, in your textbook. Please read quietly, and I’ll be with you all in a moment.”

The day goes on, class after class, and the familiar monotony of it brings Yoongi a sense of peace. This is familiar territory; he’s in his element, not like this morning in the coffee shop. He felt totally out of control and swept up in the swirl of uncertainties and possibilities.

To say he’s relieved you agreed to go to dinner with him would be an understatement. From the moment he decided to change up his routine to check out the cafe Namjoon wouldn’t shut up about, he’s been hooked not only on the impeccable decaf iced Americano, nor the beautifully decorated and painted interior but on the smiling face behind the counter.

Yoongi feels a bit self-conscious thinking about how much he thinks about you. He’s always been too intimidated by the idea of speaking more than a few passing words to you. It’s like every time he gathered up the courage, it would abandon him at the last moment. Namjoon calls it a crush, Yoongi calls it frustrating.

The whole conversation this morning is a bit of a blur to him. Yoongi swears once he opened his mouth it was nearly impossible to stop the word vomit from gushing out…and the next thing he knew, you were agreeing to a date with him tonight.

The day's last class rolls around, and Yoongi feels much lighter as he steps out of his adjoining office and into the classroom to welcome the new students. A few offer him quiet hello’s, some he’s seen from other art classes he’s monitored across the entire department and fine arts program. 

Turning his back as the last few students filter in, he makes the same spiel he has at the beginning of every class. “Good morning, welcome to Art 320. I’m Professor Min…”

And so it begins, the beautiful dance of teaching and introducing fresh minds to the concept of forms and mediums. Yoongi is sure he could recite the entirety of Chapter 1 from memory now, with as many times as he’s gone over it today.

“What if you decide you don’t like your form or medium halfway through the project?” a student from the front row asks after Yoongi explains the medium and forms requisite for the final project for this class.

“We’re going to spend plenty of time during the first part of the semester testing out different mediums to know which best suits each of your individual tastes and needs. Regarding the form, I recommend choosing something you most likely won’t tire of. Something that means something to you but also isn’t so complex that you frustrate yourself and burn out before you can complete the project. You’re welcome to, at any time, bring me an idea of the form you’re considering, and we can talk about the intricacies and any potential issues that might arise with using it.”

Another question comes from somewhere in the middle, “Can we choose people, too?”

“A form can be anything that inspires you. If that happens to be a person, then of course. However, note that portraiture isn’t covered until Art 322, but I’ll do my best to help if that’s what you choose.” Yoongi glances at the clock, noticing there are only a few minutes left of class. “Let’s take the last few minutes to wind down, pack your things. If you have any further questions concerning your final project forms and mediums, please don’t hesitate to email me. Also, my office hours are open Tuesdays and Thursdays from two to six.”

As Yoongi turns to begin putting his things away from his podium, his eyes slide across the faces of his last class students, trying to cram them into his mind for the sake of remembering. He always likes to be as personable and approachable to his students as possible; knowing names and faces is always a good place to start.

He has to do a double take as his eyes flick over the very top row. The shock is felt throughout his entire body. It’s not that he’s surprised to see a face he already knows. It’s just that he wasn’t expecting it…wasn’t expecting to see you. Mild panic makes him jerk around, hands gripping at the papers on his podium, shuffling them mechanically.

The first thought that crosses his mind is he can’t possibly be going on a date with one of his students. Surely you’re just here to…to what? He turns over one of the papers, quickly scanning his roster that he hadn’t bothered to check yet. It doesn’t take long for his eyes to snag on your name.

Unease settles across his shoulders. He hates to cancel the date, as he was really looking forward to it, but it’s just…not right, right? There’s a line he shouldn’t cross with his students, even one who he is sure is his age and not the typical college freshman. Yoongi knows this because maybe, perhaps, he might have spent his lunch hour googling you and the cafe. You’re in your early thirties, given the birth year that was viewable on one of your social media pages, and own the coffee shop, have for several years now…a full-ass grown adult—the perfect person to date.

Except now you’re his student. There’s some moral code there somewhere, something about the skewed power dynamic. The thought of going on this date should have red flags flashing in his mind. Yet…yet, no matter how much he tells himself to cancel, he honestly doesn’t want to. Surely, it wouldn’t hurt that much, right? A harmless date.

That’s what he’s still telling himself as he dismisses the class a few minutes later. He intentionally avoided looking in your direction, unsure if you’d be comfortable with him acknowledging you as one of his students or not.

Much to his surprise, as the bubble of sound dissipates, a soft voice reaches his ears from a few feet behind him, “Fancy meeting you here.”

Yoongi has been so consumed with his own feelings about going on a date with a student that he hasn’t even thought about how you might feel. Are you about to cancel on him? Does he try to convince you not to?

He slowly turns, the stack of papers clutched in his hands, glasses slipping down his nose, yet he doesn’t want to pry his fingers from the bundle to fix them. “Look, I understand if you’d rather not—”

“I’m fine as long as you are.”

He’s relieved for your interruption, for keeping him from saying those words out loud. “Are you sure? If I had known this morning that you’d be one of my students…” he trails off, because he’s not so sure that would have stopped him after all. Considering he’s wanted to ask you out for at least the last four months.

“I’m glad you asked me. Student or not. I promise not to make it weird if you don’t.” You give him a brilliant smile, coy and full of mirth but light enough to make his heart jerk inside his chest.

“No weirdness, got it,” he agrees, unable to help his own teasing smile.

“So, I’ll see you then?” you ask, hefting your canvas bag on your shoulder. His eyes flick to it, noting the splashes and swirls of fabric paint that cover the outside. Yoongi wonders if you painted it yourself.

He nods, letting his eyes drink you in one last time before you turn to go. You’re still wearing the same jeans and thin cable knit sweater from the coffee shop this morning. Even in such casual clothes, you are stunning. A work of art all your own. He doesn’t stop staring until the door to his classroom shuts behind you.

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath. It’s not out of irritation or anger, just an acknowledgement of how truly and utterly he’s got it down bad for you.

☕☕☕

Seven can’t come soon enough. It only took you thirty minutes to get ready, putting on a simple black dress and flats. It’s not too fancy, but it makes you feel far more put together than just jeans and a t-shirt.

At five til, you make your way down into the coffee shop from your upstairs apartment. All of the main overhead lights are off, leaving only the warm accent lights that line the menu board and the display case lights on. Even now, the space smells delightedly of coffee.

It’s kind of funny, the fact that you’re not a coffee drinker. Everyone finds it odd that someone who doesn’t drink coffee would aspire to open a coffee shop. What they fail to realize is you love the smell of coffee. The warm, roasted, mildly sweet notes are what you thrive on, better than any shot of espresso in your mind.

There is a street lamp right outside your shop, flooding the sidewalk with a pool of yellow light. Standing just within the glow is Yoongi, his back to the shop door. You watch as his head swivels, looking down both directions of the sidewalk, completely unaware that you’ll be coming from behind him instead.

The sound of the lock turning over startles him. He jerks around and laughs softly, taking a step back, hand to his chest, as you pull the door open. “Can’t say I expected you to come from inside the cafe.”

“I would have been down sooner had I known you would be a bit early,” you say, locking the door behind you. “I probably should have given you my number or something.”

Yoongi eyes you, his gaze sliding up and down your body like he’s drinking you in. You hope he likes what he sees. “I think I was so excited about the date that I forgot even to ask,” he admits, giving you a sheepish smile when his eyes finally land back on yours. “You look,” —he gives you another quick once over, shaking his head and sinking his teeth into his bottom lip— “gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” you preen under his praise. “You look quite handsome, yourself.”

You’re not just saying that to return the compliment, either. Yoongi is wearing the same thing he was this morning, except the tie is loosened, and the top button of his shirt is undone, giving you the slightest peek at his prominent jugular notch.

“Shall we?” he asks, offering you his arm.

You slip your hand into the bend of his elbow, falling into step beside him. The walk to the steak house is short, just enough for pleasant exchanges. He asks how your day at the coffee shop went, and you ask after his first day of classes. Neither of you bring up the fact that you were part of one of those classes.

“I’ve been meaning to check this place out. I’ve heard excellent things.”

Yoongi hums, nodding his head at your words. “I’ve also heard good things, though it might perhaps be biased considering all the praise I’ve heard has come from the owner himself.”

“You’ve spoken with the owner?”

“He’s one of my best friends, actually. This will be the first time I try it out. I kept telling him I’d stop by, but it always got away from me.”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up. “I can’t believe you know Seokjin.”

“Wait, you know Seokjin?” Yoongi asks, surprised.

“I’d say know is a relative term. We get deliveries from the same produce truck. He tried to take my apples one time. I had to set him straight.” That makes Yoongi laugh along with you. “We chat sometimes, mostly about the quality of produce and the best places to get ingredients. I had no idea he was your friend.”

“Small world,” Yoongi says. His smile is warm and inviting. You’re sure you could get lost in it if he’d let you. It makes you wonder what his lips taste like. They have a slight sheen to them like they did this morning. Cherry chapstick? Maybe mint? A nice subtle vanilla?

You’re not sure the last time you laughed so hard you had tears in your eyes. But Yoongi has your sides in stitches and your cheeks aching from smiling and laughing so much during dinner.

“Oh gosh,” you wheeze between fits of giggling, clutching your stomach. “Ow, ow. Don’t make me laugh again. I can’t take it.” It just makes you laugh even more, the huffs trailing off as Yoongi reaches across the table toward you.

You pry your hands from your abdomen and slide them into his. His fingers are warm against yours, his thumbs rubbing across the backs of your knuckles. It’s a gesture he’s done several times tonight, silently asking for your hands any chance he could.

“Sorry, you just have such a beautiful laugh,” he says. “I could listen to it all day.”

His flattery hasn’t stopped. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think the two glasses of wine he had with dinner were going to his head. But, he speaks so assuredly and looks in your eyes like you’re truly something special.

Feeling so intimately connected with someone you barely know might be absurd. Yet, you can’t help but feel drawn to him. If you’re being honest, the attraction started long ago, and tonight has just made it blossom into something so much more.

Yoongi has been the perfect gentleman. He’s not tried to railroad the conversation or make decisions for you like other guys you’ve gone on dates with. Whenever a server approached the table, he would defer to you and your needs before his.

“You’ve been so wonderful to me tonight. Please let me repay you with coffee and dessert. If you’re up for it.”

Yoongi squeezes both your hands before letting them go and sitting back in his chair. “There is no need to ‘repay’ me,” he says, emphasizing the word repay. “But, I wouldn’t say no to a date after this date, say in fifteen minutes, coffee and dessert?”

“Fifteen minutes? Coffee and dessert?” You give him a thoughtful look, tapping your fingers against your chin. “Hmm. I think I’m available.” You both break into more fits of soft laughter, contrasting so highly to the high energy from before; it’s intimate, if laughing can be such a thing.

It’s easy being with Yoongi; he’s attentive and curious. “What made you want to open a coffee shop?” he asks as you unlock the door to the cafe.

“I liked the idea of having a space that could cater to people from all walks of life. Businessmen in a hurry? Get it to go. Students needing a place to study? I have a quiet corner for that. College professor looking for his daily decaf Americao fix? Would you look at that? I got that covered, too.” You usher him inside, closing and locking the door behind you. “It also doubles as a great place to have a private coffee and dessert date after a lovely dinner date.”

You watch as Yoongi looks around the cozy space, his attention ending on the mural wall. “What’s your favorite kind of coffee?”

“Would it be weird if I said I don’t like coffee?” you ask.

He glances at you from over his shoulder. “Really?”

You shrug. “I love the way it smells, though.”

“Acrylic?” Yoongi asks, nodding toward the mural.

“Good eye,” you assess, stepping behind the counter to start making the coffee. You grab two pecan cinnamon twirls from the dry storage where you keep extra treats to take up to your apartment at the end of each shift and pop them into the small convection oven along the back wall. “You teach art, but it might be presumptuous of me to assume you also create. So, do you?”

“Not nearly as much as I’d like to. Pastels and charcoal are my favorites to work with. I like the mildly messy, chaotic feel of them. There are few things better than the feeling of taking something so uncontrolled and turning it into a thing of beauty.”

“Charcoal, huh?” Your mind instantly goes to the framed collection of pieces you have in your apartment upstairs. “I can appreciate that.”

“Maybe I can show you sometime.” Yoongi turns from his appreciation of your mural to watch you work behind the counter. He gestures to a few frames hung up on either side of the giant menu on the wall. “Arfé, right?”

You glance up, moving with automated motions to load the portafilter into the espresso machine. “Oh,” you laugh. “Yeah. An experiment. I wanted to try something new and needed some new decor. I thought it was appropriately on theme.”

The half-dozen pieces are all made with swirls of various shades in brown and tan and depict a mix of cups, mugs, bags of grinds, lumps of sugar, and piles of roasted coffee beans.

“Very appropriate. They’re lovely. You’re an exceptional artist.” You’ve lost count of the amount of compliments Yoongi has paid you tonight. You might have been the one flattering him this morning, but it seems he’s making up for that now.

“Thank you. Truly. That means a lot coming from you.” The hiss of the brew machine fills the air, and the soft gurgle of espresso trickling into the small mug follows. “One decaf Americano for one of my best customers,” you say, carefully carrying the steaming cup over to a table beside Yoongi. “Please, sit.”

Yoongi settles at the table, bringing the cup of coffee up to his nose and giving it an appreciative sniff. “Wonderful,” he murmurs before taking a tentative sip. “Thank you, that hits the spot.”

“If you think the Americano is good, wait until you try this,” you say, scooping the twirls out of the oven and onto a plate. They’re perfectly warm and gooey. “You’ve never tried any of our pastries, have you?”

You sit across from him. The table is small enough that you could reach out and cup his cheek if you wanted, and set the plate on the table before Yoongi. He whistles low, “Wow, these do look amazing. Maybe I’ll become a pecan twirl and coffee guy every morning instead.”

Your eyes track his movements, watching as his fingers pinch and slightly sink into the edges of one of the twirls. Some of the warm glaze and cinnamon sugar filling squishes from between the layers.

Yoongi’s lips part and the tip of his tongue peaks over his bottom teeth as he brings the pastry up to take a bite. The moan he lets out surprises you both. His eyes flutter before landing on you and going wide. He chews methodically, his gaze not leaving yours. His tongue darts out, swiping over his lips before he swallows.

“Well?” you ask, settling your elbows on the table and leaning into him, expectant.

The smile that tugs at his lips is coy. “Might be one of the best things I’ve ever put in my mouth.” There is a heat in his gaze as his eyes search yours. “What other surprises do you have up your proverbial sleeve for me?”

“Now, if I told you, they wouldn’t be surprises anymore, would they?”

That makes him laugh. “Fair point. You know,” he glances around the coffee shop, “I never knew just what it was about this coffee shop I loved so much, but I think I’ve figured it out.”

“Yeah?” you say, feeling positively giddy.

“Mhm. So,” he mirrors your pose across the table, his elbows nearly touching your own, fingers toying with yours where they’re folded in the air in front of your face, “is it too soon to ask you on a second date?”

“I thought this was our second date.” You raise a teasing eyebrow, a smile quirking on your lips.

“A third then,” he offers, eyes hopeful.

Of course, you want to say yes. And in the spirit of trying to be coy and playful, you lean in with the full intent of showing him instead of telling him how much you want to go on another date.

Yoongi’s eyes flicker to your lips, watching as you deliberately lick them as you lean in a bit closer. Acceptance lies within their dark depths, a flash of hunger at the impending response that’s only a breath away.

As you advance, your elbows slide on the table, accidentally knocking the coffee cup. Liquid goes everywhere; it floods over the table and pours off the side…right into Yoongi’s lap.

“Oh fuck!” you yell, jumping up from the table and rushing around to his side. “I’m so sorry! Are you okay? Do I need to call an ambulance? Does it burn?”

Yoongi pushes back from the table, holding his arms up off his lap as he assesses the mess. “No harm done. It was already cooled off. It's just a bit of a mess, that’s all. I’m fine,” he laughs. “Truly, I promise. Do you have any towels or anything?”

“Oh god, your shirt, it’s going to stain,” you lament, staring at the dark splotch soaking through above his trousers. “Towels? Yes. Yes. Okay. And some baking soda. Come on, let’s hurry. Again, I’m so sorry!”

“Should we clean this up first?” he asks, motioning at the coffee-covered floor.

“I can mop in the morning. Please,” you fret, guilt making you a bit frantic and flustered.

Yoongi lets you lead him up the stairs in the back that go to your apartment. “You live here?” he questions. “No wonder you were coming out of the coffee shop earlier. That’s very cool.”

You make a noncommittal sound. “It’s cool if you like the smell of coffee and don’t mind rising early every day to open shop.”

It’s so hard to think right now, your mind solely focused on cleaning up the mess you’ve made of Yoongi’s clothes. That’s what you get for trying to be sly and answer his date question with a kiss. You’ll be lucky if he still wants that date now, surely.

The bathroom is barely big enough for the two of you. You insist Yoongi sit on the lip of the tub while you dig under the sink for the baking soda that you use for cleaning and removing your own coffee stains.

“Hey,” Yoongi says softly, grabbing your attention. You glance at him over your shoulder, bottom lip clamped between your teeth in an effort not to fall apart entirely. “I promise it’s okay, alright? You don’t have to stress over it. It’s just an accident. It's a pretty funny one if you ask me. If I’d have known we were getting wet on the first—I mean, second date, I would have planned accordingly.”

His words hang between you, full of static and charged with intention. He’s trying to lighten the mood…and it’s working. It’s also making you feel a certain kind of way. Words shouldn’t have the power to do that. Yet, here you are, flustered for a whole different reason now.

“Date’s not over yet,” you respond, unsure where the bold attitude came from, but you’ll take it. His eyes flicker with something like surprise mixed with desire, though it’s gone before you can really be sure. “Do you mind?” You gesture to his shirt. “It’ll be easier if I can soak it in the sink.”

Slowly, Yoongi undoes the buttons on his shirt, starting at the top and working his way down. Somehow, you weren’t expecting him to be naked underneath, but every open button reveals another swath of flesh. He shrugs out of the shirt, revealing a toned chest and taut belly. His nipples are hard, dark chips, standing out in contrast to his smooth, creamy skin. Yoongi is absolutely breathtaking.

In fact, you have to remind yourself to breathe, taking in a large lungful of air that’s so much it makes your chest ache. He holds the shirt out to you in offering. Your fingers tremble lightly as you take it, quickly turning back to the sink and the distraction of scrubbing at the stain.

Reading over the garment tag quickly, you make sure what you’re about to do is okay. You can feel Yoongi’s eyes on your back, like heated dagger points pricking beneath your skin. You turn on the water, letting the tap run until it’s hot, before quickly swishing the area of the shirt covered in coffee under it. The hot water alone makes a world of difference, the dark liquid swirling away down the drain.

“Do you want my pants, too?” Yoongi asks, startling you.

Your eyes flick up to the mirror, looking at him through the reflection. He’s talking to you, but his attention is zeroed in on your backside. Suddenly, you’re intimately aware that your dress has ridden up dangerously high. You can feel the cool air of the bathroom kissing the crease between your thigh and asscheek.

Turning off the water, you slowly turn to face him. Your chest rises and falls as you try to take deep, even breaths, but with the way your heart is revving inside, it’s impossible to do so. “Let’s see the damage,” you say lightly, raising an eyebrow in question, giving him a chance to call you off.

When he doesn’t comment further, you close the distance to where he’s sitting and ease down onto your knees. You mentally tell yourself it’s so you can get a better look at the coffee that’s saturating the dark fabric, but you know better than that.

Being so close to him, you can feel the heat of his body. His chest rises and falls as rapidly as yours, and when you look up and meet his gaze, there is no mistaking the fire that you see blazing there. “Don’t think I forgot you still haven’t answered my question,” he murmurs, lips barely moving as he watches you.

You lift a hand, hooking your index finger under his chin and using it to angle his face toward yours. “I’d love that,” you respond, your lips brushing over his with every syllable.

He kisses you. Or maybe you kiss him. It’ll be something you tease each other over for many years to come. You open yourself to him, welcoming the glide of his tongue against yours. The kiss tastes mildly of coffee, yet for the first time in your life, you don’t mind the flavor.

“For me to take my pants off, or the date?” he teases, alternating between nipping and consuming kisses. Yoongi’s hands frame your face, holding you to him as he continues to ravage your mouth.

“Mm, both,” you manage to get out. “Definitely both.” Sliding your hands down his torso, you marvel at the softness of his skin and the already very prominent bulge that your fingers dance over as you try to get a grip on the button to his slacks.

Yoongi breaks away from the kiss long enough to help you with his pants, standing up from the edge of the tub and bringing you up with him. He toes off his shoes, leaving his pants puddled on top of them. “Good answer,” he chuckles.

You let out a tiny squeal as he wraps his hands around the backs of your thighs and hauls you up, your legs automatically winding around his waist. Thick erection pressed right against your panty-covered pussy, he slowly walks you out of the bathroom and into your adjoining room. You land on the bed with a soft oomph, Yoongi following you down. His weight is a comfort, settled over your body in a warm, hedonistic embrace.

“I’ll change classes,” you pant, flexing your hips against his. “As long as our next date is to an art gallery.”

“Is it weird for that to turn me on?” he responds, groaning as you roll your hips against him again. “The art part, not the dropping classes part. You don’t have to do that if it’s too much trouble. I know your schedule must be pretty set with the cafe.”

You press your hands against his chest, giving him a gentle push until he’s rolling over and you’re hovering over him. “I’ll make it work. I want to make it work. Everything tonight,” you pause and sit back on your heels, dragging your hands along his torso as you do, “I want more. You’re driving me crazy in the best of ways.”

“Says the woman who’s been running through my thoughts for the last several months now.” Yoongi’s lips part in a gasp, turning his last word into a breathly plea as you trace the tips of your fingers over his straining erection. The fabric of his grey boxer briefs is slightly sticky when you brush your thumb over the head.

“It reminds me of making art,” you casually say, curling your fingers over the waistband of his underwear and tugging until he lifts his hips and lets you drag them down. You toss them to the side, marveling at the glory now resting against his belly. Yoongi’s cock is a gentle upward curve, all smooth steel and thick veins. It throbs, bouncing against his stomach, leaving behind a thick smear of precum. “The way you make me feel.”

“Art?” he asks, breathless. His eyes flutter behind his glasses, his chest hollowing as he sucks in ragged breaths.

“Being with you gives me the same feeling as viewing a Duncanson or a Matisse, calm and full of joy. Though, you can also make me feel the chaos of a Kandinsky when you touch me.” To emphasize your words, you wrap your fingers around his girth, angling it up, watching the emotions on his face. The tip of his tongue works at the corner of his mouth, lips parted with every pant and soft moan. “Is this okay?” you ask, leaning down and gently blowing over the leaking tip before tentatively giving it a kitten lick.

“More than,” Yoongi moans. His eye slide closed as you wrap your lips around the head and suck. The flavor of him bursts across your tongue. You can’t help but moan yourself at the idea you’ve made him like this, hard and leaking.

Working as much of his cock into your mouth as you can, you delight in the shuddering convulses you can feel from his body as he loses himself in the sensations you’re bringing him. Yoongi always seems like such a collected individual. He still appeared so well-kept even when he stuttered over his words asking you on the date this morning. Now, though, he’s unraveling into a puddle of debauchery.

It’s a satisfying feeling, similar to when you get into a perfect rhythm when working on a project, bringing him to the edge. You work your mouth and hand in tandem, never leaving an inch of his cock free of your touch.

“Mmm,” you moan, the head of his cock resting in the back of your throat. Yoongi jerks under you, half raising onto his elbows, his eyes zeroing in on where you’re wrapped around him.

His fingers twist into the duvet, bottom lip puffy and flushed as he worries it with his teeth. “I’m going to cum,” he grunts, throwing his head back and moaning his pleasures, deep and throaty.

You quicken your pace, hollowing your cheeks as you suck in earnest. Yoongi cries out a second before liquid warmth floods your mouth. It’s greedy, the way you swallow and continue to lave your tongue over him, eliciting tiny tremors and more moans.

“Just like art,” you whisper, finally letting his cock slip from between your lips. You’re riding your own high, wet and throbbing between your thighs. You can feel the ache in your clit, begging to be touched. All it would take is a few seconds, a few well-placed swirls of your fingers, and you know you’d be floating in orgasmic bliss.

Before you can even think of bringing your hand between your thighs to find relief, Yoongi is sitting up and urging you backward. Your back hits the mattress, and he settles on his side beside you. Somewhere between there and here, he pulled off his glasses. Despite having just found his release, his eyes are still so full of hunger and desire.

“May I?” he asks, pressing a hand against your inner thigh. You nod, eyes locked with his as he slowly trails his hand upward until his fingers brush over the soaked fabric of your panties. “You are so beautiful,” he whispers, leaning in to capture your mouth in a languid kiss. Your lids flutter closed, consumed as you are by his touch.

Yoongi takes his time, toying with the edge of your panties before tugging them down past your knees. They pool around your ankles as he pushes your thighs apart, exposing your weeping pussy to the air of the bedroom.

“Yoongi.” His name is half moan, half curse as he brings his hand back up and cups your heat. The meat of his palm rests against your clit, right where you need to be touched, but the pressure isn’t enough to satisfy.

“An exquisite work of art.” His lips strum against yours, plucking and teasing just the way his fingers do through your wetness. The tips of his fingers briefly kiss your clit, dancing away before returning; a slow build of decadent pleasure.

It’s not above you to beg. “Please. Yoongi, please!”

“Open your eyes, look at me. Let me watch you fall apart so I can brand it into my memory.”

You snap open your eyes the exact moment he slides two slender fingers into your pussy, thumb finally giving the needed pressure to your clit. You’re so worked up that your body pulses around the intrusion, a tiny fluttering orgasm rippling through you.

“Fuck,” you whimper.

Yoongi gives you a wicked, knowing smile. “It’s not over yet, beautiful,” he assures you in a whispered promise.

His fingers are long, able to reach the perfect, special place inside you. As he strokes his fingertips, moving them in an undulating wave, his thumb swirls in a circle around your clit.

The next orgasm is less surprising, building to a heightened peak that has you crying out as you careen over the edge, entirely at Yoongi’s mercy. “Yoongi, fuck!” you babble, your whole body alive with sensations of pleasure.

“That’s it,” he coaxes. “So beautiful.”

Your body shudders around his hand, his fingers slowing down their rhythm until you finally recover. The slide of his fingers along your walls as he withdraws makes you wish he’d put them back in…or maybe something else. The bereft feeling lasts only a moment before Yoongi gathers you into his arms. He’s completely naked, and you’re still wearing your dress, but you feel just as exposed as he is…only, it’s your soul on display for him instead of your body.

You wait for the feeling of vulnerability to filter in, that broken feeling of uncertainty. But, it doesn’t come. The only thing you feel is complete and utter content. It’s not even the post-orgasmic bliss that’s clouding it, either. No, there’s plenty of that, but it feels different; he feels different.

“Yoongi,” you begin, resting your cheek on his chest. You want to confess to him, but the words get choked in your throat. Is it too soon? Are you completely crazy? What if he doesn’t feel the same way? Fuck. Here goes nothing. “This feels good, really good. Is it too soon to say…?”

“Too soon to say?” he prompts.

You absently trace haphazard swirls and lines across his chest, trying to think of how to word it. “I, well…”

“Too soon to say that I think possibly, maybe, I’m falling for you?” You look up at him, surprised by his words. Yoongi looks at you with so much warmth and affection in his eyes. “Because that’s exactly how I feel, too.”

For a moment, no one speaks. One of the girls places the framed picture on the mantle with a soft thud and takes a couple of steps forward, her mouth open.

Kaya stays frozen, the shock making her blood feel like ice in her veins. The front door behind them is indeed unlocked, but they could have just as easily entered from the balcony as well. 

“Who - who the hell are you?” she asks, wincing inwardly when she hears the fear in her own voice.

The same girl, her short hair a brilliant crimson, scoffs in satisfaction. “She’s American,” she states, clapping the other girl on the shoulder. “I told you she didn’t look European.”

“I thought she’d be taller.” The guy tilts his head doubtfully. “Wasn’t the girl in the video also a little…” He makes an exaggerated gesture with both his hands, making his palms face each other and moving them closer, mouthing thinner.

“Damn it, Lance,” swears the girl with the crimson hair, rolling her eyes. “You said you were sure.”

“Ron said she was!”

“Shut up,” the second girl, presumably Ron, hisses at both of them. She’s still watching Kaya, almost hungrily.

Kaya swallows, a gnawing irritation breaking through the paralysing fear. They’re talking about her as though she isn’t even here, right in front of her. She adjusts the pen in her hand when the girl in front, Ron, steps forward slowly. She stares at Kaya with mild wonder and then raises a hand to touch a lock of hair on her shoulder. Kaya flinches and stumbles back.

“Who in God’s name are you?” she repeats through gritted teeth. In front of her, Ron raises her eyebrows in surprise at this reaction and takes a step back.

“You don’t have to look so freaked out,” she says dryly, frowning a little and folding her arms across her chest. “We’re not criminals, we just… we just wanted to see…” Here, she trails off.

“Are you really Namjoon’s girlfriend?” The other girl, slightly taller, asks. Her voice trembles as she does, as though it’s taking every ounce of courage to ask this question.

The answer is instantaneous. “I - no. Of course not.”

The guy, Lance, scoffs while Ron raises her eyebrows again, sceptically this time. The redhead glares. “Really? Then what’s this?” she demands, brandishing the silver framed picture.

Kaya’s heart skips a beat. It’s an expensive frame; Namjoon had bought it for her from a gallery on its opening night the last time they’d been in New York together. “That’s - that’s an old picture. We hooked up once, three years ago. I - I didn’t even know who he was.” The half-lie tumbles out of her mouth instantly.

The girl hesitates, and Kaya can tell she was hoping for this. She stares at the picture and Kaya is overcome with the urge to snatch it back from her. “Then why is it on display in your living room?” 

Shit. Kaya’s stomach twists. “Well…” She racks her brain for a suitable fib. “If you had a picture with him… wouldn’t you have it on display in your living room?” she counters, the response sounding ridiculous even to her.

To her immense surprise, this seems to make sense to the girl. She looks doubtfully at Ron, who seems to be the ringleader of this trio. Then she looks up at Kaya, clearly trying to remain calm.

“So, he’s… he’s still single?” she asks hopefully.

“Sure. Probably.”

She sighs hugely in relief, as though this information personally affects her. “I knew it,” she mutters, seemingly to herself, as she looks back down at the picture and her mouth twists into a scowl. “I wonder which stupid fandom started this rumour…”

“So you’re really not dating him?” Ron’s frown deepens. “Then how do you explain the video?”

Kaya shrugs. “What video?”

“The video,” she replies, rolling her eyes, “of him and you, on a balcony or something. You’re really telling us that wasn’t you? So the whole fandom got it wrong?”

The whole fandom. Kaya isn’t sure whether to laugh at that, at the assumption that everyone is secretly a die-hard BTS fan. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t seen or spoken to Namjoon in three years. How - how did you even find me?” she asks, for the first time realising that someone she knows had to have revealed her identity.

At this, all three of the intruders exchange looks, clearly not wanting to reveal their source. “It’s on Twitter,” says the guy finally, taking a sip of his beer and apparently finding it empty. “Damn it.”

“I can throw that for you,” volunteers Kaya suddenly. “It’s just… the building is big on recycling, so…”

“Oh, of course.” He nods, a little surprised. “Thank you.”

He hands her the bottle and she takes it, using every bit of strength to not roll her eyes in disbelief at the fact that he willingly handed over his fingerprints. Behind him, the redhead is still staring at the picture and lightly stroking it.

“He looks so good in this,” she murmurs, biting her lip. She looks up at Kaya, and for a moment Kaya is afraid she’s going to ask to keep the picture. But a minute later she changes tacks. “Where was this?”

“In Seoul. Near, um, Hannam-dong.”

“Okay, hang on.” The guy, Lance, interrupts, looking rather annoyed. “So you’re not the girl.” Without waiting for a confirmation, he turns to the girls. “If she’s not it, can we leave? We have a paper due tomorrow.”

“You didn’t seem to care about that when you wanted to make it to happy hour.”

“Only because you wanted to come here!”

“Ron said -”

They continue bickering, as though having forgotten where they are. Kaya’s eyes flicker to her bag where she knows her phone is, but she can’t lunge towards it without this Ron person getting in her way. She remains the only one of the intruders to still remain quiet, simply looking around the living room suspiciously with her arms folded across her chest.

“Look, I - I’ve answered all your questions,” ventures Kaya, making all of them abruptly stop their conversations and look at her. “I don’t know who you are -” Lance, Ron, and the other one “- and I think it’s clear that I’m not who you think I am.”

“You’re not Kayla?” Ron finally asks. For the first time, even she starts to seem doubtful.

“No,” she answers honestly. “I’m not. Now I’m going to have to ask you to leave before -”

“Wait, hang on.” Ron holds up a hand and looks a little disgruntled. “We need to be sure of everything before we leave,” she states, sounding unhinged. “Someone is spreading rumours in the fandom and if the person in the photos is really not you, then we need to find out who -”

“Jesus Christ, Ron, they’re obviously fake!” The redhead says loudly, placing the photo frame carelessly back on the shelf. “He’s too busy to date - he’s said that a thousand times and - look!” She strides across the room and reaches the dining table to pick up a cardboard box of a ready-to-eat dish. “Shrimp tacos! We know he hates seafood!”

This time, Kaya can’t resist frowning a little incredulously, but thankfully no one else notices. 

“Now can we just leave? Why do you want him to be dating so badly?” The redhead sounds on the verge of tears. Meanwhile, Lance seems to have had enough and is already opening the front door.

“You need to calm down,” says Ron, pointing a finger at her friend. “Lance, shut the door.”

“Bite me, Ron.”

“I said -”

This building, being a student residence, is already small enough that sounds travel. When the door opens and none of the intruders seem to have the sense to lower their voices, Kaya feels her heart race with hope that someone, someone, will realise that something is wrong. While Ron turns around to talk to her friends, Kaya inches towards her bag next to the kitchen.

“I’m leaving!” Lance is halfway out the door when they all hear footsteps outside. All three of the strangers freeze.

“Is someone there?” It’s her neighbour, Mark. Kaya almost stops breathing but realises she has to respond because the next thing he’s likely to say is her name, something she’s sure these people don’t know.

She swallows, her eyes darting towards all three of them. Lance shakes his head with wide eyes, warning her not to make any sound.

“Mark, it’s me! Call the cops!”

“What did you do?” hisses Ron, but the damage is done. There is more than one set of footsteps outside and all three of the intruders immediately run. 

“Let’s go! Now! Damn it, Sylvia - leave the picture!” There’s a crash and the sound of glass shattering as Kaya retrieves her phone with shaking fingers and immediately dials 112 for the police as she follows them.

Outside, she sees Mark and his girlfriend, both looking terribly confused at the sight of three strangers running out into the hallway.

“They broke into my apartment!” she exclaims and Mark’s eyes widen for a moment before he runs down the stairs after them.

“Oh, my God, they did what?” His girlfriend, Maya, jogs past her to peer into her apartment before coming back to her. “Are you okay?” she asks, holding her shoulders and frowning in concern.

But words fail Kaya. She shakes her head wordlessly and when the call to the police doesn’t go through, she hangs up and leans against the wall, feeling like she hasn’t breathed in ages. When Maya kneels in front of her and doesn’t push for any more information, only gently convinces her that she shouldn’t stay in her apartment tonight since it’s compromised, Kaya simply nods.

Maya helps her get some of her stuff for the night, stopping only to inform her that the building security seems to have gotten hold of the intruders. Kaya feels like she’s on autopilot, even once the cops show up and she identifies all three of them with ease. They’re taken to the station for questioning while Mark gets his guest bedroom ready and Kaya packs for an overnight stay.

Just before she’s about to leave her apartment, she notices something on the floor by her TV shelf: the picture frame, its glass shattered and a scratch on the corner of the delicate silver frame. The picture inside it stays intact, their smiles from years ago frozen in print. It hurts to see it broken, but Kaya doesn’t know what to do about it right now so she simply takes it with her to Mark’s.

“Let me know if you need anything at all,” says Maya, after showing her to her room.

“You’ve done more than enough, really.” Kaya sets her bag down and looks around. “It’s perfect.” She forces a smile which fades when the door closes and leaves her in silence once more.

Kaya sits on the edge of the bed, the entire evening seeming absurd in hindsight. She waits for it to sink in, closing her eyes and recalling the details, the fear, the entitlement of strangers questioning her relationship. 

And then, the panic attack hits.

—

When Kaya wakes the next morning, for a moment she can’t remember where she is. She sits up with a jerk, her mind still swimming with disturbing images of broken glass and hands wrapped around her neck, choking her. 

It takes a few seconds but she spots her bag and the silver picture frame next to her on the bed and sighs, burying her head in her hands and trying to get rid of the throbbing.

It had taken hours for her to fall asleep last night. She’d stayed up with the lights on, her eyes wide open as she stared at the ceiling and replayed every moment since she’d set foot in her apartment. As silly and idiotic as those intruders had been, obsessed with a celebrity who didn’t even know them, they still had managed to break in. 

Or walk in, as the case may be. Part of her still can’t believe Namjoon had been right, so right about everything. In the midst of all the danger and anxiety, she can’t help but feel irritated at being wrong, enough that she’d hesitated about calling Namjoon at all. 

Once she picked up her phone, though, the thought seemed crazy. Suddenly desperate to talk to him, to hear his voice and to know that he was there, she’d called him with shaking hands. He’d cut the call at first, meaning he was busy. The picture of him in the suit with styled hair seemed like days ago; she’d texted him, however, asking him to please, please call her back and hoping he’d know it was important.

He’d called back in under a minute. Kaya had willed herself to sound as normal as possible so as to not worry him but the moment she’d heard his voice, all resolve had broken down. She’d narrated everything to him like word vomit, noting with unease how he heard her out in stone cold silence. He’d only spoken after she was done, and the anger beneath the surface made her hair stand on end.

Are you hurt? Did anyone touch you?

Kaya thought of the way the leader had looked at her - Ron, who had fingered a lock of her hair with impunity, and shuddered. 

No. I’m fine. 

She wished more than anything that they weren’t having this conversation over the phone, that for this night at least, they weren’t in a relationship where they spent more nights apart than together. 

There were some voices in the background then, at which point Namjoon abruptly told her he’d call her back and to stay put at Mark’s.

I love you. The words were heavy with emotion but a moment later he’d hung up, and Kaya had clutched her phone in her hand, trying to remind herself that she wasn’t alone in this.

She’d drifted in and out of sleep all night, alternating between distracting herself with work and scouring the Internet to see if those people were telling the truth, if her identity and address were really public. She couldn’t find anything, though; she tried scrolling through Twitter but after finding nothing apart from snippets of baseless rumours, she didn’t even understand what she was looking for.

It’s well after sunrise now. As much as she’d like to stay inside this room for the foreseeable future, she knows she needs to head back.

“Are you sure?” Mark raises his eyebrows. “You can stay here if you don’t feel ready.”

“No, I - I can’t impose any longer,” she says, shaking her head at Maya’s admonishing hand gesture. “But thank you, though.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.” Mark still sounds doubtful but doesn’t press. Maya convinces her to have a piece of toast that tastes like cardboard, and Kaya obliges out of sheer gratitude. “I’ll send you the locksmith’s number,” he promises as she leaves.

“Call if you need anything at all!” Maya reminds her as she leaves. She hasn’t met Maya except for in passing over the last year, but there’s something about the instant way in which she’d understood Kaya’s fear that makes Kaya trust her implicitly. 

Kaya enters her apartment hesitantly. It looks the way it always does, but it feels like a crime scene. She imagines going to campus today and returning in the evening, looking forward to her inviting sofa and a warm bath, but instead feeling this uncomfortable in her own home.

It takes her a minute, but she quickly snaps into action. She cannot allow her apartment to be this tainted; she drops her bag and the photo frame in her room, texts her thesis advisor that she’s taking a sick day, and gets to work.

By approximately eleven am, the locks have been changed, every inch of the apartment has been cleaned and sanitised, a camera for her hallway has been purchased on Amazon, along with an alarm system for her balcony. 

It feels a little better, she has to admit. The empty spot on her TV shelf catches her eye, though, and her heart twitches painfully at the reminder of the broken frame. She’s sitting on Namjoon’s lap in the picture, her arm around his shoulders and his around her waist, the other one resting on her knee. They’re in sweaters during the onset of fall, having reached a milestone in their relationship after Namjoon had officially met her mother.

She has to get the picture fixed. It’s a loose end, a reminder of this hideous night, but before she can start Googling the closest place to get it repaired, she hears a loud sound.

Kaya jumps and freezes, her heart thumping painfully in her chest. It’s the new lock; someone is out there, jiggling a key or a pin or something to try and break in again. Her eyes dart around and she dives for the hockey stick the previous tenant had left here, one she’d just strategically placed by her room for future situations, and she holds it up in preparation.

No, please, no, not again. Would this be the rest of her life? Being on edge constantly and waiting for someone else to break into her apartment? 

The lock jiggles for a moment longer, followed by a knock. “Kaya?” A voice travels through the wood, making her heart skip a disbelieving beat. “It’s me!”

Dropping the hockey stick to her side, Kaya races through the living room and unlocks the door, hardly daring to believe it. He’s here, in the flesh, dressed in a black T-shirt and tan cargos, looking both confused and relieved when she opens the door for him.

“My key isn’t working and I thought something was wrong…” Namjoon steps inside and closes the door behind him, frowning at the hockey stick. 

She remembers then that she’s still holding it and drops it on the floor, all her remaining grit and forced calm disappearing at the sight of him. She tries to speak, but she’s suddenly afraid that if she opens her mouth, she might start to cry.

Namjoon seems to realise this, for his frown deepens and he drops his duffel bag on the floor before taking a step closer to her.

“Come here,” he says softly, holding out his arms and wrapping them around her when she reaches up to hug him.

“I got the locks changed,” she mumbles into his shoulder, feeling him nod against her head. He’s here, he’s really here…

His arms tighten around her like he’s only just convinced she’s real. “Good girl.” 

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she murmurs, watery and clinging to him as tightly as she can. He smells of soap and aeroplane and she can tell he picked out the first article of clothing he could get his hands on. Clutching the T-shirt fabric in her fist, she breathes it in.

“Of course I’m here.” He’s quiet but his voice shakes, his face buried in her hair. “When you called, I couldn’t believe - I mean, I didn’t…” He trails off and shakes his head, exhaling before pulling away.

“Wait, don’t you have a concert tomorrow night?” she asks, suddenly remembering that the rest of the world hasn’t come to a standstill just because she has.

“Yeah, I - I need to fly out tomorrow.” Namjoon runs a hand through his dishevelled hair, looking unbelievably tired. “I’m sorry I can’t stay longer but I had to come, I just couldn’t -“

Kaya silences him with a kiss, so desperate to make him stay, knowing that no words on earth will be enough to communicate to him the world of difference that his presence makes. “I still can’t believe you’re here,” she repeats, sniffing and pressing her forehead to his.

Namjoon nods, his hands big and warm on her arms. “Are you okay? Are you - are you hurt?” He steps back and looks at her up and down, as though expecting to see something wrong.

“I’m fine,” she assures him, feeling more vulnerable yet safe since last night. “I got lucky, I think - I had the three biggest idiots in the city break in. They used real names, didn’t cover their faces, carried Leiden University backpacks and left their fingerprints on stuff and -“ She scoffs and gives him a look. “They Ubered over here.”

Namjoon says nothing, but it’s clear he doesn’t consider any part of this incident lucky. He licks his lips and it looks like he wants to say something, but then he shakes his head and takes another step closer to her. “I love you,” he says, pulling her into his arms again - and Kaya knows that this hug is for him, for his fear and worry. “I love you, I love you…”

He murmurs the words over and over again until his voice breaks but they don’t let go of each other for a few more minutes, not until her back starts cramping with his weight.

“Tell me everything,” he says seriously, taking a seat on the sofa, legs spread out and feet firmly on the ground. When she hesitates momentarily, he takes her hand and gently pulls her to him, directing her to sit beside him. It’s easier than last night; this time the initial shock has worn off and moreover, he’s here and she can touch him and see his reaction and squeeze his hand whenever he starts to get too antsy.

“So… wait.” Namjoon shakes his head and frowns. “They didn’t threaten you. Or actually want to hurt you?”

“No,” she confirms, resting her elbow on the top of the sofa. “They were… talking. They weren’t even sure if we were together - I don’t think anybody is,” she adds, feeling a strange sense of relief at saying the words out loud. It was true; every single thing she saw on Twitter last night had conflicting information, all the way down to her location and her name. “The moment I told them it wasn’t true - that we weren’t together and I had no idea where you were or what you were doing, they lost all interest.”

He bites his lip. “You really said we weren’t together?” Through the confusion and the worry, she can detect a hint of curiosity.

“Yeah.” She links her fingers with his on his lap. “It felt weird but it was the only thing I could think of to get rid of them. Your fans really want you to be single,” she can’t resist adding wryly, remembering how the redhead - Sylvia, she recalls suddenly - had gazed at their picture in the frame.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, rubbing his eyes. “They’re the bad seeds. I hate them,” he adds with feeling. He looks away, as though he can’t meet her eyes, and the guilt is clear in his body language.

Kaya is quiet for a moment, observing his troubled expression, and gently runs her fingers through his blond bangs. She loves the curtain bangs on him. “How did you manage to ask for an off schedule trip so fast?”

“I didn’t ask.” He shrugs. “I would’ve loved to see them try and stop me leaving for this. We’re still people, you know?” he says, squeezing her hand. “We have emergencies.”

She cracks a hollow smile. “It could have been worse. Oh, and -” She exhales. “They broke the frame.”

He frowns. “What frame?”

“The silver Vera Wang one that we got in New York.” She lowers her eyes apologetically. “It was on the shelf by the TV and they - one of them picked it up and when they ran out, it fell -” Unexpectedly, her eyes sting at the image of the broken artefact. “I’m sorry.”

Namjoon sighs and pulls her closer to him, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and tucking her head under his chin. “You really had me worried there for a moment,” he mutters, kissing the top of her head. 

“It was a beautiful frame,” she sniffles.

But he shakes his head. “I love you,” he murmurs simply.

He repeats the words throughout the day. Their conversations become sparse, with both of them tired and sleep-deprived, yet staying as physically close as they can. Kaya can’t blame him; on some level, she knows how he feels. Being far away and out of control is nerve-wracking, even in theory, but after something like this, she doesn’t want to downplay his concern. 

She joins him in the shower when he visibly hesitates leaving her in the living room. There’s no sex; they simply stay together, quiet and tactile under the running water where he murmurs I love you into her wet hair, saying nothing else. It’s the same while they order lunch and when she shows him the broken frame. He touches the scratched edge and tilts his head at her, as if to let her know this is the least of his worries, before kissing her forehead. I love you.

For the first time in their relationship, she’s on the verge of asking him to stay a little longer, concert be damned. She knows she won’t, but she lets herself imagine that she does, that he might stay back with her so that her studio apartment won’t feel so empty and inviting to strangers looking to break in. By the evening, Kaya has managed to hold her tongue and just make the best of whatever time she has with him, full of gratitude that he took a seven hour flight from New York at a moment’s notice just for her.

She wishes she could tell him that, but he seems far away in his thoughts. He’s quiet for longer periods of time while his hold on her only becomes more pronounced. Kaya isn’t sure how much of it is guilt and how much of it is anxiety, but she lets him process it at his own pace, content for now to simply let him hold her and to be held.

It’s late in the evening when Kaya gets woken by a shrill sound. Her eyes snap open and she jerks up from where her head was on Namjoon’s chest, sighing when he quickly silences his phone.

“Sorry, sorry - go back to sleep…”

“No…” She checks her own phone and groans. “Damn it, I’ve been asleep for an hour?”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, tugging her back to her original position. “You must be tired. I dozed off, too.”

“Yeah, but you’re leaving soon. I don’t want to -” She breaks off and brushes her hair off her face, already recognising the signs of missing him for another handful of weeks.

Namjoon simply purses his lips, but doesn’t say anything more. He looks sad, too; she can’t tell if he wants to talk about it, but she supposes this is just one of those things that mean more when they aren’t uttered out loud.

She squeezes his shoulder before getting off his lap. “I’ll go see what I have for dinner,” she says, gesturing to the kitchen. “Or we may have to order in again.”

“Kaya.” 

She turns to see him swing his legs off the couch and sit up straight, his elbows resting on his knees. “Yeah?”

“We need to talk.” He bites his lip. “About last night. About… what really happened. The root cause of it.”

Kaya folds her arms across her chest, knowing this would come up eventually. In fact, she can’t help but appreciate that he hasn’t brought it up even once yet.

“Yeah, I know,” she sighs and swallows. “The front door. You were right, Namjoon. About everything. In fact -” She shrugs hugely, as though bracing herself for it. “I officially give you permission to say ‘I told you so’.”

To her surprise, Namjoon shakes his head. “Come on, I don’t want to say that. That’s not the root cause I’m talking about.” He pauses. “They broke into your house.”

Kaya frowns. “You - you want me to move?” All of a sudden, her apartment feels like the safest place in the world. “I don’t - I don’t think that’s necessary. It’s not like my address is public - plus, this is campus housing. It’s subsidised. I don’t even know if I can afford anything that’s -”

“Kaya, honey -” Namjoon interrupts her, his eyes pleading. “That’s… that’s not the root cause either. You know it’s not.”

She’s stumped now. There’s a nagging voice at the back of her mind that tells her the answer is obvious, that it’s right there, but there’s nothing logical that presents itself to her, not even when he sighs and hangs his head. She’s never seen him this upset; it triggers an automatic surge of concern in her that makes her want to reach for him.

Something stops her, though. Namjoon isn’t speaking anymore, as if he physically can’t voice the words. His eyes are beseeching her to understand and it’s not until she notices how his eyes are filling up that it hits her chest like a cricket ball.

“No,” she mutters, realising only a moment later that she’s spoken out loud. “No. You can’t possibly - no.” Kaya shakes her head and takes a step back, refusing to even entertain this train of thought. “Just… no. I’m going to see what’s for dinner and then we can talk about whatever insane idea you think you’re -”

“Kaya -”

“No!” she interrupts, her lower lip already trembling because he can’t, he can’t be serious. “What is wrong with you? How can you even think of suggesting this? How could you -” But she breaks off because he isn’t arguing back. Why isn’t he arguing back? He doesn’t say a word, simply looking up at her with so much pain, so much sadness and guilt at her reaction that it tears at her insides because he’s serious.

“I love you,” he says quietly, and it sounds like the end.

—

Summer in Amsterdam is sunny, always. Tulips are in full bloom, tourists are taking pictures everywhere, and it’s colourful shorts and bicycles and gelato. The sun is up until late, late in the evening and the weather is dry and warm with just the slightest chill in the night.

Today, in an usual turn of events, it’s raining. It’s April in Amsterdam and it’s raining, hard enough that the clouds have taken over the erstwhile blue sky and the city is a colourless, soulless grey.

Kaya stares at Namjoon, using everything she has in her to keep her composure. “What,” she begins, her voice low and shaking, “the hell are you talking about?”

Namjoon sighs, looking resigned. “I can’t do this,” he whispers. “I can’t be the reason something like this happens to you. What if you’d gotten hurt? I would never be able to forgive myself.”

“So this is about you.”

He doesn’t take the bait. “This is about you. And you’re not safe - and that’s because of me.”

“It is not because of you. It’s because of whoever betrayed my confidence and revealed my identity - how can you take that upon yourself?” she demands.

“Because none of this would’ve happened if you were dating a normal person!” he blurts loudly, and Kaya doesn’t even want to ask how long he’s been thinking this. “Hiding and lying and - and - and now this! Kaya, they broke into your house!” he repeats. “Anything could have happened. I cannot be the reason you get hurt, baby - I just can’t.”

“You are not!” she cries, so scared now because he isn’t backing down. “None of this was your fault - and how in the world is this the answer?”

“You said it yourself,” he points out, clearly ready for this question. “They backed off the moment you told them I was single. They just need confirmation - I can put out a statement and this whole thing can just - just go away!” 

“So lie!” she exclaims incredulously. “Just lie! We don’t have to actually break up for that to happen.”

Namjoon gives her a look. “They found out where you live. You think they won’t find out if we’re lying?”

Kaya blinks back tears. “They may not. Shouldn’t we at least try? Instead of relying on a statement that gets put out in a week or - or whenever your PR team decides is the best time for your tour?”

But he shakes his head. “That won’t be a problem. I spoke to them at the airport and they said if I give a go-ahead, they can have it released in twelve hours or maybe even lesser if I tell them in advance -”

“Wait, wait, wait. Hang on.” She holds up a hand, feeling a pit of anger starting to pool in her stomach. “You’ve already spoken to your team?”

Namjoon pauses. “I -” He looks taken off guard. “I mean… I had to ask before I -”

“Oh, my God,” she whispers, taking a step back, away from him. “You came here to break up with me?”

“No! No - God, Kaya, I came here because -”

“I thought you came here for me,” she interrupts, a horrible, terrible realisation washing over her. “I thought you came here because you were worried - but you just came here to break up with me?”

“Of course I came here for you,” he states firmly, walking over to her now. “You have no idea what kind of things went through my mind when you called me last night. Kaya, I will drop everything for you in a second - you know that. But that includes us, too,” he says after a moment, softer this time. “If it’s to keep you safe.”

“You are so full of it,” she mutters, avoiding his hand reaching for her and stepping back again. “That’s such bullshit. Tell me - how many people knew about our break-up before I did? If you’ve been planning this since before you even got here?”

“It’s not like that. This wasn’t an easy decision for me either, but I don’t know what else to do!”

But Kaya shakes her head. Her initial shock and desperation has been replaced with anger - pure and simple anger at him, for spending all day with her when he knew this entire time that this was what he was intending to do.

“Fine.” She shrugs, clenching her jaw to stop herself from crying. “Do what you have to. But if you’re expecting me to - to beg you to stay, that is not happening.”

“I don’t want you to beg -” Namjoon looks up at the ceiling, blinking rapidly and swallowing before meeting her eyes again. “I just want you to understand why I’m doing this because it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, baby,” he implores, reaching for her face. “I don’t know how else to fix this except to leave and let you live your life -”

“Then, go.” She knocks his hands away and pushes him back by the shoulders. He barely moves but his expression is stung. She knows he’s holding back tears, too, but she’s so angry and so hurt and she hates him so she doesn’t bother caring about his pain right now. 

“Kaya -”

“What are you waiting for? Pack your shit and leave, now!” She pushes him back again, sniffing. When he doesn’t move, she pushes him back again, harder. “Go!” she cries, her voice trembling.

Namjoon looks as though he’s about to say something but evidently decides against it. His eyes fall to the floor and he rubs at his eyes before turning around and going back into her room where he’d dragged his duffel bag earlier in the day. He shuts the door behind him, although whether it’s to give himself privacy or her, she isn’t sure. 

The sound of the door closing reverberates within her, though, and she stares after him, wanting to hold on to the anger and rage at how he’s giving up on them but it doesn’t last. She sits down on the sofa in a daze, absently bringing onto her lap the cushion on which Namjoon had been resting his head just a little while ago. 

Without thinking, she brings it to her face and she’s met instantly with his scent, of his shampoo and his cologne and him. With the silence in the living room and the sound of the rain outside, it suddenly hits her like a punch in the stomach that this will be the last time her apartment will ever smell of him. 

The first sob comes out of nowhere but once it’s out, she’s crying. She’s careful not to be loud but burying her face in her hands, she feels her shoulders shake and her heart ache like it hasn’t in her life. It feels unreal that he would even suggest this, that he would go so far as to make arrangements - all weighed against the alternative of just staying. It hadn’t occurred to her that she was ever afraid of this, but it feels like her worst fear come true, that finally, finally, Namjoon has made his choice and she’s more stress than she’s worth. 

Part of her knows it isn’t true; the image of his face when he’d silently begged her to understand what he was asking without having to say it is burned into her mind. But there’s no sympathy in her for him, not when he’s willing to give up everything including their shared future over this.

At some point, the bedroom door opens again and Kaya can hear footsteps come towards her. She looks away, resolutely staring in the opposite direction, this time not even bothering to hide her puffy face and wet eyes from him when Namjoon kneels down next to her.

“Listen,” he begins, then halts. His tone has a forced calm quality to it, as though he’s had to talk himself into keeping his composure. She isn’t fooled; he was inside her room for a long time for someone who’s barely unpacked in the half a day that he’s been here. He places one hand on her knee and the other on her back and tries again.

“Kaya, sweetheart,” he ventures, sniffing slightly and deliberately keeping his eyes on her. “Listen, you know - you know why I have to do this, right? You know I love you, you know this is not about… that, but I just -“ 

Kaya bites her lip, hard enough to draw blood but to keep from breaking down in front of him. She continues to look away, closing her eyes at his touch in spite of herself, feeling the tears roll down her face and doing nothing to stop them.

“I love you. Tell me you know that.” He squeezes her knee and reaches for her face again, trying to meet her eyes. “Tell me you know that, baby, because I can’t do this without you understanding why I have to.”

She can barely hear him. She thinks of the last time they’d broken up and all the things he’d promised her when they’d gotten back together, and feels her resolve break. “Oh, my God,” she whispers, dropping her face in her hands again. It’s over, she thinks. It’s all over.

“No - don’t - don’t cry - Kaya, I can’t do this without you,” he murmurs, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry, I love you, I love you so much…”

“I never should’ve told you,” she whispers, shaking her head. If she’d just kept her mouth shut instead of running to him the moment something went wrong…

“No,” he says immediately. “No, come on, that’s not the answer…” He exhales shakily, pressing his forehead to her temple. His hair brushes her cheek and the moment his lips touch her face, Kaya pushes him away and struggles out of his arms. Ignoring his pleas, she goes in the only direction available to her and storms out the front door, slamming it behind her.

Eyes blurred with tears, Kaya runs down the stairs and towards the gate when she looks ahead and halts abruptly. It’s pouring. The rain is a wall of grey before her. She’s  barefoot, she doesn’t have her phone and it’s night time. 

Despite everything, she thinks of how desperately worried Namjoon will be if she disappears right now and her stomach twists painfully. He can’t leave. He cannot; she can’t let him. There’s never going to be another one of him - another one of them.

Before she knows it, Kaya is running back up the stairs. For a moment outside her front door, she considers the possibility that it might not work, that Namjoon might not stay. Three years of a relationship, braving cross-country distances and timezones and the stress brought about their jobs - all to come to an end in one night. 

She opens the door and steps inside to see Namjoon exactly where she’d left him, but standing up now. She just about registers the look of relief on his face before looking away again; it’s so hard to meet his eyes. 

He comes to her, taking her wrists and trying, again, to make her look at him, but she resists and he keeps trying and she steps closer to him and tilts her head up and kisses him because despite it all, despite all the anger and the hurt and betrayal she loves him so, so much and she doesn’t know how else to tell him apart from pulling him closer by his T-shirt that this is it, this is everything so please, please, to just stay because there’s nowhere else for them to go but to each other.

It’s working, she thinks when he pulls her close, so close that it feels like he might never let her go. He kisses her so deeply and so desperately, his hands moving down every bit of her body that they can, from her face, to her arms, to her back and to her hair; he needs her just as much, and she can see it - he can see it. He has to know - and it’s seeming like he does.

Kaya doesn’t let up, not for a single second, not when they stumble into her bedroom or when their clothes come off in a chaotic mess. Every time he kisses her, every inch of skin he presses his lips to is with a fervour, with a hunger that gives her hope that he gets it now. He kisses every inch of her, not leaving a single bit untouched, silent but passionate. I’m not going to beg. She isn’t and besides, there are no words left to say. This is the only way she can think of asking him to stay. 

But something starts feeling wrong, somewhere down the line when they’re naked and pressed against each other and his lips are on hers and he pulls away but says nothing, doesn’t whisper a single word while being inside her that she realises with a sinking heart that makes her want to cry at the ceiling that it isn’t working, that the reason he’s savouring her isn’t because he’s staying but because he’s not staying - because he thinks it’s the last time they’ll ever be together.

They lie in the darkness, too tired, too afraid to move. Namjoon’s arms are around her and his nose is pressed up against her hair. Kaya can’t see his face; she’s not sure she wants to. She suspects he may have finally broken down and if she happens to witness that, she has no faith in her own ability to stay strong.

But it’s happened anyway. It’s too late and there’s nothing else left at her disposal.

“Don’t go,” she whispers, so quiet that she’s surprised when he stiffens against her. “Please, Namjoon. Don’t do this, please,” she repeats, not caring anymore if she cries in front of him. “I love you… I love you, so please, please…”

Namjoon pulls her close, wrapping his arms around her so she’s surrounded by his skin, his scent, his love and guilt for the last time. “I love you, too,” he murmurs, and she can hear it now, clearly. He’s crying and she has no idea how to comfort him. “I love you, too much. And I can’t… I can’t…” 

Kaya wraps her hands around his neck and stays there, determined to hold him because if she doesn’t let him go, how will he ever leave? The weak logic keeps her going, along with his lips against her hair and the feel of his touch against her body. 

But it’s late and despite her best efforts, the stress of the day and all the lack of sleep catches up and her eyes close of their own accord and she falls asleep against him. 

When Kaya wakes up the next morning, the bed is cold and she’s alone.

Her eyes flutter open and a moment later her heart stops and she sits up with a jerk. It’s as though her mind knows exactly what to look for, even if she’s not consciously searching for it. His duffel bag is gone and so are his shoes. There’s a note on her bedside table and she can recognise his English scrawl even from here. 

No. It can’t be. But it is, and deep down in her heart she knows what he’s done and why he’s done it the way he has. Pulling the sheets up to her chest, suddenly feeling terribly exposed in her nakedness, Kaya reaches for her phone, still unsure what she’s looking for until she sees the notification for the Google alert for his name and feels her heart break all over again.

Amidst dating rumours, BTS RM confirms he’s single.

---

Yoongi glances around his studio until he’s forced to accept that he’s misplaced his spare headphones. He checks his current pair one more time but when it doesn’t connect to the system, he tosses them on the table and heads out into the empty hallway.

It’s not surprising; it’s late on a Sunday afternoon and he expects that most of the occupants of this floor will have taken the day off, especially before the BTS concert later this evening. He can’t stay long either; he’s already going to be late to soundcheck but he needs to download some last minute music onto his laptop before the group flies out to Japan tomorrow morning.

There’s only one studio he can see that has a sliver of light appearing from under the door. Donghyuk, the only person other than himself who would be here on a Sunday afternoon, is Yoongi’s last hope. He knocks twice, right under the faded plaque reading Supreme Boi, and enters. The first thing he sees is Miso at the controls, the same moment that she looks up to see him, and her face goes momentarily slack.

Her face recovers instantly, however, but it’s a few seconds before she looks away. Yoongi stares at her; she doesn’t look any different from any other day in the studio, wearing a thin full-sleeved shirt and dark jeans, her ankles crossed under the chair. He stands motionless, frozen, as he hears a rushing sound, like the waves of the ocean crashing onto him and he exhales, realising vaguely that it feels as though he’s been holding his breath for the last three days.

“It’s still not working, damn it. Oh - Yoongi!”

Yoongi starts; he’d almost forgotten who he’d come here for. He looks up to see Donghyuk inside the recording booth, waving a hand vigorously at him. 

“Something’s wrong with the sound!” he exclaims, his voice slightly muffled from behind the glass. “I’m checking the mic - can you help Miso with the input?”

Yoongi nods but before stepping inside, he looks at Miso - what for, he’s not sure. Maybe it’s her permission, or maybe it’s any acknowledgement from her at all. But Miso continues looking ahead at the recording booth, not turning towards him at all until finally, she visibly sighs and drops her hand from the controls, sitting back in her chair.

Yoongi makes his way over to her but doesn’t sit in Donghyuk’s chair; instead, he stands next to Miso’s and examines the dashboard, leaning over slightly doing what he can to fix the screeching sound coming from the speaker while Donghyuk fiddles around with the mic and keeps up a spiel of commentary.

The entire time, he’s hyper aware of how close he is to her - and the last time he was this close to her. Both their hands are on the controls now, now that Donghyuk seems to be on the verge of losing it; despite the proximity, however, something in Yoongi is determined not to let himself touch her, even accidentally.

His fingers ghost over hers and her hair brushes his chest on occasion, but Yoongi keeps his distance. The more he thinks about it, though, the more he feels the overwhelming urge to hold her hand, to just give it a momentary squeeze and silently ask her if she’s alright, if she knows that he ran after her that night but was just too late.

After a moment, he places his hand on the top of her chair and when she doesn’t move away, he stays there.

“Okay, I’m going to try this again!” Donghyuk shakes his head and taps on the mic. “Play it from the bridge?”

Miso taps the button and they watch Donghyuk in silence as he bops his head to the beat before starting his background vocals. There’s a sudden screech of feedback from the mic again that makes them all wince and Donghyuk sighs and bends to examine something at the bottom of the mic, which makes it tip over and hit him in the nose when he stands up.

“Fuck!” 

Outside, Yoongi can’t help but snort and glance immediately at Miso. She still isn’t looking at him, but the upward curve of her cheek tells him she’s smiling as well. Something seems to explode in his stomach at the sight of it and he grins to himself, every colour in the studio suddenly seeming brighter for a moment.

“Glad I gave you two something to laugh about,” grumbles Donghyuk, giving up on the mic and shuffling out of the booth. “We’re going to have to get a technician in here before we record anything else,” he says to Miso.

She nods. “I’ll call them.”

He nods back and looks up at Yoongi. “What’s up, man?” he asks with a half handshake, half high-five. “Wait - don’t you have a concert?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he replies quickly. “I just came to…” He trails off, realising he’s forgotten why he stepped into this studio in the first place.

Donghyuk raises his eyebrows. “You forgot?”

Yoongi frowns, trying to remember, but he can’t recall anything before the sudden shock of seeing Miso calmly sitting inside a studio, two days after doing nothing but worrying about her.

She’s looking at him sceptically, too; it occurs to him that she probably thinks he came here just to see her and he automatically takes a step back, his cheeks heating up unexpectedly. 

“Um… yeah, I don’t - I don’t remember.” He clears his throat. “I should go,” he mutters, turning around to leave.

“Okay,” says Donghyuk. “Good luck with the concert, man. And the tour,” he adds.

“Thanks.” Yoongi turns around one last time before stepping out the door to look at Miso, but her attention is on the laptop now, her shoulders twisted away from him.

Yoongi knows he should head out. He’s already late for sound check, hair and make-up will take some time and Namjoon always likes to sit them down and give them a talk before a concert, especially one that will kick off their world tour. 

But his feet won’t let him. He stands outside Donghyuk’s studio, feeling like a stalker, but knowing that he will be absolutely useless to everyone if he leaves for his concert, possibly even Korea, without talking to Miso.

He’s there for nearly thirty minutes before the door opens and his heart skips a beat when she walks out. She looks taken aback for a fraction of a second before her face glazes over again and she continues down the hall.

“What’s up, Min Suga?”

Yoongi freezes for a second before going after her, taking two large steps before falling in sync with her. “Um, just came to… nothing. What’s - what’s up with you?” he asks quickly, cringing inwardly.

“You mean aside from ensuring Donghyuk doesn’t kill himself with his own equipment?” she asks dryly. “Not much.”

“Oh.” He follows her absently until she reaches the coffee station. “How’s that going?”

“Not well, as you can probably tell.” She reaches for a cup. “He seems to have a crazy knack for being uncoordinated.”

It sounds like an insult, but Yoongi knows her better than that by now. Moreover, something about how she drops a fact that indicates the amount of time she’s spending with another producer rankles.

“Right. No, that’s - that’s always been his thing. In fact, funny thing -” He chuckles “- when we were trainees, he and Kim Namjoon were famous for being the tallest and the most clumsy - I mean, they would knock everything over and everyone was sure they would never make -”

“Min Suga,” she interrupts, nonchalantly scanning the coffee sachets available, “you’re rambling.”

Yoongi stops abruptly. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. What’s up?”

He stares at her as she reads the ingredients off one of the sachets. He isn’t sure what he was expecting exactly, but something about how… normal she’s behaving is surreal.

“I, uh…” He supposes he ought to say the one thing he owes her no matter what. “I wanted to apologise. I - I had no idea you’d taken your name off the song. If I did, I would never have used it.”

She glances up at him, only mildly curious. “Really?”

“Yes, of course. Jung PD didn’t tell me until after… everything.” Yoongi takes a hesitant step closer, deathly careful to not invade her personal space. “It was your song. You didn’t have to do what you did. I would’ve… figured something out,” he finishes lamely.

“What would you have done?”

“I don’t know. I would’ve used one of my unreleased songs or - or I would’ve written a new one or -”

“Or you would’ve blamed me for the rest of your life.” Miso gives him a knowing look, shaking a packet of coffee powder with one hand.

“I -” Yoongi swallows uncomfortably. “That’s not true. I mean, I was angry, yes, but I didn’t… You - you didn’t have to do all this for me.”

“I didn’t. I did it for Hwan.”

He pushes his tongue into his cheek and nods, at a loss for how to respond to this. Her eyes are fixed on the coffee machine and she’s barely looking at him, but she’s not angry. He almost wishes she was.

“Okay. Well… thank you, anyway,” he murmurs humbly. “And I’m going to get your name back on the song,” he promises, straightening up a little. “It’ll take some time but I’ll get it done.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Yes, I can,” he insists, feeling the familiar annoyance at her constant argumentative nature. “You can get your name back on the song retroactively; we’ve done it before. We have to speak to Legal and PR and they will -“

“No, you can’t as in you… can’t.” Miso sighs and glances up at him briefly, rolling her eyes in a forced motion. “The reason the song is out there is because I took my name off it. I thought you pieced that together, Min Suga.”

“But -“

“Just let it go, will you?”

Yoongi falls silent. She’s still making her coffee, meticulously emptying the packet and examining all the valves on the machine. It’s strange, given that she’s usually the person on the floor who takes the shortest coffee breaks.

Suddenly encouraged, he exhales and changes the subject.

“Will you be at the concert tonight?”

She scoffs, not unkindly. “Will you be at the concert tonight? Doesn’t it start in, like, an hour?”

“Two,” he argues weakly. “And… isn’t everyone going? That was the point of the free tickets for the team,” he points out.

“Yeah, but I can’t. I gave mine to one of the interns and she almost fainted.”

Yoongi tries not to feel slighted by this. “So you’re not going?”

“We have a lot to get done tonight,” she answers simply.

He purses his lips as her words sink in. “We, as in…”

“Donghyuk and I, yes.” She shrugs innocently. “He is my boss now, technically.”

“So… you guys will just be working together? On a Sunday night?”

Miso frowns. “Yeah. You and I did that quite a bit, too, if you recall. Also, I’m hoping that if I stay late tonight, I might actually get credited on a song for once.”

His words die in his throat. “Oh, I - um -“

She notices and rolls her eyes. “Jesus, it’s a joke, Min Suga. Lighten up.”

Yoongi can’t think of anything he’s less likely to do right now, and he also can’t fathom how she’s joking at the moment. He half-wonders if he’d dreamed the events of the launch party when she presses the button for the hot water and slides her cup under it, her fingers still around it when the water begins flowing.

“Careful -“ He moves instinctively to shove her hand away from the steaming liquid but at the last moment remembers his determination to not touch her and swipes the cup away instead, only for his own fingers to intercept the hot water.

“What are you -“ Miso winces as he hisses in pain and snatches his hand back. There doesn’t seem to be any damage to it but the skin still smarts; Yoongi examines it uneasily when another pair of hands appear with paper towels in them and press them to the burning area.

“Oh -“ He stays frozen to the spot and lets her do what she’s doing, but it only lasts a moment before she drops her hands from his. His gaze remains on her sleeve and he wonders what he will see if he pushes it over her wrist.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks quietly, pressing the napkins to his own hand.

Miso exhales but doesn’t look up at him, busying herself with another cup. “This again?”

“Why didn’t you tell me about Donghyuk?”

“Actually, you told me about Donghyuk,” she replies shortly. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

He shakes his head, knowing he’d set himself up for that response. “No,” he says honestly. “I know what I said, but… I didn’t mean it.”

For once, she doesn’t respond with a snarky remark. “Well,” she says after a moment, “it’s done now. Maybe it’ll be for the best.”

“Sure. Why didn’t you tell me, though?”

“It was the middle of the night.”

“So? I always pick up calls, any time of the day.”

“Would you have picked up my call?” She raises her eyebrows at him. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Yoongi sighs, knowing he can’t win here. “Glad it worked out for you, I guess.”

“It’s not bad so far,” she admits. “Plus, he and I actually get along pretty well so that’s a bonus.” 

“Uh-huh.”

She smirks innocently before snorting at his stony face. “You are so easy to piss off, you know that?” she mutters wryly.

“I’m glad I amuse you.”

She chuckles and it’s the first actual smile he’s seen from her all week. “Donghyuk’s going to your concert,” she assures him after a moment.

“Not you, though.”

“Nope. My dad’s hosting a dinner and the whole community will be there so I have to go,” she informs him, before pausing for a moment. “He’s just acquired a company, you see.”

Something creeps through Yoongi’s chest at her tone. “That guy, Jiho,” he says sharply, dropping all attempts at beating around the bush. “Will he be there, too?”

“I guess. He’s only the guest of honour.” Miso stares at the cup under the water valve for a moment before seemingly forcing her gaze up towards him. Something in his expression must tip her off, for her shoulders deflate and she shakes her head. “I don’t think we’ll have much to say to each other anymore,” she mutters in what he presumes is supposed to be a reassuring tone - although who she’s reassuring, he isn’t sure. 

Yoongi clenches his jaw. They’ve arrived at the topic he’s been thinking of non-stop for the last three days, except now that they’re actually here, he has no idea how to ask her about it without fully prying into his colleague’s personal life.

“Are you okay?” he asks finally in a small voice, swallowing and hoping that for once, she’ll give him a straight answer. Miso doesn’t look at him, and after a few seconds of silence, he begins to think she won’t answer him at all.

“I’ve been better,” she admits, equally quiet. She takes a moment before looking up at him, her face blank again. “Donghyuk’s not making it any easier.”

“Miso.”

“Yoongi, whatever it is you’re blaming yourself for, you can stop. Okay? None of this is your fault,” she implores, giving him a slightly annoyed look before shaking her head. “This had nothing to do with you at all,” she mutters.

For the first time in a long time, Yoongi feels a prickling in his eyes. It’s the frustration, more than anything else, of not knowing, of not being able to find out because the wall that Miso has erected around her feels impenetrable. The few moments of real, human emotion that break through it have brought him here and it’s with a sinking realisation that he concedes to never being able to turn back.

“But I’m sorry anyway,” he says softly, his gaze not moving from her side profile.

Miso stares at the coffee machine without looking at anything. Her jaw hardens and Yoongi wonders if she’s ever heard these words from anyone before.

She takes a deep breath and finally turns to him, her eyes on the floor. “I know you came after me. After the car,” she amends quietly. “I heard you. And I just want to say…” She trails off and bites her lip before her eyes flicker up to look at him. 

“… don’t ever do that again.”

Yoongi’s heart hammers. “Don’t ever try to help you again?”

She shakes her head and looks away, as though he’s getting this completely muddled. “You know how when the release got cancelled, you felt guilty about Hwan, you got furious at me and you were helpless and it just ruined your whole day?” She waits for him to nod. “You should want that to be the biggest problem in your life. I want that to be the biggest problem in your life.”

He bristles, but he keeps his focus on her. “I can handle more than you think,” he states.

“But you shouldn’t have to. I don’t need that on my conscience,” she murmurs, her gaze falling again. She sighs and looks up at him. “You should get to your concert.”

Yoongi stares at her, hoping for her smooth expression to waver even for a moment, but it never does. She holds it together, even as she swallows.

“Okay,” he says at last. “See you around, Kang Miso.” He holds out a hand.

She hesitates but takes it, her pale, slender hand slipping into his. Her skin is cold but Yoongi grips it with a relief that surprises him. His thumb moves along the back of her hand before he stops himself, expecting her to take back her hand, but she doesn’t. 

He raises his left hand to her wrist and is about to raise the sleeve when he feels her stiffen. He freezes, before gently wrapping his hand around the wrist, encasing her hand in both of his. He thinks vaguely of his overseas schedule for the next few weeks and his heart clenches unexpectedly.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, watching as her eyes flicker slowly from their clasped hands to his face. “I always pick up calls. Any time of the day.”

It feels like forever, but after a moment she nods, retrieving her hand from between his. 

“Thanks,” she says, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear with the same hand. “I’ll, uh… I’ll keep you updated on Donghyuk’s many escapades. Unless he kills himself by tripping on a wire first.”

Yoongi nods, his chest feeling both heavy yet freer than before. “Can’t wait.”

There’s a hint of a smile on her face before she picks up her cup of coffee and takes a step back. “Have a good concert, Min Suga. And tour.” She turns to leave when he calls her name again, and she turns with a sigh. “Damn, do you even want to make it for your concert?”

He gives her a look and shakes his head. “Keep me updated on tonight as well?”

She squints, clearly seeing right through him. “Updated on what exactly?”

“You know…” He cringes inwardly. “Your, uh… your family. And - and friends.”

Miso tilts her head. “Will do,” she says sarcastically. “Now get out of here. And put some damn ointment on that burn.”

Yoongi frowns for a moment before remembering, and it’s at that moment that his hand seems to sting again. He glances down at it to see a white blister already forming and winces. He looks up to thank her, but she’s already gone.

—

It takes her a few moments to realise why. The sun is bright through the gaps in the curtains and her meticulously-set alarm went off on time. She sits up slowly and brushes her bangs messily off her face, frowning until she hears his voice and her stomach automatically squirms again.

He’s still here. He hasn’t left yet, even though he usually does by now. He’s late and despite not knowing why, Miso feels her chest contract in automatic fear.

She needs to be in the studio in one hour. There’s no option to be late today; Yoongi will have her head. This project is bigger than you, Kang Miso, he will say. She will reply with As long as you don’t take yourself too seriously with a roll of her eyes, he will wrinkle his nose and suggest she work with another producer if she has such a problem with him, and she will be forced to reiterate once more that she was assigned to him and that her assignments are not in her hands. People can’t switch teams of their own accord, Min Suga.

It will go exactly like this. It’s how it goes every time.

Miso stands motionlessly under the shower and then gets dressed, keeping an ear out the whole time for his voice. He still hasn’t left; despite how quiet and calm it is, it’s a sound that can cut through the air for her.

Finally, she has no choice but to descend the staircase, where she pauses midway. She can spot him - both of them - at the dining table, their housekeeper moving silently between them at opposite ends as she serves them breakfast.

His coffee is untouched. Miso exhales shakily; something is wrong.

She shuffles quietly to the open kitchen behind the dining table, uncertain if he’s seen her. His gaze is on his eggs benedict, but that means nothing. There’s a stack of fresh toast and baos straight off the stove on the kitchen counter, steam still rising from them. The rest are at the centre of the table, but Miso takes a plate and takes one of the hot ones when she sees his head move infinitesimally to the side.

No longer having a choice, she moves to the table, taking a seat on the longer side in between both occupants. Heart thumping, she gingerly picks up the bao and bites into it.

“Good morning, Miso.”

His voice is calm as ever, but she almost drops the bao. The steaming filling burns her lip but she stays put, eyes watering slightly.

“Good morning, Father.”

They lapse back into silence. She takes a silent sip of water, taking care to let it soothe her burning lips and glances at her mother. She sits still, her back straight against the chair, her hands clasped on her lap. She stares blankly in her husband’s direction, eyes glassy. Her plate is empty.

Miso can feel goosebumps erupt on her skin. The housekeeper appears behind her and soundlessly pours her a coffee.

“Where were you yesterday, Miso?” Kang Jaesung asks.

“At the studio, Father. At Big Hit.”

“And after that?”

“I went to get a coffee and a sandwich.”

“Where?”

“The new Caffeta coffee outlet. In Gangnam,” she adds.

Her father doesn’t ask anything further. Miso risks a glance at him to see him still eating. A large emerald ring sits on the middle finger of his right hand, and her stomach squirms again.

“Were you alone?”

Before Miso can answer, a soft scoff is heard from the other end of the table.

“Obviously.”

Kang Jaesung ignores this. Miso resists the urge to turn to her mother, knowing she would much rather take her mother’s surface insults over making her father wait for an answer to his question.

“Yes.”

“Did Seungkwan drive you?”

Just like all the questions he’s asked so far, Miso knows he knows the answer to this. He knows everything. It’s just safer to assume that way, because it’s usually the case.

“Yes.”

Her father nods. “Did he drive well?”

Miso’s heart races, for there’s no obviously correct answer to this. “He - yes. Like normal.” Then, in a rare move because she can’t resist, she continues. “Is something wrong?”

“There’s a scratch on the bumper.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry. Seungkwan is taking care of it.”

Miso’s eyes flicker to his emerald ring again, the stone looking big and dark in the pastel dining room. She doesn’t know what this means, how to respond to this, or if she’s even meant to.

He finishes his breakfast and dabs his mouth with the napkin, before abruptly standing up and leaving the room. Miso hears the front door close but doesn’t look up from her plate, despite feeling her mother’s burning gaze on her. 

She has about twenty minutes to make it to the studio. Her heart still beating uncomfortably, she leaves the moment she hears her father’s car drive away and heads to her own car, wanting to see this scratch for herself.

The sleek black Range Rover stands in the driveway like always. Even before she reaches the car, she can see the scratch; a small, minute imperfection near the bottom of the bumper. Her father would have noticed it immediately. 

It had to have happened when Seungkwan was parking the car last night, she thinks, as the car leaves the estate, for it was the only time she wasn’t in it. She meets his eyes in the rearview mirror accidentally, a red mark visible on his cheekbone. Miso thinks of the emerald stone on the back of her father’s hand and looks away quickly.

She stares out the window, her chest still tight. Seungkwan has only ever been nice to her, but he’s still her father’s employee. Her movements are watched, and her father isn’t doing so himself. 

The drive is quiet as always. Miso looks out the window and puts on her headphones, no music coming out of it. She needs to be alert, but it’s better to not show it. Her knuckles are white where she’s clutching the strap of her bag until they reach the Big Hit building and the car stops right outside the front doors. She hurries out, eager to put some distance between herself and the fancy car with the uniformed driver.

Miso proceeds in through the glass doors and down the lobby, forcing herself to slow down and walk normally. Seungkwan can still see her, she knows; the reflection of the car is still visible in the glass panes of the building. She walks straight to the lifts and presses the button, holding her breath. She risks a glance over her shoulder to see the car still there, the red cut on his cheekbone discernible even from a distance, his dark eyes directed towards her.

The lift opens and five other people get in with her. Miso shuffles to the back, too wary to exhale in case it’s too loud. She can feel Seungkwan’s gaze in her direction until the lift doors close. One by one, the rest of the occupants get off on their respective floors until it’s just Miso remaining. The moment the lift doors close again, she audibly lets out the breath she’s been holding and bends over, her hands on her knees, and gulps in the air. For the first time since she’s awoken today, her chest loosens a bit.

Her heart slows down slightly as the lift reaches the top floor and when the doors open again, she steps out calmly and makes her way to Yoongi’s studio.

—

Yoongi leans closer to the mic and closes his eyes, concentrating on the music in his headphones and waiting for the beat before he begins his rap verse. He taps the right headphone to the rhythm and begins right on cue, opening his eyes slowly to see someone tapping on the plexiglass of the booth.

He stops abruptly and takes off the headphones. “What is it?” he asks, trying not to sound too disgruntled at being cut off. He wouldn’t ordinarily care but for this track, he cares. The man outside, Jung PD, lead producer in his forties, looks pensive as he motions for Yoongi to come outside. Behind him on the sofa is Hwan, nineteen year old ex-idol, whose forehead creases when the recording of his debut solo gets interrupted.

Yoongi’s eyes flicker to Hwan and back to Jung PD, who he knows wouldn’t get involved unless it’s serious. He glances at Hwan again, who’s trying and failing to not look worried. For Hwan, he cares.

“What is it?” Yoongi repeats when they’re outside the studio. “Hyung?” he adds belatedly.

Jung PD bites his lip. “How is Hwan doing?”

“Fine. For a rookie whose group disbanded overnight.” There’s a pause. “What’s wrong?”

“How far along are you on the recording?”

Yoongi raises his eyebrows at the obvious evasion of the question, but answers anyway. “Close to finishing. Hwan recorded his vocals in one day. He’s extremely talented,” he adds after a moment. “We can be done with editing by tomorrow and Marketing can release it on Friday, just like they planned.”

Jung PD rubs at his eyes tiredly. “Yoongi…” His gaze flickers to the studio behind him, where Hwan is no doubt sitting inside, wondering what the hell is going on out here.

Something catches in Yoongi’s chest. “What?” he whispers urgently.

“We have to scrap the song. I know it’s last minute, but complications have come to light and we have to -”

Yoongi doesn’t realise he’s already shaking his head. “No. No, no. PD nim, this was always the plan! The song releases Friday, and our tour kicks off in Seoul on Sunday!” he whispers furiously. “Hwan is a guest artist and he gets his publicity! After everything he’s been through - come on, we can’t do this to him.”

“Yoongi, I understand. I understand this is important to you - you don’t give the “Prod Suga” suffix to just anyone -”

“Hwan needs this!” Yoongi presses the heels of his palms to his temples. “He took years to debut and then his group disbanded over a scandal that had nothing to do with him - and then YG just abandoned him. I brought him here, I convinced him to join -” He breaks off, shaking his head. “What happened? Why - why do we need to cancel?”

“It’s got nothing to do with Hwan,” says Jung PD, quickly and deliberately. “We will find him something else - he just needs to wait it out a little longer.”

“If he doesn’t have this song, he has nothing,” says Yoongi flatly. “You know that. The company hasn’t officially signed him. This is all on the back of this one song - one song that Miso and I have been working on non-stop for two weeks.”

Jung PD sighs. “About Miso -”

“She’s doing a lot better,” he interrupts frantically. “Forget what I said in our last meeting. It’s - it’s working out now. She wrote most of this song, in fact -” He breaks off, realising he’s rambling. 

“Any way you get her off this project?”

Yoongi frowns incredulously. “No,” he answers, sharper than he’d intended. “Not after she got swindled out of having her name on the Jungwon-Minji collab.” He can’t quite tell Jung PD how hesitantly she’d enquired about her name being credited on the collaboration - and how, after losing out because of award nomination politics, Yoongi hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how he’d let her down, even though there wasn’t a lot else he could’ve done. 

“This is her song. Look, can you just tell me what’s wrong?” he asks after a moment. “Maybe there’s a different way around this. Maybe we don’t have to scrap anything.”

“Do you know who Miso’s father is?” Jung PD asks in a low voice.

“I - yes. What does that have to do with -”

“One of his brands is launching a campaign next week - Guasha, a skincare brand,” he says. “They’ve invested a record amount of money on product placement and whatnot and their biggest competition right now is Innisfree, whose brand ambassador is -”

“Hwan.” Yoongi blinks, hoping his hunch is wrong. He clears his throat. “But he owns a hundred brands - why does he care about this one so much?”

Jung PD frowns at him as though he’s missing something obvious. “Because his daughter can’t be seen collaborating with his competition. It’s either her or Hwan. So unless we ask Hwan to break off his contract -”

“We can’t do that.” The words are out of Yoongi’s mouth instantly, even as his heart sinks. He turns to look at the boy through the sliver of glass in the studio. “It’s - it’s his only source of income. We can’t… we can’t. How - how did Kang Jaesung even find out about this collaboration? He’s the only shareholder who’s never given a crap about our releases before.”

Jung PD shrugs. “No idea. Maybe because his daughter is involved? Proud dad and all? Either way, he’s scrapping it.” He scoffs. “I’m sorry, Yoongi. We’ll try to find Hwan something else and if we can’t…” He sighs. “He’s a talented kid. That always matters.”

No, it doesn’t. Yoongi doesn’t say it, because he doesn’t need to. He knows Jung PD has definitely seen more talented kids fall through the cracks than he has. YG had been ignoring Hwan, but he still had a contract with them. They could’ve done something for him had Yoongi not convinced him to give Big Hit a chance instead. 

He swallows. “We can make a new song,” he blurts out.

“You’re going on tour, Yoongi,” reminds Jung PD gently.

“Not for almost a week. Worst case, they push the release by a week and he features in our second concert instead of the first. We can still -”

“You have to get approvals, Marketing needs to work on a whole new campaign.” Jung PD shakes his head in sympathy. “I’m really sorry, Yoongi. I’ll speak to Hwan if you want.”

Yoongi screws his eyes shut before opening them and sighing. “No. I should do it. I should talk to him.” He glances back at Hwan again, his slender figure on the sofa, holding up the lyrics sheet and practicing by himself. Yoongi can’t hear him, but he can imagine the sweet, melodic voice that made him shine during his short-lived debut, coupled with his graceful, almost feminine movements on stage. 

“I should talk to him,” repeats Yoongi, feeling sick with guilt. His eyes flicker to the side when he spots a movement and sees Miso step out of the elevator, expensive headphones on her head and striding down the hall without a care in the world, blissfully unaware of the damage being caused by her very presence. “But I need to talk to someone else first.”

They meet halfway, Miso raising her eyebrows in acknowledgement and checking her phone. “I’m here a minute early,” she states dryly.

“Bully for you. Can we talk?” 

Without waiting for an answer, he pushes open the door to an empty studio right next to him and strides in, hearing her footsteps behind him and the door closing. He turns around to see a frown flit across her face momentarily. 

“Is this because I didn’t bring you a coffee this morning?” she quips, folding her arms across her chest. “Because you look way too serious for ten am, Min Suga.”

“Just… stop… talking.” Yoongi’s voice trembles in fury, and he tries to rein it in. “You… your -” He presses his tongue against his teeth, trying to find the words. “Hwan is not getting his debut,” he says finally, quietly. “A kid with more talent than half this building put together, who had a bad, bad hand dealt to him isn’t getting his last, deserved shot… because of Kang Miso, princess of nepotism.”

Miso’s eyes flicker with confusion. “What the hell are you talking about? Why isn’t Hwan -”

“Your father is shutting down the song,” he snaps, taking a step towards her. “Because a competing brand’s ambassador can’t be associated with his precious daughter’s music. You wrote one song in your whole life, sitting in your fancy fucking mansion while being waited on hand and foot. Hwan is the oldest of four siblings. He has only one parent left, and he’s trained until his feet bled to be able to provide for them! And now he can’t because of -”

She swallows but doesn’t move. Even through his anger, Yoongi can tell she had no prior knowledge of this. But he doesn’t care. They’re only inches apart; he can see her shock and realisation all at once, but the way she holds his gaze makes him take a step back.

Miso licks her lips slowly. “What do you want me to do about it, Yoongi?” she asks quietly. 

“Fix it.”

“I can’t. My father is -”

“I don’t give a fuck.” He takes another step back, resisting the urge to grab her by her thin shoulders and make her look him in the eye. “Your rich people's problems aren’t going to take this away from Hwan, or from me. Fix it,” he repeats. “Say whatever you need to to get your father’s head out of his arse or - you know what? I want you the hell off my team.”

She swallows and shakes her head. “Yoongi, you - you know I was assigned to -”

“If your father has the power to take away someone’s big break to satisfy his ego, he has the power to get you reassigned.” He ignores how she blinks rapidly, how her previously straight shoulders are hunched, how the guilt seems to expand in his chest for a moment. “I don’t want to see you in my damn studio ever again.”

He turns around and yanks the door open, stalking out and leaving her alone in the dark.

—

Miso doesn’t see Yoongi for the rest of the day. She doesn’t even try to seek him out; not once has he ever lost his temper with her like that and she has no idea how long it takes for him to cool down from something like this. She does see Hwan in the break room and darts away before he sees her, ducking into Donghyuk’s studio and desperately hoping he has some work for her today.

Around lunch time, she calls Seungkwan and he drives her to the last place she wants to be at, but the only one she can think of going to right now.

Kang Industries looks as intimidating as its owner, and just as impenetrable. The inside of the sprawling building is glass and stone, giving it the aura of a modern day tech prison. She takes the elevator all the way to the top floor and to the corner office; despite having been here only once in her whole life, she remembers it with striking clarity.

Her heart thumps against her ribcage as she nears it, spotting her father through one of the glass walls. He’s standing with three other men, all of them speaking while he stays silent, nodding only occasionally.

For a moment, Miso feels like turning around on the spot and running away. Let Yoongi hate her. She’s handled worse. But then, almost as if he’s heard her, Kang Jaesung’s eyes dart lock onto her. The impact of it makes her reel and she immediately lowers her gaze.

At the same time, his secretary spots her from the desk outside the office. She scrambles to her feet instantly and hurries towards Miso.

“Oh, Miss Kang!” she exclaims in surprise, seeming a bit flustered. “Please, uh - have - have a seat. I’ll inform your father that you’re -“

“It’s okay, I can wait until he’s -“

“Nonsense!” she interrupts in a high-pitched voice. “I’ll tell him his daughter is here and his meeting -“ She glances towards the room in a panic, and Miso can tell that she’s conflicted about which might be more important to him.

Fortunately, her speaker crackles to life just then.

“Send her in.”

The secretary exhales in transparent relief. “Right this way, Miss Kang.” She ushers her to the door of the office, just as it opens from the inside. One of the men, who she knows works for her father, is holding the doorknob while two others sit inside in similar-looking dark brown suits, facing her father’s desk.

“Excuse me, gentlemen.” Her father’s voice is calm but firm. “We will have to take a short break. My daughter is here.”

Both men seated turn to look at her and the younger one, dressed sharply with perfectly styled hair and an air of arrogance, raises an eyebrow. He turns back towards her father, presumably to argue, but something makes him stop. In spite of herself, Miso can empathize. 

Kang Jaesung waits patiently and says no more, until all three of the men file out. The youngest one, in the brown suit, brushes against her as he leaves. His eyes land on her and narrow, clearly insulted at being deprioritised. Miso looks away, waiting until they leave to step inside.

“I’m sorry for not calling ahead, Father.” She clears her throat, hoping her voice will stop shaking. Her father doesn’t generally respect underconfidence - or confidence, making it a fine line she needs to toe in order to appeal to him. “I - I can wait outside until you’re done with your meeting.”

“My daughter can’t be seen waiting here,” he supplies, typing something onto his phone and taking a seat behind his desk. “It’s bad for the family. It’s the only reason your mother shows up here on occasion.” His eyes flash with something and Miso realises with an uncomfortable twist in her stomach that he’s just made a joke.

Unsure whether she’s meant to react, she shuffles slightly and places her hands behind her back, standing straight. Her heart is beating too loud now, loud enough that she’s sure he can hear it.

“My time is too valuable to waste, Miso.”

“Of course.” She clears her throat again. “Father, I…” It will do no good to beat around the bush. It occurs to her now that her father knew this morning at breakfast that he was shutting down this release, which could have been the reason he’d stayed late. Her gaze falls to the emerald stone on his finger again and Seungkwan’s bruised face flits through her mind.

“I wanted to talk to you about… about the song that Big Hit is planning to release on Friday. By Hwan, produced by Suga of BTS. Written by me,” she adds after a moment. Her father observes her motionlessly, and his gaze feels piercing. “I heard that - that you’re unhappy with it and you… you don’t want it released. I would like to ask you to reconsider.”

His gaze is unmoving. “Why?”

Miso thinks about the list of reasons Yoongi had hissed at her and mentally throws them in the bin. Her father won’t care less about Hwan’s family situation or anyone else’s career.

“It’s produced by and featuring a BTS member. They are kicking off their world tour this weekend and have this song on their setlist already, meaning this song is going to be streamed all year. It will generate a lot of revenue for the company.”

His expression doesn’t change. “Every song this label puts out is streamed all year. That’s why I invested in it. Is that it?”

“Um -” She exhales shakily. Nothing else she’d rehearsed all morning comes to mind anymore. “I’m a writer,” she confesses quietly. “I - I wrote this song, most of it. It’s the first time I will ever be credited on a song.” Please don’t take this away from me. Not again.

Her father stares at her for a moment and finally shifts, leaning back in his chair for a moment. He crosses his legs and places his hands in his lap, his jaw sharp. “What do you think will happen if my daughter’s name is on a song that’s marketed under the name of a competing brand ambassador? Have you thought about that?”

“Nobody reads the names of the writers on a song,” she reasons. “No one - no one will care. It’s just… I wrote it. It’s just my name on a piece of paper inside the CD, in tiny font.”

“Your name,” he says clearly, “is my name. And my name is going to be nowhere near a man like that, who dances with other men and wears clothes like a woman.” He clicks his tongue and his upper lip rolls in a sneer. “Celebrating a man preening over his skincare. The depths this country is sinking to…”

Miso holds her tongue, privately thinking that she should’ve guessed that her father’s problem extended to more than just competing brands. Hwan - beautiful, sweet-voiced, ballet-trained Hwan - personally offended Kang Jaesung.

“I’ll take my name off the song,” she offers at last, her heart sinking. “My - your name won’t be part of the release at all.”

He raises his eyebrows. “How noble. Unfortunately, it doesn’t matter. I’m still a shareholder, so I can’t sign off on it.” He slides a sheet of paper off his desk and begins reading it with disinterest, signalling the end of the conversation.

Miso swallows. “Please,” she pleads softly. “Father, I’ve never asked for anything -” She quells under the sudden look he gives her.

“You’ve never had to,” he states, and for a moment he sounds like Yoongi. “Do you know how people who don’t have everything handed to them go about a situation like this? They offer something in return.” He pauses, watching her stonily. “It’s called a quid pro quo.”

She purses her lips, willing herself to stay calm. The anxiety is bubbling up and threatening to choke her, for she has no idea how to go back to Big Hit now, how to face Hwan… how to face Yoongi. His face burns in her mind, the disgust and lack of respect so clear in his features.

“You see that young entrepreneur out there?” Her father asks, his gaze directly on her. “Don’t look,” he hisses when her head automatically turns. She immediately turns away, catching only a glimpse of the aforementioned entrepreneur’s glare in the direction of this office. “Lee Jiho. He’s an idiot. His name may be on the company, but none of what he has is his doing. His Chief of Strategy is the real brains behind the operation.”

Miso guesses the older person with Jiho is the Chief of Strategy. It takes all her willpower not to turn again.

“Lee Jiho is an idiot, but somehow, he tapped into the right market segment. I want to buy him out,” he declares, leaning back in his chair again. “But he doesn’t want to sell to me. Not at the price I’m asking.”

She nods and lowers her gaze. He’s making a point and the only thing left to do is to hear him out and nod on cue. Her eyes start to sting but it would be a mistake of massive proportions to let her father see her cry. 

“Convince him to sell to me.”

It takes Miso a moment to realise he’s expecting a response.

“Um… you want me to -”

“Any stock price that might fall due to a competing brand will get covered by the savings I make on this purchase.” He shrugs. “Convince him to sell to me and I’ll sign off on your song.” When Miso doesn’t respond, the corner of his mouth rises in satisfaction. “But you don’t think you can do that, do you?”

“Thank you for your time, Father,” she whispers, waiting just long enough for him to acknowledge her before she turns and walks out of his office. She almost bumps into Jiho and his entourage outside, who seem to have been waiting for her to leave, the former giving her a mildly appraising look. His features are sharp and pointed and expensive, his cologne reeking of new money.

“My daughter,” says her father from behind her. Both of them turn to look at him, and Miso doesn’t miss his small raise of the eyebrows towards her. It’s a challenge, one he only proposed because he knew she would back down from it. Kang Jaesung does not lose, ever, and he does not care who he is going up against.

“Miss Kang.” Lee Jiho bows stiffly the same time she does before they shake hands. Up close, he can’t be more than a year or two older than her, but something about the way he looks at her over his slanting nose makes it clear that he’s still miffed over having his meeting interrupted by her presence.

“Pleasure to meet you,” she mumbles before slipping out and hurrying away. She doesn’t stop until she’s out of the building and inside the car, away from her father’s turf. Her chest feels heavier than ever with the knowledge that this trip achieved nothing except putting her job on her father’s radar and giving him the satisfaction of pleading with him for something.

As the car pulls up outside Big Hit, it takes her a few moments to move. Yoongi will be in there somewhere, she thinks, angry and disappointed, with no one to blame but her. Until this morning, the Big Hit building felt like her only haven, the safe place she could go to that did not, for all intents and purposes belong to her father, without drivers and gardeners keeping an eye on her or her mother’s constant judgement following her around.

Kang Miso. Princess of nepotism. He hates her, and she can’t even defend him.

She can’t go inside the building now. The rising fear of what Yoongi might say if he sees her keeps her rooted to the car seat. She wonders when his opinion had started mattering this much to her, when the blazing fire in his eyes as he stood inches away from her had made her want to douse it instead of walking away. 

It’s either Big Hit or Kang Industries. Miso’s stomach rolls; it’s three pm and it occurs to her vaguely that she hasn’t eaten after that singular bao at breakfast. Despite that, she feels like throwing up. Either Yoongi hates her forever, or she risks taking her father up on his deal and potentially failing at it.

The fading bruise around her wrist seems to burn. Failing is not an option, not when it comes to her father. Having Yoongi hate her would be hard, but she can get over it. She remembers how he had offered to drive her home a few weeks ago after they’d spent half the night at his studio. He remained the first and only person in her entire life to extend such an offer without seemingly expecting anything in return, and her surprise at it had visibly confused him.

It’s either Big Hit or Kang Industries.

—

It’s still dawn when Yoongi’s phone rings, jerking him awake.

“What?”

“Come to the studio!” The person at the other end of the call mirrors none of Yoongi’s sleepy annoyance. “Now!”

He groans and rolls over in bed, still in the jeans and t-shirt he’d been wearing all day. “Why? What’s - what’s happening?”

“We’re releasing the solo!” Jung PD’s voice is frantic and forcibly quiet, as though he’s trying to pace himself. “Hwan’s solo!”

Yoongi sits up with a jerk, his head pounding with the whiplash. “What are you -”

“He must have given up his contract with Innisfree,” he says excitedly. “Either way, Marketing just dropped an email - if we can get them the final version by ten pm tonight, they’ll release it on schedule!”

“But -” Yoongi shakes his head and rubs his eyes. “How did - what about Kang Jaesung and his -”

“Fuck him!” Jung PD uses a word he’s never used in Yoongi’s presence before. “Once the song is out there, he can’t do anything about it. For now, we’re in the clear - so get in here! Now!

Yoongi is at the Big Hit building in under twenty minutes. An intern hands him a strong coffee the moment he steps out of the elevator and he sees a group of people assembled outside his studio, comprising Hwan, Jung PD and two assistant producers.

“The smaller the group, the quicker this will go,” explains Jung PD when Yoongi raises his eyebrows. “We have -” He checks his watch “- fifteen hours to get this done.” Next to him, Hwan nods hopefully, wringing his hands in anticipation.

Yoongi nods, making a mental note to tell Namjoon he was right. He hadn’t been as worried as Yoongi yesterday, adamant that these things worked out somehow.

Maybe Hwan will choose his art over his brand deals, he’d said wisely. Some people take that call. Jungkook did.

Yoongi had looked at him incredulously. Jungkook was fifteen! And he took a really stupid risk, all things considered. He’s just lucky it worked out.

We’re all lucky it worked out, Namjoon had pointed out, frustratingly reasonable. Hwan is older, meaning he’ll realise the importance of his work as an artist.

Yoongi had stared at him, lost for words, not knowing how to explain to the philosopher in Namjoon that realising the importance of art and having the freedom to choose it were two very different things.

Miso can’t do anything about this? Namjoon had asked after a minute, making Yoongi’s anger cloud his worry once more.

Fuck her, he’d seethed. This is all her fault. He hadn’t elaborated any further, unable to find the words to explain that for a moment after Jung PD had given him the news, his first instinct had been to defend Miso. Days of working together in a closed studio had facilitated a rapport between them, enough for him to pick up on her hard work and talent, not to mention the lack of boredom that made him sometimes wait for her to arrive in the morning. But none of that compared to just how stupid he felt for forgetting, even for an instant, where she came from. 

He scans the group in front of him again and feels a begrudging satisfaction that she wasn’t called to rush over here. She’s a writer of the song, for better or for worse, and she will be credited. But when it comes to the hustle, to back-breaking hard work that can only be a result of desperation and everything to lose, someone like her has no business being here.

There’s no time to lament about his lapse in judgement, or about how he can’t help but feel a little uneasy at working on Miso’s song without her present. But he powers through, for Hwan’s sake. Hwan, to his credit, gives every last bit of his effort, singing the same lines over and over again without complaining, concentrating on Yoongi’s ad libs, focusing on the arrangements until it’s nearly eight pm, and they finally have their track.

“What do you think?”

Yoongi watches Namjoon and Hoseok, both of whom happened to be in the Big Hit building as well. His eyes are dry and he feels light-headed with fatigue, but his mind is buzzing a million miles a second. He needs this to release tonight, the rest of the weekend will have to be devoted to rehearsals until they take the stage on Sunday night for the first concert of their tour.

“It’s fantastic,” says Hoseok, as the track comes to an end. Behind him, Namjoon nods in agreement.

“Namjoon?”

“He sounds incredible.” Namjoon pats Hwan on the shoulder. “You’ll go far, kid.”

Hwan looks like he could weep with joy as he nods, watery-eyed and sniffling. “What do you think, hyung?” he asks Yoongi, eyes full of hope. “Is it good enough? Do you think they’ll release it?”

“They’ll release it,” confirms Jung PD, entering the studio as he hangs up on a call. “I just got the go-ahead. They can’t shut it down without losing money on all the promotional material, so as long as it passes the audio approvals in the next couple of hours, it’ll be done.”

There’s a smattering of applause and relieved chuckles from around the studio. Yoongi runs a hand over his face and smiles tiredly at Hwan. “Go home and take a shower,” he advises him.

He frowns. “Why?”

“We can’t have a solo debut without a release party,” says Jung PD, as though it’s obvious. “Granted, it won’t be as fancy as a pre-planned party, but nothing about this release has been traditional so far,” he adds, and a few people laugh.

Yoongi notices Hwan’s hesitation. “I’ll sit with the Audio team,” he assures him. “This track won’t be out of my sight for a second until it’s officially out.”

Hwan nods and wipes his eyes as subtly as he can and everyone awws, Hoseok and one of the assistant producers throwing their arms around his shoulders and squeezing him. It’s an organic moment of camaraderie after over twelve hours of work; Yoongi can’t help but be extremely proud of Hwan.

“I’ll get the admin team to send out a mass email to the department to come over in a couple of hours.” Jung PD waves his phone and steps out, already making the call.

Everyone shuffles out after that, Namjoon giving Yoongi a last relieved high-five before leaving. Once he’s alone, Yoongi sighs and takes a seat, trying to squeeze in a minute of rest before heading over to the Audio team. He doesn’t foresee any problems there per se, but it requires plenty of concentration that he needs to gather from somewhere.

After five minutes of stretching and finishing the last of the Red Bull in the studio, Yoongi stands up and quickly emails the track to the Audio team, marking it URGENT. Taking a copy of it in a pendrive, he reaches for his bag and at the last moment, remembers to take the sheet music just in case it’s required. Straightening the sheets, he sees the names on the front page. Suga of BTS. Hwan. Kang Chanel.

Yoongi pauses. The mass email to the department will include her for certain. His heart skips a beat at the thought that she will most likely not come to the party, and won’t hear how her own song turned out until the rest of the world does. 

The smallest twinge of regret at how he’d spoken to her yesterday begins to take form in the bottom of his stomach. He thinks of how, nearly a year ago, he’d visited her house on an invite, not from Miso, but from her father. She hadn’t said a word in his presence, but the way she’d abruptly gone silent had been so uncomfortable to watch that Yoongi had accepted the invitation without even considering it, just so her father would leave.

You don’t know my father.

She’d said that to him at her house and while he hadn’t pried, it hadn’t quite left his mind either. He swallows and shakes his head; he can’t afford these thoughts right now. He’ll apologise to her later if he needs to; after all, it’s still Hwan who gave up his contract.

With that in mind, he turns off the light and leaves the studio.

—

For a last minute gathering catered by the bakery from the Hilton down the street and leftover liquor from Big Hit’s last party, Yoongi walks in to see far more people than he’d expected. Fortunately, the office’s entertainment hall seems to have been available and after some minimal decorations, at least part of the crowd seems to know what they’re here for.

He spots Hwan near the stage, looking fresher than he’s seen him all day, talking to a couple of other artists. Deciding to let him have his moment, Yoongi slinks over to the makeshift bar and pours himself a small whiskey, watching the night finally coming together after two days of chaos.

Jung PD comes over to him a little while later. “Did Audio sign off?”

Yoongi nods. “They wanted this released just as fast as we did, I think,” he says in a low voice. “I don’t know if they know about the… situation, but they were more cooperative than I’ve ever experienced.”

He chortles. “That’s good. Do you have your speech ready?” he asks, just as the music fades away.

“Speech? Come on,” he says, rolling his eyes even as he spots Hwan jogging over to them. “I shouldn't be -“

“This is all because of you, hyung,” he gushes, rosy-cheeked, his thick black hair bouncing on his forehead. He grabs Yoongi’s wrist and steers him towards the stage. “You have to say a few words.”

There’s some clapping and hooting which completely drowns out Yoongi’s feeble protests, but the small and proud part of him chooses to play along and he hops up on the small stage, barely two inches off the ground.

“Um -“ Yoongi clears his throat. Now that he’s up here, he realises the number of people who showed up was more than he’d initially realised. He scans the faces, some unrecognisable, until he spots Hwan and Jung PD standing in front, and feels a rush of happiness for them.

“I shouldn’t even be the one up here,” he begins, fiddling absently with his glass of whiskey. “But now that I am, I think this night won’t be complete without thanking a few people without whom this wouldn’t have been possible. As you know, we had some complications -” He pauses while a few people chuckle “- but we did it in the end.”

Hwan looks thrilled, now not even bothering to hide the fact that he’s crying. Yoongi thinks about what he’s given up already, about all the faith he’s kept in him so far, and his heart twists with affection.

“The Marketing team, for their stellar promotion and last-mile effort; Minji and Adora, for the background vocals they came up with on the spot,” he lists, pausing after each statement for people to applaud. “The Audio team for giving us the fastest sign-off in the history of Big Hit -” There are a few more laughs as one of the Audio reps raises his glass in acknowledgement. “Jung PD, of course, for being the mentor and producer I can only hope to be like one day - and Hwan, of course, for the dedication and talent like no other.”

The applause is far louder now, with cheers and hooting, and Yoongi joins in until he spots Miso’s face towards the back of the room. His smile fades and for a moment, so does everything else.

He should thank her. He knows he should. As a writer, Hwan would quite literally not have this song if it weren’t for her. His eyes drop to the floor before meeting hers again. She’s wearing an olive green dress, her pale and slender arms crossed protectively over her chest. She doesn’t smile at him, but there’s something hopeful in her face. 

Yoongi exhales; after yesterday morning, he might just owe her this, even if it’s just to bury the hatchet. But then a movement catches his eye and he sees Jung PD hugging Hwan, and considers how inappropriate it might be to thank Kang Jaesung’s daughter in front of Hwan, one day after he’d almost lost everything because of a powerful billionaire.

He swallows and clenches his jaw. Maybe this isn’t the right forum. She’ll still be credited as a writer and that’ll be forever. That was all she ever cared about anyway, to be credited.

“To Hwan,” he says finally, watching with a sinking stomach how her face falls slightly while the room erupts in applause again. It disappears in a flash, however, and she takes a deep breath before turning and murmuring something to the man beside her. Yoongi frowns; he hadn’t even noticed this person until now, with sharp features and a suit, a distinct, hulking look as he stands just behind her so her shoulder grazes his tie. 

He vaguely registers Jung PD stepping up to the stage and looks away to give him the mic. By the time he turns back to where Miso was, she’s gone, with her companion following her outside.

Yoongi stares at her vacant spot with unease. He tries to remember the fury he’d felt yesterday morning when the song was being shut down, but it seems ridiculously far away. What seem closer are the days they spent producing the song together in the studio, rewriting the words over empty cups of coffee, and the look on her face when he’d told her to get off his team.

“Hyung, is everything okay?” Hwan asks a few minutes later, when the speeches are over and the music is louder.

“Fine.” Yoongi forces a smile and shoves his free hand in his pocket. “What about you? Are you ready for Sunday night?”

“Am I ready to perform at a BTS concert?” He lets out a low whistle. “It’s like a dream, hyung. I still can’t believe it.”

“You’ll believe it when you have to spend the next three days in rehearsals.”

“That’s not a problem,” he says immediately. “I can’t wait. I’ll have to talk to my agent about timings, though - he’s got me a meeting with Puma and Innisfree also wants to meet -”

“Wait, Innisfree?” Yoongi frowns. “Are they trying to get you back? I suppose you can now, after the song has been released.”

Hwan looks confused for a moment before shaking his head. “No, no, I didn’t break my contract. I didn’t need to - can you believe it? Jung PD just called me this morning and told me to come in and I couldn’t believe my luck.” He tilts his head curiously. “I was actually going to ask you about it. I thought you would know what happened.”

Yoongi’s heart starts beating fast - very fast. His mind isn’t able to spell it out immediately but the way his stomach jolts, he knows the only other thing that could’ve made this song go through. He looks to Jung PD and something in his expression makes the older producer usher Hwan away before speaking further.

“I got an email last night,” he says after a moment. “Miso offered to take her name off the song. About half an hour later, Legal emailed me saying that their complication has been removed. It’s not hard to put two and two together.”

Yoongi bites his lip, taking a deep breath through his nose and exhaling shakily. “And the reason you didn’t tell me this was because…?”

“I didn’t think you’d do it if you knew she wasn’t getting credited,” he says apologetically. “Not after the Jungwon-Minji collaboration. Yoongi, you have a good heart but we just couldn’t risk it getting in the way of this release,” he continues quickly. “We’ve invested too much - and think of Hwan! Think of how he -”

“You lied to me!” Yoongi whispers furiously. “How - how could you do that? She and I worked on this together! She’s - we’re -” He breaks off abruptly, feeling an unexpected heat creep up his neck. “She’s my assistant producer! How is it going to look, that someone from my team forgoes credit twice?”

“You’re covered there,” he replies immediately, to Yoongi’s surprise. “She switched to Donghyuk’s team just before writing to Legal, so technically, she was off your team when she stepped down. It won’t go on your record at all.”

Yoongi feels like he’s underwater. “How -” He shakes his head, recalling the number of times he’s suggested switching teams, and her exasperated response each time. “She - she was assigned to me. People can’t just switch teams of their own accord.”

Jung PD gives him a look that makes Yoongi want to hit him. “You know who her father is, Yoongi. All she had to do was drop one email and she could switch to any team she wanted.”

—

What if I fail, dad?

Believe me. You don’t want to fail.

Even as an eleven year old, her father’s words had sent shivers up her spine. She had failed anyway, losing the spelling bee to her cousin, whose father had then brought it up at a family dinner party. The next day, Miso’s pet rabbit disappeared. Upon asking, her father had silenced her with a stony look.

Failure has consequences. Your rabbit should be the least of your concerns right now.

Miso had been devastated beyond words until a week later, when their housekeeper had sneaked into her room and informed her that their gardener, who had been instructed to take care of the rabbit, had instead given it away to his brother’s children who lived near the outskirts of the city.

It hadn’t helped too much, for every imagined scenario of her pet rabbit stayed burned in her brain anyway, flashing through her mind every time the possibility of failing her father loomed close.

I’ll sign off on your song. Convince him to sell to me.

Miso’s father had kept his word; the song will be out to the public in a few hours. But it doesn’t let her off the hook, for if she isn’t able to convince Lee Jiho to sell his company to her father, there’s no telling what could happen. If she’s lucky, all he will do is take away her job. If she isn’t… her rabbit flashes through her mind again and she shivers.

“Are all your work parties like this?” Jiho looks around with barely-concealed judgement. He places his glass of untouched whiskey on a table and slips his hands into his pockets.

“They’re usually more… planned,” she admits. She wishes she hadn’t brought him here. Her idea had been to help him get his guard down, maybe get him a little drunk and start talking up her father’s company. A party at Big Hit typically meant a celebrity or two as well, which was usually an added bonus for most people.

Jiho, however, it became apparent soon, thought he was above entertainment entirely. Far from impressing him, she worries she’s putting him off even more than he already seemed when she’d called him earlier today on the pretext of “getting to know him better”.

“Do you want to step outside?” she suggests. “It’ll be quieter…” She tries to shrug her shoulders in a flirty manner, feeling both nervous and ridiculous.

Jiho fixes her with his gaze, and Miso feels a crawling sensation up her back. Somehow, he has a tendency to make her feel like she’s being studied.

“Sure,” he says finally. They walk out of the party together and to the outside, near a gazebo and a closed coffee cart.

“Do you smoke?” he asks, placing a cigarette in between his teeth and lighting it. When she nods, he offers her the pack and waits for her to ask for the lighter. 

“I got it,” he mutters, and steps forward to touch the tip of his cigarette to hers. His eyes stay on her as he towers over her figure, backing her up against the wall behind her. Miso freezes, but before she can react further, he takes a step back.

She exhales shakily and takes a long drag, almost gagging at the thick, unfamiliar taste of old school cigarettes. For a moment she thinks about the last time she shared a cigarette with someone, the minty flavour and begrudging friendship tied to it.

Miso shakes her head. She can’t think about him right now.

“You know,” begins Jiho, blowing a long string of smoke into the air. “I’ve been in a lot of meetings with a lot of important people. But none of them have been interrupted midway quite like the one with your father yesterday. Definitely not for…” His gaze drops to her and he narrows his eyes curiously, as though sifting through the words in his mind. “… a daughter,” he says at last.

So it’s been playing on his mind since yesterday. Miso swallows and nods.

“I’m sorry about that,” she says, giving him a small smile. “It was… it was important. There are some things only my father can fix. He’s a useful person to have on your side.”

Jiho nods, raising his eyebrows. “That’s touching. Unfortunately, that’s not what it looked like from where I was sitting.”

She’s failing. She can feel it. Her pulse starts racing in anxiety.

“My father holds you in very high regard.”

“Really? He told you that?”

“Of course,” she lies easily. “I… forgive me, but I don’t make it a habit to ask for the number of everybody my father does business with.”

He gives her that same appraising look again, as though she’s an object at an antique sale he’s trying to price.

“That’s good to hear, I suppose. Although,” he says a moment later, “if he does hold me in such high regard, why is he trying to buy me out at a lower price? Why isn’t he paying me what I’m worth?” He takes a step closer to her with his last word.

He’s too close for comfort. “I don’t pretend to understand the ins and outs of how he does business. I’d rather leave that to someone with more experience,” she adds, gesturing slightly towards him and seeing his acknowledgement of it. “But… he’s a very valuable asset. His partnership can offer you a lot more than money.”

“Is that so?” His voice is soft and the faintest smile flits across his face. “Well,” he says, exhaling and dropping the extinguisher cigarette on the ground, “he’s your father. I’ll take your word for it.”

Miso stares, somewhat confused. It doesn’t seem like the conversation is over, but there’s an air of satisfaction about him.

“That’s… that’s good.”

Jiho gives her the closest thing to a smile since she met him yesterday. “So. What is it worth to you?”

Something uneasy stirs in her stomach. “What do you mean?”

He doesn’t look away from her. “Well. I’m guessing your father sent you here to sweet-talk me into this deal. Must be that partnership you’ve told me so much about,” he adds, chuckling softly.

Two things happen around the same time. The first is her realisation that beyond a certain point, her father did not care about Big Hit releasing a song or who the artist was. What he wanted was an entrepreneur’s company for cheap, and what he needed was his daughter indebted to him to the point of doing whatever it took to pay him back. He’d played the long game, possibly all the way since breakfast yesterday morning.

The second is Jiho’s forehead clearing when he’s satisfied that she understands what he means. 

Miso swallows, her heart hammering in her chest as she imagines the feel of a rabbit’s fur between her trembling fingers. “Are you serious?” she whispers, without thinking.

Jiho shrugs. “Depends. Do you want this sale to go through or not?”

She remembers the glare he’d thrown her yesterday at the father’s office when his meeting had been interrupted for her. For her father, this is business. For Jiho, this is ego. Either way, Miso can’t see a way out.

Yoongi is contemplating leaving the party early when he finally sees Miso again. Hugely relieved that she’s still here, he pushes through the crowd and jogs towards her.

“Miso!” he calls, reaching her just when she whips around at the sound of her name and her eyes go wide at the sight of Yoongi. “Listen, I - I need to talk to you.”

Before she can say anything, however, the same guy who had been standing next to her during Yoongi’s speech steps forward. In his indigo blue suit, he looks ridiculously out of place at this party. 

“We’re in a bit of a hurry right now,” he says smoothly. “Maybe later.” He moves to leave, his hand big and unwelcome on the small of Miso’s back.

Yoongi fights the urge to slap it away and blocks their way. “Look, I don’t know who you are, but I really -” His gaze drops to Miso, who looks more troubled than he’s ever seen her. All sorts of unimportant things like writing credits and songs fly clean out of his mind; something is not right. “I really need to talk to you,” he says softly. He watches her carefully and just when he thinks he’s imagining things, she gives him an imperceptible shake of the head.

The man behind her steps forward so he’s beside her. “I’m Jiho. I’m a… a business associate of Kang Jaesung’s,” he says deliberately, with a sinister sort of pride in his voice. “And you are?”

Something cold sinks into Yoongi’s chest. Just like before, he can’t quite spell out what it is but he knows, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that he can’t let Miso leave with this person. He ignores the question and keeps his gaze on her.

“Miso,” he repeats, a little more urgently this time. “It - it’ll just take a second. It’s about work.”

Jiho - Yoongi can’t recall if that’s his name - scoffs, clearly affronted at being ignored. “Miso, do you know him?” he demands.

Something flickers in her eyes before stabilising. “Just some guy I work with,” she murmurs.

“No…” Yoongi says it under his breath, his frown deepening. “Miso -“

But he falls silent when her eyes flash momentarily. There’s no anger there, or betrayal. It’s a warning: don’t get involved. 

“Let’s go.” Yoongi catches a glimpse of her wrist just before Jiho wraps his fingers around it, and notices the mark he’d spotted last time, but far more faded. 

Before he can say anything else, Jiho elbows him out of the way and they leave. Yoongi waits for a couple of seconds for Miso to look back at him, to give him some hint that she knows what she’s doing. But she never does. He stays rooted to the spot until they disappear around the corner, fear gripping at his heart, when a switch flips and he races after them.

He takes a call between the parking lot and the entrance of the building and hurries towards the former, stopping in the dark lobby to see a grey jaguar outside with a driver in the front, waiting with the headlights on. Behind him, the back door is open as Miso climbs into the back seat, Jiho still gripping her wrist.

“No!” Yoongi doesn’t grasp immediately that he’s shouted out loud, but it’s only when Jiho frowns for a second and looks around that Yoongi realises they can’t hear him. He hurries across the lobby as Jiho gets in the car as well and shuts the door behind him.

“What are you doing?” he shouts. “Miso!” But by the time Yoongi runs through the automatic doors and reaches the porch, the car has driven away.

—

The morning is new, with the sun’s rays slanting in through the large windows. They’re blocked by the white sheets, giving the bed a warm, faint glow and making honey skin look golden. It’s fingers on hips, lips soft against muscle, intimate smiles between kisses and the quiet murmurs of nothing in particular for no one else to hear.

“It could be Kanye.” Dilara murmurs, her lips brushing against his ear. Her arms come around his neck and she sighs as his mouth moves gently along her jaw.

Taehyung groans quietly, kissing the skin along her neck and down to her shoulder. “Don’t even say that,” he complains softly, running a hand down the side of her body. “Are you wearing a new lotion?”

“Picked it up from the airport. What about -” She breaks off momentarily when he raises his head to face her, taken off guard by his eyes immediately locking on hers. “- um… Bruno. Mars. After that thing that went viral.”

He snickers softly and kisses her. “Unlikely,” he disagrees quietly against her lips. “It’ll probably be Kendrick,” he adds, pulling her closer, their naked bodies flush against each other.

“I can get behind that.” Dilara runs a hand through his thick hair and hooks a leg around his waist, flipping them over. Straddling him, she takes in his expression of surprise and arousal in equal measure. “I still think it’ll be Kanye, though. Record of the Year is always someone controversial,” she points out, flipping her long hair over one shoulder and straightening up.

Taehyung shakes his head slowly. “Fuck, you’re beautiful.”

He says it in Korean, but this Dilara can understand. She doesn’t bother suppressing her smile. “So you agree with me?”

He grins. “Sure. Unless you’re wrong.” He’s gone blond once again, for their comeback and upcoming tour. It’s a sunny golden, thick and brushing the tops of his ears and reaching the nape of his neck. He looks unbelievably handsome, like a work of art sculpted just for her.

She narrows her eyes playfully and adjusts herself on top of him, his erection brushing against her arse cheeks and making her toes curl automatically. “What do I get if I’m right?”

He holds her hips. “What do you want?”

“Write me a song.”

“I’ll write you a hundred,” he promises, just as she slides onto him, their sighs of pleasure occurring in unison. She moves slowly, rolling her hips into his and feeling his length inside her as he helps her along. It’s slow, soft and loving, the morning sun streaming in through the gaps in the curtains as she rides him, his fingers steady on her flesh and his gaze holding hers until the end.

“What time do we need to leave?” Dilara asks a little while later, flushed and on her back as she checks her phone. Her heart is still racing slightly, at a comfortable, post-coital pace.

“Hm, around four?” Taehyung answers, putting down his own phone and scooching over to her. He slides his arm around her waist and rests his chin comfortably on her shoulder. “But me and Jimin have to film something before that so you’ll have to come with the others. Unless you want to come with us?” he offers, squeezing her waist affectionately.

But Dilara shakes her head. “That’s okay. I don’t think I’ll be ready before that. I have to go pick up my dress and then Kaya and I have plans to go to lunch, get our hair done…” She places her phone back on the nightstand and turns to face him. 

“Wow. So you two are friends, then? If you’re getting your hair done together,” he points out seriously. He fingers a curl falling down her neck. “Your hair looks amazing like this - why do you even need to get it done?”

She chuckles. “Yeah? Should I just turn up to the Grammys afterparty with sex hair and messy curls?”

“Sounds perfect.”

She rolls her eyes and tucks her hair back self-consciously. “Not going to happen. We don’t have award-winning stylists to do our hair and make-up,” she reminds him, poking his shoulder. “And I like Kaya. She’s fun.”

“M-hm.” He kisses her but pulls away abruptly. “Are you sure you don’t mind watching the show from backstage, though?” 

“Absolutely,” she replies, shaking her head immediately. “I have no desire to sneak around the cameras and hope we don’t get spotted together. Kaya and I will chill backstage,” she tells him, wrapping her hands around his neck and sinking into his embrace, “cheer for you during your performance -” She kisses him slowly, slipping her tongue into his mouth, “- and meet you at the afterparty.”

Taehyung kisses her back and rolls on top of her, his blond hair brushing her cheeks. “I love you,” he murmurs before pulling away and frowning slightly. “Did you say you have to pick up your dress?”

“Yeah, it’s a Jenny Packham dress from her fall collection and it’s gorgeous. I have it on hold at a store here - shit, I should actually leave soon.” With an enormous effort, Dilara kisses him quickly and gently nudges him off, smirking at his dramatic groan. Swinging her legs off the bed, she begins searching for clothes.

“Can I see the dress?” he asks, still lying down as she pulls on his striped white button-down shirt from last night.

“Yeah, at the show.”

His jaw drops. “Seriously? It’s a secret?”

She gives him a look, now pulling on a pair of cotton shorts from her suitcase. “It wasn’t, but it can be. It’s a really nice dress and I want your reaction to the whole thing, with hair and shoes and all. It doesn’t work if I show you a picture of it beforehand,” she reasons.

“Huh.” Taehyung sits up on his knees and reaches for his joggers at the end of the bed. “Interesting. Sort of like a wedding dress.”

Dilara throws a t-shirt at him. “It’s not a wedding dress,” she states, her stomach fluttering without warning despite this being one of his favourite bits.

“Are you sure? Because I can roll with that,” he says seriously, pulling on the t-shirt and running his hands through his messy hair. “My outfit for today hasn’t been decided yet and I know there’s a white jacket that’s available -”

“Tae, I swear to God, don’t even joke about -”

“- but we should coordinate everything else, though, like a garter or -”

Dilara walks backwards with warm cheeks as Taehyung steps towards her, his forehead creased like he’s concentrating hard. “I’m going to kill you, I really am -” She turns around and opens the door of his room, hurrying outside and ignoring him as he continues. 

“- and if you’re wearing like a - how do you say it in English? That white cloth that comes over your face -”

“I’m not even listening, I’m just - oh, God!” She shrieks, partly in surprise and partly because of her heart skipping her beat when he grabs her around the waist and her feet leave the floor. 

“That really bothers you, doesn’t it?” Taehyung asks teasingly after he puts her down in the open kitchen of the shared suite. The doors to the other two rooms are still closed, leaving them alone in the expanse of the combined living room and kitchen area.

“No,” she disagrees automatically, popping two slices of bread into the toaster as she feels him come up behind her. “It’s just annoying. Like you,” she adds, poking him in the stomach.

He pokes her back. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re more annoying.”

“You’re -“

They jump slightly when the toaster dings and the bread pops up, dry and toasted. 

“Ooh, there’s jam,” he says, digressing and reaching behind her to pull a tray with small, pretty jars lined up on it. “Strawberry, obviously,” he decides, picking up a pink jar.

“Oh, no, try the blueberry…”

“Apricot? That doesn’t sound good at all…”

“I see your apricot and I raise you -“ She picks up a jar at the end and holds it up, wrinkling her nose. “- dates.”

Taehyung snickers, unscrewing the lid of the blueberry jam and lathering a generous amount on his toast with a butter knife. 

“Oh, I can’t have sugar,” she tells him when he offers her some, and bites into the plain toast. “What? I’m two weeks away from the first race. I can’t risk a single unwanted calorie.”

Taehyung frowns, dipping his finger into the jam. “Not even a taste?” he asks, waving a dollop of the sweet-smelling jelly in front of her.

She groans and leans back against the island. “Don’t tempt me,” she warns him, knocking his hand away.

“Just one.”

“No way. I’m already making an exception for later today where I intend to have one or many mimosas at lunch,” she points out.

“Fine.” He makes a big show of sucking it off his finger and smacking his lips while she narrows her eyes at him. “You said you didn’t want any,” he reminds her, stepping towards her and taking a large bite of his toast, leaving a smear of jam on the tip of his nose.

Pursing her lips in amusement, Dilara reaches up on the tips of her toes and licks it off. “Just made an exception.”

Taehyung’s face breaks out into a grin, but he visibly reins it in. Placing his hands on either side of her, he presses a sweet kiss to her cheek. “You know what you just did,” he says, taking another bite of his toast, “was a very married couple kind of thing to -“

“I hate you.”

“You really don’t.”

“Yes, I do…”

They’re kissing in between giggles and bites of toast when the front door opens. 

“Oh!” Jungkook immediately screws his eyes shut and halts in place, looking like he’s walked into an invisible wall. Jimin strolls in along with him, simply raising his eyebrows at them as they separate reluctantly.

“Told you they’ll have food,” says Jimin in Korean, dropping his gym bag on the floor. He comes over to examine the plate of jams and looks up in mild horror. “That’s it? Bread and jam?”

“Haven’t you lived on worse?” Dilara tosses him the wireless landline. “It’s technically your hotel suite. Feel free to order room service. JK, what about you? JK?” She turns to see him still standing in the same place with his eyes closed, his neck and ears red.

“Nothing for me, thanks.”

Taehyung frowns curiously at him as he chews his toast while Jimin reaches over and taps his hip with the phone. “I’m getting shakshuka,” he informs him. “They have eggs benedict, too.”

Jungkook finally peels his eyes open slowly and clears his throat, placing his gym bag next to Jimin’s and coming up next to him. “Uh, yeah, sure.” He looks up gingerly at Dilara and Taehyung across the island and his shoulders visibly relax, as though relieved to confirm that they’re no longer snogging. “What about you guys?”

“Just toast for me. But,” she adds, “may I tempt you to try the best jam offered by the Hilton?” She reaches across the island to where the tray of jams is next to Jimin’s elbow. “Hint: it contains dates.”

As she struggles to reach the tray while Jimin remains unbothered, the wide collar of Taehyung’s shirt falls open slightly. It takes her a moment to remember she isn’t wearing a bra and another to sense eyes on her. Before she can confirm, however, Taehyung’s arm appears in front of her.

“Or you can try the apricot,” he suggests, placing the bottle on the island. Dilara looks up to see his gaze on Jungkook, both knowing and just the slightest bit amused.

Jungkook’s face reddens again. “Apricot sounds good,” he mumbles, taking the bottle and sliding off the bar stool he was sitting on.

Taehyung snickers under his breath as he leaves while Dilara smacks his arm playfully, suppressing her own smile when the door opens for the second time. 

“Told you they’d have food,” says Namjoon with Kaya entering beside him. She’s already dressed in jeans and an off-shoulder top, looking fresh and glowing as she runs a hand through her long hair, the other interlaced loosely with her boyfriend’s fingers.

“Are you ready to go?” she asks Dilara, dropping his hand and taking Jungkook’s vacated seat. Meanwhile, Namjoon examines the lone packet of bread in disappointment.

“Yeah, just need to shower.”

Namjoon’s head snaps up. “You should hurry. We need to leave at four on the dot, so you guys should be back before then.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be ten minutes.” Dilara swallows the last of her toast and skips into Taehyung’s room, shutting the door behind her.

When she returns, showered and doused in sunscreen for a sunny day in Los Angeles, Taehyung, Jimin, Jungkook and Namjoon are sharing one plate of shakshuka, looking extremely tragic as they do. Kaya observes them with a frown, looking somewhat sympathetic but also mildly concerned.

“We’re performing today,” says Jimin defensively, giving Namjoon a sideways glare, before Dilara even opens her mouth.

“Hey, no judgement,” she replies. “We’re just going to leave you guys to… this.”

“Yeah,” agrees Kaya slowly, rubbing Namjoon’s shoulder and kissing him on the cheek. “Enjoy your… plate.”

“There’s no need to rub it in,” sniffs Taehyung. Namjoon gives her a forlorn look but doesn’t respond, while Jungkook nods sadly.

“We’ll bring you back a muffin or something,” suggests Dilara. “For after the performance.”

All of them mumble incoherently, scraping their forks on the ceramic plate as Kaya and Dilara leave them.

“Remember we need to leave at four!” Namjoon calls out at the last moment.

“Yes, love you!” Kaya replies and shuts the door behind her and raises her eyebrows. “Never a good idea to be around them when they’re hungry,” she mutters as they head down the carpeted hallway.

Dilara snickers, pressing the elevator button. “I didn’t want to say it in front of them, but I’m so glad we got a reservation at this place for lunch. They have the best sushi - and mimosas.”

“Thank God,” says Kaya as they head down. “I was afraid I was going to have to share that shakshuka with them.”

While Dilara could only take a handful of days away from training to visit Los Angeles, she’d jumped at the chance to do it anyway. She missed Taehyung, she missed the sun and although it was pleasantly unexpected, she was looking forward to hanging out with Kaya again.

It wasn’t a huge surprise to her - and even less to Namjoon, who had casually deduced that it was due to the extreme lack of female presence in her life that she had taken to Kaya so quickly. 

She’d been FaceTiming Taehyung and had asked if Kaya would be coming as well, when Namjoon had popped up in the background to confirm that she would and to additionally provide this insight. Dilara had been about to disagree out of habit when it occurred to her that outside of Lexie, she didn’t actually have a single female friend.

While Lexie is her closest friend, there is something entirely different about Kaya, something so mature and put together that it stirs something admiring in Dilara, almost intimidatingly so. It also helps that she looks like the consummate girl next door from a movie, all long hair and sweet perfume and gorgeous smiles and unknowing double takes from men they pass on the street.

“He’s cute.” Dilara gestures as subtly as she can to a guy walking a German Shepherd across the street.

Kaya turns to see him smile back at her and continues walking, shrugging awkwardly. “I guess. Not really my type, though.”

“Yeah? What’s your type?”

“Tall. Broad. Pretty basic.” She chuckles and gives Dilara a knowing look, sipping at the straw of the iced coffee in her hand. 

Dilara returns her smile and adjusts the shopping bags on her arm, glancing at the Jenny Packham box inside the biggest one. Mildly considering that she may have overhyped the dress to Taehyung, she winces and pushes the box down and looks up to see a flash.

Her heart skips an enormous beat for a moment. “Shit,” she mutters, side-eyeing the woman who’s just clicked a picture of her from inside the coffee shop they just passed. “I think I’m paranoid. Ever since Taehyung and I got back together, I just assume that someone’s taking my picture because they know.” She hears a couple of more clicks and winces. “Sorry… but your picture might end up on an obscure sports Instagram account somewhere”

Kaya clicks her tongue sympathetically. “Don’t worry about it. And, yeah, I used to feel that, too, in the beginning. No one was taking pictures of me,” she clarifies, “but if someone even looked at me funny, my mind went straight to the worst possible scenario. Does your PR team know, though?” she asks after a moment. “In case it ever does come out?”

“Oh.” This isn’t something that’s occurred to Dilara. “Do you think I need to? Actually, yeah,” she muses, frowning at the hypothetical possibilities. “Maybe I should tell Red Bull. They do have a brand to think of.”

“Yeah, and if it’s anything illegal, then they’ll have the power to shut it down,” she points out. “You should talk to Taehyung about it, too. There’s probably protocol at his end as well.”

Dilara bites her lip, a little overwhelmed and marvelling briefly at the depth of knowledge Kaya seems to have about this. “Yeah, probably. Does Namjoon have, like, legal plans in place, too?”

“M-hm.” She nods, taking another sip of her coffee. Her dark eyes are wide and earnest, as though she’s talking about dinner plans with him. “I mean, I’m not famous so I’m guessing it’s more along the lines of social media and tabloids and stuff as compared to, like -” She shrugs “- if I’m being stalked or something.”

“Wow.” Dilara raises her eyebrows. “Sorry, you just seem really calm about… the possibility of being stalked.”

Kaya waves a nonchalant hand. “It’s just him being overly-cautious. Namjoon is very protective.” She says it with a shake of the head, but Dilara can still detect a hint of pride at the statement.

They head to lunch after that and decide to take a table inside to protect their freshly-styled hair. The owner ends up being a Formula 1 fan, possibly one of the few that exists in America, and almost trips over himself when he comes over.

“I may have a restaurant in Los Angeles but I could never forget someone who represents my country,” he says emotionally before declaring them free drinks for the rest of the afternoon.

“Is this normal?” Kaya asks in a hushed voice after he leaves. She’s on her third drink and her skin is glowing more than ever. Her eyes are bright and her speech is slightly faster than it was before, but Dilara finds it ridiculously endearing.

“The free stuff? Kind of, not a lot.” Dilara shrugs, starting a fresh drink. “It mostly happens abroad. Nobody in England gives a fuck. I’m sure this happens to the guys in Korea, though,” she adds curiously.

But Kaya shakes her head. “Oh, no. Well, not in my experience at least. Namjoon usually calls the restaurant ahead and they make sure we get a table with privacy and everything, but it doesn’t involve free stuff unless they’re promoting it. I prefer it that way, though,” she says after a moment. “It makes our dates feel normal.” She shrugs in a shy, private way.

Dilara tries to picture Namjoon as she knows him - the leader, serious and focused for all their schedules during the Red Bull and BTS partnership last year - with the version Kaya seems to be referring to, the one that takes his girlfriend on dates and holds her hand out of habit. 

“Does the long distance thing get easier, though?” she asks after a moment, biting her lip. “Because the first time Tae and I tried, it… it sort of went up in flames,” she confesses, realising somewhere in the back of her mind that the alcohol is starting to get to her as well, if she’s uttering these thoughts out loud.

Surprisingly, Kaya nods. “It definitely does,” she answers. “You get used to it, actually. The work takes over, the in-person times get better.” She chuckles and finishes the last of her drink. “The fights get weirder.”

“Our fights are pretty weird already,” she mutters.

“They’ll get more so. Last week, Namjoon and I had this huge fight because I forgot to lock my front door again.” She rolls her eyes. “I mean - yeah, he wasn’t totally wrong and it was maybe careless of me but I live in a safe building, you know? I know all my neighbours.”

Dilara nods, sensing they might be nearing the venting stage of their day-drinking session. But just then, Kaya glances at her phone.

“We should probably head back, though. I’m going to need to sober up before we leave,” she admits, wincing theatrically.

They ask for the cheque and leave soon after, and it becomes apparent to Dilara as they reach the hotel that Kaya was not exaggerating her need to sober up. She can’t help but enjoy it, though; it’s been a long time since she’s enjoyed a normal day out with a girlfriend with whom she’s felt such an immediate kinship. Kaya is an adorable drunk, she discovers, one that seems to shed a layer of her maturity and grown-up aura after a few drinks.

“It’s… wow, we have forty-five minutes to go,” remarks Dilara as they enter the lobby.

“And that’s why I suggested doing the hair stuff in the beginning. I had a feeling I might go overboard with the drinks,” points out Kaya, rummaging in her bag. “Where is my phone, my phone… oh, it’s in my pocket…”

She’s slurring less than she was before, though, which Dilara takes as a good sign. The elevator door opens and they’re met with Namjoon standing inside, fully dressed in a designer suit and his dark blond hair styled, his head low over his phone. The moment he looks up, however, his deep frown fades and a relieved smile spreads across his face.

“Thank God, I thought you guys were -”

“Hey, babe!” Kaya hops in, wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him on the mouth. He takes a moment but his hands come up to rest on her waist when she pulls away and takes in his figure. “Shit, you look hot.”

Namjoon raises his eyebrows. “Um, I - thanks. You look…” He frowns at her as she moves to stand next to him. “Are you drunk?”

She groans and places her head on his shoulder, holding his arm, while Dilara suppresses a smile at how concerned he looks. “Just a little.” She straightens up and carefully brushes her hair off her face. “I just need a black coffee and I’ll be fine.”

Namjoon’s tongue pokes through his chin but he doesn’t say anything, simply holding her waist to steady her. Suddenly feeling awkward, Dilara clears her throat.

“Tae - has he left already?”

“About half an hour ago.”

She nods, taking another peek at her dress inside the bag. She may have overhyped it, but Taehyung loves hype, as she’s discovered. The elevator reaches the top floor and opens soundlessly and all three of them step out, Dilara going in the opposite direction as the other two.

“I’ll see you guys downstairs!” She looks back to see Namjoon nod once in response as he and Kaya walk back to the other shared room, tall and beautiful, holding hands. 

They reach the room and Kaya lets go of his hand, suddenly exhausted. She reaches the bed and falls backwards on it, welcoming the cool air conditioning and groaning again.

“How awesome would a nap be right now?” she mumbles, before rubbing her face and sitting up. “Could you order me a coffee? I’ll start getting ready.” She slides off the bed and heads into the bathroom, frowning when he doesn’t respond. “Joon?”

She steps outside and sees him in front of the full length mirror, strapping on a watch and notably silent. His jaw is hardened and Kaya’s heart skips an uncomfortable beat.

“What’s wrong?”

Namjoon doesn’t look up at her. “It’s…” He checks the watch. “... three twenty-five and you’re asking me this question?”

She frowns, wondering if she’s missing something. “You said we had to leave at four. That means I still have -”

“Yeah, I can do the math.” He cuts her off. “But you’re also drunk. Was that really necessary? Today?”

“I’m not drunk,” she clarifies. “I’m… a little buzzed, that’s all. And that’s why I asked for that coffee -”

“I don’t have time to order you a coffee, Kaya!”

“Fine! I’ll just have the one in the room -”

“That’s not the point!” Namjoon shakes his head as his phone pings and he picks it up. He sighs as he reads it before looking up at her. “This is an important night for me - and a stressful one. I don’t need to be worried about getting you sober or -”

“You don’t have to!” she exclaims. “I’ll make my own coffee and I’ll -”

“You’re going to drink a coffee, get dressed and everything in half an hour?”

“Yes, I will! Namjoon, I’m not going to ruin your night just because I had a couple of drinks at -”

But she’s cut off by his phone ringing, which he answers and speaks into in Korean, pinching the bridge of his nose and nodding. Kaya shakes her head but falls silent, her buzz having rapidly disappeared but her heart now feeling uncomfortably heavy. 

Namjoon nods and hangs up, taking a moment before looking up at her. “You know what? I can’t fight with you right now - we’re getting late. Will you meet me downstairs?” He waits for her to nod silently before striding over to the door. 

Kaya turns to go back to the bathroom, spotting her dress in its cover hanging on the clothes rack in the open closet. She stops in her tracks when she hears him speak again.

“I really needed you to have my back today, Kaya.” Before she can respond, the door closes shut.

—

The green room backstage at the Grammys is more spacious than Dilara would’ve predicted. She realises she may have been picturing her own changing rooms in the paddocks, but the backstage area allotted to BTS is huge; there are make-up chairs and vanity mirrors, comfortable couches, a table on the side with water and healthy snacks, and a row of private changing rooms at the end.

Dilara is engaged in a makeshift game of tossing corn nuts in the air for Jungkook to catch in his mouth, making each attempt a little more complicated than the last. Jimin shows up midway but gets annoyed when he doesn’t catch a single one, opting instead to sabotage Jungkook.

“Higher, higher - he has a weak left side!” Jimin shrieks as Dilara chucks another one in the air, both of them guffawing when Jungkook trips and falls to the floor in his attempt to catch it.

“I still got it!” Jungkook points out, chewing on the corn nut and getting to his feet. A stylist appears from seemingly nowhere and begins dusting off his trousers, giving Dilara a dirty look as she leaves.

Deciding to make the rest of the game simpler, she tosses another nut in the air, but it’s caught in the air halfway to Jungkook. Jimin cackles melodiously at Jungkook’s momentarily stumped face when the corn nut doesn’t reach him, but no one else pays attention.

“Can I borrow my girlfriend for a minute?” Taehyung asks, face smooth and impassive, looking right at Dilara.

Unable to suppress her smile this time, she nods, having expected this. She tosses the bag of corn nuts on the nearest dressing table and lets Taehyung lead her to the back of the green room, away from everyone’s view, until they’re alone and she turns and leans backwards against the wall, pulling him to her by the hand.

“This is the wedding dress?” He fingers the thin floor-length chiffon material before running his hand up slowly up her hip and stopping at her waist. “The one I couldn’t see?”

She slaps his shoulder, albeit with less force than this morning, her heart quickening at their proximity and his height towering over her. “This is the one,” she confirms, tugging him closer by the arms so he’s pressed up against her. “Tell me it wasn’t just a little better waiting to see it in person instead of a picture.”

“It was worth the wait,” he murmurs in agreement, kissing her and pulling her close. Dilara responds with enthusiasm, satisfied with his reaction. Long, backless and floral, she made sure to come into his sight only a few minutes ago when he’d been outside, talking to the producer and a couple more people. She’d stayed by the doorway, waiting for him to notice her before giving him a brief, slow twirl and backing into the green room until he excused himself to come to her. She knows it’s a nice dress, but she knows the build-up to it was even better.

They separate before they get carried away and Dilara leans back again, happy and tingly all over. “You look sexy,” she comments, stroking the lapels of his jacket before pointing to the row of doors next to her. “Do you know if these changing rooms are empty?”

He grins. “They better be after we’re done with the performance. How was your day?” he asks, shaking out his styled blond hair and adjusting the bangs so they fall effortlessly over his forehead. 

“Good. Haven’t had a girls’ day in a while. When do you go on stage?” 

Taehyung exhales. “About fifteen minutes.” He looks like he’s about to say something before shaking his head. “How was, uh… wait, so you had a nice girls’ day. That’s good. Kaya is always alone at these things but now she has you.” He punctuates his sentence with an affectionate pinch to her cheek. “Did you get here okay?”

“Yeah, it was fine. I think she and Namjoon are fighting, though,” she says, wincing slightly. “They didn’t say a word to each other in the car and now you guys are going on stage soon…” She frowns when Taehyung hums distractedly, his eyes on the floor. “Hey. Are you okay?”

He bites his lip and looks up, and Dilara is surprised to see him looking anxious. “Just… just nervous. A little.” He exhales deeply again.

“Wait, really? You still get nervous? I mean -” She realises this might not be the right thing to say. “Well… don’t be. You’ll be amazing. You guys always are.”

Taehyung nods, looking slightly better. “I know. It’s just… Grammys.” He runs a hand over his mouth and smooths his hair back again.

“Um…” Dilara wonders if this might be the right way to go about it. “Do you need help calming down? Maybe I can be of some assistance.” Hesitantly, she lowers a hand below his belt and gently runs her fingers over his crotch. “Might get your mind off it?”

It takes him a moment to realise what she’s offering and a smile flashes across his face. “I… I love you. But I think I might lose all focus if you get anywhere near that right now,” he confesses.

Dilara nods and moves her hand away, squeezing his shoulders comfortingly. “After the show, then.”

“After the show. Come here,” he murmurs, pulling her to him and kissing her again. It’s faster this time, a little more heated with his anxiety out in the open. She gasps into his mouth when his hand tightens on her hips and he pulls away, a little breathless. “Maybe we can still -”

But just then, there’s a shout in Korean and he squeezes his eyes shut. “Sorry,” he mutters, opening them slowly. “I have to -”

“Go. And don’t worry,” she tells him, kissing him quickly. “You’re going to crush it. I love you.”

He nods gratefully and they head back to the common area where the members are all gathering in a circle with Namjoon in the middle. Dilara squeezes Taehyung’s hand before they separate, and she joins Kaya by one of the couches where she’s sitting by herself, her eyes on her boyfriend before they flicker away.

“How are you doing?” Dilara asks her.

“Totally sober,” she replies shortly. 

Dilara is reasonably convinced that they’re definitely in a disagreement of some sort. They’ve been simply keeping their distance ever since they left the hotel, barely saying a word to each other but drawing no additional attention to themselves. It’s a departure from how happy she’d looked when she’d seen him in the elevator this afternoon - and how his eyes had lit up when he’d seen her.

Now, despite Kaya looking absolutely sensational in a simple red satin slip dress with nothing but straps at the back, Namjoon has been maintaining his distance, although Dilara has caught him glancing over at her every few minutes when she isn’t looking.

She turns her attention back to Taehyung, though, waving at him when he turns to glance back at her as they leave to go on stage.

“Good luck, guys!” she calls, and a few of them return it with a chorus of thank you Dilaras. She notices Namjoon and Kaya hold each other’s gaze for a couple of seconds, where she mouths a tentative good luck and he nods back after a moment.

—

Taehyung sees nothing but lights, his members and dozens of faces in the audience that blur into each other. It’s a new song they’re performing, one they’re nominated for, and they give it everything they have. After weeks of practice, it’s expected.

It ends with thunderous applause from the audience. There’s cheering and whistles and although his heart is racing from the choreography, the response only makes the blood flow even faster. Next to him, the members are holding their ending poses until the lights dim and black out and all of them relax, grinning silently at each other at a successful performance.

Out of instinct, he looks to his left at the wings of the stage to see a few assistants and stylists, but between them, looking unbelievably angelic in her long, flowing dress - Dilara. She’s clapping and smiling right back at him, proud, affectionate and - he knows he’s not imagining it - aroused. She bites her lip at him and he grins and smirks back at her, when her gaze shifts slightly and the eye-fucking disappears, to be replaced by a dramatic narrowing of the eyes and her middle finger flashing momentarily.

Taehyung glances to his left to see Jungkook grinning and winking in her direction. His heart stutters unexpectedly for a moment and he almost misses when the producer signals for them to get off stage.

“What was that?” he mutters to Jungkook, after tapping his mic to check that it’s switched off.

“What?” Jungkook turns to him, panting and similarly out of breath. “Oh. Nothing. We had a bet.”

He provides no further explanation as they get off stage and everyone in the wings scrambles to make room for them. Taehyung notices Dilara gliding back to the green room with Kaya and follows them with a mild uneasiness he can’t quite place. But once everyone reaches and the mics are taken off, he searches for her to see her with eyes for no one but him, smiling radiantly and holding out a hand for him to take.

“Are you still too nervous?” she murmurs against his lips as they stumble into a private changing room. It’s dim but empty, smelling vaguely of cologne and powder.

“Not for this.” Taehyung grabs her hips and walks her backwards until she feels a dressing table behind her. The adrenaline is still flowing in his veins with fervour and the feel of her fingers unbuttoning his shirt and running through his hair makes him instantly hard.

“You were so sexy on stage,” she sighs, her mouth hot against his skin, from his collarbone to his sternum. “I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. All I kept thinking about was -” She nips at his stomach right above his belt, making him gasp, “- that you’re mine -” She unbuckles his belt and unbuttons his trousers, lightly biting his erection, “- and that you’re going to come off stage -” She lowers his boxers with her teeth “- and fuck me until everyone at that afterparty knows what you’ve done to me.”

Taehyung’s mind feels like it’s on autopilot when her lips wrap around his cock. He groans quietly, closing his eyes and dipping his head back as she takes him in. His hand goes to cradle her head in place, burying his fingers in her loose curls and gently clutching them. He looks down to see her dress spread out around her like fallen flowers and he knows he can’t wait any longer.

“Come up,” he whispers, tugging her up by her shoulders. “We don’t have a lot of time until they call me back.” He pulls her close by the waist and kisses her again before nudging her to turn around.

Dilara does so immediately, sweeping her long hair over one shoulder and shivering when he strokes her bare spine with a finger. “That means you’re not going to make me wait?” she asks hopefully, sighing when he presses rapid, wet kisses to her shoulder blade and pulls her flush against him, his chest warm against her back.

“Lucky you,” he murmurs, squeezing her breast and feeling her nipples hard and erect through the thin material. “God, I love you, Lara…” He nips at her ear before pulling one strap of her dress down her shoulder. He thinks of her expression from the wings again; direct, flushed, turned on as she returned his gaze…

“What was the bet?” he mutters against her earlobe, his hands tightening on her hips and bunching the fabric of her dress in his hand.

Dilara sighs distractedly. “What?”

“The bet,” he repeats calmly, biting her skin softly between his teeth and his tongue. “With Jungkook.”

“I don’t…” She reaches backwards to hold his head in place, tilting her neck. “Oh… nothing. I bet him he couldn’t sneak a… a moonwalk into the performance somewhere,” she murmurs. “Fuck, that feels good…”

Taehyung frowns, his mouth on her neck. “Did he?” He pushes her erection against her arse, hearing her gasp. “Did he do the moonwalk?”

But Dilara seems to have lost track of their conversation entirely. She reaches behind her and feels for his erection, wrapping her fingers around it. “God, Tae, you said you wouldn’t make me wait,” she whines. “I want you…”

“I did say that,” he mutters in agreement, lifting up her dress and reaching under it for her underwear. She sighs in relief and helps him hastily with the fabric when a loud knock interrupts them.

“Fuck!” Dilara exclaims in shock, freezing and looking towards the door. “No, no, no…”

Taehyung drops his head on her shoulder in frustration, his erection throbbing in anticipation of what was about to happen. The voice outside, belonging to one of the producers, is dry and uncaring as it knocks on all the doors one by one to tell the members to assemble for a recording.

“Damn it.” Dilara’s shoulders deflate and she sighs, straightening up and fixing her dress. Taehyung pulls his trousers back up, wincing as he tucks his erection back in and hoping it’ll disappear soon.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly, turning her around to face him. She shrugs as she helps him button up his shirt, but he can tell she’s disappointed, mostly because he is, too. Finally, when they’re both presentable again, she looks up at him.

“You were really fantastic on stage today,” she says, straightening his blond bangs and giving him a small smile. “I prefer watching from the audience, though.”

He smiles back, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Really? It’s easier to sneak into a dressing room when you’re backstage, though.”

“Good point,” she agrees, reaching up to kiss him. They share a sweet, loving kiss and Taehyung squeezes her affectionately, suddenly so grateful that she was able to make it here this weekend. 

There’s a shout this time and the voice is unmistakable as Hoseok’s, calling Taehyung’s name in a very knowing tone.

Dilara pulls away and exhales sharply. “Tonight,” she says, and he nods. “Properly. Without interruptions. I didn’t spend a bunch of money on this dress so I could take it off myself,” she informs him and opens the door.

“Is that permission to rip it off?” he clarifies as they walk out. “Just in case I get carried away?”

“I will kill you if you rip it, Tae…”

The group films a quick clip against the backdrop of the green room, taking a few attempts until everyone makes it through the script without error. Jungkook is in the middle, twiddling his thumbs and nodding into the camera with gigantic eyes while Namjoon next to him does most of the talking, looking very tall and reassuring as he talks about their nomination.

Taehyung sneaks a look at Dilara behind the cameras and crew, leaning against one of the vanity mirrors next to Kaya. She catches his eye and gives him a gorgeous smile, and he feels his heart skip a beat. Her scent still feels like it’s lingering; something expensive and fragrant and he takes a deep breath on camera, trying to hang on to it.

He doesn’t get an opportunity to get near it again for nearly an hour, once everyone is segregated into different cars for the half-a-block ride to the afterparty. 

One of the male stylists suggests a couple of times to Kaya to take a jacket because it might get cold at night, until she politely and firmly declines. She and Dilara enter the party first, before any of the members arrive and make a beeline for the open bar.

“I think I’ve had enough alcohol for today.” Kaya purses her lips and asks for a lemon spritzer, using the plastic stirrer with a sigh. In the midst of the party, complete with celebrities only seen on TV wearing the most outrageous outfits, Kaya looks extremely out of place in a normal dress and heels.

“How long before we can officially start acknowledging the guys in public again?” Dilara asks, mostly in an effort to engage her, but also because she’d been a little taken aback by the categorical instructions that the producers had given her and Kaya just before they’d gotten into the car.

“Usually about an hour or so,” supplies Kaya, taking a deep breath and sipping her drink. “The photographers apparently only show up at the beginning to cover the event and after that it’s a private party. Or something,” she adds after a moment, sounding disgruntled. “Who cares, right? It’s not like we know anyone else here.”

Dilara is more convinced than ever that she and Namjoon are in a fight. She finds herself strangely invested in it; she imagines this might be what it feels like to watch one’s parents fight.

“Well,” she begins, taking a sip of her drink. “If it helps, I don’t know anyone else here either.” She throws a friendly arm around Kaya’s shoulders. “We can just not know anyone together.”

Kaya gives her a forced smile before spotting something over her shoulder. “Isn’t that Lewis Hamilton over there?”

Dilara’s face goes slack and her arm falls to her side as she whips around. “Holy shit. Holy - it is! What is he doing here?”

“Probably the same thing you are.” Kaya raises her eyebrows. “He’s probably someone’s date,” she explains. “He was at the show, though.”

“Yeah, that’s because he’s Lewis,” reasons Dilara, turning back around to spot him in polite conversation with someone, his dreadlocks pulled back and his deep purple suit sparkling dimly under the strobe lights. “I should go say hi - do you want to come?”

For the first time all evening, Kaya’s face breaks out into an actual smile. “Are you serious? I - Lewis?” She exhales shakily and immediately smooths down her short, satin dress. “Are you sure?”

Dilara grins. “Of course. He’s pretty nice.”

Kaya begins adjusting her hair, looking thoroughly starstruck. “Okay. Shit. He’s, like, my favourite driver. After - after you, of course,” she amends sheepishly, squeezing Dilara’s arm. “You really don’t mind?”

“Despite that, no. I don’t.” She grabs Kaya’s hand and begins walking in his direction. “Come on.” They head over to Lewis, who spots Dilara just as they reach.

There’s some general pleasantries; Dilara can tell Lewis feels just the tiniest bit more comfortable around someone from his territory as he introduces his date, a vaguely familiar singer she can’t place. She introduces Kaya, who blushes and stammers a bit but ends up coming across as awkward and charming all at once. 

Dilara clicks a picture of them, then poses with Lewis for one of the official photographers before they separate, at which point BTS finally arrives. She catches Hoseok’s eye first, followed by Taehyung who grins at her, cameras apparently be damned, while Namjoon seems to be very methodically scanning the party until he spots Kaya and his shoulders relax a bit.

While BTS’s producers had given both Dilara and Kaya a mild warning to stay away from the guys initially, no such intimation seems to have reached the group themselves. Jungkook joins them almost immediately, looking surprised but rather enamoured at meeting Lewis, who seems to be vaguely taken off guard at meeting so many new people all of a sudden.

“You’re here with a date, too?” he asks her during a brief moment when Jungkook has to answer his phone in the midst of interrogating Lewis about his gym routine.

“I’m here as a date,” she corrects him, feeling pleasantly tingly as she says it. “This may be totally anti-feminist of me or whatever, but there’s something kind of cool about being on someone’s arm in their… well, in their version of the paddock.” 

Lewis chuckles knowingly, glancing briefly at his date who’s speaking to someone else. “Yeah, I get it. It’s a nice change. I didn’t see you at the show, though.”

“Nope, I was watching the show from backstage,” she explains, spotting Taehyung and Hoseok reaching them. “Being a supportive girlfriend and all that,” she adds, smiling at Taehyung as he nears her.

“Oh, well, your boyfriend’s a lucky guy.” He pats Jungkook’s arm, who’s just finished his call, and it takes Dilara a moment to realise what he’s talking about.

“Oh, he’s not my boyfriend,” she clarifies immediately, snickering at Jungkook’s wide eyes and deer-in-headlights expression. “God, no. This is my boyfriend.” She links her arm with Taehyung’s, who’s just reached them, once again taken aback at how handsome he looks in his suit .

Lewis’s smile vanishes and he looks momentarily mortified. “Oh, damn. Sorry, man, I just assumed - but my mistake. Lewis,” he introduces himself, offering his hand. Taehyung shakes it and introduces himself, but Dilara can hear the slight clip in his words and after some awkward conversation, they disperse.

“I thought you guys couldn’t be seen with us.” Dilara takes care to keep her hands to herself as she and Taehyung head over to the bar, noticing the frequent and admiring glances he gets from other guests. She moves a little closer to him, their shoulders brushing.

“I don’t really care about that here,” he says dismissively, taking her hand but letting it go a moment later. “Unless you do? If you’re worried about the cameras, we can stay away,” he assures her. “Most of these photographers won’t be able to publish anything about us without the company going after them, but if you have a problem…”

“I don’t want to,” she admits, her shoulders slumping a little. “I thought I’d be invisible at this party but now that Lewis is here, this is going to make its way into the sports’ page somehow.” She shudders. “There’s nothing worse than an athlete’s love life being made public. Takes away from the sport entirely. Only playboy-Lewis can get away with it,” she adds, glancing in his direction a little resentfully.

“It’s settled, then,” says Taehyung, stopping at the bar and asking for a whiskey with soda. “We’ll keep our distance tonight. No acting like a couple.”

Dilara nods, setting her empty glass on the bar and leaning against it. “No holding hands, no kissing.”

“No dancing. No matter the song,” he adds, rolling his eyes as one of their mutual favourite R&B tracks begins playing.

She makes a face and nudges his arm. “Nothing at all. Not until we get back to the hotel.”

“M-hm.” He nods, taking a sip from his drink. “Then I can get under that beautiful dress and eat you out until you’re begging for my cock,” he says nonchalantly, his deep voice low and still cutting through the loud music.

Dilara almost chokes, feeling a jolt low in her stomach that slowly spreads even lower. “I’m going to hold you to that,” she says weakly, exhaling shakily as a faint smirk spreads across his face. 

“Can’t wait.” He glances around them and quickly presses a chaste kiss to her cheek. “See you later, jagiya.” He walks past her and blends into the crowd, turning around and giving her a smile just before he disappears.

Her heart still racing, Dilara looks around for something to distract her. She spots a figure in shiny red, long blown-out black hair casually falling down one shoulder, standing alone with a glass and looking like a lonely, troubled protagonist from an R-rated indie movie about drugs and shady characters.

“Heyyy,” she says slowly, sidling up to Kaya. “How’s it going?”

“Fabulous.” Her excited demeanour while meeting Lewis seems to have disappeared entirely, to be replaced by a sarcastic, slightly put-out tone. She briefly glances diagonally across before scoffing quietly and turning away.

Dilara follows her gaze to see Namjoon, in conversation with a tall woman with purple hair whose back is to them, speaking animatedly over the music. As she watches, the woman laughs at something he says and flirtatiously pushes his shoulder. 

“Oh, shit,” mutters Dilara, wincing slightly.

“Do you think it’ll cause a scene if I kick something right now?” Kaya murmurs, looking deliberately into her glass.

“Possibly,” she replies, trying not to make it obvious to Namjoon that they’re talking about him. “If it helps, he’s not encouraging her. And he’s - oh, God - he’s looking over here,” she mutters quickly, her eyes snapping away.

“Yeah, he’s been doing that. It’s not helping.”

Dilara sneaks another look and wrinkles her nose a little. “I mean… he really doesn’t seem comfortable with it.”

It’s true, for Namjoon, while being polite and engaging, seems to be making every effort to maintain a professional distance. His hands are in his pockets and he subtly leans away every few seconds whenever the woman he’s talking to gets closer. His gaze darts furtively in Kaya’s direction again, who seems to be determined not to acknowledge him.

“Well, he’s still there, isn’t he?” Kaya snaps quietly, taking a large sip of her clear drink. “Sorry,” she murmurs after a moment. “It’s just annoying watching this every time, you know? They think he’s single and I have to keep my damn distance…” She shakes her head.

“Hey, I get it,” agrees Dilara sympathetically. “He’s looking over here again, though.”

Kaya raises her eyebrows, not turning around. “Yeah? You think I should walk away?”

“Oh, definitely. Sweep your hair back as you do; it’ll drive him crazy.”

“Okay, tell me when.”

“Okay…” Dilara glances at Namjoon as subtly as she can for confirmation. “I’m going to go this way now. Wait five seconds and go the opposite way.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

They nod shortly at each other before Dilara sweeps away, her long dress flowing behind her. 

Kaya waits the appropriate amount of time but unable to resist, looks back over her shoulder at Namjoon again, just to see him nod and smile at something the woman says, his dimple visible all the way from over her. The woman goes in to hug him and Namjoon instinctively hugs her back with one arm and winces slightly, his eyes darting right towards Kaya.

Irritated beyond belief, she scoffs quietly and walks away, certainly less attractive than Dilara had advised. It’s a crowded party, though, and everyone seems to be actively enjoying themselves which she finds thoroughly unfair right now. Finally, she reaches the entrance and takes a turn into a balcony, mercifully empty except for a couple of men smoking at the other corner.

She leans over the bannister and sighs in annoyance, unable to appreciate the beauty of the hotel gardens at all. She’ll stay here all night if she has to, she decides, if it means not having to watch her stupid boyfriend with his stupid attractiveness flirt with the stupid women who can’t seem to stay away from it.

The night is chilly, though, and once her chagrin starts to subside somewhat, she feels goosebumps erupt on her arm. She tries unsuccessfully to shake some of her hair over her shoulders to cover the bare skin, regretting not taking that stylist’s advice to bring a jacket.

Mind over matter, she tries to tell herself, braving the cold. Just as she exhales and sees her breath turn into light mist, the cold is suddenly blocked and she feels a jacket being placed over her shoulders. The comfortingly familiar cologne tells her who it is before he appears before her, leaning sideways against the bannister in a slightly sheer black shirt and slacks.

“What are you drinking?” he asks calmly.

“Don’t worry, it’s non-alcoholic,” she mutters, trying to not show her relief at having a jacket. She places her glass on the edge of the bannister and glares in the opposite direction.

After a moment, Namjoon speaks again. “Kaya, that was work.”

“Looked like it.”

He sighs. “I have to be nice or there’ll be an article tomorrow somewhere about how BTS is rude and standoffish. I wasn’t responding to her at all,” he points out gently.

This is irrefutably true, but Kaya is in no mood to agree with him right now. The image of that purple-haired singer grabbing his arm makes her grit her teeth.

“It was pathetic to watch,” she mutters, shaking her head. “What kind of self-respecting woman goes after a guy with a girlfriend?”

He touches her elbow. “Baby, she doesn’t know.”

“Fine, would you like me to go tell her?” she snaps, finally looking up at him. It’s dark but for the moon and the lights from inside the party, but Kaya can still see mouth twist before he purses his lips and a dimple appears on his left cheek. “Shut up,” she mutters, rolling her eyes.

Namjoon snickers quietly, moving closer to her. He looks so handsome - insanely handsome - that it only annoys her even more when his grin widens.

“Alright, you know what? How about I go in there,” she suggests tightly, shrugging off the jacket and slamming it in his chest, “and find some guy to flirt with and we’ll see how funny you find it then.” 

“Okay, okay, you’ve made your point,” laughs Namjoon, grabbing her wrist as she turns to leave and tugging her towards him. “You win. And I was not flirting with her.”

Kaya gives him a look but says nothing, folding her arms across her chest as he tenderly places the jacket back around her shoulders.

“I told one of the stylists to tell you to bring a jacket,” he says, his brow furrowing slightly. “I had a feeling it might get cold.”

“Oh,” she murmurs in surprise, as he smooths down the lapels. “Yeah, I - I guess I should’ve brought one.”

Namjoon drops his arms back to his side and tilts his head. “Was I too harsh?” he asks after a moment.

Kaya swallows, her gaze falling to the ground. “You mean back at the hotel or after that, when you abandoned me at a party where I don’t know anybody? Because if it’s the second, then, yes. If it’s the first… no,” she admits. “Not really.”

They’re quiet for a few seconds, the only sounds being from the party inside. Despite the less-than-perfect evening, Kaya can’t help but finally feel a bit relieved to be in his presence. There’s something instantly safer about it; it’s worth the risk of photographers prowling around.

“I know how important your job is to you,” she points out after a moment, looking up at him. “I know how important tonight was for you - do you really think I’d ruin it for you by showing up plastered?”

“I was on edge, okay?” Namjoon runs a hand through his hair. “I was coordinating with a bunch of different people, the company was calling from Korea and -” He gives her a look. “Forgive me, baby, but you… don’t have the best track record when it comes to alcohol.”

Kaya’s eyes automatically widen, despite the cold, hard truth in this statement. “That’s… I - I was nowhere near as bad as Barcelona. Or even that book launch in Seoul last year. I paced myself today.”

“No, I - I’m sure you did.” He nods. “I trust you. But I was… it’s been a crazy stressful day,” he blurts out, suddenly looking far more tired. “Honestly, it’s a miracle we pulled off that performance today. We got through it by the skin of our teeth,” he confesses in a low voice, shaking his head slightly as though he still can’t believe it.

Kaya frowns. “What are you talking about? You guys seemed fine backstage - I mean, from what I could understand.”

“Jin hyung strained his throat this morning during rehearsal and Jungkook pulled a muscle that he kept insisting was fine,” he mutters, rolling his eyes. “He wouldn’t take no for an answer - the entire performance, I just kept worrying he’d fall on stage or something. And then Bang PD called me this morning to tell me about a meeting with Snoop Dogg and his entire team, with, like, an hour of notice.” Namjoon leans back against the bannister and hunches over, resting his hands on his thighs. He exhales hugely, as though he’s been holding his breath all day. “And all this was before lunch.”

“But -” She frowns, feeling her heart ache a little at his little outburst. “Namjoon, why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

“Because you had plans and… and it’s not your job to worry about this, too,” he says vaguely, straightening up but not meeting her eyes. “You’re here for less than a week as it is.”

“Yeah, but I’m here for you!” Kaya shakes her head. “You are the reason I’m here. Walking around Los Angeles is way down in my list, and only because I didn’t want to get in your way.”

He looks away, and she knows it’s because they’re going down a familiar route. “I was afraid if I told you, you’d cancel your plans, okay?”

“So?” Unlike him, she looks right at him, raising her eyebrows questioningly. “If I want to cancel, I’ll cancel. That’s up to me. Namjoon…” She sighs and takes his hand, waiting until he looks at her. “We’ve had this conversation before. You don’t have to protect my morale, okay? I’m not in your group. You’re not my leader - you’re my partner. And I’m your partner. But I can only be that if you let me.”

“Kaya, of course you’re my -”

“Not if you don’t tell me about the bad stuff,” she interrupts, cutting him off. “And you were - you’d started telling me things after the last time this happened.” She strokes the back of his hand with her thumb. “Why didn’t you this time?”

Namjoon doesn’t say anything, staring at their hands. “It was a lot,” he murmurs finally.

“Doesn’t matter. Tell me anyway.”

He nods slowly, sighing and looking up at her. He squeezes her hand and she squeezes it back, hoping he understands.

“Especially if you’re going to snap at me because of it.”

“I didn’t -”

“Just -” She cuts him off again, shushing him and moving closer to him, wrapping her arms loosely around his waist. She rests her forehead against his neck and waits for him to slowly, slightly awkwardly hug her back, and tightens her arms around him. After a moment, she feels him relax slightly.

“I didn’t mean to snap at you,” he mumbles against her hair.

She nods and shifts to rest her chin on his shoulder. “I should’ve been back sooner.”

They stay like that for a few more seconds when she remembers something.

“Oh, God.” Kaya takes a step back. “Is this allowed?”

Namjoon raises his eyebrows. “Are we allowed to… hug?”

“Yeah. Because of the photographers…” She points vaguely to the party. “Your producers said we should keep a distance because of the photographers - are they still here?”

“Wait, they said what?” His expression changes from confused to one of disbelief. “Again? I told them last time that there was no need to -”

“That’s not the point - I was asking about photographers and if there’s -”

“No, this is not okay, you don’t need to -”

“Namjoon, they’re just doing their job. It’s okay.” She nudges him gently. “I don’t think they’re here anymore. Not outside, at least.”

He straightens the jacket around her. “You look incredible,” he murmurs. “Like, out of this world, driving me crazy every second of tonight… incredible.” His eyes flicker over her figure. “I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you.”

Kaya bites her lip, trying not to reveal how her heart zooms at his words even three years later. “Really? Not even long enough for Miss USA to drape herself all over you?”

“I think she’s Canadian.”

She stares at him, tongue in her cheek until he snorts and pulls her closer by the hand, tilting his head slightly to kiss her on the cheek.

“I hate fighting with you,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to her temple.

Her eyes flutter shut and she breathes in his scent, nuzzling his neck lightly. “Then stop looking so hot while you do it,” she snaps softly, just before their heads turn together and they share a kiss. She can feel his smile as his hand comes up to rest against her face, the kiss soft and teasing and sinking.

A cold gust of wind blows and Kaya shivers, pulling away slightly. “Shit, I didn’t think it’d be this cold.”

“Yeah, I know,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over her jaw. “I can see your nipples through the dress.”

“What?” She instinctively hunches her shoulders and pulls the jacket tighter around her. “Are you serious?”

“M-hm.” His eyes flicker down to her chest and a smirk spreads across his face. “They look really sexy.”

“Don’t try to sexy talk me right now, Kim Namjoon,” she whispers, slapping his shoulder lightly. “Especially when you can’t follow through.”

Namjoon grins. “Fair enough. Although if you find a place private enough, I could be persuaded to show just how much I love seeing your nipples through your dress.”

She gives him a warning look before frowning slightly. “Actually, it’s pretty secluded here. Quiet.”

He raises his eyebrows and looks around the balcony. “Here? You want to fool around where anyone could walk in?”

Kaya chuckles. “No,” she answers. “I want you to talk to me about why you were stressed today.”

Namjoon’s smile fades. “Kaya…” When her expression doesn’t change, he sighs. “Why does it matter now? Everything worked out.”

“That’s good. You can tell me knowing that everything worked out.” She gives him the best doe eyes she can muster, knowing that a sexy dress is nothing compared to that when it comes to Namjoon. “Please.”

His eyes flicker but a moment later, he nods. “Okay, then.” He leans back against the bannister again and shakes his head affectionately at her. “I’m powerless when you ask me anything like that.” Smiling at her proud grin, he begins.

—

“Ugh, my feet are killing me.” Dilara leans against the closed door of their room and takes off her heels one by one. “How women in the entertainment industry wear this every day and not die, I will never understand. But it was a fun party,” she adds, tilting her head up and shaking back her hair so the cold air of the AC can permeate through it.

A few steps ahead of her, Taehyung loosens his tie and unties it, chucking it on the couch and going towards the mini bar in the room, stocked with snacks and bottles of water. He unscrews one and takes a long sip from it, his profile sharp.

“Turns out it’s a good thing Lewis was there because I would’ve been completely alone otherwise. Especially once Kaya and Namjoon made up. Oh, I have to send her the pictures…” She slides her phone out of her clutch and begins AirDropping them to her, selecting pictures of she and Lewis, and she and Namjoon looking rightfully back in love for the second half of the party. 

“... never seen Lewis dance this much before,” she continues. “I mean, he did seem a bit awkward at first but he was a good sport. Oh, and then Jungkook turned up, of course, and then Lewis genuinely loosened up a bit. By the way, I think Jungkook has a crush on him or something - he kept looking for excuses to hang out with us and basically talked his ear off about the season…”

Dilara looks up to see Taehyung taking off his jacket in silence, deliberately not looking at her. It’s strange; she wonders briefly if he’s annoyed at their lack of interaction at the party, but as far as she remembers, that had been a mutual decision. She tries again.

“So, uh…” She leans on her arm against the doorway of the bathroom, flipping her hair over one shoulder. “If I recall, you’d promised me something at the party. Something about my dress and…” She rides out the pause, watching him intently “...begging?”

“What if I say no?”

It occurs to Dilara only when he says it, that she hasn’t actually heard him speak more than a couple of words here and there since they left the party. She’d chalked it down to the other people in the car and general tiredness, but now she’s not sure.

“What?”

“What if I say no to sex tonight?” he repeats, unbuttoning the cuffs of his dress shirt and still not looking at her.

“Then… we don’t have sex.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

Dilara raises her eyebrows, utterly confused. “Am I okay with not having sex if you don’t want to? Yes. What is going on?”

“What’s the point then?” His words are biting - but something about this seems familiar. “Why are you here?”

“Are you serious?” She drops her arm and stands straight, feeling ridiculous. “What the hell is going on with you?”

“We’re not having sex,” he says, finally turning to her and the suddenness of it takes her aback. “So why are you here?”

Dilara takes a deep breath. Less than a month ago, she had been in a mood, a bad mood. She’d taken it out on everything around her, including Taehyung halfway across the world - and he’d silently let her until she’d calmed down herself. 

Taehyung is in a mood now, but letting him be in one is the worst thing she can do. He needs confrontation, whether or not he responds to it. He needs an argument, an opportunity to sulk and to get on the defensive before he concedes to the real issue.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” she asks him clearly, placing a hand on her hip and frowning at him. “Or do you just want to start a fight?”

Taehyung holds her gaze for a few seconds, eyes impassive and dark eyebrows slanting upwards. Then he swallows and shakes his head, looking at the floor.

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” he mutters to her surprise. “I’m just… I’m just not in the mood, okay?” He shuffles up to her and hesitantly kisses her cheek, before moving past her and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

It’s an unprecedented situation, and Dilara can feel the initial worry of not knowing how to handle this - or even what this is. She tucks her hands behind her head on the pillow and frowns at the ceiling when the bathroom door opens and Taehyung emerges, his face bare of the make-up and hair slightly damp at the roots.

He looks up at her and stops in his tracks, taking in her t-shirt and underwear. “You changed.”

“Yeah.” She nods, trying to keep her tone even. “You said you didn’t want to have sex.”

For a moment, she thinks he’s going to make a snarky comment but then he nods. “Okay.” He changes into the same pajamas from the morning and forgoes a shirt, not speaking till he’s done. “You want to watch a movie?”

“A movie?”

“Yeah,” he says, climbing onto the bed and half-lying down next to her but making no physical contact. “Look, they have Pride and Prejudice,” he adds, scrolling through the options.

Dilara can’t believe she’s actually wishing for a fight, for this… this strange effort to not start a fight is throwing her off completely. She knows she should look at this as a positive and yet, it troubles her more than she expected.

She gives him a sideways glance to see him watching the opening credits, the picture reflecting in his pupils but the rest of his face betraying nothing. In a sudden movement, she reaches over and snatches the remote from his hand, and turns the television off.

“Hey!”

But Dilara ignores him, chucking the remote to the side and blocking him from going after it by straddling him.

“What are you doing? Lara -”

“I let you manhandle me during sex because we both like it but we both also know I’m stronger than you,” she hisses, pinning his shoulders to the pillow. She waits for him to relax underneath her before she loosens her grip. “Now will you please tell me what’s wrong?” she demands.

Taehyung narrows his eyes. “Is it bothering you this much that I said I didn’t want to have sex?”

“Shut up.” She hears her voice tremble a bit. “You’re hiding something from me. Again.”

She sees the moment it dawns on him what she’s referring to and his face goes slack. “Oh, hey… it’s nothing like that,” he says immediately, his voice low and reassuring. “I promise.”

“Then tell me.”

Taehyung purses his lips and looks away, glaring at the curtains to the side. He swallows. “Why are you here?” he asks, so quietly that she’s unsure for a moment if he’s speaking to her at all.

“What does that mean?”

“Why are you here?” he repeats, a little louder this time and looks up at her again. “Here, in LA, with - with me?”

Dilara stares at him. “I don’t know. Because we’re dating?” she says sarcastically. “Because we haven’t seen each other in a month - because I missed you and flew across two continents to see you? Because I love -”

“But why do you love me?”

“Is this about last year?” she asks after a moment, her stomach already twisting at the reminder. “Because I told you, I - I’ve forgiven - I mean, we’re moving forward with our -”

“No, it’s not about last year,” he interrupts her. “Or it is - I guess everything will always be about last year, a little bit.” He licks his lips slowly, looking at her imploringly. “Do you… do you think we make sense?”

Her shoulders relax a bit, despite how unexpected the question is. “Doesn’t everyone say we do?”

“In a funny way, yeah,” he admits. “But… do you think we make sense?”

He’s looking for an actual answer, she realises. “Yes,” she says simply. “I do.”

“Really? You don’t think you’d make more sense with one of your driver friends or… I don’t know…” He shrugs. “... Jungkook or someone?”

Something clicks, something so obvious she feels she should’ve been expecting it all along.

“Oh. This is about Lewis,” she guesses. “About him thinking Jungkook was my boyfriend? Tae, Lewis is the biggest recluse on the grid, okay? He doesn’t know anything about anyone’s life - I’m surprised he even knew one of you was my boyfriend.”

“He’s not completely wrong.”

“No - what? Yes, he is. The only reason he thought it was Jungkook is because he started talking to him about racing.”

“Look, this isn’t about Lewis,” says Taehyung quickly. “Okay? Don’t you think sometimes that you and Jungkook might make more sense?”

“No. I don’t love him; I don’t even like him like that. He’s like my brother,” she adds, wrinkling her nose. “And you know this.”

He covers his face with his hands and sighs. “God, okay. Not Jungkook specifically, but, like… Chris or - or someone you haven’t met yet. Someone that a person like Lewis will look at and immediately guess is your boyfriend?”

“Why?” she asks instantly. “Because we both like sports? Because we go to the gym together sometimes? Tae, those are hobbies. I have something in common with all my friends. That’s why they’re my friends.”

“And we’re something more?”

“Yes. God, I can’t believe you’re having to ask me this. After everything that’s happened.” She shakes her head, feeling slightly offended but when Taehyung doesn’t respond and simply lowers his gaze to his hands, she realises this may just be bigger than her. 

“Oh, my God, you’re still not convinced.” She sighs. “What do you want - a list of why we make more sense? Why I shouldn’t be with… Jungkook or - God forbid - Chris Park or someone?”

“A list would be good.”

Dilara raises her eyebrows. “Fine. Jungkook wouldn’t have taken me to an underground jazz bar in Ischia. He probably wouldn’t have even taken me to Ischia, out of nowhere and to such a secluded island. Chris wouldn’t have rented that particular villa,” she counts, holding up a second finger, “the one that looked like a gothic Victorian mansion because his primary requirement anywhere is an indoor gym. And literally no one else I know would have drawn a stick figure of Van Gogh on a pebble from the beach, called it “Darwin” and pretended it was a real living pet for the entire trip.”

Taehyung’s mouth twitches and she feels a bubble of encouragement in her chest.

“None of them would have pretended to be Will Turner to my Elizabeth Swann in that thrift store, because everyone usually wants to be Jack Sparrow,” she points out. “Jungkook wouldn’t have taken me to that jazz club because he hates jazz, Chris wouldn’t have danced with me in the street because he’s too stuck-up for that… and Tae -” Dilara sighs, squeezing his shoulder. “No one could’ve put up with as much punishment as you did last year for me. I gave you a lot of crap. I’m not saying you didn’t deserve it, but… it was a lot of crap,” she admits. “And you stayed through all of it. I don’t think anyone else would’ve done that.”

He gives her a small shrug after a moment. “You’d be surprised. It was worth it.”

“Be that as it may… Tae, no one else would’ve told me, in thirty-six hours of knowing me, that they loved me,” she reminds him, the memory from a thousand years ago still making her heart soar. “I mean, a person would have to be insane to do something like that.”

“You said it back.”

“I did. That’s my point.”

Taehyung bites his lip, and she can see the tip of his nose start to redden. “Lara…”

“No one else would’ve fucked me on the roof of your concert stadium in this city two years ago,” she adds. “Or got so jealous of Charlie Puth kissing me that they broke a glass.”

He frowns. “Didn’t you get angry with me for that later that night?”

“That and other things,” she admits, shrugging. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t love how much you cared.”

He gives her a half-chuckle. “You’re sure you’re not here just because the sex is really good?”

“The sex is really good,” she agrees earnestly. “And no one else could do to me what you do. I didn’t even know it was possible to feel half the things I do with you.”

Taehyung is quiet. His nose is reddening and his gaze is lowered, and he’s biting his lip hard.

“It really, really sucked losing you last year,” he whispers, sniffing.

“I know. It really sucked to lose you, too.” Dilara reaches over to brush her thumb against his cheekbone. “Taehyung. Tell me you get it. Tell me you know why I’m here. Why I’m still here,” she adds, her voice cracking slightly on the word.

“I’m so sorry. For last year.”

“I know.”

“I promise I’ll do better.” He reaches for her hand and links his fingers with hers, finally looking up at her with wet eyes. “Just don’t leave me, okay? I think it’ll kill me.”

“Write me a song.”

“I’ll write you a hundred.”

Dilara gives him a watery smile and dabs at the corner of her eye with the heel of her palm before lowering herself to kiss him, feeling him wrap his arms around her instantly and pulling her down to his side. He kisses her deeply, with a soft desperation and gratitude for a second chance.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs after a few seconds, his forehead against hers. “That dress was beautiful and I know you were looking forward to tonight.”

“Forget it. I’d rather watch the movie.” She pulls away and shrugs. “And the dress isn’t going anywhere. It’s mine.”

He kisses her forehead and pulls her to his side, lying on his back to face the television again. “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow.”

“Deal.”

—

In a different bedroom of the same suite, Jimin enters and kicks off his shoes. “Tell me you have make-up wipes here,” he says to Jungkook, sighing dramatically. “I can feel it burning through my skin.”

Jungkook points noncommittally to the bathroom from where he’s sitting next to Hoseok on the couch and peering into his laptop screen.

“By the way, hyung,” calls Jimin from inside the bathroom, and Hoseok and Yoongi both look up out of habit. “You called it. Chaeyoung’s moving into Sooah’s place. She just told me.”

“Thank God.” Hoseok closes his hands into a fist while Yoongi silently goes back to his phone. “I’ve been trying to incept the idea in their minds for a few days now. But that didn’t work so I just asked Sooah,” he adds after a moment, shrugging.

Just then, the door opens and Namjoon enters, in a hoodie and track pants. “Need to borrow lotion, if someone has any,” he says, cutting right to the chase.

“In the suitcase, hyung,” supplies Jungkook, pointing to an open suitcase with items inside it neatly tucked into pockets. “Where’s Kaya?”

“In the shower.” Namjoon rummages through and retrieves a travel-size bottle. Squeezing some into one palm and rubbing his hands together, he takes stock of the room. “Isn’t Jimin here?”

“I’m here!” Jimin emerges, dabbing a cotton pad over his bare face. “God, I just want one whole day of anonymity tomorrow. JK, you want to go to Hollywood Boulevard with me?”

Before Jungkook can answer, Namjoon raises his eyebrows. “Why? So you can forget about your faux pas from tonight?”

Jungkook suddenly looks far more interested. “What faux pas?” he asks excitedly. 

“Nothing,” snaps Jimin, glaring at Namjoon.

“He talked to The Weeknd at the party,” says Yoongi dryly, without looking up from his phone. “And he called him…” He looks up at Jimin slowly, a hint of a smirk on his face, “… The Weeknd.”

Hoseok and Jungkook guffaw, while Jimin goes red in the face. “How was I supposed to know?” he demands shrilly, his voice getting drowned in laughter. “He only ever uses his stage name! Does anyone actually know his real name?”

“It’s Abel,” says Namjoon, the same time Jungkook says “it’s Joel.”

“See?” Jimin huffs while Jungkook processes this new information. “It’s just my bad luck that he came up to me and not JK,” he mutters, throwing his used make-up wipe at him.

“He would’ve had to leave Lewis Hamilton alone for that to happen,” points out Yoongi.

“I wasn’t with him the whole time,” says Jungkook defensively. “But he looked so cool. And it wasn’t just him - Dilara was there most of the time, too.”

Hoseok chuckles. “You mean your girlfriend?”

Jungkook’s stomach jolts belatedly when Namjoon grins at his hands. “What?” he asks, wondering if he’s missed a joke.

“Oi, Jimin!” Hoseok calls out excitedly. “Jungkook had an embarrassing moment, too. He was fanboying about F1 so hard that Lewis Hamilton thought he was Dilara’s boyfriend.”

Jimin’s eyes widen, while even Yoongi snorts. “What?” he asks in a hushed voice, looking delighted at the news of Jungkook’s embarrassment. “Where was Taehyung?”

“Right there.” Hoseok pats Jungkook’s shoulder, still snickering. “If it helps, Lewis looked more embarrassed than you did,” he informs him.

Jungkook chuckles along with everyone else, trying not to reveal his mild confusion. It had been strange and awkward for a moment when Lewis had made that mistake, especially when Dilara had laughed it off and immediately corrected him, grabbing Taehyung’s arm and looking up proudly at him. 

But Jungkook hadn’t thought much of it, not until Hoseok just joked about it. You mean your girlfriend?

Jungkook is no stranger to awkwardness. He knows awkwardness; he lives and breathes it. Awkwardness is his roommate, when it truly comes down to it. Ergo, the strange jolt he’d felt in front of Lewis when he’d mistaken Jungkook for Dilara’s boyfriend was not awkwardness. It wasn’t even embarrassment, as his members and he himself presumed until now.

No, Jungkook realises now, with a looming dread he would acknowledge only later, that he liked it.

—

One…

Two…

Three…

Breathe. Another few seconds, that’s all you want; just precious moments to prove yourself.

Four…

Five…

Six…

Cold chills slither down your spine despite the hot water beating against your back. Your fingers work vigorously against your cheeks and along your forehead. What feels like a thousand pounds settles along your lashes, even though you know it’s nothing more than marshmallowy-light foam.

Seven…

Eight…

Nin—

You spin around, nearly losing your footing in the shower as you angle your face under the spray from the showerhead. The heels of your palms press against your lids as you try to rid them of the foamy facial cleanser.

Air wheezes into your lungs, stray drops of water sucking between your parted lips as you try to breathe against the panic building in your chest. Jerking back from the spray, you open your eyes, wincing at the sting from the water-mixed-with-cleanser that drips from your lashes and floods the corners.

Nothing. There’s nothing there. All you see is the steam-filled space of your shower, water pelting down at your feet, a smattering of bottles arranged on the lip of the tub, and the inside of your plain shower curtain.

You sigh, irritation itching in your chest. Not even nine seconds. You were trying for at least ten. It never fails to leave a bitter taste in your mouth whenever you can’t seem to get a grip on yourself. It’s just the dark. Hell, it’s not even really the dark. It’s just having your eyes closed against the bright fluorescent lights of your bathroom; a pseudo-darkness.

The unease in your stomach refuses to dissipate as you turn off the shower, step out, wrap yourself in a towel, and go through the routine of brushing your teeth and massaging moisturizer into your skin. You hang up your damp towel, quickly pulling on the oversized t-shirt and shorts you intend to sleep in.

Steam clouds the mirror. You don’t typically care to wipe it away, not anymore. It’s one of your small, personal victories—one you intentionally remind yourself of now after your panicked stint in the shower. It used to be that you couldn’t stand not being able to see the space behind you through the reflective surface. Knowing if something lurked outside your line of sight, it couldn’t hide from being exposed through the mirror. Being able to see behind you was all that mattered. Now, you take pride in not needing to see…yet, the niggling in the back of your head won’t cease. So, you swipe a hand, collecting tiny beads of moisture on your palm as you go.

You’re unsure why the act makes your heart beat a little harder. It’s supposed to elicit the calm you so desperately need. But, once you’ve slashed a clear path across the mirror, your brow furrows as you lean in closer to it. Cold dread thunders through your veins as you jerk back, spinning on your heel to make sure what you saw through the mirror wasn’t just your mind playing a trick on you.

Nope, not a trick or even a figment of your imagination…unfortunately.

You stare in paranoid disbelief at the slender gap along the bottom of the bathroom door. The door that leads into your bedroom where you are absolutely, without a doubt, positive you left your bedside lamp on. The gap is dark, like a void threatening to suck you right into an endless nightmare of unrelenting terror. All that’s missing is a gaunt, skeletal hand sliding its too-long fingers under the door.

Shoving away those intrusive thoughts before they can take root and further fester like a dirty wound on your sanity, you try to think logically. It’s possible the bulb in your lamp could have blown, but you know you replaced it just last month. It’s far too soon for it to blow on its own, and surely, it’s not a faulty bulb. So, why is it out? Were you careless and, in truth, didn’t turn it on? A manic laugh gets caught in your throat as you silently berate yourself. That must be it. You simply forgot. So careless.

Fear is an acrid taste on your tongue as you slowly approach the door. You hate this feeling. Even though you tell yourself there’s nothing out there lurking in the dark to harm you, you simply forgot to leave the light on. The distress doesn’t subside—and it won’t. At least, not until you open the door and prove the dark to harbor no ill intent toward you.

Squaring your shoulders and taking what is supposed to be a calming and fortifying breath, though it feels more like sand slipping into your lungs, you wrap your fingers firmly around the brushed nickel handle. The metal is warm, slightly wet from the condensation formed during your shower, against your palm as you twist it.

You lick your trembling lips, taking one more moment to center yourself. Your eyes slide closed as you mentally recall the layout of your room, calculating how many steps there are to get to the nearest light switch. Your bed is angled so the foot faces the bathroom door, and the closet door to the left near the two windows you know are closed tight with the curtains drawn. The bedroom door is easily the furthest from the bathroom, leaving the overhead light out of the question. You knew, before you even began to analyze, that the bedside lamp you recall yourself leaving on is going to be the closest light source. Still, you needed to go through the motion of solidifying that information in your mind.

As you haltingly push it open, the quiet creak of the door, which sounds deafening in the silence of the bathroom, causes chills to pop up along your arms and the hairs at the nape of your neck to stand on end. Darkness ebbs as the light from the bathroom bleeds across the hardwood of your bedroom floor, slowly revealing the interior of your room.

Your heart lurches, and a scream rips from your chest when you see a dark figure sitting at the end of your bed come into focus as the bathroom door swings further open, the handle barely held in your now numb fingers. Panic barrels through you. Your muscles react instinctively, fingers tightening around the knob as you jerk back, the door closing with a harsh bang as you backpedal across the bathroom.

“Babe,” calls a playful voice from just on the other side of the door. You can barely hear it over the roaring in your ears. Nausea threatens to double you over, even as relief floods your system—such conflicting emotions that you feel suddenly off-kilter. 

There is a fine sheen of cold sweat clinging to your neck. Your hands fist into the front of your shirt as the door eases open to reveal your boyfriend standing at the threshold. His dark ensemble makes it seem like the bathroom's light bends around his form, not daring to touch him.

You’ve never liked it when someone intentionally scares you, claiming it’s a joke. It always seems more like a cruel prank than a laughing matter. Though, you note, no one is laughing right now either way. He doesn’t look smug or self-satisfied for having scared you, just simply mildly amused.

“You scared me, Yoongi,” you state flatly, crossing your arms over your chest, hoping he picks up on your discomfort.

The corners of his lips turn down, and his brow furrows as he gives you an exaggerated pout. Even with your pounding heart and the upside down in your belly, you can’t help but appreciate how cute he is when he does that. “I know. I just didn’t see the point in wasting the power if you weren’t going to be in there.” He gestures vaguely behind him to your room, which is barely lit by the light pouring out of the bathroom.

It’s on the tip of your tongue to remind him that even though you weren’t in there, he was. Though, for some reason, Yoongi sitting in the dark doesn’t strike you as out of place. In the five years you’ve been together, you’ve learned to love his odd quirks just as much as any other part of him. He’s genuine, a caring person who isn’t afraid to be vulnerable—a far cry from anyone else you’ve ever given your time to.

“How was work?” you ask, aiming to get back on track with some semblance of normalcy—anything to not dwell on the lingering discomfort that’s still beating away in your chest.

His shoulders hitch up in a nonchalant manner. “Same as always. There’s been a big break in the Hunt case. Director Park thinks we’ll have the code cracked in a few more days. I say by tomorrow night, tops, just in time for our date. It’ll be a reward for my hard work,” his eyes twinkle with mirth. “After all, I think Samhain is a pretty fitting day for dealing with evil, huh?”

You make a noncommittal sound at that last part. Yoongi might enjoy that thought, but to you, tomorrow is more so just a day…simply October 31st and is more about plastic pumpkins, like the ones you have sitting on your front porch, than dealing with evil like that. The fact that Yoongi has convinced you to go to a festival tomorrow night is so wild you’ve been forcing yourself not to think about it.

“Well, I’d put my money on you over Director Park any day,” you say instead, giving him a soft, knowing smile. Yoongi has a penchant for estimations. If he thinks it’ll only take another day to crack a code that’s been wreaking havoc on Interpol for the better part of a year, then you believe him. You don’t pretend to understand all the intricacies of what he does; just know he’s really good with computers and helps whichever government agency needs it most or something like that.

Yoongi gives you a lazy smile in return. “Mmm, that’s what I like to hear. Your confidence in me is like kindling for my fervor,” he croons, wrapping you up in his arms. It feels good to relax in his embrace, the last vestiges of your earlier panic melting away as you soak in his warmth and familiarity. “Sorry I scared you,” he murmurs into your damp hair. “Let me make it up to you.”

“What did you have in mind?” you ask, laughing softly when his fingers slip under the hem of your shirt and teasingly caress your sides—the touch is light, making your skin tighten and prickle in response.

A rumbling groan vibrates through Yoongi’s chest as he playfully nips along your jaw before planting his lips firmly over yours in a dizzying and claiming way. “We’ll start with kissing,” the words are whispered between plucks of his mouth against yours, tongue swiping sensually across your bottom lip.

“Kissing is good,” you agree, smiling against his mouth before melting into another heated tangle of tongues and stilted breaths. That fist around your heart eases, letting your chest expand fully for the first time since before you showered.

“Biting,” he murmurs, pulling away from the kiss to bury his face in your neck. The light pressure of his teeth pressing against your skin has your toes curling against the cold tile floor and your fingers fisting into the front of his shirt.

Yoongi plants his mouth right over your pulse point, his tongue flicking over your throbbing vein as his teeth clamp down gently. You swallow hard against the sensation, your heart shifting gears to thud fast in your chest for a different reason. It’s not necessarily fear that drives your senses higher now so much as it is anticipation and an increase in adrenaline—terror adjacent, something you prefer much more to the former.

You shudder against him, knees going weak as he moans, the sound sending pulsing shocks of vibrations down your spine with how his mouth fits against your neck. His fingers ghost along your shorts before finally pushing past the elastic band. The palms of his hands are warm as they slide around and grip handfuls of your ass.

Using his hold on you, Yoongi lifts you up onto the counter beside the sink. As his hands retreat, they tug your shorts with them, working them around the curve of your ass until they’re caught at your knees. You let him push them further until they slacken and fall to catch around your ankles, then onto the floor. Wincing slightly at how cold the counter is against your bare skin, you urge him to fill the space between your thighs, seeking his warmth flush against you once again.

“Yoongi,” you hiss, sucking in a sharp breath as he slides a hand between your bodies and presses the flat of his fingers against your pussy. You don’t need to look in the mirror to know his teeth have left an impression on your neck. He leans back and licks his lips in a show of appreciation, lidded eyes full of mischief and barely veiled lust. “Please.” It comes out warbled as he teases his middle finger between your lower lips.

“Beg for it,” he says. “Show me how much you want me to make you forget about the darkness.” His voice has an edge, like he’s teasing at something, but it’s lost on you to piece together what it might be.

Sucking in a deep breath, you repeat your plea, “Please.”

Your chest is rising and falling rapidly, and you can feel your erratic heartbeat pounding between your legs and under the sensitive skin of your neck that Yoongi ravaged with his teeth. Lightheadedness kisses the edges of your clarity, daring you to get lost in the delirium that Yoongi is offering.

“You can do better than that,” Yoongi taunts, his laugh low and husky as he pulls away, leaving you bereft of his touch where you want it most. “Beg. For. It.” The words are clipped, punctuated with staccato taps of his middle finger against your sensitive clit.

“Fuck—Yoongi, please! Please, I need you!”

“That’s my girl,” Yoongi smiles wickedly. Two slender fingers sliding into your wet heat are your reward. “You’re so wet already. Look at how your body is pulling me in. Fuck, that’s nice.” He angles himself so you can both look down and watch his fingers slowly pull out, glistening with your arousal before sinking back in.

Your body squeezes around his fingers, walls fluttering in anticipation and building pleasure. “Need you,” you mumble, grabbing at the button on the front of his dark wash jeans with one hand and tugging at the bottom of his black t-shirt with the other. “Fuck me, Yoongi, please. Please, fuck me. I need you to make me forget.”

A flurry of motion accompanies his answering growl of approval as he helps you strip him out of his clothes and the rest of your own. You barely feel the absence of his fingers in your cunt before he pulls your ass to the edge of the counter and shoves his cock inside with a guttural moan that echoes in the small space.

The fit of him inside your body is deliciously perfect, like he was made to please you. Your fingers press dents into his shoulders as you grip him tightly. One of his hands squeezes your hip to keep you from slipping off the counter while the other finds its way to having a light grip on your throat.

His forehead rests against yours, the back of your head pressed against the mirror behind you. The angle makes his thrusts shallow, forcing the crown of his cock to rock against a sensitive spot deep inside that has you seeing spots behind your closed lids.

Yoongi has always been a contrasting lover, hot and cold, in a way that always leaves you breathless and assuaged. The look on his face says he’s fucking you, but the sensual roll of his hips says he’s making love to you—the hand on your throat says he just wants to control you. Regardless of how he fucks, it always consumes you. From the first time to now, he wholly and utterly devours your sanity and spits it back at you two-fold. He brings you palpable lucidity while also destroying all sense of right and wrong. Some call it morally grey; you call it just another titillating facet of who he is.

Pleasure builds fast, and you know you’re about to tip over the edge when the pressure of his hand on your throat increases. It’s an infinitesimal change, but it feels like the tightening of a vice all the same.

The erratic beat of your heart stutters further, swallowing you down into a thick-headed spiral of trepidation. You know Yoongi won’t hurt you. It’s not that—not quite. It’s the idea and knowledge that he could. It’s a taboo feeling, craving that helpless flutter deep in your belly that dares you to indulge in the darkness instead of running from it.

Yoongi’s hips continue to roll against you, your body pinned in place by his hand on your throat. Your eyes flutter open just to fall shut again as the hand on your hip moves until his thumb presses against your clit, making your body jerk and hurtle back toward the precipice of pleasure from before.

With his thumb pressed against one throbbing artery in your neck and the pads of his fingers against the twin on the other side, he has complete and utter control over you. All it takes is another barely-there squeeze to have you changing your grip from his shoulders to his forearm.

The bitter taste of cowardice laces together with the cloyingly sweet, carnal flavor of lust that’s coating your insides. Yoongi rumbles, a moan low in his chest. The rhythm of his hips kicks up until they’re hammering against yours to the point that measures of pain mix with the terror, forming into a rapture of exhilaration. His thumb coaxes your orgasm through precise flicks over your swollen clit.

You can’t help the sound that rips from your throat, squeezing past his grip in a ragged mockery of a moan—bright colors spiderweb across the backs of your closed lids as you sip from his chalice of wickedness. White noise joins the rush of blood in your ears as somewhere in the deep recesses of your mind, alarm begins to bleed into the hazy euphoria clouding your head. “Yes!” Yoongi groans. “That’s it, fuck!”

“Y-yoon—“ you try to choke out his name, fingers trembling from their tight grip on his forearm. Just as you’re about to try and shove him away to get a reprieve, his hand loosens its hold on your throat, and the instant rush of oxygen to your brain washes away all other thoughts as your body surrenders once again to his dominion. The orgasm tears through you, sweeping you out in a hedonistic riptide. Your walls clamp around his cock so hard he snarls and shudders with the trigger of his own release.

You must have blacked out from the overwhelming cascade that besieged your senses because the next thing you’re aware of is Yoongi tucking you into bed beside him. The sheets are cool against your heated skin, a welcome lull of relief. He presses into your sated body, chest against your back and arm possessively curling over your hip. “Get some sleep, my queen,” he murmurs. “I’ll hold the darkness back.”

The room is dark, just as it was earlier when you panicked. But, just as always, when Yoongi is around, it’s less frightening…seemingly somehow less dark and foreboding. He might have darker desires when it comes to pleasure, but right now, he’s the light that chases away your other demons.

🖤🖤🖤

Yoongi

The taste of your fear still lingers in the back of Yoongi’s throat as he pretends to sleep curled around you. He knew turning off your bedroom light would scare you. It’s why he did it. The peckish feeling that rumbled in the pit of his stomach drove him to want to play with you. Your fear instantly sated his hunger, and it made his dick hard when you screamed. You scream so prettily he just can’t help that natural, primal response. 

That is, after all, precisely why he chose you. Everything about you speaks to his needs, promising sweet and succulent fruit that’s always ripe for plucking.

He learned early on that if he could elevate your heart rate and incite a sliver of fear in you while fucking you…well, his full belly is testament enough to how much he loves that. You call it a kink, he calls it dessert. It wasn’t his intention to fuck you after he frightened you, but the irritating erection grating along his zipper had other plans. 

His mortal form isn’t his favorite. It’s far too small and has far too many baser needs and limitations. Though he does enjoy the feel of your soft, pliant flesh under his—especially when you’re ripe with the sweet smell of terror—it makes it worth the discomfort this inferior mode has.

It’s not lost on Yoongi that he could have ruined you from the start by taking too much from you. But he’s been careful over the years, molding and training your body to be the perfect vessel for him to feed from. The fact you were already experiencing high anxiety and an innate fear of the dark prior to him coming into your life helped tremendously. Nyctophobia is such a beautiful thing.

You claim he’s helped you, for the most part, get over your fears. However, he knows this is just a lie you tell him and yourself to make yourself feel and seem braver. He knows the truth, though. There is no getting over your fear, not when it lives with you…sleeps next to you, touches you, fucks you. He’s everything you’re scared of, everything you think is creeping around in the dark, waiting to pounce. He’s your worst nightmare…literally as much as figuratively—and you have absolutely no inkling of that truth. All you see is what he lets you see: just a sweet guy with a penchant for darker tastes behind closed doors.

To you, he’s just Yoongi. But he has had many names over the centuries: Demon, Baba Yaga, El Coco, Butzemann, Tikoloshe, Bogeyman, and so on. All of them are generally the same, but none are quite right. He is all these things, and yet none of these things—he’s so much more.

It’s a common misconception that he only targets people who do misdeeds. That’s not it at all, for the sweetest fruit is the unwary, the innocent, the vulnerable, and the scared. That is the pinnacle of his desire, the unctuous delight that feeds his depravity and gives him power over the darkness—darkness that calls to him now.

Being careful not to wake you, Yoongi slips out from around your soft, lush body. Feeding on your fear in the bathroom drained some of your vitality, lowering your constitution, and the best recovery for that is a good, uninterrupted eight hours. So, he’ll leave you to replenish so that he may feast once again—one last time before he executes his final, ultimate plan; the whole reason he chose you to begin with and has been periodically parading around in this limited meat suit for years.

The maw of darkness under your bed beckons him to shake off the mortal form and take his rightful place as King among the shadows. Yoongi catches his reflection in the standing mirror across the room. The only thing distinct is the brilliant red eyes staring back at him. It feels good to stretch and dissolve into his proper form, shadows snaking along his limbs and filling his every breath.

You fidget on the bed, brow furrowing as your body reacts to the nearness of his proper form. He likes watching you twitch and shift, soft mewls of fright sounding low in your chest. If he wanted, he could swallow you whole, and you’d never be the wiser, one moment existing in your nightmare and the next slithering into the ether of what comes after. But, it’s not time…not yet.

Letting one of his long, spindly shadow fingers draw back in and reform into the echo of human flesh, he presses the blunt tip against your temple. You instantly quell your movements, and the pitiful cry in your chest subsides. Yoongi can feel the subtle tremble of your body, the vibrations skittering through your flesh as your body recognizes his hellish touch. Your subconscious is as familiar with his umbral form as your conscious is with the lies he’s used to frame how you see him with your eyes.

Digging through the screen of your nightmare, he pulls back the darkness and lets in just enough light to lull you into a false sense of security—something he does nearly every night after he’s fed from you so he doesn’t accidentally drain you dry. By the time he returns, the light will have faded from your dreams, and there will be just enough unfettered distress permeating the air of your bedroom to give him a top off of delicious fear, his own personal cup of pick-me-up.

Yoongi slides under the bed and into the darkness, leaving you to your deep, lambent dreams. He melts through the barrier between your world and his. Euphoria buzzes through him as his depth of power increases. That’s the biggest downfall of walking the mortal plane. There aren’t quite enough shadows or stinking fear to fill the neverending void inside him. But here, in the Realm of Darkness, the taste of terror is thick and nectarous. It lingers in the air and is as permanent as the oxygen you breathe in your world.

Yoongi drifts through the firmament of his domain, letting the worries and stress of what’s to come fade. For a being with endless power and control, he never thought he might have the need to be concerned over something seemingly so trivial. But, the ceremony and ritual he has planned for tomorrow night is easily the most critical thing he’s ever dared to accomplish.

The Realm of Darkness might be sufficiently filled with succulent fodder for him, but there are other limitations he encounters. Constraints that involve the worlds beyond his Kingdom. He doesn’t want just to be able to thrive here on his own turf. He has aspirations of letting his darkness seep into the outer realms—including yours—and if he has his way, you will help him do just that. The barriers will crumble, and he’ll be free to bathe the distant realms in his thick ichor of destruction.

Finally feeling more like himself, he aims for the Shadow Spire, where waits the Throne of the Damned—his throne. All it takes is a simple thought, and he’s standing in the sprawling cavern of the throne room. It stretches wide in all directions, having no end or beginning, just existing as his will needs.

Pillars of malachite soar into the air at equal intervals, disappearing into the glittering cosmos expanse above his head. Silvery flecks of light cast the whole room in a mockery of the night sky of your world, something he’s grown to admire over the years spent there. Yoongi takes a deep breath, soaking in the tangy, bitter stench of brimstone and copper. Soon, he hopes, your delectable perfume of fear will join them.

“Sire,” a gruff voice says in surprise. “We weren’t expecting you back until the ritual. Welcome, is there anything we can do for you?”

Yoongi settles his shadowy form on the monstrous broken stone pillar at the top of the dais that rises from the rocky floor. His court, ever vigilant in their duty to him, wait for him to respond. “Is everything prepared for the ceremony?” he asks, eyes finally landing on the six figures seated on the smaller stone plinths arrayed in a semi-circle in front of him—the Shadow Court once again complete with his return. Hopefully, he won’t have to leave the comfort of his court but one more time. Once the ritual is done, he shouldn’t have to so much as lift a finger to reach into the overworld.

“All is well and ready, Sire.” Wicked smiles spread like wildfire across the court. They’re just as excited as Yoongi is to be finally moving forward with the plan. None of them have tasted the kind of fear that Yoongi has feasted on from you—the fresh terror of the mortal realm—but if they had more corporeal forms, he knows they’d be salivating. Soon, so very soon.

Looking around at his companions, he can’t help but think how humorous it is that you so readily believed his deceptions about working for the human government. He remembers the day he finally stepped from the shadows and made himself known to you. You were immediately drawn to him and couldn't stop yourself from indulging in your curiosities like a moth drawn to a flame.

Yoongi had already come up with an elaborate backstory and characterization for the human he wanted to portray. He knew all of your deep, dark fantasies and brought them to life. Your eyes got round with awe and reverence when he first revealed his supposed job, confirming how gullible and under his spell you were. He can’t deny it’s worked in his favor.

He’s allowed to keep odd hours and disappear as needed. When he returns to your bed before the sun rises, he’ll leave you a note on your pillow about being pulled away for work. You’ll read it and sigh a dreamy sigh as you have every other time he’s done that. You never bother to seek further explanation—your trust in him is so wholly concrete.

There is satisfaction in the freedom you’ve granted him to embrace a darker side. It’s how he can get away with fucking you so callously that your brain warps it into some deranged form of love. You’ve chalked every depraved thing he’s done to you up to him needing an outlet after dealing with such heinous stuff for work. He only had to mention a few well-known acronyms, like FBI and CIA, and you accepted it. As scared as you are of the dark, he’s aware of the collection of slasher and horror novels you keep stuffed away under your bed and that you listen with rapt attention to those silly crime shows and podcasts that tell you he’s not the one you should be scared of. Soon, he won’t have to worry about any of that, though—no more silly backstory, no more hiding, no more stuffy mortal form, no more holding back. Tomorrow signifies a change, a new beginning. It’s the time when the veil between the worlds will be thin enough that he can drag you down without it sucking your life away. Some call it Samhain, Calan Gaeaf, Mischief Night, Halloween—it holds nearly as many names as Yoongi himself does—but for him, it will be the night he calls triumph. The night his shadows will lay a claim to you wholly; the night you stop fearing what goes bump in the night and instead stand by its side and let it consume you.

Wicked Delight

Consciousness comes in fits and spurts of clarity. There is a moment where you’re asleep but aware. With this awareness, you can discern and feel the potent darkness webbing across your subconscious. You’ve seen it before, the myriad of inky tendrils that zig-zag through the light like fissures over a dried river bed. It scares you but also fills you with intrigue so rich it nearly eclipses the fear.

You know that if you could just hang on to that in-between space, the feeling of teetering on the edge of a knife, you could examine the darkness further and figure out what it is and where it comes from. But your body has other plans, sucking you away from your inspection and pushing you toward uneasy wakefulness.

Shifting under the blankets, a crinkling noise draws your eyes open to land on a rumple of white paper lying beside you on the empty side of the bed. With fumbling fingers, you grab the ripped leaf of creamy parchment and turn it so you can see the blue scrawl of words.

Got some darkness to take care of. Can’t wait to see you tonight. Don’t forget; 11 pm sharp, beginning of the corn maze. X

There is no name signed to the note, just an X, but you know who left it, regardless. You roll over, holding the thin paper above you so you can see the faded, faint print under his ink. A smile tugs at your lips when you realize it’s a corner ripped from Kinder und Hausmärchen, one of Yoongi’s favorite books. He has an original first edition that he’s let you moon over a few times. The first time you found a note and saw what it was written on, you nearly crawled out of your skin to berate him for ruining such a prize. He gently chided you for your reaction and assured you it was just a copy, scanned and printed for the whimsy of it.

Looking closer, you see the corner is from a page of the Cat and Mouse in Partnership tale. Your smile fades, turning into a mild frown as an odd feeling ghosts beneath your skin, eliciting goosebumps to pop up along your arms. Sighing, you shake your head and pull the blanket up high under your chin, chalking the sensation up to being cold. Your eyes rove around the room, taking in the early morning light filtering in through your thin curtains, showing you just enough of the inside of your room to be comfortable with not having a light on.

Finally deciding there’s no point in dallying in bed further, you toss back the covers and brace yourself against the chill in your room. Only, it’s not as cold as you were anticipating. Opening the small drawer on your nightstand to deposit the message in with the dozens of others Yoongi has left you over the years, you can help but smile. They’re sweet, little pieces of him that affirm to you why it’s okay he disappears the way he does. The reminder comforts you, especially on this day.

Halloween has never been your favorite. Well, that’s not true, exactly. You do like Halloween—just the modern and more mainstream version with candy, pumpkins, and warm, spiced drinks. Fall colors are also something you enjoy. The cooler air is nice. You’re partial to cozy sweaters and boots, too.

All in all, you enjoy this time of the year. You just don’t necessarily like the darker parts, the scarier parts. Haunted houses and scary movies are things you could do without unless it’s under very specific circumstances. Such as having Yoongi there. Which is the only reason you’ve agreed to meet him at the festival tonight. You haven’t been since you were a teen and got so scared by the fright actors that you swore never to return.

Except, now, you are returning. It’s been on the tip of your tongue for the last week to cancel on Yoongi, feigning a head or stomach ache. But, the sheer excitement in his gaze when you agreed, has been enough to make you bite your tongue every time a protest bubbles up. You can—and will—do this.

With an entire day to go before your date with Yoongi, you busy yourself with mundane tasks. A bit of cleaning, some light reading, and lastly, dumping a few bags of assorted and prepackaged candies into a bright orange bowl with a goofy jack-o-lantern face printed on the side.

You’re usually a porchlight-off kind of person. Still, this year, considering your own venture outside your proverbial Halloween box, you decided why not go the extra mile for others, too? Even if one kid dumps the entire bowl into their treat bag, you’ll at least feel somewhat accomplished in your attempt.

Setting the bowl on your doorstep, you stand back and survey it. The yellow-tinged porch light illuminates the candy and the plastic pumpkins you have arranged on either side of your door. You contemplate adding a ‘please take only one’ sign for the bowl but decide a paper warning isn’t much of a deterrent. Leaving the candy to its fate, you head back inside to finish getting ready.

Time flows in a weird, out-of-body kind of way. You’re aware of pulling on your coat and walking into your garage through the kitchen—even the process of driving to the festival registers in your mind. But, you’re genuinely not cognisant of what you’re doing until you’re staring at the large flashing sign for the festival. You have to practically put on blinders to make it through the ticketing process, ignoring the scare actors as you wait in line.

The corn maze is at the center of it all, meaning you keep your eyes glued to the ground as you skirt the edges of the food stalls and game stands until you reach it. There, you wait, standing at the start of the corn maze and stare at your watch, counting the seconds as they tick by with the small hand.

The air is cool, the crisp scent of fall heavy around you. Laughter and faint screams carry to you from the festival surrounding the maze. The giant corn labyrinth is the center of the entire two-week-long event. Thousands of people flock from near and far to venture within the husked, cream-colored stalks.

If you make it through the maze without assistance from the scare actors, then you get an entire bucket of caramel popcorn drizzled with chocolate. That’s never been enough of a reward for you to try. Even the last time you were here, you never stepped foot into the clustered embrace of the maze.

The festival is lit enough with all the twinkling lights and fair games lining the thoroughfares and the midway. Food trucks and stalls litter through the vendors with stuffed animals and cackling clowns. You try to ignore the bodies that sway and shamble through the crowd—the scare actors. They’re just people dressed up in costume and makeup, but they still elicit that flighty feeling in your belly, that little trickle of fear.

At the ticket booths, there were neon green necklaces you could purchase. You used them as a distraction while you waited in line. They’re ‘no scare’ necklaces, big bright indicators that you’re a sensitive little bitch that doesn’t want to be scared. At least, that’s how you felt looking at them, considering buying one. You know they’re an extremely valid item, a protective emblem that many people need, and that it’s perfectly fine—in fact, it’s encouraged for people to use them if they need to.

As you fingered the green nylon of the lanyard, you couldn’t help chewing your bottom lip, worrying at it until it cracked under your teeth and the coppery tang of blood danced across your tongue. You almost bought it…maybe you should have. However, the fact that you’re half-hidden by the corn maze sign and doing everything in your power not to draw unwanted attention to yourself seems to be keeping you from attracting the actors your way.

The tiny hand on your watch ticks away, drawing closer to turning over the minute, which'll turn over the hour to 11 PM. Sharp. Yoongi’s insistence. Just as the hands come together on your watch, you feel that telltale tingling feeling of eyes on you. It’s a familiar sensation, one you often associate with Yoongi. Daring to step out from behind the sign to the corn maze, you spin in a slow circle, trying to catch sight of him.

“Looking for someone?”

You have to clamp a hand over your mouth to muffle the shriek that rips from your chest as those words drift in from right behind you. So close that it’s impossible to imagine you hadn’t noticed him approaching you as you looked around.

“Yoongi,” you sigh, dropping your hand.

He's enveloping you from behind before you can turn around and give him a pouty yet stern look. His familiar musk and warmth ease your heart back from its hammering gallop. “You’re good enough to eat,” he gruffly murmurs, pressing his nose into the fabric of your coat at the juncture of your shoulder and neck. You can feel more than hear his deep inhalation, as if he’s drawing in the scent of your very soul and branding it throughout his olfactory system.

“The maze closes in an hour. Are you sure we can make it to the center before then?” you ask, voice light and airy as relief infused with drips of serotonin weaken your knees and your resolve to be upset with him for frightening you. You turn in his arms, keen to look upon his face for another kick of comfort, but it sours in your belly when you take in his pulled-up hood and the thick black gaiter covering the bottom half of his face. “What’s that for?”

Yoongi shrugs, shoulders lifting in his typical nonchalant manner. “It’s Halloween. Consider me dressed for the occasion.” He winks at you, but it does nothing to quell the unease still rolling around just beneath your surface. Feigning that stomachache is starting to sound more and more appealing, Yoongi’s excitement be damned.

“You look like a burglar.”

You can’t see his smile, but you can tell it’s there by how his eyes crinkle and lids lower mischievously. “And you look ripe for the burgling.”

“You’re insufferable,” you gripe teasingly, finally letting a smile grace your face despite the lingering anxiety. It’s easy to forget your fears and worries when you’re looking into his umber-colored gaze.

“Come on, let’s go.” Yoongi offers you his elbow, and you tuck your hand into the crook of it, leaning your shoulder against his arm.

The fleece-lined leggings you chose to wear keep you warm enough, paired with the knit sweater and thick tweed coat covering your top half. Your chunky boots are comfortable and practical for the slightly uneven terrain of the cornfield-turned-maze. Yoongi is far more casual in just jeans, the hoodie, and a pair of dusty and worn sneakers.

You study his face the best you can past the edge of his hood and out of the corner of your eye. He’s just as handsome as always. Even the black fabric covering the bottom half of his face doesn’t detract from his allure, which seems to be intensified by the deepening darkness around you as he leads you through the maze entrance.

A festival worker stands off to the side in full-on farmer-gore. Their overalls are covered in faux viscera, and there is a bloodied sling blade dangling from their off-hand as they beckon you and Yoongi forward with their other.

“Tonight's savior phrase is ‘Pumpkin Guts’, yell it out if you need assistance navigating the maze, and a helper will assist you,” he offers before turning to the next patron approaching a few feet behind you and Yoongi and giving them the same information.

“Pumpkin Guts,” Yoongi scoffs with a quiet laugh. “Surely they could have come up with something far more fitting than that.”

“I find it kind of nice. The childish charm of it helps make a situation like getting lost in the maze less scary, don’t you think?”

His eyes look more onyx now that you’re within the maze, the only illumination coming from tiny, sparse fairy lights. They catch your gaze, and you see a smile tilt up the corner of Yoongi’s mouth. “That’s adorable.”

“What?” you laugh, feeling heat crawl into your cheeks.

Yoongi shakes his head, his smile growing. “You always find the good in everything. It’s one of the things I like most about you.”

All the residual anxiety from earlier bleeds away with just that singular statement. You press in closer to Yoongi and angle your face up in silent request, to which he immediately obliges. He hooks a finger in the lip of his gaiter and pulls it down so he can slant his mouth over yours. His lips are warmer than usual, his breath carrying faint hints of bourbon as he teasingly slips his tongue through the seam of your lips. All too soon, he’s pulling away, leaving you with just that small taste of him. The gaiter slides back into place, and he nods ahead of you. “The quicker we make it to the center, the quicker you get the surprise I have waiting for you.”

“A surprise?” you ask, thoroughly intrigued. 

His affirming hum in response turns into a soft chuckle as you eagerly quicken your steps, tugging him along beside you. As someone who isn’t partial to being shocked or scared, it’s perhaps a bit ironic that you love surprises of the unknown. They just have to be the right kind—like one from Yoongi; er, well, at least the ones that don’t involve him sitting on your bed in the dark as you open the bathroom door or so you tell yourself—but you digress.

Though, perhaps there is a bit of enjoyment from those kinds of surprises, too. In a twisted, semi-fucked up way, the surge of adrenaline is like a counterweight to the dopamine response from your amygdala that follows any time you get frightened. The perfect balance of emotions. The fight or flight reflex makes your body feel like it’s keyed up with extra energy, leaving you feeling like you’ve just run a mile or fucked for an hour. It’s maybe a little unhinged to salivate over those small sips of terror secretly. Does that make you a masochist?

You’d almost think Yoongi picks up on your inner thoughts with the way he makes an amused sound in the back of his throat and gives you a sidelong, knowing look. Something tingles beneath your skin, an electric feeling akin to loose ambitions. It seems tonight won’t be so bad after all.

The crunch of dried corn husks and hay accompanies the occasional scream or laugh echoing from various points in the maze. You’ve only led Yoongi to a dead-end a handful of times so far, but the anxiety at not having found the center of the maze yet is starting to mount.

“I can feel your stress in the tension in your hand,” Yoongi muses softly. “Relax, you’ll get your surprise.”

“What if they close the maze before we make it to the center, though?”

“They won’t.”

You cut a quick glance at him. He looks smug. “You seem so sure, but from my count,” you shift your attention to your watch, “we only have fifteen minutes before the festival closes, and I’d guess we’re nowhere near the center yet.”

Yoongi shrugs. “I may have paid the vendor to let us stay as long as we need.”

“You did what?”

“Tonight’s special,” Yoongi tugs you to a stop, his hands engulfing yours, and gives you a pointed look. “Very special.” The thumb of his right hand grazes over the expanse of skin above the knuckle on your left ring finger. “Now, let’s go find the center…and your surprise.”

A new sensation trickles in–excitement. Your heart patters faster as you turn and haul Yoongi on with renewed vigor. Gone is any trepidation; in its place, nothing but giddy and barely veiled anticipation. And to think, you’d almost been silly and canceled on him.

🖤🖤🖤

Yoongi

Yoongi wasn’t exaggerating when he said you look good enough to eat tonight. If only you knew how close to an accurate statement that was. He’s had a constant flow of moisture seeping into his mouth since he laid eyes on you standing behind the wooden sign for the maze. He had just finished setting up the surprise for you in the center, utilizing his natural form in order to move quickly without being seen.

All the implements he needs await him at the maze's center. The theatrics of it all are only for fun. He could have simply taken you without them. But he’s always been partial to playing with his food before devouring it. The pungency of your anxiety as you waited was a delightful appetizer to what is sure to be a satiating main course.

Every time you make a wrong turn in the maze, Yoongi can feel the tension in your muscles and the momentary disappointment that flavors your scent. It’s amusing watching you shuffle your feet and grumble under your breath before turning and backtracking.

It’s not lost to him the amount of uncertainty you’ve had ever since he asked you to go with him tonight. Not that he would have given you a choice in the end; he’d have taken you by force if needed. But he’s a passive creature at best, so the less work he has to do, the better.

Using the ruse of there being a surprise waiting for you isn’t entirely untrue. Though, the treat he’s confident that he’s planted the idea of in your head is far different from what’s actually going to happen. He’s spent enough time in the mortal realm to know what you’d have interpreted from him stroking that particular finger with the right look in his eye. Your heart had gone into a frenzy of thick, heavy beats, and your eyes had lit up with wonder.

Yeah, he’s pretty sure he knows what’s driving your feet to move as quickly as they are now. It’ll just make the disappointment taste that much sweeter. Over the five years he’s been administering to you, molding you into the perfect vessel, he’s learned the small nuances that make you tick. Whether it’s for eliciting fear or excitement, desire or anguish, he knows exactly how to produce the results he wants.

“Ugh,” you grumble for the dozenth time when you turn a corner and come to another dead end. “This is impossible. How can you find enjoyment in these things?”

Yoongi smirks. “It’s quite analytical if you really want me to answer that.” The way your nose wrinkles when he says that is positively adorable. “Come on, I’ll help you out.”

You gleefully cede the lead, letting him guide you back and toward a different direction entirely. You’re still excited, bubbling with positive anticipation, even though you’re no longer playing the game, per se. It’s interesting how you so quickly relinquish the hunt—he’d never.

The noise of the festival and maze has long since fizzled away. He didn’t actually pay the attendant. He’s just using some of his ability to mask your presence from anyone who might get in the way. Some of the lights from the midway are still going, and a few rides are lit up. However, the deeper Yoongi leads you into the labyrinth, the darker it becomes. He’s confident you’re so wound up that you don’t even notice how his shadows grow and stretch along the narrow walkway around you.

“Oh, look!” You excitedly point at the opening that comes into view at the end of the row. “I can smell the popcorn. Did that bribe include a bucket waiting for us, too?”

Yoongi has no idea if there is popcorn waiting, but he imagines you’re only smelling the lingering scent. He can’t detect anyone else within a hundred-meter radius around the maze. If the prospect of popcorn makes you happy, then sure. “Of course it did. We’ll need a snack once I’m done with you.” Which mostly isn’t true, though he can’t be sure. Yoongi has never shadow-turned a human before, much less taken a mate in the process. You might be ravenous by the time he’s done; though, he’d bet it won’t be popcorn you’ll be craving.

There is a distinct moment where Yoongi can feel the shift in your demeanor. Your excitement dips into confusion as you take in the finish line area that’s deserted of anyone and anything other than the large 10 ft square structure he erected in the middle. The raw malachite plinths are so dark the lindworm-colored stone seems to absorb the illuminance around them, turning the gateway into a giant pit of darkness that devours the faint twinkling lights. Shadows bleed from the open space between the pillars, reaching for their master.

Yoongi’s blood sings with desire as fear trickles in with the confusion. “Yoongi,” you whisper his name, and it warbles from your lips oh so beautifully. “What’s that?”

“That’s your future, my love.” He untangles himself from your grip, circling you like a predator. “Now, run!” he snarls from right behind you.

You don’t even scream when he shoves you forward, your arms windmilling and boots tripping over the scatter of dried corn husks before you topple headlong between the pillars. The last thing he sees before the waiting shadows swallow you is the whites of your eyes as you throw a panicked look over your shoulder at him.

It’s mildly disappointing that you didn’t even so much as grunt or give him any sort of satisfaction that you’re petrified other than the cloying perfume of your terror that settles on his tongue when he huffs in irritation. Hopefully, when he follows you through the gateway, you’ll already be on the run because he’s in the mood to play a while longer before he shatters the world as you know it.

Yoongi wants you to recognize him, so he only casts off some of his mortal form, choosing to keep his face and most of his body intact. What changes is his size; he grows larger, arms and legs longer, fingers more like talons, and eyes the dark red of fresh blood.

He knows he looks monstrous, even more so with the cloth still covering the lower half of his face and the hoodie now ripped and hanging from his physique. As soon as he slides through the barrier of the gateway, he’s met with that euphoric sound he hoped for earlier. Your scream rends through the thick, stale air of the Realm of Darkness, music to his ears.

“That’s my girl,” Yoongi crows, his voice gravelly and distorted by his natural form. He inhales deeply, sucking in your dismay's succulent and divine fragrance. “Fuck.”

You scream again as he steps toward you, which spurs you into gaining your feet, not even caring to look at the soot-like substance caking your hands and knees. Yoongi can only imagine the thoughts warring inside your pretty little head right now. Wild fear makes your eyes flick frantically around before you choose a direction and sprint at breakneck speed between the skeletal trees surrounding this side of the gateway.

He chose the Forest of Decay specifically because it provides the perfect environment for a chase. It allows him to easily keep up with you while giving the illusion of protection. There’s also not a single nook or cranny Yoongi isn’t intimately familiar with; after all, he can’t have you finding some unknown hole to burrow into.

The flash and flicker of your coat draws his attention as it zigs and zags through the petrified sentinels of the forest. Their long, gnarled branches reach far, entwining overhead like a macabre endless bird's nest. It creates a dim atmosphere, with the faintest hint of light bleeding through the limbs. Each tree is about a foot wide and twenty feet high, the ground covered in sooty ash; it’s an ideal playground.

“Leave me alone!” you sob when Yoongi lets you catch another glimpse of him.

Yoongi shudders as a fresh, new wave of terror undulates from you and washes over him. “No can do, my queen.”

The thrill of the chase adds kindling to Yoongi’s need to consume you whole. Every step you take is reckless. You throw yourself around trees so fast you nearly hit the next. The spacing between the trees is relatively narrow, just a few feet at most. Still, with the way you’re barreling through them, you’ve already accumulated a few scratches and minor lacerations from the dried bark, feet kicking up small puffs of ash with every frantic step. The tangy, sweet scent of your blood makes him salivate. The thick, viscous drool coating his tongue will make it all that easier to fuck you with it once he catches you.

Lumbering on behind you, Yoongi intentionally stomps and makes as much noise as possible. Every crack and thump he makes has a whimper shivering from your throat. The thick appendage between his monstrous thighs swells with each terrified sound you make. Fucking you in his proper form will be such a treat. Surely, it’ll be far better than any sex he’s had with the limits of his human body, even if he does love the way your softness compliments his.

But there is nothing soft about Yoongi now—not when he has such a tasty morsel running and screaming so prettily for him. He’s all hard edges and thick muscle. A manic chuckle bubbles in his chest as he leaps ahead, hounding your heels.

It’s comical, ironic even, when he watches your foot catch on a high root hidden by a pile of ash, and you go sprawling on the ground before him. He’s seen enough of those cheesy horror films so fervently worshiped in your world to know how funny this is.

“Please, no! Leave me alone!” you beg through ragged breaths. Your face and hair are marked with scratches, flecks of dried bark, and the pewter-colored ash covering the ground.

An appreciative moan works its way free of Yoongi as he stands over you, swaying like he’s drunk. Which, maybe he is. There is a faint buzzing in his ears, and if he opens his eyes too wide, your image doubles. Two of you; he grins wickedly at the prospect. Now, that would be a definite treat.

As it is, there’s only you; that will be sufficient for what Yoongi has planned. He looms over you, and the backward-bending joints of his knees give slightly as he towers across your prone form. Your eyes pan over his arched body, perhaps for the first time, taking it in with true clarity. Yoongi lets his skin ripple between human and proper form, coalescing and whirling with shadows.

With a flex of darkness, he rends the remnants of his clothes. The ripping of the seams and subsequent soft plop of the ruined fabrics echo through the suddenly silent space. You’re barely even breathing as you take him in, eyes landing on the swinging cock that nearly brushes your belly as he places a gnarled hand beside your head in the ash.

“You’re mine,” he whispers, though it comes out more like sand in a grinder. Lowering further, Yoongi nudges your chin with his nose, guiding your head sideways to give him unfettered access to your throat. Pressing into the crook of your neck, he huffs hot breath over your skin, rejoicing in the instinctive reaction. Your skin prickles and flushes with goosebumps, and a thick cloud of potent fear wafts up as your pulse hammers away beneath his lips.

“P-please,” you whimper through trembling lips. Tears stream down your cheek and drip off the bridge of your nose. Their salty tang mixes with the sweetness of terror pervading the air.

That word, spoken in that way…it does something to Yoongi. He groans, nipping at the skin of your neck with his blunted teeth before letting them elongate so he can adequately graze your papery-thin flesh. You cry out when they slice through, leaving behind thin blood trickles and shallow scratches.

Your blood is laced with fear, blooming on his tongue like an ambrosia of the gods. “You’ve always begged so prettily, my queen. You’re a treasure, and I’m so glad I found you all those years ago, so innocent and unsuspecting—my perfect mate.”

The next scream that leaves your lips is guttural, full of panic and delirium as Yoongi takes his first pull from your body. Thin wisps of black shadow thread from his lips to yours. They pulse with every drag he takes. He’s fed from you thousands of times, but never like this—never so profoundly.

Fear, terror, horror, fright…it’s all the same, and yet Yoongi is almost sure he can taste the distinction. Like a fine wine, you have tasting notes that vary with every sip. By the fifth breath, your body has grown slack, your eyes wide and glassy. Tears still stream down your face but in silence.

Yoongi watches your pallor grow sickly, waxy as sweat pearls along your hairline and temples. Draining you is a delicate affair, something he’s both dreaded and looked forward to for so long. Watching the fire that he loves so much bleed from your eyes and the vigor leech from your skin pangs him with a foreign sensation, something akin to mourning? He realizes now he will mourn the loss of your human form, even if it’s far inferior to what he will turn you into.

With one final shuddering gasp, the darkest, thickest tendril of shadow snakes its way between your parted lips. Your fingers and limbs spasm as the inky darkness roots in deep, tethering itself to you like the strings of a marionette. It pulls tight in Yoongi’s own chest, cementing his essence to yours. As a barbed ring of shadow settles on the ring finger of your left hand, the bond snaps into place, and chaos ensues.

🖤🖤🖤

You’ve never experienced such visceral fear before. It’s consumed every fiber of your being. You’re no longer who you once were and will never be the same again. You are simply fear incarnate.

A boiling starts beneath your skin, beginning at the tips of your fingers and toes before rolling through to the center of your chest, where it pops and sizzles like dry ice in tepid water, so cold it burns.

It’s like flipping a coin. One minute, you are experiencing insurmountable terror, and the next, you exude it. Nothing can scare you now, not even the monster sitting a few feet away watching you with calculated eyes—familiar eyes, eyes you’ve lost yourself in more times than you can count.

They’re not as cold as they were a moment ago. You distinctly remember how those red eyes softened right before you felt yourself float away. It’s Yoongi, you know this, but it’s also not. He’s different, and it’s not even the deformed, gangly shadow form that makes up his body, either. There’s something more, something that draws you in, like an anchor dragging you into his deepest, darkest depths. He’s a vast ocean, and you’re pretty sure what he just did was akin to drowning you—killing you.

Only you don’t feel dead.

Quite the opposite, in fact. For the first time in your existence, you feel truly alive; and not in the living sense but in the eternal sense. You have no ending or beginning; you exist as you will yourself to be.

With that thought, your body urges you to change, to morph into a far more comfortable form. Darkness seeps from your pores, cascading out of your skin until it becomes a mockery of its former self, and it feels good—so good.

“What have you done to me?” Your voice sounds different, soft yet sultry. It reminds you of black silk and lace, devious and coy, with the perfect mix of husk and drawl.

Yoongi lets out a slow breath, the sound like dry leaves crackling. “Made you mine.”

“What…what are we?”

The soft ash sifts between your now exposed toes, the boots you once wore laying in peeled strips along with tattered remnants of your clothes. Nudity has never been an issue for you, but it’s as if you have no inhibitions at all now. The shadows around your body contort to form curves and perfect swells.

“We have many names. Demons, bogeymen…it’s all very fitting, yet doesn’t quite capture the truth. What I am—what we are—is darkness, fear, terror, and shadow. We are infinite, endless, and everything all at once.”

“Why me?” you whisper. That tether inside of you pulses, pulling tight as you shift and try to put distance between yourself and Yoongi. It’s like a rope around your throat, pulling you up short.

Yoongi narrows his eyes, lips quirking in amusement. “This is the Realm of Darkness—my domain,” he gestures broadly with a clawed hand, “and it was all I had access to until I found a way to enter yours. Once I tasted the sweet nectar of fear it provided and the power it allowed me access to, I couldn’t stop my curiosity and need for more. Then I found you, and I knew you would be the perfect compliment to my aspirations, just the thing I needed to break the barriers completely.”

He straightens up, and the way his body catches your attention has a heat flaring somewhere deep in your being. Your eyes lock on the dark sinews and plump muscles that stretch and contract as Yoongi moves to crouch in front of you. The ribbed and notched cock swaying between his thighs dribbles a thick, viscous line of lavender-colored arousal.

Tearing your eyes from the sight of it, you force yourself to look into his feral, red eyes. His explanation is both confusing and clear at the same time. You understand it, but know that you should be railing against it because it’s morally incomprehensible. You’ve essentially been kidnapped and forced into what this is. Yet…yet—“I feel…” you trail off, trying to find the right word to describe it.

“Powerful,” Yoongi offers with a knowing, pointed-tooth grin.

“Powerful,” you repeat, letting the word roll around your tongue before nodding. Perhaps that’s why you are shrugging off your cares and the moral compass that has seemingly forgotten how to point north.

The subtle smell of burnt wood and sulfur hits you as Yoongi raises a hand to fit across the front of your throat. Those too-long fingers engulf it, sending a shiver down your new body. Instead of your belly filling up with fear, it fills with desire and need. You no longer need to battle the terror, letting it drip away from you instead.

“Look at you. You’re so perfect. You don’t feel scared, but that’s only because this realm leeches it away and devours it before it can poison your mind, leaving behind nothing but how you truly feel.”

You know there has always been a darkness inside you, something that even you feared to face head-on. After all, it must take some kind of crazy to be both scared of the dark and want to embrace it. It’s not just the way Yoongi plied your body and made you forget to care about being proper and good. Is this what you were made for—all the fright and terror you’ve experienced and secretly sought out leading you to this very moment here?

All it takes is one look at Yoongi to know the truth.

You were created for this, crafted to be precisely what Yoongi needed, just as he said.

With that moment of clarity and acceptance, a new sensation slithers down your spine. A lasciviousness that has you moaning in surprise. 

“Fuck,” you grind out between clenched teeth.

“Gladly,” Yoongi chuckles, his red eyes taking on a lecherous gleam. “Let’s unleash your darkness on the realms, my queen.”

Between one breath and the next, your knees are splayed wide, and Yoongi has his face buried between your thighs. All it takes is one languid swipe of his long, broad tongue to have you cursing again. Caustic words fall from your mouth, laced with vitriol as it’s unfair how good it feels. It’s like every inch of contact between your body and his writes itself across what was once your soul.

“Mmmph,” you moan incoherently as the beginning of an orgasm lashes against your insides. Yoongi greedily sucks and licks, tongue laving over your throbbing clit before sliding between your contracting walls.

A tsunami of darkness crashes out from within you, blanketing the surrounding forest in shadow. Wisps of clarity ebb and flow, drifting along with the gloom until Yoongi grounds you with an exceptionally sharp pinch to one of your nipples.

“Almost there,” he announces gleefully, licking his lips before launching forward and forcing you onto your back.

Yoongi feels like fire against you, his body scorching everywhere it touches. You expect to feel the soft ash against your back but the only sensation that ebbs in is a cool aeration against the exposed skin between your shoulder blades.

Monstrous arms wrap around you as Yoongi slots his too-big mouth over yours, invading you with his slick, serpentine tongue. Your eyes flutter open, and you catch a glimpse of a pewter sky beyond the scraggy branches that are suddenly closer overhead.

You try to pull away from his devouring kiss to alert him to the jagged web of dry wood about to scrape his back, but he growls and renews his effort to shove his tongue as far into your mouth as possible. Snaps and cracks fill the air, and wood explodes around you.

Realization dawns as more should-be-fear-turned-lust pours through your body and expands beyond it, filling the sky around you with a murky darkness. The power of that emotion propels you further, sending you and Yoongi far above the landscape to suspend over the entirety of the Realm of Darkness, leaving a streamer of smoke-like essence in your wake.

Yoongi throws his head back, finally relenting from the kiss. His broad chest heaves against yours, and his red eyes are wild as they roll manically before landing on you. “How is this possible?” you pant, hands gripping the muscles of his shoulders tightly.

“Anything is possible here,” he whispers fervently before spinning you so fast your vision blurs. The horizon spans as far as you can see around you. You and Yoongi are hundreds of feet higher than even the tallest mountain peak. Everything is a monochrome grey, black, or in-between. A jagged line of mountains rear to your right while inky streams and rivers zig zag to your left. It’s a hideously beautiful display that contradicts all scenic views you’ve ever seen, yet is better than all of them combined.

“Oh, God,” you whimper when Yoongi forces your legs wide and slots his hips between them from behind. Shadows billow around you, charged with energy that crackles and sizzles, barely restrained from being unleashed to wreak untold havoc.

Thin fingers slide around to cup the front of your throat, giving a none too gentle squeeze. Yoongi snarls, “There is no God here. We are the gods!” His declaration is punctuated by the head of his cock prodding against your sopping cunt. This new body is already eager to pleasure Yoongi and receive pleasure in kind.

His hips kick forward, and you feel every delicious ridge and ripple along his thick shaft. It feels like he invades the pit of your stomach, filling you to the brink. It’s a rush of wicked delight, pure erotic rapture.

You moan again, this time invoking the only name left on your tongue, “Yoongi!”

“I’ve been looking forward to fucking you like this for five years,” he grunts, emphasizing the words with his hips pumping against your ass in brutal strokes. “Claiming you wholly, decorating the world with our combined shadows. Look how they writhe for you, waiting for you to command them. Let go.”

Your eyes roll from side to side, taking in the dark, undulating forms stretching wide around you. With each prick of pleasure Yoongi insights in your body, they branch and roil further out, creating the foundation for your own personal bedlam. 

Like a bounty won at the end of a hunt, Yoongi ravishes your body with his. He’s brutal, unrelenting and wanton. The hand on your throat tugs with every slam of his hips, bowing your back and forcing you to peer out at the Kingdom begging for your rule. Darkness beseeches you, screaming for your glory and power as it pours out and blankets the sky.

Your world narrows to one pin point of coherency. Yoongi. He is nothing and everything all at once. He is the beginning and the end—fear, loathing, lust, and madness…through it all, he is infinite. And he’s yours.

With one final, shuddering breath you let go; welcoming the darkness once and for all.

“Yes.” The word, whispered from your parted lips, is sucked away with the maelstrom that detonates around and within you.

You barely hear the guttural, primal roar that emits from Yoongi as he buries himself to the hilt and fills you with his terrible darkness. You shatter into a multitude of shards, a glittering storm that dances through the ether, sparking and catching on the thin membrane that stretches between the realms. All it takes is one weak point, a small breach in the barrier, and everything falls apart.

It’s glorious, feeling yourself everywhere all at once. Your body is still fluttering around Yoongi, sucking and welcoming his release into your soul. But, your consciousness is spread wide, bleeding through the nexus of this realm and the one you once called home.

The mortal realm bows to your will. You can feel the beings of the Realm of Darkness funneling toward the broken gateways, pouring through to consume and conquer with the whisper of your glory on their tongues. Fear reigns supreme, consuming everything in its path as you expand your hold on the darkness.

“My Queen of Darkness,” the ephemeral coo caresses your ear, phantom lips brushing along your shadows. Yoongi’s darkness blends with yours, adding to the pulse that seeps to all corners of existence. “No longer will you fear, as you are fear itself…glorious, neverending fear.”

The doors of the elevator screech shut, the sound doing nothing to drown out the pounding of your heart. The soft tiny plops of raindrops echo on the grey floor, falling from Hoseok’s hair as he freezes at the sound of your voice.

You suck in a breath, lungs desperately searching for air, unable to squeak out anything beyond his name. Brows furrowing, you check him for any signs of injury, relieved when you find nothing but his blank eyes blinking back at you. You didn’t have to ask him where he’d been tonight. Both of you already knew.

It infuriates you that even after everything, after all this time, he still manages to have this effect on you. You hate how you can’t take your eyes off the lean curve of his neck, or the tiny mole above his heart-shaped smile.

A chill runs down your spine, despite having never stepped foot out in the rain. 

“Why are you…” your throat feels heavy, struggling to get the words out, to ask him why he ended up here of all places. Especially when you made it clear you never wanted to see him again after the last time.

“Choi’s men were tailing me, I had to get them off my back,” he barks, immediately regretting his harsh tone when he looks into your weary eyes, on the verge of tears.

“I’m sorry,” he adds on, more gently this time. “If I’d have known, I would never…”

Never what? Never managed to infiltrate the one place you thought you could be free of him, from the past the two of you shared?

Your shoulders slump against the panel, and you realize you’d never pressed the button to go up, too consumed by his presence. Finally managing to muster up the focus, you turn away, hearing the elevator creak to life.

“You’re always sorry. How can I be sure that this time, you mean it?”

Hoseok is annoyed. First of all, this damn elevator is taking nearly too long to go anywhere, and he longs for escape from this metallic box that’s imprisoning you both. Second of all, your words cut at him, sharper than any knife and hotter than any bullet any of Choi’s men could have sent his way tonight.

As far as he remembers, you’d been the one to end it. You’d been the one to walk away from your arrangement.

He doesn’t know why he grits his teeth, biting down to combat the throbbing pain in his temples. You were supposed to be gone, your goodbye delivered in the same way the designer bags and packages piled up at your doorstep - neat, polished, shallow, the ties that had brought you together unraveling before they’d even had a chance to be joined properly. 

Unfinished business. That’s what you were. And Hoseok hated unfinished business. But somehow, he’d never managed to hate you. You’d never given him a fair chance.

. . .

Hoseok shrugged the wife beater over his head with a grunt, immediately turning around to see if he’d woken up his sleeping companion, but she remained unfazed, her soft snores echoing into the pillow. 

He lets his eyes linger over her body appreciatively one last time before he slips on his leather jacket and is out the door. For a brief moment, his hand twitches, yearning to reach into his pocket and call Namjoon for old times’ sake, detailing every last detail of his lascivious romp. The thought is abandoned immediately, Hoseok’s mood souring at the thought of his former best friend. Namjoon had no trouble leaving all of them behind, so why should he even bother? Instead, he reaches into his other pocket, his frenzied emotions finally calming down when he pulls out the lighter. Ducking under an awning, he checks his surroundings for anything suspicious before affirming that the coast is clear, lighting up and taking a drag. The smoke drifts away on the nighttime breeze, and Hoseok follows, roaming the city streets. 

It’s lonely at this hour, not another soul in sight, but Hoseok prefers it that way. Gone are the days when he and his friends would run through the city, stealing cars and honking horns at everyone for fun. Now, shit had hit the fan big time, and there was no room for fun anymore. With Namjoon gone, Hoseok, along with Seokjin and Yoongi, had been sucked into the tangled web of duties he’d left behind, each stepping up in their own way.

Holding a gun in his hands for the first time had been a sobering experience for Hoseok. It rattled him that if he pressed down on the trigger, so many things could change in a split second. He’d heard the higher-ups in the organization rave with glee about how much fun it was putting the city’s other families in line, Namjoon’s father at the head of them. And for a brief moment, Hoseok understood what it was that Namjoon had run away from. That didn’t mean he wasn’t still pissed off about it though. 

His lips turn up in a smile when he takes in the graffiti on the building in front of him, thinking back to his younger, more rebellious self, before faltering. Someone else was there. 

He wonders if you’re cold, the thin satin gown doing nothing to protect you from the chill, and he wants to laugh at the contrast between his well-worn leather jacket and the jewels dripping from your ears. They must cost a few thousands of dollars, money he’d never had in his pocket. His eyes scan around for someone, anyone – a boyfriend, or a husband maybe. But you’re alone.

Nobility has never been Hoseok’s forte - Namjoon and Seokjin had always been the womanizers, and poor Yoongi had been in love with the same woman for over ten years, but he clears his throat, prompting you to turn around, eyes widening at your company.

If he catches a glimpse of unshed tears in your eyes, he doesn’t say anything. 

“Kids these days, huh? They’ll do anything to cause a little chaos,” he quips, a sinking feeling building up in his chest when you don’t respond.

“Ma’am,” he grapples with whether he should ask for your name, “do you need me to walk you home?”

“Did you read it?” your voice is quieter than he expects, yet he draws closer, wanting to hear more of it. Coming to stand beside you, he takes in the captivating features of your face, made all the more alluring by the shadows cast across them.

Following your gaze, he looks at the mural on the wall. A giant wave, Hosukai-style, crashing into a set of words. “After me, the flood,” your voice whispers, and Hoseok feels a rush of emotion at the way you say it, his mind circling back to everything that had happened in the past few years - the dark cloud that had settled over all their lives with Namjoon leaving, the city’s underbelly coming to life, crawling out of the woodwork. 

“I have to go,” you interrupt him, heels clacking against the pavement, before Hoseok’s gaze turns sharply on you, the desperation in his eyes begging you not to go. Come sunrise, he’d be forced back into the same grim routine, but right now, it felt nice, standing here with you.

“Will you be okay getting home alone?” he asks, grappling for any chance to prolong the moment.

“My driver is around the corner,” you tell him. “Thank you for keeping me company, –”

“Hoseok,” he fills you in, his chest aching with the desire to ask for your own name, but you’re already gone.

. . .

Hoseok wakes up the next morning to the rattling of the blinds, the sunlight causing him to immediately shut his eyes and bite back a groan. There was only one person who’d have access to his apartment at this hour – and exploit it.

“Eomma?” he rasps, burrowing his head further into the sheets. “What are you doing here?”

“Did you forget Hoseok-ah? Hurry up and get dressed, everyone’s waiting! You have five minutes.”

Forget what? His mother’s fussing continues in the background as she leafs through his closet, no doubt trying to find him a suitable outfit amongst the many pairs of ripped denim and oversized shirts he prefers on a day-to-day basis. Hoseok wracks his brain, trying to remember what could have called for such an occasion, but comes up empty, his mother’s stern warning echoing in his ears. 

As per usual, if it had anything to do with the organization, he’d do best not to ignore it.

Slipping on the stark white shirt and tie she’d chosen, the fabric itches against his skin, and he rakes his fingers through his hair, attempting to comb the mess into something somewhat presentable. He’s sure there was little to be done about the bags under his eyes, and the faint smell of tobacco emanating from him, and hoped that whoever these important guests were, they wouldn’t catch onto his late-night activities from the previous day. 

Stumbling into the hallway, Hoseok hears the faint chatter of voices, his father’s bellowing laugh a stark contrast to his mother’s delicate titter, and is immediately confused. Conversations with the bosses of the organization weren’t usually so… enthusiastic. 

When he rounds the corner to his living room, he stops in his tracks. Sitting next to his mother and father is another older couple he doesn’t recognize. They reek of wealth that his family could never even imagine, he notes, the polished Italian leather of the man’s shoes and the older woman’s massive diamond ring speaking for themselves. But he could honestly care less. Because to their left side, sitting on his favorite armchair, is you. The woman from in front of the mural. You’re clad in a simple sundress today, but you still manage to be nothing short of breathtaking against the backdrop of the sun’s rays. 

“There you are, Hoseok!” his father beckons him over jovially, but Hoseok remains frozen. “This is Mr. and Mrs. ____, and their daughter ____.”

Hoseok’s turns his gaze to his father, watching him recoil at the sharpness present in his son’s expression, a thousand unspoken questions lingering on his lips as to why these people were here, what purpose they had in his home, his space.

“We’d like for the two of you to get to know each other,” your mother speaks up with a smile so wide, he’d assume it’d been plastered onto her face. 

“Why?” he finally manages to whistle out in between grit teeth, looking only at you. But you don’t meet his eyes. Instead, your gaze is looking out his window, at the city beyond, the same loneliness from last night ever present in your eyes. 

“Because,” his father continues uncertainly, fidgeting the glass of wine in his hands, “___ is going to be your wife.”

You can feel Hoseok’s eyes glaring into the back of your head as he follows you wordlessly down the hallway. Moments pass before you come to a stop outside your apartment, and you hear the faint stumble of Hoseok’s boots as he stops unexpectedly in his tracks. His warm breath fans against the back of your neck for a brief moment before he straightens with a grunt, and you resist the urge to shiver, despite having never stepped foot into the rain.

The lock clicks, and he follows you inside. You can hear him rustle behind you as he struggles to remove his coat and boots, but you look straight ahead, hoping the darkness can hide how your fingernails are digging into your palm. 

“I won’t stay long,” his low voice breaks the silence. “Just until the storm passes.”

“Please,” you manage to muster up your most polite sounding voice. “Have a seat. I can get you something, maybe some water, o-or a cup of tea…” 

You want to curse your voice for wobbling in his presence, hating the way he still affected you even after all this time apart. Your brain bades you to walk away instinctively, and so you pad into the kitchen, wanting to put distance in between you and Hoseok so he can’t hear the rapid fluttering of your heart. The noise pounds in your ears as you rattle around in the cupboards, cursing when you realized you’d forgotten to turn on the light. It seemed embarrassing to do it now, and so you reach aimlessly, looking for some coffee. 

The pot bubbles, and in mere moments, you’re clutching two steaming mugs, finding your way back onto the living room. Hoseok has settled himself onto your couch, taking extra care not to rest his soaked shirt against the back of it, instead hunched over and dangling an unlit cigarette from his fingertips.

“Sorry, I didn’t know if you’d be okay with me…” he gestures to it, twirling it around in his fingers. “I know you don’t like the smell.”

You’re unsure whether to be touched that he remembers, or uneasy at the way he says it so monotonously, as if you’d still judge him for something so mundane when so much else had happened in between you.

“Here,” you set down the coffee in front of him, taking the seat directly opposite. “It’ll help take the edge off.”

The warm liquid burns your throat as you rush to take a sip, and you nearly sputter trying to keep it down. Over the rim of your cup, Hoseok remains frozen, his own mug steaming and untouched. His dark eyes bore into you, studying your face, and you feel your cheeks begin to burn.

If he notices the bags under your eyes, he says nothing. The same way he says nothing when he probably remarks at your simplistic clothes and lack of jewelry, a far cry from the expensive dresses and diamonds he’d been used to seeing you in. 

“Were you about to go out?” Hoseok asks, and the question catches you off guard. “I’m sorry if I stopped you from going somewhere.”

“Or meeting someone.” The last part is a hushed whisper, mumbled underneath his breath, in the hopes that you wouldn’t catch him. But you had. You wish he’d stop apologizing. It makes you feel guilty when you shouldn’t be, like he’s trying and you’re shutting him out, when in reality it’d been the exact opposite. 

All of a sudden, your phone buzzes to life, a text message lighting up the screen. You freeze when you see who it’s from, quickly snatching your phone and cursing in your head. Minghao was a friend of a friend, the two of you running into each other a number of times over the past couple of weeks, before he’d finally plucked up the courage to ask you for a coffee date.

You’d told him you’d think about it, and now here he was, lighting up your phone to ask you about your decision. Of course, how was he supposed to know that the reason you’d been holding off was the very man sitting in your living room, whom you’d almost married, and still couldn’t seem to let go?

Clutching your phone to your chest, you turn it to silent, setting it down beside you. Hoseok’s eyes are alight with curiosity, his lips turned up in a faint smirk, as though he’s remembering his statement from earlier. 

You take another sip, willing the caffeine to give you some strength, to rein in the bare threads of this conversation back to your control.

“How are your parents?”

Hoseok is taken aback by the question. He hadn’t expected it from you. There had once been a time where you’d been bright eyed and eager, wanting to know everything about him, bombarding him with question after question every time you were together. And yet somehow, he’d never managed to give you the time of day, always giving brusque answers and half-hearted excuses that there were other things that needed his attention.

He knew it was just a poor attempt to fill the silence, but his heart lurches at the thought that there’s so much you don’t know anymore. Namjoon coming back, Seokjin running away, the life that Hoseok knew being turned inside out. What’s more unsettling is the fact that he yearns to tell you, despite knowing he’d lost the privilege to do so.

“They’re okay. Doing well,” he lies through his teeth. “We all are. How about yours?”

He thinks it’s an innocent question, but he watches your fingers blanch as you grip the mug so tight, he thinks it’ll break. 

“I wouldn’t know,” you whisper out softly, and his heart stops. “I haven’t spoken to them since– you know.”

Hoseok feels dizzy at your confession. What do you mean you hadn’t spoken to them? Suddenly, it all begins to make sense in his head. The fact that he hadn’t expected to run into you tonight, because he hadn’t expected you to live alone, with your austere clothes and hair tossed up into a messy bun. It was so different from the woman he’d known, the dazzling one he’d written off as hollow in his mind, the one he was incapable of forming a real relationship with. 

And here you were, living the exact opposite of the cozy life he’d painted for you in his head. He thought you’d be fine, that you’d move on, your family offering you up to the next prospect that came along. And you’d accept them, like you’d accepted Hoseok with all his flaws, not caring that he could barely give you what you deserved.

His thoughts flash back to the last conversation you had, tears streaming down your face as you sobbed.

I can’t live like this anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, and he watches annoyance flash across your face. He knows he’s done nothing but apologize this entire time, but it probably isn’t even worth a damn. No consolation would ever make up for losing someone that meant everything to you. He’d known that when Namjoon had run away.

“Hey,” you set the mug down, leaning over the table. For a brief second, he sees your hand reach out blindly in the darkness, almost as if it’s searching for his, but you withdraw just as quickly. “I’m okay. I really am.”

“I wish you’d stop pretending,” Hoseok blurts out, and he watches you jolt in surprise. “Why do you always have to pretend like everything’s okay, like nothing affects you? Is it the society training? Or do you really just not care about what happened at all?”

You chew the inside of your cheek, mulling over Hoseok’s words in your head.

“The same way you can pull the trigger on someone and be able to lie in your bed and fall asleep,” you seethe, a venom that Hoseok has never heard in your voice. 

“I knew who you were Hoseok. I knew what kind of man I was marrying. You think it didn’t affect me? You think I wasn’t scared out of my wits because of what you did, what other people could do to you?” 

You rise up, palms quivering as you open and close them, strolling over to the window. Hoseok watches your shoulders shake before they slump completely, and he knows that you’re crying.

He’s up before he can stop himself, feet ready to walk out the door. He’d fucked up the moment he’d stayed in the elevator with you, all the ugly feelings between you coming to a head, ones he’d struggled so hard to keep buried. 

But his body betrays him, instead leading him right behind. He pauses until he’s just close enough that if he reaches out, he’d be able to grab your arm and turn you around to face him. But he waits instead.

“I did what I did because I realized I was chasing a ghost,” you huff out, resignation in your tone. “I wanted you to be someone you weren’t. I wanted you to care so badly. But you didn’t. I don’t want any part in whatever you’re caught up in, Hoseok. Whatever has a hold on you so badly that you couldn’t even look beyond your cynicism to give me a chance.”

“I just want to survive.”

Hoseok grips the bathroom sink, knuckles turning white. His cell phone clatters on the counter beside him and he has to keep from heaving. This whole thing was a mess – no one had counted on Namjoon coming back. Even less so on him refusing to take up his father’s mantle. And so the threats continued – the words from the anonymous phone call still ringing in his ear, your name echoing across the line.

While he didn’t know what he felt for you, or whether he could even marry you, Hoseok knew you were an innocent person. You didn’t deserve to be the victim of your parents’ greed, them using you to bury their secrets in the hands of even more powerful people. You deserved gardens full of flowers and meals together every night, not coming home to an empty bed. Or a fiancé who couldn’t spare a moment during the entire night to even dance with you. 

He’s so lost in his brooding that he doesn’t hear the door the click behind him, the soft tapping of heels on the floor coming up behind him. 

“Is something wrong?” you ask him gently, and he feels the bristle of your hand on his jacket. 

So much was wrong. You couldn’t even begin to understand. 

“It’s fine,” he clears his throat, straightening up to adjust his jacket. “I’ll need to leave soon. I can have the car stay behind for you.”

The farther away he got from you, the better. That way no one could hurt you – or him. 

“I can go with you,” your voice echoes from beside him, “I was getting tired anyway.”

Hoseok turns to face you, watching you recoil at the red rimming his eyes, the bags underneath them becoming even more prominent in the dim lighting of the bathroom.

He doesn’t know what possesses him to reach for the single strand of hair that has managed to escape your polished bun, but he watches you suck in a breath, lips parting in surprise.

Before he knows it, your face is drawing in closer, and he can smell the rosé on your breath. Your lips barely ghost against his, and he has to fight every nerve ending not to grab your hand and run away from here, somewhere where he wasn’t Hoseok, and you weren’t ____, and you didn’t need protecting from everything around you – most of all him. 

His paralysis slowly melts away and he’s pushing you away without realizing, the door to the bathroom suddenly materialising in front of him. 

“Like I said,” he doesn’t bother turning around, knowing his heart would twist at whatever expression he found on your face. “I’ll have the car stay behind for you.”

Before you can wrestle with the weight of your confession to Hoseok, a hand is clamping over your mouth. Caught in a silent scream, you turn your eyes to see Hoseok lifting a finger to his lips, willing you to stay quiet. And that’s when you hear them. The voices.

Raucous laughter echoes through the hallway, tinged with malevolent glee. The air around you feels cold, a breeze at the base of your spine, and you instinctively curl into Hoseok.

“Come out, come out,” the disembodied voice cackles from the hallway. “Are you hiding from us, Jung? Found some poor rich girl to use as a body shield?”

Your hand seizes Hoseok’s wrist clamped against your mouth, nails digging into his arm, the fear taking over. Slowly, his wrist lowers, slipping to take your hand in his, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“I won’t let anything happen to you. Do you trust me?” 

He’s so quiet you almost can’t tell he’s said it at all. You nod reluctantly, eyes continuing to dart to the door.

“Go hide underneath the bed. Lock the door. I may or may not come back but please stay inside. Don’t come looking for me.”

His voice is clipped, the faint hint of nerves colouring his tone, but his eyes are filled with a resoluteness you know all too well. You’d spent the better part of over a year staring into them, hoping they’d look back. And now they finally were. 

“Be safe.” Your voice comes out louder than you’d intended, but there’s no anger in Hoseok’s expression. All he does is nod, and then you turn, stumbling down the hallway to your room, never bothering to look back until you hear the door click behind you.

. . .

Hoseok’s heart pounds in his chest, a strange pain settling in his ribs – he never expected to be in this position again. His sense of duty had always been his biggest downfall – and while you were no longer his, he owed it to you to make sure he gave you exactly what you’d asked him for – the chance to survive, to come out on the other side of this. That’s why he had to settle this once and for all.

Choi’s cronies linger at the other end of the hallway, too dumb to notice Hoseok slipping out of your door, reaching for the revolver he’d kept hidden in his coat pocket. A chill settles in his bones as he runs his fingers over the metal.

The brief events of the night play over in his head – the rain pounding against the pavement, the ding of the elevator, the now-cold mug of coffee that sat on your coffee table. And then there was you – your eyes, the softness of your skin, the faint smell of gardenias that lingered on your skin.

And it hits Hoseok that while he was very much alive – he’d been in mourning. Mourning for the friendships he’d never be able to recover, for the youth that had been taken away from him. But most of all, Hoseok’s heart mourns for the relationship he’d never gotten to have with you. The glass walls he’d so carefully put up around himself shatter, making way for a torrential deluge. 

After me, the flood.

He remembers the first night you’d met, how he’d been drawn to you without even trying, the portrait of the wave. He remembers the months that passed afterwards, where you drew closer to him and he drew back. He remembers the regret he’d buried deep in his heart for not kissing you back the night of the gala, not knowing he’d never get another chance.

But most of all, he remembers the somber expression on your face the day you’d ended things, pressing the engagement ring back into his hands, the very same ring that was still sitting in the first drawer of his nightstand. 

Choi’s men finally perk up, noticing Hoseok’s solitary figure lingering at the end of the hallway, smirks twisting on their grotesque faces. A shot rings out, and Hoseok thinks of you now, hiding under your bed. And then he charges.

The alleyway was grim at this time of day, the sunlight barely able to reach beyond the towering skyscrapers, the clouds casting everything in grey. Rain fell softly from the sky. You clutch your coat tighter around you, unable to stop looking at the mural of the wave.

So much had changed since you’d first seen it. And yet it was still the same.

You know Hoseok from the thud of his boots against the pavement, coming up beside you. His head turns, an eyebrow raised in your direction, wondering why you’d asked to meet him here of all places.

You avoid his eyes, fingers clasping around the blue velvet in your pocket. His eyes widen with surprise when he sees the box, confusion marring his handsome face. 

A knot forms in your chest when you watch the confusion turn into alarm as you press the box into his hand, the dazzling diamond no longer on your left finger.

“I don’t understand,” he grunts, breath visible in the cold air.

“We can’t do this anymore, Hoseok. I can’t do this. I can’t live like this.”

“Was it something that I did?” he questions you, desperation creeping into his voice.

You scoff, watching him flinch, pain on his face. 

“No, it’s the opposite. It’s what you haven’t ever been able to do. It’s been an entire year, Hoseok. I’ve watched you answer every phone call that comes your way, disappear into the night to do god knows what, run whenever your friends call. And in that entire time, have you ever thought about us? About the future?”

You take a deep breath.

“I know that neither of us chose this, but Hoseok, we were engaged. Did that mean anything to you?”

He squares his shoulders, fists clenching at his sides, a tick in his jaw.

“You don’t understand. I-I’m not good for you, ___. I dont think I’ll ever be. There’s too much that’s happened, too much I’ve lost. But please don’t walk away like this.

“I thought it’d be enough,” you whisper, and Hoseok freezes. You didn’t know he’d heard you.

“I thought me loving you would be enough for the both of us. But it’s not. I need more. I need someone who I know will come home to me every night. But what I need even more than that, is for you to let me walk away so I can breathe again. So I can be myself.”

Your eyes are just as sad as the first time Hoseok saw them, and all of a sudden, you remark at how stagnant the two of you had been together.

“Hoseok please, I know I can’t ask you to do it if you love me, but if you’ve ever cared about me, even the tiniest bit, let me go.”

You watch him open the box, gazing at the ring. Moments pass by before he slips it into his own pocket, his eyes flitting to the wave as he gives you a small smile, the most genuine one you’d ever seen.

“Goodbye, ____. 

Hoseok’s fist rattles against the door, before he slumps over, heaving for breath. The pain in his side licks at him like the flames of a fire. He hisses when he presses a hand to it, eyes widening when it comes away covered in blood. Those fuckers had managed to get him. Shit.

His eyes are about to close when the door springs open, the wide eyes of Kim Namjoon taking in his battered figure. 

“Hobi, what the fuck?” Namjoon seethes, offering him an arm and pulling him inside. Slinging an arm around Hoseok’s shoulder, the two of them hobble to Namjoon’s kitchen, the burning in Hoseok chest causing him to let out a loud groan.

“Hyun is sleeping,” Namjoon chastises him, and Hoseok bites his tongue, remembering that this Namjoon was dealing with a pregnant wife and a toddler. “You gonna tell me what the hell happened, or do I have to force it out of you?”

“I made a mistake, Namjoon. I went somewhere I shouldn’t have tonight. I fucked up, but I-I didn’t mean to I swear…”

Hoseok feels himself shake as the words pour out, the ruined mission the furthest thing from his mind. He tells Namjoon everything – from being tailed to running into to you, to how he’d left, not knowing whether you were okay or not. 

“That was a dick move,” Namjoon huffs.

“Excuse me?” Hoseok looks up at his best friend, who looks more pissed off than he’s ever seen him. 

“I said what I said. That was a dick move, just leaving her like that.”

“I don’t need a lecture on running away from you, Namjoon-ah.”

Namjoon wipes away the blood on his side, and Hoseok bites his tongue at the sting of the alcohol, before slumping into the chair next to him. 

“You’re an idiot, Jung Hoseok. You’ve been so afraid of letting yourself feel things for so long, and I know it’s because you think that everyone around you is going to leave, or that you’ll lose them. But I’m telling you right now, that’s the stupidest thing you could ever do.”

“You have to let yourself just be, Hobi. Just let go. Enjoy things - life, your friends, your family. Be open to the possibility of love. It’s the only thing that can keep the darkness away.”

Namjoon’s voice shrinks when he says the last line, and Hoseok knows his friend is far off in his own mind, battling the demons that plague him. 

“I think I’m too far gone for that, Namjoon,” Hoseok tells him. “Maybe some of us weren’t meant for happiness. Maybe some of us needed to make sacrifices so others could live the lives they wanted to.”

“That’s a damn lie if I’ve ever heard one, Hoseok.” Namjoon striaghtens, rising up from the chair. “I know you’ve been angry at me for leaving, for keeping you all in the dark. I know how much it hurts to not be able to share your happiest moments with people you love. And I’m sorry for that. But you have a chance to change things.”

“Listen Hobi,” Namjoon crouches down to his level. “I want to be the best man at your wedding – I want to be there for you in all the ways you didn’t get to do for me. This is my way of making amends, but you need to fix whatever this is between you two.”

“What makes you think she’ll even take me back? I was awful to her… god, she didn’t deserve that Joon. She deserves so much better.”

“Do you love her?” Namjoon asks him, and Hoseok is shocked when he doesn’t even have to pause to think about it. He wants to start over, to be by your side, to have a chance to love you properly this time around. 

“Second chances come when you least expect them, Hobi. Think about what would have happened if you hadn’t stepped out into the rain last night. And don’t let it happen again.”

The knock at the door startles you, your phone clattering to the floor. Swearing under your breath, you pick it up, perusing the message from Minghao once again. He was nothing if not persistent. And Hoseok was never coming back. You’d convinced yourself of that.

It’d been over a week since he’d left you that night - the promise to keep you safe burrowing its way into your heart. And then radio silence. You’d heard the gunshots in the hallway, but when you’d opened the door, no one was there, the only evidence of the showdown being the faint splatters of blood on the wall. When the police had questioned you, you’d left Hoseok’s name out of it – those words echoing in your mind, instilling a false sense of loyalty in you.

Why did you think things would be different this time around? It’d been foolish to assume that Hoseok thought anything more of you. But you couldn’t forget the look in his eyes, the gentle touches, the way he’d promise he would never let anything happen to you, and you fell for him all over again.

Throwing your phone aside, you grumble as you make your way to the door, making a mental note to respond to Minghao later, agreeing to the date.

Swinging it open, you freeze when you see who’s on the other end. Hoseok, looking worse for wear with bruises on his jaw and a nasty cut on his forehead, nervously twirling a tiny bouquet of flowers in his hand.

You’re dumbfounded - unable to speak as you take him in, his dark, inquisitive eyes gazing into your shocked ones. 

“You better let me in, ____,” he says with a grin. “Or the neighbours are gonna think I did something really bad this time.”

Wordlessly, you open the door to allow him to enter, watching as he slips off his coat and shoes, an exact repeat of a week ago. You watch him, trying to open your mouth and say something, ask him anything, but nothing will come out. 

“These are for you,” Hoseok nearly shoves the bouquet in your hands and you watch him rub at the back of his neck, his ears reddening.

“Are you okay Hoseok?” you finally manage to ask him, setting the flowers on your coffee table. Your concern wins out over your confusion once again, but the whole scene is odd – him, smiling in your apartment, the late afternoon sunlight casting half his angular face in a mysterious shadow.

“Just a little nick to my side,” he lifts his shirt up, your eyes widening at the bandages on his abdomen. “But actually, I’m not okay. I haven’t been okay since the day I let you walk away, and I can’t live with it anymore.”

You take a step back, unable to breathe. The space in between you seems to have lessened considerably, and you can make out every delicate detail of his face. Dizzy, you put some distance in between the two of you.

“Everything hurts, ___. It hurts because I look at you and I feel like I can’t breathe anymore, knowing how much pain I put you through. It hurts knowing that you’re so kind, so understanding of someone like me, when I don’t deserve it at all. And what hurts the most is knowing that I love you, and I’ve been lying to myself this entire time because I’m afraid you’ll leave just like everyone else, but I lost you anyway.”

Hoseok’s voice cracks on the last words, and you watch him sway, gripping onto your counter for support.

“I thought it was just me this entire time,” you finally manage to look him in the eyes, tears spilling out of your own. “I thought I was crazy, because ever since you walked out that door a week ago, all I’ve been doing is waiting for you to come back.”

“I’m here,” Hoseok closes the gap between you, arms wrapping around you. You breathe in the faint scent of tobacco on his leather jacket, mixed with the spice of his cologne. “And I’m not leaving. Not this time.”

You grip his lapels, before your arms come up to wrap around his neck, running your fingers through the soft hair at his nape. 

“What if it’s not different this time around?” you whisper into his neck. “What if nothing changes?”

“What if it is?” his low voice rumbles into your hair. “Can you trust me, ___? One more time?”

You take his hand in yours, bringing it to your chest, his lips parting in awe at the fluttering of your heartbeat.

“Only you can do that to me,” you say softly, a smile gracing your lips. 

Before you know it, Hoseok’s lips are crashing against yours, and you can feel him release a euphoric sigh, groaning into your mouth. It’s slow, tentative in the way he waits for your body to respond, never pushing more than you’re comfortable with. Eventually, even the small bit of distance in between you becomes too much to bear. You card your fingers into his hair, pulling slightly at the strands, warmth blossoming in your chest.

It feels too short when he pulls away all too soon, lips tinged with red and eyes dark with something that sends a shiver down your spine.

“I’ve wanted to do that ever since the night of the gala,” he rasps, warmth blooming in your chest at his confession. “You were—, I mean you still are, breathtaking.”

You can feel the rapid beat of his heart, his pulse point right there below your fingertips, and you reach for his hand, watching his entire body soften at your touch. 

“Come with me,” you ask him, eyes turning down the hallway to your bedroom. “We have a lot of lost time to make up for. 

Hoseok tries to ignore the rapid rushing of blood in his ears, his focus narrowing to your head resting on his shoulder, the two of you looking out at the city together for the last little while from your bed. It’s somewhere he never imagined he’d be, but he’d felt the ice around his heart melt the moment he’d finally kissed you for real, warmth filling his veins.

And despite relishing in your presence, it was spiking to a fever pitch. He’d tasted you, and now he couldn’t get enough. All it takes is a brief moment for you to look in his eyes, and he’s pulling you into him once again, mouth hard on yours, unable to resist the desire for more, more, more. 

You whine into his mouth, hands fisting at the edge of his shirt, struggling to pull it over his head. He uses one hand to pin both arms behind you, reaching over with the other to hike your dress up to your stomach, finally peeling it off, and you lie back, eyes alight with desire as you take him in. 

He kisses you again, his lean body hovering over yours, hands roaming everywhere – your arms, up your neck, and on your thighs. He inches higher and higher, fingers ghosting over your core.

“Hoseok please,” you whimper, digging your nails into his shoulder blades. “I can’t wait anymore.”

You part your thighs for him, and he wastes no time, pulling your soaked underwear to the side and dipping his fingers into your arousal. He presses another hard kiss to your lips, catching your moans in his mouth while he works you open, leaving you trembling underneath him.

You whine when his fingers leave you, clenching around nothing, coming up to cup your exposed breasts in both hands while he licks and sucks at your nipples.

“Fuck,” he groans against your chest. “How are you so perfect? How are you even mine?”

His voice breaks, and you mouth at his jaw, mirroring his actions until purple bruises begin to bloom in the spots where your lips previously were.

“I’m yours,” you nip at his bottom lip. “Whether you like it or not.”

“Believe me,” he smirks. “I like it. I like it a lot actually. Let me show you how much.”

With adept skill, he manages to remove your panties in seconds, throwing them to the wall. The clinking sound of his belt drives you mad, and your hands join his, the two of you awkwardly fumbling to remove it.

You feel your mouth go dry when his cock springs free, and he chuckles at the depraved look in your eyes.

“Some other time, love,” he whispers, voice lowering a few octaves. “Right now, I need to feel you.”

You gasp when he pushes in, and he pauses, wondering if it’s too much, but you nod, letting him know it’s okay. He thrusts shallowly, before pushing in all the way, watching you squirm underneath him while rutting your hips.

“Move, please,” you beg him, and he obliges, hiking one leg up over his shoulder to open you up for him, the wet sounds of your pussy accompanying the fluid snap of his hips. His knuckles grip the headboard, turning white while he pins you underneath him, unable to take his eyes off the way your tits bounce with every thrust. His hands grip at your ass, every jerk of his hips an excuse to hold you tighter, until he can see your skin redden underneath his fingers. 

“Oh my god, Hoseok, I can’t–, it’s too much,” you groan, rocking against him in an attempt to quell the sparks underneath your skin, lighting you up like a livewire.

“Come for me,” he grunts, trapping your clit in between his fingers, rubbing tight circles until you snap, seeking his lips once again, your orgasm flooding your entire body like a wave. Hoseok speeds up his thrusts to join you, roaring when he feels himself explode, before slumping against you, chest heaving with the weight of his breaths. 

Moments pass like this, him remaining inside you while he burrows into the crook of your neck, his warm breath fanning your damp skin. Eventually he pulls out of you with a soft whine, brushing away the sweat-soaked strands of hair at your temple, before rising. 

You trap his wrist in your hand, panic settling in. He watches your expression change and immediately stiffens, cradling you against his chest.

“That expression you always talk about, the flood. I-, I looked it up. And I know the life I have isn’t ideal, and maybe things will only get harder, but I promise I will do everything in my power to keep you safe. I don’t want to live out the rest of my life not caring anymore.”

“Do you know what I was thinking of that night, looking at the wave?” you mumble in his ear, and he gazes at you inquisitively, watching the way your skin glows under the moonlight as you take a breath.

“My whole life, people have forced me into this box, this image, of someone they want me to be – the perfect daughter, the perfect wife. It’s been suffocating. All I wanted that night was a taste of freedom - that feeling of happiness you have on a beach, feeling the waves crash at your feet. And then I saw you.”

Hoseok leaves a kiss in your hair, his fingers intertwining with yours. Briefly, his heart drops at the absence of the ring he’d given you on your finger, but he knows when you’re ready, it’ll be waiting for you. He’ll be waiting for you. And the two of you will step into the flood, together. 

a/n pt. 2:  Okay long ending note here. First, please visualize this Hoseok with the undercut ;) Second, I don't normally say this but the writer's block really got me good with this one, so I apologize if it's not up to my usual standards (pls be kind tho). And third and last, this fic definitely would never exist if it weren't for the wonderful Guarded series by Ana (@xjoonchildx). I think about it more than is necessary and this is definitely my tribute to the impeccable Captain Jung.

As always, any comments or feedback are much appreciated, but I appreciate you all anyway. Lots of love, Isi <3

also tagging many people who brought joy and love to 2023 and i want to thank them for whether they liked, reblogged, sent me an ask, or left sweet tags on my creations. i wouldn't be here still creating content if it wasn't for you guys. i purple you all!

@itsallaboutzayn @jinstronaut @jung-koook @kth1 @flowerrworks @cordiallyfuturedwight @moccahobi @jiniekook @yooboobies @anpanmann @kimtaegis @sopekooks @userhobi @bisexualrapline @kithtaehyung @sugajimin @namchyoon @everkook @vminsos @jkvjimin @raplinenthusiasts @iron-bubble @btscontentenjoyer @jimimn @sunshinebarbie @owenpower @flwrkve @rjshope @thornedswan @sampleofmypasta @star-my @sopefactory

these are just some people, but of course if you see this, you are very appreciated and loved!!