Yoongi

The Seoul sky had been overcast since morning, as if it shared the weight pressing down on Min Yoongi’s mood—heavy even before he opened his eyes. His apartment was tidy, too tidy for someone who was falling apart inside. The curtains were half-closed, gray light slipping in uninvited, and he sat silently on the sofa with a hoodie covering part of his face, staring blankly at the floor as if searching for something he didn’t even know himself.

Since that incident, everything felt different. Not just the news, not just the way people looked at him, but the way he saw himself. Quietly, that was what hurt the most.

His mother couldn’t stand seeing him like that.

And that’s where you came in.

On the first day you arrived, you didn’t bring much. Just a simple bag, a folded apron, and a list of ingredients you had prepared from home. You didn’t knock too loudly, just enough to let him know you were there. A few seconds of silence passed, then the door opened.

Yoongi stood there, his face blank, his eyes tired.

“What is this now?” His voice was cold, no small talk.

“You can call me Y/N,” you replied calmly. “Your mother asked me to help out around the house.”

His brows immediately furrowed. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“You’re not a baby either,” you answered without emotion, taking off your shoes and stepping inside as if it were the most normal thing in the world. “I’m being paid to work. So I’ll keep working.”

He let out a rough sigh, clearly annoyed. “My parents are really too much.”

“You can complain to them later,” you said shortly as you walked to the kitchen. “Right now I’m going to start cooking.”

The way you spoke wasn’t challenging, but it wasn’t submissive either. Neutral. Professional. That was exactly what made Yoongi even more uncomfortable.

The first day passed in a strange silence. You cooked without much noise, just the soft clinking of kitchen tools and the warm aroma of food slowly filling the room. You didn’t force him to eat, only placed the food on the table and said, “If you’re hungry, it’s there.”

He didn’t touch it until night.

On the second day, you came again. On time. As if nothing had happened yesterday. You started by cleaning the kitchen area, tidying a few small things that were slightly out of place—not because they were dirty, but because they were unattended. Yoongi watched from a distance, sitting on the same sofa, in almost the same position.

“You’re paid to clean too?” he finally said.

“Sometimes,” you replied. “If it’s needed.”

“It’s not needed here.”

“But I see things that can be tidied up,” you continued, neatly folding a kitchen cloth. “And I’m paid to help.”

He clicked his tongue softly. “Annoying.”

“You too,” you replied lightly.

There was a pause after that. Not an empty silence, but one filled with something unspoken.

The following days moved in the same pattern. You came on weekdays, worked without much talking, cooked simple warm meals that felt like home, and occasionally tidied small things that others might not even notice. You never asked about the incident. Never touched on the clearly sensitive topic. And that was exactly what made Yoongi even more restless.

One afternoon, as the rain poured heavily, you were still in the kitchen when suddenly the sound of breaking glass came from the living room.

You didn’t panic. You simply walked toward the sound and saw Yoongi standing there, his breathing heavy, shards of glass on the floor, and an expression that… finally showed something other than blankness.

Anger. But not at anyone else. At himself.

“Why…” his voice was low, hoarse. “Why could I be that stupid…”

You didn’t answer immediately. You just grabbed a broom and began cleaning the broken glass slowly, carefully.

“If you want to be angry, just be angry,” you said finally. “But don’t hurt yourself.”

He let out a short, bitter laugh. “Too late.”

You paused for a moment, then looked at him. “Not yet.”

He lifted his head, looking at you for the first time longer than usual. “You don’t know anything.”

“True,” you nodded. “And I don’t need to know everything to see that you’re falling apart.”

The sentence wasn’t harsh, but it was enough to silence him.

The rain still fell outside, its sound filling the room. For a few seconds, no one spoke. Just two people in the same space, both not okay, but in different ways.

“I’m just working here,” you continued softly. “Cooking, tidying up, making sure you eat. That’s all.”

“Why don’t you ask?” he suddenly asked.

“Do you want me to?”

He fell silent. And that was already enough of an answer.

You went back to cleaning the broken glass, then stood up, threw it away, and returned to the kitchen as if the conversation was over. But something had changed.

That day, for the first time, Yoongi ate before you left.

Not much. But enough. And somehow, it felt like the beginning of something bigger than just a job.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The house was too big for someone who chose silence.

The luxury villa in the UN Village area stood calm, neat, almost without sound. Every corner was perfect, clean, organized—as if there was no space for chaos. But you knew, it was exactly in places like that where chaos hid the deepest.

And Min Yoongi was proof of that.

You had worked for several well-known people before. Actors, CEOs, socialites—people whose lives always looked “perfect” from the outside. So when you first stepped into this house, you didn’t feel overly impressed. Nor awkward. Everything felt… familiar.

A fan? Of course. Who isn’t a fan of BTS? But you also knew your boundaries. Especially since your bias wasn’t him. Secretly, you had always paid more attention to Jeon Jungkook.

So when you stood in Yoongi’s kitchen, wearing an apron and chopping ingredients with a steady rhythm, you truly saw him as… just a normal human. A client. Someone who simply happened to need help.

Unfortunately, he didn’t see you as anything.

The following days grew heavier—not because your job was difficult, but because your presence felt like it was never acknowledged.

You still came every weekday. On time. Bringing fresh ingredients, cooking seriously, paying attention to details like temperature, taste, texture—every small thing that made food feel like “home.” You even started adjusting the menu based on what you saw him eat a little of the day before, hoping… maybe today he would eat more. But more often than not, that hope ended cold.

One afternoon, you finished cooking a warm soup and a few simple side dishes. You arranged them neatly on the dining table, making sure everything looked appetizing. The aroma filled the room, soft and comforting.

Yoongi walked past behind you. Without stopping. Without looking. A few minutes later, you heard the front door open. Then a notification from the phone on the table. Delivery.

You stood still in the kitchen, your hand still holding the wooden spoon. You said nothing. You showed nothing. You just… went back to stirring the soup that wouldn’t even be touched.

Sad? Of course. Tired? Yes. But you were paid. And you were professional. So you kept working.

Another day, you tried a slightly different recipe. Lighter, more suited for someone who might not have an appetite. You even noted the times he usually came out of his room, trying to match the timing so the food would always be at its best when he passed by.

The result was the same. Untouched. Sometimes not even glanced at. Yoongi stayed the same. Cold. Distant. As if you were just part of the furniture in that house—there, but unimportant.

If you spoke, he answered only as necessary. If it wasn’t important, he didn’t respond at all.

“Do you want to eat now or later?” you once asked.

“Up to you.”

And that was it. No thank you. No refusal. Not anything. Empty. The only being in that house who truly “acknowledged” your presence… wasn’t him. But his cat. Tang-ie.

The small cat initially only watched you from afar, sitting in the corner with sharp eyes, as if judging. You didn’t approach immediately. You knew animals like that needed time.

On the second day, he started getting closer.

On the third day, he sat near your feet while you cooked.

On the fourth day, he actually played with you.

You laughed softly when Tang-ie chased the end of your apron, or when he suddenly jumped onto the kitchen table (which you gently lowered him from right away). Even though you actually preferred dogs, you couldn’t deny that the cat was… cute. And warm. Unlike his owner.

One afternoon, Yoongi saw it. He stood at the doorway of the kitchen, watching Tang-ie roll on the floor near your feet, playing with your fingers without fear. Strange. Usually Tang-ie was selective with people. Not everyone could get close, let alone play like that.

“What are you doing with him?” he suddenly asked.

You glanced briefly. “Just playing.”

Tang-ie let out a small meow, as if confirming.

Yoongi frowned. “He’s usually not like that.”

“Maybe he’s in a good mood,” you replied lightly.

Or maybe… he’s just comfortable. But you didn’t say that. Yoongi stared for a few seconds longer, then left again. As usual. Without further comment. And you were alone again.

That night, like the nights before, the food you cooked grew cold on the table. You stood in front of the sink, washing dishes that weren’t really used. The water flowed softly, a small sound filling the silence.

In another room, you could hear the plastic sound of a delivery bag being opened. You paused for a moment. Just a moment. Then continued. Because you knew, if you paused too long, you might start feeling too much. And you didn’t have time for that.

On the fifth day, your body began to feel tired. Not from physical work—but from the feelings you kept suppressing. You still came, still cooked, still tidied parts of the house untouched by other staff because they were too “personal.” Yoongi’s workspace. His music room.

You never touched important things. Just small adjustments—slightly messy cables, papers about to fall, things that might not seem important but you still did them. Without being asked. Without being acknowledged.

One afternoon, you were sitting on the living room floor, playing with Tang-ie who seemed very active that day. You laughed softly as he tried to bite the edge of your sleeve.

Then footsteps. Yoongi. He walked past just like that. Without looking at you. Without looking at Tang-ie. Without looking at anything. As if you truly weren’t there. And for the first time since you started working in that house, you felt something beyond just tiredness. Empty. Like… all your efforts never really reached anyone.

You lowered your gaze, still stroking Tang-ie who had now calmed in your lap.

“At least you eat, okay,” you whispered softly.

Tang-ie let out a small meow. And in that huge house, with all its luxury and perfection, that was the only answer you got.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

That day should have been the same as the previous days. You came in the morning, brought fresh ingredients, greeted softly even though you already knew there would be no reply, then went straight to the kitchen. A routine that had started to feel like autopilot—chopping, sautéing, tasting, arranging plating neatly, making sure everything was warm at the right time. But somehow, that day felt heavier.

Maybe because you were starting to realize… this wasn’t just an unappreciated job. It was like talking to a wall that didn’t even want to acknowledge your existence.

When you finished cooking, you didn’t immediately return to the kitchen as usual. You stood there. Waiting.

A few minutes later, Min Yoongi came down from upstairs. His steps were relaxed, his expression the same—flat, empty, as if the world around him never really entered.

This time, you didn’t move.

“Do you want to eat now?” you asked.

He glanced briefly. “Later.”

You took a slow breath.

“Yoongi.”

He stopped. Not out of interest. More like… irritation. “What now?”

There was a pause. Short. But enough to make your chest feel tighter.

“Can I ask something?”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t leave either. You took that as permission.

“I cook every day,” you began, your voice still soft, still controlled. “You see me buy the ingredients, I cook here, in your kitchen. But… you almost never eat it.”

He stayed silent.

“Do you just not like my cooking,” you continued, still trying to stay neutral, “or… is there another reason?”

Silence. Then he laughed lightly. Short. Cold.

“A reason?” he repeated.

You waited. And you hoped—just a little—that the answer wouldn’t hurt. But that hope was too naive.

“I just don’t want to eat food from someone I don’t know,” he said casually. “Who knows, maybe you’ll poison me.”

The words fell just like that. Without weight. Without hesitation. And for a few seconds, you truly couldn’t respond. Not because you had no answer. But because you didn’t expect… he would go that far.

You swallowed slowly, trying to keep your expression the same as usual.

“I buy the ingredients myself,” you finally said. “You also see me cook here. Right in front of you. And you still think I’d poison you?”

Your tone was still gentle. Still patient. Even inside, something was starting to crack.

He shrugged. “People can pretend.”

You looked at him. For the first time, not as a client. But as someone who… truly hurt you.

“I work here because your mother asked,” you continued softly. “She’s the one paying me. She just wants you to eat properly.”

“That’s her problem,” he replied quickly. “Not mine.”

His words were sharp. Fast. As if he wanted to cut off any chance of this conversation going further.

But you were still standing there. Still trying.

“I’ve never crossed any boundaries,” you said. “I don’t ask about your personal life. I don’t bother you. I just do my job.”

He looked at you, sharper now. “Then just do it. Without talking too much.”

Something in your chest finally dropped. Not anger. Not even an explosive disappointment. More like… something quietly running out.

You nodded slightly. “Okay,” you replied.

Simple. Short. Just how he wanted.

Yoongi turned and left, leaving you alone in the dining room still filled with the aroma of food slowly cooling down.

You stood there for a few seconds longer. Then you moved. You took the bowls, covered the food one by one, and stored them neatly as usual. Your hands stayed steady. Your movements remained orderly. Nothing changed on the outside.

Except… this time you didn’t taste the leftover food like you usually did. You had no appetite.

In the kitchen, the water flowed again from the tap. You washed the utensils with the same rhythm, but your mind was far noisier than usual. You knew. You truly knew.

As someone who used to be a fan, you knew how the world treated him after that incident. You knew the comments, the stares, how one mistake could erase all the good things he had ever done.

You knew why he became like this. Suspicious. Closed off. Pushing everyone away. You knew. That’s why you endured. That’s why you stayed patient. That’s why you never snapped back, never showed that you were hurt. Because you understood. But understanding… didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

That day, you went home a little later than usual. Not because there was extra work. But because you needed time to make sure… you could still come back tomorrow with the same face. The same attitude. Professional. Neutral. As if his words today… left nothing behind.

When in reality, since that day, every time you cooked in that large house in UN Village, there was one small thought that kept appearing without stopping—

If even after everything you’ve done, he still thinks you could poison him… maybe, in his eyes, you were never really seen at all.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The second week felt longer than it should have.

Not because your workload increased, but because of Min Yoongi’s attitude… didn’t change at all. If the first week still left room for hope—no matter how small—the second week felt like proof that everything you did… truly wouldn’t change anything.

The house in UN Village stayed the same—calm, spacious, beautiful. But the atmosphere felt even colder. And you… kept coming. As usual.

Every morning, you opened the door carefully, took off your shoes, and went straight to the kitchen without waiting for a greeting. You no longer expected to hear “you’re here?” or even a small nod. None of that had ever existed from the start.

All there was… was the sound of your own footsteps. And sometimes… the small sound of Tang-ie running to greet you.

“Morning,” you whispered softly as you crouched down, stroking his soft fur.

Tang-ie meowed softly, immediately rubbing against your hand as if you were the only warm thing in that house. You smiled faintly.

“Only you greet me, huh.”

That day you cooked something even lighter. You even started taking notes on your phone—what food was completely untouched, which one was slightly eaten, which might still have a chance.

Like a quiet experiment. Even though you knew… the result would most likely be the same.

And it was.

That afternoon, Yoongi came down, glanced briefly at the dining table—then walked straight to another room. A few minutes later, the delivery notification sounded again.

You didn’t stop anymore. You didn’t turn around anymore. You just… continued your work. As if it was nothing. Even though inside, it felt like being hit repeatedly in the same place.

Another day, you were sweeping the living room when Yoongi suddenly spoke. “You’re still here?”

His tone wasn’t asking. More like… questioning your presence.

You paused for a moment, then looked at him. “Yes.”

He looked at you for a few seconds, then gave a slight smile—not a warm one. More like… testing. “You’re quite persistent.”

The sentence sounded light. But it wasn’t.

You didn’t answer immediately. You just lowered your gaze back to the floor, continuing to sweep slowly.

“This is my job,” you finally said.

“Not many would last,” he continued, still standing in the same spot. “Aren’t you tired?”

You stopped again. This time, you took a slow breath before answering.

“I am,” you admitted. “But I keep working.”

There was a pause. And for a moment, you thought… maybe he would stop there. But no.

“Or are you hoping I’ll change?” his voice was slightly lower now. “Is that why you stay?”

You looked at him again. And this time… there was something in your eyes you couldn’t fully hide.

“I don’t have the right to hope that far,” you answered softly.

It was honest. Very honest. And maybe that was what made him fall silent for a moment. But only for a moment. He clicked his tongue softly, then left again. As usual. Leaving you with words that still hung in the air.

That night, you sat on the kitchen floor, your back against the cabinet, Tang-ie curled near your feet. You weren’t usually like this—sitting too long doing nothing. But that day… you needed to stop.

“Is he always like this?” you whispered softly.

Tang-ie only blinked slowly. You smiled faintly, but your eyes didn’t really follow.

“I know why he’s like this,” you continued, your voice almost like you were talking to yourself. “I saw everything.”

You didn’t need to say what. Everyone knew. How the media attacked him. How people’s comments turned sharp. How one mistake became a reason to erase everything he had ever achieved.

As a BTS fan, you saw all of that. You read it. You stayed silent. And you felt hurt… even though it wasn’t happening to you.

“That’s why I try to understand him,” you whispered again. “That’s why I never get angry.”

Tang-ie shifted slightly, moving closer. You stroked him gently.

“But understanding… doesn’t mean I’m not tired, right?”

Your voice grew smaller. Almost gone.

Upstairs, you could hear Yoongi’s footsteps. Heavy. Slow. Like someone who didn’t really want to move but also couldn’t stay still. He never greeted you. Never asked. Never tried. And what hurt more—he never stopped hurting you, even in small ways.

The next day, you came back again. As if nothing had happened. You cooked. You tidied. You played briefly with Tang-ie. And you still spoke in the same tone—calm, professional, never crossing boundaries.

Meanwhile, Yoongi… still saw you as a disturbance. As someone who shouldn’t exist in his life. As if… you were never really human in his eyes.

And somehow, you didn’t know how long you could keep going like this—being the only one trying to understand, in a place where you were never truly seen at all.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The news came without you knowing.

You continued your days as usual—coming in the morning, cooking, tidying the kitchen, occasionally sitting on the floor for a moment while playing with Tang-ie. Nothing changed in the way you worked, even though inside, you had long felt… empty.

Until one afternoon, the atmosphere in the house shifted. The sound of a phone call came from the study. Not too loud, but enough to make you realize—it wasn’t an ordinary conversation.

And your name was mentioned. You didn’t hear everything. But you knew. Min Yoongi’s mother had finally found out. That the food you cooked… was almost never touched.

That night, Yoongi came down with a different expression. Not better. Sharper. Colder.

“Did you tell my mother?” he asked directly, without introduction.

You frowned slightly. “No.”

He stared at you for a long time, as if trying to read whether you were lying.

“I never contacted her except for work matters,” you continued calmly. “I have no reason to tell her anything.”

He let out a rough breath, clearly holding something back. And you knew… he couldn’t direct it at the person he should. So as usual—you became the target.

The days after that changed. Not for the better. Just… different. Yoongi stopped ordering delivery. Not because he wanted to. Because he had to. And for the first time, he actually sat at the dining table when you served the food.

You stood not far away, as usual, not forcing, not waiting. Just making sure everything was ready. He took a spoonful. Tried it. Then stopped.

“Too salty.”

You nodded slightly. “I’ll fix it tomorrow.”

The next day—

“Not enough flavor.”

“Yes.”

The day after—

“Too soft.”

“Yes, I’ll pay more attention.”

There was always something wrong. Always. And you never argued. Not because you couldn’t. But because you chose… not to.

You knew this wasn’t about the food. This was about something bigger than that. About wounds he never processed. About anger that had nowhere to go. And you… just happened to be there. So you absorbed it all. Every day. Without protest. Without retaliation.

With only one same answer— “Yes.”

And maybe that was what made him keep doing it. Because you never fought back. Because you always stayed in your place. Because you didn’t leave.

The house in UN Village still looked perfect from the outside. An elite area, calm, filled with luxurious homes belonging to influential people. Here, everything looked like a life without problems.

But inside… nothing was truly okay.

One afternoon, you stepped out briefly to buy additional ingredients. The weather was quite bright, the streets in the complex were quiet, only a few cars passing occasionally.

You walked slowly, carrying several shopping bags. Until suddenly—

THUD.

A small bicycle hit you from the side.

Your body lost balance slightly, the shopping bags almost fell, and the child riding the bicycle wobbled too.

“Don’t you watch where you’re going?” a woman’s voice immediately sounded.

You turned. A neatly dressed woman stood not far from the child.

“I’m sorry, I—” you began.

“Do you even know what kind of area this is?” she cut in quickly. “Don’t just walk carelessly carrying that many things.”

You stayed silent. You were the one who got hit. But you were the one being scolded. The child wasn’t even scolded.

“You work here, right?” she continued, her tone demeaning. “Then be careful. Don’t cause trouble.”

You lowered your head slightly. “Yes, sorry.” Even though it wasn’t your fault.

But you were too tired to drag it out.

You continued walking. With heavier steps. With your chest feeling… tight. When you arrived home, you went straight to the kitchen. As usual. As if nothing had happened.

You washed the ingredients, chopped, cooked—all with the same movements. Neat. Organized. Professional.

But that day, your mind couldn’t fully focus. Those words still echoed. That tone. The way she looked at you. As if… you were beneath. As if… you had no value. You took a few deep breaths, trying to calm yourself.

“You can do this,” you whispered softly. “Just normal.”

Tang-ie came, sitting near your feet. You stroked him gently.

“Just a bad day.”

But it wasn’t over. During dinner, Yoongi sat as usual. You served the food. He took a bite. Then put the spoon down.

“This time it’s bland.”

You stayed silent for a moment.

“Yes, maybe I—”

“You cook every day, but it never tastes right,” he cut in.

His tone wasn’t loud. But sharp enough. Sharp enough to… pierce. And somehow—that day you weren’t as strong as usual. Maybe because of what happened earlier. Maybe because you had held it in for too long. Maybe because everything… piled up.

“Can’t you even cook?” he continued.

That sentence—something that might have felt ordinary on another day—felt different that day. Too heavy. You lowered your head. Trying to answer as usual.

“Yes, I will—”

But your voice stopped. Your breath caught. And before you could hold it in—your tears fell. One. Then another. You immediately turned away, trying to hide it, but it was too late. The room was too quiet not to notice.

“I… I’m sorry,” you said softly, your voice trembling but still restrained from breaking. “Maybe I wasn’t focused today.”

Yoongi didn’t answer immediately. And you didn’t dare look at him.

“I’d like to leave early today,” you continued, still forcing your voice to stay steady. “I’ll fix it tomorrow.”

You bowed slightly. Formal. Like clients and workers. As it should be. Even though your heart… was no longer whole like when you first came.

You took off your apron, placed it neatly, and took your bag. Tang-ie meowed softly as you passed. You stopped for a moment, stroking his head.

“See you tomorrow,” you whispered.

Then you left. Leaving that big house—which for the first time, felt truly… too cold for you to return to.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The next day, you still came. As if nothing had happened.

Your face was calm, your steps steady, and your routine continued the same—opening the door, going straight to the kitchen, preparing ingredients, cooking with a rhythm you had memorized too well. As if yesterday’s tears were just… a small part that didn’t need to be carried into today. And maybe that was how you survived.

Tang-ie greeted you as usual, meowing softly near your feet. You gave a faint smile, stroking him briefly before starting to work.

“Today has to be better,” you whispered softly.

But the world doesn’t always give space for that. When you stepped out briefly to buy additional ingredients, you saw them again. The mother and child from yesterday. And this time… not alone.

Several other women stood nearby—well-dressed, the same aura, the same way of standing. You didn’t need to ask to know… they were from the same circle. Women in elite complexes like UN Village, used to living above, and seeing others… from below.

You tried to pass by as usual. Not looking. Not seeking trouble. But their voices… were too clear to ignore.

“That’s the one from yesterday, right?”

“Yes, the one working in that house…”

“Why is she always going in and out?”

Your steps slowed slightly.

“What does she even do?”

“Not a maid… but not family either…”

There was a small laugh. Then one sentence that made your steps truly stop, even if just for a fraction of a second—

“Could she be… a paid girl?”

The world felt… silent. Not because they stopped talking. But because your ears seemed to refuse to hear any further. You took a breath. Deep. Slow. Then you kept walking. Without turning. Without responding. Because this wasn’t just about you. This was about Min Yoongi too.

One small rumor could spread. And you knew… he had been hurt enough without something like this added.

So you stayed silent.

That day, you worked as usual. Cooking. Tidying. Keeping everything running. As if those words didn’t stick in your head. As if nothing had changed. But inside… you knew. You couldn’t keep going like this.

The next day, they were still there. The comments grew clearer. Bolder. Less filtered. And you… remained silent. Professional. Keeping your distance.

Until finally, you realized—staying silent wasn’t enough. Because if this continues… it wouldn’t just be you who would break. But also the person you had been trying to protect from the start.

That night, you gathered the courage to contact Yoongi’s mother. The conversation wasn’t long. But enough to make your heart feel heavier.

“I think… I have to quit,” you said softly.

On the other hand, the woman’s voice immediately changed.

“Why?”

You didn’t answer right away. Then you explained. About those women. About what they said. About how it could lead in the wrong direction. And how you… didn’t want Yoongi to be affected again.

A long silence.

Then— “I don’t agree.”

You went quiet.

“He needs you,” she continued. “Maybe he doesn’t show it, but I know. He eats now. That’s already a big change.”

You bit your lip softly.

“Yes, but because of me he ends up getting rumors like that…”

“I’ll handle that,” she cut in gently but firmly. “You don’t leave.”

You closed your eyes for a moment. On one side, you knew she was right. On the other hand… you were also human. And you were too tired.

“I’ll think about it,” you whispered finally.

But inside, you already knew the answer.

The next day, you came as usual. And as usual… Yoongi stayed the same. Cold. Distant. As if nothing had changed. Until finally, you gathered the courage to speak.

“I want to quit.”

The sentence was simple. But enough to make him stop in place.

He looked at you. For a long time.

“Why?” he asked shortly.

You lowered your head slightly.

“Personal reasons.”

He clicked his tongue softly.

“It’s only been two weeks.”

You stayed silent.

“Couldn’t handle it, huh?” he continued, his tone thin, almost mocking. “Weak.”

That word—something you might have ignored on another day—felt deeper that day. Sharper. And you still didn’t respond.

“Yes,” you answered softly.

Not because you agreed. But because you were too tired to explain.

He looked away, as if your decision didn’t matter.

“Fine,” he said.

Just like that. As if you had never meant anything. And that… was enough to make your chest feel empty again.

That day you still worked until the end. As usual. As if it was just a normal last working day. Without drama. Without emotion. Without anything.

But what you didn’t know—that night, Yoongi’s mother spoke to him. And for the first time, he heard something that… he had never seen himself. About the women in the complex. About what they said. About how you chose to stay silent. About how you endured everything… just so his name wouldn’t be dragged again.

A long silence after that. Yoongi didn’t respond immediately. Didn’t react right away. But something slowly… moved inside him. Something he had kept tightly shut. Something he had ignored.

About you.

About everything you did without ever being appreciated.

About how you stayed… even when you were hurt from all directions.

And for the first time since you came into that house—Min Yoongi felt… maybe all this time, he was the one who had never truly seen.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The change came slowly. Almost unnoticeable if you weren’t really paying attention.

That morning, you arrived as usual—calm, neat, without excessive expression. You took off your shoes, went straight to the kitchen, and started preparing the ingredients. Tang-ie greeted you, as always, meowing softly and brushing against your legs.

You gave a faint smile.

“Last day, huh,” you whispered softly.

You didn’t know whether you would really leave today or not. But you had prepared yourself… for it.

Upstairs, Min Yoongi stood for quite a while at the edge of the stairs. Watching. For the first time… not just seeing you as something bothersome. But truly… seeing.

The way you moved in the kitchen. The way your hands cut ingredients with a calm rhythm. The way you occasionally paused to taste, then adjusted the flavor without rushing. All of it… had always been there. He just never cared to notice.

“You came earlier today.”

His voice suddenly broke the silence. You paused for a moment. Then turned.

“Yes.” Your answer was short. Neutral. Not cold, but not warm either. And that… was different.

Usually, you would add something. A small sentence. A more lively tone. Now… there was nothing.

Yoongi walked down slowly. “What are you cooking?”

You returned to the cutting board. “As usual.”

The same kind of answer. Short. Clear. Leaving no room for further conversation.

He stood there for a few seconds. As if waiting. But you didn’t continue. Didn’t ask back. Didn’t try to start a conversation. And eventually… he was the one who left first.

Strange. Usually, you were the one trying. Now… you were pulling away.

That day, Yoongi actually sat down when you served the food. He ate. Slowly.

And as usual— “Not warm enough.”

You nodded slightly. “I’ll fix it.”

No defense. No explanation. Just that. And somehow… it felt different. Not because his words changed. But because your reaction did. No longer trying. No longer hoping. Just… doing.

The next day, Yoongi started appearing around you more often. Not to get angry. Not to criticize. But… as if searching for something.

“Do you always cook by yourself?” he asked one afternoon.

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you tired?”

“I’m used to it.”

Your answers remained short. Always enough. No more. He looked at you for a few seconds longer. And for the first time, he noticed small things that previously… never entered his mind.

Your face. Not strikingly beautiful. But… natural. Calm. Without trying to look attractive. Without heavy makeup. Without an attitude seeking attention. And that… made it harder for him to look away.

The way you tied your hair. The way you tucked stray strands without realizing. The way you focused on your work… as if the outside world didn’t matter.

He frowned slightly. Why was he only noticing all of this now?

“Are you… always like this?” he asked again.

You paused briefly.

“Like what?”

“Just… normal.”

You looked at him. And for the first time… there was a clear distance in your eyes.

“I am just normal,” you answered.

The sentence was simple. But enough to silence him. Because now… you truly sounded like someone who didn’t want more. Didn’t want closeness. Didn’t want involvement. And that was the opposite of what he had always thought about people around him.

Yoongi was used to people approaching him. People want something. People see his status as BTS—as access, as opportunity.

But you… weren’t like that. You never tried to get close. Never took advantage. Never even… seemed interested beyond your job.

And that—was exactly what made him start paying attention.

Meanwhile, you… kept your distance even more. Not because you hated him. Not because you were angry. But because you knew your boundaries. You knew the kind of world he lived in. You knew how easily people could misunderstand.

You knew how one small step could turn into a big rumor—especially in a place like UN Village, where people spoke faster than they understood.

And you didn’t want to be part of that. You didn’t want to become the reason for new problems in his life.

So you stepped back. Slowly. Surely. Still polite. Still professional. But clearly… keeping your distance.

And for the first time—Yoongi felt it.

That distance. That absence.

Not a big loss. Not something dramatic. But… enough to make him realize—that the person who had always been in that house, the one he always ignored, the one he always hurt, was slowly… no longer in the same place.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

That day, you came with a decision you had fully made. Not one made out of momentary emotion, but because you had thought everything through—about your job, about your boundaries, about everything that had started to feel… too far from just being “professional.”

You finished cooking as usual. Calm. Neat. Without mistakes.

And when Min Yoongi sat at the dining table, you stood not far away as usual.

“I want to quit.”

This time, you didn’t wait for the “right” moment.

You said it immediately.

The spoon in Yoongi’s hand stopped. He didn’t look at you right away. Didn’t react immediately.

A few seconds passed, then— “You can’t.” His answer was quick. Too quick.

You frowned slightly. “I’m asking for permission, not your opinion,” you said softly, still polite.

He lifted his head. Looking at you. “You can’t quit.”

His tone wasn’t loud. But firm. And… strangely, it sounded like someone who didn’t want to lose something—even though he himself didn’t know what it was.

You took a slow breath. “What’s the reason?”

Silence. Yoongi opened his mouth, as if wanting to answer. Then closed it again. His gaze shifted briefly to the table, then back to you.

“…You just can’t.”

You stayed quiet. That answer… didn’t make sense. And you weren’t someone who would stay just because of “just because.”

“I need a reason,” you said softly.

He let out a rough breath, clearly frustrated—not at you, but at himself for not being able to explain.

“Just do your job,” he finally said. “Don’t ask too much.”

You looked at him for a few seconds. Then nodded slightly. “Okay.”

But this time… the distance was even clearer than before.

That day, Yoongi ate.

And for the first time—there was no comment.

No “too salty.” No “not enough flavor.” Not anything.

He just ate. Quietly.

And you noticed… even though you didn’t show it.

You knew. From the beginning… there was nothing wrong with your cooking.

And it seemed—he finally realized it too.

The following days changed. Not drastically. Not warmly. But… different. Yoongi started actually eating. Always. Without comments. Without criticism.

And that… felt more honest than all the words before.

Sometimes he still stood in the kitchen while you cooked. Not speaking. Just watching. And you stayed the same—calm, focused, not trying to get closer. Not giving more space than necessary.

Meanwhile, outside—Yoongi’s mother became even more confused. At first, she truly wanted you to stay. Because you didn’t just help—you cared. And that was rare.

Among her friends, your name was often mentioned.

“That girl is so kind,” she would say repeatedly.

Not because you were perfect. But because you were sincere. And that… showed.

When you said you wanted to quit, she had tried to hold you back. But after knowing your reasons—about the rumors, the pressure, everything you endured alone—her heart couldn’t bear it.

“Wouldn’t it be better… to just let her quit?” she said one night to Yoongi.

Her tone was soft. More like… worried.

“She’s endured enough.”

Yoongi stayed silent. Not answering immediately. His hands folded, his gaze empty ahead.

A few seconds passed. Then— “No.” The same answer. Short. But more certain than before.

His mother looked at him, slightly surprised. “Why?”

Silence. Yoongi looked away. “…She still works well.”

That wasn’t the reason. His mother knew. And for the first time, something began to become clear—something that had never been there before. Her son… was starting to change. Slowly. Very slowly. And maybe—he himself hadn’t realized it yet.

Meanwhile, in that big house in UN Village—you were still standing in the kitchen. Still cooking. Still keeping your distance. And Yoongi—for the first time—was starting to learn… what it felt like to not want someone to leave, but not knowing how to ask them to stay.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

A few days later, the atmosphere in the house felt slightly different. Not because of you. Not because Yoongi changed drastically either. But because that day… his mother came.

You already knew beforehand, so in the morning you prepared everything more neatly than usual. Not to show off, not to appear better—just because you wanted to make sure… nothing was wrong.

The kitchen was clean. The table was arranged. Warm dishes with simple but elegant plating.

When the door opened and Min Yoongi’s mother stepped in, the atmosphere that was usually cold… shifted. More alive. Warmer.

“You must be Y/N, right?” she greeted you with a genuinely warm smile.

You bowed slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you for taking care of Yoongi all this time.”

You smiled faintly. “I’m just doing my job.”

“But you do it with heart,” she replied immediately.

The sentence was simple. But enough to make your chest… feel a little warm.

Yoongi stood not far from there, watching. Silent. As usual. But this time… not completely indifferent.

At lunchtime, you served the food as usual. This time… they ate together. His mother sat at the table, took a bite. Then her eyes lit up.

“This is delicious.”

You were slightly surprised, but still smiled politely. “Thank you.”

“Really, this tastes perfect. Where did you learn to cook?”

“Self-taught.”

“No wonder Yoongi eats at home now.”

That sentence made the atmosphere fall slightly quiet.

Yoongi, who was eating, simply… nodded faintly. No comments. No corrections. No criticism. Just quiet… and eating.

And somehow—that felt far more meaningful than all the comments he had ever made before.

His mother smiled seeing that. Clearly… she noticed. All those small changes.

The conversation continued lightly. About food, about your work, about simple things. Until eventually—the topic shifted.

“By the way,” his mother said casually, turning to you, “I have an acquaintance.”

You glanced slightly.

“A friend’s son. A director at a big company. He’s kind, well-established, handsome too,” she continued with a smile. “I think he’d suit you.”

You paused slightly. Not surprised. But… not completely ready either.

“Oh… thank you, ma’am,” you replied politely.

“You don’t mind if I introduce you?”

You thought for a moment. This was normal. Nothing wrong with it. And you had never seriously thought about things like that, but you weren’t closed off either.

“Yes, that’s fine.”

Yoongi, who had been eating calmly—stopped. His spoon froze mid-air. His gaze didn’t go directly to you. But clearly… he heard.

“Good,” his mother continued happily. “I’ll send your number later.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The conversation continued. As if it was just a small thing. But not for Yoongi.

From that moment, the atmosphere at the dining table felt… slightly different. He didn’t speak. But he seemed… less calm than before.

And you noticed it. Even though you didn’t know why.

A few hours later, his mother left. The house returned… quiet. As usual.

You were tidying the kitchen when Yoongi suddenly appeared behind you.

“Give me your phone.”

You turned, slightly confused. “Why?”

“Just give it.”

His tone was flat. But there was something… unusual.

You hesitated for a moment.

“Eomma sent you the number, right?”

You didn’t answer immediately. And that… was already enough.

He stepped closer. “Give it.”

You finally handed your phone over. He immediately opened it, found the chat—didn’t take long. And before you could react—he deleted it.

You froze.

“Yoongi—”

“Don’t reply.”

You looked at him. “Why?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hand is still holding your phone, but his gaze now… elsewhere.

“No need.”

“That’s my business,” you said softly, but clearly.

He lifted his head, looking at you. And for the first time… there was something in his eyes that wasn’t cold. Not angry. More like… restless.

“You work here,” he finally said. “Just focus here.”

That sounded like a reason. But not a strong one.

You frowned slightly. “That has nothing to do with it.”

He stayed silent. Like before—unable to explain. And that… made you even more uneasy.

You took a slow breath.

“You don’t have the right to control that,” you continued, still calm even though your heart felt unsettled.

He looked away. His jaw tightened slightly.

“Do whatever you want,” he said finally.

But his tone… didn’t really mean that.

He handed your phone back. Then left. As usual. Leaving you with more questions than answers.

You stood in the kitchen, staring at your phone screen that was now empty. This should have been normal. You should have been angry. Or at least… annoyed.

But what you felt instead—confusion.

And a little… fear.

Because you knew—he wasn’t an ordinary person. He was part of BTS. His world… was different. And you didn’t want to be dragged into something you didn’t understand.

Meanwhile, in another room—Min Yoongi sat in silence. His hands were empty. But his mind wasn’t.

For the first time—your presence was no longer something he merely tolerated.

But something… he was starting to notice.

And maybe—something he was starting to fear losing, even before he truly understood what it was.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

That morning felt… too quiet.

You came as usual to the villa in UN Village, opened the door carefully, took off your shoes, then went straight to the kitchen. Tang-ie still greeted you, meowing softly and brushing against your legs like always. But something was different.

There were no footsteps from upstairs. No figure standing quietly on the stairs. Nothing. You kept cooking. Chopping, sautéing, adjusting the heat—everything moved like a routine already embedded in your body. But a few times, you glanced toward the stairs.

Empty.

After everything was ready, you waited. Usually, at least he would come down briefly. Today… nothing. You let out a quiet breath, then walked toward the stairs.

“Yoongi?”

No answer.

You knocked on his door. Gently at first. Then a bit louder. Still nothing.

Your brows started to furrow. “Yoongi, I’m outside.”

Silence.

You stood there for a few seconds. Then went back down. Maybe he’s sleeping, you thought. You tried not to panic. You continued tidying the house, organizing a few areas as usual. But the uneasy feeling… didn’t leave.

One hour. Two hours. Still no sound.

You went upstairs again. This time, your knock was firmer.

“Yoongi?”

Still no answer. Your heart began beating faster. “If you don’t answer, I’m coming in.”

No response.

Slowly, you opened the door. And the moment it opened—you knew something was wrong.

Min Yoongi lay on the bed, his face pale, his breathing heavy. The blanket was messy, and even from that distance you could see… he wasn’t okay.

You immediately approached. “Yoongi?”

No response. You touched his forehead—hot. Very hot.

“Oh God…”

You didn’t panic. You couldn’t panic.

You moved quickly—getting water, a small towel, making sure he was in a more comfortable position. You opened the window slightly, replaced the compress, and tried to wake him gently.

“Yoongi… can you hear me?”

He groaned softly. At least he was conscious.

“You have a fever,” you whispered, your voice automatically softer.

That day… completely changed. You were no longer just cooking. You were taking care of him. Watching over him. Making sure he drank, even if you had to insist. Replacing the compress multiple times. Sitting beside the bed, observing every small change.

Time passed without you realizing. Afternoon. Night. The room lights were dim, leaving only a warm glow that made the atmosphere calmer… but also quieter.

You sat on the chair beside the bed, your body starting to feel tired, but you couldn’t really leave.

“I should go home…” you whispered softly.

But you didn’t move. Because every time you tried to stand—you saw his face. Pale. Weak. And you couldn’t bring yourself to leave.

When you finally stood to get something—suddenly— Your hand was grabbed. You startled. Turned. Yoongi. His eyes were still closed. His breathing was heavy. As if… not fully conscious.

“Don’t…”

His voice was hoarse. Almost a whisper.

You froze.

“Don’t leave…”

His grip tightened around your wrist. You didn’t know what to do.

“Yoongi… I’m just—”

“Don’t leave me…”

This time clearer. Deeper. And somehow… it didn’t sound like someone with a fever. More like… someone truly afraid.

You stayed silent. A few seconds passed. Then slowly… you sat back down.

“Okay,” you whispered softly. “I’m here.”

His hand was still holding yours. And you… didn’t let go. That night, you didn’t go home. You stayed there, sitting beside his bed, occasionally replacing the compress, making sure he stayed stable. Tang-ie even climbed onto the bed, curling up near his feet, as if guarding too.

Time moved slowly. And without realizing—your head began to feel heavy. Your eyes slowly closed. And eventually… you fell asleep. Still sitting on that chair. Still beside him. Still with your hands almost touching.

A few hours later— Yoongi opened his eyes. Slowly. His vision was blurry at first, his head still heavy. But his body temperature had slightly dropped, his breathing more stable. He blinked a few times. Then—he saw you.

Sitting on the chair, your head tilted slightly to the side, asleep in a clearly uncomfortable position. Your face looked tired, but still calm.

And for a few seconds—he just… stared. Silent. Not moving. Not believing.

You… didn’t leave. Even though he knew—you could have. After everything he had done. After everything he had said. But you stayed. Taking care of him. Without being asked. Without obligation.

Something in his chest felt… tight. Not from sickness. But from a feeling he had buried too deeply for too long.

He slowly sat up. Still weak, but enough. And without making much noise, he stood… then walked toward you. Slowly. Carefully. As if afraid of waking you.

He stopped in front of you for a few seconds. Looking at your face more closely. Natural. Calm. Without defenses. And for the first time—he felt… guilty. Deeply.

Without thinking much, he bent slightly… and lifted you. You were light. Lighter than he expected. He carried you to the bed, laying you down carefully, making sure your head was comfortable on the pillow, and pulling the blanket over your body.

You shifted slightly, but didn’t wake. Yoongi stood there for a few seconds. Then slowly… sat on the other side of the bed. Watching you. For a long time. In silence.

Tang-ie moved slightly, getting closer to you, as usual. And Yoongi just… stayed quiet. His mind is full. Of everything he had done. Every word he had said. Every way he had treated you. And now—you were still here. Taking care of him. Without ever asking for anything.

He let out a quiet breath. His hand moved slightly, almost touching your hair… but stopped mid-air. Hesitant. Afraid. And eventually… he pulled his hand back. Lying down beside you. Still keeping a distance. But close enough to see you clearly.

The room was dim. The atmosphere is quiet. And for the first time since all that chaos— Min Yoongi closed his eyes… with a different feeling. Not anger. Not emptiness. But something… slowly becoming warm. Even though he didn’t yet know… what to call it.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Morning came slowly, slipping through the curtains with a soft, warm light. You woke up gradually. At first… you didn’t immediately realize where you were. Until you felt something.

Warm. Close. And… heavy.

Your breath hitched slightly as you realized—someone’s arm was wrapped around your waist. Your body stiffened instantly. Slowly, you opened your eyes.

And there— You were in Min Yoongi’s bed.

Held. 

From behind.

His face was very close to your shoulder, his breath warm, steady—not like last night. He was much better now.

Your heart immediately started beating faster. Too loud, you were afraid he could hear it. You didn’t move right away. You didn’t know what to do.

Slowly… you tried to breathe. Calm. You had to be calm. But that was exactly what was hard.

A few seconds felt like forever. And then—you realized. He was awake.

You didn’t see it, but you could feel it. The way his breathing changed slightly. The way he holds… didn’t loosen. Didn’t tighten either. Just… stayed. As if he was aware, but chose not to let go.

You closed your eyes again. Pretending to still be asleep. Trying to steady yourself. Trying to quiet all the feelings that suddenly crowded your chest.

And in that position— Silence.

Only the sound of your breathing. Close. Too close.

“…Sorry.”

His voice was soft. Hoarse. Still with his eyes closed.

You didn’t answer immediately. It took a few seconds before you could find your voice.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. And that was honest.

You weren’t angry. Not upset. Not blaming. But… that didn’t mean everything was fine. Silence again.

His arm was still there. Still holding you. And you knew—if you didn’t say something now, you would be pulled further than you should.

“We need to keep our distance.”

The words came out softly. But clear.

You felt his body stiffen slightly behind you. For the first time… his hold changed. Not letting go. But… resisting. As if he didn’t want to hear it.

“I know where this is going,” you continued, still with your eyes closed, because you weren’t sure you could say it if you had to look at him. “And I can’t.”

Silence. Heavier than before.

“I don’t fit into your world,” you whispered. “Your life… isn’t something I can bring into mine.”

Every word felt like… you were pulling it out of your own chest. Slowly. Painfully. But necessary.

“I don’t want to be part of something that… I won’t be able to handle it later.”

His arm slowly… weakened. But hadn’t fully let go. And at that moment—for the first time—Yoongi opened his eyes.

His gaze was blank for a few seconds. Then… it fell onto your back. Close. Too close. And somehow—your words hurt more than all the harsh comments he had ever heard. All this time—people always came to him. Got close. Reached. Expected. No one ever stepped back. No one ever chose… no.

And you— You did. Without hesitation. Without trying to stay longer. Without even… giving him a chance. His chest felt tight. Not from anger. Not just from ego. But because—for the first time—he realized. This feeling… was real. Not just getting used to your presence. Not just comfort. But more. And you— You had already drawn the line first.

“…Do you think I’m playing around?”

His voice was low. Still hoarse.

You slowly opened your eyes. Looking straight ahead.

“I don’t think anything,” you answered honestly. “I’m just… protecting myself.”

It wasn’t a harsh rejection. But that—was what hurt the most. Because you weren’t rejecting him. You were rejecting the possibility. Rejecting a path he hadn’t even explained yet. And that… left him with no room to fight back.

His arm finally… let go. Slowly. Like something forced. He pulled back slightly. But didn’t fully move away. His gaze remained on you. Silent. Heavy.

For the first time— Min Yoongi felt something unfamiliar. Rejection. Not because he wasn’t enough. Not because he lacked anything. But because… you chose not to enter his world. And somehow— That hurt far deeper than an ordinary rejection.

Meanwhile, you— Slowly sat up from that position. Sitting at the edge of the bed. Taking a deep breath. Holding everything you felt inside. Because the truth was— This wasn’t easy for you either. Not at all. But you knew— If you didn’t stop now… You might not be able to stop later.

Part 2 →