nikki may

Once he spots you, though, everything softens. His eyes go all boba-round and warm, crinkling at the corners as a smile stretches across his face. That stupid pretty one that makes your chest feel full. He straightens up a little.

“Sorry for making you wait,” you say when you reach him, rising on your toes to wrap your arms around his neck. You hug him tightly. You melt into him without thinking. His hands naturally land on the small of your back, holding you close in his embrace.

“It’s okay, baby.” Jungkook leans back just enough to press a little kiss to your lips.

One of his hands dip even lower, brushing over the curve of your butt and the light fabric of your skirt. It doesn’t take long before he grazes bare skin, catching just the edge where the hem ends and you begin.

“How did it go?” he asks.

“Oh, it was so fun!” you beam, hands coming together in an excited little clap in front of your chest. You bounce slightly.

It had been a long day filming at one of the major companies in Seoul, part of that new show about the behind-the-scenes process of producing k-pop songs. The set was huge – too many lights, too many people, and so many cameras that you couldn’t even look around without feeling watched.

Everything felt loud and fast and intimidating, like you were going to mess up just by standing there.

“I was still really nervous in the beginning because there were a lot of people, but I did what you told me over the phone this morning and reminded myself that just being there already meant I belonged. That in a little while this would be just another thing that I’ve overcome.”

Dare you mention that just this morning, you felt like throwing up at the thought of today’s schedule – and yet, somehow, it turned into something you ended up loving. Getting to work on something you’re genuinely passionate about, surrounded by new people who love it just as much as you, felt amazing, inspiring.

“I told you it wouldn’t be as bad. You wanted to call in sick,” Jungkook reminds you, teasing you with an arched brow.

“I felt so anxious this morning!”

“You underestimate what you’re capable of.”

“Anyways.” Your shoulders slump slightly. “I’m exhausted now.”

“We can just go to my place if you want.” He gently tucks your hair behind your ear, cupping your cheek.

“No. I wanna go to the Han River with you,” you say, lips tugging into a pout.

Jungkook grabs the collar of his hoodie and pulls it over his head. A glimpse of his toned abdomen flashes before his black tee falls back into place. He swings the hoodie around your waist, draping it carefully before tying it snug at the front.

“Can’t drive my bike in a short skirt like this,” he explains in a mumble, smoothing the hoodie down over your butt.

“You helped me pick out this outfit this morning.”

If you’d been left alone in your anxious spiral this morning, you probably would’ve just thrown on whatever comfy thing was closest. But after Jungkook talked you down over the phone, his voice all soft and steady, you felt a little more okay. Okay enough to want to feel pretty, at least. So you stood in front of your overflowing closet, doors hanging open, letting him help you pick something out over facetime.

“Yeah well. You look pretty. I wasn’t thinking about logistics.”

You roll your eyes, but your face warms anyway. “You’re the logistics.”

“Sue me for getting distracted.” He pecks your temple, grinning as he pulls back.

Then he crouches next to the Harley, lifting the seat to reveal a small storage compartment. With a bit of manoeuvring, he pulls out a black helmet, matching his own.

He turns back to you and holds it out like it’s something delicate. “C’mere,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back gently before slipping the helmet over your head and securing the strap under your chin.

“Too tight?” he murmurs, adjusting the strap with the pads of his fingers.

You shake your head.

He grabs his own helmet from the handlebar, slipping it on with practiced ease. The engine rumbles to life with a twist of his wrist, loud and steady. He swings one leg over the bike and settles in before turning to glance at you over his shoulder. He holds his hand out to you.

“Hop on, baby.”

You take his hand, grabbing his shoulder with your other one for leverage as you climb on behind him. Your hands move to circle his middle once you’re properly sitting.

“You good?” He cranes his neck back to you, looking you over.

“Yes,” you reply, hugging his back. “Drive safely, please.”

The engine hums beneath you, the vibration slipping through your legs and settling in your chest as Jungkook coaxes the Harley onto the road.

The wind rushes past in silky ribbons, threading through your hair and curling under your skirt, making you curl closer into his back. His hoodie sways around your legs, and his scent, clean laundry and the last bit of cologne clinging to his skin, fills your lungs. You rest your cheek against the strong curve of his back.

Seoul twinkles around you in bits and pieces, like someone sprinkled glitter across the skyline. Streetlights blink down like stars with somewhere to be.

At a red light, Jungkook reaches for your hand without even looking, like it’s second nature. His fingers find yours and give them a slow, reassuring squeeze that makes your chest flutter. Then his hand drifts upward, trailing a lazy path along your arm before slipping behind him. His touch lands on your thigh, gently brushing his thumb over your skin. It’s just a small stroke, but enough to send a little spark dancing up your spine.

Eventually, the buildings thin out, replaced by the open stretch of the Han River, glistening under the city’s glow. Jungkook rolls into a quiet patch near the railing and cuts the engine.

“My mum would kill me if she knew I was riding a bike with you,” you say.

Jungkook huffs a laugh as he slips off his helmet. With a little shake of his head his hair falls back into place. “My mum would kill me for letting you ride it with me.” He turns slightly to look at you, flashing his soft dimple as he reaches to unclip your helmet.

“And yet,” you retort as he helps lift it off your head, “here we are.”

“Reckless,” he grins, brushing your hair back into place. “But cute.”

~

After a quiet walk along the river, you settle onto a bench facing the water.

“I even got a bit of the lyrics done for the song we finished producing,” you say, tucking your hands into your sleeves

Jungkook hums, slinging his arm over the back of the bench and letting it rest behind your shoulders, pulling you closer. “You need to let me listen to it.”

“I’m not giving you the song.”

“Ah, it’s always worth a try.”

“I’ll start working with you when you guys are over this...era of music you’re in right now.”

“Era of music?” Jungkook scoffs. “You find new words how to describe the fact that you don’t like the new music every time.”

“That’s not what I meant,” you whine, falling into his teasing. “It’s not that I don’t like the new music. It’s just not my type of production,” you quickly defend, truthful.

“At least let me listen to it.”

“When I’m finished you can.”

He lets out a small groan. “I’m terrible at being patient.”

“Oh, I know. Don’t have to remind me.” He’s an impatient boyfriend disguised as your number one fan (which, let’s be honest, he is). Always acting like he’s not trying that hard – when really, he’s the most obvious about it.

You roll your eyes every time he launches into a totally casual, totally unplanned, “hey, wanna show me a little something?” but you love it, every time. You love the way he sneaks into your world like that. Softly, stubbornly.

The sneaky bribes, the casual shoulder nudges, the way he tries to coax you into playing something, anything, even if it’s unfinished. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s just a late night, the two of you curled up on the couch, guitar perched on your lap, him humming half-written lyrics with his knees touching yours and a smile tucked into his voice. Songs that only live between you two.

“I’ll show it later to you,” you finally say. There’s not much of a fight when it comes to Jungkook. “Missed you.” You rest your head on his shoulder, hugging his arm.

“We should do something before my schedule gets crazy again.” Jungkook pats down his front pockets. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Like a small vacation?”

“I’d love that.”

You eye him as he slips a cigarette between his lips, cupping the flame with one hand as he lights it. The cigarette glows at the tip, smoke curling past his cheekbones and drifting in the opposite direction as he tilts his head to avoid blowing it your way. You still wrinkle your nose and lean your head away, your clutch around his arm loosening.

“You’re buying me ice cream for smoking next to me,” you mutter, half playful, half serious.

He exhales to the side again, then flicks the ash off the end with a small grin. “I was already gonna.”

You give him a look. “Not the point.”

“I know.” He tilts his head toward you, eyes tracing your face like he’s trying to read something only he can see.

When you saw Jungkook smoke for the first time while he was waiting for you in the dark, after not seeing each other for a very long time, you felt something twist in your chest. A mix of anger, sadness, and the sick realisation that time had changed him in ways you hadn't been there to see.

It messed you up a bit. Realising he changes in little ways when you're not around to witness it. It made you wonder if he's still the same Jungkook you've always known. If he's still your Jungkook.

Upon talking with him the entire night you quickly came to the realisation that Jungkook will be as much yours as you're as much his for the rest of your lives.

Maybe not in loud, dramatic ways, but in the quiet constants.

There is no version of your life where he doesn't exist - you're too intertwined with each other.

You sigh, the slightest hint of annoyance seeping through, but your fingers find his again anyway, slipping between them. He’s warm, even with the breeze coming off the water. The smoke lingers in the air between you, but his scent cuts through it – familiar, stupidly comforting.

“I say we go on a weekend trip to Jeju,” Jungkook says, his gaze fixed ahead.

Your head pops up. “That seafood restaurant,” you gasp, eyes widening.

He watches you, smiling at your excitement.

“We have to go,” you say, tugging his arm. “I still think about that abalone porridge from that tiny place by the harbour, you remember? With the old lady who called us lovebirds.”

“How could I not?” Jungkook laughs. “She told me to marry you or someone else would.”

You laugh too. “She wasn’t wrong.”

Jungkook snorts, flicking the half-smoked cigarette away and stubbing it out under his shoe. He turns back to you, and you feel his finger brush over your ring finger – it's a subtle, fleeting touch, but you wouldn’t dare miss it.

“I wouldn’t ever let that happen.” He leans in, catching you in a warm kiss.

“I love you,” you murmur against his lips, then pull back slightly. “But don’t kiss me after you’ve just smoked.”

Jungkook sighs like you’ve wounded him. Dramatically. Then he leans back in, peppering kisses along your cheek, down the slope of your jaw, and onto your neck, ignoring your protests with every one.

“Jungkook,” you warn through laughter, swatting at him half-heartedly. “We’re not at home.”

“But I still love you the same.” It’s a gentle murmur against your neck, nuzzling the skin there before leaving one last kiss just below your jaw.

“Jungkook.”

He finally pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes, and his teasing fades into something more softer, more quieter.

“I love the way you say my name.”

His mouth curves into the faintest smile, just slightly lifting the corner of his lips. But his eyes hold the sincerity behind his words, the soft glow of them making you feel like you’re the prettiest girl he has ever seen.

Every time Jungkook says this, you’re reminded of when you still wore uniforms and shared secrets in the quiet spaces between classes. When he said it for the first time, you thought he was poking fun at you like the others for pronouncing words differently because you grew up abroad, in the US.

He told you it sounded softer, rounder, like it meant something more when it came from you. He said it made him feel like someone safe. Someone yours.

He doesn’t say it often, but every time he does, you’re reminded of the past. And a soft, nostalgic feeling settles in your chest at the memory of fifteen-year-old Jungkook and you falling in love for the first time. It’s a bittersweet ache because when you think of that time, all you see is blue, but Jungkook was the one thing that still felt warm. Like hope tucked into a person.

And now, years later, even with everything you’ve both grown through and grown out of, that version of him still lives in moments like this. In quiet confessions and shared glances.

Heat nestles in your cheeks. You look away – straight at the river with the twinkling lights reflecting off of it. They remind you of his eyes.

“What?” His voice carries a teasing lilt, like he can’t quite place where your sudden shyness is coming from, but he’s definitely enjoying it.

“I dunno,” you mumble under your breath, hiding your face on his chest while keeping your eyes trained on the water. “I just get overwhelmed sometimes.”

“By what?”

“By how much I love you.”

“Wanna know something?”

“Hm?”

“I do too.”

You smile into his shirt, warmth blooming in your chest.

He presses a kiss to the crown of your head. “You really know how to kill a man,” he murmurs, voice low and a little awed.

You look up at him at that.

“I love you more,” he says eventually, like it’s the simplest truth. “Like... stupid amounts. Heart-aching amounts.”

You giggle, nose scrunching. “You’re so dramatic.”

“You started it.” He peers down at you, eyes soft. “Now let me be in love with you in peace.”

“I’ll let you love me in peace after we get snacks.”

“Will I ever witness a day where you don’t want something sweet?”

“Nuh-uh.” You shake your head with exaggerated seriousness. “The day can’t successfully end until you’ve had a sweet treat.”

“I actually think you’re singlehandedly keeping the candy industry alive.”

“I should be thanked, honestly.”

You rise to your feet, brushing invisible dust off your skirt as you stand in front of him. Jungkook doesn’t move right away. His eyes trail down to your legs, then to the hem of your skirt, fingers reaching out to tug it just a little lower with that automatic protectiveness he tries (and fails) to hide.

“You’re not cold, baby?” he asks, nodding toward his hoodie tossed over the bench behind him.

“No, I’m okay.”

Still sitting, he tugs you gently by the hips until you’re standing between his knees. His hands find your waist like magnets, thumbs stroking slow circles against the sliver of skin where your top has ridden up.

“I like this spot,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your stomach, right above your belly button. You flinch a little, giggling, fingers slipping into his thick hair.

“You’re such a menace,” you say, voice light, but you don’t pull away.

“And you’re so pretty,” he says, looking up at you from where he’s still crouched against your tummy. His eyes are warm, sparkling. “Like... dangerously pretty. You know that?”

You bite your lip. “Stop.”

“I’m serious.” He rests his chin just above your waistband, arms looping around the back of your thighs like he’s not letting go anytime soon. “Sometimes I think you’re not even real.”

You roll your eyes, trying to hold back your smile. “That’s what people say right before they do something stupid.”

He grins up at you, squeezes your thigh just enough to make you squeak. “Then I must be about to do something really stupid.”

“I feel like that’s something for home. Not public.”

“You think so?” He tilts his head slightly.

“Jungkook.” It’s meant to be a chiding. But instead, it escapes softer than you intended, more like a puff of air. Like we shouldn’t but I wanna know anyway. Like stop talking... but actually, no – keep going please.

Instead of backing off like any reasonable person would, he smirks, then has the audacity to give your butt the lightest squeeze, fingers quick and shameless.

You squeal, jumping back. “Jungkook!”

Flashing you a smile that’s somehow both innocent and guilty, he casually grabs his hoodie from the bench and stands up.

You stare at him, half scandalized, half trying not to smile. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Come on,” he says, slinging the hoodie over one shoulder and glancing over at you with that smug softness that drives you crazy. “You wanted snacks, no?” He grabs your hand.

You narrow your eyes, but your feet already fall into step beside his.

~

It’s not a long walk until you reach the next convenient store.

“It looks kinda busy in there,” you tell Jungkook, peering through the glass. “I’ll just run in real quick. You can wait out here.”

Jungkook squints into the store, brows furrowed. “Who’s in there? I don’t want you going in alone if there’s some creeps.”

You roll your eyes and nudge him with your elbow. “It’s just a group of girls. Relax,” you say. “What do you want?”

He pulls his black card from his pocket. “Nothing for me. Just treat yourself, baby.”

You snatch the card from his hand. “Don’t mind if I do.”

~

You exit the store with a slightly overstuffed plastic bag tugging at your wrist. Being a girl who loves snacks, is hopelessly indecisive – and has her boyfriend’s black card – is a dangerous combo.

Jungkook tilts his head, trying to sneak a look inside the bag. “What’d you get?”

“Too much to name,” you say breezily, fishing out the ice cream resting right on top. “Got this for us, though.” It’s the ice cream that comes with two sticks so you can snap it in half and share. “I always think of you when I see this,” you admit, passing him one half after cracking it down in the middle.

“Ah, I didn’t want to eat any sweets today.”

“Too late,” you tease, nudging it closer to his mouth. “You already kissed me, so that’s off the table.”

He lets out a soft laugh. “That counts?”

“It absolutely does.” You raise your brows. “Now eat, please.”

He leans forward and takes a small bite straight from your hand. “Happy now?”

“Very much so.” You swipe the pad of your finger over a smudge of ice cream at the corner of his mouth, then lick it off with a grin.

He huffs a quiet laugh, head tilting as he watches you with that impossibly fond look. “You’re trouble.”

“Says you!”

With a sigh, he takes it from you. “You’re only getting away with this because you’re cute.”

“I know.” You smile around the ice cream in your mouth. “I can’t have a boyfriend who says no to a sweet treat.”

You fall into step beside him, walking slowly as you both nibble at the halves in your hands.

“I’m dieting.”

“For what?”

He doesn’t answer, just shrugs, proving your point.

That’s when your mind slips, just a little, to all the ways you used to be like this. All the self-destructive habits he had to gently pry from your grip. Jungkook has saved you many times. And you want to be there for him just as much he was there for you when no one chose you. When he was the only one who saw you – really saw you – and still chose to stay.

You reach for his hand, linking your fingers through his.

“I feel like sometimes you live your life like it’s harder than it has to be. Like you’re holding yourself back, setting rules that you don’t have to follow.”

Jungkook lets out a quiet breath. “I know,” he mutters, squeezing your hand. “You’re the first person who made me think maybe I deserve ease too. You make it feel okay to slow down.”

“Am I?” you ask sceptically. You hope you do, but are you actually?

He tips his ice cream in your direction.

You laugh. “Baby steps.”

You glance up at him. He’s licking his ice cream, a small smile pulling at the corners of his mouth like he doesn’t even realize it’s there. It makes your chest ache a little. In that sweet way.

“Jungkook?”

His head turns slightly, face lit soft by the golden glow of a nearby streetlamp. His eyes flick to you, a soft, curious glint catching in them as your gaze meets his. You lean your head against his arm.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for sticking with me through every version of myself.”

It’s a thought that catches you off guard – maybe not entirely, you’re not sure – but suddenly it’s there, clear and undeniable. A reminder that, through every change, every version of yourself, he’s never left. Whether you’ve been at your best or your worst, he’s always stayed. And sometimes, it’s hard to wrap your mind around the fact that someone can love you through all of that.

“There’s never been a version I didn’t love,” he says quietly, like it’s not something he even has to think about.

Your heart stumbles a little, eyes stinging in that warm, fuzzy way that only he can cause.

“You make it really easy, you know,” he adds, brushing his thumb gently across the back of your hand. “Loving you. I don’t even think about it. I just do.”

You blink up at him, lips twitching into the kind of smile that only he gets to see. “I still don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

He tugs you closer to him, your sides brushing with each step.

It’s been two weeks since your life started again. 

Two weeks since you were given 77% of the hearing on your right ear back. It didn’t mean your whole life changed in the blink of an eye, nor that you became the same person you were when you first lost your hearing, but it was a start. More than that, it was a new chance for you to learn things again. 

You could hear music, you heard your parents’ voice again. You heard Ari and found out what she sounded like. You heard your own laugh and Yoongi–

As if just now understanding what Jimin said, you stared at him with the rise of an eyebrow: “What do you mean you’ve all–”

“Baby?” 

Well, fuck. 

No matter how many times you heard Yoongi’s voice, or the sweet tone in which he called you by that term of endearment, you couldn’t get used to it. You had your breath knocked out of you each time. 

His tone was so low and deep, words dragged and a little scratchy. It was mind blowing how someone so kind, who looked so soft, could have such a raspy and rough voice. 

When you managed to look up, you knew your face was burning and your insides were squirming with butterflies. It didn’t help that Yoongi knew the effect he had on you, loving every second of it. 

Jimin was saying something next to you, probably a tease aimed at you and your boyfriend, but your brain effectively shut him out when the corner of Yoongi’s lips raised in a side smirk that should sound like a growl. You were about to go feral when he offered you a hand to help you stand up. 

“Hyung–” Jimin tried again, but was cut off as Yoongi sent him a glare. 

“Go wait outside, Jimin-ah.” Yoongi wasn’t harsh in his words, but his tone left no space for arguments. Then he looked over his shoulder and ordered: “All of you can leave, too.” 

You didn’t look past Yoongi to see who was still in the room with you, completely hypnotized by the man you loved. His hair was messier than usual, framing his face in tiny waves that would no doubt be curly with sweat by the end of the night. The chains around his neck were thick and heavy, his eye makeup was subtle, but gave him a dangerous edge that was enough to make you melt. 

Yoongi used his hold on your hand to pull you up from the couch, your small heels doing nothing to make your heights any closer. Your body went to his like following the pull of a magnet, chest pressing against his as your free hand found his shoulder. 

“Cat got your tongue?” Yoongi teased you and you knew he was living for it. “It’s only us now, no need to be shy.” 

“Not shy.” you said, oh so well articulated. If only you didn’t hear the coy in your own voice. “Just… You.” 

“Me?” he repeated with a low chuckle that you felt between your legs. The menace that he was, Yoongi tilted his head, licked his lips and dropped his voice impossibly lower. “What about me?” 

You opened and closed your mouth to say something, but your brain was nothing but static and buzzing noises. And there comes the dangerous smirk again–

“Oh, fuck it.” 

You pulled your hand from his grasp and all but shoved it into his hair, grabbing the strands to keep his face in place as you raised yourself on the balls of your feet to reach his mouth with yours. You felt his smirk grow against your lips as Yoongi gave you two seconds to have your way before taking control. 

One of his hands went to the back of your neck to tilt your head sideways so he could push his tongue into your mouth and kiss you hard. His other arm was around your waist and squeezing your hip, making you bow your back as you tried to keep up with his toe-curling kiss that let you taste the alcohol on lips. 

Yoongi flicked his tongue teasingly, in slow, wet drags that made you press your thighs together and the pressure between your legs made you moan into Yoongi’s mouth. The sound was still very new to you and it mortified you every time, making you pull away from his mouth with wide eyes. 

“Don’t act so innocent now, you make noises much dirtier than this.” Yoongi mumbled, licking between his lips to clean off your saliva. 

“Yoongi.” you groaned, hiding your face in his chest. “Don’t do this now.” 

“Mhmm, I’ll stop, but just because I have to go.” he told you with arms around you. “But later? You’re gonna let me hear you.” 

“Yoongi!” you complained, feeling your panties sticking to your middle. 

Your boyfriend had more he wanted to say, you could tell but his sharp, cat eyes. But the knock on the door was enough for you to know that you really did have no time left. It physically hurt you to have to let go of Yoongi, but you were also excited about seeing him on stage. 

“You got your earmuffs, right?” Yoongi asked you with a hand cradling your cheek. 

You mumbled: “They make me look like a child.” 

“You won’t have to wear them forever.” he assured you, thumb tracing your bottom lip. “But you need them tonight, okay?” 

“I know, I’m just being a baby.” you took a long sigh, taking a tiny step back. It might be out of habit, or maybe just a sweet thing between the two of you that would stick, but you still used your hands to sign: “You got this, baby.” 

Yoongi smiled, pre-concert jitters clear in the way he tried to pretend everything was normal. As the second pair of knocks hit the door, your boyfriend kissed your lips and led you outside, only letting go of your hand when you had to go your separate ways. 

Jimin was waiting for you, leaning against a wall. His bucket hat was low in his head and a face mask was covering half of his face. You could still see his tiny eyes as he smiled at you, offering his arm for you to hold. 

A couple of security guards led the two of you through the many corridors, elevators and stairs that took you from the backstage area, to the VIP booth. Jimin made sure you had the concert ear protection over your head, which was meant to keep you safe through the loud music and screaming of the thousands of passionate fans. 

By the time you made it to the front of the booth, Yoongi was already on stage, jumping around and rapping into his mic as the sea of fans headbanged in the rhythm of the song he was playing. 

Even with your good ear muffled, you could still hear everything around you. It did help that Yoongi sat with you, a week ago, and showed you all of his songs so that you’d get familiar with them by the time of his concert. You were absolutely shocked with the level of talent that he had and you didn’t spare praises as he showed you demos and told you heartbreaking stories behind his lyrics. 

On the third song, you were already dancing and jumping.

When you looked at Jimin, to say something about Yoongi’s growling into the mic, you saw his phone was now aimed at you, and not at the man on stage. 

“What are you doing?” you asked him, probably a little louder than was necessary. 

“Filming you!” he shrugged as if it was obvious. “If I don’t send this to the group chat, I’ll be kicked out of Bangtan!” 

“I don’t believe that for a second.” you laughed, but still waved at the camera. 

“Hang on, I want to show you something.” Jimin spoke more to himself, closing out of his phone and pushing it into his pocket. 

He stood next to you, scanning the crowd as if he was looking for something in the middle of the sea of people. It didn’t take him long to point in a direction, excitedly trying to show it to you. 

“What am I looking at?” you squinted your eyes, as if that would make you see better. 

“Okay, hang on–you see that red emergency light?” Jimin pointed again and you nodded once you located it. “Move your eyes to the right–”

“You mean that woman on top of the thing?” you caught the sore-eye in the first floor, the thing that stood out the most. A woman dressed in all black, just like Yoongi’s staff members, but she wasn’t facing the stage, she was facing the crowd and– “Jimin. Is she…”

“She’s a sign language interpreter.” he nodded, a friendly palm on the middle of your back. “Hyung hired one for every venue, so whoever needs it can enjoy the concert a little better.” 

“I don’t even know what to say.” at this point you were trying not to cry. 

You knew Yoongi hadn’t done this for you, not when he had so much trust that the procedure would work on you. But maybe it was because of you that he thought about things like that now, not only trying to make changes in his life so you could fit in more comfortably next to him, but changing the way he saw the world. 

And it made you extremely happy and proud of Yoongi for thinking about his fans and audibly impaired people who could benefit from having an interpreter in the crowd. 

“Hyung is the best, you can say it.” Jimin was obviously proud of his brother, too. 

“Yes, he– wait a minute, what did you mean ‘we’ve all been there’?!”

“I don't remember the last time I had so much fun.” Jimin said as the doors of the elevator closed and the three of you were alone. 

He’d removed the face mask in the car and you’d done the same to the protection ear covers, while all Yoongi did was sip on the rest of his whisky cup. 

“I was that good, huh?” despite looking spent after an almost three hour concert, Yoongi still had that cocky aura about him. 

“I don't mean you, hyung. I'm talking about her.” the younger man scoffed, tipping his head to point at you. “It was awesome. You got a feisty one there.”

You were absolutely mortified by that accusation, which made Yoongi laugh and pull you closer to him. His back was against the elevator wall and his arms circled your waist, pressing your back to his front. 

“Jimin! You promised you wouldn’t tell him!” you nagged, arms crossed against your chest. 

“Wait, did something happen?” Yoongi wanted to know while you shot daggers at Jimin, but he completely ignored it. 

“I thought she was gonna fling herself into the crowd to slap a fan.” the man you thought was your friend didn’t even wait to throw you under the bus. 

“Listen okay, the girl was yelling dramatically and it was annoying everyone around her!” your voice got whinier, you noted, trying to defend your own honor. 

You couldn’t tell if Yoongi was really listening or not, one of his hands resting on your hip to pull you backwards to press– Oh, fuck, that was his cock rubbing against your ass. 

“She cursed the girl’s fifth generation, all using sign language.” Jimin was having the time of his life, laughing so much you thought he might fall on the floor from it. “It was an incredible experience.”

Yoongi’s chuckle was delivered against your shoulder, sending tingles all over your body. You couldn’t help but press back against him as you heard the lazy drag of his voice: “I didn't know you were like that.” 

“I'm not.” your face wash flushed and you groaned. “And the girl didn't even notice, so it's fine.”

“What was she yelling to get you so worked up?” Yoongi asked with his mouth dangerously close to the spot on your neck that made you whine.  

You didn’t want to reply, but knowing Jimin and seeing his devil smile, you had no other choice than to say: “‘Yoongi marry me’.”

It was enough for Jimin to laugh again and Yoongi squeezed you just a little more, rocking his hips just once, just to tease you with his hardening cock. You were going a little crazy there, on the way to the last floor of the New York City hotel you were all staying at. The elevator felt stuffy, embarrassment threatening to make your face catch on fire. 

Meanwhile, Yoongi didn’t care about groping you in front of his best friend. Jimin was either classy enough to pretend not to notice, or he really didn’t care. 

The ding! that announced you reached your destination made you let out a breath of relief, but Yoongi held you in place to make sure Jimin got out first. 

“You guys want to hang out?” Jimin invited, walking ahead of you down the hall. “I’m thinking about ordering some new york pizza. Have you ever had it, Yn?” 

You were shaking your head and Yoongi didn’t answer his friend, waiting for you to reply. You could tell that your boyfriend was more interested in something else at the moment, with the way he was all over your back, but he would still do whatever you chose to. 

Unfortunately for Jimin, you couldn’t wait to get Yoongi alone. 

“Maybe tomorrow?” you offered sheepishly, feeling Yoongi’s rumble of approval behind you. 

“Fineeeee, you guys can go fuck and I’ll call Taetae.” Jimin said it as if it was the most natural thing to say, adding: “Just remember I’m on the same floor and keep it quiet.” 

“Don’t listen to him.” Yoongi nosed the outside of your ear, making you tremble. 

Jimin yelled goodnight before entering his room and Yoongi simply pulled you into yours. You had no idea when Yoongi unlocked it, didn’t see or feel him using the keycard, but you stopped caring about it as soon as you were being pressed against the door. 

“I had a lot of fun today,” Yoongi told you while caging you in between you and the wood. “But I do miss having you to myself all day.” 

“Good thing we’ll be living together soon enough, then.” you grinned, hands touching his stomach and moving up to his chest. 

“If your sister lets me take you, that is.” your boyfriend laughed and, even if that was a possibility, you didn’t want to talk about your family right now. 

“Mhm, weird. I was under the impression you’re not the type to ask for permission.” your hands got hold of his chain, fingers slipping underneath it to pull him closer. “Thought you’d just take what you want.”

Yoongi’s laugh turned into something a little darker as he rested a palm on the space next to you on the door, the other hand coming to the base of your throat. He didn’t squeeze, but the touch alone was burning hot  making you part your lips.

“If I take what I want,” he started lowly, lips ghosting yours, allowing you to smell the faint whiskey on his breath. “You won't be able to walk tomorrow.” 

You were rendered speechless from what Yoongi was alluding to, and you knew he wasn't all talk. In fact, after watching him on stage, sweating, growling and commanding an arena full of people that didn't even speak his language, you knew just how much power he held. 

And you wanted nothing more than to give in and submit.

You just didn't know how to ask for it.

Lucky for you, Yoongi could read you like a book, noticing the rise and fall of your chest, the glassy look in your eyes, the tiny movement of your hips as you tried to get closer to him. Your fingers were flexing around his chain, silently begging for everything he'd be willing to give you.

That's when his hand went from your throat to your jaw and Yoongi pressed a hard kiss against your mouth. His lips moved slowly, coaxing you to do the same, seducing you into parting your mouth for his tongue to slip inside and find yours. 

You were already breathing erratically, one hand finding its way into his hair to drag your nails against his scalp. That had Yoongi pressing harder against you, one of his legs slipping between yours.

As if your body had a mind of its own, a very dirty mind at that, you parted your legs wider and rolled your hips down until you were grinding on Yoongi’s thigh. The material of his pants felt warm and rough against your bare legs and your thin underwear did nothing to stop your wetness from staining the fabric.

Yoongi’s hand moved from your jaw to your neck, just as he tilted your head at an angle that allowed him to deepen the kiss. Fingers found your pulse points on the sides of your throat, pressing down until you felt deliciously dizzy, just for a few seconds, just until you were whimpering. 

He smirked into the kiss, licking your tongue with his as that same hand moved down to your chest and he squeezed one of your tits over your dress. 

“Yoongi…” you moaned around the word, pulling from the kiss as you needed to catch Your breath. “Tonight is about you.” 

He chuckled, the way it sent tiny shocks straight to your pussy. “Making you feel good is about me.” 

“But I want to make you feel good.” you couldn’t call this a complaint, but you pushed your body off the door and Yoongi took a small step back, jut to give you breathing room. 

“You think I don't feel good?” he challenged, reaching for your hand and bringing your palm to his crotch.

Yoongi was hard, ever since the elevator ride. Maybe since the car, when he got to see you again. He let go of your wrist to let you decide if you wanted to continue your argument or let him kiss you again, which you appreciated as you tried to make your brain work a little faster. 

Your fingers traced his length, palming the erection that felt painful, stuck inside tight jeans. That couldn't feel better than what you had in mind, despite the small hums coming out from Yoongi’s mouth as you rubbed your palm on the tip. 

“Come with me.” 

You said, reluctantly letting go of his cock in order to hold his hand and walk deeper into the hotel room. The two of you kicked out of your shoes and Yoongi took off his socks before you were even pushing the door of the penthouse suite open. 

The lights were already on and the bed was made; soft and lux white sheets that didn't have a single crease. The furthest wall was make of floor to ceiling windows that showed the beautiful New York City lights. 

Instead of worrying if people in the nearby buildings could see you, you led Yoongi to the bed and he followed your lead wordlessly. Your boyfriend laid down in the middle of the bed, back propped up by pillows, legs spread out invitingly. 

You crawled to him, throwing a leg over his hips to straddle him. Yoongi’s hands went immediately to your ass, guiding you and positioning you on top of him so that your pussy was right over his cock. You threw your hair over one shoulder to keep it away from your face, rolling your hips and grinding down as you watched Yoongi’s face.

His lips Were swollen and red, slightly parted as your humping provided him pressure. His lids were lowered and pupils blown. 

“Not so bad, huh?” it was your turn to tease, even if you sounded a little breathless. 

“Can't say I have any complaints.” he shrugged, almost nonchalantly. 

And then Yoongi was sitting up to reach you, mouth going straight to your neck as you sat on his lap. Fast fingers found your thin dress straps to push them off your shoulders, down and off your arms, revealing your braless tits. 

You pushed them together with your arms, making them appear more plump. Yoongi groaned, all raspy and sexy, before taking them in his hands. 

His fucking hands. 

So veiny, with long fingers, short filed nails and–

“Fuck–!” you cursed as Yoongi’s thumbs rolled your hard nipples, surprising yourself with your own voice and biting your lips to stop another moan. 

It made Yoongi pinch one of your nipples a little hard, which had you opening your eyes wide with parted, surprised lips. 

“I don't care what Jimin said, I don't care if this whole floor hears you.” Yoongi said as he started to kiss your collarbones. “No holding back, let them be jealous of how good you're being fucked.” 

“Yoongi, please–”

You didn’t know what you were asking for, holding onto his shoulders as you desperately moved your hips to rub against him. Your head tipped back with each drag of his clothed cock against your clit and the new space allowed Yoongi to draw kisses down your chest until his mouth found a nipple. 

When his lips wrapped around the swollen nub, you didn’t hold back your own noises anymore. You weren’t screaming by any means, but you were letting Yoongi know how good it felt when he dragged his tongue in circles around your nipple. 

You watched with half closed eyes as Yoongi kissed his way to your other breast, parting his mouth to let his tongue slip and circle your other nipple with his tongue. You were frowning in pleasure, clenching and breathing hard. 

You wanted this man. You loved this man. 

You needed to feel more of him, so you reached for the hem of his shirt –one that still smelled heavenly of his post-concert sweat–, pulling it over his head unceremoniously. 

“Someone’s greedy.” Yoongi laughed at your haste, hands coming back to hold your hips after you pulled the shirt away. 

“Sorry.” you giggled, throwing the shirt away and gently pushing his hair out of his face. “You just…” 

You cut yourself off with a groan, no words strong enough to explain to Yoongi how much you wanted him right now. But actions spoke louder than words, sometimes. With one hand on his chest, you pushed Yoongi down to lay against the pillows, leaning forward to follow his body. Pressing your chests together, you pressed your mouth against his to kiss him again. 

Yoongi’s hands were running up and down your naked back, pushing your dress even lower on your body. You sucked his bottom lip into your mouth, dragging your teeth against the soft flesh before letting it fall back into place. Your boyfriend moaned raspily, lifting his hips to search for that same friction as before. 

But you wanted to give him something better. 

Your lips found his chin and jaw, continuing to kiss down his body. You covered his chest, ribs and stomach, before making your way between his legs and sitting on your knees. As your fingers found the button and zipper of his pants, you took a moment to stare at the beautiful man in front of you. 

Yoongi was perfect, inside and out, in the purest form of the word. He was simply, genuinely, breathtaking. And he looked at you the same way. 

“What?” he asked with a tiny, shy smile. “You’re looking at me funny.” 

“I’m looking at you like you’re the prettiest man in the world.” you corrected. 

Yoongi scoffed. “Pretty?”

“Handsome, gorgeous,” you rolled your eyes, lowering your face to kiss under his belly button once you opened his pants. “So fucking sexy.” 

“You look pretty good right now.” his head was tilted as he watched you with wanting eyes. 

“I can look better.” you told him with a small shrug, sitting up to take your dress off the rest of the way. 

Before Yoongi could say anything else, you went for his pants again, this time pulling them off his slim legs. His underwear was next to go, freeing his cock with a heavy bounce. 

Looking this good while completely naked was a feature few people in the world could pull off as well as Yoongi. The bde that he showcased on stage was backed up pretty damn well.

You leaned down again, taking Yoongi’s cock in your hand and raising it to line up with your mouth. You weren't overconfident at all, but you liked to think that you were a lot more comfortable now than you were the first times you did this with your boyfriend.

And Yoongi never had any pointers or complaints so you must be doing something right. 

His tip was slightly darker in color than the rest of him, glistening with pre-cum, throbbing in your small hand. You opened your mouth and brought your tongue out, using it to lick around the head. Yoongi hissed and arched his back a little, giving into your teases. 

You couldn’t help but watch his brows furrow and nose scrunch as his eyes closed when you wrapped your lips around him. Overall, you only had a little over half of your hearing on one side, so you’d never be able to know what Yoongi sounded like exactly right, but you highly doubted it could get much better than this. 

His moans alone were sending jolts between your legs, making you squeeze your thighs a little harder as you sucked more of him into your mouth. When you were halfway down his length, the tip tickling the back of your throat, Yoongi raised his upper body on his elbow. 

You looked up with your eyes slightly watery, questioning silently if you were doing something wrong. 

“You were right.” he started lowly, using his free hand to hold the back of your neck. “You do look better with that pretty mouth full of my cock.” 

Your eyes fluttered with the praise and you couldn’t help but swallow hard, making Yoongi groan. His hips twitched at their own accord, pushing him deeper into your mouth. It made your eyes burn and your jaw ache, so you forced yourself to relax enough to take him deeper again. 

“That’s it, go easy– Fuck, baby.” his hand moved to the back of your head so he could guide you to bob up and down on his cock. “Can you swallow like that again? Oh, shit, like that.” 

Your lips were tight against his cock and your hand used the spit coming out of your mouth to squeeze whatever didn’t fit inside. You pushed yourself lower, holding your breath as the tip slipped down your throat and you swallowed like he asked you to, causing the filthiest moans to come out of his mouth.  

When your free hand slipped down to cup Yoongi’s balls, he jerked and pulled your hair to get you off of his cock. 

A string of spit was connecting your lips to his tip and you pouted, asking with a scratchy voice: “What’s wrong? You like it when I play with them.” 

“I also like to cum in your mouth, but not today.” he somewhat explained, breathing heavily. 

You took Yoongi’s cock in your hand, stroking it slowly enough to get the edge off, but still flicked your wrist under the tip every now and then so he could still feel good. He grabbed the back of your neck to pull your body to lay on top of his, kissing you again while you still pumped his cock. 

The kiss was sloppy and breathy, neither of you really focusing on it. 

“Where are you going to cum, then?” you asked with a small bite on his jaw, speeding up the movements of your hand and making more pre-cum leak out. 

Yoongi moaned: “Inside you.”

“Oh, fuck.” you whined, hand slowing down a little. “Really?” 

“What–” it took Yoongi a few heavy blinks for him to realize what he just said, or at least how you interpreted it. “Oh, no no–”

“But what if you did?” you asked in a small voice, letting go of his cock to lay half on his body, half on his side. “We haven’t been with anyone else. And I’m on the pill.” 

“It would be the first time we did that.” his brain was working a little slow, but you could tell Yoongi was trying to be responsible. 

“We do have things to celebrate.” you shrugged, but didn’t push it. “Do you want to?” 

“Do you want to?” 

You could be here all night, you realized. Yoongi worried too much about making you comfortable around him, or with anything he did. It was always like this, even when you were friends. That is, if the two of you were ever friends to begin with. 

So maybe you had to play a little dirty from time to time. 

Your fingertips were dancing on his lower stomach as you mouthed at his jaw, whispering:

“Want your cum dripping out of my tight little pussy, Yoongi.” your words affected even yourself, making you press your sweaty body against his, lighting up a new fire on your belly. When your fingers wrapped around his cock again, you whined: “Want you to fuck me like this.” 

“Fucking come here.”

Yoongi growled as if he hadn’t done this all night already and suddenly you understood why that girl was yelling ‘Yoongi marry me’ so often. He flipped you on the bed, so you were laying on your back and he was on top of you, but he did it so fast that it made you let out a tiny huff. 

Worried for just a second, Yoongi touched the side of your head gently, to make sure that your external hearing aid that was hidden by your hair was still in place. His concern only made you want to fuck him harder. 

“I’m okay.” you assured him, running your hands up and down his sides. “Want you.” 

Yoongi leaned down to kiss your lips over and over again, distracting you as his hand found the waistband of your underwear and he pulled to make it snap against your skin. You jumped in surprise and retaliated by biting his bottom lip. 

Your boyfriend was laughing as he pulled away from you just enough to help you lift your hips so he could take your underwear off, finally having you naked underneath him. 

“You just keep getting prettier.” he mused, looking at your body. Any other time you would have shied away from his intense stare, but tonight you were bold. Tonight you spread your legs so he could see all of you. And, damn, did it pay off. “See? So fucking pretty…” 

Yoongi’s fingers touched you softly, parting your folds, collecting your wetness and rubbing your clit in small little circles that made you a squirming and moaning mess. His eyes were watching the way his fingers played with you, bringing the digits down to your entrance to tease your hole. You clenched and gasped, raising your hips to invite him in. 

“Yoongi, need you inside.” you moaned, holding onto his biceps. “Please, I need to feel you.” 

You still wanted tonight to be about him, you wanted to celebrate the success of his first solo concert. But you were going a little crazy, you needed him to touch you, you craved more of that relief that only Yoongi knew how to give you. 

Lucky for you, he felt the same way. 

His lips were ghosting yours as he asked: “No prep?” 

“I’m wet enough.” you mumbled against his lips, hands coming up to his shoulders. “Been wanting you all night.” 

“Should have come backstage between outfit changes.” Yoongi told you with a nip on your lips. Two of his fingers circled your entrance again, but this time he pushed them in as if to check if you were ready to take him. 

“What would you do if I had?” you asked with a gasp as you felt his fingers slip into your pussy, all the way to the knuckle. 

“Could have you bend over the dressing room couch.” he said with the curving of his fingers deep inside you. “Go down on you right there.” 

“Fuck, Yoongi.” you arched your back, clenching and sucking him deeper into your cunt. “Think you could make me cum before you had to go back on stage?”

“With my mouth?” his snarl was cocky, matched with the way his fingers rubbed tight circles on your sweet spot. “Could make you cum twice, baby.” 

“Make me cum now.” you whined. 

Never one to deny you, and knowing you’ve been neglected for too long, Yoongi started to move his fingers in and out of you at a harsh pace he knew you loved. It hit the spot every single time, making you moan and move your hips to meet his movements. 

When his palm pressed down against your clit, you were done for, trembling and reaching your high around his skilled fingers. It was a quick, but strong orgasm, making you tug at his hair and flushing your whole body. 

His fingers slipped out of you and you opened your eyes to see him bring the digits to his mouth to taste you. Just by watching the scene, you were ready for more. 

“So I guess it’s decided I’m staying backstage tomorrow night?” you asked, loosening your grip on his sweaty locks. 

“I’ll make sure to have the staff reserve a special room just for you.” Yoongi lifted an eyebrow, bringing his hand back to his cock to use whatever slick was left in his hand, plus his spit to cover his cock. “With a TV so you can still watch me when I’m on stage.”

“Can you have them find me some toys, too?” you joked, spreading your legs wider as you thought about it. 

“Wanna play with yourself while watching me?” oh, Yoongi was loving this. His hand sped up and gave his cock a few long strokes before lining himself with your pussy. 

“You have no idea what watching you on stage does to me.” you admitted, holding your breath as you felt the smooth cockhead pressing against your fluttering hole. “Or watching you at all.”

“Is that so?” Yoongi looked at you from above, chains dangling from his neck, wavy hair falling on the sides of his face, sweat making his skin shine. 

“You’re so–” your words got cut off as Yoongi pushed his cock inside you, breaching you and stretching your walls more than his fingers previously had. All you could say now was: “You’re big, fuck you’re so big.” 

“Shit, you feel tight.” Yoongi slowly pushed deeper and deeper, until he was all in. “So fucking tight.” 

Yoongi laid on top of you, elbows on the mattress keeping him up and your sweaty chests pressed together. He was caging you in and there was nowhere else you'd rather be than right here. 

You hugged him by the neck and raised a leg around his waist, keeping him impossibly closer to you. 

“Kiss me.” you whined, bringing a hand to the back of his neck. “Kiss me and fuck me.”

“Anything you want.” 

Yoongi groaned against your lips as he pulled his hips back, testing for any signs of pain or discomfort on your part, but you gave him none. That gave him confidence to push back in and start a slow pace of fucking you deep and nice. 

The kiss was a mess of lips and tongues, of breathing into each other and swallowing each other's moans and whimpers. 

“More.” you held onto him a little harder, bringing your other leg around his hips. “Faster.”

Your moans grew louder with every snap of his hips, every stroke that hit the spot just right. It spur him on to find that good angle and keep a rhythmic pace that made you sing for him. 

His face ended up between your tits, where he left open mouthed kisses and bites that would most definitely leave a mark. You couldn’t blame him when your own nails were digging lines into his pale skin. 

“You like this, huh?” Yoongi asked, and all you did was nod. Your tits were bouncing on his face as he fucked into you, rolling his hips so his pelvis would hit your clit. “You like that you're the one who gets to fuck me after the concert.”

It wasn’t a question, but you still nodded. But then you added: “I like that I get to fuck you forever.” 

“Claim that shit, baby.” he chuckled against the side of your tit, lips wrapping around a spot and sucking on it hard enough to bruise. 

“Ah, ah, ah…” you chanted, jaw slack. “Fuck, you’re deep–” 

“Gotta be deep to fill you up.” he gritted between his teeth, lines on his forehead as his pumps started to grow a little sloppy.

“Give it to me…” you begged, pressing your thighs harder against his sides, caging him in. “Cum for me, Yoongi.”

Yoongi pressed his front into yours and positioned his knees on the bed, gaining leverage to fuck you faster and harder, trembling and twitching on top of you as you both got closer and closer to that finishing line. 

His face hid into your neck and you held him closer; two more long strokes and you were writhing with the new orgasm as it snuck up on you. Your vision grew blurry and your good ear was ringing as Yoongi buried himself into your cunt and stilled. 

Filthy moans were delivered against your skin as you felt warmth exploding inside of you, filling you up enough to leak. 

You were both breathing rapidly, sweaty, your legs were too weak to stay around his hips and your toes were curling with the aftershock. 

Drunk on him, you said: “So, about that room backstage…?”

To which Yoongi followed up with:

“So, about that forever?” 

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But it didn’t scare you. If anything, there was a twisted satisfaction curling low in your chest, because finally your husband was seeing you, even if it took a storm to drag his gaze your way. And truth be told, your own fury was every bit as blistering as his.

“Oh, I’m serious. I have never been more serious about anything in my life.” You let a laugh slip past your lips with a cruel bright sound that didn’t match the way your chest ached so violently you wanted to scream.

“Do you even understand what you’re doing?” He caught your shoulders in his hands, pulling you toward him until there was no air between you, his face inches from yours, as if proximity could somehow break through the walls you’d built, as if the real you, the one that loved him, could still be dragged back into the light. But this was the real you. This was the woman he had made: broken and unloved, hollow in all the places he used to fill.

“Oh, I understand just fine, Jungkook. I’m divorcing you.” You tore yourself from his grip, but your freedom lasted only a heartbeat before he seized you again, his hands tightening with a force that made you gasp.

“You’re hurting me,” you hissed, a bitter smile curving your mouth even as heat coiled in your spine, “though I suppose you’re used to that by now, aren’t you?” The words landed; you felt it in the way his fingers loosened, just enough to let blood rush back into your skin, but not enough to let you go. You were still inside the prison of his body.

“Do you even realize you’re trying to destroy everything we’ve built over all these years?” His voice cracked into a shout, pain bleeding into every syllable, and for the briefest, most treacherous moment, you almost let yourself believe he regretted it all.

“Destroy what exactly, Jungkook?” Your shaking voice rose. “What do we even have? My empty evenings, my lonely nights, when there’s no one to tell about my day, no one to share the small, stupid things with? Or maybe those holidays I spend alone, because you’re on tour again, or locked in the studio chasing the next song?” You hated yourself for the way it sounded as if you were punishing him for the one thing he loved most in the world. But it wasn’t that. God, it wasn’t that. “Or maybe the family dinners with the few friends I still have, where everyone arrives hand in hand, and I’m alone because our marriage is still a fucking secret? Not that it would matter, since you’re never there anyway.”

Your eyes were stinging, hot with the threat of tears, and Jungkook stood before you like a man splintering apart with every word you hurled at him, each syllable landing like a strike. His lips pressed together, sealed tight. There was nothing for him to say — or maybe there was, but he knew the truth was that everything you’d spoken was only the surface, the visible tip of a much deeper wound. And still, looking at him like this, hollowed out in front of you, you couldn’t bring yourself to dig down and throw every buried grievance at him, because he looked as though one more blow might be the one to end him, and it made it impossible to deliver the killing strike.

“What about our home?” His voice was low, his gaze dropping toward the floor, speaking to a space that wasn’t you. “Our history… our love? Does none of that exist anymore?”

“It does.” Your answer was sharp, without hesitation. “But I don’t want any of it if I’m the only one in it. I’m not okay, Jungkook. I haven’t been okay for a long time.”

He lifted his head slowly, as if his eyes were scanning you for wounds he could tend to. But the kind of wounds you carried weren’t visible to anyone.

An evening when every one of your friends is tucked away with their partners, and you’re alone not because you want to be, but because Jungkook is on tour, and the time difference swallows him whole, leaving him asleep when you’re awake. Even if you wanted to call, you couldn’t. Nights like that leave no bruises on the skin, but they carve scars into a lonely heart all the same.

“You know people divorce because of cheating, because of screaming matches, because of lies,” his voice was gaining strength again, conviction crawling back into it, “and you want a divorce because I’m out there earning for us? Because I’m working?”

“If you think I’m ungrateful for not having enough of you, then we have nothing left to talk about,” you shot back, each word slicing. How dare he throw that in your face? “I needed my husband here, Jungkook, not just his voice in the songs that play through my headphones.”

A single tear broke loose, sliding hot and slow down your cheek before you could stop it.

“Y/N… I love you. Do you understand that?” he whispered, like a confession might be enough to hold you still.

You had no reason to doubt that he loved you. But love, you’d learned, could be a barren place if it wasn’t fed, if it was never shown. And you weren’t sure there had been enough signs left to believe it could keep either of you alive.

“Love me. Maybe you do.” You lifted one shoulder in a slow shrug, a movement meant to look careless even as your voice carried the weight of something final. “But I’m afraid I wasn’t made to be the wife of a K-pop idol.”

And the truth was, you weren’t sure anyone could survive that role intact. Maybe someone just as famous? No, you’d learned quickly that fame didn’t solve loneliness, it simply polished it in gold. You and Jungkook already saw each other rarely, and the only reason those rare meetings were possible at all was because you were here, anchored to one place, living the quiet predictability of an office job that let you come home every evening with a measly six hours of free time before the next morning began. If you had been the one touring the world too, if your schedules had mirrored his in chaos… the last time you would have seen him would have been never.

“That’s not fair,” he bit out, his voice rising again. The confidence and anger rolled through him in uneven waves — crashing against you one moment, pulling back to reveal raw guilt and something like regret the next. “You knew what you were getting into. I’ve lived my whole life this way.”

And maybe he was right, but the truth of it barely shifted the hollow ache in your chest. You lifted one shoulder again in a quiet gesture that wasn’t indifference but resignation, the kind that said you’d run out of ways to fight. “I did know. And I was wrong. You’re not the only one at fault, I don’t blame only you.”

“I don’t give a fuck who’s at fault!” His voice cracked into a sharp edge, and suddenly he was pacing, running both hands through his hair like the motion could stop him from flying apart. “I’ll take all the blame, if that’s what it takes. I just want to save this marriage.”

Your answer was measured, unhurried, each syllable deliberate in the way a blade moves before it finds the softest place to sink. “When divorce papers are already in sight, it means there was a chance to save the marriage once, and it was lost long ago.”

His mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile, a bitter twist that didn’t touch his eyes. “And why are you so calm, huh? The Y/N I know never stays calm. You’ve been planning this for a while, haven’t you?”

You didn’t trust yourself to answer with words, so you let the quiet speak for you and gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.

“Is there someone else?” His eyes caught yours again. He took a slow step forward, then another, closing the air between you with an intent you couldn’t quite name, and instinct pressed you backward, your body seeking distance even as your pulse betrayed you.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Jungkook.” Your voice was cool but weighted, a warning coiled in every syllable. “You really think I’ve been cheating on you? Between the two of us, if suspicion were ever going to fall, it would never land on me first.”

Ouch. You knew you’d hit the mark because the reaction was instant with the faint recoil in his shoulders, theshallow breath pulled through his teeth, the way every muscle seemed to flinch in unison.

You knew exactly where to aim; you always had. This was the softest place to wound him, the bruise that had never faded. Back when you’d first fallen into him, when everything still felt dizzy and new, it had taken him months to chip away at the guard you kept welded around yourself. 

He had worked for your trust like it was the only thing he’d ever wanted, and still it had always gnawed at him the way men were so easily folded into that tired, lazy narrative, the stereotype of the cheating boyfriend. He had never forgiven the world for making you expect it from him, for planting the suspicion before he’d even had the chance to prove himself.

Jungkook had always been a romantic in the truest, most infuriating way. Earnest in a world that didn’t reward earnestness, devoted in a way that was almost inconvenient. You couldn’t picture him touching betrayal, not even from a distance. He had been meticulous about it, sidestepping situations that could even brush against the shadow of impropriety, careful to never leave you with a single moment that might fester into doubt. 

And with him in the public eye, under the kind of scrutiny that would have laid any slip bare, you would have known instantly if there had been another woman. But there never was. The only rival you’d ever had was the one you could never hope to compete with: the music, the stage, the lights that swallowed him whole. That was the mistress he had always chosen, and somewhere along the way you had stopped trying to fight her for him.

“Tell me the truth, Y/N.” His voice was low, stripped of the shouting, heavy with something darker, and he closed the distance with slow, unhurried steps until your back found the wall and his arms caged you in on either side, the scent of him crowding your senses until the rest of the room dissolved. “Who is he?”

You shook your head once, deliberate and unwavering, but the refusal didn’t sway him, as if your silence was the confirmation he had been searching for.

“Of course,” he muttered, the words laced with a bitterness that curled his mouth into something close to disgust. “Because how else could you be this calm while you dismantle our marriage, while you tear apart our family?”

“Do you want to know how?” Your voice rose, not cracking but slicing, and your palms pressed hard into his chest until he stepped back, your words spilling out fast enough to burn your throat. 

“I earned a million points worth of calm the day I realized that at work, people think I made you up. Three years of marriage and my husband has never been seen at a single company event. When my friends meet up, I’m the one standing at the edge of the table because everyone else is in pairs. When couples plan their vacations together, we don’t. When my boss tears apart my work, throws my project into the trash, and I cry in my office with no one to tell because you’re in another city again, so instead I bury my face in the pillow that should have been under your head. And most of all, when my grandfather invites me and my husband to his birthday, and I show up alone, and I see the worry in his eyes because he has only ever seen me alone, even though that isn’t how a marriage should look.”

You could see it all land on him, his jaw tight as his eyes searched your face like he was trying to decide whether to be furious or broken. And still, despite the ache in your throat and the space you had just forced between you, there was something in the way he looked at you that made the air between you feel unbearably thin, as if you were standing on the edge of something far more dangerous than the fight you had started.

Jungkook’s eyes were wet, the shimmer of unshed tears gathering at the edges, and you knew that if you held his gaze for even a few seconds longer, you would see the moment they finally broke free. So you looked away, because watching him cry might undo something inside you that you had spent too long stitching back together.

“Y/N, please…” his voice came from somewhere behind you, stripped of its usual shape, but he didn’t finish the sentence. “I was so happy to come back, I couldn’t wait to get home to you, to our house, and instead you…”

Instead, you met him at the door with divorce papers. But the mind doesn’t make clean decisions when it has been sitting alone with pain for too long; it loops, it chews, it replays, and eventually it settles on something that feels like relief even if that relief is made of endings.

This particular ache had become familiar to you, worn in like an old bruise, almost as intimate as Jungkook himself had once been. Only lately, the company of loneliness had been more constant than his, and that was its own kind of attachment. People adjust to anything, even the slow poison of something that isn’t good for them. The world has always worked that way.

“Do you even know what day it is today?” you asked, the words soft but deliberate, as if some part of you wanted to believe he might surprise you.

“The day I start recording my seventh album?” he answered without hesitation, the reply so automatic it was clear he thought your question was strange, nothing more.

You shook your head, a bitter little movement as your lips pressed together, holding in the swell of something sharp. “Exactly,” you murmured, your agreement a blade turned inward. And then, after letting the confusion settle on his face for just a beat longer, you added, “And it’s also our third wedding anniversary.”

You watched his eyes widen, panic slicing through the fog of his exhaustion. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Y/N, I’m sorry, I’m begging you,” he said, the words tripping over each other as if he could physically outrun the weight of them. He dropped to his knees in front of you, and for a moment you felt something tighten in your chest: pity, maybe, or grief, because it had been so long since he had given you this much of himself in one evening. It was just a shame that it had taken your leaving to get it.

“I’ll fix it, God, please forgive me,” he said, his arms wrapping around your waist as if he could anchor himself there, his head pressing into your stomach while you stood still and unyielding. “Tell me what you want, anything. I swear I knew! How could I forget something like this?”

You knew exactly how. He had been gone for half a year, his mind already spinning toward what came next, knowing the tour’s end meant it was time to think about the next album, already scribbling and planning in the liminal hours between shows. Coming home had never been about staying home; it had been about the rush to get back into the studio, the intoxicating urgency of creation. You knew the nerves that coiled in him every time he had to start a new project, knew how important it was to him and to the people who worked beside him. You understood all of it but that understanding only made it hurt more.

If it had just been about the forgotten anniversary, maybe you could have forgiven it. If only it had been that.

You had known for a long time that this marriage had been a mistake, though it was the kind of truth you didn’t want to admit even to yourself. You were young then, both of you, reckless in that intoxicating way youth allows, drunk on passion and the careless sort of love that makes you believe the world will bend to your will. It had felt unshakable, as if nothing could break what you were building together. But life was never that simple, and you had learned that the hard way.

When you met Jungkook at home tonight (though in your more foolish dreams, you had always imagined greeting him at an airport like everyone else, running into his arms as cameras clicked in the distance, except you couldn’t, because you could never be seen together) you had hesitated. 

You had even considered tearing the divorce papers in half, throwing them into the bin and pretending this was still salvageable. But then something inside you shifted, something sharp and irreversible, the moment you realized he had forgotten your anniversary. The click of it was almost physical, like a lock turning, and certainty washed over you before you could take another breath.

“Jungkook, there’s nothing left to fix, and it isn’t about the anniversary, believe me.” Your voice was steady, because you didn’t want him to spend the rest of his life thinking that such a small, repairable thing had been the final straw. You would have forgiven him a hundred forgotten anniversaries if they hadn’t all been spent in the echoing emptiness of a home where you were alone more often than not, if the years hadn’t carved your life into the shape of absence.

His hands fell away from you slowly, and when he looked up, his gaze came through the blurred veil of tears. He looked unreal like that, impossibly beautiful, even now. And this was your husband — the man whose name was yours on paper, whose voice had been the soundtrack to your life, whose body had once been the only place you felt certain. Even in this moment, you could hardly believe it. Maybe this was exactly how it was always meant to end, because how could you, an ordinary girl, have truly been his? How could either of you have believed it would work in the real world, outside the fever of those early years?

"Is this really it? Am I really losing you?" His voice barely disturbed the air between you.

You shook your head, the motion feeling like the period at the end of a very long sentence. "You lost me a long time ago."

***

On weekend mornings, when you actually had somewhere to be, there was always that self-consuming emptiness curling inside your chest, a hollow that gnawed at itself until you could almost hear the echo of it. Today was no different. It was a miserable morning, the kind that seeped under your skin, made worse by the cold, airless sterility of the courthouse conference room. Property division usually took place in open court when spouses couldn’t agree, but your case with Jungkook was its own strange reversal: neither of you wanted to take anything.

Your lawyer sat to your right, a man you barely knew and hadn’t even chosen, his services paid for by Jungkook. Across the table, Jungkook sat pale and worn, the dark crescents under his eyes betraying nights of broken sleep. You had seen that look before, the way he carried exhaustion until it bent his shoulders and hollowed him out, and the thought rose in you before you could stop it: why does he keep driving himself into the ground like this? 

But you pulled yourself back quickly, locking the thought away. He was not yours to worry about anymore. You had made that decision.

At the head of the table, the judge sat with the heavy air of someone long past patience, his gaze flat and voice brisk.

“I’ll repeat myself,” Jungkook said, his tone firm but his focus fixed entirely on you, though you refused to look at him. You knew you couldn’t argue with him if you met those eyes that were raw and tired in a way that would undo you. “I’m leaving everything to my wife.”

You flinched. My wife. The title still clung to you like a warm coat in winter, and soon it would be gone. You would lose that. You would lose him. Ouch. The word pulsed in your chest like an ache, because you had started down this road to rid yourself of him, but the further you walked, the more the pain seemed to devour you. When would it stop?

“Your soon-to-be ex-wife doesn’t want anything from you either,” the judge interjected, making no attempt to hide his boredom with the two of you.

“Y/N, it’s all yours. I don’t need anything.” Jungkook leaned forward across the table, as though shortening the distance would force you to hear him more clearly, as though you could possibly miss the low, desperate thread in his voice.

“You only say that because you spend most of the year out of Korea,” you replied, the truth spilling out sharp and unfiltered.

“That’s not true,” he answered, his voice stripped down to something bare. “A home without you in it isn’t a home I want.”

Your eyes burned, and you wondered how many more tears you even had left in you, after all the ones you’d already shed. You thought of the house that he had bought for you both right after the wedding, the one where every choice had been yours. You had picked out the curtains, the plates, the scent of the candles, all with the slow, careful tenderness of a woman building the world she would live in with the man she loved, a home meant to hold the family that might have grown there.

And now you were here, in this cold room, dismantling it piece by piece, the ghost of what you had wanted still clinging to you even as you signed it away.

“I don’t need a house that taught me how to be alone, not when it was meant to hold a family,” you murmured, eyes fixed on your own hands, on the diamond that caught the pale morning light and refracted it into something cold.

“Perfect,” Jungkook said, his voice far too quick and satisfied. “Then I’ll take it, sell it, and wire you every last won.”

Your head snapped up, and his gaze was already waiting, the faintest flicker of mischief there just to provoke you. He knew exactly where to press.

“You wouldn’t dare,” you said with the threat quiet but barbed.

“What? Sell the house we loved, the one you built piece by piece with your hands, the one you filled with every trace of yourself?” His tone turned slow, almost lazy. “Let’s find out.” He leaned back in his chair, sprawling like the room belonged to him.

Your fingers curled into your palm until your nails dug into your skin. “Don’t,” you said through your teeth, every syllable coiled tight. “Don’t you dare sell it.”

“Then that settles it,” he said with mock cheer. “Everything goes to my wife.”

His lawyer shifted beside him, lowering his voice as if he could somehow soften the impact. “Mr. Jeon, if I may… this isn’t entirely rational —”

“I’m not here to fight my wife for a sofa,” Jungkook cut in, his gaze never leaving yours. “She gets everything.”

“I have another way,” you said, leaning forward just enough to close some of the space between you. “I’ll keep the house. You keep everything else. And I won’t limit when you can be there.”

His brows lifted, surprise flickering across his face. You could tell he hadn’t expected that. But the truth was, you didn’t care whose name was on the deed. You couldn’t stand the thought of strangers moving into the rooms where you’d once planned the rest of your lives, where you’d stood barefoot in the kitchen and talked about the future as if it were a fact. If he lived there, you could breathe easier. That was enough.

“You’re not planning to live there yourself,” he said at last, not as a question but as a verdict.

Usually, a cold morning softens into warmth as the day stretches on. But this one only grew colder, and you both knew it was only the beginning.

***

You hadn’t lived with your parents in years. Probably not since before graduation and stepping back into that house now felt like slipping into a version of yourself you thought you’d outgrown. This time you weren’t the girl with a suitcase full of dreams; you were a woman in the middle of a divorce. 

The last time you had stayed here overnight, Jungkook had been beside you, his laughter and the weight of his presence settling into the guest room like they belonged there. Now it was only you, unpacking your bag alone, answering the inevitable questions from relatives who had never once met your husband and now only knew him as the man you were leaving.

You hated that your mind kept circling back to it, hated the way the thought sat heavy and acidic in your stomach. You told yourself it was because nothing was final yet, because you were trapped in that suspended space where the law still called you his wife, even though you already knew you weren’t. In cases like yours with no children and all the property matters settled the court gave two months for both sides to make their final decision. You and Jungkook were almost at the end of that stretch.

The second month was finally winding down. All this time, he had been here, in the same city, and you had known it. Officially, he was on a break from touring, but that was only in name. In reality, he had been performing at award shows, recording another album, working more hours than anyone could count. Sometimes you caught yourself resenting the choice you’d made, because you had spent years wishing for more time with him, and now that he was within reach, you were the one who had drawn the line and held yourself on the other side of it.

Your head knew it was the right thing, but your heart whispered betrayal in the dark. And which of them was telling the truth?

You turned on the battered old TV in your childhood bedroom just to have some background noise, something to keep your thoughts from spiraling in circles.

And the universe laughed in your face. Because there he was. Jungkook. The camera found him on stage at a music award ceremony, the live broadcast in perfect, high definition. You thought about changing the channel, but then you heard that voice, low and rich and impossible to turn away from. You had loved his voice since before it had ever said your name, and the sound of it still did something to you that you couldn’t disguise.

And then you realized that he was singing that song. Your song.

You wondered what it felt like for him now, to stand there and pour those words into a microphone for a crowd of strangers. He had spent an entire tour singing about you, night after night, and every single person in that audience was closer to him in that moment than you were.

“Let the years turn gold to gray,” your favorite part, the line that had always lived in your chest with Jungkook’s voice wrapped around it the way only his could. “Let the world fall into decay,” you froze, your breath caught, waiting for the landing. “Just please don’t change.”

And then you heard that final note, the one that usually came so effortlessly to him, the one that soared clean and perfect every time — it cracked. Only for a fraction of a second, just enough to catch the ear, but you heard it like a stone dropping into still water.

He didn’t let it show, of course. He was a professional, and he moved through the rest of the song like nothing had happened, as if the stage lights could burn the flaw right out of existence. But you knew him and how ruthlessly he held himself to the standard of perfection.

The rest of the performance was flawless, but you didn’t miss the way he disappeared into the wings the second the spotlight dimmed, the sharp set of his jaw, the hard, clipped way he carried himself as though holding in every ounce of frustration until he was out of sight.

You should have been able to brush it off and tell yourself it wasn’t your concern anymore. But you could already see it: him sitting in the back of a car on the way home, replaying that moment in his head, dissecting it, punishing himself until the night was over. Jungkook didn’t believe in “small” mistakes. Every performance was life-or-death to him, each one treated like it was his first and last.

You had seen him spiral over less before, watched him turn in on himself for a slip no one else had noticed, and this was bigger. You glanced at the time.

You could stop by the house. Check on things, water the plants. And if he happened to be there, if by some twist of fate you crossed paths, you could give him a few quiet words, just enough to cut through the noise in his head. After all, you weren’t strangers. Not yet.

***

You moved like a teenager sneaking out past curfew, throwing on clothes in a rush, slipping your shoes on without bothering to tie them properly, keeping each movement quiet so your parents wouldn’t stir. The dramatics weren’t necessary, but they were easier than trying to explain why you were leaving the house so late at night with a duffel slung over your shoulder and telling them you were going to see your almost-ex-husband to offer him comfort, even though you had been the one to start the divorce.

It didn’t change anything; you still wanted out, still meant to sign those papers and close that chapter. But wanting a divorce was not the same thing as wanting to erase him from your life entirely. You had history, you had good years, moments where you were both so in love it felt like the only thing you’d ever know. You had been each other’s anchor more times than you could count. And you knew that your decision had cracked something in him. 

Maybe, for the first time, he was beginning to understand what it had felt like for you all those years: to share a life with someone you adored and still feel alone. You didn’t want that for him, you knew exactly how it burned.

And now, tonight, it had to be worse. You told yourself there was nothing wrong with wanting to be there for him, just once more. Besides, you’d been looking for a reason to go back to the house and collect the rest of your things. The duffel bag wasn’t entirely symbolic.

The drive was muscle memory, each turn and stoplight as familiar as the lines of your own palm. By the time you reached the street, you realized how much you’d missed the quiet, the soft glow of the streetlamps, the way the house seemed to watch over the block like something alive.

You stood at the door, cold night air stirring your hair, and hesitated. Did you just use your key? Or did you knock, as if you were a guest here now? You couldn’t decide which was more honest, or which one hurt less.

You pressed the doorbell and waited. Everything around you seemed to still at once, as if the world had narrowed to the sound of your heartbeat rushing in your ears. Nothing. 

Maybe he wasn’t here after all, why would he be? This was your domain more than it had ever been his. You had chosen every plate, every throw pillow, every plant in the windowsills. You had lived here in the quiet spaces while he was away, made the house breathe when he couldn’t.

You turned away, stepping down the porch stairs, when the click of the lock behind you stopped you cold.

“Y/N? Did something happen?” Jungkook’s voice was quick, laced with concern, and you spun back toward toward him until you were standing almost face to face.

For a moment, you didn’t answer. You only looked at him, drinking in the sight as if you hadn’t seen him in years instead of months. 

Two months were nothing for the two of you, a standard stretch of absence in the life you’d had together but these months had been different. There had been no texts, no calls. Now he felt strange to you, like someone you’d once known intimately but could barely remember the shape of anymore.

He looked tired, though the crease in his brow and the alert focus in his eyes were doing their best to hide it. He was barefoot, wearing only a thin black t-shirt that left the curve of his strong shoulders bare beneath the fabric, and soft grey sweatpants that clung just enough to remind you how easily your body had once fit against his. 

He was so completely at home here, and the domesticity of the unguarded version of him that almost no one else got to see hit you like a memory you hadn’t asked for but couldn’t stop feeling.

“It’s fine, I just… I was worried about you,” you murmured, and the moment the words left your mouth you realized how absurd they sounded.

Jungkook stepped aside without a word, his body shifting just enough to let you pass. You did, crossing the threshold, and the regret hit almost instantly, because the moment you stepped inside you were reminded that this was the place you had built together from nothing.

The place that had held the life you thought you were creating, the walls still carrying the faint echo of your voices, the quiet corners still remembering the way you used to fill them, the light falling in exactly the way you had loved when you first moved in, soft and golden and warm, a light you had once imagined wrapping around the two of you forever.

Yes, you’d spent most of your time here alone, filling the silence with your own routines, but it had still been yours and his. Now it was where he came to heal in solitude, to stitch himself back together without you. This house had seen all of it.

“Are you okay?” you asked, and when his eyes met yours in the low light, the sharp planes of his face were softened, made even more beautiful by the shadow.

He gave a bitter half-smile that hurt to look at. “No, Y/N, I’m not okay. The love of my life left me, and there’s no one to blame for that but me.”

The words landed like a fist to your sternum.

“I… I didn’t mean it like that,” you said quickly, suddenly too aware of the wrongness of being here, of how out of place you felt in his space now. “I saw your performance. I thought maybe you… maybe you’d need some support.”

He listened without interrupting, his gaze fixed and unblinking, like he was catching each word before it could fall away. “No, I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

He dropped onto the sofa, sinking into it like he’d been holding himself upright for far too long, his fingers sliding through his hair, tugging lightly at the strands.

“Good,” you said softly, “because I’m sure no one else even noticed.”

“No one noticed?” His head tilted, his mouth twisting into something between disbelief and frustration. “I was aiming for the A, but I dipped into G without even meaning to. My voice just… gave out.” His eyes closed for a moment, lashes brushing his cheek, and you felt a sudden, dangerous urge to cross the room, to wrap your arms around him and hold on until he stopped feeling so far away.

“But you know,” he went on, voice quieter now, “I didn’t expect to sing it well tonight anyway. Fuck, Y/N… you do realize that song is about you?”

His eyes were glassy with unshed tears that made your chest ache just to witness, and you wanted to look away, to spare yourself from the sight of him like this, knowing you are the reason behind that.

“I know,” you whispered, your voice so quiet it felt like it barely bridged the space between you.

“Then why are you here?” he asked, the words carrying the weight of something close to a plea as he looked up at you from beneath his lashes, his eyes glistening, tears gathering stubbornly at the corners. “You’re the one who wanted to leave me.”

“But you’re not a stranger to me, Jungkook,” you said, feeling the sharp sting in your own eyes, the way moisture threatened to spill over before you could stop it.

“Not a stranger,” he murmured, his voice breaking into something raw, “but not yours anymore either?” You had no answer, no words that wouldn’t splinter in your mouth. His gaze searched for yours, steady but wounded. “Tell me, are you at least happy?”

Your throat tightened, and the tears came, uninvited and impossible to hide, as you shook your head slowly, unable to give him anything else.

“Then why the fuck are we doing this?” His voice cracked under the force of it, the words spilling over the edge of his control. “Tell me, if you’re not even happy now. Because I feel like shit! I feel fucking destroyed and the only thing keeping me breathing is the thought that maybe, at least, you’d be better off without me.”

He stepped toward you then, closing the space between you until you could feel the heat of him, his hands lifting to your face, his fingers impossibly gentle as he brushed away the tears that clung to your lashes.

“Jungkook,” you said, your voice breaking in places you couldn’t smooth over, “it’s hard for me, but it was hard even when we were together.” 

The words felt like the only truth you could give him, because how else could you explain the way you had ended up here, caught between two different kinds of unhappiness, with no map out of either? You had been unhappy in the marriage, and you were ending it, and you were still unhappy, just in a different way, a way that still hollowed you out all the same.

His arms came around you suddenly, pulling you against him in a way that felt both protective and desperate, his hold so tight it threatened to undo you, to melt every part of you that had tried to stay firm. You breathed that clean, familiar scent that hit you like muscle memory, the scent you had missed in ways you didn’t dare admit, and your chest clenched so painfully you thought you might collapse into him entirely.

And then, with effort, you pulled yourself from his embrace, tearing yourself away from the sweet, dangerous nostalgia that wanted to repaint the past in colors it had never really worn, breaking the spell before it could pull you under completely.

“I came to pack my things,” you told him, the words meant as much for yourself as for him, a reminder to hold the line you had drawn. “I think it’ll help both of us. It might even help you forget me a little.”

Jungkook looked at you like you had just said something impossible, something offensive in its very suggestion. “You really think I want that? Y/N, I don’t ever want to forget you. If there’s one thing I do know, it’s that I want to remember us, every part of us, I want to hold on to the fact that I had this…that I had you.”

He was breaking right in front of you, splintering in ways you could see in his eyes and hear in his voice, and you could feel every fracture like it was your own. He dropped back onto the couch, elbows on his knees, hands running over his face like he could scrub the feeling out of his skin, and all you could think about was how much of this was your doing. How much hurt you had managed to leave on him. How much of it had been necessary, and how much was just collateral damage from loving someone who had never stopped mattering.

The ache in your chest grew too sharp to ignore. You set your bag down on the floor, the sound of it hitting the hardwood far too loud in the quiet, and you closed the space between you, your steps slow but certain until you were standing over him, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body.

And before you can talk yourself out of it, your hand is in his hair, brushing it back from his face the way you used to when you wanted him to look at you and only you. His eyes flick up, catching yours, and for a moment it feels like nothing exists but the space between you.

He catches your wrist before you can pull away, holding it there, his fingers warm and unyielding against your pulse. There’s no question in his gaze, just a kind of wordless plea, and when you don’t move, he tugs you down onto his lap, the shift of your weight pulling you into the solid heat of his body, your knees sinking into the couch cushions on either side of him. 

The first brush of his mouth against yours is slow, deliberate, like he’s tasting something he thought he’d never have again. But then you’re leaning in, your lips parting, and the kiss deepens, heat blooming fast, the both of you gripping too hard, holding too close, because you know exactly how dangerous this is and you’re doing it anyway.

His hands are everywhere at once, sliding up your back under your shirt, pressing into the curve of your waist, anchoring you when your hips shift just slightly against him. You can feel him already, thick and hot beneath his sweatpants, the contact pulling a sharp, muffled sound from his throat.

He kisses you harder, teeth grazing your lower lip before his mouth drags down your jaw, finding the soft place just beneath your ear. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs, but his hands are already under your shirt, warm palms flattening against your bare skin, moving up like he’s been starving for the feel of you.

“Then tell me to leave,” you breathe, but it comes out shaky, betraying you.

“Fuck no,” he says, voice low and sharp, like the thought itself offends him. His hands slide down, fingers curling hard into your thighs as he pulls you closer, your center pressing over the thick length straining against his pants. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed this. The way you fit right here,” he grinds you down slow, forcing a gasp from your lips, “like you were made for me.”

Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, your body betraying the words you force out. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes everything,” he counters without hesitation, his mouth grazing your jaw, his breath hot as his hands roam higher again, tugging at your waistband. “Tell yourself it doesn’t if you want, but your body’s telling me the truth.”

His hands are on you like he’s been holding back for years instead of weeks. Calloused palms skim under your shirt, pushing it up until the hem is bunched just beneath your arms. His mouth finds the swell of your breast before you can even gasp, hot, wet kisses dragging over the curve until his lips close around your nipple.

“Fuck–” the sound tears from you as his tongue circles slowly, deliberately, pulling a shiver from deep in your spine. He sucks harder, like he wants to leave his mark here, on skin no one else should see.

“You taste the same,” he murmurs against you, his voice already wrecked, “you sound the same… like you never left.”

You roll your hips against him without thinking, the thick ridge under his pants hitting you just right. His hands slide down to your ass, holding you there, rocking you over him until your breath turns uneven.

“This doesn’t change anything,” you manage to whisper the same lie again, but your words break on a moan when he switches to your other breast, teeth grazing before he draws it into his mouth.

“Keep lying to yourself,” he says, licking a wet stripe up to your collarbone, “but you’re humping me like you want me to fuck you stupid.”

You hate how right he is. You hate how your body arches into him, chasing every press of his mouth, every squeeze of his hands. The heat between you builds until there’s no air or thought, just the desperate ache to feel him without anything between you.

He’s the one who finally snaps, yanking at the waistband of your pants with something close to frustration. “Off. Now.”

You help him, clothes hitting the floor in uneven, hurried piles. He fumbles with his own sweatpants just enough to free himself, his cock thick and flushed, the tip brushing your thigh as you straddle him.

When you finally sink down, slow and aching, both of you groan, his head tipping back, yours falling forward to rest against his. The stretch makes you shake, makes your nails dig into his shoulders.

“God, I missed this,” he breathes, his hands gripping your hips so tightly it borders on pain. “Missed how fucking perfect you feel around me. I’m not letting myself forget this again.”

You roll your hips, slow and deep, dragging every inch of him through you until the pleasure forces your eyes shut. “And when this is over,” you whisper against his jaw, “we’re still done.”

He growls low in his throat, snapping his gaze to yours. “Say it all you want, baby. But right now, you’re taking me like you were made for it.”

Each thrust is unhurried but devastating, your bodies pressing together so closely it feels like there’s no space left between skin, no air left in the room. His hands guide you, forcing you to savor every drop of friction, every stretch and slide, until your moans mingle in the thick heat between you.

“Fuck, look at you,” he pants, eyes drinking you in like he’s starving. “Bouncing on me so slow, so deep… you’re gonna make me lose it.”

You try to keep your face neutral, to keep the walls up, but every drag of him through you is stealing the air from your lungs. His gaze is locked on yours, like he’s afraid to blink and lose you.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes suddenly, the words catching in his throat. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you needed me. I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder. I fucking love you, you hear me? I never stopped. Not for a second.”

You shake your head, trying to look away, but his hands tighten, pulling you down harder, forcing you to feel every inch of him.

“Don’t,” you warn, though your voice trembles. “Don’t say that now.”

“I have to,” he insists, thrusting up into you, the motion pulling a gasp from your lips. “I have to tell you before you walk out of my life for good.” His jaw is clenched, eyes glassy with something that isn’t just lust. “You’re it for me. You’ve always been it.”

The words hit you like a blow, tangled up with the white-hot pleasure building low in your stomach. You ride him harder, faster, chasing the peak before your resolve cracks. The sound of his moans, the heat of his hands guiding you, the rough drag of his cock inside you are too much, and when it hits, it’s blinding.

You cry out, shuddering through the release, and he follows right after, his hips jerking up into you, his head falling back with a guttural groan of your name.

When it’s over, he’s still looking at you like you’ve ruined him with his hair damp, lips swollen, chest heaving.

You can’t hold that gaze and can’t let it undo you. So you pull away, his hands falling uselessly to his sides as you stand, your legs unsteady but your voice cold.

“This was a mistake,” you say, forcing yourself to meet his eyes just long enough for him to see the wall come back up. “I let myself slip. I’m sorry.”

You grab your bag, ignoring the way his brows knit together in confusion, the way he looks like he’s still waiting for you to change your mind.

But you don’t. Instead you walk out, leaving him on the couch still wrecked, still messy from you, and now gutted in a way no apology could ever fix.

***

The sky outside the courthouse was pale, and the weather was cold,seeping into your bones no matter how tightly you wrapped your coat around you. Inside, the air felt even colder, all sterile walls and hushed voices, the quiet shuffle of papers and the dull scratch of pens. Somewhere in the background, a clock ticked in slow, deliberate beats, marking the final moments of something you once thought would last forever.

He was already there when you walked in, seated at the end of a long wooden table. A black cap pulled low over his forehead, a mask covering the lower half of his face. The disguise would have been enough to hide him from a crowd, to make him invisible in any other setting. But you would have known him anywhere.

Only his eyes were visible, and they were shining, not with the brightness of a stage light but with something heavier, threatening to spill over. He looked at you like he was memorising, as though every blink might be his last chance to see you.

You sat down across from him, the legal documents already waiting, each page neatly tabbed where you needed to sign. Your fingers trembled slightly as you picked up the pen. The ink moved across the paper in smooth, irreversible lines, every stroke a quiet severing. Somewhere in your mind, you registered the bitter truth: by the time you left this building, you would no longer be his wife.

It was absurd, almost cruel, how the world outside would go on without ever knowing. His fans would still scream his name without any idea that there had been someone like you, someone who had once been the person he came home to. To them, he was untouchable. To you, he was just Jungkook. Your Jungkook.

You felt the sharp sting of tears rise behind your eyes, but you held them back, reminding yourself that there was no way back from this. You had to choose yourself this time, had to end the slow suffocation you had been calling a life.

When it was his turn, he picked up the pen without looking at the paper, his gaze never leaving you. He signed in quick, precise motions, but when the final line was done, he didn’t set the pen down right away.

His voice was quiet when it finally came. “I really hope you find your happiness,” he said, his tone threaded with tender. “I hoped it would be with me, but I guess it wasn’t. Just… make sure it’s real when you do.”

Your throat tightened, your hands gripping the edge of the table for balance. You wanted to tell him something back, anything, but the words stayed trapped inside, caught between your heart and the hollow ache spreading through your chest.

The clerk gathered the papers, the sound of shuffling pages marking the finality you had both been avoiding. You stood, and so did he, though neither of you moved any closer.

For a moment, you thought you might break and cross the space between you. But instead, you gave him one last look and then you turned away.

You walked out into the cold afternoon, the weight of what you had just signed pressing heavy against your ribs. Behind you, somewhere in that building, he was standing still, watching you leave for the first time ever.

And just like that, it was over.

.

.

this story does have a second part, you can read it here

You realized it was going to be a long night two hours into your shift. 

Especially when it hit peak dinner hours and only three tables were occupied in your section. Your coworker wasn’t having better luck with her two and a half tables — the half being one older gentleman reading a book while sipping on his third glass of your most expensive red wine. 

“Ugh, where is everyone?” Seo-Ah came dragging her feet towards you by the front of the fancy bar, where you were polishing the cutlery. 

“I thought you hated busy nights,” You pointed out. 

“Yeah, but I also hate slow nights. There’s no liking anything in this career,” she leaned back against the edge as you both gave a quick look over the fine dining restaurant. 

“What happened to your tables?”

“The couple have paid, only finishing their drinks and the man has taken three sips in the last twenty minutes.”

You snorted. “He usually sits in my section. I wonder what happened.”

Your hands moved through the motions of drying and polishing the silverware without thought. Years in this work had conditioned your body to its habits without having to think too much. You were pretty much a master at multitasking at this point. 

“Do you know his name?” Seo-Ah suddenly asked. 

“No clue, I’ve always called him Wine Man.” You both giggled at the inside joke. 

“But really tho, why is it so slow?” 

You shrugged. “I think it’s the new place across the street. Boss was complaining about it and how they’re stealing all our customers.”

She frowned. “Are they fine dining too?”

“I think they were like a mix, so not as pricey. Might be why.”

Just as Seoh-Ah was going to respond, the door opened to chatter as a group of guests came in and she was quick to straighten up and plaster on her signature customer service smile and strutting over to them. 

“Good evening, do you have a reservation?”

Just as you predicted, the last few hours went awfully slow. Slow enough for Seoh-Ah to take over your section as well whilst you started on closing routines well before closing. 

By the time the last table left, you were wiping down the last remnants behind the bar and making sure everything looked ready for opening tomorrow.

“You can leave if you want to,” You called out to Seoh-Ah. “It’s just the trash left, and I’ll close up after.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s okay, I got it.”

She looked reluctant, but in this line of work no one refused to get off early. So you gave her a knowing smirk before she gave in. 

When it was only yourself left, it all felt strangely comfortable. Most people would hate being in an empty building by themselves but not you. 

It helped that the lighting was on most of the time too; warm and low, with those sculptural hanging fixtures casting a golden glow that made everything feel intimate. The tables and shelves were of dark wood, chairs with velvet tones as well as amber glass. It was welcoming without being stiff and too perfect. 

Your phone buzzed in your apron pocket as you fished it out for a brief look. 

💜:  Are you done soon?

You:Soon, closing up rn x

Shrugging on your coat, you had your tote bag on one shoulder and dragging the trash bags with the other. The metal back door slammed shut and locked by themselves as you swung the bags in the container with a small grunt and the slightest wrinkle of your nose by the smell. 

Luckily the bus stop was only a few feet down the street and you timed it perfectly as it arrived not even five minutes after. 

Sometimes you loved taking the evening bus. There were less people and even less noise, so you had an endless amount of seats to choose from. Your favorite was always against the windows so you had somewhere to rest your head after a long day. 

Depending on traffic, the trip usually took around twenty to thirty minutes, but your headphones were your best friend in that duration. 

The city flashed by you in snippets, familiar sights you’ve seen for years as the view changed from the busy, opulent streets of Apugjeong, past the tourist filled centers of Gangnam until it reached the outskirts towards the suburban areas of Hannam.

The bus emptied gradually along the way, until only yourself and three others were inside — and you were certain if was because very few people who lived in the Hannam area actually took the bus. 

95% of the residents were wealthy enough to spend your yearly salary twice over in a month, if you were being frank. 

The bus hardly came to a proper stop before you were out and was off again before the door had even closed, and only your veteran self of taking buses in this country had conditioned you to their rocky driving without falling flat on your face in embarrassment. 

You were sure the drivers loved it when it happened. 

You walked up to the 24/7 secured gate with a tired drag in your step, and the security on shift in the small, boxed room noticed you quickly. He was an older man in his mid-fifties and was often on shift in the evening on weekdays. 

His eyes crinkled as you approached. “Hard day at work, Y/N-yah?” 

You shook your head with a smile. “Not as tired when you saw me last Friday.” Reaching into your bag, you took out a small takeaway box with leftover cake and pushed it through the window. “It’s a Hazelnut Praliné Cake tonight, ajussi.”

His eyes lit up. “Ooo, my favorite. If it weren’t for you, me and my wife would never know of these fancy little desserts of yours.”

 “I’m happy that you love it,” was your heartfelt answer. “But I should get going, he’s probably waiting for me.”

He beeped you through swiftly as the gate opened, before leaning half of his body out of the side door. “Do you need me to drive you up there?”

Security had access to a golf cart to drive around the complex when needed, but you waved him off. “I’m okay! A little fresh air is good for me.”

“You have good night, Y/N-yah!”

“Likewise, sir!”

It was quiet when you entered, as you kicked off your trainers and switched over to your cream slippers standing ready. 

Walking inside, you saw precisely why with a fond smile; Jimin was sprawled out on his white couch, snoring softly. His phone lay forgotten above the duvet he had dragged out from the room untouched. His newly dyed, dark blonde hair messy around his face.

All the curtains were shut, even blocking out the light from the street lamps outside and drowning the apartment in darkness besides the low automatic kitchen light.  

You let your bag down softly on the clean kitchen counter and shrugged off your coat before padding over to stand over his oblivious form. 

Seeing him like this loosened something in your chest. After eight hours of serving strangers and smiling on command — as few as they were — coming home to him waiting, even asleep, made it all worth it. 

You moved his phone aside, and then you draped yourself over his body with a relieved sigh, as he shook awake by the weight with a sleepy mumble. 

“Hey, you’re back?” He murmured hoarsely, arms coming to wrap around you as you snuggled further into the duvet over him. “Tired?”

“No really,” you mumbled back, chin resting on his chest to look up at him as he smiled down at you. “Missed you tho.”

“Missed you too, baby,” Jimin replied, easily dragging you further up for a soft greeting kiss as you melted into it and then snuggled back into the crook of his neck, breathing in his fresh scent. 

“You showered already?” you asked. 

“Mhm, practice ended earlier than expected.”

“Too bad,” you murmured. “I was hoping we could do it together.”

Jimin chuckled. “Well, I’m never against another shower if it’s with you.” 

You grinned silently against his skin, and he must have felt it by the tug you saw on his perfect, plumb lips. His hand came up to your scalp, gently dragging his fingers through your hair as you hummed pleased. 

“Are you hungry?” His voice was still low, as if the dark and late atmosphere made both of you aware of every single sound. 

“I already ate at the restaurant, you?”

“I could do with some ramyeon.”

You snorted. “You always do, babe.”

“And you don’t mind.”

“Most of the time, no. But weren’t you the one who said your diet was important?”

“You hate when I’m on a diet.”

“I hate when you’re on an unhealthy diet.”

Jimin’s eyes narrowed playfully. “You love ramyeon, what happened?”

“It’s called overeating, my love,” you forced yourself upright, loosely straddling his stomach over the thick duvet. “I’m trying to be healthier, remember.”

His hands loosely traced the sides of your thighs affectionately. “Nothing healthier than a good late night ramyeon with your boyfriend.”

“Uh huh, I’m going to shower,” you replied instead as he pouted at your deliberate way of ignoring him. 

“Don’t ask for a bite later!” He called at your retreating back as you waved him off. 

The shower was pure heaven for you after a full day, and went by quicker than you wanted it to. 

The image that stared back at you from the foggy mirror made you take a second look. Tired eyes, slightly dark circles and skin duller than you wanted it to be. Even your hair felt dry from your neglect the past few months. 

You often wondered what it was Jimin saw in that mirror that made him want to stay.

You wished there was answer waiting for you, but all you could do was reach for the moisturiser.

Shaking yourself out of those thoughts you got dressed swiflty. You wore your favorite comfortable checkered pajama pants and one of Jimin’s white t-shirts as you finished towel drying your hair and walked back out into the kitchen.

Jimin was just putting a small pot on the stove to heat up, two unopened packs of Shin Ramyeon on the counter. 

“Two? Babe, you’re gonna whine about being bloated tomorrow.”

“Eyy,” Jimin reached out as you came within range, dragging you into his arms as you rolled your eyes. “This is where Jin hyung’s words come into play. If it’s delicious there’s no calories, remember?”

“Is that so?” you pressed a kiss to his cheek before dodging his hold and hopping on the island counter as he returned to his midnight ramyeon cooking. 

You opted to watch him fondly in silence as Jimin hummed familiar songs under his breath. 

It was still strange to you; having him here, back home and normal. 

You had met in the midst of the silent chaos that was the pandemic in South Korea, of 2021. When the streets were enforced with a curfew, shops only allowed a limited number of visitors at a time and restaurant restrictions were even worse.

But despite all the limitations, that was the most amount of work you had. Your boss had cut down on staff, you and four others being the only full-timers. And every shift was done alone. No runner, no bartender, no host – just you alone, doing everything by yourself every shift to minimize risks of infection. 

It was a rare reservation in itself, especially during such tumultuous times. A booking for the restaurant’s private dining room; seven people.

You had acted the perfect part; host, bartender and waitress without fault to the seven men that came through the doors masks pulled up and a few hats pulled down low. You had been in the business long enough to recognize when celebrities tried to remain unknown. 

They had stayed for hours in their own little bubble, all polite and grateful as you ran back and forth between their room and the rest of the guests out in the restaurant. 

And at some point during the evening you had let your guard down. Enough for Park Jimin to catch you in the act of trying to stuff your mouth with some leftover fries the kitchen had given to you as you stood by the bar, back hunched and masked pulled down. 

He had giggled, apologizing for disrupting you and your flustered self had waved him off with a blush burning against your cheeks. 

And for reasons still incomprehensible to you — he had returned. Several times, sometimes accompanied by friends, but often alone. And your fleeting conversations by the bar turned longer each time, until he asked for your number and you supposed the rest was history. 

“Why are you staring?” His question didn’t match the pleased expression on his face, and you smirked knowingly. 

“I’m admiring.”

“Shouldn’t that be my line?”

“I can be suave as well, you know.”

“Hmm.” With a touch, Jimin turned off the electric oven and covered the ramyeon and water with a lid to let it soften and soak before walking over to you. 

He pushed your legs apart to slot himself between them and cupped one of your cheeks softly. “Are you okay?”

You kissed the inside of his palm. “Why are you asking?”

“You’ve been looking tired lately,” he was always straight to the point without sounding demanding. Just comfort in itself that he was so good at.

“Probably not as tired as you.”

He had been practicing and having meetings nonstop ever since his discharge from the military, and his return from the filming of the traveling show with Jeongguk. 

In the six months since then, he had lost so much weight and changed his hair back to the ash blonde you'd loved. But the weight had been more unfortunate for you — you appreciated his bulk more than anyone else, and he knew it. 

Fair enough, the weight loss had been for health and work reasons. It was easier for him to dance and keep his stamina going with less bulk on his body, and with all the practice it naturally melted away. 

“Stop deflecting,” but Jimin knew you well enough. You were good at that, he realized at one point. Deflect your problems and focus on others instead. 

“It’s just work.” 

“But it’s not, is it?”

“...a lot has been on my mind.”

“Please tell me, baby. You know I’m always here for you.”

Gripping the counters on each side of you, you didn’t have the bravery to look him in the eyes. 

As much as Jimin loved you, he had always felt like his wall of fame was still a small barrier between the two of you. 

You were understanding; too understanding. You always listened to him, always cared about him, always comforted him if something in his life wasn’t going well. 

But there was nothing about yourself. Hardly any complaints in your life besides the occasional “just work, nothing serious.”

As if your pain was less worth than his; and Jimin hated it. 

Hated how much you couldn’t see how important you were to him. How your complaints about your shifts mattered just as much as his struggles in the limelight, and how he wanted to hear every single one of them. 

The relationship had reached a level of normalcy while he was in the military. Because for the first time since dating it had felt like two normal people. A woman and man in a normal relationship, one with his duties to the nation and the other working her daily job paying her bills. 

Every time he was on leave, your time together would feel more precious. There was no talk about fame or his work because there was nothing he was doing.

Yet now that everything was over with and Jimin returned back to his normal, things were getting fragile again.

And he wasn’t sure how long it would hold up. 

Yet Jimin waited patiently, he always did. 

The ramyeon had probably already bloated too much in the pot, but he didn’t care.

The air was silent, a silence you were too afraid to break. 

His hands were braced on the counter now, beside your own hands still gripping the edge like a lifeline, and that sight hurt more than he wanted to admit. His lithe form caged you in without trapping you, his presence always a warm and solid in a way that made your heart ache. 

You swallowed. “I don’t know how to say it without sounding… stupid,” you admitted quietly.

Jimin’s brows knit together. “Try me.”

You let out a small breath, more shaky than you wanted. “I feel like I’m standing still.”

His posture softened immediately.

“Everyone around me is moving forward,” your eyes were fixed on the marble counter beneath your fingers. “You’re back. The world knows you again. You’re busy, you’re booked, you’re—” You stopped yourself, hating the way your voice wavered. “And I’m still just… here.”

“‘Just here’?” he repeated softly.

“You know…at the restaurant. Same shifts. Same bus rides. Same exhaustion,” you shrugged. “I come home tired and empty, and sometimes I look at myself and I don’t know what I want anymore. I don’t even know what I’m offering you.”

That finally made you look up. Jimin was staring at you like you’d just punched the air out of his lungs.

“Is that what you think?” he asked softly. “That you’re not offering anything?”

You gave a weak smile. “Compared to you?”

He shook his head slowly, disbelief etched into every line of his face. His mouth was doing the sad pull on the sides whenever he was unhappy about something. 

“You know what I see?” Jimin’s voice was low but steady. “I see someone who works herself to the bone and still brings cake to the security guard because she remembered his favorite. Someone who listens to me ramble about choreography for an hour and never once checks her phone. Someone who comes home at midnight and still worries if I’ve eaten.”

Your throat tightened.

“Baby, I see the person who made my life feel normal when nothing else was,” his voice thickened with emotion. “Who didn’t treat me like a headline or a fantasy. Just… me.”

His hand came up again, thumb brushing under your eye before you realized there was moisture there.

“You don’t get to decide your worth based on my life,” Jimin said gently. “That’s not fair to you. Or to us.”

You laughed softly, bitter and fragile. “You make it sound so simple.”

“It’s not,” he admitted. “But loving you is.”

You shifted on the counter, shoulders tightening as if you could physically pull the words back into your chest. Vulnerability had never been your strength. You survived by being capable. By handling things on your own ever since you moved to the big city by yourself. 

And definitely not by crying in front of Park Jimin.

“I don’t want to be selfish,” you admitted, quieter now. “You already carry so much. Expectations, pressure, people watching your every move. The last thing I want is to add myself to that list.”

Jimin’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t interrupt as you finally met his eyes, and that was a mistake. 

“I love you,” you declared, almost defensively, your chest clenching around something you didn’t know. “So much it scares me. And sometimes that love makes me feel small, because I don’t want to need anything from you that might weigh you down in this chaos.”

Your hands had curled into the fabric of his t-shirt, crinkling the bottom of the fabric. Your voice cracked despite your best efforts. 

“It feels stupid,” your words were tumbling now that the dam had cracked. “Feeling this way when you’ve done nothing but assure me. I should be stronger than that.”

A beat. “Y/N, do you hear yourself right now?” His question wasn’t malicious, it was confusion, shock and hurt all in one. 

“I’m scared that one day you’ll wake up and realize I’m… ordinary. That my life doesn’t expand the way yours does.” 

Tears finally slipped free, and you squeezed your eyes shut, frustrated with yourself as you sniffled. 

“I don’t want to hold you back, Jimin-ah.”

There it was. The real fear. Words you had kept so close to your chest all these years they still felt fresh. 

Jimin didn’t speak right away. Instead, he rested his forehead against yours again, hair brushing against your forehead and hands warm and steady at your hips, as he exhaled almost harshly.

“You know what hurts the most about that?” Jimin asked quietly.

You shook your head.

“That you think loving you is a sacrifice.”

Your breath hitched.

“You don’t weigh me down,” he continued, voice thick. “God, Y/N. You’re my fucking anchor. There’s the difference you’re looking for.”

His thumb brushed away a tear you hadn’t realized fell. “And you don’t need to be impressive or exceptional or anything else to deserve space in my life. You already have it.”

You swallowed again, finally letting yourself lean fully into him, your forehead dropping to his shoulder.

Fuck, you love this man so much it physically hurt sometimes, and saying it all out loud only made you realize how deep it ran.

“We don’t have to fix everything tonight,” he murmured comfortingly, his touch dragging their path up and down your back in a loving caress. 

So you stayed there, wrapped in him, heart bare and aching — still stubborn and slightly embarrassed, but no longer pretending you didn’t need him.

And maybe for tonight, that was brave enough.