Nemesis.

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synopsis; He didn’t fall in love—he fixated. Knew how to build safety—and the exact moment to take it away from you.

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At least twenty minutes early. Wrong rhythm. No jangle of frantic keys. No muffled curses bleeding through the walls. Instead, steady footsteps faded down the hallway. 

He was moving before the thought caught up. Shoes were shoved on untied. Door shut soundlessly behind him. He followed the fading trace of her perfume down the stairwell—floral cut with something sharper, almost bitter. It didn’t quite belong to the girl who had trembled beside him two nights ago.

Yoongi kept half a block between them, the distance a fragile lie he told himself made him invisible. Even from that far away, he noticed the difference immediately. The skirt riding high with every step, offering brief flashes of skin catching beneath the streetlights. The gray turtleneck that strangled her throat. Hair styled carefully, loose strands brushing against her cheeks whenever the wind shifted.

This wasn’t for class. This wasn’t random. And it wasn’t for him.

A figure stepped out from a side street. Tall. Loose-shouldered. Effortless in the way attractive people often were without realizing it. The man called her name once. She turned immediately, her face lighting up in a way Yoongi had never managed to pull from her himself. He brushed a hand against her shoulder in greeting. Casual. It lingered half a second too long, his thumb brushing the seam of her turtleneck.

“…still haven’t started the Harrington thing,” she admitted with that familiar thread of worry in her voice that Yoongi drank like wine. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Seokjin smiled. “If you want, we can go over it at lunch. My notes are actually decent.”

“I don’t want to waste your time,” she murmured, though relief had already begun to bleed through. Gratitude, warm and unguarded—the same tone she'd used with him when he fed her soup or when he comforted her after the bar.

“You’re not wasting anything.” Seokjin said, guiding her around a muddy puddle, his palm sliding lower along her back. “Besides, Bianca would kill me if I let you fail corporate law.”

She laughed, small and bright. “I’m pretty sure Bianca needs your help more than I do.”

“She does,” he nodded. “But you at least pretend to listen when I explain things.”

Yoongi’s nails pressed crescents into his palms inside his pockets. Eight meters. Five. Close enough to smell her shampoo. Close enough to imagine snapping Seokjin’s wrist like dry kindling. Yoongi swore her laugh was forced—it came too easily and too loud. It couldn't be real.

“Seriously, though,” she said, tugging the sleeves of her coat lower. “I opened the assignment and immediately closed my laptop again. Harrington genuinely hates students. There’s no other explanation.”

Seokjin snorted. “No, he hates weak arguments. He values confidence more than being right.”

“That sounds like something someone says right before becoming morally bankrupt.”

“I already am morally bankrupt,” he replied with a smile. “That’s why I got an A.”

She laughed harder this time, her head tipping back slightly.

“So your entire academic strategy is manipulation?”

Seokjin shrugged. “It’s worked so far.”

“You're awfully good at this.”

He tilted his head. “At law?”

“No,” she shook her head, smiling despite herself. “At sounding confident even when you're bullshitting.”

“But it's making you smile.”

She rolled her eyes. “Out of pity.”

“Mm.” Seokjin glanced sideways at her. “You say that now, but give it one year. You’ll be weaponizing tears for extensions like the rest of them.” 

“I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

She pressed a hand to her chest. “That’s a horrible accusation.”

"Trust me, I've been there before."

Their pace had slowed without either of them seeming to notice. The backs of their hands brushed together between steps. Her hand twitched at the first touch, but then she seemed to reach for it. 

A pulse throbbed slowly in his jaw.

Yoongi imagined stepping forward. Imagined grabbing Seokjin by the collar and driving him face-first into the wet brick wall beside the alley. Imagined the sharp crack of bone. Her scream. The stunned confusion on Seokjin’s face right before fear finally replaced that calm expression.

Instead, he stayed where he was. Starving.

“You know what your problem is?” he continued.

“I have several.”

“You assume asking for help makes you annoying.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No.” His voice softened. “It makes you human.”

A branch snapped under Yoongi’s shoe—sharp as breaking bone. Seokjin’s head turned. Their eyes met. Recognition flickered across Seokjin's face. A slow tilt of the head, eyes measuring the distance Yoongi had closed. Then something worse. Amusement. The corner of Seokjin’s mouth curved slightly, like he understood something Yoongi didn’t. He hasn't acknowledged Yoongi aloud. Instead, he leaned closer to her and murmured near her ear, which pulled another laugh from her throat.

Yoongi stopped walking. Rain slid cold beneath the collar of his jacket, connecting with his sweat. He watched them disappear farther down the street.

Fine.

If she insisted on walking toward wolves, he would simply have to become the better one.

Back in his apartment, the record still spun. Yoongi rested outside on the balcony with a cigarette hanging between his fingers. The space was barely large enough for the plastic chair and a narrow round table. Some mornings he sat there with coffee hot enough to burn his tongue while the icy air chewed through his clothes. The contrast kept him awake. Below, the city stretched in long grey lines. Roads slick with old rain. An endless forest of concrete blocks.

His gaze drifted automatically toward the balcony beside his. Same cheap flooring. Same black railing spotted with rust near the bolts. A tiny table pushed against the wall. One chair. Nothing special. Except it belonged to her. That changed everything. 

The balconies sat closer together than they should have. Yoongi leaned on the railing, eyes narrowing as he measured the gap. One careful step over the bars. A grip on the divider. Shift his weight slowly. It was manageable. Only two floors below him. If he slipped, he’d probably survive. Probably.

Same door handle as his. If she forgot to lock it—

His thoughts stopped abruptly.

No.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

Breaking into her apartment wasn’t just curiosity anymore. It wasn’t harmless. If she found out, everything he’d built with her would collapse instantly. Every careful conversation. Every moment she’d softened around him. Gone.

Still…

He wouldn’t steal anything. Wouldn’t touch anything. Just look. People visited each other’s apartments all the time. He simply happened to be doing it differently. That wasn’t dangerous. Was it?

He imagined the smell inside first. Vanilla candles. Maybe dusty textbooks scattered over the couch.

Yoongi exhaled through his nose.

No.

Absolutely not.

If he wanted something real with her, he needed boundaries. Trust. Self-control. Breaking into her apartment like some fucking psychopath was not a good start.

A moment later, he realized he’d already swung one leg over the railing. He froze. Cold metal dug into his palms as his grip tightened instinctively. Half his body leaned out into open air now, one foot balancing uncertainly against the narrow concrete edge outside the bars. Then he moved the other leg over. Now all of his weight depended on that narrow edge and the balance of his heels. The height hit him. From inside the balcony, the drop had looked manageable. From here, it looked endless. Wind rushed upward between the buildings, threading beneath his clothes and licking the sweat gathering along the back of his neck. His thighs trembled from the strain of holding himself steady.

Yoongi swallowed and stretched his right leg carefully toward her balcony. The tip of his shoe scraped concrete. For one hopeful second, he thought he had it. Then his foot slipped. His stomach dropped so violently he nearly puked. Yoongi jerked backward on instinct, clinging to the railing hard enough for the pain to explode through his wrists. A hot flash tore through his body before fading just as quickly, leaving him cold and shaking.

The railing had gone slick beneath his palms. He glanced down once and instantly regretted it. The pavement seemed farther away now. He squeezed his eyes shut hard enough to see static. Then tried again. Left leg first. The sole of his shoe landed against the floor with a dull scrape and held steady. He stopped breathing. Carefully, he reached outward with his left hand until his fingers wrapped around the second railing. His body stretched painfully between the balconies now, muscles shaking violently from the effort. One wrong shift of weight and…

Don’t think about it.

With one sharp movement, he dragged himself fully across. Both shoes slammed against the solid concrete. For several seconds, he could only stand there, bent forward over the railing while his lungs struggled to catch up.

“I did it.”

A laugh burst out of him unexpectedly.

“I actually fucking did it.”

“Excuse me?”

The voice nearly stopped his heart. A middle-aged man stood on the sidewalk below, plastic grocery bags hanging from one hand as he stared upward with open disbelief.

“… What exactly are you doing up there?”

Yoongi blinked once, suddenly looking far closer to death than he had dangling between the balconies.

“Hah—funny story,” he called down, forcing out a strained smile. “I locked myself out. Left my keys inside.”

The man frowned immediately, head tilting to the left as suspicion settled across his face.

He doesn’t believe this shit.

Then, unexpectedly, the man barked out a laugh.

“Jesus Christ.” He shook his head. “One slip and you’d crack open like an egg.”

Yoongi laughed weakly with him, though his knees still felt unstable.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Realized that halfway through.”

“Be careful, kid.”

The man disappeared inside the building lobby, still muttering to himself. Silence settled again. Yoongi looked up and carefully climbed through the last barrier and finally touched safe, steady ground. He held onto his knees, taking a deep breath before straightening and turning toward the door. 

Up close, he could see faint fingerprints clouding the handle. Tiny scratches in the paint. His heartbeat picked up again. This was real now. Yoongi wrapped his hand around the handle and pushed down.

His stomach sank.

She locked it?

He tried again, slower this time. The handle shifted slightly before catching halfway. Relief flooded him so quickly it almost made him dizzy. Not locked. Just stuck. Yoongi planted one hand against the glass and shoved his shoulder into the frame.

“Come on,” he muttered, pushing harder.

Muscles strained. Heat burned across his palms. The door suddenly gave way with a sharp crack. Yoongi stumbled violently forward, losing his footing as momentum threw him into the apartment. His elbow slammed against hardwood. Pain exploded up his arm instantly—white and electric, all the way to his shoulder.

“Shit—”

He curled, breath hissing through clenched teeth. Then the smell hit him. Her.

A slow smile pulled at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it.

Yoongi pushed himself upright, steadying his weight against the couch beside him. He moved like a ghost through her small life. Smaller than he’d imagined. The studio stretched in an awkward T-shape, every section bleeding into the next without real separation. To the left sat the kitchen—narrow counters, cream-colored cabinets painted, and an ancient stove with scratches near the burners. A fridge hummed unevenly in the corner beside a sink crowded with dishes. Near the outlet sat a kettle surrounded by scattered tea packets and a half-empty jar of sugar. Yoongi stepped closer to the fridge. Sticky notes covered the door.

wash the dishes!!!

buy oat milk

meet seokjin at 7:30

bake something for bianca

His eyes stopped on Seokjin’s name. The note had been written quickly, letters pressed too hard into paper. When has she planned this?

Across from the kitchen sat the living space. An open textbook rested beside the cushions, highlighted paragraphs bleeding neon pink across the pages. Beyond it, the sleeping area opened quietly into view. Makeup products crowded the floor around a tall mirror—foundation left uncapped, mascara tossed sideways.

Then came the bed. Yoongi moved toward it slowly. The duvet lay twisted near the center. One pillow still carried the faint impression of her head. Another textbook rested near the edge beneath a mess of charging cables and folded notes. Carefully, Yoongi sat down onto the mattress. The springs groaned softly beneath his weight. His hands moved over the pillow, and one long strand of hair caught on his finger. He wrapped it tenderly around his knuckle until the skin beneath it paled. The image came easily—her curled against his chest, half asleep while rain pressed softly against the windows. His fingers moving through her hair.

A faint vibration startled him. His head snapped up. Another buzz. Somewhere inside the apartment. Yoongi stood up, pulse jumping against his ribs. The sound led him into the bathroom. It barely had enough room to turn around comfortably. Skincare bottles crowded every inch of the sink. Half-used lip balms. A toothbrush left carelessly beside the faucet. A phone lit faintly beside it.

Bianca

how was the meeting with seokjin

8:32 a.m

did you survive novak’s show

9:24 a.m.

yooo

hello??

9:30 a.m.

where the fuck are you

did seokjin kidnap you or something

did you even go to class???

9:33 a.m.

Yoongi stared at the message before forcing himself to look away. The shower curtain hung partially open beside him. It was too easy to imagine her here. Steam clouding the mirror. Water sliding down her spine. Her hair darkened and clinging to bare skin while she hummed softly to herself, unaware. Him behind her. Both of them squeezing in this tiny space, accidentally elbowing each other while showering. Or pressing her against the wall, taking, owning—while she gasped his name like prayer or terror.

The bathroom suddenly felt smaller. Hotter. Yoongi dragged a hand down his face hard enough to burn. He looked away, on the floor, to think about—

Clothes. From last night. Or today. A t-shirt. Shorts. Black lace tangled between them.

It was ridiculous. Just clothing. Fabric. Nothing more. Just some material soaked in her smell.

The scent rose the second he brought it to his face—warm skin, faint soap, the ghost of her. Something strained escaped his throat. He was already aching. Shame and need crashed together so violently his vision blurred. His jeans dropped with a soft click of the belt hitting the tiles. Cock heavy and leaking. The first rough stroke pulled a low groan from his chest.

He closed his eyes. In his mind she was there with him. Pressed against these tiles but looking at him. Eyes soft and hazy. No hesitation this time. She wanted this. Wanted him. Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt like she was afraid he’d disappear.

“Yoongi…” she breathed against his mouth, half-laugh, half-plea.

He imagined kissing her slowly at first, then deeper, hungrier, tasting the small sounds she made when his hand slipped between her legs. He’d drop to his knees if she let him, worship every inch Seokjin had only been allowed to glance at.

His strokes turned faster, almost punishing. The lace dragged against sensitive skin, already soaked with him. He pictured her thighs tightening around his hips, her head falling back against the tile with a soft thud as he pushed inside her—tight, wet, his. She’d moan his name like she meant it. Like she’d been waiting for him to break. To finally stop pretending. Her nails digging into his shoulders, legs locked around him, hips rolling to meet every thrust because she needed this too. Needed him.

He could almost hear the way her voice would crack on a shaky “please”—not fear, just overwhelming want. The way she’d look at him after, flushed and ruined in the best way, whispering that she’d never looked at Seokjin like that. Couldn’t. Not when Yoongi saw her so completely.

The orgasm hit him hard and blinding. He came with a strangled groan into the black lace, pulse after pulse, knees buckling until his head rested against the cold tile. The pleasure ebbed fast, leaving only the wet mess in his hand and the heavy thud of his heart.

What the fuck are you doing?

He stared at the ruined fabric, sticky and warm. Hers. Now unmistakably his too. For a second the thought of leaving it for her to find flickered through his mind—dark and tempting. He crushed it. Stuffed the panties deep into his pocket instead.

At least he hadn’t smelled her socks.

Yoongi stared at himself faintly reflected in the dusty mirror. He looked insane. That thought should have stopped him. He left the bathroom and headed toward the balcony door. Halfway there, he paused.

The dishes.

Yoong hated dirty dishes. No—despised them.

Only two mugs. One plate. One fork.

He checked the time.

9:43a.m.

She would be back soon. Still…

The dishes bothered him more than they should have. Yoongi exhaled quietly and turned the faucet. Warm water rushed over his hands as he washed each dish carefully, drying them before placing them neatly on the rack. Once it was done, he peeled the sticky note from the fridge and crumpled it into the trash.

He stood in the center of her apartment for a long moment, breathing her air, listening to the faint jazz bleeding through the wall. His jazz. Playing for her, whether she knew it or not.

The balcony door shut more easily behind him than expected. And this time, crossing back didn’t scare him nearly as much.